The Dogs Of Riga Part 9

Have I grown complacent? he wondered. Am I even up to being a security officer at the Trelleborg Rubber Company? Maybe the best thing would be for me to go back on the beat again in Malmo?

They found not a single clue. No fingerprints, no footprints on the dusty floor. The gravel outside the forced door had been churned up by police cars, and there was nothing to indicate that any of the tyre tracks weren't from the police's own cars. Eventually they agreed that there was nothing more they could do, and they went back to the conference room. Peters had turned up, sullen and angry at having been called in. All he could contribute was the exact time that he had discovered the break-in. Wallander had also checked with the night duty staff, but n.o.body had seen or heard anything. Nothing. Nothing at all. Wallander suddenly felt very tired. He had a headache from Major Liepa's cigarettes. What should I do now? he wondered. What would Rydberg have done?

Two days later the missing life-raft was still a mystery. Major Liepa had advised that trying to track it down would waste resources. Wallander had to agree, however reluctantly, but he couldn't shake off the sense of having made an unforgivable mistake. He was despondent, and woke every morning with a headache.

Skne was in the grip of a fierce snowstorm. The police were warning people via the radio to stay at home and venture out on to the roads only if it was absolutely essential. Wallander's father was snowed in, but when he phoned, his father told him he hadn't even noticed that the road was deep in snow drifts. The chaos caused by the blizzard meant that more or less no progress was made with the case. Major Liepa had shut himself in Svedberg's office and was studying the ballistic report. Wallander had a long meeting with Anette Brolin. Every time he met her he was stung by the memory of the crush he had on her the year before; but the memory seemed unreal, as if he'd imagined it all. Brolin contacted the director of public prosecutions, and the legal section of the foreign ministry, to get approval to close the case in Sweden and hand it over to the police in Riga. Major Liepa had also arranged for his headquarters to make a formal request to the foreign ministry.

On an evening when the blizzard was at its height, Wallander invited Major Liepa round to his flat. He'd bought a botde of whisky, which they emptied during the course of the evening. Wallander started feeling drunk after a couple of gla.s.ses, but Major Liepa appeared completely unaffected. Wallander had started addressing him simply as "major", and he didn't seem to object. It wasn't easy to hold a conversation with the Latvian police officer. Wallander couldn't decide whether this was due to shyness, if his poor English embarra.s.sed him, or if he might have a touch of aristocratic reserve. Wallander told him about his family, chiefly Linda and the college she was at in Stockholm. For his part, Major Liepa said simply that he was married to a woman named Baiba, but that they had no children. As the evening wore on, they sat for long intervals holding their gla.s.ses, saying nothing.

"Sweden and Latvia," Wallander said, "are there any similarities? Or is everything different? I try to picture Latvia, but I just can't. And yet we're neighbours."

The moment he'd uttered the question, Wallander realised it was pointless. Sweden was not a country governed as a colony by a foreign power. There were no barricades in the streets of Sweden. Innocent people were not shot or run over by military vehicles. Surely everything was different?

The major's reply was surprising.

"I'm a religious man," he said. "I don't believe in a particular G.o.d, but even so one can have a faith, something beyond the limits of rationality. Marxism has a large element of built-in faith, although it claims to be a science and not merely an ideology. This is my first visit to the West: until now I have only been able to go to the Soviet Union or Poland or the Baltic states. In your country I see an abundance of material things. It seems to be unlimited. But there's a difference between our countries that is also a similarity. Both are poor. You see, poverty has different faces. We lack the abundance that you have, and we don't have the freedom of choice. In your country I detect a kind of poverty, which is that you do not need to fight for your survival. For me the struggle has a religious dimension, and I would not want to exchange that for your abundance."

Wallander knew the major had prepared this speech in advance: he hadn't paused to search for words. But what exactly had he said? Swedish poverty? Wallander felt he must protest.

"You're wrong, major," he said. "There's a struggle going on in this country too. A lot of people here are excluded - was that the right word? - from the abundance you describe. n.o.body starves to death, it is true, but you are wrong if you think we don't have to fight."

"One can only fight for survival," the major said. "I include the fight for freedom and independence. Whatever a person does beyond that is something they choose to do, not something they have to do."

Silence followed. Wallander would have liked to ask so many questions, not least about recent events in Riga, but he didn't want to reveal his ignorance. Instead, he got up and put on a Maria Callas record.

"Turandot? the major said. "Very beautiful." the major said. "Very beautiful."

The snow and wind raged outside as Wallander watched the major striding away towards his hotel soon after midnight. He was hunched into the wind, wearing his c.u.mbersome overcoat.

