The Return of the Dancing Master(52)
“What do you think?” Larsson said. “What really happened?”
“I’d use the same word you did. An execution. Why take a man into the forest, tie him to a tree, and then shoot him?”
“If it happened in that order. But of course, that’s what I’ve been wondering,” Larsson said. “Why go to that trouble? There’s also a similarity with the murder of Molin. Why go to the trouble of planting those bloodstained tango steps on the floor?” He provided the answer himself. “A message. But to whom? We’ve talked about this before. The murderer sends a greeting. To us or to somebody else? And why does he do it? Or why do they do it? We don’t know if there’s more than one murderer.” Larsson looked up at the overcast sky. “And are we dealing with a madman? And is this the last? Or will there be more?”
They went back to the house. Rundström was on the phone. The forensic unit had started searching Andersson’s house. Rundström put the phone down and pointed at Lindman.
“We should have a word,” he said. “Let’s go outside.”
They went to the back of the house. The clouds scuttling across the sky were getting darker.
“How long are you thinking of staying?” Rundström said.
“I had intended on leaving today. Now I suppose it will have to be tomorrow.”
Rundström looked at him quizzically. “I have a feeling there’s something you haven’t told me. Am I right?”
Lindman shook his head.
“There wasn’t anything between you and Molin that you need to tell us about?”
“Nothing.”
Rundström kicked at a stone.
“It’s probably best for you to let us look after the investigation now. Best for you to keep out of it.”
“I haven’t the slightest intention of getting involved in your work.”
Lindman could feel himself getting annoyed. Rundström wrapped his words in a sort of casual friendliness. Lindman was irritated because he didn’t speak plainly.
“Let’s leave it at that, then,” Rundström said. “It’s good that you found him, of course. So that he didn’t need to be tied up there until someone else found him.”
Rundström walked off. Lindman noticed Larsson standing in a window, watching him. Lindman beckoned to him.
“You’re leaving, then?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll get in touch with you later today.”
“Call me at the hotel. My cell’s not working.”
Lindman drove off. After a very few kilometers he felt sleepy. He turned onto a forestry track, turned off the engine, and reclined the seat.
When he woke up, he was enclosed by silent, white walls. It had started snowing while he was asleep, and the car windows were already covered. He sat and held his breath. Could this be what death is like? A white room with pale light filtering through the walls? He readjusted his seat and felt stiff all over. He’d had a dream, he knew that, but he couldn’t remember what it had been about. Something about Andersson’s dog, perhaps? Hadn’t it started to chew one of its own legs? He shuddered at the thought. Whatever it was he’d dreamed, he’d rather forget about it. He looked at his watch: 11:15. He’d been asleep for more than two hours. He opened the door and got out to urinate. The ground was white, but it had stopped snowing already. There was no movement in the trees. No wind. Nothing, he thought. If I stood still I’d soon turn into a tree.
He drove back to the main road. He would return to Sveg, have something to eat, then wait for Larsson to phone. Nothing more. He’d tell Larsson about his visit to Berggren. About the Nazi uniform in her wardrobe. He hadn’t had an opportunity to do so during the night, and he wasn’t going to leave until he’d passed on everything that might help Larsson in his investigation.
He came to the turnoff to Molin’s house. He had no intention of stopping. Even so, he stamped so hard on the brakes that he skidded on the slippery surface. Why did he stop? One last visit, he thought. One final short visit, that’s all. He drove up to the house and got out. There were animal tracks on the white ground. A hare, he thought. He searched his memory to recall the pattern of those bloodstained footprints. He reproduced them on the white ground. Tried to picture Molin and his doll. A man and a doll dancing the tango in the snow. At the edge of the forest an Argentinean orchestra is playing. What instruments make up an Argentinean tango orchestra? Guitar and violin? Bass? Accordion, perhaps? He didn’t know. It wasn’t important. Molin had been dancing with death without knowing it. Or maybe he did know that death was there in the forest, waiting for him? He kept an eye on movements in the shadows even when I knew him, or at least thought I knew him. An elderly policeman who had never particularly distinguished himself. Even so he made time to talk to me, a raw young police officer who knew nothing about what it was like having a drunk throw up all over you, or a drunken woman spitting at you, or a raving psychopath trying to kill you.