The Dogs of Riga

CHAPTER 7

The first thing Wallander noticed was the cold. He could feel no difference standing in the queue at passport control, he could feel no difference to the air temperature when he had disembarked and walked to the terminal. He had landed in a country where it was just as cold inside as it was out, and he regretted not having packed a pair of long Johns.

The shivering passengers moved slowly through the grim arrivals area. Two Danes distinguished themselves by complaining in loud voices about what they expected to find in Latvia. The older one had been to Riga before, and was instructing his younger colleague about the wretched atmosphere of apathy and insecurity that was characteristic of the country. These noisy Danes annoyed Wallander. It was as though he felt they should have more respect for a short-sighted police officer that had been murdered a few days earlier.

Ten days ago he would hardly have been confident of placing the three Baltic states on the map. Tallinn could have been the capital of Latvia for all he knew, and Riga a major Estonian port. He remembered little more than bits and pieces of a geographical survey of Europe from his school. Before leaving Ystad he had spent two days reading up on Latvia, and had gained the impression of a little country that had been oppressed by the whims of history, repeatedly falling victim to the sparring of the big powers. Even Sweden had marched triumphantly into this country, bloodstained and ruthless. But it seemed to him that the key moment had been in 1945, when the German war machine was crippled and the Soviet army marched into Latvia and annexed it without encountering real opposition. The attempt to set up an independent Latvian government had been savagely suppressed, and the so-called liberation army from the East, in one of the cynical twists history loves to impose, had turned into its exact opposite: a regime that ruthlessly snuffed out the sovereignty of the Latvian people.

The two loud-mouthed Danes, who were in Riga to deal in agricultural machinery, had just reached the passport control window, and Wallander was reaching into his inside pocket for his own passport, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He flinched, as if he'd been afraid of being exposed as a criminal, turned and was confronted by a man in a grey-blue uniform.

"Are you Kurt Wallander?" the man asked him. "My name is Jazeps Putnis. I'm late, I'm sorry, but your flight was early. Obviously you should not be inconvenienced by the formalities. Follow me."

According to the telex from Riga, Jazeps Putnis held the rank of colonel. His impeccable English reminded Wallander of Major Liepa's constant struggle for the right words and correct pronunciation. He followed Putnis through a door guarded by a soldier, and they emerged into another reception area just as shabby and dark as the last, where cases were being unloaded from a trolley.

"Let's hope there's no delay with your luggage," Putnis said. "May I be so bold as to bid you welcome to Latvia. And more especially, to Riga! Have you ever been here before?"

"No," Wallander said. "I'm afraid I never have been."

"Needless to say, I'd have preferred the circumstances to be different," Putnis said. "The death of Major Liepa was very sad."

Wallander waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Putnis strode over to a man in a faded blue overall and fur hat leaning against a wall. The man stood to attention when Putnis addressed him, and disappeared through one ~of the doors leading out into the airport.

"It's taking an awfully long time," Putnis said with a smile. "Do you have the same problem in Sweden?"

"Sometimes," Wallander said. "Yes, occasionally we do have to wait."

Colonel Putnis was the polar opposite of Major Liepa. He was very tall, decisive and energetic in his movements, and his direct gaze seemed to go straight through Wallander. He was clean-cut, with grey eyes that appeared to take in everything that was going on around about him. He reminded Wallander of an animal – a lynx, perhaps, or a leopard, in a grey-blue uniform. He tried to guess his age: 50 perhaps? Possibly older.

A luggage trailer came clattering up, pulled by a tractor belching exhaust fumes. Wallander recognised his suitcase immediately, and failed to prevent Colonel Putnis from carrying it for him. A black Volga police car was waiting for them alongside the taxi rank, and a chauffeur saluted as he opened the door. Wallander was astonished, but managed a hesitant salute in return. Pity Björk couldn't have seen that, he thought. I wonder what Major Liepa made of the police officers in jeans, none of whom saluted him, when he landed in the insignificant litde Swedish town of Ystad.

