robin porecky - raras last fan dance

8/20/2019 Robin Porecky - RaRas Last Fan Dance

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About the Author

Robin Porecky is of Polish origin but was born and brought up in

England. For over twenty-five years he has worked in Sweden asa writer and maker of customised knives. This is his sixth novel,

following ‘A Pathless Land’, ‘Fool’s Island’, ‘Come Into MyArms’, ‘The Devil’s Field’, and ‘Finished’. It is the fourth book

in the Magnus Trygg series of Swedish crime novels.


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Dedication

To Laurie and Tony who have given me such steadfast support.


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Robin Porecky

R

A

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A S T

F

A N

D A N C E


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Copyright © Robin Porecky (2015)

The right of Robin Porecky to be identified as author of this workhas been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may bereproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the BritishLibrary.

Royalties from the sale of this novel go to the registered charity

The Camphill Village Trust Ltd.

ISBN 978 1 84963 644 5

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.25 Canada Square

Canary WharfLondon

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain


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ALSO BY ROBIN PORECKY

A PATHLESS LAND (2009)

978-1-90560-958-1

In 1897 Martin Janow sets out to rescue Tempest, a mad

evangelist, from the wilds of Swedish Lapland. His motive is notentirely unselfish, for Mary Warmouth has promised herself to

him if he succeeds.But why is she so eager to save the priest, and is Tempest really

mad? On the increasingly frightening journey homeward thelayers of truth are gradually peeled back and Janow must fight for

his own sanity and his survival.

CRITICAL ACCLAIM

“The plot resembles both Conrad’s Heart of Darkness and Henry

James’ The Ambassadors, but is none the worse for it. The scenesin Lapland are superbly eerie; and what Janow finds at the end of

his voyage of discovery suitably disturbing.” Alexander Lucie-Smith, The Tablet

“A gripping, erudite and highly original journey into the heart of

Nordic Darkness. Porecky explores issues of spirituality, cultureand fanaticism with the flair of a born storyteller.”

Liz Jensen, author of ‘The Ninth Life of Loui s Drax’

“There are echoes of the great Australian novelist Patrick White’sVoss: the same epic feel and sense of inevitability. I felt plunged

into a powerful place ... and was swept along.” Piers Plowright, Triple Prix Italia winner and Radio 4’s

‘Saturday review’ critic

LONGLISTED FOR THE AUTHORS’ CLUB BEST FIRST NOVEL AWARD 2010


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FOOL’S ISLAND (2011)

978-1-84963-075-7

In 1759 the young and wilful Franulka leaves her castle home for

Warsaw, where she attracts the attentions of the King’s son.Eighteen months later, with her Fool and maid, she vanishes. A

closed carriage in the early morning, with an armed outrider,suggests disgrace and exile.

But nothing is as it seems. Caught up in a deadly conspiracy,only the Fool can save her. But is the price too high?

Shifting between Poland, Russia, Venice and an Adriatic island,this is a gripping historical mystery, a passionate love story and a

moving study of the painful growth of self-awareness.

“Here’s a novel that grabs you by the ear and eye and plunges

you into the life of 18th century Poland: court intrigues, lovesacred and profane, jealousy, rage, adventure, comedy and

danger. And your guide is that wisest of men, a professional‘fool’. The journey to his island is a thrilling one.”

Piers Plowright, Broadcaster and Critic

“A born storyteller.” Liz Jensen, author of ‘The Rapture’

“Powerfully written, impeccably researched.”

Elizabeth Carter-Jones, Reviewer


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COME INTO MY ARMS (2012)

978-1-84963-166-2

Magnus Trygg is a happy man. He loves his Swedish wife, his

two young children and his home in the sparsely populatednorthern county of Jämtland. He is proud of his job as a junior

policeman in the local force and, though half-Thai, he has alwaysthought of himself as fully Swedish.

Then a young Kurdish girl is found in the forest, tied to a stakeand shot. Magnus, waiting with the body throughout the long

summer night until an Inspector is available, discovers themurder weapon. It suggests an honour killing, and he is ordered

to bring in the father. But Magnus knows Hashmet Nazif, likeshim, and is reluctant to believe he would harm his daughter.

