Depths - By Henning Mankell & Laurie Thompson Page 0,22

was still not sure whether it would be possible to shorten the whole route from Halsskär westwards. There was one area that worried him. It was a badly charted stretch where certain indications suggested dramatic irregularities on the seabed. But were these isolated projections which he could ignore? Or was there an underwater ridge that would force him to restrict changes that could be made to the route?

He was not sure. His worry was his alone. He shared it with nobody else.

When he settled down in his bunk and blew out the paraffin lamp, he wondered why he had still received no letter from his wife. The destroyer Svea had rendezvoused with them on six occasions. Every time, he had handed his main record book over to the cryptographers, spoken to Rake about the war and drunk a glass of brandy, and before leaving had passed over his letter. He had always been sure that this time she would have answered, but Rake never had any mail for him.

Another thought came into his head. It was now two weeks since he had met the woman on Halsskär. He felt an increasing need to go back to the skerry. Two mornings in succession he had untied the painter and set off in one of the tenders, but at the last moment changed his mind. The temptation was strong, but forbidden.

He wanted to go there, but he did not dare.

The snow became heavier. The sea was calm, blue-grey. The black clouds crept past. Lieutenant Jakobsson came out on deck with a scarf wrapped round his head and a peaked cap. One rating burst out laughing, then another, but Jakobsson was not angry: he seemed to be amused.

'This is totally against the rules,' he said with a smile. 'Scarves are for old women, not for ships' masters in the Swedish Navy. But there's no denying that they keep your ears nice and warm.'

Then, to the general surprise, he bent down and scooped up some snow from the ship's deck and managed to shape it into a snowball despite his deformed hand. He threw it at Sub-Lieutenant Welander's back.

'Swedes practise to become soldiers or sailors by fighting snowball battles as they grow up,' he shouted, pleased with himself to have scored a bullseye.

Welander was surprised, shook the snow from his overcoat; but he said nothing, just turned on his heel and walked to the rope ladder and climbed down into his launch. Jakobsson watched him all the way. He frowned.

'Sub-Lieutenant Welander's launch has been given a secret nickname,' he confided to Tobiasson-Svartman. 'The crew think I don't know about it, but the most important task for a commanding officer, second only to making sure that his ship doesn't set sail for Hell, is to know what rumours and whispers are circulating among his crew. I have to be aware if one of the crew is being badly treated. I don't want a case like Richter's on my ship, somebody who gets bullied so badly that he prefers to jump into the sea. Sub-Lieutenant Welander's launch is known as "The Shilly-Shally". It's a malicious name, but an accurate one.'

Tobiasson-Svartman understood. Welander was sometimes in two minds about various sounding results and demanded, quite unnecessarily, a second measurement.

'What do they call my boat?' he said.

'Nothing. That's surprising. Sailors are generally an inventive crowd. But your crew doesn't seem to have discovered a weakness in you that warrants the smashing of an invisible bottle of champagne against the bows and presenting the boat with a nickname.'

Tobiasson-Svartman felt relieved. He had not made himself vulnerable without knowing it.

Jakobsson suddenly pulled a face.

'I have a shooting pain in my arm,' he said. 'Perhaps I've strained it.'

Tobiasson-Svartman decided he would raise the matter he had been suppressing ever since coming on board.

'I sometimes wonder about your hand, of course.'

"Everybody does. But very few satisfy their curiosity. In my view it displays disgraceful cowardice not to dare to ask those you work with about their physical defects. The world is full of admirals who walk around with their heads under their arms, but no subordinate dares to ask them about their state of health.'

Jakobsson chuckled merrily.

'When I was a child I used to fantasise and say my hand had been injured in a pirate attack in the Caribbean,' he said. 'Or munched by a crocodile. It was too uninteresting and woeful to admit that it had always looked as it does now. Some people have a club foot, others are born