The Dogs of Riga

CHAPTER 16

Inese returned just before dawn.

She came to him in a nightmare in which both colonels were keeping watch over him from somewhere in the shadows, though he couldn't see them. She was still alive, and he tried to warn her, but she didn't hear what he said and he knew he wouldn't be able to help her. He woke with a start and found himself in his room in the Hermes Hotel.

He'd put his wristwatch on the bedside table. It was just after 6 a.m. A tram clattered past in the street below. He stretched out in bed, feeling thoroughly rested for the first time since he'd left Sweden.

He lay in bed and relived with agonising clarity the events of the previous day. His mind was now fully alert, and the horrific massacre seemed unreal. The indiscriminate killing was incomprehensible. He was filled with despair at the death of Inese and didn't know how he would be able to cope with the knowledge that he had been unable to help her, or the cross-eyed man and the others, the people who had been waiting for him but whose names he didn't even know. His agitation drove him out of bed. He left his room shortly before 6.30 a.m., went out to reception and paid his bill. The old woman took his money, and a quick check revealed that he had enough left to spend another few nights in a hotel, should it prove necessary.

It was a cold morning. He turned up the collar of his jacket and decided to get some breakfast before putting his plan into operation. After wandering the streets for 20 minutes or so, he found a cafe. It was half empty, but he went in and ordered coffee and some sandwiches, then sat down at a corner table that was hidden from the entrance. By 7.30 a.m. he knew he could wait no longer. Now it was make or break time.

Half an hour later he was standing outside the Latvia Hotel, exactly where Sergeant Zids had waited for him in his car. He hesitated. Maybe he was too early. Maybe the woman with the red lips hadn't arrived yet? He went in, glanced over at reception, where several early birds were paying their bills, passed the sofa where his shadows had sat buried in their newspapers, and discovered that the woman actually was there, standing at her counter, carefully setting out various newspapers in front of her. What if she doesn't recognise me, he wondered. Perhaps she's just a messenger who doesn't know anything about the errands she is running?

At that very moment she saw him, standing next to one of the big columns in the foyer. He could tell that she recognised him immediately, knew who he was, and wasn't frightened to see him again. He went over to her table, reached out his hand, and explained loudly in English that he wanted to buy postcards. In order to give her time to get used to his sudden appearance, he kept on talking. Did she happen to have any postcards of old Riga? There was nobody nearby, and when he thought he'd been talking for long enough he leaned forward, as if to ask her to explain some detail or other on one of the postcards.

"You recognise me," he said. "You gave me a ticket for the organ concert where I met Baiba Liepa. Now you must help me to see her again. You're the only person who can help me. It's very important for me to meet Baiba, but at the same time, you ought to be clear that it is very dangerous, as she's being watched. I don't know if you are aware of what happened yesterday. Show me something in one of your brochures, pretend you are explaining it to me, but answer my question."

Her bottom lip started trembling, and he could see her eyes filling with tears. As he couldn't risk her crying and drawing attention to them, he quickly explained how he was very interested in postcards not only of Riga, but also of the whole of Latvia. A good friend of his had said there was always an excellent selection of cards at the Latvia Hotel.

She pulled herself together, and he told her he realised she must know what had happened. But did she also know he had returned to Latvia? She shook her head.

"I have nowhere to go," he said. "I need somewhere to hide while you arrange for me to meet Baiba."

He didn't even know her name. Did he have any right to ask her to do this for him? Wouldn't it be better if he gave up and went looking for the Swedish Embassy? Where do you draw the line on what is reasonable and decent in a country where innocent people are gunned down indiscriminately?

"I don't know if I can arrange for you to meet Baiba," she said in a low voice. "I've no idea if it's still possible. But I can hide you in my home. I'm much too insignificant a person for the police to be interested in me. Come back in an hour. Wait at the bus stop on the other side of the street. Go now."

He stood up again, thanked her like the satisfied customer he was pretending to be, put a brochure in his pocket, and left the hotel. He spent the next hour among the crowd of customers at one of the big department stores, and bought himself a new hat in an attempt to change his appearance. After an hour he went to stand at the bus stop. He saw her emerge from the hotel, and when she came to stand beside him, she pretended he was a total stranger. A bus came after a few minutes, they got on, and Wallander sat a couple of rows behind her. For over half an hour the bus circled around the city before heading off in the direction of the suburbs. He tried to make a note of the route, but the only landmark he recognised was the enormous Kirov Park. They came to a huge, drab housing estate, and when she pressed the bell to stop the bus he was taken by surprise, and almost didn't get off in time. They walked through a frosty playground where some children were climbing on a rusty frame. Wallander trod on the swollen body of a cat lying dead on the ground. He followed the woman into a dark, echoing entrance. They emerged into an open atrium where the cold wind bit into their faces. She turned to face him.

