Henning Mankell: The Dogs of Riga

But his father didn't respond. He just drank up the last drop of the tepid coffee.

"I've finished," he said. "We can go now."

Wallander asked for the bill, and paid. I'll never get an answer, he thought. I'll never know why he was so against my joining the police.

They drove back to Löderup. The wind was getting up. His father took the canvases and paints into his studio.

"When are we going to have a game of cards?" he asked.

"I'll come round in a few days," Wallander replied.

He drove back to Ystad. He couldn't make up his mind whether he was angry or shocked. Maggots from dead bodies crawling out of his shirtsleeves? What on earth did he mean?

It was 12.45 p.m. when he returned to his office. By then he had decided to demand a proper answer from his father the next time he saw him. He resolved to put the conversation out of his mind in the meantime, forcing himself to be a police officer again. The first thing he had to do was to contact Björk, but before he got round to dialling his number, the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

"Wallander."

There was a scratching and scraping noise. He repeated his name.

"Are you the one who's dealing with that life-raft?"

Wallander didn't recognise the voice. It was a man speaking quickly and under pressure.

"Who am I speaking to?"

"That's irrelevant. This is about that life-raft."

Wallander reached for his notebook.

"Did you phone us the other day?"

"Phone you?" The man seemed genuinely surprised.

"It wasn't you who phoned and warned us that a life-raft would be washed ashore somewhere not far from Ystad?"

There was a long silence. Wallander waited.

"Forget it," the man said, and hung up.

Wallander wrote down details of the conversation. He knew that he had made a mistake. The man had rung because he wanted to talk about the bodies in the life-raft, but when he heard there had already been a call he was surprised, perhaps frightened, and decided to hang up. It was obviously not the same man Martinsson had spoken to. So there was more than one person with information. Martinsson was right: whoever had seen something must have been on board a ship. They must have been crew, since nobody went out alone in a boat during the winter. But which ship? It could have been a ferry, or a fishing boat, or perhaps a freighter or one of the oil tankers that were forever traversing the Baltic.

Martinsson appeared in the doorway.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Wallander decided not to mention the phone call just yet. He'd tell his colleagues when he'd had time to think the whole thing through.

"I haven't spoken to Björk," was all he said. "We can meet in half an hour." Martinsson disappeared, and he rang Björk's number. "Björk."

"Wallander. How's it going?"

"Come round and I'll fill you in."

Wallander was surprised by what Björk had to say.

"We're going to have a visitor," Björk told him. "The foreign ministry is going to send us someone who will assist us in our investigation."

"Someone from the foreign ministry? What will they know about a murder investigation?"

"I've no idea, but he'll be arriving this afternoon. I thought it would be as well if you picked him up. His flight is due at Sturup at 17.20."

"For God's sake!" Wallander said. "Is he coming to help us, or to keep an eye on us?"

"I've no idea," Björk said again. "Besides, that's just the beginning. Guess who else has been in touch."

"The national police commissioner?"

Björk gave a start. "How did you know that?"

"My guesses are sometimes right. What does he want?"

"To be kept in the picture. And to send us a couple of officers, one from serious crime and one from narcotics."

"Do they need to be met at the airport too?"

"No. They can look after themselves."

Wallander thought for a moment.

"This seems odd," he said. "Not least the official from the foreign ministry. Why is he coming? Have they been in touch with the Soviet police? And the Eastern bloc?"

"Everything is according to the book, or so the foreign ministry people tell me – whatever that means." Björk flung out his arms. "I've been chief of police long enough to know how things are done in this country. Sometimes I'm the one who's kept in the dark. Other times it's the minister of justice. Mostly, though, it's the Swedish people who aren't told what's really going on."

Wallander was well aware of the many scandals involving justice in recent years, which had exposed the network of tunnels linking the basements of state organisations. Tunnels linking ministries and institutions. What had been thought to be mere suspicions, or accusations dismissed as the fantasies of the lunatic fringe, had now been confirmed. A large proportion of the real power was practised in dimly lit secret corridors, far beyond the control regarded as essential in a state governed by the rule of law.

There was a knock on the door, and Björk shouted "Come in!" It was Svedberg, with an evening paper in his hand.

"I thought you might like to see this," he said.

Wallander gave a start when he saw the front page. Bold headlines announced the sensational discovery of bodies on the Scanian coast. Björk jumped up from his chair and grabbed the newspaper, and they all read it over each other's shoulders. To his surprise, Wallander recognised his own anxious face in a blurred photograph. It must have been taken at the time of the Lenarp murder, he thought quickly.

"The investigation is being led by criminal inspector Knut Wallman."

Björk flung the paper down. He had the red patch on his brow that foreshadowed a furious outburst. Svedberg sidled towards the door.

"It's all there," Björk snarled. "Just as if it had been written by you, Wallander, or you, Svedberg. The paper knows the foreign ministry is involved, and that the national police commissioner is keeping an eye on developments. They even say that the life-raft was made in Yugoslavia, which is more than anyone has told me. Is this true?"

"It's true," Wallander said. "Martinsson told me this morning."

"This morning? For Christ's sake! When is this damned paper printed?"

Björk was pacing up and down. Wallander and Svedberg looked at each other. When Björk lost his temper he could go on and on forever.

Björk grabbed hold of the newspaper again and read aloud," 'Soviet death patrols. The new Europe has exposed Sweden to crime with a political slant.' What do they mean by that? Can anybody explain? Wallander?"

"I've no idea. I reckon the best policy is to take no notice of what they say in the press."

"How can anybody take no notice? We'll be besieged by the media after this."

As if he had just uttered a prophecy, the phone rang. It was a Daily News reporter asking for a comment. Björk put his hand over the receiver.

"We'd better call another press conference. Or shall we issue a statement? What's best? What do you think?"

"Both," Wallander answered. "But wait until tomorrow for the press conference. That man from the foreign ministry might have something to say."

Björk informed the journalist and hung up without answering any questions. Svedberg left the room while Björk and Wallander put together a short press release. When Wallander stood up to go, Björk asked him to stay.

"We'll have to do something about these leaks," he said. "I've obviously been far too naive. I remember you complaining about it last year, when you were busy with that murder in Lenarp, but I dismissed it as an over-reaction. What can I do about it now?"

"I wonder whether it's possible to do anything," Wallander said. "That's a lesson I learnt last year. I think we're just going to have to put up with this sort of thing from now on."

"You know, it'll be a great relief to retire," Björk said after a moment's thought. "I sometimes get the feeling the world is leaving me behind."