The Dogs Of Riga Part 21

She smiled fleetingly before answering. "I might have been Mr Eckers's girlfriend," she said, "but I'm not sure I'm as fond of Herr Hegel. I'm a good girl and I don't run off with just any man."

Wallander got out and she drove off immediately. Just for a moment he considered trying to find a bus stop and travelling into the city centre, where he'd be able to look for a Swedish Consulate or Emba.s.sy and get help to return home. He didn't dare to imagine how a Swedish diplomat would react to the story the Swedish police officer would have to tell. He could only hope that handling acute mental derangement was one of the skills a diplomat possessed. But it was too late for that. He would have to go through with what he'd embarked on.

He marched over the crunchy gravel and knocked on the iron door. A bearded man Wallander had never seen before opened it. He was cross-eyed, but gave him a friendly nod, peered over Wallander's shoulder to make sure he hadn't been followed, then ushered him quickly in and closed the door.

Wallander found himself in a warehouse full of toys. Wherever he looked were wooden shelves piled high with dolls. It was as if he'd descended to an underground catacomb with dolls' faces grinning at him like evil skulls. It was like a dream. Maybe he was in bed at his Mariagatan flat in Ystad and nothing that surrounded him was real? All he needed to do was to breathe steadily and wait until he woke up. But there was no welcome awakening to look forward to. Three more men emerged from the shadows, followed by a woman. Wallander recognised the driver who had sat in silence in the shadows when he had spoken to Upitis.

"Mr Wallander," the man who had opened the door for him said, "we're so pleased you've come to a.s.sist us."

"I've come because Baiba Liepa asked me to," Wallander answered. "Not for any other reason. She's the one I want to meet."

"That's not possible just now," said the woman, in faultless English. "Baiba is being watched constantly, but we think we know how we can get you to her."

Wallander sat down on a rickety wooden chair, and was handed a cup of tea. He had difficulty making out the men's faces in the dim light. The cross-eyed man, who seemed to be the leader of the welcoming committee, squatted down in front of Wallander.

"We are in a very difficult position," he said. "We're all under constant observation because the police know there is a risk that Major Liepa has hidden away some doc.u.ments that could threaten their existence."

"So Baiba hasn't found the papers?"

"Not yet."

"Has she any idea at all of where he might have hidden them?"

"No. But she believes you will be able to help her."

"How will I be able to do that?"

"You are on our side, Mr Wallander. You're a police officer and used to solving riddles."

They're mad, Wallander thought indignantly. They're living in a dream world, and I'm the last straw they have to clutch at. All at once he could understand what oppression and fear did to people. They put their hope in some unknown saviour who would spring from nowhere and redeem them.

Major Liepa had not been like that. He trusted no one but himself and his close friends and confidants. For him the alpha and omega of all the injustices forced upon the Latvian nation was reality. He was religious, but had refrained from allowing his religious ideals to be obscured by a G.o.d. Now the major was gone, and they no longer had a central point from which to orientate themselves: Kurt Wallander, the Swedish police officer, would have to enter the arena and shoulder the fallen mande.

"I must see Baiba Liepa as soon as possible," he insisted. "That's the only thing that really matters."

"That will happen during the course of today," the crosseyed man said.

Wallander felt exhausted. What he would most like to do would be to have a bath and then climb into bed and sleep. He didn't trust his own judgement when he was overtired, and he was afraid that he would make a mistake that would have fatal consequences.

The cross-eyed man was still squatting at his feet. Wallander noticed he had a revolver tucked inside his trousers.

"What will happen when Major Liepa's papers are found?" he asked.

"We shall have to find ways of publis.h.i.+ng them," the man replied, "but the main thing is that you should get them out of the country and publish them in Sweden. That will be a revolutionary event, a historic occasion. The world will realise what has been going on in this stricken land of ours."

Wallander felt an overwhelming need to protest, to guide these confused people back to the path beaten by Major Liepa, but his weary brain was unable to conjure up the English word "saviour", and all he could manage to think was how incredible it was that he was here in Riga, in a toy warehouse, and that he didn't have the slightest idea what he was going to do next.

Then everything happened very fast. The warehouse door was flung open, Wallander got up from his chair and he saw Inese running between rows of shelves, screaming. He had no idea what was happening, but then came a violent explosion and he threw himself headlong behind some shelves crammed with dolls' heads.

