The Dogs of Riga - Wallander 02

by Henning Mankell

  "Not at the Latvia Hotel, though," he said. "Anywhere else, but not there."

  Sergeant Zids turned off the main street and drove into the old town. It seemed to Wallander that he was entering a new labyrinth he would never be able to find his way out of alone.

  They stopped at the Sigulda restaurant. Wallander had an omelette, and the sergeant a bowl of soup. The atmosphere was stifling and heavy with cigarette smoke. The place was full when they arrived, and Wallander had noted that the sergeant had demanded a table.

  "This would have been impossible in Sweden," he said as they were eating. "I mean, a police officer marching into a crowded restaurant and demanding a table."

  "It's different here," Sergeant Zids said, unconcerned. "People prefer to keep well in with the police."

  Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Sergeant Zids was too young for such arrogance.

  "I don't want to jump any queues in future," he said.

  The sergeant stared at him in astonishment.

  "Then we won't get any food," he said.

  "The dining room at the Latvia Hotel is always empty," Wallander replied curtly.

  They were back at police headquarters just before 2 p.m. During the meal Wallander had sat there without speaking, trying to establish in his mind just what was wrong with the report Zids had translated. He had concluded that what worried him was the very perfection of the whole thing - it was as if it had been written in such a way as to make questions unnecessary. That was as far as he had got, and he wasn't sure he was right. Maybe he was seeing ghosts where there weren't any?

  Murniers wasn't in his office and Colonel Putnis was still busy with his interrogation. The sergeant went to fetch Baiba Liepa, leaving Wallander alone in his office. He wondered if it was bugged, if someone was observing him through a two-way mirror. As if to assert his innocence, he took off his trousers and put on his long Johns. He had just noticed how his legs were starting to itch when there was a knock on the door. He shouted, "Come in," and the sergeant ushered in Baiba Liepa. I'm not Mr Eckers. There's no such person as Mr Eckers. That's exactly why I want to talk to you.

  "Does Major Liepa's widow speak English?" he asked the sergeant. Zids nodded.

  "Then you can leave us alone."

  He had tried to prepare himself. I must remember that everything I say and do can be monitored. We can't even put our fingers over our lips, let alone write notes. But Baiba Liepa has to understand that Mr Eckers still exists.

  She was dressed in a dark overcoat and a fur hat. Unlike earlier in the day, she was wearing glasses. She took off her hat, and shook out her dark hair.

  "Please sit down, Mrs Liepa," Wallander said. She immediately smiled, a quick smile, as if he'd sent her a secret signal with a torch. He noted that she accepted it with no trace of surprise, but rather as if she'd expected nothing different. He knew he had to put to her all the questions he already had answers to. Perhaps she could send him a message through her responses, some insight into what was being held back for the eyes of Mr Eckers only?

  He expressed his sympathy - formally, but sincerely even so. Then he asked the questions that were natural in the circumstances, bearing in mind all the time that some unknown person would be monitoring them.

  "How long were you married to Major Liepa?"

  "For eight years."

  "If I understand correctly, you didn't have any children."

  "We wanted to wait. I have my career."

  "What is your career, Mrs Liepa?"

  "I'm an engineer. But these last few years I've spent most of my time translating scientific papers. Some of them for our technical university."

  How did you fix serving me breakfast? he wondered. Who is your contact at the Latvia Hotel? The thought distracted him. He asked his next question.

  "And you thought you couldn't combine that with having children?"

  He regretted asking that question straight away. That was a private matter, irrelevant. He apologised by not waiting for an answer, but just pressing on.

  "Mrs Liepa," he said. "You must have thought, worried, wondered about what really happened to your husband. I've had the interrogations you had with the police translated. You say you don't know anything, don't understand anything, have no idea about anything. I'm sure that's the case. Nobody wants your husband's murderer to be caught and punished more than you do. Nevertheless, I'd like you to think back one more time, to the day when your husband got back from Sweden. There might be something you overlooked because of the shock of hearing that your husband had been murdered."