Unsettled by the sudden explosion of anti-immigrant feeling, hedecides to use his local knowledge to uncover anything that may

suggest a different truth. It is a very dangerous decision.

“Tremendous pace, a lot of tension and a thoroughly gripping

climax.” Piers Plowright, Critic and Broadcaster

“A good and surprising read.”

Bernard Krichefski, Television Drama Producer


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THE DEVIL’S FIELD (2013)

978-1-84963-167-9

Magnus Trygg, temporarily in charge of the High Coast district,

is called out to a body with a knife in its back. August Frisk, whoalerted him, insists he’s never seen the man before, and the others

living there agree. The only suspect is Paulus, a Sami reindeerherder who flees to the White Sea where the Russian authorities

prove uncooperative. Inspector Amrén suggests the case might besuspended until he can be questioned.

But Magnus, eager to prove himself, carries on probing. He’ssensed hidden tensions at Frisk’s and, his own marriage in crisis,

he’s powerfully drawn to August’s daughter -in-law, Hanna. But putting pressure on already vulnerable people reveals other

secrets, which have unwanted consequences for them all.Set in northern Sweden, Poland and the crime-ridden Russian

enclave of Kaliningrad in 2004, this is the second book in theMagnus Trygg series.

“A splendid piece of work.” Brendan Walsh, Literary Editor ‘The Tablet’

“A powerful tale, grippingly told. I salute the author’s energy and

skill.” Piers Plowright, Critic and Broadcaster


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FINISHED (2014)

978-1-84963-642-1

In the Swedish town of Sundsvall the female owner of a

basement flea market is killed by a single hammer blow. MagnusTrygg is away on an Inspector’s course and so the case is

reluctantly given to his rival for the post of Head of Homicide,Lennart Havendal. An unlucky man, struggling to cope with the

death of his wife, he does uncover one vital clue: although themurder weapon is beside the body, another hammer has been

removed from a display unit.Unable to make more progress with the first murder, he is soon

investigating a second. Magnus, when he returns, volunteers toact as protection officer for the woman Lennart believes will be

the next victim. Magnus has his doubts, but another hammer ismissing and time is not on their side.

Set in northern Sweden and England in 2005, this is the third book in the Magnus Trygg series.

“The best yet. A cracking opening, highly page-turning, full oftension, and, ultimately, rather touching.”

Piers Plowright, Broadcaster and Critic


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CHAPTER 1

In the darkness, hours before dawn, he swayed above the roadlooking down at the occasional car which passed beneath him.The rock on either side of him had been blasted to form a pass

through the height above the Indal River at Utanede, acowboy canyon with a tarmac base. The cold was intense, and

the crest of snow at the rocky lips was deep and pure. At

intervals he moved slowly like a circling buzzard; but at othertimes he was as still as a pendulum in an unwound clock.

Below, coming out of the forest, a small hunched figuremoved along the narrow track toward the split rock. He waswalking very slowly, and it became apparent it was not an

injury that was slowing him, nor exhaustion, but simply age. Ithad given him his stoop, and the plodding sedateness of his

movement had become the natural rhythm of his body. In one

hand he carried a fishing rod, and in the other he had a loopedtwig from which dangled two stream-trout. He may have been

looking forward to eating them for an early breakfast, freshfrom the water and fried in butter, for there was a look ofcontentment about the man despite the weight of his years. He

picked his way along the barely visible path with the unerring precision of somebody who has used it all his life and hasreached an age where he is largely indifferent to darkness or

light. He was humming a tune as he went along, the fingers ofhis left hand moving on the rod as if it was the keyboard of a

piano-accordion.


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Above him the silent watcher moved more violently in asudden gust of wind, and the rope creaked. The fishermanstopped, peering upwards. It seemed his sight was no longer

as keen as it once might have been, for with an audible sighwhich ended the Dala dance with a wheezy discord, he

stooped to lay his rod and fish on a convenient tree stump,took out his torch and shone it upwards. Then he began to toilup the narrow ascent towards the top of the cutting. When he

was about half-way, he stopped and turned to face what wasnow level with him. The morning breeze eddied, and the

person on the rope approached him through the gloom. He

came so close, if only momentarily, that the old man could seein the torchlight the noose around his neck, the dead-fish look

of the skin, the absence of any sign of life. Above, on the crestof the rock, a sturdy birch had sunk its roots deep into thecrevices of the granite and, over time, while still remaining

firmly anchored, had leant lower and lower into the drop. Therope was attached to its upper trunk, and had then been passedover a strong branch somewhat further out so that the hanging

man, in the stillness of his death, contemplated the empty roadwith equally empty eyes.

