he headed for the noise. He occasionally passed other people, and he sent a silent 'thank you' to Joseph Lippman who had been far-sighted enough to insist that Wallander should put on the clothes Preuss had brought with him in a shabby suitcase. He walked for over half an hour, cowering in the shadows to avoid police cars, and all the while trying to work out what to do. He had to accept that there was only one person he could turn to. It would involve a major risk, but he had no choice. It also meant he would have to spend another night in hiding. It was chilly, and he would have to find something to eat if he were going to survive the night.
He realised that he would never have the strength to walk all the way to the centre of Riga. His knee was hurting badly, and he was so tired he couldn't think straight.
He would have to steal a car. The very thought of the risks involved horrified him, but it was his only chance. He had noticed a Lada parked in a street he had just passed – it hadn't been standing outside a house, but seemed strangely deserted. He retraced his steps. He tried to recall how to open locked car doors and short-circuit engines. But what did he know about a Lada? Maybe it wasn't possible to start one of those using the methods perfected by Swedish car thieves.
The car was grey and its bumpers were dented. Wallander stood in the shadows, observing the car and the surroundings. All he could see were factories with all the lights out. He went over to a broken-down fence round a loading bay in the ruins of what had once been a factory. His fingers were frozen stiff, but he managed to break off a length of wire about two feet long. He made a loop at one end, then hastened over to the car.
Sliding the wire in through the car window and manipulating the door handle was easier than he had expected. He scrambled into the driver's seat and hunted for the ignition lock and the cables. He cursed the fact that he didn't have any matches. Sweat was pouring down the inside of his shirt, but he was so cold that he was shivering. Eventually, out of sheer desperation, he ripped the whole bundle of wires out from behind the ignition, pulled the lock away, and connected up the loose ends. The car was in gear, and leapt forward when the ignition produced a spark. He heaved the gear lever into neutral, then connected the loose ends again. The engine started, he fumbled for the handbrake without finding it, pressed all the buttons in sight on the dashboard in an attempt to find the lights, then engaged first gear.
This is a nightmare, he thought. I'm a Swedish police officer, not a madman with a German passport stealing cars in the Latvian capital of Riga. He drove in the direction he'd been heading on foot, working out which gear was which, wondering why there was such a stench of fish in the car.
After a short while he reached the motorway he'd heard the noise from previously. The engine almost stopped as he turned onto it, but he managed to keep it going. He could see the lights of Riga. He had already made up his mind to try to find his way to the district around the Latvia Hotel and go to one of the little restaurants he'd seen there. Once again he sent a silent 'thank you' to Joseph Lippman, who had made sure Preuss provided him with some Latvian currency. He had no idea how much money he had, but hoped it would be enough for a meal. He crossed the river and turned left onto the riverside boulevard. There was not a lot of traffic, and he got stuck behind a tram and was immediately subjected to some furious tooting from a taxi just behind him that had been forced to brake suddenly. He was getting nervous, crashing the gears, and only managed to get away from the tramlines by turning into a side street. He discovered too late that he had driven into a one-way street. A bus was coming towards him, the street was very narrow, and no matter how hard he tried and fiddled with the gear lever, he couldn't find reverse. He was on the brink of abandoning the car in the middle of the street and running away when he finally managed to engage reverse gear and back out of the way. He turned into one of the streets near the Latvia Hotel and parked in a legal parking spot. He was soaked in sweat, and knew that he ran the risk of pneumonia if he couldn't soon have a hot bath and change his clothes.
A church clock tolled 8.45 p.m. He crossed the street and went into a smoke-filled cafe. He was lucky, and found an empty table. The men deep in conversation over their beer glasses didn't seem to notice him, there was no sign of anybody in uniform, and he was now able to assume the role of Gottfried Hegel, travelling salesman. Once when he and Preuss had stopped for a meal in Germany, he had noticed that the German for menu was Speisekarte so that was what he asked for. Unfortunately, it was all in incomprehensible Latvian, and so he just pointed to one of the dishes. He was served with a plate of beef stew, and ordered a glass of beer to help wash it down. For a short while, his mind was completely blank.
