"Let's keep going for a few more hours," Wallander said. "If you're involved in other cases, either put them on ice for the time being or pass them on to somebody else. This is going to be a tough nut to crack. I'll see to it that we get some more men first thing tomorrow."

When Wallander was alone in his office, he unrolled the chart on his desk again. With his finger, he traced the coastline as far as Mossby Strand. The raft could have drifted a long way, he thought. Or no distance at all. It might have been drifting backwards and forwards on the tide.

The phone rang. For a moment he tried to decide whether to answer it: it was late, and he wanted to go home and think about what had happened in peace and quiet. But he lifted the receiver.

It was Mörth.

"Have you finished already?" Wallander asked, surprised. "No," Mörth said. "But there's something I think is important. Something I can let you know now." Wallander held his breath.

"The men are not Swedes," Mörth said. "At least, they weren't born in Sweden." "How can you tell?"

"I've had a look at their teeth," Mörth said. "Their dental work wasn't done by Swedish dentists. Could have been by Russian ones, though." "Russian?"

"Yes. Russian dentists. Or dentists from one of the Eastern bloc countries. They use quite different methods from us."

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"I wouldn't have rung otherwise," Mörth said, and Wallander could tell he was annoyed.

"I believe you," he said quickly.

"There's another thing," Mörth continued. "Something that might be at least as important. These two men were no doubt very relieved when they were shot, if you'll pardon my cynicism. They'd been tortured pretty comprehensively before they died. Burns, peeled skin, thumb-screws, the whole damned lot."

Wallander sat in silence.

"Are you still there?" Mörth asked.