Henning Mankell: The Dogs of Riga

Martinsson stood up.

"I'll be off to Sandhammaren now, to look for Captain Österdahl," he said.

"The raft's in the basement," Wallander said. "Good luck. By the way, have you any idea where Svedberg is?"

"I haven't a clue. I don't know what he's up to. Contacting the meteorological office, perhaps."

Wallander drove to the town centre for lunch. He thought of the unreal incident of the night before, and ordered a salad.

He was back at the station shortly before the press conference was due to begin. He had made a few notes on a piece of paper, and called in on Björk.

"I hate press conferences," Björk said. "That's why I'D never become national police commissioner. Not that I would anyway."

They walked together to the room where the reporters were waiting. Wallander recalled the mass of journalists who came when they were dealing with the double murder at Lenarp. Now there were only three people sitting there. He recognised two of them: one was a lady on the Ystad Recorder who wrote precise and lucid reports; the other was a man from the local office of Labour News, whom he'd only met once or twice before. The third person was a man with a crew-cut and glasses. Wallander had never seen him before.

"Where's the South Sweden Daily News?" Björk whispered in his ear. "And the Skåne Daily News. Not to mention local radio?"

"No idea," Wallander said. "Let's get started."

Björk stepped up onto the dais in one corner of the room. His speaking style was rather hesitant and distant, and Wallander hoped he wouldn't go on any longer than necessary.

Then it was his turn.

"Two dead men have been washed ashore at Mossby Strand in a life-raft," he said. "We haven't been able to identify the bodies. As far as we know there has been no accident that could be linked with the life-raft, nor do we have any reports of anybody being lost at sea. That means we need assistance from the public. And from you."

He didn't mention the anonymous phone call.

"We'd like to ask anybody who might have relevant information to contact the police. That's all."

Björk returned to the platform.

"We'll try to answer any questions you might have," he said.

The friendly lady from the Ystad Recorder asked whether there wasn't an unusually high number of incidents of violence in Skåne, where everything used to be so peaceful.

Wallander snorted to himself at the question. Peaceful, he thought. It's never been especially peaceful around here.

Björk said that there really hadn't been a significant increase in violent crimes reported, and the lady from the Ystad Recorder seemed satisfied with his answer. The local correspondent from Labour News had no questions, and Björk was just about to close the conference when the young man in glasses raised his hand.

"I've got a question," he said. "Why haven't you said that the men in the raft had been murdered?"

Wallander looked quickly at Björk.

"At this stage we cannot be certain how the two men died," Björk said.

"Come on, that's not true. Everybody knows they were shot through the heart."

"Next question," Björk said, and Wallander could see he had broken into a sweat.

"Next question?" the reporter said angrily. "Why should I ask another question when you haven't answered my first one?"

"You've had the only answer I can give you at present," Björk said.

"This is absurd," said the reporter. "But I will ask another question. Why don't you say you suspect that the two murdered men are Russian citizens? Why do you call a press conference when you either don't answer questions or don't reveal the facts?"

How the hell did he find out about all that? Wallander thought to himself. On the other hand, he didn't understand why Björk wasn't coming clean. The journalist was quite right. Why should they conceal facts that were patently obvious?

"As Inspector Wallander just pointed out, we haven't yet been able to identify the two men," Björk said. "That's precisely why we are appealing to the general public. We hope the press will make a splash of this so that people know we are looking for information."

The young reporter stuffed his notebook demonstratively into his jacket pocket.

"Thank you for coming," Björk said.

At the exit Wallander cornered the lady from the Ystad Recorder.

"Who was that reporter?" he asked. "I've no idea. I've never seen him before. Was what he said true?"

Wallander didn't answer, and the lady from the Ystad Recorder was sufficiently polite not to press him.

"Why didn't you come clean?" Wallander asked when he had caught up with Björk in the corridor.

"These damned reporters," Björk growled. "How did he find all that out? Who's responsible for the leaks?"

"It could be anybody," said Wallander said. "It could even be me."

Björk stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him, but didn't comment.

"The foreign ministry have asked us to lie low," he said instead.

"Why?" Wallander asked.

"You'll have to ask them that," Björk said. "I'm hoping to get some more instructions this afternoon."

Wallander returned to his office. He was starting to get fed up with the whole business. He sat down and unlocked one of his desk drawers. It contained a photocopy of an advertisement for a job. The Trelleborg Rubber Company was looking for a new head of security. With the ad was the application letter Wallander had written the week before. He was trying to decide whether to send it in. If police work became a sort of game, with information being either leaked or held back for no good reason, he no longer wanted to be involved. Police work was more than this as far as he was concerned. He couldn't operate in an environment in which his job wasn't constantly underpinned by rational and moral principles that would never be questioned.

His train of thought was interrupted by Svedberg, who nudged the door open with his foot and marched in.

"Where the hell have you been?" Wallander asked.

Svedberg stared at him in astonishment.

"I left a note on your desk," he said. "Haven't you seen it?"

The note had fallen on the floor. Wallander picked it up. Svedberg had told him he could be contacted at the meteorological office at Sturup.

"I thought we could take a short cut," Svedberg said. "I know one of the men at Sturup Airport. We go bird watching together at Falsterbo. He helped me to try and work out where the raft might have come from."

"I thought the meteorological office in Norrköping was doing that."

"I thought this way would be quicker."

He took some rolls of paper out of his pocket and spread them on the table. Wallander could see diagrams and columns of numbers.

"We calculated on the assumption that the raft had been drifting for five days " Svedberg said. "The wind directions have been pretty constant in recent weeks, so we were able to be quite accurate. Mind you, it won't help us much."

"Meaning?"

"That the life-raft probably drifted quite a long way." "Meaning?"

"It could have come from countries as far apart as Denmark and Estonia."

Wallander stared at Svedberg in disbelief.

"Is that really possible?"

"Yes. You can ask Johnny yourself."

"Good work," Wallander said. "Go and tell Björk. He can pass the information on to the foreign ministry. Then maybe we can get rid of the whole affair."

"Get rid of?"

Wallander told him what had happened earlier in the day. He could see that Svedberg was disappointed.

"I don't like dropping something I've started," Svedberg said.

"Nothing is certain. I'm just putting you in the picture."

Svedberg went off to see Björk, and Wallander went back to his job application. All the time, the raft with the murdered men was bobbing up and down in his mind.