But there was no doubt that he was intended to be seenonce the sun was up. There was a white placard tied to hischest by strings which ran around his waist and neck, and the

black lettering on it would stand out clearly in the light of day.Though not as old as the man who scrutinised the message, he

was not young. He was wearing a suit that, though dated, had been expensive, and his white shirt and narrow tie added tothe appearance of professional elegance. His black shoes werelovingly polished and he had that calm demeanour of someone

who has lived long enough to be beyond surprise. Even hisown death, or so it seemed from his expression, had not

surprised him.


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CHAPTER 2

Four days previously Ragnar Amrén had set out southwardsfor the 2006 County Police Commissioners Conference inUppsala. Medelpad was covered in fresh snow and for the first

few hours he drove through traditional Norrland winterscenes, lacking only red-capped Christmas elves to turn them

into childhood Christmas cards. But just above Gävle the

snow became sparser, and a slight drizzle compelled him touse his windscreen wipers. He’d enjoyed having such beauty

around him, and now he missed it, but he felt comfortable andsecure in his well-heated Volvo. As head of the Sundsvallforce he could have opted for a more daring car, flashier even,

but it was typical of his caution that he’d gone for somethingsafe, practical and unexciting. He was aware his colleagues

smiled behind his back, and poked fun at him for his lack of

adventure; and those who knew him best had probably wonsome money betting on his final choice of car. But he believed

they were not unhappy to be led by someone whose qualitieswere personified by the vehicle he drove - solid anddependable.

The weather became increasingly dreary the further southhe went, but it couldn’t dampen his spirits. He was nursing asecret, hugging it to himself where it warmed him whatever

the outside temperature. Nobody had seen it coming, least ofall himself. Yet once it had taken place he’d experienced a

sense of vindication, as if he was finally getting what he might justifiably deserve. More used to it himself now, he joyfully


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anticipated the astonishment of his colleagues when the publicannouncement was made and they discovered their placid,

predictable leader was actually destined for higher things.

Wizelius, the police commissioner for Västernorrland,was dying. A man of few words and strong opinions, he’d

been effective if not always popular. Amrén, who was mostlyaccommodating rather than contrary, had got on perfectly wellwith him, though he’d never been blind to his faults. When he

heard the cancer had spread to an extent that made surgery pointless, his immediate reaction was one of genuine sorrowfor Wizelius himself, followed by a secondary feeling of

reluctant irritation that he would have to adapt himself toanother overseer. At least Wizelius had interfered very little in

Sundsvall’s police affairs, but a new broom might feel theneed to throw his weight around at first. Not once did heconsider himself as a possible contender for the position. He

had long ago decided that his present post was as high as hewanted to climb. Nor had he ever felt the least regret aboutthat decision, or so, at least, he’d believed. But he had always

been especially sensitive to any change in people’s attitude tohim, and it was not long before he picked up the early signals

that others did see him as a suitable candidate.He should, of course, have deliberately scotched his

chances from the first, putting himself out of contention. At

any time in the previous thirty years of his police career hewould have done so. But something seemed to have altered in

him, and, to his own surprise, he let it run. It was not that hedid not know his real worth, but hitherto he’d been able toaccept without resentment that many above him were lesseffective than he would have been in their jobs because he did

not covet their jobs. But on this occasion, at the firstindication that an eventual offer might be coming his way, he

suddenly found he desperately wanted to seize his chance.He felt uneasy at such an unpremeditated response, for he

had never before reacted without his usual cautious appraisalof every possible consequence. But this urge wasoverpowering. Excitement ruled him and though he wasshaken by the strength of this late-flowering ambition, he


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could not rein it in. When it became clear he was likely tosucceed, it filled him with an exhilaration which was quitenew to him. Ragnar Amrén was going to be County Police

Commissioner for Västernorrland, with a budget of threemillion kronor, and responsibility for a population of two

hundred and fifty thousand. It was intoxicating.But that was not all. In the course of confidential

conversation, away from Sundsvall, and with some very

senior figures, it became clear the promotion might be ameans to a very different end. In the not too distant future, orso he was told, another post would be coming up, and some of

the commissioners already thought he might be the one to fillit. Though he hardly dared to think of it, it would be

something much, much more. However he might discount it,he was considered, by several influential people, the rightchoice to become the highest ranking policeman in Sweden.

