The Dogs of Riga

As he walked through the fir trees while Zids waited in the black limousine, he made up his mind to apply for the job at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. He'd come to the point where a decision like this was inevitable. Without any doubt, without needing to convince himself, he realised it was time to get out.

The thought put him in a good mood, and he returned to the car. They drove back to Riga. He said goodbye to the sergeant and went to the reception desk for his key, where he was handed a letter from Colonel Putnis informing him that his flight to Helsinki would leave at 9.30 a.m. the next morning. He went up to his room, took a bath in the lukewarm water, and went to bed. There were three hours to go before he was due to meet Inese, and he ran through everything that had happened once more. He tried to put himself in the major's position, and imagined the extent of the loathing Karlis Liepa must have felt. The loathing and also the feeling of impotence at having access to proof, but not being able to do anything about it. He had seen into the very heart of the corruption, which involved either Putnis or Murniers or possibly both of them, meeting criminals and creating a situation not even the Mafia had managed to achieve: state-controlled crime. Liepa had seen, and he'd seen too much, and he'd been murdered. Somewhere or other was his testimony, records of his investigation and his proof.

Wallander sat bolt upright in bed. He had overlooked the most serious consequence of this testimony. It must have occurred to Putnis or Murniers as well. They would have reached the same conclusion and be just as keen to find the proof that Major Liepa had hidden. His fear returned. Nothing could be easier than arranging for a Swedish police officer to disappear. There could be an accident, a criminal investigation that was in fact just a game with words, and a zinc coffin could be sent back to Sweden, with deepest regrets.

Possibly they already suspected that he knew too much. Or was the rapid decision to send him back home a sign that they were confident that he knew nothing at all?

There's nobody here I can trust, Wallander thought. I'm all on my own, and I must do as Baiba Liepa, decide who to confide in, and risk making a decision that might turn out to be wrong. But I'm isolated, while round about me are eyes and ears that would have no hesitation in sending me down the same road as the major. Perhaps another conversation with Baiba Liepa would be too risky.

He got out of bed and stood at the window, looking out over the rooftops. It had grown dark, it was nearly 7 p.m., and he would have to make up his mind.

I am not a courageous man, he thought. Least of all am I a police officer with a disregard for death, who takes risks without hesitation. What I would most like to be doing is investigating bloodless burglaries and frauds in some quiet corner of Sweden.

Then he thought of Baiba, her fear and her defiance, and he knew he would never be able to live with himself were he to fail her now. He put on his suit and went downstairs shortly after 8 p.m. There was a different man in grey with a different newspaper in the foyer, but this time Wallander didn't bother to wave. Although it was quite early in the evening, the nightclub was already packed. He elbowed his way through the throng, past several women giving him come-hither smiles, and finally reached an empty table. He knew he shouldn't have anything to drink, but when a waiter came to his table he ordered a whisky even so. There was no band on the platform, but music was blaring out of loudspeakers suspended from the black ceiling. He tried to make out people in this murky, twilight world, but everything was just shadows and voices drowned by the awful music.

Inese appeared from nowhere, and she played her part with an assurance that surprised him. There was no sign of the shy lady he had met a couple of days earlier. She was heavily made up and provocatively dressed in a miniskirt, and he realised he hadn't prepared himself at all for this charade. He held out his hand to greet her, but she ignored it and stooped down to kiss him.

"We can't go just yet," she said. "Order me a drink. Laugh. Look as if you're pleased to see me."

She drank whisky, smoking nervously, keeping an eye on the nightclub entrance. Wallander tried to play the part of a middle-aged man flattered by the attention of a young woman. He tried to pierce the wall of sound, and tell her about his long tour of the city with the sergeant as his guide. When Wallander said he would be going back home the next day, she started. He wondered how deeply involved she was, whether she was one of the "friends" Baiba Liepa had referred to, the friends whose dreams were the guarantee that the future of their country wouldn't be thrown to the dogs. But I can't trust her either, Wallander thought. She too might be leading a double life, having been given no choice, or as a last desperate ploy.

"Pay now," she said. "We'll be leaving in a moment."

Wallander noticed that the lights had gone on over the platform and the band in their pink silk jackets were starting to tune their instruments. He paid the waiter, and Inese smiled, pretending to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

"There's a back door next to the lavatories," she said. "It's locked, but if you knock somebody will open it. You'll come out into a garage. There'll be a white Moskvitch standing there with a yellow mudguard over the right front wheel. The car isn't locked. Get into the back seat. I'll be there shordy after you. Smile now, whisper in my ear, give me a kiss. Then go."

He did as he was told, then stood up. Next to the lavatories he knocked on a metal door and heard a key turn immediately. People were going in and out of the lavatories, but nobody seemed to pay any attention as he slipped through the door into the garage. I'm in a country full of secret entrances and exits, he thought. Nothing seems to happen in the open.

The garage was cramped and dimly lit, and smelt of engine oil and petrol. Wallander could see a lorry with one wheel missing, some bicycles, and then the white Moskvitch.

There was no sign of the man who had opened the door for him. Wallander tried the car door. It was unlocked. He got into the back seat, and waited. Shortly afterwards Inese appeared. She was clearly in a hurry. She started the engine, the garage doors slid open, and she drove out of the hotel, turning left away from the wide streets surrounding the block with the Latvia Hotel at its core. He noticed that she was keeping a constant look-out in the rear-view mirror, and kept changing direction, following some invisible map. After about 20 minutes of twisting and turning, she seemed satisfied they were not being followed. She asked Wallander for a cigarette, and he lit one for her. They crossed over the long iron bridge and into a maze of dirty factories and endless clusters of barrack-like blocks of flats. Wallander was not sure if he recognised the building outside which she came to a halt.

"Hurry up," she said. "We don't have much time."

Baiba Liepa let them in, and exchanged a few hurried words with Inese. Wallander wondered if she had already been told he would be leaving Riga the next morning, but she said nothing, merely taking his jacket and putting it over a chair back. Inese had disappeared, and they were once again alone together in the quiet room with the heavy curtains. Wallander had no idea how to start, what he ought to say, and so he did what Rydberg had so often told him to do: tell it how it is, it can't make things any worse, just tell it how it is!

She slumped back in the sofa as if struck by a terrible pain when Wallander told her Upitis had confessed to murdering her husband.

"It's not true," she whispered.

"I've had his confession translated for me," he said. "It claims he had two accomplices."