Henning Mankell: The Dogs of Riga

"I remember," Wallander said.

"I thought I'd have a word with Mr Holmgren," Martinsson continued. "He used to live in the same street as you, by the way, Mariagatan."

"Used to live?"

"Exactly. When I went to see him, he'd moved. A long way away, as well. He'd gone off to Portugal. He'd sent in various documents that classified him as an emigrant, and given his new address as somewhere in the Azores. He'd sold Byron to some Danish fisherman or other for a real bargain basement price."

Martinsson paused, and Wallander watched him thoughtfully.

"You have to agree that it's a pretty strange story," Martinsson said. "Do you reckon we ought to pass this information on to the police in Riga?"

"No," Wallander said. "I don't think that's necessary. But thanks for telling me."

"I haven't finished yet," Martinsson said. "Here comes part two of the story. Did you read the papers yesterday?"

Wallander had stopped buying newspapers ages ago, unless he was involved in a case the press was displaying more than routine interest in. He shook his head, and Martinsson continued.

"You should have done. There were reports on how the customs in Goteborg fished up a life-raft that later proved to have come from a Russian trawler. They'd found it drifting off Vinga, which seemed odd because there was no wind at all that day. The skipper of the trawler maintained they'd had to put in to dock for some repairs to a damaged propeller. They'd been fishing at Dogger Bank, and he claimed they'd lost the life-raft without noticing. By pure coincidence a sniffer dog happened to pass the life-raft, and it got very interested. They found a few kilos of top grade amphetamine hidden inside the life-raft, and traced it to some laboratories in Poland. That could well give us the explanation we were looking for – the raft that was nicked from our basement probably had something hidden in it that we ought to have found."

It seemed to Wallander that this was a reference to his fatal mistake. Martinsson was right, of course. It had been inexcusable carelessness. All the same, he felt tempted to confide in Martinsson, to tell somebody what had really happened instead of that holiday in the Alps that had only been an excuse. But he said nothing. He didn't think he had the strength.

"I expect you're right," he said. "But I don't suppose we'll ever find out why those men were murdered."

"Don't say that," Martinsson said, getting to his feet. "You never know what tomorrow might have in store to astonish us. In spite of everything, it looks as though we might have got a little bit closer to winding up that particular story, don't you think?"

Wallander nodded. But he didn't say anything.

Martinsson paused in the doorway and turned round.

"Do you know what I think?" he asked. "It's only my own opinion, of course, but I reckon Holmgren and Jakobson were involved in some kind of smuggling, and they just happened to see that life-raft. They had a pretty good reason for not getting too closely involved with the police, though."

"That doesn't explain the GBH," Wallander said.

"Maybe they'd agreed not to contact us? Maybe Holmgren thought Jakobson had been telling tales out of school?"

"You could be right. But we'll never know."

Martinsson left. Wallander opened the window again, then went back to his football coupon. He thought of the letter he had found on his return from Riga, thanking him for his application and inviting him to an interview at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. He had told them he was not able to consider the job for the time being, but he kept the letter in his drawer.

Later that day he drove out to a new cafe close to the harbour. He ordered a cup of coffee and started to write a letter to Baiba Liepa. Half an hour later he read through what he'd written and tore it up. He left the cafe and went out on to the pier. He scattered the pieces of paper over the water like breadcrumbs. He still didn't know what to write to her. But his longing was very strong.

The revolutionary events that took place in the Baltic countries during the last year were the basis of this novel. Writing a book with a setting and plot located in an environment unfamiliar to the author is, of course, a complicated business. It is even more problematic when one tries to steer a course through a social and political landscape that is still fluid. Apart from straightforward practical difficulties – Is a particular statue still standing on its pedestal on a given day, or has it already been pulled down and taken away? Does a particular street still have the same name as it did on a certain day in February 1991? – there are other more fundamental problems. Not least among them is the fact that we now have at least a provisional answer to the direction developments in the Baltic countries will take, but that knowledge had to be put aside in writing this book.

Reconstructing thoughts and emotions is, of course, the job of an author, but some assistance may well be necessary. In connection with this novel, I am greatly indebted to many people: I would like to thank two in particular, one by name and the other anonymously. Guntis Bergklavs put himself completely at my disposal to explain, remember, and make suggestions. He also taught me a lot about the secrets of Riga. I would also like to express my gratitude to the detective in the Riga "homicide squad" who so patiendy taught me how he and his colleagues went about their business.

We should bear in mind all the time what it was like then. Everything was so very different, even more vague than it is now. The fate of the Baltic countries is not yet decided, not by any means. There are still large numbers of Russian troops on Latvian territory. The future will be an intense struggle between the old and the new, between the familiar and the unfamiliar.

Just a few months after this book was finished, in the spring of 1991, the coup took place in the Soviet Union -the key incident that accelerated declarations of independence in the Baltic countries. Obviously, that coup (or the possibility that such a coup could happen) was at the very core of this novel, but like everybody else, I couldn't possibly foresee that it really would happen, or how it would turn out.

This is a novel. That means it is possible that not everything actually happened or looks exacdy the same as I have described it in the book. But it could have happened, exactly as described. Poetic licence gives the author the freedom to create a left luggage desk in a department store where there is no such thing in fact. Or to invent a furniture department out of fresh air. If necessary. And it sometimes is.

HENNING MANKELL, APRIL 1992