He wondered whether others had scented the change inhim before he noticed it himself, and that was why thetentative approaches began. He did not know. But now he,

who had never sought anything for himself, began to stalk the possibility of promotion. When important people

unexpectedly sought him out, happening to come across himat meetings, or just passing through Sundsvall and taking theopportunity to look in, he welcomed them in a way he never

would have done before. Instead of becoming reticent, pleading work or another engagement so that he could slip

away as soon as possible, he put himself at their disposal,discussing his work, brushing aside his achievements but notso modestly that he did not make it apparent what they were.He allowed himself to speak of his ambitions where before no

ambition had existed. After such a quiet life it was a headyexperience, and perhaps it did go to his head. He’d never

sought anything for himself before, and he convinced himselfthat he did not want more than his due - to be the County

Police Commissioner. But when allusions were made to the present unsatisfactory state of the force, the possibility of achange of leadership not too far in the future, and the vitalimportance of having someone who had the trust and respect


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of ordinary policemen, he discovered that ambition, oncespawned, is hard to contain. The day he knew he was to beCommissioner became the day he desperately wanted the

highest rank as well.Outside Uppsala, he slowed the car and turned it into the

long avenue. Black, leafless trees dripped in the Novemberdrizzle, and in the ditches the vestiges of the last snowfallwere grey and shrivelled. He stopped the car and lowered the

window. It was bitterly cold, but here there was none of the beauty which had comforted him when he left Sundsvall, earlythat morning. Then there were white trees in a white

landscape; here there was bleakness.But at the far end of the avenue he could just make out the

circular drive around the still-green grass centre, the largestone two-handled bowl high on its pedestal, filled withwelcoming freshly planted dark-pink flowers. Beyond it

spread the splendour of the pale-yellow herrgård , dominatingthe road, commanding a fine view over Lake Mälaren, itsstone steps leading to the pillared portico, the impressive

stately home that was the chosen venue of the 2006Conference. It was there his promotion would be announced,

and his unofficial anointment as a possible future NationalPolice Commissioner would slip into the stream ofconsciousness of those in the force who really mattered.

He shivered in the cold, but as he raised the window heknew it was also a shiver of excitement. After so long, he was

going to make something of his life.He drove on, wanting to have a little time to himself

before meeting Jörgen Bergqvist, Commissioner of theStockholm Police and current chairman of the CPC, who had

invited him to a pre-conference lunch here, before the otherdelegates arrived. He steered around the main building and

coasted down between twin lines of ancient linden trees. Hecould see the lake at the far end, but had to turn off into the

residential car park before he reached it. He checked into hisroom, unpacked and looked at his watch. He hated to be late,and for many years now it had been one of his principles to beon time for any engagement. He would not have liked to


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reckon up the number of hours he’d wasted hanging aroundand waiting just so that he could always arrive on the minute.But it was one of the ways he’d built a reputation for absolute

reliability with much the same planned care as he was usingnow over his promotion. And not just reliability, but

amiability too, a listener more than a talker, a man who neverrefused a task and never left it unfinished, who never shirkedhard work, who never spoke ill of people behind their backs.

A nice guy, a good man, sympathetic, loyal, and, though hedidn’t like to think about it any longer, an officer, in hisyounger days, with a proven track-record of reckless courage

when the need arose.He’d met Jör gen privately once before, and at that

meeting the commissioner had shown he was not a man forniceties.

“Do you want to be County Police Chief?” he’d growled

in the alcohol thickened voice familiar from countlesstelevision interviews.

“I do,” he replied, as though he was answering a priest

officiating at his marriage.“You’ve never shown much bloody ambition before.”

