“Excellent,” Björk said. “What sort of men were they?”
Wallander read from his notes.
“Notorious criminals,” he said.
“Did he have any idea why they might have been murdered?” Björk asked.
“No, but he didn’t seem particularly surprised. If I understood him, he said that he’ll be sending over some documentation. He also wondered if we were interested in inviting over any Latvian police officers to assist with the investigation.”
“That would be an excellent idea,” Björk said. “The quicker we can get this case out of the way, the better.”
“The foreign ministry will support any such move, of course,” Birgitta Törn said.
So it was agreed. The next day Major Liepa sent a telex announcing that he personally would be flying to Arlanda the following afternoon, and would get the first connection to Sturup.
“A major,” Wallander said. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve no idea,” Martinsson said. “I generally feel like a corporal in this business myself.”
Birgitta Törn went back to Stockholm. Now that she was gone, Wallander had difficulty recalling the sound of her voice, or even what she looked like. That’s the last I’ll see of her, he thought, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever discover why she came here in the first place.
Björk had taken it upon himself to meet the Latvian major at the airport, which meant that Wallander could spend the evening playing canasta with his father. As he drove out to Löderup, he thought to himself that the case would soon be solved. The Latvian police would presumably supply a plausible motive, and then the whole investigation could be transferred to Riga. That was no doubt where the murderer would be found. The life raft had been washed up on the Swedish coast, but the origins of it all, of the murders, were on the other side of the sea. The bodies of the dead men would be sent back to Latvia and there the case would be resolved.
In this judgment, Wallander was completely wrong. The case had scarcely begun. What had begun in Skåne, and in earnest, was winter.
CHAPTER 6
Wallander had expected Major Liepa to be in uniform when he arrived at the police station in Ystad, but the man Björk introduced him to on the sixth day of the investigation was wearing a baggy gray suit and a badly knotted tie. Moreover, he was short, with hunched shoulders that seemed to suggest he had no neck at all, and Wallander could see no trace of any military bearing. Major Liepa’s first name was Karlis, and he was a chain-smoker: his fingers were yellow with nicotine stains from his extra-strong cigarettes.
The morning was gray and windy. A snowstorm was expected over Skåne towards evening, and since a particularly nasty flu virus had gained a foothold among the police, Björk felt he had to release Svedberg from the case for the time being: there was an urgent list of other crimes awaiting immediate attention. Lovén and Rönnlund had gone back to Stockholm, and as Björk was not feeling too well, he left Martinsson and Wallander to get on with the investigation with Major Liepa. They were sitting around the conference room, and Major Liepa was chain-smoking.
The major’s smoking habits presented a serious problem at the station. Anti-smoking agitators protested to Björk that Liepa smoked all the time, particularly in smoke-free areas of the station. Björk urged his colleagues to display a degree of tolerance that guests had a right to expect, but he also asked Wallander to find a tactful way of explaining that the smoking ban must be observed. When Wallander summoned up his shaky English and explained how important it was for Swedish rules regarding smoking to be observed, Liepa shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette without further ado. From then on he made an effort to avoid smoking anywhere other than in Wallander’s office and the conference room, but even Wallander was finding it hard to put up with the smoke, and he asked Björk that Major Liepa be given an office of his own. In the end, Svedberg moved in with Martinsson, and Liepa was installed in Svedberg’s office.
Major Liepa was very near-sighted. His rimless spectacles seemed to be much too weak, and when he was reading he held documents only a couple of inches in front of his eyes. He seemed to sniff the paper, rather than scrutinizing it, and anyone watching found it hard not to laugh out loud. Wallander occasionally heard officers making disparaging remarks about the little hunchbacked Latvian major, but he felt no hesitation in discouraging such condescending behavior. He had found Liepa an extremely shrewd and perceptive police officer—not unlike Rydberg, not least in being passionate in his enthusiasm. Criminal cases might nearly always be subject to standard procedures, but Wallander knew that was no reason to let one’s thoughts get into a rut. Major Liepa was an inspired detective, and his colorless appearance camouflaged a clever man and an experienced investigator.
The previous evening Wallander had played canasta with his father, and then set his alarm clock for 5 a.m. so he would have time to read a brochure about Latvia that a local bookseller had found for him. It had occurred to him that it would be a good idea to begin by informing each other as to how the police forces in their respective countries actually worked. The fact that the Latvian police used military ranks indicated big differences between the two forces. Over his morning coffee Wallander had tried to formulate some general principles in English concerning the working methods of the Swedish police, but it struck him that he didn’t really know how the Swedish police force worked. Things weren’t made any easier by the fact that the national police commissioner had recently introduced wide-ranging reforms, and Wallander seemed to be endlessly reading badly written memos describing the changes. When he asked Björk what these changes really meant, he had been given vague, evasive replies. Now, sitting opposite the chain-smoking major, he decided he might as well forget all such matters—if any misunderstanding arose they would sort it out.
When Björk had excused himself, coughing away heartily, Wallander decided that it was time to break the ice. He asked Major Liepa where he was staying in Ystad.