"We've booked you into the Latvia Hotel," Colonel Putnis said as they drove away from the airport. "It's the best hotel in town. It has more than 25 floors."

"I've no doubt it's excellent," Wallander said. "I'd like to pass on greetings and sympathy from my colleagues in Ystad. Major Liepa was only with us for a few days, but he was very well liked."

"Thank you," Colonel Putnis said. "The major's death is a great loss for all of us."

Why doesn't he say more, Wallander wondered. Why doesn't he describe what happened? Why was the major murdered? By whom? How? Why have they asked me to come here? Is there some suspicion that the major's death might be connected with his visit to Sweden?

He looked out over the countryside: deserted fields with irregular patches of snow; here and there an isolated grey dwelling surrounded by an unpainted fence; here and there a pig rooting in a dunghill. He had the impression of endless misery, making him think of the trip he'd recently made to Malmö with his father. Sk &ne might look inhospitable in winter, but what he was seeing here suggested a desolation that was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

As he contemplated the countryside, Wallander was overcome by sadness. It was as if the country's painful history had covered the fields in grey paint. He felt an impulse to act: he hadn't come to Riga just to be depressed by a grim winter landscape.

"I'd like to see a report as soon as possible," he said. "What actually happened? All I know is that Major Liepa was murdered the day he got back to Riga."

"Once you've settled into your room I'll come and collect you," Colonel Putnis said. "We've planned a meeting for this evening."

"All I need to do is to dump my case," Wallander said. "I'll only need a couple of minutes."

"The meeting is arranged for 7.30 p.m.," Colonel Putnis said. It was clear to Wallander that his eagerness would make no difference. The plan had already been decided on.

It was starting to get dark as they drove through Riga's suburbs towards the centre of town. Wallander took in the dreary housing estates stretching away on both sides of the road. He couldn't make up his mind how he felt about what might lie in store for him.

The hotel was in the city centre, at the end of a wide esplanade. Wallander caught sight of a statue and realised it must be of Lenin. The Latvia Hotel stuck up into the night sky like a dark-blue column. Colonel Putnis led him through a deserted foyer to reception, Wallander felt as though he was on the ground floor of a multi-storeyed car park that had been turned into a hotel entrance hall as an emergency measure. A row of lifts lined one of the narrow walls, and overhead were staircases leading in all directions.

To his astonishment he found he didn't need to register. Colonel Putnis collected his room key from the female receptionist then escorted him into one of the cramped lifts and up to the 15th floor. Wallander's room was number 1506, with a view over the city's rooftops. He wondered if he'd be able to see the Gulf of Riga in daylight.

Colonel Putnis left after establishing that Wallander was satisfied with the room, and telling him he would collect him in two hours' time and take him to the meeting at police headquarters.

Wallander stood at the window gazing out over the rooftops. A lorry clattered past in the street below. Cold air was seeping in through the draughty windows, and when he felt the radiator he found that it was barely lukewarm. Somewhere in the background a telephone rang unanswered.

Long Johns, he thought. That's the first thing I'll buy tomorrow morning.

He unpacked his case and placed his toiletries in the spacious bathroom. He'd bought a bottle of whisky at the airport, and after a few moments' hesitation poured a good measure into his tooth mug. There was a Russian-made radio on the bedside table, and he switched it on. A man was speaking very quickly, sounding excited, as if he were commenting on some sports event in which the action was very fast and unpredictable. He turned down the bedcover and lay down on the bed.

Well, here I am in Riga, he thought. I still have no idea what happened to Major Liepa. All I know is that he's dead. Most importantly of all, I don't know what this Colonel Putnis expects me to be able to do.

It was too cold to lie on the bed, so he decided to go down to reception and change some money. Perhaps the hotel would have a cafe***where he could get a cup of coffee.

