Read Online The Return of the Dancing Master by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online

long he intended staying.
    â€œA week,” he said. “Maybe longer. Is that possible?”
    She checked in the ledger.
    â€œWell, I think so, but I can’t promise,” she said. “We’re full more or less all the time.”
    Lindman left his suitcase in his room and went downstairs to the dining room, where the breakfast buffet was open. Young people were sitting at all the tables, many of them dressed in what looked like flying suits. After he’d eaten he went back to his room, stripped down, removed the bandages from his arm, and took a shower. Then he crept between the sheets. What am I doing here? he wondered. I could have gone to Mallorca. But I’m in Sveg. Instead of walking along a beach and looking at a blue sea, I’m surrounded by endless trees.
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    When he woke up, he didn’t know where he was at first. He lay in bed and tried to construct some sort of plan. But first he’d have to see the
place where Molin had died. The simplest thing, of course, would be to talk to the detective in charge of the case in Ostersund, Giuseppe Larsson; but something told him it would be better to take a look at the scene of the crime without anybody knowing about it. He could talk to Larsson later, maybe even drive to Ostersund. On the way north he’d wondered if there were any police stationed in Sveg, or did the police have to drive nearly 200 kilometers from Östersund to investigate petty crimes? Eventually, he got up. He had no end of questions, but the crucial thing was to see the scene of the crime.
    He dressed and went down to the lobby. The girl who’d checked him in was on the phone. Lindman spread out his map and waited. He could hear that she was talking to a child, no doubt her own, something about coming to the end of her shift shortly and another person taking over, so that she could go home.
    â€œEverything okay with the room?” she asked as she put the receiver down.
    â€œAll in order,” Lindman said. “I have a question, though. I haven’t come here to see if cars can handle extreme conditions. Nor am I a tourist, or a fisherman. I’m here because a good friend of mine was murdered not far from here last week.”
    Her face turned serious.
    â€œThe guy who lived out at Linsell? The former policeman?”
    â€œThat’s the one.” He showed her his police ID, then pointed to his map. “Can you show me where he lived?”
    She turned the map around and took a good look at it. Then she pointed to the spot.
    â€œYou have to head for Linsell,” she said. “Then turn off towards Lofsdalen, cross the Ljusnan River, and you’ll come to a signpost directing you to Linkvarnen. Continue past there for another ten kilometers or so. His house is off to the right, but the road isn’t marked on this map.”
    She looked at him.
    â€œI’m not really nosy,” she said. “I know lots of people have come here just to gape. But we’ve had some police from Ostersund staying here, and I heard them describing how to get there over the telephone. Somebody was supposed to be coming here by helicopter.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you get much of that sort of thing here,” Lindman said.
    â€œI’ve never heard of anything of the kind, and I was born in Sveg. When there was still a maternity hospital here.”
    Lindman tried to fold his map together, but made a mess of it.

    â€œLet me help you,” she said, flattening it out before folding it neatly.
    When Lindman left the hotel he could see that the weather had changed. There was a clear sky; the morning clouds had dispersed. He breathed in the fresh air.
    Suddenly he had the feeling that he was dead, and he wondered who would come to his funeral.
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    He reached Linsell at around two in the afternoon. To his surprise, he saw a sign advertising an Internet café. The village also boasted a gas station and a general