No car ever turned up, Wallander thought. He waits for a few moments, of course. He doesn’t suspect there’s anything wrong. After a while it occurs to him the car may have broken down, so he decides to walk. Wallander took his map of Riga from his pocket, and started walking. Sergeant Zids was sitting in the car, watching him. Who is he reporting to, Wallander wondered. Colonel Murniers?
The voice on the phone calling him out in the middle of the night must have inspired confidence, he thought. Major Liepa can’t have suspected anything. On the other hand, he must have had reason to be extremely suspicious about everybody. Who was there whom he could trust? The answer was obvious. Baiba Liepa, his wife.
It was clear to Wallander that he wasn’t going to get anywhere by wandering around with a map in his hand. The people—there must have been more than just one of them—who had set up the major would have planned it pretty carefully. If he were going to get anywhere he would have to explore different avenues.
When he returned to the car, it struck Wallander that it was odd there was no written report of the major’s trip to Sweden. Wallander had seen for himself how the major had been making notes during his time in Ystad. On several occasions he’d commented on how important it was to write detailed reports.
But Sergeant Zids had not translated any such written report for him. It was either Putnis or Murniers who had given an account of their last meeting with the major.
He could see Major Liepa in his mind’s eye. The moment the plane left Sturup, he would have folded out the little table in the back of the seat in front and started writing his report. He would have continued writing while waiting for his transfer at Arlanda, and kept on working at it during the last part of his journey—the flight to Riga.
“Didn’t Major Liepa submit a written report on his work in Sweden?” he asked after getting into the car.
Sergeant Zids stared at him in surprise. “How would he have had time for that?”
Oh, he’d have made time, Wallander thought to himself. That report must exist, but perhaps there’s somebody who doesn’t want me to see it.
“Souvenirs,” Wallander said. “I’d like to go to a department store, and then we can have lunch. But remember, no cutting in line.”
They parked outside the central department store. Wallander spent an hour wandering around with the sergeant in tow. The store was packed, but there were not many goods on display. It was only when he came to the books and CDs section that his interest was aroused. He found some opera recordings with Russian singers and orchestras, and they were very cheap. He also bought some art books at similarly low prices. He wasn’t really sure who he was going to give them to, but he had them gift-wrapped and the sergeant guided him to and fro between the various registers. It was all so complicated that Wallander broke out in a sweat.
When they emerged into the street again, he proposed without more ado that they should eat at the Latvia Hotel. The sergeant nodded his approval, as if to indicate that the point he’d been trying to make all along had gotten through at last.
Wallander went up to his room with his presents, took off his jacket, and washed his hands in the bathroom. He hoped in vain that the phone would ring and somebody would ask for Mr. Eckers, but nobody did. He locked his room door behind him and took the elevator down to the ground floor. Even though Sergeant Zids had been with him, he had asked if there were any messages when he collected his room key: the receptionist shook her head. He looked around in reception for any of the colonels’ men, but saw no one. He had sent Sergeant Zids ahead to the dining room, in the hope that this might result in their being seated at a different table from the usual one.
A woman waved to him. She was at a counter that sold newspapers and postcards. He had to look around before being sure he was the one she was beckoning to. He walked over to her.
“Would you like to buy some postcards, Mr. Wallander?” she asked.
“Not just now,” Wallander said, wondering how she knew his name. The woman was wearing a gray dress and was probably in her 50s. She had made the mistake of painting her lips bright red, and it occurred to Wallander that what she needed was an honest girlfriend to tell her how awful it looked.
She held out some cards for him to look at. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to see a bit more of our country?”
“I don’t think I have time, I’m afraid,” he said. “Otherwise I’d love to make a tour of Latvia.”
“I’m sure you can find time for an organ concert, though,” said the woman. “You’re fond of classical music after all, Mr. Wallander.”
He gave an almost imperceptible start. How could she know his taste in music?
“There’s an organ concert tonight in St. Gertrude’s Church,” she told him. “It starts at 7 p.m. I’ve drawn a map for you, in case you want to go.”
