The Return of the Dancing Master (51 page)

“That window cracked open,” he said. “I've been thinking about what you said. It seems plausible that there was somebody there, listening to what we said. I've been trying to remember when it was open, and when it was closed. Impossible, of course.”

“Maybe you should be thinking about what information came from this room and nowhere else.”

Larsson contemplated his hands. “We decided on the roadblocks here,” he said eventually. “We talked about a man on his way from Funasdalen towards the southwest.”

“I take it you're thinking about the red Ford? The man who did the shooting?”

“I'm thinking more about the suggestion that there might have been a leak from the police. It seems more likely that it was an open window.”

Lindman hesitated.

“This last day or so I've had the feeling that somebody has been following me,” he said. “I've felt it over and over again. A shadow somewhere behind me. Noises too. But I can't be sure.”

Larsson said nothing. Instead he stood up and went to the door.

“Walk over to the wall,” he said. “Keep on talking. When I turn off the light, look out the window.”

Lindman did as he was told. Larsson started babbling about grapes. Why red ones were much better than green ones. Lindman had gotten as far as the window. Larsson switched off the light. Lindman tried to see what was happening in the darkness outside, but everything was black. Larsson put the light back on, and went back to his desk.

“Did you see anything?”

“No.”

“That doesn't necessarily mean that there wasn't somebody there. Or that there wasn't somebody there not long ago. But I don't see what we can do about it.”

He pushed aside two small plastic bags lying on top of a file. One of them fell on the floor.

“The forensic boys forgot a couple of plastic bags,” Larsson said. “Odds and ends they'd found on the road not far from the blue Golf.”

Lindman bent down to look. One of them contained a receipt from a gas station. Shell. It was dirty, hardly legible. Larsson watched him intently. Lindman studied the text. It seemed a bit clearer now. The gas receipt was from a filling station near Söderköping. Slowly, he replaced the plastic bag on the desk and looked at Larsson. Thoughts were whirring around in his brain.

“Berggren didn't kill Andersson,” he said slowly. “We're into something much bigger than that, Giuseppe. Berggren didn't kill him.”

S
now was falling again. Larsson went to the window to check the thermometer.—1° C. He sat down and looked at Lindman. Lindman would remember that moment, a clear and unmistakable image of a turning point. It was made up of the newly falling snow, Larsson with his bloodshot eyes, and the story itself, what had happened in Kalmar, the discovery he had made when he broke into Wetterstedt's apartment. He remembered that only a few hours beforehand he had told the same story to Veronica Molin. Now it was Larsson listening with great interest. Was he surprised? Lindman couldn't tell from the expression on his face.

He was trying to create an overall picture. That dirty gas station receipt from a Shell station in Söderköping was a key that fitted all doors, but in order to draw conclusions he must first tell the whole story, not just parts of it.

What had he realized when he picked up the plastic bag that had fallen from the overladen desk? A sort of silent explosion, a wall being broken through, and something that had been limited all at once became very large. Although they were groping in the dark, looking for a murderer who might be called Fernando Hereira and might come from Argentina, the investigation had been local. They had been looking for the solution in Harjedalen. Now the artificial walls had collapsed. The gas receipt shot like a rocket through everything they had built, and at last it was possible to see things clearly.

Somebody had filled up with gas in Söderköping, in a red Ford Escort belonging to a man by the name of Herner who had a P.O. box in Portugal. Then somebody had driven the car across much of Sweden,
stopped on a country road west of Sveg, and started shooting at a car that was coming from the mountains. They scraped at the dirty receipt but were unable to read the date, although the time was clearly 20:12. Larsson thought the forensic people would be able to decipher the date, and they had to do that as soon as possible.

Somebody sets off for Harjedalen from Kalmar. On the way, in Söderköping, he stops to fill up with gas. He continues his journey. He tries to kill the man who most probably was responsible for the murder of Molin. Neither Lindman nor Larsson were the type of police officer who believed in coincidences. Somewhere in the Nazi underworld, inhabited by the likes of Wetterstedt and the Strong Sweden foundation, Lindman's visit had stirred up unrest. They couldn't be certain that he was the one who'd broken into the apartment. Or could they? Lindman remembered the front door closing shut as he left the apartment, the feeling that somebody was watching him, the same feeling he'd had these last few days. “Perhaps two invisible shadows make one visible shadow,” he said to Larsson. It could be that the shadow following him in Kalmar was the same as the one in Sveg. The conclusion that Lindman was trying to reach was that their thinking had been closer to the truth than they had dared to believe. It was all about the underworld where old Nazis had come across something new that enabled the old madness join up with the new version. Somebody had broken into this shadow world and killed Molin. A shudder had run through the old Nazis. “The woodlice are starting to crawl out from under the rocks,” as Larsson put it afterwards. Who was the enemy of these Nazis? Was it the man who had killed Molin? Could it mean that Andersson had known about more than just the past of Molin and Berggren, that he'd known about the whole organization, and had threatened to expose it and perhaps even something still bigger? They couldn't know that. But a Ford Escort had been filled up with gas and driven to Harjedalen by a man intent on killing somebody. And Berggren had decided to take responsibility for a murder she almost certainly hadn't committed. The pattern was becoming clear, and conclusions possible to draw. There was an organization, to which Lindman's own father was continuing to give support long after his death. Molin was a member, as was Berggren. But not Andersson. Nevertheless, one way or another he had discovered its existence. On the surface he was a friendly man who played the violin in the Helsingborg Symphony Orchestra, a dues-paying member of the Center Party who also wrote trivial pop songs under the pseudonym Siv Nilsson. Beneath the surface he was a man with more than one trick in his bag.
A blackmailer who made threats and demands. And maybe, deep down, was upset at the very thought of living close to an unreformed Nazi.

