waiting for them alongside the taxi rank, and a chauffeur saluted as he opened the door. Wallander was astonished, but managed a hesitant salute in return. Pity Bjork couldn't have seen that, he thought. I wonder what Major Liepa made of the police officers in jeans, none of whom saluted him, when he landed in the insignificant litde Swedish town of Ystad.
'We've booked you into the Latvia Hotel,' Colonel Putnis said as they drove away from the airport. 'It's the best hotel in town. It has more than 25 floors.'
'I've no doubt it's excellent,' Wallander said. 'I'd like to pass on greetings and sympathy from my colleagues in Ystad. Major Liepa was only with us for a few days, but he was very well liked.'
'Thank you,' Colonel Putnis said. 'The major's death is a great loss for all of us.'
Why doesn't he say more, Wallander wondered. Why doesn't he describe what happened? Why was the major murdered? By whom? How? Why have they asked me to come here? Is there some suspicion that the major's death might be connected with his visit to Sweden?
He looked out over the countryside: deserted fields with irregular patches of snow; here and there an isolated grey dwelling surrounded by an unpainted fence; here and there a pig rooting in a dunghill. He had the impression of endless misery, making him think of the trip he'd recently made to Malmo with his father. Sk &ne might look inhospitable in winter, but what he was seeing here suggested a desolation that was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.
As he contemplated the countryside, Wallander was overcome by sadness. It was as if the country's painful history had covered the fields in grey paint. He felt an impulse to act: he hadn't come to Riga just to be depressed by a grim winter landscape.
'I'd like to see a report as soon as possible,' he said. 'What actually happened? All I know is that Major Liepa was murdered the day he got back to Riga.'
'Once you've settled into your room I'll come and collect you,' Colonel Putnis said. 'We've planned a meeting for this evening.'
'All I need to do is to dump my case,' Wallander said. 'I'll only need a couple of minutes.'
'The meeting is arranged for 7.30 p.m.,' Colonel Putnis said. It was clear to Wallander that his eagerness would make no difference. The plan had already been decided on.
It was starting to get dark as they drove through Riga's suburbs towards the centre of town. Wallander took in the dreary housing estates stretching away on both sides of the road. He couldn't make up his mind how he felt about what might lie in store for him.
The hotel was in the city centre, at the end of a wide esplanade. Wallander caught sight of a statue and realised it must be of Lenin. The Latvia Hotel stuck up into the night sky like a dark-blue column. Colonel Putnis led him through a deserted foyer to reception, Wallander felt as though he was on the ground floor of a multi-storeyed car park that had been turned into a hotel entrance hall as an emergency measure. A row of lifts lined one of the narrow walls, and overhead were staircases leading in all directions.
To his astonishment he found he didn't need to register. Colonel Putnis collected his room key from the female receptionist then escorted him into one of the cramped lifts and up to the 15th floor. Wallander's room was number 1506, with a view over the city's rooftops. He wondered if he'd be able to see the Gulf of Riga in daylight.
Colonel Putnis left after establishing that Wallander was satisfied with the room, and telling him he would collect him in two hours' time and take him to the meeting at police headquarters.
Wallander stood at the window gazing out over the rooftops. A lorry clattered past in the street below. Cold air was seeping in through the draughty windows, and when he felt the radiator he found that it was barely lukewarm. Somewhere in the background a telephone rang unanswered.
Long Johns, he thought. That's the first thing I'll buy tomorrow morning.
He unpacked his case and placed his toiletries in the spacious bathroom. He'd bought a bottle of whisky at the airport, and after a few moments' hesitation poured a good measure into his tooth mug. There was a Russian-made radio on the bedside table, and he switched it on. A man was speaking very quickly, sounding excited, as if he were commenting on some sports event in which the action was very fast and unpredictable. He turned down the bedcover and lay down on the bed.
