The Return of the Dancing Master(15)

When he woke up, he didn’t know where he was at first. He lay in bed and tried to construct some sort of plan. But first he’d have to see the place where Molin had died. The simplest thing, of course, would be to talk to the detective in charge of the case in Ostersund, Giuseppe Larsson; but something told him it would be better to take a look at the scene of the crime without anybody knowing about it. He could talk to Larsson later, maybe even drive to Ostersund. On the way north he’d wondered if there were any police stationed in Sveg, or did the police have to drive nearly 200 kilometers from Östersund to investigate petty crimes? Eventually, he got up. He had no end of questions, but the crucial thing was to see the scene of the crime.

He dressed and went down to the lobby. The girl who’d checked him in was on the phone. Lindman spread out his map and waited. He could hear that she was talking to a child, no doubt her own, something about coming to the end of her shift shortly and another person taking over, so that she could go home.

“Everything okay with the room?” she asked as she put the receiver down.

“All in order,” Lindman said. “I have a question, though. I haven’t come here to see if cars can handle extreme conditions. Nor am I a tourist, or a fisherman. I’m here because a good friend of mine was murdered not far from here last week.”

Her face turned serious.

“The guy who lived out at Linsell? The former policeman?”

“That’s the one.” He showed her his police ID, then pointed to his map. “Can you show me where he lived?”

She turned the map around and took a good look at it. Then she pointed to the spot.

“You have to head for Linsell,” she said. “Then turn off towards Lofsdalen, cross the Ljusnan River, and you’ll come to a signpost directing you to Linkvarnen. Continue past there for another ten kilometers or so. His house is off to the right, but the road isn’t marked on this map.”

She looked at him.

“I’m not really nosy,” she said. “I know lots of people have come here just to gape. But we’ve had some police from Ostersund staying here, and I heard them describing how to get there over the telephone. Somebody was supposed to be coming here by helicopter.”

“I don’t suppose you get much of that sort of thing here,” Lindman said.

“I’ve never heard of anything of the kind, and I was born in Sveg. When there was still a maternity hospital here.”

Lindman tried to fold his map together, but made a mess of it.

“Let me help you,” she said, flattening it out before folding it neatly.

When Lindman left the hotel he could see that the weather had changed. There was a clear sky; the morning clouds had dispersed. He breathed in the fresh air.

Suddenly he had the feeling that he was dead, and he wondered who would come to his funeral.





He reached Linsell at around two in the afternoon. To his surprise, he saw a sign advertising an Internet café. The village also boasted a gas station and a general store. He turned left across the bridge and kept going. Between Sveg and Linsell he’d seen a grand total of three cars going in the opposite direction. He drove slowly; there was no hurry. About ten kilometers, she’d said. After seven kilometers he came to an almost invisible side road turning into a dirt road that disappeared into the forest on his right. He followed the badly potholed road for about 500 meters, at which point it petered out. A few homemade signposts indicated that various tracks going off in all directions were for snowmobiles during the winter months. He turned around and returned to the main road. After another kilometer he came to the next turn. It was practically impassable, and after two kilometers came to a stop at a log pile. He’d scratched the bottom of his car several times on stones projecting from the badly maintained road.

When he got to Dravagen, it was obvious that he’d gone too far. He turned around. A truck and two cars passed him in the opposite direction. Then the road was empty again. He was driving very slowly now, with the side windows wide open. He kept thinking about his illness. Wondering what would have happened if he’d gone to Mallorca. He wouldn’t have needed to search for a road there. What would he have been doing instead? Sitting in the depths of some dimly-lit bar, getting drunk?

Then he found the road. Just after a bend. He knew it was right the moment he saw it. It led him uphill and into three bends, one right after the next. The surface was smooth and covered in gravel. After two kilometers he saw a house behind the trees. He drove into the parking area at the front and came to a halt. The police tape closing it off was still there, but the place was deserted. He got out of the car.