The Return of the Dancing Master by Henning Mankell Page B

occurred to him that he should tell Elena that he was leaving. She’d be worried if he simply disappeared. But he put it off. He had his cell phone, and she had the number. Perhaps he wanted her to worry?
Maybe he wanted to hurt an innocent party to make up for being the one who was sick?
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    The following day, Friday, October 29, he left BorÃ¥s before 8 A.M. Earlier he’d driven to Bramhultsvagen and taken a good look at the house where Molin had lived. That had been his home as a married man, for a time on his own, and that was the place he’d left when he moved north on his retirement.
    Lindman recalled the farewell party for Molin in the canteen on the top floor of the station. Molin hadn’t drunk very much—he’d probably been the most sober of all present. Detective Chief Inspector Nylund, who retired the year after Molin, had given a speech: Lindman couldn’t remember a word of it. It had been a pretty insipid affair, and had ended early. It was the practice for newly-retired officers to have their colleagues over, as a sort of thank you: Molin had not done so. He’d simply walked out of the police station, and a few weeks later left BorÃ¥s altogether.
    Now Lindman was about to make the same journey. He was following in Molin’s tracks, without understanding why Molin had moved—or perhaps fled—to Norrland.
    By nightfall Lindman had driven as far as Orsa. He stopped for an evening meal, a greasy steak in a roadside café, then settled down in the backseat of his car. He was worn out, and fell asleep at once. The bandages on his arm were itching. In his dreams, he was running through an endless succession of dark rooms.
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    He woke up while it was still dark, feeling stiff and with a splitting headache. He wriggled his way out of the car, and as he was peeing he noticed that his breath was coming out like steam. The gravel crunched under his feet. It was obvious that the temperature was around or even below zero. The previous evening he’d filled a thermos flask with hot coffee. He sat behind the wheel and drank a cup. A truck parked beside him started up and drove off. He switched on the radio and listened to the early news. He felt uneasy. Being dead would mean he could no longer listen to the radio. Death meant many different things. Even the radio would fall silent.
    He put the thermos on the backseat and started the engine. It was another 100 kilometers or so to Sveg. He drove out onto the main
road, and reminded himself that he must be on the lookout for elks. It grew gradually lighter. Lindman was thinking about Molin. He tried to sift through what he could remember about him, every conversation, all those meetings, all that time when nothing special had happened. What were Molin’s habits? Did he have any habits at all? When did he laugh? When was he angry? He had difficulty remembering. The image was elusive. The only thing he was sure about was that Molin had been frightened that time.
    The forest came to an end, and after crossing the Ljusnan River Lindman found himself driving into Sveg. The place was so small that he nearly drove out of it on the other side before realizing that he’d reached his destination. He turned left at the church and saw a hotel sign. He’d assumed it wouldn’t be necessary to reserve a room in advance, but when he went to reception the girl behind the desk told him that he’d had a stroke of luck. They had one room, thanks to a cancellation.
    â€œWho wants to stay in a hotel in Sveg?” he said in surprise.
    â€œTest drivers,” the girl told him. “They check in up here and test new models. And then there are the computer people.”
    â€œComputer people?”
    â€œThere’s lots of that sort of thing just now,” the girl said. “New firms setting up. And there aren’t enough houses. The council is talking about building hostels.”
    She asked him how