The Dogs of Riga

Just as he was inserting his key into the lock, he heard the telephone ring. Cursing aloud, he flung open the door and grabbed the receiver. Can I speak to Mr Eckers? It was a man speaking, and his English was very poor. Wallander responded as he was supposed to do, saying there was no Mr Eckers here. Oh, I must have made a mistake. The man apologised, and hung up. Use the back door. Please, please.

He put on his overcoat, and his knitted cap – then changed his mind and put it in his pocket. When he reached the foyer he made sure he couldn't be seen from reception. The party of Germans was just leaving the dining room as he approached the revolving doors. He hastened down the stairs to the hotel sauna and a corridor leading to the restaurant goods entrance. The grey, steel door was exactly as Baiba Liepa had described it. He opened it carefully, feeling the wind in his face, then made his way down the loading ramp and soon found himself at the rear of the hotel.

The street was lit by only a few lamps, and he glided into the shadows. The only person he saw was an old man walking his dog. He stood motionless in the darkness, waiting. Nobody came. The man stood patiently by a dustbin while his dog cocked its leg, then as the man walked past he told Wallander to follow him once they'd turned the corner. A tram clattered somewhere in the distance as Wallander waited. He put on his knitted cap: it had stopped snowing, and was growing colder. The man disappeared round the corner and Wallander walked slowly after him. When he turned the corner, he found himself in another alley; there was no sign of the man and his dog. Without a sound, a car door opened right beside him. Mr Eckers, said a voice from the darkness inside, we ought to be setting off straight away. As Wallander climbed into the back seat, it struck him that what he was doing was all wrong. He remembered the feeling he'd had that very morning, when he was in another car being driven by Zids. He could remember the fear. Now it had returned.

CHAPTER 9

The pungent smell of damp wool.

That was how Kurt Wallander would remember his night-time drive through Riga. He had crouched down and clambered into the back seat, and before his eyes had grown used to the dark unknown hands had pulled a hood over his head. It smelled of wool, and when he began to sweat he could feel his skin start to itch. Nevertheless, his fear, the intense conviction that everything was wrong, as wrong as could be, had disappeared the moment he got into the car. A voice he assumed belonged to the hands that had pulled the hood over his head had tried to calm him down. We are not terrorists. We just have to he cautious. He recognised the voice from the telephone, the voice that had inquired about Mr Eckers and then apologised for getting the wrong room. The soothing voice had been absolutely convincing, and afterwards it occurred to him that perhaps this was something people in the chaotic, broken-down Eastern-bloc countries had to learn: how to sound convincing in claiming there was no threat, when really everything was threatening.

The car was uncomfortable. The sound of the engine told him it was Russian – presumably a Lada. He couldn't work out how many people there were in the car, just that there were at least two: in front of him was the driver, who kept coughing, and the man beside him who had spoken so soothingly. Now and again his face was hit by a draught of cold air as somebody wound down a window to let the cigarette smoke out. For a moment he thought he could detect a faint trace of perfume in the car, Baiba Liepa's perfume, but he realised it was only his imagination, or perhaps a hope. It was impossible to judge how fast they were going, but when there was a sudden change of road surface he assumed they had left the city behind them. The car occasionally slowed down and turned left or right, and once they negotiated a roundabout He tried to keep a check on the time, but soon gave up. Finally, the car took one last turning, and started bumping and jumping about in a way that suggested they had left the road altogether, and the journey came to an end. The driver switched off the engine, the doors were opened, and he was helped out of the car.

It was bitterly cold, and he thought he could smell conifers. Someone was holding him by the arm to prevent him from falling. He was led up some steps, a door creaked, he entered a warm room, there was a smell of paraffin, then the hood was removed. He gave a start. He could see again – and the shock was greater than when the hood had first been pulled over his head. The room was oblong, with rough wooden walls, and his immediate impression was that he was in some kind of hunting lodge. There was a stag's head mounted over an open fireplace, all the furniture was made of pale wood, and the only light came from a couple of paraffin lamps.

The man with the soothing voice began to speak. He face was nothing like Wallander had imagined – in so far as he had imagined him at all. He was short, and astonishingly thin, as if he had endured terrible hardship or been on a hunger strike. His face was pale, his horn-rimmed glasses seemed far too big and heavy for his cheek bones, and Wallander thought he could be anything from 25 to 50. He smiled, indicated a chair, and Wallander sat down. Without a sound another man emerged from the shadows with a thermos flask and some cups. Maybe it's the driver, Wallander thought. He was older, swarthy, and definitely the kind of person who rarely smiled. Wallander was poured a cup of tea, the two men sat down on the opposite side of the table, and the driver turned up a paraffin lamp with a white porcelain globe that stood on the table. An almost inaudible sound came from the shadows beyond the light of the paraffin lamp, and Wallander realised there were other people present. Somebody's been waiting for me, and made the tea.

"We can only offer you tea, Mr Wallander," the man said. "But you had di

There was something about what the man said that a

"I have every reason to distrust you," he said. "I don't even know who you are. Where's Baiba Liepa, the major's widow?"

"Please excuse my impoliteness. My name is Upitis. You can be completely calm. The moment our conversation is over, you can return to your hotel, I promise you."

Upitis, thought Wallander. It's like Mr Eckers. Whatever his name is, you can be sure it's not that.

"A promise from an unknown person is worthless,"

Wallander said. "You drove me off with a hood over my head. (Is hood really the right word?) I agreed to meet Mrs Liepa on her terms, because I knew her husband. I assumed she might be able to tell me something that could help the police to throw light on why Major Liepa was killed. I've no idea who you are. In other words, I have every reason to distrust you."

Upitis thought for a moment, and nodded in agreement.

"You're right" he said. "Please don't think we are being so cautious without good reason. I'm afraid it's essential. Mrs Liepa was unable to be with us tonight, but I'm speaking on her behalf."

"How can I be sure of that? What is it that you want, in fact?"

"We want your help."

"Why do you have to give me a false identity? Why this secluded meeting place?"

"As I've already said, I'm afraid it is necessary. You haven't been in Latvia very long yet, Mr Wallander – you'll understand eventually."