Henning Mankell - The Dogs of Riga

Mörth's post-mortem report was delivered at 4 p.m. He was still awaiting the results from the laboratory tests, but he estimated that the men had been dead for approximately seven days. They had probably been exposed to salt water for about the same length of time. One of the men was about 28, the other slightly older. Both had been in good health. They had been subjected to extreme torture. East European dentists had treated their teeth. Wallander put the report aside and looked out of the window. It was dark already, and he was hungry.

Björk called to say that the foreign ministry would get back to him in the morning with further instructions.

"In that case, I'm off home," Wallander said.

"Do that," Björk said. "I wonder who that journalist was?"

They found out the next day. Placards for the Express were full of the sensational discovery of dead bodies on the Scanian coast. The front-page story revealed that the murdered men were almost certainly Soviet citizens, and that the foreign ministry had been brought in. The Ystad police had been ordered to hush up the whole affair, and the newspaper wanted to know why.

But it was 3 p.m. the following afternoon before Wallander saw the placards. By that time, a lot more water had flowed under the bridge.

When Wallander arrived at the police station shortly after 8 a.m., everything seemed to happen at once.

The temperature had risen above freezing again, and the town was enveloped in a steady drizzle. Wallander had slept well, without experiencing a recurrence of the previous night's problems. He felt rested. The only thing that he was worried about was the mood his father might be in when they drove to Malmö later that day.

Martinsson met him in the corridor and Wallander could see at once that he had something important to tell him. Everyone knew that when Martinsson was too restless to stay in his own office, something had happened.

"Captain Österdahl has solved the mystery of the life-raft!" he bellowed. "Have you got a minute?"

"I've always got a minute," Wallander said. "Come into my office. See if Svedberg's here yet."

A few minutes later they were gathered in Wallander's room.

"People like Captain Österdahl ought to be put on a register, you know," Martinsson said. "The police should set up a department on a national basis whose only job is to work with people who have unusual expertise."

Wallander nodded. He'd often thought the same thing himself. There were people with comprehensive expertise in many esoteric fields dotted around the country. Everybody knew about the old lumberjack in Harjedalen who had identified the top to a bottle of Asian beer that had defeated not only the police, but also the experts at the Wine & Spirits monopoly. The lumberjack's evidence had helped to convict a murderer who would otherwise have got away with it.

"Give me somebody like Captain Österdahl any day, rather than these consultants who run around stating the obvious for huge fees," Martinsson continued. "And he was only too glad to help."

"And was he of help?"

Martinsson took his notebook out of his pocket and slammed it down on the desk. It was as if he'd pulled a rabbit out of an invisible hat. Wallander could feel himself getting irritated. Martinsson's dramatic gestures could be trying – but perhaps that was the way provincial Liberal Party politicians behaved.

"We're all agog," Wallander said, after a brief silence.

"When the rest of you had gone home last night, Captain Österdahl and I spent a few hours examining the fife-raft in the basement," Martinsson said. "It couldn't be earlier, as he plays bridge every afternoon, and he refused to break that habit. Captain Österdahl is an old gentleman with very firm views. I hope I'm like him when I get to that age."

"Get on with it," Wallander said. He knew all about opinionated old gentlemen – his father was constantly in the back of his mind.

"He crawled around the life-raft like a dog," Martinsson went on. "He even smelt it. Finally he announced that it was at least 20 years old and had been made in Yugoslavia."

"How could he know that?"

"The way it was made – the mixture of materials. Once he'd considered all the evidence, he didn't hesitate for a second. All his reasons are here in this notebook. I really admire people who know what they're talking about."

"Why wasn't there a label stating that the boat was made in Yugoslavia?"

"Not boat," said Martinsson. "That was the first thing Captain Österdahl taught me. It's a raft, and nothing else. And he had an excellent explanation for why there was nothing to indicate its country of origin. They often send their life-rafts to Greece and Italy, and firms there fit them with false labels. It's no more unusual than watches made in Asia having European trademarks."

"What else did he have to say?"

"Lots more. I think I now know the history of life-rafts off by heart. There were various types of life-raft even in prehistoric times. The earliest seem to have been made of reeds. This particular type is most commonly used on smaller East European or Russian freighters. You never find them on Scandinavian vessels. They're not approved by the shipping authorities."

"Why not?"

Martinsson shrugged.

"Poor quality. They can collapse. The rubber used is often substandard."

Wallander thought for a moment.

"If Captain Österdahl's analysis is correct, this is a raft that comes direct from Yugoslavia, without having been via Italy or wherever and given a manufacturer's label. So we're talking about a Yugoslavian vessel."

"Not necessarily," Martinsson said. "A certain proportion of these rafts go to Russia. I imagine it's part of the compulsory exchange of goods between Moscow and the dependent states. He said he'd seen an identical raft on a Russian fishing boat that was seized off Häradskär."

"But it's definite that we can concentrate on an East European ship, is it?"

"That's Captain Österdahl's opinion."

"Good," Wallander said. "At least we know that."

"But that's just about all we do know," Svedberg said.

"If the man who telephoned doesn't get in touch again, we won't know nearly enough," Wallander said. "All the same, it looks as if these men have drifted over here from the other side of the Baltic."

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. A clerk handed him an envelope containing the final details of the post-mortem examination. Wallander asked Martinsson and Svedberg to stay while he glanced through the papers. He reacted almost at once.

"Now here's a thing," he said. "Mörth has found some interesting traces in their blood."

"Aids?" Svedberg asked.

"No, drugs. Large doses of amphetamines."

"Russian junkies," Martinsson said. "The Russians tortured and murdered a couple of junkies. Wearing suits and ties. Adrift in a Yugoslav life-raft. At least it's different. Makes a change from shifty bootleggers and minor assaults."

"We don't know that they are Russian," Wallander said. "The bottom line is we don't know anything at all."

He dialled Björk's number.

"Björk."

"Wallander here. I'm with Martinsson and Svedberg. We wonder if you've had any more instructions from the foreign ministry."

"Not yet. I expect they'll be in touch soon."

"I'm going to Malmö later this morning."

"Go. I'll let you know when the call comes. Have you been pestered by any journalists, by the way?"

"No, why?"

"I was woken up at 5 a.m. by the Express. The telephone hasn't stopped ringing since then. I have to admit I'm a bit worried."

"It's not worth getting upset about. They'll write whatever they want, no matter what happens."

"That's precisely why I'm worried. It will make a mess of the investigation if all kinds of rumours start appearing in the press."