had been sold to a fisherman by the name of Ohrstrom, who had sold it after only a few months. Wallander eventually managed to establish that a Sten Holmgren, who lived in Ystad, now owned the boat. Wallander was surprised to find that they actually lived in the same street, Mariagatan. He looked up Sten Holmgren in the phone book, but didn't find him. There were no records of a company owned by Sten Holmgren at the county offices in Malmo. To be on the safe side Wallander also checked the county offices in Kristianstad and Karlskrona, but there was no trace of a Sten Holmgren there either.
Wallander flung down his pencil and went for a cup of coffee. The phone started ringing as he returned to his office. It was Anette Brolin.
'Guess what I have to tell you,' she said.
'That you're dissatisfied with one of our investigations again?'
'Of course I am, but that's not what I was going to say.' 'Then I've no idea.'
'The case is to be closed, and the whole matter will be transferred to Riga.' 'Is that definite?'
'The director of public prosecutions and the foreign ministry are in complete agreement. They both say the case should be abandoned. I've just heard. The formalities seem to have been sorted out in double quick time. Your major can go home now, and take the bodies with him.'
'He'll be glad about that,' Wallander said. 'Going home, that is.' 'Any regrets?' 'None at all.'
'Ask him to come and see me. I've told Bjork. Is Liepa around?'
'He's in Svedberg's office, smoking his head off. I've never met a heavier smoker.'
Early the next day Major Liepa caught a flight to Stockholm with a connection to Riga. The two zinc-lined coffins went to Stockholm in a hearse, and onwards by air cargo.
Wallander and Major Liepa said their goodbyes at the check-in at Sturup. Wallander had bought an illustrated book on Skane as a farewell present – it was the best he could think of.
'I'd like to hear how things turn out,' he said.
'You'll be kept informed,' the major told him.
They shook hands, and Major Liepa went on his way.
A strange man, Wallander thought as he drove away from the airport. I wonder what he really thought of me.
The next day was Saturday. Wallander had a lie-in, then drove to Loderup to see his father. He had his supper at a pizzeria, with a few glasses of red wine. All the time he was wondering whether or not he should apply for the post at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. The closing date was fast approaching. He spent Sunday morning first in the laundry room, then applying himself to the unwelcome task of cleaning his flat. In the evening he went to the last cinema left in Ystad. It was showing an American police thriller, and he had to admit to himself that it was exciting, despite its unrealistic exaggerations.
On Monday he was in his office shortly after 8 a.m., and had just taken off his jacket when Bjork came marching in.
'We've had a telex from the Riga police,' he said. 'From Major Liepa? What's he got to say?' Bjork seemed embarrassed.
'I'm afraid Major Liepa is not able to write anything at all,' Bjork said uneasily. 'He has been murdered. The day he got home. A police colonel, name of Putnis, signs this telex. They're asking for our assistance, and I imagine that means you'll have to go there.'
Wallander sat at his desk and read the telex.
The major dead? Murdered?
'I'm sorry about this,' Bjork said. 'It's awful. I'll ring the police commissioner and ask him to respond to their request.'
Wallander flopped back in his chair. Major Liepa murdered? He could feel a lump in his throat. Who could have killed the short-sighted, chain-smoking little man? And why? His thoughts went to Rydberg, who was also dead. Suddenly he felt very lonely.
Three days later he left for Latvia. It was shortly before 2 p.m. on 28 February. As the Aeroflot plane swung left and flew over the Gulf of Riga, Wallander stared down at the sea and wondered what lay in store for him.
CHAPTER 7
The first thing Wallander noticed was the cold. He could feel no difference standing in the queue at passport control, he could feel no difference to the air temperature when he had disembarked and walked to the terminal. He had landed in a country where it was just as cold inside as it was out, and he regretted not having packed a pair of long Johns.
The shivering passengers moved slowly through the grim arrivals area. Two Danes distinguished themselves by complaining in loud voices about what they expected to find in Latvia. The older one had been to Riga before, and was instructing his younger colleague about the wretched atmosphere of apathy and insecurity that was characteristic of the country. These noisy Danes annoyed Wallander. It was as though he felt they should have more respect for a short-sighted police officer that had been murdered a few days earlier.
Ten days ago he would hardly have been confident of placing the three Baltic states on the map. Tallinn could have been the capital of Latvia for all he knew, and Riga a major Estonian port. He remembered little more than bits and pieces of a geographical survey of Europe from his school. Before leaving Ystad he had spent two days reading up on Latvia, and had gained the impression of a little country that had been oppressed by the whims of history, repeatedly falling victim to the sparring of the big powers. Even Sweden had marched triumphantly into this country, bloodstained and ruthless. But it seemed to him that the key moment had been in 1945, when the German war machine was crippled and the Soviet army marched into Latvia and annexed it without encountering real opposition. The attempt to set up an independent Latvian government had been savagely suppressed, and the so-called liberation army from the East, in one of the cynical twists history loves to impose, had turned into its exact opposite: a regime that ruthlessly snuffed out the sovereignty of the Latvian people.
The two loud-mouthed Danes, who were in Riga to deal in agricultural machinery, had just reached the passport control window, and Wallander was reaching into his inside pocket for his own passport, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He flinched, as if he'd been afraid of being exposed as a criminal, turned and was confronted by a man in a grey-blue uniform.
'Are you Kurt Wallander?' the man asked him. 'My name is Jazeps Putnis. I'm late, I'm sorry, but your flight was early. Obviously you should not be inconvenienced by the formalities. Follow me.'
According to the telex from Riga, Jazeps Putnis held the rank of colonel. His impeccable English reminded Wallander of Major Liepa's constant struggle for the right words and correct pronunciation. He followed Putnis through a door guarded by a soldier, and they emerged into another reception area just as shabby and dark as the last, where cases were being unloaded from a trolley.
'Let's hope there's no delay with your luggage,' Putnis said. 'May I be so bold as to bid you welcome to Latvia. And more especially, to Riga! Have you ever been here before?'
'No,' Wallander said. 'I'm afraid I never have been.'
'Needless to say, I'd have preferred the circumstances to be different,' Putnis said. 'The death of Major Liepa was very sad.'
Wallander waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Putnis strode over to a man in a faded blue overall and fur hat leaning against a wall. The man stood to attention when Putnis addressed him, and disappeared through one ~of the doors leading out into the airport.
'It's taking an awfully long time,' Putnis said with a smile. 'Do you have the same problem in Sweden?'
'Sometimes,' Wallander said. 'Yes, occasionally we do have to wait.'
Colonel Putnis was the polar opposite of Major Liepa. He was very tall, decisive and energetic in his movements, and his direct gaze seemed to go straight through Wallander. He was clean-cut, with grey eyes that appeared to take in everything that was going on around about him. He reminded Wallander of an animal – a lynx, perhaps, or a leopard, in a grey-blue uniform. He tried to guess his age: 50 perhaps? Possibly older.
A luggage trailer came clattering up, pulled by a tractor belching exhaust fumes. Wallander recognised his suitcase immediately, and failed to prevent Colonel Putnis from carrying it for him. A black Volga police car was