  Her reply gave him the first coded signal for him to interpret.

  "No," she said. "I haven't forgotten anything. Nothing at all." Herr Eckers, I wasn't shocked by something unexpected. What happened was what we'd feared.

  "Maybe a bit earlier, then," Wallander said. He would have to tread very carefully now, so as not to make it too difficult for her.

  "My husband didn't speak about his work," she said. "He would never break the oath of silence he'd taken when he became a police officer. I was married to a man whose morals were of a very high standard."

  Absolutely, Wallander thought. It was the very high standard of his morals that killed him. "I had exactly the same impression of Major Liepa," he said, "despite the fact that we only met for a couple of days in Sweden."

  Did she understand now that he was on her side? That he'd asked her to come and see him for that very reason? So that he could lay out a smokescreen of questions that didn't mean anything?

  He repeated his request for her to search again through her recollections. They batted questions and answers to and fro for a while until Wallander reckoned it was time to stop. He rang a bell, assuming that Sergeant Zids would be listening for it, then stood up and shook her by the hand.

  How did you know I'd come to Riga, he wondered. Somebody must have told you. Somebody who wanted us to meet. But why? What is it you think a police officer from an insignificant little Swedish town will be able to do to help you?

  The sergeant appeared to escort Baiba Liepa to some distant exit. Wallander stood at the draughty window and looked into the courtyard. Sleet was falling over the city, and beyond the high wall he could see church steeples and the occasional high-rise building. He suddenly had the feeling that he'd let himself get carried away without allowing his reason to come up with objections, that it was all in his imagination. He was suspecting conspiracies where there weren't any, he'd swallowed the unfounded myth about the Eastern bloc dictatorships being based on the pitting of one citizen against another. What justification had he for mistrusting Murniers and Putnis? The fact that Baiba Liepa had turned up at his hotel disguised as a chambermaid could have an explanation that proved to be much less dramatic than he'd imagined.

  His train of thought was broken by a knock on the door. It was Colonel Putnis. He seemed tired, and his smile was strained.

  "The interrogation of the suspect has been temporarily adjourned," he said. "Unfortunately the suspect has not made the confessions we had hoped for. We are now checking various pieces of information he has given us, and then I'll resume the cross-examination."

  "What are you basing your suspicions on?" Wallander asked.

  "In the past he often used Leja and Kalns as couriers and henchmen," Putnis said. "We hope to be able to prove that they've been drug smuggling this last year. Hagelman, as he's called, is the type who wouldn't hesitate to torture or murder his colleagues if he thought it necessary. He hasn't been acting alone, of course: we're looking for other members of his gang at present. Many of them are Soviet citizens, so they might well be in their own country now, unfortunately. But we're not going to give up. We've also found several weapons Hagelman had access to, and we're looking into whether the bullets that killed Leja and Kalns came from any of them."

  "What about the connection with Major Liepa's murder," Wallander asked. "Where does that fit in?"

  "We don't know," Putnis replied, "but it was a
planned killing, an execution. He wasn't even robbed. We have to conclude that it had something to do with his work."

  "Could Major Liepa have been leading a double life?" Wallander asked.

  Putnis smiled wearily.

  "We live in a country where awareness of what our fellow-citizens get up to has become an art form," he said. "That is no less true in the case of fellow police officers. If Major Liepa had been leading a double life, we'd have known about it."

  "Unless somebody was protecting him," Wallander said.

  Putnis stared at him in astonishment. "Who could have been protecting him?" "I don't know," Wallander said. "Just thinking aloud. Not a particularly well-founded thought, I'm afraid." Putnis got up to leave.

  "I had intended inviting you to our house for dinner this evening," he said, "but unfortunately that won't be possible as I have to go on with the interrogation. Perhaps Colonel Murniers had the same idea? It would be most impolite of us to leave you to your own devices in a strange town."

  "The Latvia Hotel is splendid," Wallander said. "Besides, I'd planned to summarise the thoughts I've had about the death of Major Liepa. That will take all evening."

