The Return of the Dancing Master(44)

“How did it go?” Lindman said.

“How did what go?”

“The poker game in Funasdalen.”

Johansson laughed. “I won 19 kronor. After four hours. I thought you were going to get in touch with me?”

“I’m not feeling so well today.”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Just a bit of pain. But I talked to Elsa Berggren.”

“Did she have anything interesting to say?”

“Not really. She claimed she’d known Molin for a long time.”

“Did she have any idea why he was murdered?”

“She found it incomprehensible.”

“I thought as much. Will you be coming by tomorrow? I forgot to ask how long you were staying.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow. But I can stop by even so.”

“About nine would be convenient.”

He turned off his phone. The pain had more or less gone now.

He dressed and went down to the lobby. He left his key on the desk and opened the hotel door. The snow had melted. He went for a walk through the little town. Went into Agardh’s and bought some disposable razors.

Last night he’d made up his mind to visit Abraham Andersson. He wasn’t sure he felt up to it. It was dark. He wondered if he would be able to find the house. But Andersson had said there was a sign to Dunkarret. He went back to the hotel and got into his car. I’ll go for it, he thought. Tomorrow morning I’ll visit Johansson. Then I’ll drive to Ostersund and talk to Larsson. I can be back in Boras by nightfall.

Before leaving Sveg he stopped at a gas station and filled his tank. When he went to pay he noticed a display with pocket flashlights next to the counter. He bought one and put it in the glove compartment.

He set off in the direction of Linsell, waiting all the time to see if the pains were coming back. For now, at least, they were leaving him in peace. As he drove, he kept looking out for signs of animals by the side of the road. He slowed down as he passed the turnoff to Molin’s house. For a moment he wondered if he should go there, but decided it would be inappropriate. He pressed ahead, wondering what his daughter and her brother planned to do with the property. Who would buy a house in which someone had been so savagely murdered? The repercussions of that killing would haunt the region for a long time to come.

He passed Dravagen, kept going towards Glote until he saw the sign for Dunkarret 2. The road was bumpy and narrow. After about a kilometer it divided into two. Lindman kept to the left as the other road appeared to be more or less unused. About another kilometer and he was there. Andersson had put up a sign of his own with the name Dunkarr. The house lights were on. Lindman turned off the engine and got out of the car. A dog started barking. Lindman walked up a slope. The house was quite high up, surrounded by darkness. He wondered what drove people to live in such isolated places. What could a person find in all this darkness, apart from a hiding place? He could see the dog now. It was running back and forth along a line stretched between a tree and the house wall. There was a doghouse by the tree. It was a Norwegian elkhound, the same breed as Molin’s. Lindman wondered who had buried the dead dog. The police? He walked up the steps to the front door and knocked hard. The dog started barking again. After a while he knocked again harder. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it and shouted into the house. Perhaps Andersson was one of those people who go to bed early? He looked at his watch. 8:15. Too early. He stepped into the hall and shouted again.

Suddenly he was on his guard. He didn’t know why. He had the feeling that all was not as it should be. He went into the kitchen. There was an empty coffee cup on the table, and next to it a program for the Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra. He shouted again, but there was no answer. He went from the kitchen into the living room. There was a music stand next to the television, and a violin on a sofa. He frowned. Then he went upstairs and looked everywhere, but found no one. Something was definitely wrong.

Lindman went back outside and shouted yet again. The dog continued barking, running back and forth on its line. He walked towards it. The dog stopped barking and started wagging its tail. He stroked it cautiously. Not much of a guard dog, he thought. Then he went back to the car and collected the flashlight. He shone it around, feeling all the time that something was very amiss. Andersson’s car was parked beside a toolshed. Lindman checked and found it was unlocked. He looked inside and saw the keys in the ignition. The dog barked again; then all was silent. There was a rustling of wind through the trees in the darkness. He pricked up his ears, then shouted again. The dog answered him with a bark. Lindman went back to the house. He felt the burners on the stove. They were cold. A telephone rang. Lindman gave a start. The telephone was on a table in the living room. He picked up the receiver. Somebody was trying to send a fax. He pressed the start button and put down the receiver. It was a handwritten note from somebody named Katarina saying, “The Monteverdi sheet music has come.”