The Dogs of Riga - Wallander 02

by Henning Mankell

  It was cold in the forest, the ground was hard under his feet and it seemed to Wallander he was in an impossible situation. We live in an age when the mice are hunting the cats, he thought. But that isn't true either, as nobody knows any more who are the mice and who the cats. That sums up my situation precisely. How can I be a police officer when nothing is what it seems to be any more, nothing makes sense. Not even Sweden, the country I once thought I understood, is an exception. A year ago I drove a car in an advanced state of intoxication, but I wasn't punished because my colleagues rallied round to protect me - just another case of the criminal shaking hands with the man who's chasing him.

  As he walked through the fir trees while Zids waited in the black limousine, he made up his mind to apply for the job at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. He'd come to the point where a decision like this was inevitable. Without any doubt, without needing to convince himself, he realised it was time to get out.

  The thought put him in a good mood, and he returned to the car. They drove back to Riga. He said goodbye to the sergeant and went to the reception desk for his key, where he was handed a letter from Colonel Putnis informing him that his flight to Helsinki would leave at 9.30 a.m. the next morning. He went up to his room, took a bath in the lukewarm water, and went to bed. There were three hours to go before he was due to meet Inese, and he ran through everything that had happened once more. He tried to put himself in the major's position, and imagined the extent of the loathing Karlis Liepa must have felt. The loathing and also the feeling of impotence at having access to proof, but not being able to do anything about it. He had seen into the very heart of the corruption, which involved either Putnis or Murniers or possibly both of them, meeting criminals and creating a situation not even the Mafia had managed to achieve: state-controlled crime. Liepa had seen, and he'd seen too much, and he'd been murdered. Somewhere or other was his testimony, records of his investigation and his proof.

  Wallander sat bolt upright in bed. He had overlooked the most serious consequence of this testimony. It must have occurred to Putnis or Murniers as well. They would have reached the same conclusion and be just as keen to find the proof that Major Liepa had hidden. His fear returned. Nothing could be easier than arranging for a Swedish police officer to disappear. There could be an accident, a criminal investigation that was in fact just a game with words, and a zinc coffin could be sent back to Sweden, with deepest regrets.

  Possibly they already suspected that he knew too much. Or was the rapid decision to send him back home a sign that they were confident that he knew nothing at all?

  There's nobody here I can trust, Wallander thought. I'm all on my own, and I must do as Baiba Liepa, decide who to confide in, and risk making a decision that might turn out to be wrong. But I'm isolated, while round about me are eyes and ears that would have no hesitation in sending me down the same road as the major. Perhaps another conversation with Baiba Liepa would be too risky.

  He got out of bed and stood at the window, looking out over the rooftops. It had grown dark, it was nearly 7 p.m., and he would have to make up his mind.

  I am not a courageous man, he thought. Least of all am I a police officer with a disregard for death, who takes risks without hesitation. What I would most like to be doing is investigating bloodless burglaries and frauds in some quiet corner of Sweden.

  Then he thought of Baiba, her fear and her defiance, and he knew he would never be able to live with himself were he to fail her now. He put on his suit and went downstairs shortly after 8 p.m. There was a different man in grey with a different newspaper in the foyer, but this time Wallander didn't bother to wave. Although it was quite early in the evening, the nightclub was already packed. He elbowed his way through the throng, past several women giving him come-hither smiles, and finally reached an empty table. He knew he shouldn't have anything to drink, but when a waiter came to his table he ordered a whisky even so. There was no band on the platform, but music was blaring out of loudspeakers suspended from the black ceiling. He tried to make out people in this murky, twilight world, but everything was just shadows and voices drowned by the awful music.

  Inese appeared from nowhere, and she played her part with an assurance that surprised him. There was no sign of the shy lady he had met a couple of days earlier. She was heavily made up and provocatively dressed in a miniskirt, and he realised he hadn't prepared himself at all for this charade. He held out his hand to greet her, but she ignored it and stooped down to kiss him.

  "We can't go just yet," she said. "Order me a drink. Laugh. Look as if you're pleased to see me."

  She drank whisky, smoking nervously, keeping an eye on the nightclub entrance. Wallander tried to play the part of a middle-aged man flattered by the attention of a young woman. He tried to pierce the wall of sound, and tell her about his long tour of the city with the sergeant as his guide. When Wallander said he would be going back home the next day, she started. He wondered how deeply involved she was, whether she was one of the "friends" Baiba Liepa had referred to, the friends whose dreams were the guarantee that the future of their country wouldn't be thrown to the dogs. But I can't trust her either, Wallander thought. She too might be leading a double life, having been given no choice, or as a last desperate ploy.

  "Pay now," she said. "We'll be leaving in a moment."

  Wallander noticed that the lights had gone on over the platform and the band in their pink silk jackets were starting to tune their instruments. He paid the waiter, and Inese smiled, pretending to whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

  "There's a back door next to the lavatories," she said. "It's locked, but if you knock somebody will open it. You'll come out into a garage. There'll be a white Moskvitch standing there with a yellow mudguard over the right front wheel. The car isn't locked. Get into the back seat. I'll be there shordy after you. Smile now, whisper in my ear, give me a kiss. Then go."