She handed it over to him, and he noticed it said Mr. Eckers in pencil on the back.
“The concert is free,” the woman said, when she saw him fumbling in his inside pocket for his wallet.
Wallander nodded and put the map in his pocket. He bought some of the postcards, then went into the dining room. This time he was certain he was going to meet Baiba Liepa.
Sergeant Zids was sitting at the same old table, signaling to him. The dining room was unusually full, and the waiters seemed to be busy for once. Wallander sat down and showed Zids his postcards.
“We live in a very beautiful country,” the sergeant said.
An unhappy country, Wallander thought. Wounded, crippled, like an injured animal. This evening I’ll meet one of those birds with injured wings. Baiba Liepa.
CHAPTER 11
Wallander left the hotel at 5:30 p.m. He figured that if he couldn’t shake off the shadows during the next hour, then he never would. When he said goodbye to Sergeant Zids after their lunch together—he had excused himself by saying he had some paperwork to deal with and preferred to do it in his hotel room—he had spent the rest of the afternoon trying to resolve how to get rid of the men tailing him.
He had no experience of being shadowed, and only very rarely had he done any shadowing of a suspect himself. He ransacked his memory to try to recall any words of wisdom from Rydberg about the difficulties of tailing people, but was forced to conclude he had not expressed any views on the art of shadowing. Wallander also realized that he could not plan any surprise maneuvers since he wasn’t familiar with the streets of Riga. He would have to seize any opportunity that arose, and he was not confident of succeeding, but he felt bound to try. Baiba Liepa wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to ensure that they met in secret unless she had good reason. Wallander couldn’t imagine someone married to the major would be prone to overly dramatic gestures.
It was already dark when he left the hotel, and it had started to get windy. He left his key at reception without saying where he was going or when he would be back. St. Gertrude’s Church, where the concert was to take place, was not far from the Latvia Hotel. He had a vague hope of being able to lose himself among all the people hurrying home from work.
Out in the street, he buttoned up his jacket and glanced quickly around, but couldn’t see anybody who looked as if they were following him. Perhaps there was more than one of them? He knew that experienced shadows never trailed their target but always tried to position themselves ahead. He walked slowly, stopping frequently to look at shop windows. He hadn’t been able to think of a better ploy than pretending to be a foreigner who was looking for suitable souvenirs to take back home with him. He crossed the broad Esplanade and walked down the street behind the government offices. He thought of hailing a taxi and asking to be taken somewhere and then transferring to another one, but decided that would be far too easy a ruse for a pursuer to see through. No doubt whoever was following him could very quickly establish who had used the city’s taxis and where they had gone.
He stopped at a window display of drab-looking clothes for men. He didn’t recognize any of t
he people passing by behind him, whose reflections he could see in the glass. What am I doing, he wondered. Baiba, you should have told Mr. Eckers how he could find his way to the church without being followed. He set off again. His hands were cold, and he regretted not bringing any gloves with him.
On the spur of the moment he went into a café, and entered a smoke-filled room crammed with people that smelled strongly of beer and tobacco and sweat, and looked around for a table. There wasn’t an empty one, but he could see a vacant chair right at the back in a corner. Two old men, each with a glass of beer in front of him, were deep in conversation and merely nodded when Wallander pointed inquiringly at the chair. A waitress with damp patches under her arms shouted something at him, and he pointed at one of the beer glasses. All the time, he was keeping an eye on the entrance: would his shadow follow him in? The waitress came with his frothing glass. He gave her a bill and she put his change on the sticky table. A man in a worn black leather jacket came in. Wallander watched him make his way to a group that seemed to have been waiting for him, and sit down. Wallander took a sip of beer and glanced at his wristwatch: 5:55 p.m. Now he would have to make up his mind how to proceed. The door to the bathroom was diagonally behind him—every time the door opened, he was assailed by the stench of urine. When he had half-emptied his glass, he got up and went to the bathroom. He found himself in a narrow corridor with cubicles on each side and a urinal at the end, lit by a single bulb. He thought there might be a back door he could use, but the corridor was closed off by a brick wall. That’s no good, he thought: no point in even trying. How do you get away from something you can’t even see? Unfortunately Mr. Eckers will have unwelcome company when he goes to the concert. His inability to find a solution was irritating him. As he was standing at the urinal, the door opened and a man came in and locked himself in one of the cubicles.