When he got to reception he was surprised to see the two Danish businessmen he'd been annoyed by at the airport. The older one was standing at the desk waving a map angrily. It looked as though he was trying to show the girl how to make a paper kite or perhaps a glider, and Wallander couldn't stop himself from laughing. He saw a sign announcing that he was welcome to change some money. An elderly lady nodded at him in a friendly way as he handed over two hundred-dollar bills, and received an enormous pile of Latvian notes in return. When he got back to reception the two Danes had left. He asked the receptionist where he could get a cup of coffee, and was pointed in the direction of the big dining room where a waiter escorted him to a table by a window and gave him a menu. He decided on an omelette and a cup of coffee. Clanking trams, and people dressed in fur coats, flitted past the high window, and the heavy curtains swayed in the draught from the ill-fitting frames.

He looked round the deserted dining room. At one table an elderly couple were having dinner in total silence; at another a man in a grey suit was drinking tea by himself. That was all.

Wallander thought back to the previous evening when he'd arrived in Stockholm on an afternoon flight from Sturup. His daughter Linda was waiting for him when the airport bus pulled up at Central Station, and they walked to the Central Hotel nearby. She was in digs at Bromma, close to the college, so he'd booked her a room in his hotel. That evening he'd taken her to dinner at a restaurant in the Old Town. It was a long time since they'd seen each other, and the conversation seemed to him stilted, with lots of changes of subject. He began to wonder if what Linda had put in her letters was the truth. She'd written that she was enjoying college life, but when he asked her about it her replies were very terse. He couldn't hide his irritation when he asked if she had any plans for the future, and she replied that she had no idea what she was going to do.

"Isn't it about time you had?" he asked.

"What's that got to do with you?" she said.

Then they'd argued, without raising their voices. He insisted that she couldn't just carry on vaguely wandering from one educational establishment to another, and she'd said she was old enough to do whatever she liked.

It had dawned on him that Linda was very much like her father. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the feeling he could hear his own voice as he listened to her. History was repeating itself: he recognised his own complicated relationship with his father echoed in his conversation with his daughter.

The meal dragged on and they drank their wine; gradually the tension and the friction faded away. Wallander told her about the journey he was about to make, and for a brief moment toyed with the idea of inviting her to come with him. Time started to race by, and it was after midnight when he paid the bill. It was cold outside, but they walked back to the hotel even so, then sat talking in his room until after 3 a.m. When she finally went to bed, Wallander felt that it had been a successful evening despite the awkward start, but he couldn't quite shake off the nagging worry caused by not being clear about the way his daughter was leading her life.

When he checked out in the morning, Linda was still asleep. He paid for her room, and left her a note that the receptionist promised to pass on.

He was roused from his reveries by the departure of the silent, elderly couple. There were no new diners, and the only other person in the room was the man drinking tea. He glanced at his watch: nearly an hour to go before Colonel Putnis was due to pick him up.

He paid his bill, did some rapid sums in his head and registered that the meal had been extremely cheap. When he got back to his room he went through the papers he had brought with him. He was slowly beginning to get back into the case – the case he had thought he'd consigned to the oblivion of the archives. He could even smell the acrid tang of the major's strong cigarettes in his nostrils again.

Colonel Putnis knocked on his door at 7.17 p.m. The car was waiting in front of the hotel, and they drove through the dark streets to police headquarters. It had grown much colder during the evening, and the city was almost deserted. The streets and squares were poorly lit, and Wallander had the impression of a town built up of silhouettes and stage sets. They drove through an archway and drew up in what looked like a walled courtyard. Colonel Putnis hadn't spoken during the journey, and Wallander was still waiting to hear why he'd been called over to Riga. They walked along empty, echoing corridors, down a staircase and then along another corridor, and eventually came to a door which Colonel Putnis opened without knocking.

Wallander entered a large, warm but poorly lit room dominated by an oval conference table covered in a green felt cloth. There were twelve chairs at the table, and a jug of water and some glasses in the centre. A man was waiting deep in the shadows, and he turned and approached as Wallander came in.

"Welcome to Riga," the man said. "My name's Juris Murniers."

"Colonel Murniers and I have joint responsibility for solving the murder of Major Liepa," Putnis said.

Wallander sensed straight away that there was tension between the two men. Something in Putnis's tone of voice gave the game away. There was also something hidden in the brief exchange.