Well, here I am in Riga, he thought. I still have no idea what happened to Major Liepa. All I know is that he's dead. Most importantly of all, I don't know what this Colonel Putnis expects me to be able to do.
It was too cold to lie on the bed, so he decided to go down to reception and change some money. Perhaps the hotel would have a cafe***where he could get a cup of coffee.
When he got to reception he was surprised to see the two Danish businessmen he'd been annoyed by at the airport. The older one was standing at the desk waving a map angrily. It looked as though he was trying to show the girl how to make a paper kite or perhaps a glider, and Wallander couldn't stop himself from laughing. He saw a sign announcing that he was welcome to change some money. An elderly lady nodded at him in a friendly way as he handed over two hundred-dollar bills, and received an enormous pile of Latvian notes in return. When he got back to reception the two Danes had left. He asked the receptionist where he could get a cup of coffee, and was pointed in the direction of the big dining room where a waiter escorted him to a table by a window and gave him a menu. He decided on an omelette and a cup of coffee. Clanking trams, and people dressed in fur coats, flitted past the high window, and the heavy curtains swayed in the draught from the ill-fitting frames.
He looked round the deserted dining room. At one table an elderly couple were having dinner in total silence; at another a man in a grey suit was drinking tea by himself. That was all.
Wallander thought back to the previous evening when he'd arrived in Stockholm on an afternoon flight from Sturup. His daughter Linda was waiting for him when the airport bus pulled up at Central Station, and they walked to the Central Hotel nearby. She was in digs at Bromma, close to the college, so he'd booked her a room in his hotel. That evening he'd taken her to dinner at a restaurant in the Old Town. It was a long time since they'd seen each other, and the conversation seemed to him stilted, with lots of changes of subject. He began to wonder if what Linda had put in her letters was the truth. She'd written that she was enjoying college life, but when he asked her about it her replies were very terse. He couldn't hide his irritation when he asked if she had any plans for the future, and she replied that she had no idea what she was going to do.
'Isn't it about time you had?' he asked.
'What's that got to do with you?' she said.
Then they'd argued, without raising their voices. He insisted that she couldn't just carry on vaguely wandering from one educational establishment to another, and she'd said she was old enough to do whatever she liked.
It had dawned on him that Linda was very much like her father. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the feeling he could hear his own voice as he listened to her. History was repeating itself: he recognised his own complicated relationship with his father echoed in his conversation with his daughter.
The meal dragged on and they drank their wine; gradually the tension and the friction faded away. Wallander told her about the journey he was about to make, and for a brief moment toyed with the idea of inviting her to come with him. Time started to race by, and it was after midnight when he paid the bill. It was cold outside, but they walked back to the hotel even so, then sat talking in his room until after 3 a.m. When she finally went to bed, Wallander felt that it had been a successful evening despite the awkward start, but he couldn't quite shake off the nagging worry caused by not being clear about the way his daughter was leading her life.
When he checked out in the morning, Linda was still asleep. He paid for her room, and left her a note that the receptionist promised to pass on.
He was roused from his reveries by the departure of the silent, elderly couple. There were no new diners, and the only other person in the room was the man drinking tea. He glanced at his watch: nearly an hour to go before Colonel Putnis was due to pick him up.
He paid his bill, did some rapid sums in his head and registered that the meal had been extremely cheap. When he got back to his room he went through the papers he had brought with him. He was slowly beginning to get back into the case – the case he had thought he'd consigned to the oblivion of the archives. He could even smell the acrid tang of the major's strong cigarettes in his nostrils again.
Colonel Putnis knocked on his door at 7.17 p.m. The car was waiting in front of the hotel, and they drove through the dark streets to police headquarters. It had grown much colder during the evening, and the city was almost deserted. The streets and squares were poorly lit, and Wallander had the impression of a town built up of silhouettes and stage sets. They drove through an archway and drew up in what looked like a walled courtyard. Colonel Putnis hadn't spoken during the journey, and Wallander was still waiting to hear why he'd been called over
