The Dogs Of Riga Part 10

"Colonel Murniers and I have joint responsibility for solving the murder of Major Liepa," Putnis said.

Wallander sensed straight away that there was tension between the two men. Something in Putnis's tone of voice gave the game away. There was also something hidden in the brief exchange.

Colonel Murniers was in his 50s, with closely cropped, grey hair. His face was pale and bloated, as if he was diabetic. He was short, and Wallander observed that he moved that'around without the slightest sound. Another cat-creature. Two colonels, two cats, both in grey uniforms.

Wallander and Putnis hung up their overcoats and sat at the table. The waiting time is over, Wallander thought. What happened to Major Liepa? Now I'm going to find out. Murniers did the talking. Wallander noticed he had positioned himself so that his face was almost all in shadow, and when he spoke in fluent, well-formulated English, his voice seemed to come from an endless darkness. Colonel Putnis sat staring straight ahead, as if he couldn't really be bothered to listen.

"It's very mysterious," Murniers said. "The very day Major Liepa returned from Stockholm, he gave his report to Colonel Putnis and me. We sat in this room and discussed the case. He was going to be responsible for continuing the investigation here in Latvia. We broke up at about 5 p.m., and we later learnt that Major Liepa went straight home to his wife. They live in a house behind the cathedral. She has said that he seemed perfectly normal, although of course he was pleased to be home. They had dinner, and he told her about his experiences in Sweden. Incidentally, you seem to have made a very good impression on him, Inspector Wallander. Shortly before 11 p.m. the phone rang - Major Liepa was just getting ready for bed. His wife didn't know who called, but the major got dressed again and told her that he would have to go back to police headquarters straight away. There was nothing unusual about that, although she may have been disappointed that he had been called out the same night he'd got back from abroad. He didn't give any reason for his having to go on duty."

Murniers fell silent and reached for the water jug. Wallander glanced at Putnis, who was staring straight ahead.

"After that, everything is very confused," Murniers continued. "Early the next morning some dockers found Major Liepa's body at Daugavgriva - that's at the far end of the big harbour here in Riga. The major was lying on the wharf, dead. We were able to establish that he'd had the back of his skull smashed in with a heavy implement, perhaps an iron bar or a wooden club. The post-mortem revealed that he had been murdered an hour or two hours at the most after leaving home. That's really all we know. We have no witnesses who saw him leaving home, nor out at the harbour. It's all very mysterious. It's very rare for a police officer to be killed in this country. Least of all one of Major Liepa's rank. Naturally, we're very keen for the murderer to be found as soon as possible."

That was all Murniers had to say, and he sank back into the shadows.

"So in fact, n.o.body had telephoned and summoned him here," Wallander said.

"No," Putnis said quickly. "We've looked into that. The duty officer, a Captain Kozlov, has confirmed that no one was in contact with Major Liepa that evening."

"That leaves only two possibilities, then," Wallander said.

Putnis nodded. "Either he lied to his wife, or he was tricked."

"In the latter case, he must have recognised the voice," Wallander said. "Either that, or whoever rang expressed himself in a way that didn't arouse suspicion."

"We have also come to those conclusions," Putnis said.

"Of course, we can't exclude the possibility that there is a connection between his work in Sweden and his murder," Murniers said from the shadows. "We can't exclude anything, and that's why we've asked for a.s.sistance from the Swedish police. From you, Inspector Wallander. We are grateful for any thoughts, any ideas you might have that can help us. You will receive all the a.s.sistance you require." Murniers got to his feet.

"I suggest we leave it at that for tonight," he said. "I imagine you're tired after your journey."

Wallander didn't feel the slightest bit tired. He'd been prepared to work all night if necessary, but as Putnis had also stood up, he had to accept that the meeting was closed.

Murniers pressed a bell fixed to the edge of the table, and almost immediately the door opened and a young police officer in uniform appeared.

"This is Sergeant Zids," Murniers said. "He speaks excellent English, and will be your chauffeur while you are in Riga."

Zids clicked his heels and saluted, but Wallander couldn't bring himself to do more than nod in return. As neither Putnis nor Murniers had invited him to dinner, he realised that he would have the evening to himself. He followed Zids out into the courtyard, and after the well-heated conference room the dry cold struck him with full force. Zids opened the back door of a black car for him, and Wallander clambered in.

"It's cold," Wallander said as they drove out through the archway.

"Yes, Colonel," Sergeant Zids said. "It is very cold in Riga just now."

