The Dogs of Riga

As he drove past the turning to Kåseberga, he thought of going to Kristianstad to pay a visit to Goran Boman in the police there. Maybe he could talk to him about everything that had happened. But he didn't. He returned to duty after writing a report for Björk. Martinsson and his other colleagues asked him a few questions over coffee in the canteen, but it was soon clear they weren't really interested in anything he had to say. He posted his application to the factory in Trelleborg and rearranged the furniture in his office in an attempt to revive some enthusiasm for work. Björk seemed to have noticed his heart wasn't really in it, and made a well-meaning but vain effort to cheer him up by asking him to stand in for him and give a lecture to the Rotary Club. He agreed to do it, and gave an unsuccessful talk on technology in police work over lunch at the Continental Hotel. He forgot every word he'd said the moment he sat down.

One morning he woke up and was convinced he was ill. He went to the police doctor and was given a thorough examination. The doctor could find nothing wrong with him, but advised him to continue to keep an eye on his weight. He had returned from Riga on the Wednesday, and on the Saturday evening he drove to a restaurant in Ahus where there was a dance band. After a couple of dances a physiotherapist from Kristianstad called Ellen invited him to join her at her table, but he couldn't get Baiba Liepa's face out of his mind, she was following him around like a shadow, and he made his excuses and left early. He took the coast road from Ahus and stopped at the deserted field where the flea markets are held every summer – the previous year he had set off there like a madman, gun in hand, in pursuit of a murderer. The field was lightiy covered in snow, the full moon was shining over the sea, and he could see Baiba Liepa standing before him. He drove back to his flat in Ystad and drank himself into a stupor. He turned his stereo up so loudly that the neighbours started thumping on the walls.

He woke on the Sunday morning with palpitations, and that’

the day developed into a long drawn-out wait for something unidentifiable, something unreachable.

The letter arrived on the Monday. He sat at his kitchen table, reading the neat handwriting. It was signed by somebody calling himself Joseph Lippman.

You are a friend of our country, wrote Joseph Lippman. We have been informed from Riga of your marvellous work there. You will shortly be hearing from us with more details of your return journey. Joseph Lippman.

Wallander wondered what his "marvellous work" consisted of. And who were the "us" who were going to get in touch again?

He was a

Nevertheless, when he woke up on Tuesday morning he suspected that deep down, he had made up his mind. He drove to the station, took part in a dismal union meeting, and then went in to see Björk.

"I was wondering if I might take some of the leave I'm due for," he said.

Björk stared at him with a mixture of envy and deep sympathy.

"I wish I could do the same," he said gloomily. "I've just been reading a long memo from the national police board. I've imagined all my colleagues up and down the country doing exactly the same thing, every man jack of them hunched over his desk. I read it through, then sat there thinking that I haven't a clue what it's all about. We are expected to pass comment on various earlier documents about some big reorganisation plan, but I've no idea which of all those documents this memo is referring to."

"Go on leave," Wallander suggested.

Björk petulantly shoved aside a paper lying on the desk in front of him.

"Out of the question," he said. "I'll be able to go on leave when I retire. If I live that long. Mind you, it would be very stupid to die in harness. You want to go on leave, did you say?"

"I'm thinking of having a week's skiing in the Alps. If I do it could help solve some of your problems regarding work over midsummer – I can work then and wait until the end of July before going on holiday."

Björk nodded. "Have you really managed to find a package trip at this time of year? I thought they were all fully booked by now."

"No."

Björk raised an eyebrow. "That sounds a bit dodgy, doesn't it?"

"I'll take the car down to the Alps. I don't like package holidays." "Who does?"

Björk suddenly assumed the formal expression he wore when he considered it necessary to remind everyone who was the boss.

"What cases have you got on your desk at the moment?"

"Surprisingly few. That assault business out at Svarte is the most pressing of them, but that's something any of the others can take over."

"When are you thinking of leaving? Today?"

"Thursday will do."

"How long had you thought of staying away?"

"I have ten days owing to me."

Björk nodded and made a note.

"I think it's a good idea for you to take some leave. You've been looking a bit out of sorts."

"You can say that again," Wallander said, as he made his escape.

He spent the rest of the day working on the assault case. He made several telephone calls and also managed to reply to an inquiry from the bank about some muddle with his salary payments. All the time he was expecting something to happen. He looked up the Stockholm telephone directory and found several people called Lippman, but there was nothing in the Yellow Pages about "Lippman's Flowers".

Shortly after 5 p.m. he cleared his desk and went home. He made a little detour and pulled up outside the new furniture store, went inside and found a leather armchair he rather fancied for his flat, but was horrified by the price. He stopped at the grocer's in Hamngatan to buy some potatoes and bacon. The young girl at the checkout smiled and seemed to recognise him, and he recalled that a year or so previously he'd spent a day trying to track down a man who'd robbed the shop. He drove home, made the di

They contacted him shortly after 9 p.m.

The telephone rang, and a man speaking broken Swedish asked him to come to the pizzeria across the road from the Continental Hotel. Wallander suddenly felt sick and tired of all this secrecy business, and asked for the man's name.

"I have every reason to be suspicious," he explained. "I want to know what I'm letting myself in for." "My name is Joseph Lippman. I wrote to you." "Who are you?" "I run a little business." "A nursery?"

"I suppose you could call it that."

"What do you want from me?"

"I think I expressed myself quite clearly in the letter."

Wallander hung up. He wasn't getting any answers anyway. He was infuriated at being constantly surrounded by invisible faces who expected him to be interested and prepared to co-operate. What evidence was there to prove that this Lippman wasn't one of the Latvian colonels' henchmen?

He didn't take the car but walked down Regementsgatan to the centre of town. It was 9.30 p.m. by the time he reached the pizzeria. There were people at about ten of the tables, but he couldn't see a man who could possibly be Lippman. He remembered something Rydberg had once taught him. You should always decide whether it would be better to be the first or the last person to arrive at a predetermined meeting place. He didn't know if it was of any importance in this case. He sat at a table in the corner, ordered a glass of beer, and waited.

Joseph Lippman turned up just before 10 p.m. By then Wallander had begun to wonder whether the intention had been to lure him away from his flat, but the moment the door opened and the man entered, Wallander had no doubt the new arrival was Joseph Lippman. He was in his 60s, and wearing an overcoat far too big for him. He moved slowly and cautiously among the tables, as if he were afraid of falling or treading on a mine. He smiled at Wallander, took off his overcoat and sat down opposite him. He was nervous, and kept glancing round the room. At one of the tables sat a couple of men who being terribly rude about a third, who wasn't with them.