 

 

It took Lindman half an hour to work it all out.

“The hiding place,” he said. “Andersson's hiding place. What did he have hidden in there? How much did he know? We can't tell. But whatever it was, it was too much.”

Snow was falling more densely now. Larsson had angled his desk lamp so that it shone out into the darkness.

“This has been threatening for the last week,” he said. “Snow. And now we're getting plenty of it. It might melt away, but it could stick. Winters up here are not easy to predict, but they're always long.”

They drank coffee. The community center was empty. The library had closed.

“I think it's time for me to go back to Ostersund,” Larsson said. “All you've told me makes me more convinced than ever that the Special Branch must be brought in.”

“What about the information you've gotten from me?” Lindman said.

“We may have received an anonymous tip,” Larsson said. “Don't worry, I'm not going to report you for breaking down the door of that Nazi's apartment.”

It was 10:15. They examined the situation they were in from various angles. Shuffled the pieces around. A couple of hours ago Berggren had been playing a central role. Now she'd been sidelined, at least for the time being. At the front of stage were Fernando Hereira and the man who'd filled a Ford Escort with gas in Söderköping.

 

 

There was a clattering from the entrance to the community center. Johansson eventually trudged in, snow in his thinning hair.

“I nearly ran off the road,” he said, brushing the snow from his jacket. “I started skidding. I was close to catastrophe.”

“You drive too fast.”

“Very possibly.”

“What happened in Ostersund?”

“Lövander will work out the remanding procedures tomorrow morning. He came to the police station and listened to the tape, then called me in the car.”

“Did she say anything else?”

“She didn't utter a word all the way to Ostersund.”

Larsson had vacated the desk chair, and Johansson sat down with a yawn. Larsson told him about the gas receipt and the conclusions they'd drawn. He invented a story about Lindman receiving an anonymous call about the Strong Sweden Foundation. Johansson was only half-listening at first, but soon pricked up his ears.

“I agree,” he said when Larsson had finished. “We have to bring in the Special Branch. If we have an organization calling itself Nazi and killing people, then Stockholm needs to be in on the case. There's been a whole lot of this kind of stuff in Sweden lately. Meanwhile I suppose we'd better keep on hunting for that red Escort.”

“Isn't Stockholm doing that?”

Johansson had opened his briefcase and was taking out some faxes.

“They've traced Anders Harner. He says the Escort is his all right, but it's in a garage in Stockholm. A place run by somebody called Mattias Sundelin. I've got his telephone number here.”

He called the number and switched his telephone to loudspeaker mode. A woman answered.

“I'm trying to get in touch with Mattias Sundelin.”

“Who are you?”

“My name's Erik Johansson and I'm a police officer in Sveg.”

“Where's that?”

“In Harjedalen, but that's irrelevant. Is Sundelin there?”

“Just a minute, I'll get him.”

They waited.

“Mattias here,” said a gravelly voice.

“This is Inspector Johansson from the police in Sveg. It's about a red Ford Escort, registration number ABB 003. The owner is Anders Harner. He tells us it's in your garage. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's correct.”

“So you have the car?”

“Not here at home. It's in the garage in town. I rent out garage space.”

“But you are certain that the car is there at this moment?”

“I can't be certain about every single car I've got parked there. I have about ninety of them. What's this all about?”

“We need to trace that car. Where is the garage?”

“In Kungsholmen. I can take a look tomorrow.”

“No,” Johansson said. “We need to know right now.”

“What's the hurry?”

“I can't go into that. Please drive in and check that the car is still there.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

“I can't do that. I've been drinking wine. I'd be over the limit if I was stopped.”

“Is there somebody else who could check? If not, you'll have to take a taxi.”

“You can try Pelle Niklasson. I've got his number here.”

Johansson wrote it down, thanked Sundelin, and hung up. Then he called the new number. The man who answered said he was Pelle Niklasson. Johansson repeated the questions about the red Escort.

“I can't remember if I saw it today. We've got quite a few cars in the long-term area.”

“We need to have confirmation that it is there, and we need it now.”

“I'm in Vallingby. Surely you're not suggesting that I should drive all that way at this time of night.”

“If not a police car will come to get you.”

“What's happened?”

Johansson sighed. “I'm the one asking the questions. How long will it take you to get there and check if the car's where it should be?”

“Forty minutes. Can't it wait until tomorrow?”

“No. Write down this number. Call me as soon as you know.”

It was still snowing in Sveg. They waited. Thirty-seven minutes later, the phone rang.

“Erik Johansson here.”

“How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

“That the car wasn't here.”

Larsson and Lindman sat up and leaned towards the speakerphone.

“Has it been stolen?”

“I don't know. It's supposed to be impossible to steal a car from here.”

“Can you explain that a bit more clearly?”

“This is a garage that charges high fees in return for maximum security. No car can be driven away from here without our checking the person who's in it.”

“So everything is recorded?”

“In the computer, yes. I don't know how to run that thing, though. I mostly do maintenance. It's the other boys who look after the computer side.”

“Mattias Sundelin?”

“He's the boss. He doesn't do anything.”

“Who are you referring to, then?”

“The other boys. Five of us work here, apart from the custodian. And the boss, of course. One of them must know when the car left, but I can't contact them now.”

Lindman raised his hand. “Ask him to fax their personal details.”

“Do you have access to their personal details?”

“They're here somewhere.”