The Troubled Man (2011)

located car parks.

Warm rain was falling over Riga the day Wallander returned. Lilja, whose surname was Blooms, had called and given him the details of Baiba’s funeral. His only question had been whether his presence might somehow be regarded as inappropriate.

‘Why should it be?’

‘Perhaps there are circumstances within the family that I don’t know about?’

‘Everybody knows who you are,’ said Lilja Blooms. ‘Baiba told about you. You were never a secret.’

‘The question is what she said.’

‘Why are you so worried? I thought you and Baiba were in love? I thought you would be married. We all thought that.’

‘She didn’t want to.’

He could tell that what he’d said surprised her.

‘We thought it was you who backed out. She said nothing. It was long before we understood it was over. But she never wanted to talk about it.’

It was Linda who had persuaded him to go to the funeral. When he called her she had jumped into her car and come over. She was so upset that she had tears in her eyes when she walked through his front door. That helped him to mourn Baiba openly. He sat there for a long time, reminiscing to his daughter about the time he and Baiba had spent together.

‘Baiba’s husband, Karlis Liepa, had been murdered,’ he said. ‘It was a political murder. Tensions between the Russians and the Latvians were running high in those days. That was why I went to Riga, to assist in the murder investigation. Needless to say, I had no idea about the political chasms that opened up the country. Looking back, that could well be the moment when I began to understand what the world looked like during the Cold War. It was seventeen years ago.’

‘I remember you going,’ said Linda. ‘I was in my last year of school at the time, and I didn’t know what I wanted to do with myself. Although deep down I think I realised that I wanted to become a police officer.’

‘I seem to recall that you talked about all kinds of possibilities, but never that one.’

‘That should have made you suspicious. I can’t believe you had no idea what I was thinking!’

‘Nor did I have any idea about Baiba when Karlis Liepa came to the police station in Ystad.’

Wallander remembered the details very clearly. Apart from his chain-smoking, which aroused vehement protests from all the non-smokers, Karlis Liepa had been a calm, reserved man, and Wallander had got along well with him. One evening, during a heavy snowstorm, he had taken Liepa back to his apartment in Mariagatan. He had produced a bottle of whisky, and to his delight had discovered that Liepa was almost as interested in opera as he was himself. They had listened to a recording of Turandot with Maria Callas as the snow whirled about in the strong winds blowing through the deserted streets of Ystad.

But where was that record now? It hadn’t been among those he had found in the attic the previous day. The question was solved when Linda told him she had it at home.

‘You gave it to me in the days when I was dreaming of becoming an actress,’ she said. ‘I thought of putting on a one-woman show depicting the tragic fate of Maria Callas. Can you imagine? If there’s anything I’m totally different from, it’s a Greek opera singer.’

‘With bad nerves,’ Wallander added.

‘What was Baiba? A teacher?’

‘When I met her she was translating technical literature from English. I think she did a bit of practically everything.’

‘You must go to her funeral. For your own sake.’

It wasn’t all that straightforward, but she convinced him in the end. She also made sure that he bought a new dark suit, accompanied him to a tailor’s in Malmo, and when he expressed his astonishment at the price she explained that it was a high-quality suit that would last him for the rest of his life.

‘You’ll be attending fewer weddings,’ Linda said. ‘But at your age, the number of funerals increases.’

He muttered something inaudible and paid. Linda didn’t press him to repeat whatever it was he had said.

He clambered out of the taxi and carried his little suitcase into the reception area at the Hotel Latvia. He noted right away that the cafe where Lilja Blooms had seen him and Baiba together was no longer there. He checked in and was given room 1516. When he got out of the lift and stood in front of the door, he had the feeling that this was the very room he’d stayed in the first time he went to Riga. He was quite sure that the figures 5 and 6 had been part of the room number then as well. He unlocked the door and went in. It didn’t look at all like what he remembered. But the view from the window was the same, a beautiful church whose name he had forgotten. He unpacked his bag and hung up his new suit. The thought that it was in this hotel, and possibly even in this very room, that he first met Baiba filled him with almost unbearable pain.

He went to the bathroom and rinsed his face. It was only twelve thirty. He had no plans, but thought he might take a walk. He wanted to mourn Baiba by remembering her as she was when he met her for the first time.

A thought suddenly struck him, a thought he had never dared to confront before. Had his love for Baiba been stronger than the love he had once felt for Mona? Despite the fact that Mona was Linda’s mother? He didn’t know, and would never be sure.

He went out and strolled through the town, had a meal in a restaurant even though he wasn’t especially hungry. That evening he sat in one of the hotel bars. A girl in her twenties came up and asked him if he wanted company. He didn’t even answer, merely shook his head. Shortly before the hotel restaurant closed, he had another meal, a spaghetti dish that he hardly touched. He drank red wine, and felt tipsy when he stood up to leave the table.

It had been raining while he ate, but it was clear now. He retrieved his jacket and went out into the damp summer evening. He found his way to the Freedom Monument, where he and Baiba had once had their photograph taken. A few youths on skateboards were practising their skills on the flagstones in front. He continued his walk, and didn’t arrive back at the hotel until very late. He fell asleep on top of the bed without taking off anything but his shoes.

The next morning he put on his funeral suit and went down to the dining room for breakfast, despite the fact that he wasn’t hungry.

He had bought two half-bottles of vodka at Kastrup Airport. He had one of them in his inside pocket. As the lift conveyed him down to the dining room, he unscrewed the top and took a swig.

When Lilja Blooms came in through the glass doors, Wallander was already in the reception area, waiting for her. She went over to him right away. Baiba must have shown her pictures of him, he thought.

Lilja was short and plump, and her hair was cropped. She didn’t look anything like what he had imagined. He thought she would look more like Baiba. When they shook hands, Wallander felt embarrassed, without knowing why.

‘The chapel isn’t far from here,’ she said. ‘It’s only a ten-minute walk. I have time for a cigarette. You can wait here.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Wallander.

They stood in the sun outside the hotel, Lilja wearing sunglasses and holding a cigarette in her hand.

‘She was drunk,’ she said.

It was a moment before Wallander realised what she was referring to.

‘Baiba?’

‘She was drunk when she died. The autopsy made that clear. She had a lot of alcohol in her blood when she crashed her car.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘So do I. All her friends are astonished. But then, what do we know about the thoughts of a person who is going to die?’

‘Are you saying that she committed suicide? That she crashed the car on purpose? Drove into that stone wall?’

‘There’s no point in worrying about it - we’ll never know for certain. But there were no skid marks on the