The snowstorm had blown itself out by the following morning, and blocked roads could be reopened.

When Wallander woke up, he had a hangover, but he'd made a decision. While they were awaiting the decision from the director of public prosecutions, he would take Major Liepa with him to Brantevik to see the fishing boat he'd visited one night the week before.

Just after 9 a.m. they were in Wallander's car, heading east. The snow-covered landscape glittered in the bright sunshine, it was -3C.

The harbour was deserted. Several fishing boats were moored at the jetty furthest out, but Wallander couldn't tell straight away which one he'd been on. They walked out along the jetty, Wallander counting 73 steps.

The boat was called Byron Byron. It was timber-built, painted white, and about 40 feet long. Wallander grasped the thick mooring rope and closed his eyes: did he recognise it? He couldn't say. They clambered aboard. A dark red tarpaulin was lashed over the hold. As they approached the wheel-house, which was secured by a large padlock, Wallander tripped over a coiled hawser, and knew he was on the right boat. The major pulled loose a corner of the tarpaulin and shone a torch into the hold: it was empty. It was timber-built, painted white, and about 40 feet long. Wallander grasped the thick mooring rope and closed his eyes: did he recognise it? He couldn't say. They clambered aboard. A dark red tarpaulin was lashed over the hold. As they approached the wheel-house, which was secured by a large padlock, Wallander tripped over a coiled hawser, and knew he was on the right boat. The major pulled loose a corner of the tarpaulin and shone a torch into the hold: it was empty.

"No smell of fish," Wallander said. "No sign of any fish scales, no nets. This boat is used for smuggling. But what are they smuggling? And where to?"

"Everything," said the major. "There has been an acute shortage of everything in the Baltic states up until now, and so smugglers can bring us anything at all."

"I'll find out who owns the boat," Wallander said. "Even if I've made a promise, I can still find out who owns it. Would you have made the promise I did, major?"

"No," Major Liepa replied. "I'd never have done that."

There wasn't much more to see. When they got back to Ystad Wallander spent the afternoon trying to establish who owned the Byron Byron. It wasn't easy. It had changed owners numerous times in the last few years, and one of the many owners had been a trading company in Simrishamn with the imaginative name It wasn't easy. It had changed owners numerous times in the last few years, and one of the many owners had been a trading company in Simrishamn with the imaginative name w.a.n.kers' Fish w.a.n.kers' Fish. Next the boat had been sold to a fisherman by the name of Ohrstrom, who had sold it after only a few months. Wallander eventually managed to establish that a Sten Holmgren, who lived in Ystad, now owned the boat. Wallander was surprised to find that they actually lived in the same street, Mariagatan. He looked up Sten Holmgren in the phone book, but didn't find him. There were no records of a company owned by Sten Holmgren at the county offices in Malmo. To be on the safe side Wallander also checked the county offices in Kristianstad and Karlskrona, but there was no trace of a Sten Holmgren there either. Next the boat had been sold to a fisherman by the name of Ohrstrom, who had sold it after only a few months. Wallander eventually managed to establish that a Sten Holmgren, who lived in Ystad, now owned the boat. Wallander was surprised to find that they actually lived in the same street, Mariagatan. He looked up Sten Holmgren in the phone book, but didn't find him. There were no records of a company owned by Sten Holmgren at the county offices in Malmo. To be on the safe side Wallander also checked the county offices in Kristianstad and Karlskrona, but there was no trace of a Sten Holmgren there either.

Wallander flung down his pencil and went for a cup of coffee. The phone started ringing as he returned to his office. It was Anette Brolin.

"Guess what I have to tell you," she said.

"That you're dissatisfied with one of our investigations again?"

"Of course I am, but that's not what I was going to say." "Then I've no idea."

"The case is to be closed, and the whole matter will be transferred to Riga." "Is that definite?"

"The director of public prosecutions and the foreign ministry are in complete agreement. They both say the case should be abandoned. I've just heard. The formalities seem to have been sorted out in double quick time. Your major can go home now, and take the bodies with him."

"He'll be glad about that," Wallander said. "Going home, that is." "Any regrets?" "None at all."

"Ask him to come and see me. I've told Bjork. Is Liepa around?"

"He's in Svedberg's office, smoking his head off. I've never met a heavier smoker."

Early the next day Major Liepa caught a flight to Stockholm with a connection to Riga. The two zinc-lined coffins went to Stockholm in a hea.r.s.e, and onwards by air cargo.

Wallander and Major Liepa said their goodbyes at the check-in at Sturup. Wallander had bought an ill.u.s.trated book on Skne as a farewell present - it was the best he could think of.