Colonel Murniers was in his 50s, with closely cropped, grey hair. His face was pale and bloated, as if he was diabetic. He was short, and Wallander observed that he moved that’around without the slightest sound. Another cat-creature. Two colonels, two cats, both in grey uniforms.

Wallander and Putnis hung up their overcoats and sat at the table. The waiting time is over, Wallander thought. What happened to Major Liepa? Now I'm going to find out. Murniers did the talking. Wallander noticed he had positioned himself so that his face was almost all in shadow, and when he spoke in fluent, well-formulated English, his voice seemed to come from an endless darkness. Colonel Putnis sat staring straight ahead, as if he couldn't really be bothered to listen.

"It's very mysterious," Murniers said. "The very day Major Liepa returned from Stockholm, he gave his report to Colonel Putnis and me. We sat in this room and discussed the case. He was going to be responsible for continuing the investigation here in Latvia. We broke up at about 5 p.m., and we later learnt that Major Liepa went straight home to his wife. They live in a house behind the cathedral. She has said that he seemed perfectly normal, although of course he was pleased to be home. They had dinner, and he told her about his experiences in Sweden. Incidentally, you seem to have made a very good impression on him, Inspector Wallander. Shortly before 11 p.m. the phone rang – Major Liepa was just getting ready for bed. His wife didn't know who called, but the major got dressed again and told her that he would have to go back to police headquarters straight away. There was nothing unusual about that, although she may have been disappointed that he had been called out the same night he'd got back from abroad. He didn't give any reason for his having to go on duty."

Murniers fell silent and reached for the water jug. Wallander glanced at Putnis, who was staring straight ahead.

"After that, everything is very confused," Murniers continued. "Early the next morning some dockers found Major Liepa's body at Daugavgriva – that's at the far end of the big harbour here in Riga. The major was lying on the wharf, dead. We were able to establish that he'd had the back of his skull smashed in with a heavy implement, perhaps an iron bar or a wooden club. The post-mortem revealed that he had been murdered an hour or two hours at the most after leaving home. That's really all we know. We have no witnesses who saw him leaving home, nor out at the harbour. It's all very mysterious. It's very rare for a police officer to be killed in this country. Least of all one of Major Liepa's rank. Naturally, we're very keen for the murderer to be found as soon as possible."

That was all Murniers had to say, and he sank back into the shadows.

"So in fact, nobody had telephoned and summoned him here," Wallander said.

"No," Putnis said quickly. "We've looked into that. The duty officer, a Captain Kozlov, has confirmed that no one was in contact with Major Liepa that evening."

"That leaves only two possibilities, then," Wallander said.

Putnis nodded. "Either he lied to his wife, or he was tricked."

"In the latter case, he must have recognised the voice," Wallander said. "Either that, or whoever rang expressed himself in a way that didn't arouse suspicion."

"We have also come to those conclusions," Putnis said.

"Of course, we can't exclude the possibility that there is a connection between his work in Sweden and his murder," Murniers said from the shadows. "We can't exclude anything, and that's why we've asked for assistance from the Swedish police. From you, Inspector Wallander. We are grateful for any thoughts, any ideas you might have that can help us. You will receive all the assistance you require." Murniers got to his feet.

"I suggest we leave it at that for tonight," he said. "I imagine you're tired after your journey."

Wallander didn't feel the slightest bit tired. He'd been prepared to work all night if necessary, but as Putnis had also stood up, he had to accept that the meeting was closed.

Murniers pressed a bell fixed to the edge of the table, and almost immediately the door opened and a young police officer in uniform appeared.

"This is Sergeant Zids," Murniers said. "He speaks excellent English, and will be your chauffeur while you are in Riga."

Zids clicked his heels and saluted, but Wallander couldn't bring himself to do more than nod in return. As neither Putnis nor Murniers had invited him to dinner, he realised that he would have the evening to himself. He followed Zids out into the courtyard, and after the well-heated conference room the dry cold struck him with full force. Zids opened the back door of a black car for him, and Wallander clambered in.