"My flat is very small," she said. "My father lives with me, he's very old. I'll just tell him you're a homeless friend. Our country is full of homeless people, and it's only natural for us to help each other. Later on my two children will come home from school. I'll leave them a note to say they should make you some tea. It's very cramped, but it's all I can offer you. I must go straight back to the hotel."

The flat consisted of two small rooms, a kitchenette and a minuscule bathroom. An old man lay resting on a bed.

"I don't even know your name," Wallander said, accepting the coat-hanger she held out for him.

"Vera," she said. "You're called Wallander."

She said his surname as though it had been his first name, and it occurred to him that he barely knew what to call himself at the moment. The old man on the bed sat up, but when he was about to stand up with the aid of his walking stick and shake hands, Wallander protested. That wasn't necessary, he didn't want to cause any inconvenience. Vera produced some bread and cold meat in the little kitchen, and he protested again: what he was looking for was somewhere to hide, not a restaurant. He felt embarrassed at having to ask her to help him out like this, and guilty about the fact that his own flat in Mariagatan was three times the size of the space she had at her disposal. She showed him the other room where most of the space was taken up by a large bed.

"Close the door if you want some peace," she said. "You can rest here. I'll try to get back from the hotel as soon as I can."

"I don't want to put you in any danger," he said.

"When something is necessary, it has to be done," she said. "I'm glad you came to me."

Then she left. Wallander slumped down on the edge of the bed. He'd got this far. Now all he needed to do was to wait for Baiba Liepa.

Vera got back from the hotel just before 5 p.m. By then Wallander had had tea with her two children, Sabine aged 12 and her elder sister Ieva, 14. He had learnt some Latvian words, they had giggled at his hopeless rendition of "This little piggy went to market", and Vera's father had even sung an old soldier's ballad for them in a shaky voice. Wallander had managed to forget his mission and the image of Inese shot through the eye and the brutal massacre. He had discovered that normal life existed away from the clutches of the colonels, and that was precisely the world Major Liepa had been defending. People were meeting in remote hunting lodges and warehouses for the sake of Sabine and Ieva and Vera's ancient father.

When Vera got back she hugged her daughters, then shut herself in her bedroom with Wallander. They were sitting on her bed, and the situation suddenly seemed to embarrass her. He touched her arm in an effort to express his gratitude for what she had done, but she misunderstood the gesture and pulled away. He realised it would be a waste of time trying to explain, and instead asked whether she had managed to contact Baiba Liepa.

"Baiba is crying," she said. "She is mourning her friends. Most of all she is crying for Inese. She had warned them the police had stepped up their activities, and pleaded with them to be careful. Even so, what she most dreaded came to pass. Baiba is crying, but she is also possessed by fury, just like me. She wants to meet you tonight, Wallander, and we have a plan for how to proceed. But before we do anything else, we must have something to eat. If we don't eat, we have as good as given up all hope."

They managed to fit themselves around a dining table that she folded down from one of the walls in the room where her father had his bed. It seemed to Wallander that it was as if Vera and her family lived in a caravan. In order to make room for everything, meticulous organisation was essential, and he wondered how it was possible to live a whole life in such cramped conditions. He thought of the evening he had spent in Colonel Putnis's mansion outside Riga. It was in order to protect their privileges that one of the colonels had instructed his subordinates to undertake an indiscriminate witch-hunt for people like the major and Inese. Now he could see how great the differences were in their lives. Every transaction between these people left blood on their hands.

The meal consisted of vegetable stew produced by Vera on her tiny stove. The girls set the table with a loaf of coarse bread and beer. Wallander could sense the tremendous tension in Vera, but she succeeded in concealing it from her family. Yet again he asked himself what right he had to expose her to such risks. How would he ever be able to live with himself if anything happened to her?

After the meal the girls cleared the table and did the washing up, while the old man went back to bed to rest.

"What's your father's name?" Wallander asked.

"He has a strange name," Vera told him. "He's called Antons. He's 76 years old, and has bladder trouble. He's spent the whole of his life working as a foreman at a printing works. They say old typographers can be affected by some kind of lead poisoning that makes them absent-minded and confused. Sometimes he seems to be living in another world. Maybe he's been affected by the disease."