  He did as he was told, then stood up. Next to the lavatories he knocked on a metal door and heard a key turn immediately. People were going in and out of the lavatories, but nobody seemed to pay any attention as he slipped through the door into the garage. I'm in a country full of secret entrances and exits, he thought. Nothing seems to happen in the open.

  The garage was cramped and dimly lit, and smelt of engine oil and petrol. Wallander could see a lorry with one wheel missing, some bicycles, and then the white Moskvitch.

  There was no sign of the man who had opened the door for him. Wallander tried the car door. It was unlocked. He got into the back seat, and waited. Shortly afterwards Inese appeared. She was clearly in a hurry. She started the engine, the garage doors slid open, and she drove out of the hotel, turning left away from the wide streets surrounding the block with the Latvia Hotel at its core. He noticed that she was keeping a constant look-out in the rear-view mirror, and kept changing direction, following some invisible map. After about 20 minutes of twisting and turning, she seemed satisfied they were not being followed. She asked Wallander for a cigarette, and he lit one for her. They crossed over the long iron bridge and into a maze of dirty factories and endless clusters of barrack-like blocks of flats. Wallander was not sure if he recognised the building outside which she came to a halt.

  "Hurry up," she said. "We don't have much time."

  Baiba Liepa let them in, and exchanged a few hurried words with Inese. Wallander wondered if she had already been told he would be leaving Riga the next morning, but she said nothing, merely taking his jacket and putting it over a chair back. Inese had disappeared, and they were once again alone together in the quiet room with the heavy curtains. Wallander had no idea how to start, what he ought to say, and so he did what Rydberg had so often told him to do: tell it how it is, it can't make things any worse, just tell it how it is!

  She slumped back in the sofa as if struck by a terrible pain when Wallander told her Upitis had confessed to murdering her husband.

  "It's not true," she whispered.

  "I've had his confession translate
d for me," he said. "It claims he had two accomplices."

  "It's not true!" she screamed, and it was as if a floodgate had finally burst. Inese appeared in the shadows, and looked at Wallander: he knew immediately what he should do. He moved over to the sofa and put his arms round Baiba, who was shivering and sobbing. Wallander had time to register that she might be crying because Upitis had committed an act of betrayal that was so outrageous, it was impossible to comprehend, or she could be crying because the truth was about to be suppressed by means of a false, forced confession. She was sobbing frantically, and clinging on to him as if she were suffering a long drawn-out attack of cramp.

  Looking back, it seemed to Wallander that was the moment when he burnt his boats and began to accept that he was in love with Baiba Liepa. He had realised the love he now felt had its origins in another person's need of him. He asked himself briefly if he had ever felt anything like it before.

  Inese came in with two cups of tea. She briefly stroked Baiba Liepa's head, and the major's widow stopped crying almost immediately. Her face was ashen.

  Wallander told her all that had happened, and that he would be returning to Sweden in the morning. He told her the whole story he had managed to piece together, and was surprised how convincing it sounded. He eventually got round to mentioning the secret which must exist somewhere or other, and she nodded to show she that understood.

  "Yes," she said. "He must have hidden something away. He must have made notes. A true testimony can never consist of unwritten thoughts."

  "But you don't know where it is?"

  "He never said anything about it."

  "Is there anybody else who might know?" "Nobody. I was the only one he confided in." "He has his father in Ventspils, doesn't he?" She looked at him in surprise.

  "I found out about him," he said. "I thought he might be a possibility."

  "He was very fond of his father," she said, "But he would never have trusted him with documents."

  "Then where can he have hidden them?"

  "Not in our flat. That would have been too dangerous. The police would have torn the whole building apart if they thought there might be anything hidden there."

  "Think," Wallander said. "Put yourself back in time, try to remember. Where could he possibly have hidden them?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know."

  "He must have foreseen that something like this could happen. He must have assumed you would understand, would have known there was proof waiting for you to find. It must be somewhere that only you would think of."

  She suddenly grabbed hold of his hand. "You must help me," she said. "You can't leave."

  "It's impossible for me to stay," he said. "The colonels would never understand why I hadn't gone back to Sweden, and how would I be able to stay here without their knowing?"

  "You can come back," she said, still clinging on to his hand. "You've got a girlfriend here. You can come as a tourist."

  But you're the one I'm in love with, he thought. Not Inese. "You've got a girlfriend here," she repeated. He nodded. He did have a girlfriend in Riga, but it wasn't Inese.

  He said nothing, and she didn't try to make him. She

  seemed convinced he would return. Inese came back into the room, and by now Baiba Liepa had got over the shock of hearing that Upitis had made a confession.

  "In our country you can die if you say something," she said, "and you can die if you don't say anything. Or say the wrong things. Or talk to the wrong people. But Upitis is strong. He knows we won't abandon him. He knows we know his confession isn't true. That's why we will win in the end."