Colonel, thought Wallander. He can't imagine that the Swedish police officer could have a lower rank than Putnis and Murniers. The thought amused him, but at the same time he could see that there was nothing so easy to get used to as privileges. Your own car, your own driver, plenty of attention.

Sergeant Zids drove fast through the empty streets.

Wallander didn't feel tired at all, and the thought of the chilly hotel room scared him.

"I'm hungry," he said to the sergeant. "Take me to a good restaurant that isn't too expensive."

"The dining room at the Latvia Hotel is best," Zids said.

"I've already been there," Wallander said.

"There's no other restaurant in Riga where the food is as good," Zids said, braking sharply as a tram came clattering round a corner.

"There must be more than one good restaurant in a city with a million inhabitants," Wallander said.

"The food isn't good," the sergeant said, "but it is at the Latvia Hotel."

That's obviously where I'm supposed to go, Wallander thought, settling back in his seat. Maybe he's been ordered not to let me loose in the town? In certain circ.u.mstances having your own driver can mean the opposite of freedom.

Zids pulled up at the hotel entrance, and before Wallander had managed to reach for the door handle, the sergeant had opened it for him.

"What time would you like me to collect you tomorrow morning, colonel?" he asked.

"Eight o'clock will be fine," Wallander replied.

The foyer was even more deserted now. He could hear music somewhere in the background. He collected his key from the receptionist and asked if the dining room was open. The man, who had heavy eyelids and pale features reminiscent of Colonel Murniers, nodded. Wallander asked where the music was coming from.

"We have a nightclub," the receptionist said glumly.

As Wallander left reception, he thought he recognised the man who'd been drinking tea in the dining room earlier: now he was sitting in a worn leather sofa, reading a newspaper. Wallander was certain it was the same man.

I'm being watched, he thought. Just like the worst of those Cold War novels, there's a man in a grey suit pretending to be invisible. What on earth do Putnis and Murniers think I'm going to do?

The dining room was almost as empty as it had been earlier in the evening. A group of men in dark suits were sitting round a long table at the far end of the room, speaking in low voices. To his surprise, Wallander was shown to the same table as before. He had vegetable soup, and a chop that was tough and overdone, but the Latvian beer was good. He was feeling restless so didn't bother about coffee, and instead paid his bill and went in search of the hotel's nightclub. The man was still on the sofa.

Wallander had the impression of walking through a labyrinth. Various half-flights of stairs that seemed to lead nowhere brought him back to the dining room. He tried to follow the sound of the music, and eventually came upon an illuminated sign at the end of a dark corridor. A man said something Wallander didn't understand and opened the door for him, and he found himself in a dimly lit bar. In sharp contrast to the dining room, the bar was jam-packed. Behind a curtain separating the bar from the dance floor a band was blaring away, and Wallander thought he recognised an Abba song. The air was foetid, and he was reminded once, again of the major's cigarettes. He noticed a table that seemed to be empty, and elbowed his way through the throng. All the time he had the feeling he was being watched, and realised there was every reason for him to be cautious. Nightclubs in the Eastern bloc countries were often the haunts of gangs who made a living robbing visitors from the West.

He managed to bawl out an order to a waiter through all the noise, and a few minutes later a gla.s.s of whisky landed on the table in front of him. It cost almost as much as the meal he'd had earlier. He sniffed at the contents of the gla.s.s, imagining a plot involving spiked drinks, and drank a depressed toast to himself.

A girl, who never told him her name, emerged from the shadows and sat down on the chair next to him. He didn't notice her until she leaned her head over towards him, and he could smell her perfume, reminiscent of winter apples. She spoke to him in German, and he shook his head; her English was awful, worse than the major's was, but she offered to keep him company and asked for a drink. Wallander felt at a loss. He realised she was a prost.i.tute, but tried to put that fact out of his mind: Riga was dreary and cold, and he had an urge to talk to somebody who wasn't a colonel. He could buy her a drink, he was the one calling the shots after all. Only very occasionally when he was extremely drunk was he likely to lose control. The last time that had happened was the previous winter, when he'd thrown himself at the public prosecutor, Anette Brolin, in a moment of anger and l.u.s.t. He shuddered at the memory. That must never happen again. Not here in Riga, at least. Nevertheless, he felt flattered by the girl's attention. She's come to my table too soon, he thought. I've only just arrived, and I haven't got used to this strange country yet.

"Maybe tomorrow," he said. "Not tonight."

It struck him that she was barely 20. Behind all that make-up was a face that reminded him of his own daughter. He emptied his gla.s.s, stood up and left. That was a close call, he thought. Much too close. The man in the grey suit was still in the foyer, reading his newspaper.

