The Dogs of Riga: A Kurt Wallendar Mystery

by Henning Mankell

  “How do you know?”

  “His wife told me.”

  Now we’re on the way out, thought Wallander. These questions are just to distract attention from the real point of the conversation.

  “Have you had dealings with police officers from the Eastern bloc before?”

  “We were once visited by a Polish detective. That’s all.”

  Upitis pushed his notebook to one side. He hadn’t made a single note so far, but Wallander was certain Upitis had found out what he wanted to know. What was it, he wondered. What am I telling him without realizing it?

  Wallander took a sip of tea, which was by now icy cold. Now it’s my turn. Now I must stand this conversation on its head.

  “Why was the major killed?” he asked.

  “Major Liepa was very worried about the way things were going in this country,” Upitis replied hesitantly. “We often talked about it, wondering what could be done.”

  “Was that why he was killed?”

  “Why else would anyone want to murder him?”

  “That’s not an answer. It’s a different question.”

  “We are afraid it’s the truth.”

  “Who would have any reason to kill him?”

  “Remember what I said earlier. About people who are afraid of freedom.”

  “Who sharpen their knives under the cover of night?”

  Upitis nodded slowly. Wallander tried to think, to take in everything he’d heard.

  “If I understand correctly, you’re members of an organization,” he said.

  “Rather a loosely connected circle of people. An organization is far too easy to track down and crush.”

  “What are you trying to achieve?”

  Upitis seemed to hesitate. Wallander waited.

  “We are free human beings, Mr. Wallander, in the midst of this un-freedom. We are free in the sense that we’re able to analyze what’s going on all around us in Latvia. Perhaps one should add that most of us are intellectuals. Journalists, academics, poets. Perhaps we form the core of what can become the political movement that could save our country from ruin. If chaos breaks out. If the Soviet Union launches an invasion. If a civil war cannot be avoided.”

  “Major Liepa was one of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “A leader?”

  “We don’t have any leaders, Mr. Wallander, but Major Liepa was an important member of our circle. Given his position, he had an excellent overview. We think he was betrayed.”

  “Betrayed?”

  “The police force in this country is entirely under the control of the occupying power. Major Liepa was an exception. He was playing a double game with his colleagues. He ran great risks.”

  Wallander thought for a moment. He recalled something one of the colonels had said. We are very good at keeping an eye on one another.

  “Are you suggesting someone in the police force might be behind the murder?”

  “We can’t be sure, of course, but we suspect that is the case. There’s no other satisfactory explanation.”

  “Who can it have been?”

  “That’s what we hope you can help us to find out.”

  It struck Wallander that here at last was the first sign that a solution to the jigsaw puzzle might be at hand. He thought about the suspiciously inadequate examination of the place where the major’s body had been found. He thought about the way he had been followed from the moment he set foot in Riga. Suddenly, he saw there was a pattern behind all the diversions that had been following each other thick and fast.

  “One of the colonels?” he said. “Putnis or Murniers?”

  Upitis replied without hesitation. It would occur to Wallander later that there was a ring of triumph in his voice.

  “We suspect Colonel Murniers.”

  “Why?”

  “We have our reasons.”

  “What reasons?”

  “Colonel Murniers has distinguished himself as the loyal Soviet citizen he is in many ways.”

  “Is he a Russian?” Wallander asked in astonishment.

  “Murniers came to Latvia during the war. His father was in the Red Army. He joined the police in 1957, when he was young. Very young and very promising.”

  “So you’re saying he has killed one of his own subordinates?”

  “There’s no other explanation, but we cannot know whether Murniers committed the murder himself.”

  “Why was Major Liepa murdered the night he got back from Sweden?”

  “Major Liepa was an uncommunicative man,” Upitis said. “He didn’t waste words. That’s a habit you acquire in this country. Although I was a close friend of his, he never said anything more to me than he had to. You learn not to burden your friends with too many confidences. Nevertheless, he did occasionally indicate he was onto something.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You must have some idea, surely?”

  Upitis shook his head. He suddenly looked very tired. The driver was motionless on his chair.

  “How do you know you can trust me?” Wallander asked.

  “We don’t, but we have to take the risk. We imagine a Swedish police officer is not interested in getting too involved in the terrible chaos that is the norm in our country.”

  Absolutely, Wallander thought. I don’t like being followed, I don’t want to be driven off at night to secret meetings in hunting lodges. What I want most of all is to go back home.

  “I must see Baiba Liepa,” he said.

  Upitis nodded.

  “We’ll phone you and ask for Mr. Eckers,” he said. “Maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

  “I can ask for her to be brought in for questioning.”

  Upitis shook his head. “Too many people would be listening,” he said. “We’ll arrange a meeting.”

  That was the end of the discussion. Upitis seemed to be lost in thought. Wallander glanced into the shadows: the faint beam of light was no longer to be seen.

  “Did you find out what you wanted to know?” he asked.

  Upitis smiled, without replying.

  “During the evening when Major Liepa was round at my place, drinking whisky and listening to Turandot, he said nothing that could have had a bearing on his murder. You could have asked me right away.”