"It's cold," Wallander said as they drove out through the archway.

"Yes, Colonel," Sergeant Zids said. "It is very cold in Riga just now."

Colonel, thought Wallander. He can't imagine that the Swedish police officer could have a lower rank than Putnis and Murniers. The thought amused him, but at the same time he could see that there was nothing so easy to get used to as privileges. Your own car, your own driver, plenty of attention.

Sergeant Zids drove fast through the empty streets.

Wallander didn't feel tired at all, and the thought of the chilly hotel room scared him.

"I'm hungry," he said to the sergeant. "Take me to a good restaurant that isn't too expensive."

"The dining room at the Latvia Hotel is best," Zids said.

"I've already been there," Wallander said.

"There's no other restaurant in Riga where the food is as good," Zids said, braking sharply as a tram came clattering round a corner.

"There must be more than one good restaurant in a city with a million inhabitants," Wallander said.

"The food isn't good," the sergeant said, "but it is at the Latvia Hotel."

That's obviously where I'm supposed to go, Wallander thought, settling back in his seat. Maybe he's been ordered not to let me loose in the town? In certain circumstances having your own driver can mean the opposite of freedom.

Zids pulled up at the hotel entrance, and before Wallander had managed to reach for the door handle, the sergeant had opened it for him.

"What time would you like me to collect you tomorrow morning, colonel?" he asked.

"Eight o'clock will be fine," Wallander replied.

The foyer was even more deserted now. He could hear music somewhere in the background. He collected his key from the receptionist and asked if the dining room was open. The man, who had heavy eyelids and pale features reminiscent of Colonel Murniers, nodded. Wallander asked where the music was coming from.

"We have a nightclub," the receptionist said glumly.

As Wallander left reception, he thought he recognised the man who'd been drinking tea in the dining room earlier: now he was sitting in a worn leather sofa, reading a newspaper. Wallander was certain it was the same man.

I'm being watched, he thought. Just like the worst of those Cold War novels, there's a man in a grey suit pretending to be invisible. What on earth do Putnis and Murniers think I'm going to do?

The dining room was almost as empty as it had been earlier in the evening. A group of men in dark suits were sitting round a long table at the far end of the room, speaking in low voices. To his surprise, Wallander was shown to the same table as before. He had vegetable soup, and a chop that was tough and overdone, but the Latvian beer was good. He was feeling restless so didn't bother about coffee, and instead paid his bill and went in search of the hotel's nightclub. The man was still on the sofa.

Wallander had the impression of walking through a labyrinth. Various half-flights of stairs that seemed to lead nowhere brought him back to the dining room. He tried to follow the sound of the music, and eventually came upon an illuminated sign at the end of a dark corridor. A man said something Wallander didn't understand and opened the door for him, and he found himself in a dimly lit bar. In sharp contrast to the dining room, the bar was jam-packed. Behind a curtain separating the bar from the dance floor a band was blaring away, and Wallander thought he recognised an Abba song. The air was foetid, and he was reminded once, again of the major's cigarettes. He noticed a table that seemed to be empty, and elbowed his way through the throng. All the time he had the feeling he was being watched, and realised there was every reason for him to be cautious. Nightclubs in the Eastern bloc countries were often the haunts of gangs who made a living robbing visitors from the West.

He managed to bawl out an order to a waiter through all the noise, and a few minutes later a glass of whisky landed on the table in front of him. It cost almost as much as the meal he'd had earlier. He sniffed at the contents of the glass, imagining a plot involving spiked drinks, and drank a depressed toast to himself.