“In a hotel,” Liepa replied. “I don’t know what it’s called.”
Wallander was disconcerted. Liepa seemed to have no interest in anything other than the case in hand.
Better leave the polite chitchat until later, he thought. All we have in common is an investigation into a double murder, nothing else.
Major Liepa embarked on a long and detailed account of how the Latvian police had been able to establish the identity of the two dead men. His English was not good, and this obviously irritated him. During one of their breaks, Wallander called his bookseller friend and asked whether he had an English-Latvian dictionary in stock, but he didn’t. They were going to have to undertake a difficult journey together with very little of a common language.
After more than nine hours of intensive reading of reports—Martinsson and Wallander staring at their copies of an incomprehensible, stencilled document in Latvian while Major Liepa translated, pausing all the while to try to find the right word before continuing—Wallander thought he had more or less grasped what had happened. Despite their comparative youth, Leja and Kalns had made a name for themselves as a pair of volatile and predatory criminals. Wallander noted the contempt with which Major Liepa described them as members of the Russian minority in his country. He had known that the large group of ethnic Russians that had lived in Latvia since Russia annexed the Baltic states at the end of the Second World War were opposed to the campaign for national liberation, but he hadn’t been aware of the extent of the problem. He simply didn’t have the political insight, he told himself. Major Liepa made no attempt to conceal his disgust at this situation, making it plain on several occasions.
“These Russians were bandits,” he said, “members of our eastern Mafia.”
Leja was 28 and Kalns barely 30, but they each had substantial criminal records: robbery, assault, smuggling and illegal currency transactions. The Riga police suspected that at least three murders could be attributed to the pair, but it had not been possible to bring charges.
When M
ajor Liepa finished translating the reports and extracts from criminal records, Wallander asked a question that seemed to him crucial.
“These men have committed many big crimes,” he said. (Martinsson interjected, suggesting that a better word in English might be “serious.”) “What appears odd is the fact that they have only been in prison for very short periods. I mean, they were convicted criminals and had been sentenced.”
Major Liepa’s face broke into a broad smile, and he seemed keen to respond. That was a question he was hoping for, Wallander thought. It was worth more than all the polite exchanges he could have mustered.
“I have to explain the situation in my country,” Major Liepa said, lighting another cigarette. “No more than 15 percent of the population of Latvia are Russians, but even so, Russians have controlled our country in every way since the end of the war. The sending in of Russian nationals is one way used by Moscow to suppress us—it might be the most effective method used. You ask me why Leja and Kalns have spent so little time in prison when they should really have been there for life, even executed. Well, I do not say that all public prosecutors and judges are corrupt: that would be an oversimplification, it would be a controversial and unethical claim. What I say is that Leja and Kalns had powerful protectors behind them.”
“The Russian Mafia,” Wallander said.
“Yes and no. The Mafia in our country also needs subtle protectors. I’m convinced that Leja and Kalns spent a lot of their time serving the KGB. The secret police never likes to see its own men in prison, unless they are traitors or defectors. The shadow of Stalin has always hovered over the heads of people like that.”
The same is true of Sweden, was Wallander’s immediate reaction. We might not be able to refer to such a monster in our recent history, but a complicated network of interdependent individuals is not the exclusive preserve of a totalitarian state.
“The KGB,” Major Liepa said. “And the Mafia. They’re linked. Everything is connected by links only the initiated can see.”
“The Mafia,” Martinsson interrupted, who so far had remained silent, apart from helping Wallander with his English. “That’s something new for us in Sweden, the concept of well-organized Russian or East European crime syndicates. A few years ago the Swedish police became aware of gangs of Russian origin, in Stockholm especially: we still know very little about them. There have been isolated incidents of brutality warning us that something of this kind was appearing in Sweden, and we are aware that over the next few years this type of criminal will seek to infiltrate our own underworld, and establish themselves in key positions.”
Wallander was jealous of the fluent way that Martinsson could express himself in English. His pronunciation might be awful, but his vocabulary was much richer than Wallander’s. Why didn’t the national police board provide courses in English, instead of all those silly jamborees about staff development and internal democracy?
“I’m sure you’re right,” Major Liepa said. “As the Communist states start to disintegrate, they behave like shipwrecked sailing boats: the criminals are the rats, the first to leave the sinking ship. They have contacts; they have money; they also have access to advice. A lot of the refugees from the Eastern bloc are nothing but criminals. Not fleeing oppression, but seeking new territory. It’s easy for them to forge a new past and identity.”
“Major Liepa,” Wallander said. “You say that this is what you believe the situation to be. You do not know for certain?”
“I’m certain,” replied Major Liepa, “but I can’t prove it. Not yet.”
Wallander realized that in Major Liepa’s words were references and significance he couldn’t recognize or understand. In Major Liepa’s country, criminal activities were linked with a political elite that had the authority to overrule and directly influence the sentencing of criminals. The two dead men had criminal backgrounds. Who would want them dead? And why?