  “There are no shortcuts in this country of ours,” Upitis said. “The roundabout route is most often the only accessible one, and the safest.”

  He put his notebook away and got to his feet. The driver jumped up from his chair.

  “I’d rather not have to wear the hood on the way back,” Wallander said. “It makes me itchy.”

  “Of course,” Upitis said. “You must realize, though, that it is also in your interests to be cautious.”

  It was moonlit and cold as they drove back to Riga. Through the car windows Wallander could see the silhouettes of dark villages flashing by. They continued through the suburbs, in the shadow of countless tower blocks and unlit streets.

  Wallander got out of the car in the same place as he’d clambered in. Upitis had told him to use the hotel’s back entrance. When he tried the door, he found it was locked. He was wondering what to do next when he heard the door being unlocked carefully from the inside. To his surprise he recognized the man who had opened the door to the hotel’s nightclub a few days earlier. Wallander followed him up a fire escape and was accompanied until he’d opened the door of room 1506. It was just after 2 a.m.

  The room was freezing. He poured whisky into his toothbrush mug, wrapped himself in a blanket and sat down at the desk. Although he was tired he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d written a summary of what had just happened. The pen felt cold in his hand. He pulled towards him the notes he’d made earlier, took a sip of whisky, and started to think.

  Go back to the beginning, Rydberg would have said. Forget all the gaps and the puzzles. Start with what you know for certain.

  But what did he know for certain, in fact? Two murdered Latv
ians drift ashore near Ystad in a life raft manufactured in Yugoslavia. That was one starting point beyond question. A major from the Riga police force spends a few days in Ystad, in order to assist in the investigation. Wallander himself makes the inexcusable error of not examining the life raft thoroughly enough. And then it is stolen. Stolen by whom? Major Liepa goes back to Riga. He submits a report to the two colonels, Putnis and Murniers. Then he goes home and shows his wife the book he’d been given by the Swedish police officer, Wallander. What does he discuss with his wife? What makes her turn to Upitis after having disguised herself as a hotel chambermaid? Why does she invent Mr. Eckers?

  Wallander emptied his glass and poured out some more whisky. The tips of his fingers were white, and he put his hands inside the blanket to warm them up.

  Look for a connection even where you don’t think there can be one, Rydberg often used to say. But were there any connections? The only common denominator was Major Liepa. The major had talked about smuggling, and about drugs. So had Colonel Murniers. But there was no proof, only speculation.

  Wallander read through what he had written, at the same time thinking about what Upitis had said, Major Liepa was onto something . But what? One of the monsters Upitis had spoken of ? Deep in thought, he contemplated the curtains wafting gently in the draft from the ill-fitting window. Somebody betrayed him. We suspect Colonel Murniers.

  Could that be possible? Wallander’s mind went back to the previous year, when a police officer in Malmö had shot down an asylum-seeking refugee in cold blood. Was there really any such thing as an impossibility?

  He continued writing. Dead men in life raft—drugs—Major Liepa—Colonel Murniers. What did that chain indicate? What had Upitis wanted to know? Did he think Major Liepa had given something away that night, as he sat on my sofa listening to Maria Callas? Did he want to know what had been said? Or did he just want to know if Major Liepa had confided anything at all to me?

  It was nearly 3:15 a.m. Wallander sensed he’d gotten about as far as he was going to get. He went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. In the mirror he saw that his face was still red and blotchy from the woollen hood.

  What does Baiba Liepa know? What is it that I can’t see?

  He got undressed and flopped into bed after setting his alarm for just before 7 a.m., but he couldn’t sleep. He looked at his watch: 3:45 a.m. He could see the hands of the alarm clock in the darkness: 3:35 a.m. He adjusted his pillow and shut his eyes. Suddenly he gave a start and looked at his watch again: 3:51 a.m. He stretched out his hand and switched on the bedside light. The alarm clock said 3:41 a.m. He sat up. Why was the alarm clock slow? Or was his wristwatch fast? Why the difference? It had never happened before. He picked up the alarm clock and adjusted the hands to show the same time as his wristwatch: 3:44 a.m. Then he switched off the light and closed his eyes. As he was on the point of dozing off, he was jerked back into consciousness. He lay quite still in the darkness, telling himself it was all in his imagination. In the end, though, he switched the light on once more, sat up in bed and unscrewed the back of his alarm clock.

  The microphone was about as big as a penny, three or four millimeters thick. It was jammed between the two batteries. At first, Wallander thought it was a lump of fluff, or a piece of gray tape; but when he tilted the lamp and examined the clock’s mechanism closely, he saw that what was stuck between the batteries was a cordless microphone. He sat there for a long time, staring at the clock he was holding in his hand. Then he screwed the back on again. Shortly before 6 a.m. he sank into restless slumber, leaving the bedside light on.

  CHAPTER 10

  Wallander woke in a state of irrepressible fury. He felt humiliated and shaken by the fact that somebody had placed a microphone in his alarm clock. He took a shower to wash away the weariness that had taken hold of his body, and decided to discover at once why he was being both bugged and followed. He assumed that the colonels were responsible, but why had they invited him to come and help them, and then immediately demonstrated how little they trusted him by keeping him under observation? He could understand the man in the gray suit. He imagined surveillance was par for the course in a country still so obviously behind the iron curtain. But breaking into his hotel room and planting a microphone!

