December 12, 1945. Nazi Germany lies in ruins as a British warplane lands in Buckeburg. A man carrying a small black bag quickly disembarks and travels to Hamelin, where he disappears behind the prison gates. Early the next day, England's most experienced hangman executes twelve war criminals.
Fifty-four years later, retired policeman Herbert Molin spends another sleepless night on his remote farm in Harjedalen, Sweden. But it is this night when the long-dread shadows from his past finally emerge to exact revenge. After Molin is found brutally slaughtered - literally whipped to death - the police discover strange tracks in the blood on the floor...as if someone had been practicing the tango.
Stefan Lindman is a young police officers who has just been diagnosed with cancer of the tongue. When he reads about the murder of his former colleague, he decides to travel north and find out what happened. Soon he is enmeshed in a puzzling investigation with no witnesses, no discernible motives. Terrified of the illness that could take his life, Lindman nonetheless becomes more and more reckless as he uncovers the links between Molin's death, World War II, and an underground neo-Nazi network that runs much further and deeper than he had ever imagined.

The Return of the Dancing Master

By Henning Mankell

New Press

Copyright © 2004 Henning Mankell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781565848603

Chapter One

PART I
Härjedalen / October–November 1999

CHAPTER 1

He woke in the night, besieged by shadows. It had started when he was 22. Fifty-four years of sleepless nights, constantly besieged by shadows. He'd only managed to sleep after taking heavy doses of sleeping pills. He knew the shadows had been there when he woke, even if he'd been unaware of them.

This night, now drawing to its close, was no exception. Nor did he have to wait for the shadows - or the visitors, as he sometimes called them - to put in an appearance. They generally turned up a few hours after darkness fell. Were there without warning, by his side, with silent white faces. He'd got used to their presence after all the years, but he knew he couldn't trust them. One of these days they'd be bound to break loose. He didn't know what would happen then. Would they attack him, or would they betray him? There had been times when he'd shouted at them, hit out in all directions to drive them off. He'd kept them at bay for a while. Then they'd be back and stay until dawn. He'd sleep in the end, but usually for only a few hours because he needed to get up and go to work.

He'd been tired all of his adult life. He had no idea how he'd got by. Looking back, he could recognise only an endless string of days that he'd somehow or other muddled through. He had hardly any memories unconnected with his tiredness. In photographs taken of him he always looked haggard. The shadows had also taken their revenge on him during his two marriages: his wives had been frustrated by his constant state of unease, and the fact that when he wasn't working, he was always half asleep. They'd lost patience with finding him up for most of the night, and he'd never been able to explain why he couldn't sleep like a normal person. In the end they'd left him, and he'd been alone again.

He looked at his watch. 4.15 a.m. He went to the kitchen and poured himself coffee from the thermos he'd made before going to bed. The thermometer outside the window showed minus two. If he didn't remember to change the screws holding it in place, before long it would fall. He moved the curtain, and the dog started barking out there in the darkness. Shaka was the only security he had. He'd found the name he'd given his Norwegian elkhound in a book - he couldn't remember the title. It had something to do with a powerful Zulu chieftain, and he'd thought it a suitable name for a guard dog. Short and easy to shout. He took his coffee into the living room. The thick curtains were securely drawn. He knew that already, but felt compelled to keep checking. He checked the windows.

Then he sat at the table again and contemplated the jigsaw pieces spread out before him. It was a good puzzle. It had lots of pieces and demanded imagination and perseverance to solve it. Whenever he finished a puzzle, he would burn it and immediately start on a new one. He made sure he always had a store of puzzles. It was a bit like a smoker and his cigarettes. For years he'd been a member of a world-wide club devoted to the culture of jigsaw puzzles. It was based in Rome, and every month he'd get a newsletter with information about puzzle-makers who had ceased trading and others who had entered the field. As early as the mid-'70s it had struck him how hard it was to find really good puzzles - that is, hand-sawn ones. He didn't think much of the mechanically produced ones. There was no logic in the way the pieces were cut, and they didn't fit in with the patterns. That might make them hard to solve, but the difficulties were mechanically contrived. Just now he was working on a puzzle based on Rembrandt's The Conspiracy of the Bathavians under Claudius Civilis. It had 3,000 pieces and had been made by a specialist in Rouen. He'd once driven down to visit the man. They'd talked about how the best puzzles were the ones with the most subtle nuances of light. And how Rembrandt's colour schemes made the greatest demands.

He sat holding a piece that obviously belonged in the background of the painting. It took him nearly ten minutes to find where. He checked his watch again: 4.30. Hours to go before dawn, before the shadows would withdraw and he could get some sleep.

It seemed to him that on the whole everything had become much simpler since he'd turned 65 and retired. He didn't need to be anxious about feeling tired all day. Didn't need to be frightened of nodding off at work. But the shadows ought to have left him in peace ages ago. He had served his time. They had no need now to keep their eye on him. His life had been ruined.


He went to the bookcase where he kept his CD player. He'd bought it a few months ago, on one of his rare visits to Östersund. He put the disc in the machine back on - he'd been surprised to find it among the pop music in the shop where he'd bought the player. It was a tango, a genuine Argentinian tango. He turned up the sound. The elkhound out there in the dark had good ears and responded to the music with a bark, then was quiet again. He went back to the table and walked round it, studying the puzzle as he listened to the music. There was plenty yet to do. It would keep him going for three more nights at least before he burnt it. He had several more, still in their boxes. Then he would drive to the post office in Sveg and collect another batch sent by the old master in Rouen.

He sat on the sofa to enjoy the music. It had been one of his life's ambitions to visit Argentina. To spend a few months in Buenos Aires, dancing the tango every night. But it had never happened; something always cropped up to make him draw back at the last minute. When he'd left Västergötland eleven years ago and moved north to the forests of Härjedalen, he'd meant to take a trip every year. He lived frugally, and although his pension wasn't a big one, he could afford it. In fact, all he'd done was once or twice to drive round Europe looking for new jigsaw puzzles.

He would never go to Argentina. He would never dance the tango in Buenos Aires. But there's nothing to stop me dancing here, he thought. I have the music and I have my partner.

He stood up. It was 5 a.m. Dawn was a long way off. It was time for a dance. He went to the bedroom and took his dark suit from the wardrobe. He examined it carefully before putting it on. A stain on the jacket lapel annoyed him. He wet a handkerchief and wiped it clean. Then he changed. This morning he chose a rust-brown tie to go with his white shirt. Most important of all were the shoes. He had several pairs of Italian dancing shoes, all expensive. For the serious dancer, the shoes had to be perfect.

When he was ready, he studied his appearance in the mirror on the wardrobe door. His hair was grey and cropped short. He was thin; he told himself he should eat more. But he looked considerably younger than his 76 years.

He knocked at the spare bedroom door. He imagined hearing somebody bidding him enter. He opened the door and switched on the light. His dancing partner was lying in the bed. He was always surprised by how real she looked, even though she was only a doll. He pulled back the duvet and lifted her up. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt. He'd given her the name of Esmeralda. There were some bottles of scent on the bedside table. He sat her down, and selected a discreet Dior which he sprayed gently onto her neck. When he closed his eyes it...