They were sitting on the bed in her room again, and she had drawn the door curtain. The girls were whispering and giggling in the tiny kitchen, and he knew the moment had come.

"Do you remember the church where you met Baiba after a concert?" she asked. "St Gertrude's?" He nodded, he remembered.

"Do you think you could find your way back there?" "Not from here."

"But from the Latvia Hotel? From the city centre?" "Yes, I could."

"I can't go to the centre of town with you, it's too dangerous. But I don't think anybody suspects you are here in my flat. You must take the bus back to the city centre on your own. Don't get off at the stop outside the hotel -use the one before or the one after. Find the church and wait until 10 p.m. Do you remember the back gate in the churchyard you used when you left the church that first time?"

Wallander nodded. He thought he remembered it, even if he wasn't quite sure.

"Go in through that gate when you're absolutely certain nobody is looking. Wait there. If it's at all possible, Baiba will come to you."

"How did you contact her?"

"I phoned her."

Wallander looked sceptical.

"The telephone must be bugged."

"Of course it's bugged. I called her and said the book she'd ordered had arrived. That meant she knew she should go to a certain bookshop and ask for a certain book. I'd left a note there telling her you had arrived and were in my flat. Some hours later I went to a store where one of Baiba's neighbours usually shops. There was a note from Baiba saying she'd try to get to the church tonight."

"But what if she can't make it?"

"Then I can't help you any more. You can't come back here either."

Wallander could see she was right. This was his only chance of meeting Baiba Liepa again. If it didn't work, he had no choice but to find his way to the Swedish Embassy and get help in fleeing the country.

"Do you know where the Swedish Embassy is in Riga?"

She thought for a moment before answering. "I don't even know if Sweden has an embassy here," she said.

"There must be a consulate, though?"

"I don't know where."

"It must be in the telephone directory. Write down the Latvian for Swedish Embassy and Swedish Consulate. There must be a telephone directory in a restaurant. Write the Latvian for telephone directory as well."

She wrote down what he was asking for on a sheet of paper torn out of one of the girl's exercise books, and taught him the correct pronunciation for the words.

Two hours later he said goodbye to Vera and her family, and set off. She had given him one of her father's old shirts and a scarf, so that he could change his appearance a bit more. He had no idea if he would ever see them again, and he was already beginning to miss them.

As he walked to the bus stop, he saw the dead cat, lying at his feet like an ominous symbol of what was to come.

When he was on the bus he suddenly had the feeling once again that he was being watched already. There were not many passengers going into town in the evening, and he had sat right at the rear of the bus so that he could see everybody's back in front of him. He looked now and then through the filthy back window, but couldn't see a car following them.

Nevertheless, his instinct made him anxious. He couldn't shrug off the feeling that they were tailing him. He tried to work out what to do. He had about a quarter of an hour in which to make up his mind. Where should he get off? How should he go about shaking off the shadows? It seemed an impossible situation, but he suddenly had an idea that was bold enough to have a slight chance of succeeding. He assumed it wasn't just him they were keeping an eye on. It must be at least as important for them to follow him until he met up with Baiba Liepa, and then to wait for the moment when they could be certain of finding the major's testimony.

He ignored the instructions given him by Vera, and got off the bus outside the Latvia Hotel. Without looking round, he strode into the hotel, marched up to the reception desk, and asked if they had a room for one or possibly two nights. He spoke clearly in English, and when the receptionist said they did indeed have a room, he produced his German passport and signed himself in as Gottfried Hegel. He explained that his luggage would be arriving later, and then, in as loud a voice as he dared use without giving the impression he was purposely setting a false trail, he asked to be woken up a few minutes before midnight as he was expecting an important telephone call. He hoped this would give him a start of four hours. As he didn't have any luggage, he accepted the key himself and walked over to the lift. He had been given a room on the fourth floor, and now it was essential for him to act decisively without any hesitation. He tried to remember from his first visit where the back staircase was, and when he got out of the lift on the fourth floor he knew straight away where to go. He went down into the gloom of back staircase and hoped they hadn't had time to put guards round the whole hotel. He went right down to the basement and found his way to the door that opened out on to the rear of the hotel. Just for a moment he was afraid it might not be possible to open the door without a key, but he was lucky. The key was in the lock. He stepped out into the murky back street, stood absolutely still for couple of seconds and looked around. It was deserted, and he couldn't hear any hurried footsteps. He kept close to the walls, turned off into side streets, and didn't stop running until he was at least three blocks from the hotel. He was out of breath by then and withdrew into a doorway while he got his breath back to see if he was being followed. He tried to imagine how, at this very moment in some other part of the city, Baiba

Liepa was also trying to shake off the dogs that one of the colonels had put on her tail. He had no doubt she would succeed, because her tutor had been one of the best, the major himself.