“I was waiting until I felt I was ready. I’m ready now.” Jörgen gave a grunt which sounded both sceptical and

irritated by the prissiness of the answer.

“I’ve looked at your record, and it’s impressive. You’verisked your life to save others, you’ve taken difficult

decisions, and on some operations you’ve gambled on yourown instincts and been proved right. But at times, like now,you come acr oss as a sanctimonious creep. Why’s that?”

Amrén briefly considered this. “Perhaps it’s because you

and I are very different. We’re unlikely to understand eachother.”

“Meaning that I drink? Everybody knows it, and I don’tgive a fuck about it as long as it doesn’t interfere with my job,

whereas you’re squeaky clean and therefore holier than thou.Is that why you’ve never married, because you’d like to have

been a monk?”


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Amrén couldn’t help laughing, though he understood thiswas the question Jörgen, in his own particular style, had beensoftening him up for.

“It was more bad timing than spiritual castration. I fell inlove when I was quite young, but she was already married.

Although I continue to live in hope, nobody else has evermatched her.”

“I’ve done my research, and I was surprised to discover

that, especially in your earlier years in the force, you werewell known for a fan dance you performed at parties, duringwhich you mocked politicians, do-gooders, and other police-

critics.” “It was a long time ago.”

“Yet it was known about in Sundsvall, so there must have been the odd little repeat performance?”

“I did it once at a small private party,” Amrén conceded.

“In November the bloody talking-shop we call acommissioner’s conference starts with a get-together with the

press, and that’s when you’ll be introduced to the nation as the

next Commissioner for Västernorrland. But the conferenceends with a private party, and no prying journalists of any sort

or colour are allowed at that. Someone always does a shortturn, and this year I’d like it to be you. There are still someamong us who think you’re a bit of a dull dog, and before we

start on any sort of move to get you considered for the highest post we need to wake people up to the fact that though you

may be quiet, you’re certainly not dull. Will you do it?” He’d amazed himself by agreeing at once. His fan dance

was something very intimate, to be performed among triedand trusted colleagues. The thought of doing it on a wider

stage frightened him, but it tempted him as well. Dressing up,disguising himself, becoming a different person, so dominant,

so critical, always had a strange effect on him, almost as if itwas a powerful drug. It was certainly a sort of madness, the

only time he lost control, handing himself over to some depthinside himself that embraced everything he normallyabhorred. He would flaunt himself, savage all critics of the

police, holding his audience helpless, leading them where he


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wished, working them up, forcing them to follow him, andleaving them emptied of their darkest thoughts and shameful

prejudices and cheering the man who’d made their difficult

job seem temporarily easy. It was an exposure of himself, butit was in private, and so he could accept it. But deep-down he

was conscious that he longed to do it, relished the challengeand knew he could, and would, surmount it.

He’d been less happy about being introduced at the Press

Conference, though he’d accepted that as well. Now, waitingto meet Jörgen again, he was much more confident, and didnot doubt his ability to survive. It was true that previously

he’d always shunned personal publicity, and avoided thelimelight, however pale it might be. Now, at the new level to

which he’d climbed so astonishingly quickly, it was probablyimportant television and radio should take him into everyhome. He would be known, recognised, someone special,

someone with power and, of course, someone to knock downas much as to revere. But he would be revealing to thecameras the new self-assured, for thright character he’d

assumed; or could it be the real character he’d never previously permitted to appear?

“You’ve got a real chance to establish your qualities infront of the press,” Jörgen now announced as soon as they satdown together, the wine had been poured and the food set

before them. “They’re getting together sample questionssubmitted by the public, and they’ll fire them at you to test

your mettle. It’ll be the same old rubbish, but your answerswill seem fresh because you’re a new face.”

He drained his glass and signalled to the hovering waiterto fill it up again. Once that was done the waiter looked

expectantly at Amrén, but he put his hand over his glass.Jörgen, raising his bushy eyebrows but waving the waiter

away, leant forward.“Is ther e anything in your past, Ragnar? Is there anything

at all that in such new circumstances might emerge and biteyou? You’ll be sticking your head above the parapet as aCounty Chief, and even more so as a contender for the top

post. It’ll allow the fuckers in the press corps open season on

robin porecky - raras last fan dance

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