"How do you think I could help you?"

Once again he heard an almost imperceptible noise from the shadows beyond the faint light of the paraffin lamp: Baiba Liepa, he thought. She's not coming out, but she's there all right, very close to me.

"You must be patient for a few minutes," Upitis said. "Let me begin by explaining what Latvia really is."

"Is that necessary? Latvia's a country like any other country, though I have to admit I don't know what your flag looks like."

"I think it is necessary for me to explain. The very fact that you say our country is just like all the others means that there are certain things you really do have to understand."

Wallander took a sip of tea. He tried to penetrate the shadows with his gaze: maybe there was a hint of a beam of light he could see from the corner of his eye, as if from a door that wasn't properly closed.

The driver was warming his hands round his mug. His eyes were closed, and it was clear to Wallander that the conversation was to be between himself and Upitis.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Tell me that at least."

"We're Latvians," Upitis answered. "We happened to be born in this stricken country at a very unfortunate time, our paths have crossed, and we have realised that both we and you are involved in a mission that simply must be carried out."

"Major Liepa?" Wallander asked, but left his question unfinished.

"Let me start at the beginning," Upitis said. "You have to understand that our country is on the verge of total collapse. Just as in the other two Baltic states, not to mention the other countries that were treated as colonies by the Soviet Union, people are trying to recover the freedom they lost after the Second World War. But freedom is born of chaos, Mr Wallander, and monsters bent on achieving ghastly aims are lurking in the shadows. Assuming that one can be either for or against freedom is a catastrophic error. Freedom has many faces. The large number of Russians who were moved here in order to dilute the Latvian population and bring about our ultimate demise are not only worried about their presence being questioned, but naturally enough they're also frightened of losing all their privileges. There is no historical precedent of people voluntarily surrendering their privileges, and so they are arming themselves to defend their position, and doing so in secret. That's why what happened here last autumn came about: the Soviet army seized control and declared a state of emergency. It is an illusion to suppose that one can emerge as a unified nation from a brutal dictatorship, and proceed easily to something like democracy. As far as we are concerned, freedom is alluring, like a beautiful woman one cannot resist. But others regard freedom as a threat that must be opposed at all costs."

Upitis fell silent, as if what he had said was a revelation that shook even him. "A threat?" Wallander said.

"We could be faced with civil war," Upitis said. "Political dialogue might be replaced with a situation in which people bent only on revenge run amok. The desire for freedom could turn into a horrific state of affairs that no one can foresee. Monsters are hovering in the wings, knives are being sharpened in the night. It's just as difficult to say how the showdown will turn out as it is to predict the future."

A mission that simply must be carried out. Wallander tried to decide exactly what Upitis meant by that, but he knew in advance that he was wasting his time. His ability to grasp what was happening in Europe was practically non-existent: political goings-on had never had any place in his police officer's world. He usually voted when elections came round, but haphazardly, without any committed interest. Changes which had no immediate effect on his own life left him unmoved.

"Chasing after monsters is hardly the kind of thing police officers get up to," he said tentatively, trying to excuse his ignorance. "I investigate real crimes that have been committed by real people. I agreed to become Mr Eckers because I assumed Baiba Liepa wanted to see me with nobody else present. The Latvian police have asked me to help them to track down Major Liepa's murderer, primarily by trying to find out if there is any link with the two Latvian citizens whose bodies were washed ashore on the Swedish coast in a life-raft. And now, all of a sudden, you seem to be the ones asking me for help – is that right? If so, it must be possible to put the request more simply, without making long speeches about social problems I can't understand."

"That is correct," Upitis said. "But let's say we shall be helping each other."

Wallander couldn't remember the English word for "riddle", and had to express himself in a roundabout way.

"It's not clear enough," he said. "Can't you say exactly what it is you want, come straight to the point?"

Upitis slid over his notebook, which had been hidden behind the paraffin lamp, and produced a pen from the pocket of his shabby jacket.

"The bodies of two Latvian citizens drifted ashore on the Swedish coast," he said. "Major Liepa went over to Sweden. Did you work with him?"

"Yes. He was a good police officer."

"But he was only in Sweden for a few days?"

"Yes."

"How could you know he was a skilful investigator after such a short time?"

"Thoroughness and experience are almost always evident straight away."

It was clear to Wallander that the questions seemed innocent enough, but that Upitis was quite sure of what he was after. The questions were a way of spinning an invisible web. He was like a skilful investigator himself, heading for a specific goal right from the start. The simplicity of the questions was an illusion. Perhaps he's a police officer,

Wallander thought. Maybe it isn't Baiba Liepa hiding in the shadows? Maybe it's Colonel Putnis? Or Colonel Murniers?

"So you thought highly of Major Liepa's work?"

"Of course. Isn't that what I said?"

"If you discount Major Liepa's experience and thoroughness as a police officer?"

"How can one discount that?"

"What impression did you have of him as a man?"

"The same as I had of him as a police officer. He was calm, thorough, very patient, knowledgeable, intelligent."

"Major Liepa had the same opinion of you, Mr Wallander. He thought you were a good police officer."

Alarm bells rang in Wallander's mind. It was only a vague feeling, but he suspected Upitis was coming round to his important questions. At the same time he realised something was wrong. Major Liepa had only been home for a few hours before he was murdered, but even so here was this Upitis, obviously knowing details of the major's trip to Sweden. Only the major could have passed on that kind of information, either directly or via his wife.

"That was nice of him," Wallander said. "Were you very busy during the time Major Liepa spent in Sweden?"

"There's always a lot to do when you're investigating a murder."

"So you didn't have time to socialise?" "I beg your pardon? I don't understand the question." "Socialise. Relax. Laugh and sing. I've heard the Swedes like singing."

"Major Liepa and I didn't start a choir, if that's what you mean. I invited him to my home one evening, but that was all. We emptied a bottle of whisky and listened to music. It was snowing heavily that night. He went back to his hotel afterwards."

"Major Liepa was very fond of music. He sometimes complained at how rarely he had time to go to concerts."

The alarm bells rang louder. What the hell is he trying to find out, he wondered. Who is this Upitis? And where's Baiba Liepa?

"May I ask what the music was you listened to?" Upitis asked.

"Maria Callas. I don't remember which opera. Turandot, I think." "I'm not familiar with it." "It's one of Puccini's most beautiful operas." "And you drank whisky?" "Yes."