He managed to find his way to St Gertrude's church just before 10 p.m. There was no light coming from the church's enormous windows, and he found a nearby yard where he could wait unseen. Somewhere inside the building he could hear people quarrelling, a long, relentless flood of excited words culminating in a loud noise, a scream and then silence. He stamped his feet in order to keep warm, and tried to remember what date it was. From time to time a car drove past in the street outside, and he half expected one of them to stop and for the passengers to find him hiding among the dustbins.

The feeling that they already knew where he was kept returning, and he wondered if his attempt to break free by registering at the Latvia Hotel had failed. Had he made a mistake in assuming that Vera wasn't in the pay of the colonels? Perhaps they were waiting for him in the shadows of the churchyard, waiting for the moment when the major's testimony would be revealed? He pushed the thought away. His only alternative would be to flee to the Swedish Embassy, and he knew he couldn't do that.

The clock in the church tower struck 10 p.m. He emerged from the yard, looked carefully for any sign of life in the street, and hurried over to the little iron gate. Although he opened it extremely carefully, there was a slight squeaking noise. A few street lamps cast a faint glow over the churchyard wall. He stood absolutely still, listening. Not a sound. He cautiously walked along the path to the side door he had used last time to leave the church with Baiba. Once again he had the feeling he was being watched, that his pursuers were somewhere ahead of him, but he continued as far as the church wall, then settled down to wait.

Without a sound, Baiba Liepa appeared by his side, as if she had materialised out of the darkness. He gave a start when he saw her. She whispered something he didn't catch, then led him quickly through the door that was standing ajar, and he realised she had been inside the church, waiting for him. She locked the door with the enormous key, and went over to the altar. It was very dark inside the church, and she led him by the hand as if he were blind, he couldn't understand how she could find her way through the darkness. Behind the sacristy was a windowless storeroom, and a paraffin lamp was standing on a table. That was where she had been waiting for him, her fur coat was lying over a chair, and he was surprised and touched to note that she had placed a photograph of the major next to the lamp. There was also a thermos flask, some apples and a hunk of bread. It was as if she had invited him to the last supper, and he wondered how long it would be before the colonels tracked them down. He wondered about her relationship with the church, whether she had a god unlike her late husband, and he realised that he knew just as little about her as he once had about her husband.

When they were safely inside the room behind the sacristy, she put her arms round him and hugged him tightly. He could feel she was crying, and that her fury was so great, her hands were like iron claws digging into his back.

"They killed Inese," she whispered. "They killed all of them. I thought you were dead as well. I thought it was all over, and then Vera contacted me."

"It was terrible," Wallander said. "But we mustn't think about that now."

She stared at him in astonishment. "We must always think about that," she said. "If we forget that, we forget we are human."

"I didn't mean that we should forget it," he explained. "I just meant that we have to move on. Mourning prevents us from acting."

She flopped down onto a chair, and he could see she was haggard from pain and exhaustion. He wondered how much longer she would be able to keep going.

The night they spent in the church became the point in Kurt Wallander's life when he felt he had penetrated to the very centre of his own existence. He had never previously looked at his life from an existential point of view. It was possible that at moments of deep depression – when he had seen the body of someone murdered, a child killed in a traffic accident, or a desperate suicide case – he might have been struck by the thought that life is so very short when death strikes. One lives for such a short time, but will be dead forever. But he had become adept at brushing aside such thoughts. He tried to regard life as mainly a practical business, and he doubted his ability to enrich his existence by adjusting his life in accordance with any particular philosophy. Nor had he ever worried about the particular span of time that fate had ordained he should live. One was born at such and such a time, and one died at such and such a time: that was about as far as he had ever got when it came to contemplating his earthly existence. The night he spent with Baiba Liepa in the freezing cold church made him look deeper into himself than he had ever done before. He realised that the world at large bore very little resemblance to Sweden, and that his own problems seemed insignificant compared with the savagery that was characteristic of Baiba Liepa's life. It was as if it was only now he could accept as fact the massacre in which Inese had died, only now that it became real. The colonels did exist, Sergeant Zids had fired a murderous volley from a real weapon, bullets that could split open hearts and in a fraction of a second create an abandoned universe. He wondered about how intolerable it must be, always to be afraid. The age of fear, he thought: that is my age, and I have never understood that before, even though I am into my middle years.