"I'd like to hear how things turn out," he said.

"You'll be kept informed," the major told him.

They shook hands, and Major Liepa went on his way.

A strange man, Wallander thought as he drove away from the airport. I wonder what he really thought of me.

The next day was Sat.u.r.day. Wallander had a lie-in, then drove to Loderup to see his father. He had his supper at a pizzeria, with a few gla.s.ses of red wine. All the time he was wondering whether or not he should apply for the post at the Trelleborg Rubber Company. The closing date was fast approaching. He spent Sunday morning first in the laundry room, then applying himself to the unwelcome task of cleaning his flat. In the evening he went to the last cinema left in Ystad. It was showing an American police thriller, and he had to admit to himself that it was exciting, despite its unrealistic exaggerations.

On Monday he was in his office shortly after 8 a.m., and had just taken off his jacket when Bjork came marching in.

"We've had a telex from the Riga police," he said. "From Major Liepa? What's he got to say?" Bjork seemed embarra.s.sed.

"I'm afraid Major Liepa is not able to write anything at all," Bjork said uneasily. "He has been murdered. The day he got home. A police colonel, name of Putnis, signs this telex. They're asking for our a.s.sistance, and I imagine that means you'll have to go there."

Wallander sat at his desk and read the telex.

The major dead? Murdered?

"I'm sorry about this," Bjork said. "It's awful. I'll ring the police commissioner and ask him to respond to their request."

Wallander flopped back in his chair. Major Liepa murdered? He could feel a lump in his throat. Who could have killed the short-sighted, chain-smoking little man? And why? His thoughts went to Rydberg, who was also dead. Suddenly he felt very lonely.

Three days later he left for Latvia. It was shortly before 2 p.m. on 28 February. As the Aeroflot plane swung left and flew over the Gulf of Riga, Wallander stared down at the sea and wondered what lay in store for him.

CHAPTER 7 7.

The first thing Wallander noticed was the cold. He could feel no difference standing in the queue at pa.s.sport control, he could feel no difference to the air temperature when he had disembarked and walked to the terminal. He had landed in a country where it was just as cold inside as it was out, and he regretted not having packed a pair of long Johns.

The shivering pa.s.sengers moved slowly through the grim arrivals area. Two Danes distinguished themselves by complaining in loud voices about what they expected to find in Latvia. The older one had been to Riga before, and was instructing his younger colleague about the wretched atmosphere of apathy and insecurity that was characteristic of the country. These noisy Danes annoyed Wallander. It was as though he felt they should have more respect for a short-sighted police officer that had been murdered a few days earlier.

Ten days ago he would hardly have been confident of placing the three Baltic states on the map. Tallinn could have been the capital of Latvia for all he knew, and Riga a major Estonian port. He remembered little more than bits and pieces of a geographical survey of Europe from his school. Before leaving Ystad he had spent two days reading up on Latvia, and had gained the impression of a little country that had been oppressed by the whims of history, repeatedly falling victim to the sparring of the big powers. Even Sweden had marched triumphantly into this country, bloodstained and ruthless. But it seemed to him that the key moment had been in 1945, when the German war machine was crippled and the Soviet army marched into Latvia and annexed it without encountering real opposition. The attempt to set up an independent Latvian government had been savagely suppressed, and the so-called liberation army from the East, in one of the cynical twists history loves to impose, had turned into its exact opposite: a regime that ruthlessly snuffed out the sovereignty of the Latvian people.

The two loud-mouthed Danes, who were in Riga to deal in agricultural machinery, had just reached the pa.s.sport control window, and Wallander was reaching into his inside pocket for his own pa.s.sport, when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He flinched, as if he'd been afraid of being exposed as a criminal, turned and was confronted by a man in a grey-blue uniform.

"Are you Kurt Wallander?" the man asked him. "My name is Jazeps Putnis. I'm late, I'm sorry, but your flight was early. Obviously you should not be inconvenienced by the formalities. Follow me."

According to the telex from Riga, Jazeps Putnis held the rank of colonel. His impeccable English reminded Wallander of Major Liepa's constant struggle for the right words and correct p.r.o.nunciation. He followed Putnis through a door guarded by a soldier, and they emerged into another reception area just as shabby and dark as the last, where cases were being unloaded from a trolley.

"Let's hope there's no delay with your luggage," Putnis said. "May I be so bold as to bid you welcome to Latvia. And more especially, to Riga! Have you ever been here before?"

"No," Wallander said. "I'm afraid I never have been."

"Needless to say, I'd have preferred the circ.u.mstances to be different," Putnis said. "The death of Major Liepa was very sad."

