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When Wallander woke up, he had a hangover, but he'd made a decision. While they were awaiting the decision from the director of public prosecutions, he would take Major Liepa with him to Brantevik to see the fishing boat he'd visited one night the week before.
Just after 9 a.m. they were in Wallander's car, heading east. The snow-covered landscape glittered in the bright sunshine, it was -3°C.
The harbour was deserted. Several fishing boats were moored at the jetty furthest out, but Wallander couldn't tell straight away which one he'd been on. They walked out along the jetty, Wallander counting 73 steps.
The boat was called Byron. It was timber-built, painted white, and about 40 feet long. Wallander grasped the thick mooring rope and closed his eyes: did he recognise it? He couldn't say. They clambered aboard. A dark red tarpaulin was lashed over the hold. As they approached the wheel-house, which was secured by a large padlock, Wallander tripped over a coiled hawser, and knew he was on the right boat. The major pulled loose a corner of the tarpaulin and shone a torch into the hold: it was empty.
"No smell of fish," Wallander said. "No sign of any fish scales, no nets. This boat is used for smuggling. But what are they smuggling? And where to?"
"Everything," said the major. "There has been an acute shortage of everything in the Baltic states up until now, and so smugglers can bring us anything at all."
"I'll find out who owns the boat," Wallander said. "Even if I've made a promise, I can still find out who owns it. Would you have made the promise I did, major?"
"No," Major Liepa replied. "I'd never have done that."
There wasn't much more to see. When they got back to Ystad Wallander spent the afternoon trying to establish who owned the Byron. It wasn't easy. It had changed owners numerous times in the last few years, and one of the many owners had been a trading company in Simrishamn with the imaginative name Wankers' Fish. Next the boat had been sold to a fisherman by the name of Ohrstrom, who had sold it after only a few months. Wallander eventually managed to establish that a Sten Holmgren, who lived in Ystad, now owned the boat. Wallander was surprised to find that they actually lived in the same street, Mariagatan. He looked up Sten Holmgren in the phone book, but didn't find him. There were no records of a company owned by Sten Holmgren at the county offices in Malmö. To be on the safe side Wallander also checked the county offices in Kristianstad and Karlskrona, but there was no trace of a Sten Holmgren there either.
Wallander flung down his pencil and went for a cup of coffee. The phone started ringing as he returned to his office. It was Anette Brolin.
"Guess what I have to tell you," she said.
"That you're dissatisfied with one of our investigations again?"
"Of course I am, but that's not what I was going to say." "Then I've no idea."
"The case is to be closed, and the whole matter will be transferred to Riga." "Is that definite?"
"The director of public prosecutions and the foreign ministry are in complete agreement. They both say the case should be abandoned. I've just heard. The formalities seem to have been sorted out in double quick time. Your major can go home now, and take the bodies with him."
"He'll be glad about that," Wallander said. "Going home, that is." "Any regrets?" "None at all."
"Ask him to come and see me. I've told Björk. Is Liepa around?"
"He's in Svedberg's office, smoking his head off. I've never met a heavier smoker."
Early the next day Major Liepa caught a flight to Stockholm with a co
Wallander and Major Liepa said their goodbyes at the check-in at Sturup. Wallander had bought an illustrated book on Skåne as a farewell present – it was the best he could think of.
"I'd like to hear how things turn out," he said.
"You'll be kept informed," the major told him.
They shook hands, and Major Liepa went on his way.
A strange man, Wallander thought as he drove away from the airport. I wonder what he really thought of me.
The next day was Saturday. Wallander had a lie-in, then drove to Löderup to see his father. He had his supper at a pizzeria, with a few glasses of red wine. All the time he was wondering whether or not he should apply for the post at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. The closing date was fast approaching. He spent Sunday morning first in the laundry room, then applying himself to the unwelcome task of cleaning his flat. In the evening he went to the last cinema left in Ystad. It was showing an American police thriller, and he had to admit to himself that it was exciting, despite its unrealistic exaggerations.
On Monday he was in his office shortly after 8 a.m., and had just taken off his jacket when Björk came marching in.
"We've had a telex from the Riga police," he said. "From Major Liepa? What's he got to say?" Björk seemed embarrassed.
"I'm afraid Major Liepa is not able to write anything at all," Björk said uneasily. "He has been murdered. The day he got home. A police colonel, name of Putnis, signs this telex. They're asking for our assistance, and I imagine that means you'll have to go there."
Wallander sat at his desk and read the telex.
The major dead? Murdered?
"I'm sorry about this," Björk said. "It's awful. I'll ring the police commissioner and ask him to respond to their request."
Wallander flopped back in his chair. Major Liepa murdered? He could feel a lump in his throat. Who could have killed the short-sighted, chain-smoking little man? And why? His thoughts went to Rydberg, who was also dead. Suddenly he felt very lonely.
Three days later he left for Latvia. It was shortly before 2 p.m. on 28 February. As the Aeroflot plane swung left and flew over the Gulf of Riga, Wallander stared down at the sea and wondered what lay in store for him.
CHAPTER 7
The first thing Wallander noticed was the cold. He could feel no difference standing in the queue at passport control, he could feel no difference to the air temperature when he had disembarked and walked to the terminal. He had landed in a country where it was just as cold inside as it was out, and he regretted not having packed a pair of long Johns.
The shivering passengers moved slowly through the grim arrivals area. Two Danes distinguished themselves by complaining in loud voices about what they expected to find in Latvia. The older one had been to Riga before, and was instructing his younger colleague about the wretched atmosphere of apathy and insecurity that was characteristic of the country. These noisy Danes a
Ten days ago he would hardly have been confident of placing the three Baltic states on the map. Talli