She said they were safe in the church, as safe as they could ever be. The vicar had been a close friend of Karlis Liepa, and hadn't hesitated to provide Baiba with a hiding place when she had asked for his help. Wallander told her about his instinctive feeling that they had already tracked him down, and were waiting somewhere in the shadows.

"Why should they wait?" Baiba objected. "For people like that there is no such thing as waiting when it comes to arresting and punishing those who threaten their existence."

Wallander thought she could well be right. At the same time, he was certain the most important thing was the major's testimony: what frightened them was the evidence the major had left behind, not a widow and, as far as they were concerned, a harmless Swedish police officer who had set out on his own private vendetta.

Something else occurred to him. It was so astounding that he decided not to say anything about it to Baiba yet. It had suddenly dawned on him that there could be another reason why their shadows had not revealed themselves and simply arrested them and carted them off to the fortified police headquarters. The more he thought about it during the long night in the church, the more plausible it became. But he said nothing, mainly in order not to subject Baiba to any more strain than was absolutely necessary.

He recognised that her despondency was as much due to the fact that she couldn't understand where Karlis had hidden his testimony as to her shock at the death of Inese and her other friends. She had tried everything she could think of, attempted to put herself inside her husband's mind, but still she hadn't found the answer. She had removed tiles in the bathroom and ripped the upholstery off their furniture, but found nothing except dust and the bones of dead mice.

Wallander tried to help her. They sat opposite each other across the table, she poured out tea, and the light from the paraffin lamp transformed the gloomy room into a warm, intimate room. Wallander would have liked most of all to hug her and share her sorrow, and again he considered the possibility of taking her with him to Sweden, but he knew she wouldn't be able to contemplate that, not yet in any case. She would rather die than abandon hope of finding the testimony her husband must have left behind.

At the same time, however, he also considered the third possibility – the reason why the shadows were not moving in to arrest them. If his suspicions were correct, and he was becoming increasingly convinced they might well be, there was not just an enemy lurking in the shadows, but also the enemy's enemy who was actually standing guard over them. The condor and the lapwing. He still didn't know which of the colonels had which plumage, but perhaps the lapwing was aware of the condor, and wanted to protect its intended prey?

The night in the church was like a journey to an unknown continent, where they would try to find something but didn't know what they were looking for. A brown paper parcel? A suitcase? Wallander was convinced the major was a wise man who knew that a hiding place was useless if it was too cleverly concealed. In order to break into the major's way of thinking, however, he would have to find out more about Baiba Liepa. He asked questions he didn't want to ask, but she insisted that he did so, begging him not to spare her feelings.

With her help he explored their lives in intimate detail. Occasionally they would come to a point where he thought they had cracked it, but then it would transpire that Baiba had already been down that trail and found it was cold. By 4.30 a.m. he was on the point of giving up. He looked wearily into her exhausted face.

"What else is there?" he asked. "What else is there we can do? A hiding place must exist somewhere, must be embodied in some kind of space. A motionless space, waterproof, fireproof, theft-proof. Where else is there?"

He forced himself to go on. "Is there a cellar in your block of flats?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"We've already talked about the attic. We've been over every inch of the flat. Your sister's summer cottage. His father's house in Ventspils. Think, Baiba. There must be another possibility."

He could see she was close to breaking point.

"No," she said, "there is nowhere else."

"It doesn't need to be indoors. You said you sometimes used to drive out to the coast. Is there a rock you used to sit on? Where did you pitch your tent?"

"I've told you all that already. I know Karlis would never have hidden anything there."

"Did you really always pitch your tent at exactly the same spot? For eight summers in a row? Maybe you chose a different site on one occasion?"

"We both enjoyed the pleasure of returning to the same place."

She wanted to go on, but he was driving her backwards all the time. It seemed to him the major would never have chosen a place randomly. Wherever it was, it had to be part of their joint past.

He started all over again. The lamp was beginning to run out of paraffin, but Baiba found a church candle. Then they set out on yet another journey through the life she and the major had shared. Wallander was afraid Baiba would collapse with exhaustion, wondered when she had last had any sleep, and tried to cheer her up by trying to appear optimistic, even though he wasn't optimistic at all. He started with the flat they had shared. In spite of everything, was there any possibility at all that she might have overlooked something? After all, a house consists of innumerable cavities.