  Putnis nodded.

  "Tomorrow evening, then," he said. "I'd like you to come round and meet my family. Ausma, my wife, is an excellent cook."

  "I'd like that," Wallander said. "That would be very nice."

  Putnis left, and Wallander rang the bell. He wanted to get out of the police headquarters before Murniers had a chance to invite him home, or maybe to some restaurant or other.

  "I'd like to go back to the hotel now," Wallander said when Zids appeared in the doorway. "I have quite a lot of notes to write up in my room this evening. You can come and collect me at 8 a.m. tomorrow."

  When the sergeant had left him at his hotel, Wallander bought some postcards and stamps in reception. He also asked for a map of the city, but as the map the hotel had was not detailed enough, he was directed to a bookshop not far away.

  Wallander looked around in the foyer, but couldn't see anyone drinking tea or reading a newspaper. That means they're still here, he thought. One day they'll be obvious, the next they'll be invisible. I'm supposed to doubt whether the shadows exist.

  He left the hotel and went in search of the bookshop.

  It was already dark, and the pavement was wet from sleet. There were a lot of people about, and Wallander stopped now and then to look in shop windows. The goods on display were limited, and much of a muchness. When he got to the bookshop, he glanced back over his shoulder: there was no sign of anybody hesitating mid-stride.

  An elderly gentleman who didn't speak a word of English sold him a map of Riga. He went on and on in Latvian, as if he took it for granted that Wallander could understand every word. He returned to his hotel. Somewhere in front of him was a shadow he couldn't see. He made up his mind to ask one of the colonels the next day why he was being watched. He thought he'd broach the subject in a friendly fashion, without sarcasm or aggression.

  He asked at reception if anybody had tried to contact him. "No calls, Mr Wallander, no calls at all," was the answer.

  He went up to his room and sat down to write his postcards, moving the desk away from the window, to avoid the draught. He chose a card with a picture of Riga Cathedral to send to Björk. Somewhere not far from there Baiba Liepa lived; late one evening the major had taken a telephone call and been summoned. Who made that call, Baiba? Mr Eckers is in his room, waiting for an answer to that question.

  He wrote cards to Björk, Linda and his father. He hesitated about the last of his cards, then decided to send greetings to his sister, Kristina.

  It was 7 p.m. now. He filled his bath with lukewarm water, and balanced a glass of whisky on the edge of the tub. Then he closed his eyes and started to go through the whole thing, from the very beginning. The life-raft, the dead men, the peculiar embrace they were in. He tried to find something he'd missed earlier. Rydberg used to talk about the ability to see what was invisible. Observing what was odd in what seemed to be natural. He went methodically through the whole case. Where were the clues he just couldn't see?

  When he'd finished his bath he sat at his desk and started to make more notes. He felt sure the two Latvian police colonels were on the right track. There was nothing to contradict the theory that the men in the life-raft had been punished for an internal indiscretion. It didn't really matter that they had been shot in their shirtsleeves, and then flung into a life-raft. He didn't believe any more that whoever did this intended the bodies to be found.

  Why was the life-raft stolen? he wrote. By whom? How was it possible for Latvian criminals to get to Sweden so easily? Was the theft carried out by Swedes, or by Latvians in Sweden with Swedish contacts? Major Liepa had been murdered the very night he got back from Sweden. There was plenty to suggest he'd been silenced. What did Major Liepa know. he wrote. And why am I being given a thoroughly unsatisfactory account of the case which avoids establishing where the murder took place? Baiba Liepa, he wrote. What does she know, but doesn't want to tell the police?