It occurred to Wallander that as far as Major Liepa was concerned every criminal investigation involved his search for proof of a political implication: maybe that’s how we should approach things in Sweden, he thought. Maybe we have to accept that we just aren’t digging deeply enough into the criminal activity all around us.
“The men,” Martinsson asked. “Who killed them?”
“I don’t know,” Major Liepa replied. “They were executed, of course—but why tortured? What did the killers want to know before they silenced Leja and Kalns? Did they find out what they wanted to know? I also have many unanswered questions.”
“We’re hardly going to find the answers here in Sweden,” Wallander said.
“I know,” Major Liepa said. “The solution might possibly be found in Latvia.”
Wallander pricked up his ears. Why had he said “possibly”?
“If we can’t find the answer in Latvia, where can we find it?” he asked.
“Further away.”
“Further to the east?” suggested Martinsson.
“Or possibly further south,” Major Liepa said hesitantly, and both Martinsson and Wallander recognized that he didn’t want to reveal what he was thinking for the moment.
They decided they had done all they could for the day. Thanks to all the sitting down and the laborious discussions they’d had with the major, Wallander could feel the repercussions of an old lumbago attack. Martinsson promised to help Major Liepa change some currency at the bank, and Wallander suggested that he also get in touch with Lovén in Stockholm, to find out the latest on the ballistic investigation. Wallander’s own task was to write a report on what had happened at the meeting. The prosecutor, Anette Brolin, had let it be known that she would appreciate an update as soon as possible.
La Brolin, thought Wallander as he left the smoke-filled conference room and set off down the corridor. This is a case you’re not going to be able to take to court. We’ll off-load it to Riga as soon as we can, together with two corpses and a red life raft. Then we can put the rubber stamp on our own investigation, and maintain that we’ve done all we can and have “no reason to initiate further investigation.”
Wallander wrote his report after lunch, while Martinsson looked after Major Liepa, who had expressed a desire to buy some clothes for his wife. Wallander had just phoned the prosecutor’s office and had been told that Anette Brolin was free and would see him, when Martinsson strode into his office.
“What have you done with the major?” Wallander asked.
“He’s in his room, smoking,” Martinsson said. “He’s already dropped ashes all over Svedberg’s fancy carpet.”
“Has he had anything to eat?”
“I treated him to the lunch of the day at the Hornblower. Dumplings. I don’t think he liked them—he spent most of the time smoking and drinking coffee.”
“Did you reach Lovén?”
“He’s out with the flu.”
“Have you talked to anybody else?”
“It’s impossible to reach anybody by phone, nobody’s in. Nobody knows when they’re coming back. Someone promises that they’ll call back, but no one ever does.”
“Maybe Rönnlund could give you a hand?”
“I tried him as well, but he was out on business. Nobody knew what business, where he was, or when he was coming back.”
“Better try again. I have to see the prosecutor about this report. I’m assuming we can hand the case over to Major Liepa rather soon—the bodies, the life raft and the documentation. He’s welcome to take the whole mess back to Riga with him.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
“What is?”
“The life raft.”
“What about it?”
“Major Liepa wanted to examine it.”
“Well, all he had to do was to go down to the basement.”
“It’s not quite as simple as that.”
Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Martinsson sometimes took forever to get to the point.
“What’s so difficult about walk
ing down the stairs to the basement?”
“The raft’s not there.”
Wallander stared at Martinsson in astonishment. “What do you mean ‘not there’?”
“Not there.”
“What on earth do you mean? It’s on a couple of trestles, where you and Captain Österdahl examined it. By the way, we ought to write to him and thank him for his help—good that you reminded me of that.”
“The trestles are still there,” said Martinsson, “but the life raft isn’t.”
Wallander put his papers down on his desk and hurried down into the basement, closely followed by Martinsson. He was right. The two wooden trestles had been overturned and were lying there on the concrete floor, and the life raft was nowhere to be seen.
“What the hell’s going on?” Wallander shouted.
Martinsson was hesitant, as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying.
“There’s been a break-in. Hansson was down here last night, and the life raft was here then. This morning one of the traffic police noticed that the door had been forced, so it must have been stolen during the night.”
“That’s impossible,” Wallander said. “How can the police station have been burgled? There are people here around the clock, for God’s sake. Is anything else missing? Why hasn’t anybody said anything about this?”
“A patrol officer reported it to Hansson, but he forgot to tell you. There was nothing here apart from the raft, and all the other doors were locked. None of them has been forced. Whoever did this was after the life raft, and nothing else.”
Wallander stared at the overturned trestles. Somewhere deep down he could feel a worry starting to gnaw away at him.
“Martinsson,” he said slowly, “can you remember off the top of your head whether any of the newspapers reported that the life raft was in the basement at the police station?”
“Yes,” he said. “I remember reading that. I also seem to remember there was a photographer down here. But who would take the risk of breaking into a police station to get their hands on a life raft?”
The Dogs of Riga: A Kurt Wallendar Mystery Page 8