The building was flooded with searchlights and there was a series of loud bangs, but it was only when he saw the cross-eyed man had taken out his revolver and fired that he realised the place was being subjected to intensive gunfire. He crawled further back behind the shelving, but came up against a wall. The noise was unbearable. He heard a scream and when he turned to look he saw that Inese had fallen over the chair he had just been sitting on. Her face was covered with blood and it seemed she had been shot straight through the eye. She was dead. At that very moment the cross-eyed man raised an arm to his head: he'd been hit, but Wallander couldn't tell whether he was alive. He knew he must escape, but he was trapped in a corner and now the first of the men in uniform came racing up, machine guns in hand. Without hesitating, he knocked over a rack of Russian dolls which rained down on him, and he lay down on the floor, allowing himself to be immersed in a flood of toys. All the time he was thinking he would be discovered at any moment and shot - his false pa.s.sport wouldn't help him. Inese was dead, the warehouse had been surrounded, and the mad, daydreaming people inside had no chance to resist.

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had started. The silence was deafening, and he tried not to breathe. He could hear voices, soldiers or police officers talking to one another, and then he recognised one of them: there was no doubt at all, it was Sergeant Zids. He could just see the uniformed men through his covering of dolls. All the major's friends appeared to be dead and were being carried out on grey canvas stretchers. Then Sergeant Zids emerged from the shadows and ordered his men to search the warehouse. Wallander closed his eyes, thinking it would soon be over. He wondered if Linda would ever know what had happened to her father, who disappeared while holidaying in the Alps, or whether his disappearance would become a mystery in the annals of the Swedish police force.

But n.o.body came to kick the dolls away from his face. The echoing jackboots slowly faded away, the sergeant's irritated voice ceased to urge on his men, and only silence and the acrid stench of spent ammunition were left behind. Wallander had no idea how long he lay there, motionless. Eventually the cold of the concrete floor made him s.h.i.+ver so much that the dolls started rattling. He sat up carefully. One of his feet had gone to sleep, or frozen stiff, he wasn't sure which. The floor was spattered with blood, there were bullet holes everywhere, and he forced himself to take a series of deep breaths so as not to start vomiting.

They know I'm here, he thought. It was me Sergeant Zids ordered his soldiers to look for. Or maybe they thought I hadn't arrived yet? Perhaps they thought they had moved in too soon?

He forced himself to think, even though he couldn't get the image of Inese out of his mind. He would have to get out of this house of death, he would have to accept the fact that he was on his own now. There was only one thing to do: find the Swedish Emba.s.sy. His heart was pounding violently, and he feared he was suffering a heart attack that he would never recover from. Tears streamed down his face as he thought of Inese lying dead. Looking back, he could never work out how long it took for him to regain his self-control and start to think rationally again.

The iron door was locked. He a.s.sumed the whole warehouse was under observation. He would never be able to get away in daylight. Behind one of the overturned racks was a window, almost completely obscured by dust. He picked his way over to it through the broken and shattered toys, and looked out. Two jeeps were parked, facing the warehouse. Four soldiers were keeping watch on the building, their weapons at the ready. Wallander stepped back from the window and explored the building. He was thirsty - there must be water somewhere. While he was looking, his mind was working overtime. He was a hunted man, and the hunters had introduced themselves with shattering brutality. There was no question of establis.h.i.+ng contact with Baiba Liepa. He might as well arrange his own execution. The two colonels, or at least one of them, would stop at nothing in order to prevent the major's discoveries from being published. Shy, modest Inese had been gunned down in cold blood, like vermin. Perhaps it had been friendly Sergeant Zids who had fired the shot that had pa.s.sed straight through her eye.

His fear was now coupled with violent hatred. If he had a weapon in his hand, he would not have hesitated to use it. For the first time in his life he was prepared to kill another human being, without even trying to excuse it as self-defence.

There's a time to live, and a time to die, he thought. That was the mantra he had repeated to himself when he'd been stabbed by a drunk in Pildamm Park in Malmo. Now it had acquired extra meaning. he thought. That was the mantra he had repeated to himself when he'd been stabbed by a drunk in Pildamm Park in Malmo. Now it had acquired extra meaning.

He came upon a dirty lavatory with a dripping tap. He rinsed his face and quenched his thirst, then found a part of the warehouse that was cut off from the rest, unscrewed the light bulb, and sat down in the dark to wait for the darkness that would have to come eventually.