Sleep well, Wallander said to himself. 1*11 see you again tomorrow, no doubt.

He slept badly. The duvet was heavy and the bed uncomfortable. Through the mists of his sleep he could hear a telephone ringing constantly. He wanted to get out of bed and answer it, but when he woke up everything was silent.

The next morning he was woken up by a knock on the door. Only half-awake, he shouted, "Come in". When the knock came again, he realised he'd left the key in the lock. He pulled on his trousers and opened the door to find a woman in a cleaner's ap.r.o.n with a breakfast tray. He was surprised as he hadn't ordered breakfast, but perhaps that was just part of the normal service? Maybe Sergeant Zids had arranged it?

The chambermaid said good morning in Latvian, and he tried to memorise the expression. She placed the tray on a table, gave him a shy little smile and went towards the door. He followed in order to lock it after her but instead of leaving the room, the chambermaid closed the door and put her finger to her mouth. Wallander stared at her in surprise. She slowly took a sheet of paper from the pocket of her ap.r.o.n, and Wallander was about to speak when she put her hand over his mouth. He could sense her fear, and knew she wasn't a chambermaid at all, but he could also see she that she wasn't a threat. She was just scared. He took the paper and read what it said, in English. He read it twice in order to memorise it, then looked up at her. She put her hand in her other pocket and produced something that looked like a crumpled poster. She handed it over, and when he unfolded it he realised it was the dust jacket of the book about Skne he'd given her husband, Major Liepa, the week before. He looked up at her again.

Besides the fear, her face also indicated something else -determination perhaps, or maybe obstinacy. He walked across the cold floor and fetched a pencil from the desk. On the inside of the dust jacket, which had a photograph on it of the cathedral in Lund, he wrote: I have understood I have understood. He gave her back the dust jacket, and it struck him that Baiba Liepa looked nothing like what he had imagined. He couldn't remember what the major had said when he was sitting on Wallander's settee in Mariagatan in Ystad, listening to Maria Callas and talking about his wife, but the impression he'd formed was different, not of a face like hers. He gave her back the dust jacket, and it struck him that Baiba Liepa looked nothing like what he had imagined. He couldn't remember what the major had said when he was sitting on Wallander's settee in Mariagatan in Ystad, listening to Maria Callas and talking about his wife, but the impression he'd formed was different, not of a face like hers.

He cleared his throat as he carefully opened the door, and she melted away.

She had come to him because she wanted to speak to him about her dead husband, the major. And she was terrified. When somebody called his room and asked for a Mr Eckers, he was to take the lift to the foyer, then go down the steps leading to the hotel sauna and look for a grey-painted, steel door next to the dining room's loading bay. It should be unlocked, and when he came out into the street behind the hotel, she'd be waiting for him and would tell him about her dead husband.

Please, she'd written. she'd written. Please, please Please, please. Now he was quite certain that there had been more than mere fear in her face: there was defiance as well, perhaps even hatred. There's something going on here that's bigger than I'd suspected, he thought. It needed a messenger in a chambermaid's uniform to make me realise. I'd forgotten that I'm in an alien world. Now he was quite certain that there had been more than mere fear in her face: there was defiance as well, perhaps even hatred. There's something going on here that's bigger than I'd suspected, he thought. It needed a messenger in a chambermaid's uniform to make me realise. I'd forgotten that I'm in an alien world.

Just before 8 a.m. he emerged from the lift on the ground floor. There was no sign of a man reading a newspaper, but there was a man looking at postcards on a stand.

Wallander went out into the street. It was warmer than the previous day. Sergeant Zids was sitting in the car, waiting for him, and bade him good morning. Wallander climbed into the back seat and the sergeant started the engine. Day was slowly breaking over Riga. The traffic was heavy, and the sergeant was unable to drive as fast as he would have liked. All the time Wallander could see Baiba Liepa's face in his mind's eye. Suddenly, without warning, he felt scared.

CHAPTER 8.

Shortly before 8.30 a.m., Wallander discovered that Colonel Murniers smoked the same extra-strong cigarettes as Major Liepa. He recognised the packet, with the brand name "PRIMA" that the colonel took out of his uniform pocket and placed on the table in front of him.

Wallander felt as though he was in the middle of a labyrinth. Sergeant Zids had led him up and down stairs around the apparently endless police headquarters before stopping at a door that turned out to be to Murniers's office. It seemed to Wallander that there must surely be a shorter and more straightforward way to Murniers's office, but he was not allowed to know it.

