Lindman threw on his clothes, grabbed his keys, and hurried out of the room. The lobby was deserted. The card players had gone to bed. The cards were still there, strewn over the table. Lindman ran out into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of a car engine dying away. He stood stock-still and looked around. Then he walked over to the place where the man had been standing. The footsteps were clear in the snow. He’d left the same way as he’d come, toward the furniture shop.
Lindman examined the footprints. They formed a pattern, that was obvious. He’d seen the pattern before. The man who’d been standing there, looking up at Lindman’s window, had marked out the steps of the tango in the glittering, newly fallen snow. The last time Lindman had seen these same footprints, they had been marked out in blood.
Chapter Thirty-Three
He should call Larsson. It was the only sensible thing to do, but something held him back. It was still too unreal, the pattern in the snow, the man underneath his window, raising his arms as if to surrender.
He checked to make sure he had his cell phone in his pocket, then started following the tracks. Just outside the hotel courtyard it was crossed by prints from a dog. The dog had then crossed the road after leaving a yellow patch. Not many people were out in the streets. The only tracks visible were from the man he was following. Straight, confident strides. Heading north, past the furniture shop and toward the train station. He looked around. Not a soul in sight, no shadowy figures now, just this one set of footprints in the snow. The man had stopped to look around when he came to the café, then he had crossed the road, still heading north, before turning left towards the deserted, unlit station building. Lindman let a car drive past, then continued on his way.
He paused when he came to the station. The tracks continued around the building towards the tracks and the platform. If his suspicions were correct, he was now following the man who’d killed Molin. Not only killed but tortured him, whipped him to death, and then dragged him around in a bloodstained tango. For the first time, it struck him that the man might be insane. What they had assumed all the time was something rational, cold-blooded, and well-planned might in fact be the opposite of that: pure madness. He turned, walked back until he was under a streetlight, and called Larsson. Busy. They’ll be at the scene of the fire by now, he thought. Larsson is calling somebody to tell him about it, probably Rundström. He waited, keeping his eye on the station all the time, then tried the number again. Still busy. After a few minutes he tried for a third time. A woman’s voice informed him that it was impossible to get through to the required number and would he please try again later. He put the cell phone back in his pocket and tried to decide what to do. Then he started walking south towards Fjällvägen. He turned when he came to a long warehouse and found himself among the railroad tracks. He could see the station some distance away. He kept walking across the tracks and into the shadows on the other side, then slowly approached the station again. An old guard’s van was standing in a siding. He walked around behind it. He still wasn’t close enough to see where the footprints had gone. He stood in the shadow of the guard’s van and peered around it.
The snow muffled all sounds, so he didn’t hear the man creeping up on him from behind and hitting him hard on the back of his head. Lindman was unconscious by the time he landed in the snow.
It was pitch-black when he opened his eyes. There was a pounding in the back of his head. He remembered immediately what had happened — standing by the guard’s van, peering out at the station. Then a flash. He knew nothing about what happened next, but he was no longer outdoors. He was sitting on a chair. He couldn’t move his arms. Nor his legs. He was tied to a chair, and there was a blindfold over his eyes.
He was terrified. He’d been captured by the man whose tracks he’d followed through the snow. He had done exactly what he shouldn’t have done: gone off on his own, without backup and without warning his colleagues. His heart was racing. When he tried to turn his head he felt excruciating pain in the back of his neck. He listened to the darkness and wondered how long he’d been unconscious.
He gave a start. He could hear somebody breathing close by him. Where was he? Indoors, but where? There was a smell in the room that he recognized but couldn’t place. He’d been in this room before, but where was it? There was a glimmer of light around the edge of the blindfold. He still couldn’t see anything, but the light had been turned on. He held his breath and heard muffled footsteps. A carpet, he thought, and the floor’s vibrating. An old house with a wooden floor. I’ve been here before, I’m certain of it.
Then somebody started talking to him in English. A man’s voice, coming from his left. It was gruff, the words came out slowly, and the foreign accent was obvious.
“I’m sorry I had to knock you out, but this meeting was necessary.”
Lindman made no reply. Every word he said could be dangerous if the man really was insane. Silence was the only protection he had at the moment.
“I know you’re a policeman,” the voice said. “Never mind how I know.”
The man waited for Lindman to reply, but he didn’t.
“I’m tired,” the voice said. “This has been far too long a journey. I want to go home, but I need answers to some questions. And there’s somebody I want to talk to. Answer just one question: who am I?”
Lindman tried to work out what it meant. Not the words, but what lay behind them. The man talking to him gave the impression of being perfectly calm, not in the least worried or impatient.
“I’d like a reply,” the voice said. “You won’t come to any harm, but I can’t let you see my face. Who am I?”
Lindman realized he would have to respond. It was a very clear question.
“I saw you in the snow beneath my hotel window. You raised your arms and you left some prints in the snow like those in Herbert Molin’s house.”
“I killed him. It was necessary. I spent all those years thinking that I would draw back when it came down to it, but I didn’t. Perhaps I shall regret it when I’m on my deathbed. I don’t know.”
Lindman was soaked in sweat. He wants to talk, he thought. What I need is time, time to work out where I am and what I can do. He also thought about what the voice had said: all those years. That was something he could latch onto, and put a simple question of his own.
“I realize it must have had something to do with the war,” he said. “Events that took place a long time ago.”
“Herbert Molin killed my father.”
The words were spoken calmly and slowly. Herbert Molin killed my father. Lindman had no doubt that Fernando Hereira, or whatever he was really called, was speaking the truth.
“What happened?”
“Millions of people died as a result of Hitler’s evil war, but every death is individual, every horror has its own face.”
Silence. Lindman tried to pick out the most significant bits of what the man had said. All those years, that was the war; and now he knew that Fernando Hereira had avenged his father. He’d also mentioned a journey that had been far too long. And most important of all, perhaps: there’s somebody I want to talk to. Somebody besides me, Lindman thought, who?
“They hanged Josef Lehmann,” the voice said. “Sometime in the autumn of 1945. He deserved it. He had killed many people in the terror-stricken concentration camps he governed. But they should have hanged his brother as well. Waldemar Lehmann. He was worse. Two brothers, two monsters who served their master by making vast numbers of humans scream. One of them ended up with a rope around his neck, the other one disappeared, and if the gods have been incredibly careless he might be still alive. I’ve sometimes thought I’ve seen him in the street, but I don’t know what he looks like. There are no photographs of him. He had been more careful than his brother Josef. That saved him. Besides, what he enjoyed most was getting others to carry out the torture. He trained people to become monsters. He educated the henchmen of death.”