To keep his fear under control, he tried to concentrate on working out a plan of escape. Somehow or other he must reach the city centre and find the Swedish Emba.s.sy. He would have to reckon on every single police officer, every single "Black Beret", knowing what he looked like and having orders to watch out for him. Without help from the Swedish Emba.s.sy, he would be lost. He reckoned that remaining undetected for more than a very short time was out of the question. He must also a.s.sume the Swedish Emba.s.sy would be under observation.

The colonels must suppose that I already know the major's secret, he thought, or they wouldn't have reacted as they have done. I say the colonels, because I still don't know which of them it is behind everything that has happened.

He dozed off for a few hours, only to wake up with a start when he heard a car drawing up outside the warehouse. Occasionally, he went back to the dirty window. The soldiers were still there, on the alert. Wallander felt sick the whole of that never-ending day. He couldn't get over the evil of it all. He forced himself to his feet and searched the whole building, looking for a way out. The main door was out of the question. Eventually, he found a grill in a wall close to the ground, covering a hole that may once have contained some kind of ventilator. He pressed his ear to the cold brick wall to discover whether he could hear any sign of soldiers on this side of the building as well, but he could hear nothing. What he would do if he did eventually get out of the warehouse, he had no idea. He tried to rest as much as he could, but was unable to sleep. Inese's crumpled body, her blood-covered face, wouldn't go away. Dusk fell, and with it a sharper cold.

Shortly before 7 p.m. he decided he would have to leave. With great care, he started to ease off the rusty grill. At any moment he expected a searchlight to be switched on, excited voices to shout out commands, and a hail of bullets to smash into the wall. Eventually he managed to detach the grill, slide it carefully to one side and scramble through. There was a faint yellow light from an adjacent factory illuminating the wasteland outside the warehouse, and he tried to get his eyes used to the near-darkness. There was no sign of the soldiers. About ten metres away was a row of rusting lorries, and he decided to start by trying to get as far as that without being noticed. He took a deep breath, crouched down, and ran as fast as he could to the old wrecks. As he came to the first of them, he stumbled over an old tyre and hit his knee against a broken b.u.mper. The pain was excruciating, and he thought the noise would immediately attract the attention of the soldiers on the other side of the warehouse. But he lay still and nothing happened. The pain in his knee was unbearable, and he could feel blood running down his leg.

What next? He thought of the Swedish Emba.s.sy, but then he realised he neither could nor wanted to give up. He had to contact Baiba Liepa, and it was no good sending up a private distress signal. Now that he had escaped the warehouse where Inese and the cross-eyed man had met their deaths, he had enough strength to think differently. He had come here for Baiba Liepa, and she was the person he should try to find, even if it was the last thing he did in this life.

He crept through the shadows, following a fence around the factory and eventually coming to the street. He still didn't know where he was, but he could hear the m.u.f.fled drone that sounded like a motorway in the distance, and he headed for the noise. He occasionally pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed - 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 b.u.mpers 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 s.h.i.+rt, but he was so cold that he was s.h.i.+vering. 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 b.u.t.tons 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 pa.s.sport 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, cras.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.ses didn't seem to notice him, there was no sign of anybody in uniform, and he was now able to a.s.sume 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 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 gla.s.s of beer to help wash it down. For a short while, his mind was completely blank. 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sport, 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 ident.i.ty 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 gla.s.ses. He smiled the friendliest smile he could conjure up, said " "Zimmer? and put his pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sport, he made up his mind on the spot to change his plans and signed himself in under an invented name. He was so fl.u.s.tered 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. and put his pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sport, he made up his mind on the spot to change his plans and signed himself in under an invented name. He was so fl.u.s.tered 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 wrist.w.a.tch 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 ma.s.sacre 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.

It was a cold morning. He turned up the collar of his jacket and decided to get some breakfast before putting his plan into operation. After wandering the streets for 20 minutes or so, he found a cafe. It was half empty, but he went in and ordered coffee and some sandwiches, then sat down at a corner table that was hidden from the entrance. By 7.30 a.m. he knew he could wait no longer. Now it was make or break time.

Half an hour later he was standing outside the Latvia Hotel, exactly where Sergeant Zids had waited for him in his car. He hesitated. Maybe he was too early. Maybe the woman with the red lips hadn't arrived yet? He went in, glanced over at reception, where several early birds were paying their bills, pa.s.sed the sofa where his shadows had sat buried in their newspapers, and discovered that the woman actually was there, standing at her counter, carefully setting out various newspapers in front of her. What if she doesn't recognise me, he wondered. Perhaps she's just a messenger who doesn't know anything about the errands she is running?