The office was spa.r.s.ely furnished, not especially big, and what immediately caught Wallander's interest was the fact that it had three telephones. On one wall was a dented filing cabinet, with locks. Besides the telephones there was a large cast-iron ashtray on his desk, decorated with an elaborate motif that Wallander thought at first was a pair of swans, then realised was a man with bulging muscles carrying a flag into a headwind.

Ashtray, telephones, but no papers. The Venetian blinds for the two high windows behind Murniers's back were either half-lowered, or broken, Wallander couldn't make up his mind which. He stared at the blinds as he digested the important news Murniers had just imparted. blinds for the two high windows behind Murniers's back were either half-lowered, or broken, Wallander couldn't make up his mind which. He stared at the blinds as he digested the important news Murniers had just imparted.

"We've arrested a suspect," the colonel had said. "Our investigations during the night have produced the result we'd been hoping for."

At first Wallander thought he was referring to the major's murderer, but then it came to him that Murniers meant the dead men in the life-raft.

"It was a gang," Murniers said. "A gang with branches in both Tallinn and Warsaw. A loose collection of criminals who make a living out of smuggling, robbery, burglary, anything that makes money. We suspect that they've recently started to profit from the drug-dealing that has unfortunately penetrated Latvia. Colonel Putnis is interrogating the man at this very moment. We shall soon know quite a lot more."

The last few sentences were delivered as a calm, factual and measured statement. Wallander could see Putnis in his mind's eye, slowly extracting the truth from a man who'd been tortured. What did he know about the Latvian police? Was there any limit to what was permitted in a dictatorship? Come to that, was was Latvia a dictatorship? He thought of Baiba Liepa's face. Fear, but also the opposite of fear. Latvia a dictatorship? He thought of Baiba Liepa's face. Fear, but also the opposite of fear. When somebody telephones and asks for Mr Eckers, you must come. When somebody telephones and asks for Mr Eckers, you must come.

Murniers smiled at him, as if it was obvious he could read the Swedish police officer's thoughts. Wallander tried to hide his secret by saying something quite untrue.

"Major Liepa led me to understand that he was worried about his personal safety," he said, "but he gave no reason for his anxiety. That's one of the questions Colonel Putnis ought to try and find an answer to - whether there's a direct connection between the men found dead in the life-raft and the murder of Major Liepa."

Wallander thought he could detect an almost invisible shift in Murniers's expression. So, he'd said something unexpected. But was it his insight that was unexpected, or that Major Liepa really had been worried and Murniers already knew?

"You must have asked the key questions," Wallander said. "Who could have enticed Major Liepa out in the middle of the night? Who would have had a reason to murder him? Even when a controversial politician is murdered one has to ask whether there might have been a private motive. That's what happened when Kennedy was a.s.sa.s.sinated, and the same was the case when the Swedish prime minister was shot down in the street some years ago. You must have thought of all this, I take it? You must also have concluded that there was no credible private motive, or you wouldn't have asked me to come to Riga."

"That is correct," Murniers said. "You are an experienced police officer and your a.n.a.lysis is accurate. Major Liepa was happily married. He was not in financial difficulties. He didn't gamble, he didn't have a mistress. He was a conscientious police officer who was convinced that the work he did was helping our country to develop. We think his death must be connected with his work. As he was working on no other case apart from the death of the men found in the life-raft, we asked for help from Sweden. Perhaps he said something to you that didn't appear in the report he handed in the day he died? We need to know, and we hope you can help us."

"Major Liepa talked about drugs," Wallander said. "He referred to the spread of amphetamine factories in Eastern Europe. He was convinced that the two men died as a result of an internal dispute within a syndicate involved in drug smuggling. He devoted much energy to trying to discover whether the men had been killed for revenge, or because they had refused to reveal something. Furthermore, there were good reasons to believe the life-raft itself had been carrying a cargo of drugs, as it was stolen from our police station. What we never managed to work out was how these various things might be linked."

"Let's hope Colonel Putnis gets an answer to that," Murniers said. "He's a very skilled interrogator. In the meantime I thought I might suggest that I should show you the place where Major Liepa was murdered. Colonel Putnis takes his time over an interrogation, if he thinks it's worth it."

"Is the place where he was found the actual place where he was killed?"

"There's no reason to suppose otherwise. It's a remote spot. There are not many people around the docks at night."

That's not true, Wallander thought. The major would have put up a struggle. It can't have been easy to drag him out on to a quay in the middle of the night. Saying the place is remote isn't a good enough explanation.

