The Dogs of Riga

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 co

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 pla

"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 a