  He slid his notes to one side and poured himself another glass of whisky. It was nearly 9 p.m., and he was hungry. He picked up the telephone receiver to check that it was working, then went down to reception and informed them he was in the dining room if anybody called. When he got to the dining room, he was shown to the same table as before. Maybe there's a microphone in the ashtray, he thought ironically. Maybe there's somebody under the table, taking my pulse? He drank half a bottle of Armenian wine with his roast chicken and potatoes. Every time the swing doors opened, he thought it might be the receptionist coming to tell him somebody had phoned. He took a glass of brandy with his coffee, and looked round the dining room. Quite a few of the tables were occupied tonight. There were some Russians in one corner, and a party of Germans at a long table together with their Latvian hosts. It was nearly 10.30 p.m. when he paid his incredibly low bill, and he wondered for just a moment whether he ought to look in at the nightclub. Then he thought better of it, and walked up the stairs to the 15th floor.

  Just as he was inserting his key into the lock, he heard the telephone ring. Cursing aloud, he flung open the door and grabbed the receiver. Can I speak to Mr Eckers? It was a man speaking, and his English was very poor. Wallander responded as he was supposed to do, saying there was no Mr Eckers here. Oh, I must have made a mistake. The man apologised, and hung up. Use the back door. Please, please.

  He put on his overcoat, and his knitted cap - then changed his mind and put it in his pocket. When he reached the foyer he made sure he couldn't be seen from reception. The party of Germans was just leaving the dining room as he approached the revolving doors. He hastened down the stairs to the hotel sauna and a corridor leading to the restaurant goods entrance. The grey, steel door was exactly as Baiba Liepa had described it. He opened it carefully, feeling the wind in his face, then made his way down the loading ramp and soon found himself at the rear of the hotel.

  The street was lit by only a few lamps, and he glided into the shadows. The only person he saw was an old man walking his dog. He stood motionless in the darkness, waiting. Nobody came. The man stood patiently by a dustbin while his dog cocked its leg, then as the man walked past he told Wallander to follow him once they'd turned the corner. A tram clattered somewhere in the distance as Wallander waited. He put on his knitted cap: it had stopped snowing, and was growing colder. The man disappeared round the corner and Wallander walked slowly after him. When he turned the corner, he found himself in another alley; there was no sign of the man and his dog. Without a sound, a car door opened right beside him. Mr Eckers, said a voice from the darkness inside, we ought to be setting off straight away. As Wallander climbed into the back seat, it struck him that what he was doing was all wrong. He remembered the feeling he'd had that very morning, when he was in another car being driven by Zids. He could remember the fear. Now it had returned.

  CHAPTER 9

  The pungent sme
ll of damp wool.

  That was how Kurt Wallander would remember his night-time drive through Riga. He had crouched down and clambered into the back seat, and before his eyes had grown used to the dark unknown hands had pulled a hood over his head. It smelled of wool, and when he began to sweat he could feel his skin start to itch. Nevertheless, his fear, the intense conviction that everything was wrong, as wrong as could be, had disappeared the moment he got into the car. A voice he assumed belonged to the hands that had pulled the hood over his head had tried to calm him down. We are not terrorists. We just have to he cautious. He recognised the voice from the telephone, the voice that had inquired about Mr Eckers and then apologised for getting the wrong room. The soothing voice had been absolutely convincing, and afterwards it occurred to him that perhaps this was something people in the chaotic, broken-down Eastern-bloc countries had to learn: how to sound convincing in claiming there was no threat, when really everything was threatening.

  The car was uncomfortable. The sound of the engine told him it was Russian - presumably a Lada. He couldn't work out how many people there were in the car, just that there were at least two: in front of him was the driver, who kept coughing, and the man beside him who had spoken so soothingly. Now and again his face was hit by a draught of cold air as somebody wound down a window to let the cigarette smoke out. For a moment he thought he could detect a faint trace of perfume in the car, Baiba Liepa's perfume, but he realised it was only his imagination, or perhaps a hope. It was impossible to judge how fast they were going, but when there was a sudden change of road surface he assumed they had left the city behind them. The car occasionally slowed down and turned left or right, and once they negotiated a roundabout He tried to keep a check on the time, but soon gave up. Finally, the car took one last turning, and started bumping and jumping about in a way that suggested they had left the road altogether, and the journey came to an end. The driver switched off the engine, the doors were opened, and he was helped out of the car.