"I would like to meet the major's widow," he said. "A conversation with her could be important for me as well. I a.s.sume you've spoken to her several times?"

"We've had a very detailed conversation with Baiba Liepa," Murniers said. "Of course we can arrange for you to meet her."

They drove along by the river in the grey light of the winter morning. Sergeant Zids was instructed to track down Baiba Liepa while Wallander and Colonel Murniers drove out to where the body had been found, the place Murniers also claimed was the scene of the murder.

"What's your theory?" Wallander asked as they lounged in the back seat of Murniers's car, which was bigger and plusher than the one Wallander had been allocated. "You must have one, you and Colonel Putnis."

"Drugs," Murniers answered without hesitation. "We know the big bosses in the drugs business surround themselves with bodyguards, men who are nearly always addicts themselves, prepared to do anything in order to get their daily fix. Maybe those bosses reckoned Major Liepa was getting a bit close for comfort?"

"Was he?"

"No. If that theory were correct, at least a dozen officers here in the Riga police force would have come before Major Liepa on a death list. The odd thing about this is that Major Liepa had never been involved in investigating drugs crimes before. It was pure coincidence that he seemed to be the most appropriate officer to send to Sweden."

"What kind of cases had Major Liepa been dealing with?"

Murniers gazed vacantly out of the car window. "He was a very skilled all-round detective. We had some robberies in Riga recently that involved murder as well: Major Liepa handled the case brilliantly and arrested those responsible. When other investigators, at least as experienced as he was, had run up against a brick wall, Major Liepa was often the officer we turned to."

They sat in silence as the police car stopped at some traffic lights. Wallander watched a group of people hunched against the cold at a bus stop, and had the distinct impression no bus would ever come and open its doors for them.

"Drugs," he said. "That's old hat for us in the West, but it's something new for you."

"Not completely new," Murniers said, "but we've never seen it before on the scale that is normal today. Opening up our borders has produced opportunities and a market on a completely different scale. I don't mind admitting that we've sometimes felt helpless. We'll need to develop co-operation with police forces in the West because a lot of the drugs that pa.s.s through Latvia are actually destined for Sweden. Hard currency is the bait. It's quite clear to us that Sweden is one of the markets that the gangs here in Latvia are most interested in. For obvious reasons. It's not far from Ventspils to the Swedish coast, and moreover, that coast is long and difficult to patrol. You could say that they've taken over cla.s.sical smuggling routes - they used to transport barrels of vodka the same way."

"Tell me more," Wallander said. "Where are the drugs manufactured? Who's behind it all?"

"You must understand that we are living in an impoverished country," Murniers said. "Just as impoverished and decrepit as our neighbours. For many years we've been forced to live as if we were shut in a cage. We've only been able to observe the riches of the West from a distance. Now, all of a sudden, everything is obtainable. But there's one condition: you need money. For someone who's prepared to go to any lengths, who's totally lacking in scruples, the quickest way to get that money is through drugs. When you helped us to dismantle our walls and open the gates to the countries that had been shut away, you also opened up the sluices for all manner of appet.i.tes that need satisfying. Hunger for all those things we'd been forced to observe from a distance, but been forbidden or prevented from touching. Needless to say, we've still no idea how things are going to work out."

Murniers leaned forward and said something to the driver, who immediately braked and came to a halt by the kerb.

Murniers pointed at the facade of the building opposite them.

"Bullet holes," he said. "About a year old."

Wallander leaned forward to look. The wall really was riddled with bullet holes.

"What is this building?" he asked.

"One of our ministries" Murniers said. "I'm showing you this to help you to understand. To understand why we still don't know what's going to happen. Will we get more freedom? Or will the freedom we have be restricted? Or disappear altogether? We still don't know. You have to understand, Inspector Wallander, that you are in a country where nothing is yet decided."

They drove on until they came to a vast area of dockland. Wallander tried to digest what Murniers had said. He'd started to sympathise with the pale man with the bloated features, to feel that everything he said involved Wallander as well - indeed, maybe involved him more than anybody else.

"We know there are laboratories making amphetamines and maybe other drugs like morphine and ephedrine," Murniers said. "We also suspect that Asian and South American cocaine cartels are trying to establish new networks in the former Eastern bloc. The idea is that they should replace the previous routes that went straight to Western Europe. Many of these have been closed down by the European police, but the cartels believe that in the virginal East European territories they might be able to evade keen-eyed police officers. Let's say they find us easier to corrupt and bribe."

"Officers like Major Liepa?"