At that very moment she saw him, standing next to one of the big columns in the foyer. He could tell that she recognised him immediately, knew who he was, and wasn't frightened to see him again. He went over to her table, reached out his hand, and explained loudly in English that he wanted to buy postcards. In order to give her time to get used to his sudden appearance, he kept on talking. Did she happen to have any postcards of old Riga? There was n.o.body nearby, and when he thought he'd been talking for long enough he leaned forward, as if to ask her to explain some detail or other on one of the postcards.

"You recognise me," he said. "You gave me a ticket for the organ concert where I met Baiba Liepa. Now you must help me to see her again. You're the only person who can help me. It's very important for me to meet Baiba, but at the same time, you ought to be clear that it is very dangerous, as she's being watched. I don't know if you are aware of what happened yesterday. Show me something in one of your brochures, pretend you are explaining it to me, but answer my question."

Her bottom lip started trembling, and he could see her eyes filling with tears. As he couldn't risk her crying and drawing attention to them, he quickly explained how he was very interested in postcards not only of Riga, but also of the whole of Latvia. A good friend of his had said there was always an excellent selection of cards at the Latvia Hotel.

She pulled herself together, and he told her he realised she must know what had happened. But did she also know he had returned to Latvia? She shook her head.

"I have nowhere to go," he said. "I need somewhere to hide while you arrange for me to meet Baiba."

He didn't even know her name. Did he have any right to ask her to do this for him? Wouldn't it be better if he gave up and went looking for the Swedish Emba.s.sy? Where do you draw the line on what is reasonable and decent in a country where innocent people are gunned down indiscriminately?

"I don't know if I can arrange for you to meet Baiba," she said in a low voice. "I've no idea if it's still possible. But I can hide you in my home. I'm much too insignificant a person for the police to be interested in me. Come back in an hour. Wait at the bus stop on the other side of the street. Go now."

He stood up again, thanked her like the satisfied customer he was pretending to be, put a brochure in his pocket, and left the hotel. He spent the next hour among the crowd of customers at one of the big department stores, and bought himself a new hat in an attempt to change his appearance. After an hour he went to stand at the bus stop. He saw her emerge from the hotel, and when she came to stand beside him, she pretended he was a total stranger. A bus came after a few minutes, they got on, and Wallander sat a couple of rows behind her. For over half an hour the bus circled around the city before heading off in the direction of the suburbs. He tried to make a note of the route, but the only landmark he recognised was the enormous Kirov Park. They came to a huge, drab housing estate, and when she pressed the bell to stop the bus he was taken by surprise, and almost didn't get off in time. They walked through a frosty playground where some children were climbing on a rusty frame. Wallander trod on the swollen body of a cat lying dead on the ground. He followed the woman into a dark, echoing entrance. They emerged into an open atrium where the cold wind bit into their faces. She turned to face him.

"My flat is very small," she said. "My father lives with me, he's very old. I'll just tell him you're a homeless friend. Our country is full of homeless people, and it's only natural for us to help each other. Later on my two children will come home from school. I'll leave them a note to say they should make you some tea. It's very cramped, but it's all I can offer you. I must go straight back to the hotel."

The flat consisted of two small rooms, a kitchenette and a minuscule bathroom. An old man lay resting on a bed.

"I don't even know your name," Wallander said, accepting the coat-hanger she held out for him.

"Vera," she said. "You're called Wallander."

She said his surname as though it had been his first name, and it occurred to him that he barely knew what to call himself at the moment. The old man on the bed sat up, but when he was about to stand up with the aid of his walking stick and shake hands, Wallander protested. That wasn't necessary, he didn't want to cause any inconvenience. Vera produced some bread and cold meat in the little kitchen, and he protested again: what he was looking for was somewhere to hide, not a restaurant. He felt embarra.s.sed at having to ask her to help him out like this, and guilty about the fact that his own flat in Mariagatan was three times the size of the s.p.a.ce she had at her disposal. She showed him the other room where most of the s.p.a.ce was taken up by a large bed.

"Close the door if you want some peace," she said. "You can rest here. I'll try to get back from the hotel as soon as I can."

