He considered that proposition, and realised he had been far too ready to accept suspicions and information passed on to him at second and third hand. He flushed the lavatory and returned to his coffee and cognac.

"Our daughters," Ausma said, holding out two framed portraits. "Alda and Lija."

"I have a daughter too," Wallander said. "She's called Linda."

For the rest of the evening the conversation meandered aimlessly back and forth, and Wallander wished he could make a move to leave without appearing impolite.

Nevertheless, it was almost 1 a.m. by the time Zids pulled up outside the Latvia Hotel. Wallander had dozed in the back seat, and he realised he had drunk more than he should have. The next day he would be exhausted, and he'd have a hangover into the bargain.

He lay in bed staring out into the darkness for a long time before falling asleep. The two colonels melted into a single image. He would never be able to reconcile himself to going home until he'd done everything in his power to shed some light on Major Liepa's death. There are links, he thought. Major Liepa, the dead men in the life-raft, the arrest of Upitis. It's all connected. It's just that I can't see the chain yet. And behind my head, on the other side of that thin wall, there are invisible people registering every breath I take. Perhaps they will note down and report the fact that I'm lying here wide awake for hours before falling asleep? Maybe they think that enables them to read my thoughts? A solitary lorry trundled past in the street below. Just before he dozed off it occurred to him that he'd been in Riga for six days already.

CHAPTER 13

When Wallander woke the next morning he was just as tired and hungover as he had feared. His temples were throbbing, and when he brushed his teeth he thought he was going to be sick. He dissolved two headache tablets in a glass of water, and bemoaned the fact that his capacity for drinking strong liquor in the evening was a thing of the past.

He examined his face in the mirror and saw that he was getting more and more like his father. His hangover was not only making him feel miserable, that something was now lost forever, but he was also noticing the first vestiges of age in his pale, puffy face. He went down to the dining room at 7.30 a.m., had a cup of coffee and forced down a fried egg. He felt rather better once he had some coffee inside him. He had half an hour to himself before Sergeant Zids was due to collect him, and he rehearsed once more the facts in this complicated chain of events that had begun when two well-dressed, dead men drifted ashore at Mossby Strand. He tried to digest the discovery he had made the previous night, the possibility that it might well be Putnis and not Murniers who was pulling the strings in the background, but this thought merely led him back to square one. Nothing was clear. He had gathered that an investigation in Latvia was conducted in circumstances entirely different from those applying in Sweden. The amassing of facts and the establishing of a chain of proof was so very much more complicated against the shadowy backdrop of a totalitarian state.

Perhaps the first thing that had to be decided here was whether a crime should be investigated at all, he thought, or whether it might come into the category of "non-crimes". It seemed to him that he should redouble his efforts to extract explanations from the two colonels. As things stood at the moment, he couldn't know whether they were opening or closing invisible doors in front of him.

Eventually he got up and went out to find Sergeant Zids. As they drove through Riga, the combination of decrepit buildings and dreadful, grim squares filled him once more with a special kind of melancholy he had never before experienced. He imagined that the people he saw standing at bus stops or scurrying along the pavements felt the same desolation, and he shuddered at the thought. He felt homesick again, although he was not sure what there was about home that filled him with longing.

The phone rang as he opened the door of his office. He had sent Sergeant Zids to fetch some coffee.

"Good morning," Murniers said, and Wallander could tell that the gloomy colonel was in a good mood. "Did you have a pleasant evening?"

"I enjoyed the best food I've had since coming to Riga," Wallander replied, "but I'm afraid I had too much to drink."

"Moderation is a virtue unknown in this country," Murniers said. "As I understand it, the success of Sweden is based on an ability to live with restraint."

Before Wallander could think of a suitable response, Murniers continued. "I have a most interesting document on my desk here in front of me," he said. "I think it will help you to forget drinking too much of Colonel Putnis's excellent cognac."

"What kind of document?"

"Upitis's confession. Written and signed during the night." Wallander said nothing.

"Are you still there?" Murniers asked. "Perhaps you ought to call in at my office straight away."

In the corridor Wallander bumped into Sergeant Zids and cup in hand, he entered Murniers's office. The colonel was sitting at his desk, wearing that weary smile of his, and he picked up a file from his desk as Wallander sat down.

"So, here we have a confession from the criminal, Upitis," he said. "It will be a real pleasure for me to translate it for you. You seem surprised?"

"I am," Wallander said. "Was it you who interrogated him?"

"No. Colonel Putnis had ordered Captain Emmanuelis to take charge of the interrogation. He has done even better than we had expected. Emmanuelis is clearly a police officer with a bright future."

Did Wallander detect a note of irony in Murniers's voice? Or was it just the normal tone of voice of a tired, disillusioned police officer?

"So, Upitis, the drunken butterfly collector and poet, has decided to make a full confession," Murniers continued. "Together with two others, Messrs Bergklaus and Lapin, he admits to having murdered Major Liepa in the early hours of 23 February. The three men had undertaken to carry out a contract placed on the life of Major Liepa. Upitis claims he doesn't know who was behind the contract, and that is probably true. The contract passed through many hands before ending up at the right address. Since it was placed on the life of a senior police officer, the sum involved was considerable. Upitis and the other two gentlemen shared the reward, which corresponds to about a hundred years' wages for a worker here in Latvia. The contract was placed rather more than two months ago – long before Major Liepa left for Sweden. The person commissioning the murder did not lay down a deadline: the key thing was that Upitis and his accomplices didn't fail. Then, suddenly, that changed. Three days before the murder, when Major Liepa was still in Sweden, that is, Upitis was contacted by an intermediary and instructed that he must be disposed of immediately upon his return to Riga. No reason for this urgency was given, but the sum of money involved was increased and a car was put at Upitis's disposal. Upitis was to visit a cinema in the city, the Spartak to be exact, every day, in the morning and in the evening. On one of the black columns supporting the roof of the building someone would place an inscription – the kind of thing you in the West call graffiti – and when it appeared Major Liepa was to be liquidated straight away. That inscription appeared in the morning of the day Major Liepa was due back. Upitis immediately contacted Bergklaus and Lapin. The intermediary had told them that Major Liepa would be lured out of his flat late that evening. What happened next was up to them. This evidently caused the three murderers considerable problems. They assumed Major Liepa would be armed, that he would be on the alert, and that he would probably resist. This meant they would have to strike the moment he left the building. Naturally, there was every chance that they would make a mess of it."