Read Online Italian Shoes by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online Page B

came to a little village with a general store. I went in and asked about Högtunet Farm. The shop assistant was young and wearing a baseball cap back to front. He drew a map for me.
    â€˜We’ve found a dog,’ I said.
    â€˜Sara Larsson has a spaniel,’ said the shop assistant. ‘Perhaps it’s run away?’
    I returned to the car, gave Harriet the hand-drawn map and drove back the way we’d come. All the time the dog lay curled up on the back seat. But I could see that it was alert. Harriet guided me into a side road hidden between banks of snow carved by the snowplough. It was disorientating entering this white corridor, all sense of direction lost. The road meandered along between fir trees heavily laden with snow. Though the road had been ploughed nothing had been through since last snowfall.
    â€˜Look – animal tracks in the snow,’ said Harriet. ‘They’re leading back towards the main road.’
    The dog had sat up on the back seat, its ears cocked, staring out through the windscreen. It kept shuddering,perhaps feeling cold. We drove over an old stone bridge. Ramshackle wooden fencing was just visible by the side of the road. The forest opened up. On a hillock ahead of us was a house that hadn’t seen a coat of paint for many years. There was also an outhouse and a partially collapsed barn. I stopped and let the dog out. It ran to the front door, scratched at it, then sat down to wait. I noticed that no smoke was coming from the chimney and the outside light over the front door was not on. I didn’t like what I saw.
    â€˜Just like a painting,’ said Harriet, ‘left behind by the artist on nature’s easel.’
    I got out of the car and lifted out the walker. Harriet shook her head, and stayed in the car. I stood in front of the house, listening. The dog was still sitting there motionless, staring at the door. A rusty old plough stuck out of the snow like the remains of a shipwreck. Everything seemed to be abandoned. I could see no tracks in the snow apart from those made by the dog. I was feeling more and more uneasy. I walked up to the house and knocked on the door. The dog stood up.
    â€˜Who’s going to open it?’ I whispered. ‘Who are you waiting for? Why were you sitting out there on the main road?’
    I knocked again, then tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. The dog ran in between my legs. It smelled stuffy inside the house – not unaired, but as if time had stood still and begun emitting a scent of doom. The dog had run into what I assumed was the kitchen, and not returned. I shouted, but there was no answer. On the left was a room with old-fashioned furniture and a clock with a pendulumswinging silently behind the glass. On the right was a staircase leading to the upper floor. I went to where the dog had gone and stopped abruptly in the doorway.
    An old woman was lying prone on the floor of grey linoleum. It was obvious that she was dead. Nevertheless, I did what one ought to do in the circumstance: knelt down and felt for a pulse in her neck, her wrist and in one temple. It wasn’t really necessary as the body was cold and rigor mortis had already set in. I assumed it was Sara Larsson lying there. It was cold in the kitchen as one of the windows was half open. That was no doubt the way the dog had taken in order to get out and try to fetch help. I stood up and looked around. Everything was neat and tidy in the kitchen. In all probability, Sara Larsson had died of natural causes. Her heart had stopped beating; perhaps a blood vessel had burst in her brain. I estimated her age at somewhere between eighty and ninety. She had thick white hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. I carefully turned the body over. The dog was watching everything I did with great interest. When the body was lying on its back, the dog sniffed at her face. I seemed to be looking at a painting different from the one Harriet had