Larsson bent down and took a notepad out of his briefcase. He found the page he was looking for and passed the pad over to Lindman. On the page was a sketch of footsteps forming a pattern. Lindman saw that this was the pattern of the bloodstained footsteps in Molin’s house. He’d been reminded of them by the photograph in Larsson’s files. It also occurred to him that he hadn’t mentioned to Larsson that he’d been inside Molin’s house. It would be stupid to conceal it any longer. Andersson had seen him there, and he was bound to be questioned again by the police. So he told him exactly what had occurred. Larsson didn’t seem to be surprised, and pointed once more to his notepad.
“This is a depiction of the basic steps for the fascinating dance known as the tango.”
Lindman stared at him in surprise. “The tango?”
“There’s no doubt about it. But this means that somebody carted Molin’s corpse around and made those bloody footprints. No doubt you read the provisional report from the pathologist? His back cut to pieces by lashes from the skin of some animal we have yet to identify. And the soles of his feet lacerated in similar fashion.”
Lindman had read the pathologist’s report with great distaste. The photographs had been horrific.
“This gives us food for thought,” Larsson said. “Who would lead him around the floor like this? Why? And who is it that’s supposed to see these bloody footsteps?”
“It could be a greeting to the police, of course.”
“Correct. But the question remains: why?”
“No doubt you’ve thought of the possibility that they were photographed or filmed?”
Larsson returned the pad to his briefcase.
“It also leads us to draw the conclusion that this is no ordinary little bloody murder. There are other factors at work here.”
“A madman?”
“A sadist. Look at what Molin was subjected to.”
“Torture.”
Larsson nodded. “There’s no other word for it. But it worries me.”
Larsson closed his briefcase.
“Did Molin use to dance the tango while he was in Borås?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“We’ll find out sooner or later, no doubt.”
A child started screaming somewhere in the breakfast room.
“This used to be the theater foyer,” Larsson said. “Over there, behind the bar, was the auditorium.”
“There was a beautiful old wooden theater in Boras once upon a time,” Lindman said. “But they didn’t convert it into a hotel. They tore it down, upsetting a lot of people at the time.”
The child was still crying. Lindman went out with Larsson into reception.
“Maybe you ought to go to Mallorca after all,” Larsson said. “I can keep you posted as the case develops.”
Lindman didn’t answer. Larsson was right, of course. There was no reason for him to stay in Harjedalen any longer.
They said their goodbyes in the street. Lindman went up to his room, collected his things, paid his bill, and left Ostersund. He drove too fast along the straight road to Svenstavik. Then he slowed down. He tried to make a decision. If he returned to Borås now, today, he would still have time to go to the Mediterranean. To Mallorca or wherever. He could be away for two weeks. If he stayed in Sveg, he would only become more and more restless. Besides, he’d told Larsson that he wouldn’t interfere in the case more than he already had. Larsson had let him examine the investigation files. He couldn’t go on intruding on crime scenes. It was up to the Ostersund police to find the motive for the murder. Up to them to track down the murderer.
The decision made itself. He’d go back to Borås the very next day. The excursion to Sveg was at an end.
He was driving slowly. Just under 60 kilometers per hour. Again and again he was passed by vehicles whose drivers eyed him with interest. He was churning over in his mind what he’d read in Larsson’s files the night before. It appeared that the investigation was being conducted meticulously and efficiently. When the call came, those on duty had reacted by the book. The first officers had been on the spot very quickly; the scene of the crime had been cordoned off exactly as it should have been; three dog patrols had arrived by helicopter from Ostersund; and the forensic work seemed to have been performed with complete thoroughness. Lindman’s discovery of the site where a tent had been pitched was pure coincidence. One of the local police would have made the same discovery sooner or later. The interview with Hanna Tunberg had confirmed the picture of Molin as a recluse. The house-to-house operation had produced one clear result: nobody had noticed any suspicious movements of vehicles or people in the area. Torbjörn Lundell in the shop in Linsell had noticed no sign of Molin being nervous, or anything out of his normal routine.