A girl, who never told him her name, emerged from the shadows and sat down on the chair next to him. He didn't notice her until she leaned her head over towards him, and he could smell her perfume, reminiscent of winter apples. She spoke to him in German, and he shook his head; her English was awful, worse than the major's was, but she offered to keep him company and asked for a drink. Wallander felt at a loss. He realised she was a prostitute, but tried to put that fact out of his mind: Riga was dreary and cold, and he had an urge to talk to somebody who wasn't a colonel. He could buy her a drink, he was the one calling the shots after all. Only very occasionally when he was extremely drunk was he likely to lose control. The last time that had happened was the previous winter, when he'd thrown himself at the public prosecutor, Anette Brolin, in a moment of anger and lust. He shuddered at the memory. That must never happen again. Not here in Riga, at least. Nevertheless, he felt flattered by the girl's attention. She's come to my table too soon, he thought. I've only just arrived, and I haven't got used to this strange country yet.

"Maybe tomorrow," he said. "Not tonight."

It struck him that she was barely 20. Behind all that make-up was a face that reminded him of his own daughter. He emptied his glass, stood up and left. That was a close call, he thought. Much too close. The man in the grey suit was still in the foyer, reading his newspaper.

Sleep well, Wallander said to himself. 1*11 see you again tomorrow, no doubt.

He slept badly. The duvet was heavy and the bed uncomfortable. Through the mists of his sleep he could hear a telephone ringing constantly. He wanted to get out of bed and answer it, but when he woke up everything was silent.

The next morning he was woken up by a knock on the door. Only half-awake, he shouted, "Come in". When the knock came again, he realised he'd left the key in the lock. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door to find a woman in a cleaner's apron with a breakfast tray. He was surprised as he hadn't ordered breakfast, but perhaps that was just part of the normal service? Maybe Sergeant Zids had arranged it?

The chambermaid said good morning in Latvian, and he tried to memorise the expression. She placed the tray on a table, gave him a shy little smile and went towards the door. He followed in order to lock it after her but instead of leaving the room, the chambermaid closed the door and put her finger to her mouth. Wallander stared at her in surprise. She slowly took a sheet of paper from the pocket of her apron, and Wallander was about to speak when she put her hand over his mouth. He could sense her fear, and knew she wasn't a chambermaid at all, but he could also see she that she wasn't a threat. She was just scared. He took the paper and read what it said, in English. He read it twice in order to memorise it, then looked up at her. She put her hand in her other pocket and produced something that looked like a crumpled poster. She handed it over, and when he unfolded it he realised it was the dust jacket of the book about Skåne he'd given her husband, Major Liepa, the week before. He looked up at her again.

Besides the fear, her face also indicated something else -determination perhaps, or maybe obstinacy. He walked across the cold floor and fetched a pencil from the desk. On the inside of the dust jacket, which had a photograph on it of the cathedral in Lund, he wrote: I have understood. He gave her back the dust jacket, and it struck him that Baiba Liepa looked nothing like what he had imagined. He couldn't remember what the major had said when he was sitting on Wallander's settee in Mariagatan in Ystad, listening to Maria Callas and talking about his wife, but the impression he'd formed was different, not of a face like hers.

He cleared his throat as he carefully opened the door, and she melted away.

She had come to him because she wanted to speak to him about her dead husband, the major. And she was terrified. When somebody called his room and asked for a Mr Eckers, he was to take the lift to the foyer, then go down the steps leading to the hotel sauna and look for a grey-painted, steel door next to the dining room's loading bay. It should be unlocked, and when he came out into the street behind the hotel, she'd be waiting for him and would tell him about her dead husband.

Please, she'd written. Please, please. Now he was quite certain that there had been more than mere fear in her face: there was defiance as well, perhaps even hatred. There's something going on here that's bigger than I'd suspected, he thought. It needed a messenger in a chambermaid's uniform to make me realise. I'd forgotten that I'm in an alien world.

Just before 8 a.m. he emerged from the lift on the ground floor. There was no sign of a man reading a newspaper, but there was a man looking at postcards on a stand.

Wallander went out into the street. It was warmer than the previous day. Sergeant Zids was sitting in the car, waiting for him, and bade him good morning. Wallander climbed into the back seat and the sergeant started the engine. Day was slowly breaking over Riga. The traffic was heavy, and the sergeant was unable to drive as fast as he would have liked. All the time Wallander could see Baiba Liepa's face in his mind's eye. Suddenly, without warning, he felt scared.