  "Win?"

  "All we ask for is the truth," she said. "All we ask for is decency, something fundamental. The freedom to live in the freedom we choose to live in."

  "That's too big a thing for me," Wallander said. "I want to know who murdered Major Liepa. I want to know why two dead men drifted ashore on the Swedish coast."

  "Come back here and I'll teach you about my country," Baiba Liepa said. "Not just me, but Inese as well."

  "I don't know," Wallander said.

  Baiba Liepa looked at him. "You can't be a man who lets people down," she said. "If you were, Karlis would have been wrong. And he was never wrong."

  "It's not possible," Wallander repeated. "If I were to come back here, the colonels would know about it immediately. I'd have to have a false identity, a false passport."

  "That can be arranged," Baiba Liepa said eagerly. "Provided I know you'll come back."

  "I'm a police officer," Wallander said. "I can't risk my very existence by travelling around the world on a forged passport."

  He regretted saying it the moment the words had crossed his lips. He looked Baiba Liepa in the eye, and saw the dead major's face.

  "All right," he said slowly. "I'll come back."

  The night wore on and it turned midnight. Wallander was trying to help Baiba Liepa locate some clue as to where the major could have hidden his proof. Her concentration was unshakeable, but nowhere could they find any traces. In the end their conversation simply petered out.

  Wallander thought of the dogs that were looking out for him somewhere out there in the darkness - the colonels' dogs that never ceased to look for him. With a growing feeling of unreality, he saw that he was being drawn into a plot that would bring him back to Riga to conduct a criminal investigation in secret. He would be a non-police officer in a country with which he was completely unfamiliar, and this non-police officer would be trying to establish the truth about a crime that many people already regarded as solved, finished and done with. He knew the whole venture was mad, but he couldn't take his eyes off Baiba Liepa's face, and her voice had been so full of conviction he had been unable to withstand it.

  It was nearly 2 a.m. when Inese announced they would have to call a hait. She left him alone with Baiba Liepa, and they bade farewell to each other in silence.

  Baiba leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "We have friends in Sweden," she said. "They'll be in touch with you. They'll help to organise your return."

  Inese drove him back to the hotel. As they approached the bridge, she nodded at the rear-view mirror.

  "Now they're tailing us. We must look as though we're very much in love and can't bear to part when we say goodbye outside the hotel."

  "I'll do my best," Wallander said. "Maybe I should try and persuade you to come up to my room."

  She laughed.

  "I'm a good girl," she said, "but when you come back maybe we can let things go that far"

  She left, and he stood for a while in the bitter cold, trying to look as if he were devastated by her going.

  The next day he flew home via Helsinki.

  The colonels escorted him through the airport and bade him a hearty farewell. One of these men murdered the major, Wallander said to himself. Or was it both of you? But how could a police officer from Ystad be expected to discover what really happened?

  It was late evening when he got back home and unlocked the door of his flat in Mariagatan. Already the whole episode had begun to fade and take on the nature of a dream, and it seemed to him that he would never see Baiba Liepa again. She would have to mourn the death of her husband without ever discovering what happened.

  He took a sip of the whisky he had bought during the flight. Before going to bed he spent a considerable time listening to Maria Callas, feeling tired and uneasy. He wondered how it was all going to end.

  CHAPTER 14

  Six days after he returned he received a letter.

  He found it on the floor in the hall when he returned home after a long and difficult day at the station. Sleet had been falling all afternoon, and he spent some time on the landing shaking his clothes and stamping his feet before opening the door.

  He thought later that it was as if he'd been steeling himself for the moment when they contacted him. Deep down he'd known all along that they would, but he still didn't feel ready for it.

  The envelope on his doorma
t was an ordinary brown one - at first he thought it was some kind of advertising material as there was a company name printed on the front. He put it on the hall table and forgot all about it. It wasn't until he'd finished his dinner, a fish gratin that had been in the freezer too long, that he remembered the letter and went to fetch it. It was from "Lippman's Flowers", and it struck him that this was an odd time of year for a garden centre to be sending a catalogue. He very nearly put it straight into the dustbin, but he could never resist taking a look at even the most uninteresting junk mail before binning it. It was a bad habit picked up from his job: there might be something hidden in among the colourful brochures. It sometimes seemed to him that he lived the life of a man compelled to turn over every stone he found. He always needed to know what was underneath it.

  He opened the envelope and saw that it contained a handwritten letter, he realised they had contacted him. He left the letter on the kitchen table while he made a cup of coffee. He needed to give himself a bit of time before reading it. When he'd left the plane at Arlanda a week ago, he had felt vaguely uneasy, but relieved to no longer be in a country where he was being watched all the time, and in a flash of unaccustomed spontaneity he'd tried to start a conversation with the woman at immigration control when he handed his passport in through the window. "It's good to be home," he'd said, but she had glanced dismissively at him and shoved the passport back without even opening it.