Free The Return of the Dancing Master by Henning Mankell Page A

before today. He never came around to visit me either.”
    â€œWas there anybody else who visited him?”
    The man’s reaction was almost imperceptible, but Lindman noticed the slight hesitation before he answered. “Not as far as I know.”
    So he did have visitors, Lindman thought. But he said: “So, in other words, you’re a retiree as well. And you’ve hidden yourself away in the forest, just like Herbert.”
    The man started laughing again. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m not a retiree, and I haven’t hidden myself away in the forest. I write a little bit for a few dance bands.”
    â€œDance bands?”
    â€œThe occasional song. Light hearts, broken hearts. Mostly crap, but I’ve had some hits. Not as Abraham Andersson, of course. I use what’s known as a pseudonym.”
    â€œWhat do you call yourself?”
    â€œSiv Nilsson.”
    â€œA woman’s name?”
    â€œI once knew a girl at school I was in love with. It was her name. I thought it was a rather nice way of declaring my affection for her.”
    Lindman wondered if Andersson was pulling his leg, but decided that he was telling the truth. He looked at the man’s hands. His fingers were long and slim. He could indeed be a violinist.
    â€œYou have to ask yourself what on earth happened here,” the man said. “Who could have come out here and finished Herbert off. The place has been crawling with police until yesterday. There have been folks coming in helicopters and roaming around with dogs, police knocking on doors for miles around. But nobody knows a thing.”
    â€œNobody?”
    â€œNobody. Herbert came here from somewhere else and wanted to be left in peace. But somebody didn’t want to leave him in peace, and now he’s dead.”
    â€œWhen did you last see him?”
    â€œYou’re asking the same questions as the police.”
    â€œI am the police.”

    Andersson looked at him quizzically. “But you’re not from the local police. That means you can’t be on the case.”
    â€œI knew Herbert. I’m on vacation. I came here.”
    Andersson nodded, but Lindman was sure he hadn’t been believed.
    â€œI leave here for one week every month. I go to Helsingborg to see my wife. It’s odd that it should happen when I wasn’t here.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I never go away at the same time. It could be in the middle of a month from Sunday until the following Saturday, but it might just as easily be from Wednesday to Tuesday. Never the same. And yet it happens when I’m away.”
    Lindman thought that over. “So you think that somebody was keeping watch and made his move when you weren’t around?”
    â€œI don’t think anything. I’m just saying that it’s odd. I’m probably the only one who wanders around here. Apart from Herbert.”
    â€œWhat do you think happened?”
    â€œI don’t know. I have to go now.”
    Lindman walked him to his car, which was parked at the bottom of the slope. He could see a violin case in the back seat.
    â€œWhere did you say you lived?” he said. “Dunkarret?”
    â€œJust this side of Glöte. Keep going when you get there. About six kilometers. There’s a sign pointing to the left. Dunkarret. 2.”
    Andersson got into the car. “You have to catch whoever did this,” he said. “Herbert was an oddball, but harmless. Whoever killed him must have been insane.”
    Lindman watched the car drive off, standing there until the sound of the engine had died away. It struck him that sound travels a long way in a forest. Then he went back to the house and along the path that led to the lake. All the time he was pondering what Andersson had said. Nobody knew Molin. But somebody had paid him visits. Andersson hadn’t been prepared to say who, however. And the murder had taken place when Andersson