"I don't want to put you in any danger," he said.

"When something is necessary, it has to be done," she said. "I'm glad you came to me."

Then she left. Wallander slumped down on the edge of the bed. He'd got this far. Now all he needed to do was to wait for Baiba Liepa.

Vera got back from the hotel just before 5 p.m. By then Wallander had had tea with her two children, Sabine aged 12 and her elder sister Ieva, 14. He had learnt some Latvian words, they had giggled at his hopeless rendition of "This little piggy went to market", and Vera's father had even sung an old soldier's ballad for them in a shaky voice. Wallander had managed to forget his mission and the image of Inese shot through the eye and the brutal ma.s.sacre. He had discovered that normal life existed away from the clutches of the colonels, and that was precisely the world Major Liepa had been defending. People were meeting in remote hunting lodges and warehouses for the sake of Sabine and Ieva and Vera's ancient father.

When Vera got back she hugged her daughters, then shut herself in her bedroom with Wallander. They were sitting on her bed, and the situation suddenly seemed to embarra.s.s her. He touched her arm in an effort to express his grat.i.tude for what she had done, but she misunderstood the gesture and pulled away. He realised it would be a waste of time trying to explain, and instead asked whether she had managed to contact Baiba Liepa.

"Baiba is crying," she said. "She is mourning her friends. Most of all she is crying for Inese. She had warned them the police had stepped up their activities, and pleaded with them to be careful. Even so, what she most dreaded came to pa.s.s. Baiba is crying, but she is also possessed by fury, just like me. She wants to meet you tonight, Wallander, and we have a plan for how to proceed. But before we do anything else, we must have something to eat. If we don't eat, we have as good as given up all hope."

They managed to fit themselves around a dining table that she folded down from one of the walls in the room where her father had his bed. It seemed to Wallander that it was as if Vera and her family lived in a caravan. In order to make room for everything, meticulous organisation was essential, and he wondered how it was possible to live a whole life in such cramped conditions. He thought of the evening he had spent in Colonel Putnis's mansion outside Riga. It was in order to protect their privileges that one of the colonels had instructed his subordinates to undertake an indiscriminate witch-hunt for people like the major and Inese. Now he could see how great the differences were in their lives. Every transaction between these people left blood on their hands.

The meal consisted of vegetable stew produced by Vera on her tiny stove. The girls set the table with a loaf of coa.r.s.e bread and beer. Wallander could sense the tremendous tension in Vera, but she succeeded in concealing it from her family. Yet again he asked himself what right he had to expose her to such risks. How would he ever be able to live with himself if anything happened to her?

After the meal the girls cleared the table and did the was.h.i.+ng up, while the old man went back to bed to rest.

"What's your father's name?" Wallander asked.

"He has a strange name," Vera told him. "He's called Antons. He's 76 years old, and has bladder trouble. He's spent the whole of his life working as a foreman at a printing works. They say old typographers can be affected by some kind of lead poisoning that makes them absent-minded and confused. Sometimes he seems to be living in another world. Maybe he's been affected by the disease."

They were sitting on the bed in her room again, and she had drawn the door curtain. The girls were whispering and giggling in the tiny kitchen, and he knew the moment had come.

"Do you remember the church where you met Baiba after a concert?" she asked. "St Gertrude's?" He nodded, he remembered.

"Do you think you could find your way back there?" "Not from here."

"But from the Latvia Hotel? From the city centre?" "Yes, I could."

"I can't go to the centre of town with you, it's too dangerous. But I don't think anybody suspects you are here in my flat. You must take the bus back to the city centre on your own. Don't get off at the stop outside the hotel -use the one before or the one after. Find the church and wait until 10 p.m. Do you remember the back gate in the churchyard you used when you left the church that first time?"

Wallander nodded. He thought he remembered it, even if he wasn't quite sure.

"Go in through that gate when you're absolutely certain n.o.body is looking. Wait there. If it's at all possible, Baiba will come to you."

"How did you contact her?"

"I phoned her."

Wallander looked sceptical.

"The telephone must be bugged."

"Of course it's bugged. I called her and said the book she'd ordered had arrived. That meant she knew she should go to a certain bookshop and ask for a certain book. I'd left a note there telling her you had arrived and were in my flat. Some hours later I went to a store where one of Baiba's neighbours usually shops. There was a note from Baiba saying she'd try to get to the church tonight."

"But what if she can't make it?"