  At 7:30 a.m. he ordered a cup of coffee in the dining room. He looked around to see if there was any sign of a shadow, but he was alone apart from a couple of Japanese people conversing quietly and anxiously at a table in the corner. He went out into the street just before 8 a.m. The air was milder—perhaps spring was on the way. Sergeant Zids was standing by the car, waving to him. As a sign of his displeasure Wallander sat grim and silent all the way to the fortified police headquarters. When Sergeant Zids made to see him to his office in Murniers’s corridor, Wallander waved him away—he knew the way by now. But, to his great annoyance, he got lost and had to ask for directions. He stopped at Murniers’s door and raised his hand to knock, then changed his mind and went to his own office. He was tired still, and felt he needed to pull himself together before venting his rage on Murniers. He had barely taken off his jacket when the phone rang.

  “Good morning,” Colonel Putnis said. “I hope you slept well, Mr. Wallander.”

  No doubt you know perfectly well that I’ve hardly slept at all, Wallander thought. The microphone must have told you I didn’t snore even once. I’ll bet there’s a report on your desk already.

  “I can’t complain,” he said. “How’s the interrogation going?”

  “Not very well, I’m afraid, but I’ll try again this morning. We shall confront the suspect with a lot of new material that may encourage him to reconsider his position.”

  “I feel rather redundant,” Wallander said. “I can’t really see how I can be of any help.”

  “Good police officers are always impatient,” Colonel Putnis said. “I thought I might stop by, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m here,” Wallander said.

  Colonel Putnis arrived 15 minutes later. He had with him a young police officer carrying a tray with two cups of coffee. Putnis had bags under his eyes.

  “You look tired, Colonel Putnis.”

  “The air in the interrogation room is always bad.”

  “Maybe you smoke too much?”

  Putnis shrugged. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “I’ve heard that Swedish police officers seldom smoke. I find it hard to contemplate an existence without cigarettes.”

  Major Liepa, thought Wallander. Had he managed to describe that peculiar police station in Sweden where no smoking was allowed except in designated areas?

  Putnis had taken out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Please go ahead. I don’t smoke myself, but I’m not irritated by cigarette smoke.”

  Wallander tried the coffee. It had a bitter aftertaste and was very strong. Putnis sat deep in thought, watching the smoke floating up to the ceiling.

  “Why are you keeping watch on me?” Wallander asked him.

  Putnis stared questioningly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He knows how to put on an act, thought Wallander, and could feel his indignation flood back.

  “Why are you keeping watch on me? I’ve known that you’re having me followed; but why do you consider it necessary to hide a microphone in my alarm clock?”

  Putnis studied him thoughtfully.

  “The microphone in your alarm clock can only be due to an unfortunate misunderstanding,” he said. “Some of my subordinates can be over-enthusiastic at times. The plainclothes police officers who are keeping an eye on you are there for your own safety.”

  “Why? What could happen to me?”

  “We don’t want anything to happen to you. Until we know why Major Liepa was murdered, we are being extra careful.”

  “I can look after myself,” Wallander said dismissively. “I’d be grateful if you’d refrain from planting any more microphones. If I find another one
, I shall return to Sweden immediately.”

  “I apologize,” Putnis said. “I shall ensure that whoever was responsible receives a severe reprimand.”

  “But you are the one who issued the orders, surely?”

  “Not for the microphone,” Putnis insisted. “That must have been one of my captains taking a regrettable initiative.”

  “The microphone was very small,” Wallander said. “Very advanced. I take it somebody will have been sitting in a neighboring room, listening?”

  Putnis nodded.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I thought the Cold War was over,” Wallander said.

  “When one historical period is replaced by another, there is always a group of people left over from the old society,” Putnis said philosophically. “I’m afraid that’s true even of police officers.”

  “Will you allow me to ask some questions not directly linked to the investigation?” Wallander asked.

  Putnis’s weary smile returned. “Of course,” he said, “but I’m not sure if I will be able to give you satisfactory answers.”

  It occurred to Wallander that Putnis’s exaggerated politeness was out of step with the impression he had of police officers in the Eastern bloc countries. When he had first met Putnis he had been reminded of a big cat. A smiling beast of prey. A polite, smiling beast of prey.

  “I don’t mind admitting that I haven’t much idea of what’s happening in Latvia,” he began, “but I do know what happened here last autumn. Tanks in the streets, people lying dead in the gutter. The dreaded advance of the Russian ‘Black Berets.’ I’ve seen the remains of the barricades in the streets. I’ve seen bullet holes in house walls. There is a widespread desire to break away from the Soviet Union, to finally put an end to the occupation. That determination is coming up against opposition.”

  “There are different ways of looking at that opposition,” Putnis said hesitantly.

  “Where do the police stand in this situation?”

  Putnis stared at him in surprise. “We keep order, of course,” he replied.

  “How does one keep tanks in order?”

  “What I mean is that we make sure people keep calm. Ensure that nobody gets hurt unnecessarily.”