Wallander waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Putnis strode over to a man in a faded blue overall and fur hat leaning against a wall. The man stood to attention when Putnis addressed him, and disappeared through one ~of the doors leading out into the airport.

"It's taking an awfully long time," Putnis said with a smile. "Do you have the same problem in Sweden?"

"Sometimes," Wallander said. "Yes, occasionally we do have to wait."

Colonel Putnis was the polar opposite of Major Liepa. He was very tall, decisive and energetic in his movements, and his direct gaze seemed to go straight through Wallander. He was clean-cut, with grey eyes that appeared to take in everything that was going on around about him. He reminded Wallander of an animal - a lynx, perhaps, or a leopard, in a grey-blue uniform. He tried to guess his age: 50 perhaps? Possibly older.

A luggage trailer came clattering up, pulled by a tractor belching exhaust fumes. Wallander recognised his suitcase immediately, and failed to prevent Colonel Putnis from carrying it for him. A black Volga police car was waiting for them alongside the taxi rank, and a chauffeur saluted as he opened the door. Wallander was astonished, but managed a hesitant salute in return. Pity Bjork couldn't have seen that, he thought. I wonder what Major Liepa made of the police officers in jeans, none of whom saluted him, when he landed in the insignificant litde Swedish town of Ystad.

"We've booked you into the Latvia Hotel," Colonel Putnis said as they drove away from the airport. "It's the best hotel in town. It has more than 25 floors."

"I've no doubt it's excellent," Wallander said. "I'd like to pa.s.s on greetings and sympathy from my colleagues in Ystad. Major Liepa was only with us for a few days, but he was very well liked."

"Thank you," Colonel Putnis said. "The major's death is a great loss for all of us."

Why doesn't he say more, Wallander wondered. Why doesn't he describe what happened? Why was the major murdered? By whom? How? Why have they asked me to come here? Is there some suspicion that the major's death might be connected with his visit to Sweden?

He looked out over the countryside: deserted fields with irregular patches of snow; here and there an isolated grey dwelling surrounded by an unpainted fence; here and there a pig rooting in a dunghill. He had the impression of endless misery, making him think of the trip he'd recently made to Malmo with his father. Sk&ne might look inhospitable in winter, but what he was seeing here suggested a desolation that was beyond anything he'd ever imagined.

As he contemplated the countryside, Wallander was overcome by sadness. It was as if the country's painful history had covered the fields in grey paint. He felt an impulse to act: he hadn't come to Riga just to be depressed by a grim winter landscape.

"I'd like to see a report as soon as possible," he said. "What actually happened? All I know is that Major Liepa was murdered the day he got back to Riga."

"Once you've settled into your room I'll come and collect you," Colonel Putnis said. "We've planned a meeting for this evening."

"All I need to do is to dump my case," Wallander said. "I'll only need a couple of minutes."

"The meeting is arranged for 7.30 p.m.," Colonel Putnis said. It was clear to Wallander that his eagerness would make no difference. The plan had already been decided on.

It was starting to get dark as they drove through Riga's suburbs towards the centre of town. Wallander took in the dreary housing estates stretching away on both sides of the road. He couldn't make up his mind how he felt about what might lie in store for him.

The hotel was in the city centre, at the end of a wide esplanade. Wallander caught sight of a statue and realised it must be of Lenin. The Latvia Hotel stuck up into the night sky like a dark-blue column. Colonel Putnis led him through a deserted foyer to reception, Wallander felt as though he was on the ground floor of a multi-storeyed car park that had been turned into a hotel entrance hall as an emergency measure. A row of lifts lined one of the narrow walls, and overhead were staircases leading in all directions.

To his astonishment he found he didn't need to register. Colonel Putnis collected his room key from the female receptionist then escorted him into one of the cramped lifts and up to the 15th floor. Wallander's room was number 1506, with a view over the city's rooftops. He wondered if he'd be able to see the Gulf of Riga in daylight.

Colonel Putnis left after establishing that Wallander was satisfied with the room, and telling him he would collect him in two hours' time and take him to the meeting at police headquarters.

Wallander stood at the window gazing out over the rooftops. A lorry clattered past in the street below. Cold air was seeping in through the draughty windows, and when he felt the radiator he found that it was barely lukewarm. Somewhere in the background a telephone rang unanswered.

Long Johns, he thought. That's the first thing I'll buy tomorrow morning.

He unpacked his case and placed his toiletries in the s.p.a.cious bathroom. He'd bought a bottle of whisky at the airport, and after a few moments' hesitation poured a good measure into his tooth mug. There was a Russian-made radio on the bedside table, and he switched it on. A man was speaking very quickly, sounding excited, as if he were commenting on some sports event in which the action was very fast and unpredictable. He turned down the bedcover and lay down on the bed.