He felt better when he'd eaten. He ordered coffee, and felt his mind working again. He realised how he should spend the night. All he needed to do was to take advantage of what he had discovered about this country – that is, that everything has its price. While he was here before he had noticed that just behind the Latvia Hotel were several guesthouses and scruffy hotels. He would go to one of them, brandish his German passport, then put a few Swedish hundred-krona notes on the desk, thus buying some peace and quiet and avoiding unnecessary questions. There was a risk that the police had instructed every hotel in Riga to look out for him, but that was a risk he would just have to take. His German identity should get him through one night at least. With a bit of luck he might manage to find a receptionist whose first instinct wasn't to go running off to the police.
He drank his coffee and thought about the two colonels. And Sergeant Zids, who might have been personally responsible for murdering Inese. Somewhere out there in this awful darkness was Baiba Liepa, and she was waiting for him. 'Baiba Liepa will be very pleased.' Those were just about the last words Inese had spoken in her short life.
He looked at the clock over the bar counter. Nearly 10.30 p.m. He paid his bill, and calculated that he had more than enough money to pay for a hotel room. He left the cafe and stopped outside the Hermes Hotel not far away. The outside door was open, and he tramped up a creaking staircase to the upper floor. A curtain was drawn aside, and he found an old, hunch-backed woman peering at him from behind thick glasses. He smiled the friendliest smile he could conjure up, said 'Zimmer? and put his passport on the desk. The old woman nodded, said something in Latvian, and gave him a card to fill in. As she hadn't even bothered to look at his passport, he made up his mind on the spot to change his plans and signed himself in under an invented name. He was so flustered that the only name he could think of was Preuss. He gave himself the first name Martin, claimed he was 37 years old, from Hamburg. The woman gave him a friendly smile, handed over the key, and pointed to a corridor behind his back. Unless the colonels are so desperate to find me that they organise raids on every single hotel in Riga tonight, I'll be able to spend a quiet night here, Wallander thought. Needless to say, they will eventually realise that Martin Preuss is in fact Kurt Wallander, but by then I should be miles away. He unlocked his door, was delighted to find there was a bathroom, and could hardly believe his luck when the water gradually became warm. He undressed, and slumped into the bath. The heat seeping into his body made him feel drowsy, and he nodded off.
When he woke, the water was stone cold. He got out of the bath, dried himself and went to bed. A tram clattered by in the street. He stared into the darkness, and felt his fear returning. He must stick to his plan. If he lost control over his own judgement, the dogs on his trail would soon catch his scent. Then he would be sunk. He knew what he had to do. He would look for the only person in Riga who might possibly be able to put him in touch with Baiba Liepa. He had no idea what her name was, but he did remember that she had red lips.
CHAPTER 16
Inese returned just before dawn.
She came to him in a nightmare in which both colonels were keeping watch over him from somewhere in the shadows, though he couldn't see them. She was still alive, and he tried to warn her, but she didn't hear what he said and he knew he wouldn't be able to help her. He woke with a start and found himself in his room in the Hermes Hotel.
He'd put his wristwatch on the bedside table. It was just after 6 a.m. A tram clattered past in the street below. He stretched out in bed, feeling thoroughly rested for the first time since he'd left Sweden.
He lay in bed and relived with agonising clarity the events of the previous day. His mind was now fully alert, and the horrific massacre seemed unreal. The indiscriminate killing was incomprehensible. He was filled with despair at the death of Inese and didn't know how he would be able to cope with the knowledge that he had been unable to help her, or the cross-eyed man and the others, the people who had been waiting for him but whose names he didn't even know. His agitation drove him out of bed. He left his room shortly before 6.30 a.m., went out to reception and paid his bill. The old woman took his money, and a quick check revealed that he had enough left to spend another few nights in a hotel, should it prove necessary.
