The Dogs of Riga

"Of course, we can't exclude the possibility that there is a co

"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 di

"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.