Well, here I am in Riga, he thought. I still have no idea what happened to Major Liepa. All I know is that he's dead. Most importantly of all, I don't know what this Colonel Putnis expects me to be able to do.

It was too cold to lie on the bed, so he decided to go down to reception and change some money. Perhaps the hotel would have a cafe* where he could get a cup of coffee.

When he got to reception he was surprised to see the two Danish businessmen he'd been annoyed by at the airport. The older one was standing at the desk waving a map angrily. It looked as though he was trying to show the girl how to make a paper kite or perhaps a glider, and Wallander couldn't stop himself from laughing. He saw a sign announcing that he was welcome to change some money. An elderly lady nodded at him in a friendly way as he handed over two hundred-dollar bills, and received an enormous pile of Latvian notes in return. When he got back to reception the two Danes had left. He asked the receptionist where he could get a cup of coffee, and was pointed in the direction of the big dining room where a waiter escorted him to a table by a window and gave him a menu. He decided on an omelette and a cup of coffee. Clanking trams, and people dressed in fur coats, flitted past the high window, and the heavy curtains swayed in the draught from the ill-fitting frames.

He looked round the deserted dining room. At one table an elderly couple were having dinner in total silence; at another a man in a grey suit was drinking tea by himself. That was all.

Wallander thought back to the previous evening when he'd arrived in Stockholm on an afternoon flight from Sturup. His daughter Linda was waiting for him when the airport bus pulled up at Central Station, and they walked to the Central Hotel nearby. She was in digs at Bromma, close to the college, so he'd booked her a room in his hotel. That evening he'd taken her to dinner at a restaurant in the Old Town. It was a long time since they'd seen each other, and the conversation seemed to him stilted, with lots of changes of subject. He began to wonder if what Linda had put in her letters was the truth. She'd written that she was enjoying college life, but when he asked her about it her replies were very terse. He couldn't hide his irritation when he asked if she had any plans for the future, and she replied that she had no idea what she was going to do.

"Isn't it about time you had?" he asked.

"What's that got to do with you?" she said.

Then they'd argued, without raising their voices. He insisted that she couldn't just carry on vaguely wandering from one educational establishment to another, and she'd said she was old enough to do whatever she liked.

It had dawned on him that Linda was very much like her father. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he had the feeling he could hear his own voice as he listened to her. History was repeating itself: he recognised his own complicated relationship with his father echoed in his conversation with his daughter.

The meal dragged on and they drank their wine; gradually the tension and the friction faded away. Wallander told her about the journey he was about to make, and for a brief moment toyed with the idea of inviting her to come with him. Time started to race by, and it was after midnight when he paid the bill. It was cold outside, but they walked back to the hotel even so, then sat talking in his room until after 3 a.m. When she finally went to bed, Wallander felt that it had been a successful evening despite the awkward start, but he couldn't quite shake off the nagging worry caused by not being clear about the way his daughter was leading her life.

When he checked out in the morning, Linda was still asleep. He paid for her room, and left her a note that the receptionist promised to pa.s.s on.

He was roused from his reveries by the departure of the silent, elderly couple. There were no new diners, and the only other person in the room was the man drinking tea. He glanced at his watch: nearly an hour to go before Colonel Putnis was due to pick him up.

He paid his bill, did some rapid sums in his head and registered that the meal had been extremely cheap. When he got back to his room he went through the papers he had brought with him. He was slowly beginning to get back into the case - the case he had thought he'd consigned to the oblivion of the archives. He could even smell the acrid tang of the major's strong cigarettes in his nostrils again.

Colonel Putnis knocked on his door at 7.17 p.m. The car was waiting in front of the hotel, and they drove through the dark streets to police headquarters. It had grown much colder during the evening, and the city was almost deserted. The streets and squares were poorly lit, and Wallander had the impression of a town built up of silhouettes and stage sets. They drove through an archway and drew up in what looked like a walled courtyard. Colonel Putnis hadn't spoken during the journey, and Wallander was still waiting to hear why he'd been called over to Riga. They walked along empty, echoing corridors, down a staircase and then along another corridor, and eventually came to a door which Colonel Putnis opened without knocking.

Wallander entered a large, warm but poorly lit room dominated by an oval conference table covered in a green felt cloth. There were twelve chairs at the table, and a jug of water and some gla.s.ses in the centre. A man was waiting deep in the shadows, and he turned and approached as Wallander came in.

"Welcome to Riga," the man said. "My name's Juris Murniers."