The Return of the Dancing Master by Henning Mankell

He’s evidently got a second home down there. He’s on my list for tomorrow.”
    â€œHe’s back?”
    â€œYesterday.”
    Larsson thought for a moment. “I can tell my colleagues that I’ll take the responsibility for interviewing him. Which in turn means that there’s nothing to prevent you from talking to him.”
    â€œHans Marklund?”
    â€œHe works from his house in Krokom. Take the road north. In Krokom itself, you’ll see a sign saying ‘Rural Properties.’ Ring the doorbell here at 7:15, and I’ll come and let you in.”
    Larsson went back inside. Rundström’s attitude had annoyed Lindman, but at the same time it had given him renewed energy. And Larsson wanted to help him by letting him go through the material they had accumulated so far. In doing so, Larsson was putting himself at risk, even if there were no real impropriety in allowing a colleague from another force to take part in the investigation. Lindman found the hotel Larsson had suggested. He got a room under the eaves. He left his suitcase there and returned to his car. He phoned the hotel in Sveg and spoke to the receptionist.
    â€œNobody will take your room,” she assured him.
    â€œI’ll be back tomorrow.”
    â€œYou come when it suits you.”
    Lindman found his way out of Ostersund. It was only twenty kilometers to Krokom, where he found the real estate agent’s right away. It was a yellow-painted house with a large garden. A man was walking around the lawn vacuuming up dead leaves. He switched off the machine when he saw Lindman. The man was tanned and about Lindman’s age. He looked fit and trim, and had a tattoo on one of his wrists.
    â€œAre you looking for a house?” he said.
    â€œNot exactly. Are you Hans Marklund?”

    â€œThat’s me.”
    Then he turned serious. “Are you from the tax authority?”
    â€œNo. Giuseppe Larsson told me I’d find you here.”
    Marklund frowned. Then he remembered who that was. “The policeman. I’ve just gotten back from Spain. There are quite a lot of Giuseppes there. Or something like that. In Ostersund there’s only one. Are you a police officer as well?”
    Lindman hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “I’m a police officer. You once sold a house to a man called Herbert Molin. As you know, he’s dead now.”
    â€œCome inside,” Marklund said. “They phoned me in Spain and told me he’d been murdered. I didn’t expect to hear from them until tomorrow.”
    â€œYou will.”
    One of the rooms on the ground floor had been turned into an office. There were maps on the walls, and colored photographs of houses up for sale. Lindman noticed that the prices were significantly lower than in Boras.
    â€œI’m on my own at the moment,” Marklund said. “My wife and children are staying in Spain for another week. We’ve got a little house in Marbella. I inherited it from my parents. The kids have their fall break, or whatever it’s called.”
    Marklund made some coffee and they sat down at a table strewn with files.
    â€œI had some problems with the tax people last year,” Marklund said apologetically. “That’s why I asked. As the local authority is running short of money, I supposed they have to squeeze out every krona they can.”
    â€œEleven years ago or so, you sold the house near Linsell to Herbert Molin. I used to work with him in BorÃ¥s. He retired and moved up here. And now he’s dead.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œHe was murdered.”
    â€œWhy? By whom?”
    â€œWe don’t know yet.”
    Marklund shook his head.
    â€œIt sounds nasty. We like to think that we live in a pretty peaceful area up here—but maybe there aren’t any of those anymore?”
    â€œMaybe not. What can you tell me about that sale eleven years ago?”
    Marklund disappeared into