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He looked round the deserted dining room. At one table an elderly couple were having di
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 di
"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 begi
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 di
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.