He dragged her through room after room, and in the end she was so tired she was yelling out her answers.

"There is nowhere!" she screamed. "We had a home, and apart from the summers, that's where we lived. During the day I was at the university, and Karlis went to police headquarters. There is no testimony. Karlis must have thought he was immortal."

Wallander understood that her anger was also directed at her husband. It was a lament that reminded him of the previous year when a Somali refugee had been brutally murdered, and Martinsson had tried to soothe the desperate widow. We are living in the age of the widow, he thought. Our homes are the dwellings of fear and widows…

He broke off. Baiba could see that he had hit upon a new train of thought.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Just a minute," he replied, "I've got to think."

Was it possible? He tested it from various angles, and tried to discard it as a pointless exercise. But he couldn't shake it off.

"I'm going to ask you a question," he said slowly, "and I want you to answer straight away, without thinking. Answer without hesitation. If you do start thinking, it's possible your answer might be wrong."

She stared intently at him in the flickering candlelight.

"Is it possible that Karlis might have chosen the most unthinkable of all hiding places?" he asked. "Inside police headquarters?"

He could see a glint come into her eye.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "He might well have done."

"Why?"

"Karlis was like that. It would fit with his character."

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"His own office is a possibility. Did he ever talk to you about the police headquarters?"

"He hated it. Like a prison. It was a prison."

"Think hard, Baiba. Was there any room in particular he talked about? Somewhere that meant something special to him? That he hated more than any other room? Or somewhere he even liked?"

"The interrogation rooms made him feel sick."

"It's not possible to hide anything there."

"He hated the colonels' offices."

"He couldn't have hidden anything there, either."

She was thinking so hard that she closed her eyes. When she returned from her thoughts and reopened her eyes, she had found the answer.

"Karlis often used to talk about somewhere he called 'The Evil Room'," she said. "He used to say that room contained all the documents describing the injustices that afflicted our country. That's where he's hidden his testimony of course – in the midst of the memories of all those who have suffered so agonisingly and so long. He's deposited his papers somewhere in the police headquarters archives."

Wallander looked at her. There was no sign of her former exhaustion.

"Yes," he said. "I think you're right. He's chosen a hiding place hidden inside a hiding place. He's chosen the Chinese puzzle. But how has he coded his testimony so that only you would be able to find it?"

She suddenly started laughing and crying at the same time.

"I know," she sobbed. "Now I can see the way he did it. When we first met, he used to perform card tricks for me. As a young man he had dreamt of becoming an ornithologist, but he also dreamed of becoming a magician. I asked him to teach me some tricks. He refused. It became a sort of game between us. He did show me how to do one of his card tricks, the simplest of all. You split the pack up into two parts, one containing all the black cards and the other all the red cards. Then you ask somebody to pick a card, memorise it, and put it back into the pack. By switching the two halves, you make a red card appear among the black ones, and vice versa. He often used to say that the world was a grey sequence of misery, but I would light up his existence. That's why we always used to look for a red flower among all the blue ones or yellow ones, and we went out of our way to find a green house in among all the white ones. It was a sort of game we used to play in secret. That's what he must have been thinking of when he hid his testimony. I imagine the archives are full of files in different colours. Somewhere or other there'll be one that's different, different in colour or maybe even in size. That's where we'll find what we're looking for."

"The police archives must be enormous," Wallander said.

"Sometimes when he had to go away, he used to put the pack of cards on my pillow with the red card inserted among all the black ones," she said. "I've no doubt there is a file on me in the archives. That's where he'll have inserted his wild card."

It was 5.30 a.m. They hadn't quite reached their destination, but at least they now thought they knew where it was. Wallander stretched out his hand and touched her arm.

"I'd like you to come back to Sweden with me," he said in Swedish.

She stared uncomprehendingly at him.

"I said we'd better get some rest," he explained. "We've got to get away from here before dawn. We don't know where we should be heading, nor do we know how we're going to pull off the biggest trick of all – breaking into the police headquarters. That's why we've got to get some rest."

There was a blanket in a cupboard, rolled up under an old mitre. Baiba spread it out on the floor. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, they clung tightly to each other to keep warm.

"Get some sleep," he said. "I just need to rest. I'll stay awake. I'll wake you up when we have to leave."

He waited for a moment, but got no answer. She was asleep already.