The Dogs of Riga

The sergeant appeared to escort Baiba Liepa to some distant exit. Wallander stood at the draughty window and looked into the courtyard. Sleet was falling over the city, and beyond the high wall he could see church steeples and the occasional high-rise building. He suddenly had the feeling that he'd let himself get carried away without allowing his reason to come up with objections, that it was all in his imagination. He was suspecting conspiracies where there weren't any, he'd swallowed the unfounded myth about the Eastern bloc dictatorships being based on the pitting of one citizen against another. What justification had he for mistrusting Murniers and Putnis? The fact that Baiba Liepa had turned up at his hotel disguised as a chambermaid could have an explanation that proved to be much less dramatic than he'd imagined.

His train of thought was broken by a knock on the door. It was Colonel Putnis. He seemed tired, and his smile was strained.

"The interrogation of the suspect has been temporarily adjourned," he said. "Unfortunately the suspect has not made the confessions we had hoped for. We are now checking various pieces of information he has given us, and then I'll resume the cross-examination."

"What are you basing your suspicions on?" Wallander asked.

"In the past he often used Leja and Kalns as couriers and henchmen," Putnis said. "We hope to be able to prove that they've been drug smuggling this last year. Hagelman, as he's called, is the type who wouldn't hesitate to torture or murder his colleagues if he thought it necessary. He hasn't been acting alone, of course: we're looking for other members of his gang at present. Many of them are Soviet citizens, so they might well be in their own country now, unfortunately. But we're not going to give up. We've also found several weapons Hagelman had access to, and we're looking into whether the bullets that killed Leja and Kalns came from any of them."

"What about the co

"We don't know," Putnis replied, "but it was a pla

"Could Major Liepa have been leading a double life?" Wallander asked.

Putnis smiled wearily.

"We live in a country where awareness of what our fellow-citizens get up to has become an art form," he said. "That is no less true in the case of fellow police officers. If Major Liepa had been leading a double life, we'd have known about it."

"Unless somebody was protecting him," Wallander said.

Putnis stared at him in astonishment. "Who could have been protecting him?" "I don't know," Wallander said. "Just thinking aloud. Not a particularly well-founded thought, I'm afraid." Putnis got up to leave.

"I had intended inviting you to our house for di

"The Latvia Hotel is splendid," Wallander said. "Besides, I'd pla

Putnis nodded.

"Tomorrow evening, then," he said. "I'd like you to come round and meet my family. Ausma, my wife, is an excellent cook."

"I'd like that," Wallander said. "That would be very nice."

Putnis left, and Wallander rang the bell. He wanted to get out of the police headquarters before Murniers had a chance to invite him home, or maybe to some restaurant or other.

"I'd like to go back to the hotel now," Wallander said when Zids appeared in the doorway. "I have quite a lot of notes to write up in my room this evening. You can come and collect me at 8 a.m. tomorrow."

When the sergeant had left him at his hotel, Wallander bought some postcards and stamps in reception. He also asked for a map of the city, but as the map the hotel had was not detailed enough, he was directed to a bookshop not far away.

Wallander looked around in the foyer, but couldn't see anyone drinking tea or reading a newspaper. That means they're still here, he thought. One day they'll be obvious, the next they'll be invisible. I'm supposed to doubt whether the shadows exist.

He left the hotel and went in search of the bookshop.

It was already dark, and the pavement was wet from sleet. There were a lot of people about, and Wallander stopped now and then to look in shop windows. The goods on display were limited, and much of a muchness. When he got to the bookshop, he glanced back over his shoulder: there was no sign of anybody hesitating mid-stride.

An elderly gentleman who didn't speak a word of English sold him a map of Riga. He went on and on in Latvian, as if he took it for granted that Wallander could understand every word. He returned to his hotel. Somewhere in front of him was a shadow he couldn't see. He made up his mind to ask one of the colonels the next day why he was being watched. He thought he'd broach the subject in a friendly fashion, without sarcasm or aggression.

He asked at reception if anybody had tried to contact him. "No calls, Mr Wallander, no calls at all," was the answer.

He went up to his room and sat down to write his postcards, moving the desk away from the window, to avoid the draught. He chose a card with a picture of Riga Cathedral to send to Björk. Somewhere not far from there Baiba Liepa lived; late one evening the major had taken a telephone call and been summoned. Who made that call, Baiba? Mr Eckers is in his room, waiting for an answer to that question.

He wrote cards to Björk, Linda and his father. He hesitated about the last of his cards, then decided to send greetings to his sister, Kristina.

It was 7 p.m. now. He filled his bath with lukewarm water, and balanced a glass of whisky on the edge of the tub. Then he closed his eyes and started to go through the whole thing, from the very begi

When he'd finished his bath he sat at his desk and started to make more notes. He felt sure the two Latvian police colonels were on the right track. There was nothing to contradict the theory that the men in the life-raft had been punished for an internal indiscretion. It didn't really matter that they had been shot in their shirtsleeves, and then flung into a life-raft. He didn't believe any more that whoever did this intended the bodies to be found.

Why was the life-raft stolen? he wrote. By whom? How was it possible for Latvian criminals to get to Sweden so easily? Was the theft carried out by Swedes, or by Latvians in Sweden with Swedish contacts? Major Liepa had been murdered the very night he got back from Sweden. There was plenty to suggest he'd been silenced. What did Major Liepa know. he wrote. And why am I being given a thoroughly unsatisfactory account of the case which avoids establishing where the murder took place? Baiba Liepa, he wrote. What does she know, but doesn't want to tell the police?

He slid his notes to one side and poured himself another glass of whisky. It was nearly 9 p.m., and he was hungry. He picked up the telephone receiver to check that it was working, then went down to reception and informed them he was in the dining room if anybody called. When he got to the dining room, he was shown to the same table as before. Maybe there's a microphone in the ashtray, he thought ironically. Maybe there's somebody under the table, taking my pulse? He drank half a bottle of Armenian wine with his roast chicken and potatoes. Every time the swing doors opened, he thought it might be the receptionist coming to tell him somebody had phoned. He took a glass of brandy with his coffee, and looked round the dining room. Quite a few of the tables were occupied tonight. There were some Russians in one corner, and a party of Germans at a long table together with their Latvian hosts. It was nearly 10.30 p.m. when he paid his incredibly low bill, and he wondered for just a moment whether he ought to look in at the nightclub. Then he thought better of it, and walked up the stairs to the 15th floor.