Henning Mankell - The Dogs of Riga

"You should," Wallander said. "There's not a credit institution in the world that can come up with anything negative about me."

There was a pause, and Wallander could hear the man's breathing.

"Do you know where Industry Road is?" the man asked suddenly.

Wallander did know. It was on an industrial estate on the eastern edge of the town.

"Drive there now," the man said. "It's one-way, but that doesn't matter, there's no traffic at this time of night. Switch off your engine and turn off your lights."

"Where do you want me to stop? It's a long road."

"Just go there. I'll find you. And be alone. Otherwise, forget it."

He hung up.

Wallander felt worried. He knew he ought to phone Martinsson or Svedberg and ask for back-up. But he forced himself to ignore his anxiety. What could happen, anyway?

He flung back the duvet and got up. The temperature had fallen below freezing, and he shuddered as he got into the car in the deserted street.

When he turned into Industry Road, which was lined with car salesrooms and small business premises, there was no sign of any lights. He drove halfway down the road, then switched off his lights and engine and settled down in the darkness to wait. The fluorescent clock on his dashboard showed just past midnight.

At 12.30, nothing had happened. He made up his mind to go back home if nobody had appeared by 1 a.m.

He didn't notice the man until he was standing next to the car. He quickly wound down the window. The man's face was in darkness, and Wallander couldn't make out his features. He did recognise the voice, though.

"Drive after me," the man said, and disappeared.

A few minutes later a car approached from the opposite direction, and flashed its lights. Wallander followed, and they drove out of town to the east.

Suddenly, he realised he was scared.

The harbour at Brantevik was deserted. Only a few, isolated lights were reflected in the dark, stagnant waters of the basin. Wallander wondered whether the lights had been broken, or if as part of its cuts the local government wasn't replacing spent bulbs. The future of our society gets gloomier and gloomier, he thought. A symbolic image is becoming more and more real.

The lights of the car ahead of him went out. Wallander switched off his own, and sat there in the darkness. The clock on the dashboard marked off time in a series of electronic jerks – 1.25 a.m. A torch suddenly illuminated the darkness, dancing around like a glow worm. Wallander opened his car door and clambered out, shivering as the cold night air struck him. The man with the torch stopped a few yards short of him. Wallander still couldn't make out his features.

"Let's go out onto the quay," the man said.

He spoke in a broad Scanian dialect. It was impossible to sound threatening with an accent like that, Wallander thought. He knew of no other dialect with so much gentleness built into it. Even so, he was hesitant.

"Why?" he asked. "Why do we have to go out onto the quay?

"Are you scared?" the man said. "We're going out onto the quay because there's a boat moored there."

He turned round and set off, with Wallander following him. A gust of wind clawed at his face. They stopped beside the dark silhouette of a fishing boat. The smell of sea and oil was very strong. The man handed Wallander the torch.

"Aim it at the mooring ropes," he said.

Wallander caught sight of him for the first time. A man in his 40s, possibly slightly older. A weather-beaten face with the rough skin of somebody who leads an outdoor life. He was dressed in dark blue overalls and a grey jacket, with a black knitted cap pulled down over his eyes. The man took hold of a mooring rope and clambered on board. He melted into the darkness in the direction of the wheel-house, and Wallander waited. A gas lantern was lit, and the man returned over the creaking deck to the prow.

"Welcome aboard," he said.

Wallander fumbled for the frozen rail and heaved himself aboard. He followed the man across the sloping deck, stumbling over a coiled hawser.

"Don't fall in," the man said. "The water's cold."

Wallander followed him into the cramped wheelhouse and then down into the engine room. The place stank of diesel and lubricating oil. The man hung the lantern on a hook in the ceiling and turned down the light.

Wallander realised that the man was scared to death. He was all fingers and thumbs, and in a hurry. Wallander sat down on the uncomfortable bunk covered with a dirty blanket.

"You keep your promises, I trust," the man said. "I always keep my promises," Wallander replied. "Nobody does that," the man said. "I'm thinking about what will happen to me." "What is your name?" "That's irrelevant."

"But you did see the life-raft with two dead bodies?"

"Could be."

"You wouldn't have phoned us otherwise." The man reached for a grimy chart beside him on the bunk.

"Here," he said, pointing. "That's where I saw it. It was just before 2 p.m. when I noticed it, the twelfth. Last Tuesday, that is. I've been trying to guess where on earth it could have come from."

Wallander searched through his pockets for a pencil and something to write on, but of course he found nothing.

"Let's take it slowly," Wallander said. "Start at the beginning. Where were you when you noticed the raft?"

"I've written it down," the man answered. "Just over 6 nautical miles off Ystad, in a straight line to the south. The raft was drifting towards the north-west. I've written down the exact position."

He handed Wallander a crumpled scrap of paper. Wallander had the impression the location was exact, even though the figures meant nothing to him.

"The life-raft was drifting," he said. "I'd not have noticed it if it had been snowing."

We'd never have noticed it, thought Wallander. Every time he says I, he hesitates almost imperceptibly, as if he had to keep reminding himself to tell only part of the truth.

"It was drifting to port," the man continued. "I towed it towards the Swedish coast, and let it go when I could see land."

That explains the severed rope, Wallander thought. They were in a hurry, and they were nervous. They didn't hesitate to sacrifice a bit of rope.

"Are you a fisherman?" he asked.

"Yes."

No, thought Wallander. You lied again, you're a bad liar, and I wonder what you're afraid of.

"I was coming home," the man said.

"You must have a radio on board," Wallander said. "Why didn't you alert the coastguards?"

"I have my reasons."

Wallander could see that he would have to break down the man's fear, or he would never get anywhere. Confidence, he thought. He must feel he really can trust me.

"I have to know more," Wallander said. "Obviously I'll be making use of whatever is said here in the investigation, but nobody will know it was you who said it."

"Nobody has said anything. Nobody has telephoned."

It dawned on Wallander that there was a perfectly simple explanation for the man's anxious determination to be anonymous. He'd realised before, during his conversation with Martinsson that the man he was talking to had not been alone on the boat; but now he knew exactly how many crewmen there had been. Two. Not three, not more, just two. And it was this second man that he was afraid of.

"Nobody's telephoned," Wallander said. "Is it your boat?"

"What difference does that make?"

Wallander started all over again. He was certain now the man had nothing to do with the men's death, but had only been on board the vessel that discovered the life-raft and towed it towards the shore. That made things simpler, although he couldn't understand why the witness was quite so scared. Who was the other man?

Then the penny dropped. Smugglers. Trafficking in refugees or booze. This boat is being used for smuggling. That's why there's no smell of fish.