Wallander knew immediately that it was somebody who’d arrived at the café after him—he had a good memory for faces. He didn’t hesitate, knowing he would just have to risk making a mistake. He hurried back through the smoky café and out the door. Out in the street, he looked around, peering into doorways, but could see no one. Quickly he retraced his steps, turned into a narrow alley and ran as fast as he could until he emerged once more into the Esplanade. A bus was standing at a stop, and he managed to board it just before the doors closed. He got off at the next stop without having been asked for the fare, left the main road and went down one of the numerous alleys. He paused in the light from a streetlamp to check the map. He still had some time, and he ducked into a dark entrance to wait. For the next ten minutes nobody he judged to be a possible shadow went by. He knew he might still be watched, but he felt he had now done all he could.
He reached the church just before 7 p.m. It was already quite full, but he found a space by one of the side aisles, and watched the people still streaming into the church. He couldn’t see anyone who might be his shadow; nor could he see Baiba Liepa.
The sound of the organ shocked him. It was as if the whole church was about to be shattered by the sheer power of the music. Wallander remembered an occasion when, as a child, his father had taken him to church. The organ music had frightened him so much that he’d burst into tears. Now, he recognized something soothing in the music. Bach has no homeland, he thought. His music belongs everywhere. Wallander let the music seep into his consciousness.
Murniers might have been the one who phoned Major Liepa. Something the major said when he got back from Sweden might have driven Murniers to silence him swiftly. Major Liepa might have been ordered to report for duty. He might even have been murdered at the police station itself.
He was suddenly shaken out of his train of thought by the sensation of being watched. He looked to either side of him but could see only faces concentrating on the music. In the broad central choir all he could see were people’s backs. He continued looking around until his gaze reached the aisle opposite.
There was Baiba Liepa, in the middle of a pew, amidst a group of old people. She was wearing her fur hat, and looked away once she was certain Wallander had recognized her. For the next hour he tried to avoid looking at her again, but now and then he couldn’t resist glancing in her direction, and he could see she was sitting with her eyes closed, listening to the music. Wallander was overcome by a feeling of unreality. Only a few weeks ago her husband had been sitting on his sofa while they’d listened to Maria Callas singing in Turandot, with a blizzard raging outside the windows. Now he was in a church in Riga, the major was dead, and his widow was sitting with her eyes closed, listening to a Bach fugue.
She must know how we’re going to get away from here, he thought. She chose the church as a meeting place, not me.
When the concert was over everyone stood up to leave immediately, and there was a bottleneck at the exit. The rush astonished Wallander. It was as if the music had never existed, and the congregation was trying to flee from a bomb scare. He lost sight of Baiba Liepa in the crush, and allowed himself to be carried along by the crowd. Just as he reached the porch, he caught sight of her in the shadows of the north transept. He saw her beckoning to him, and turned away from the throng of people elbowing their way towards the door.
“Follow me,” she said. Behind an ancient burial vault was a narrow door, which she opened with a key bigger than her hand. They emerged into a churchyard, she looked around quickly, then hurried on through the decrepit headstones and rusty iron crosses. They left the churchyard through a gate into a back street, and a car with its lights off started its noisy engine, and they scrambled in. This time Wallander was certain the car was a Lada. The man behind the wheel was very young and smoking one of those extra-strong cigarettes. Baiba Liepa smiled quickly at Wallander, shy and uncertain, and they drove out into a wide main thoroughfare Wallander guessed must be Valdemar. They continued north, past a park Wallander remembered from the tour he’d made with Sergeant Zids, and then turned left. Baiba Liepa asked the driver something, and received a shake of the head by way of reply. Wallander noticed the driver checked his rearview mirror constantly. They turned left again, and suddenly the driver accelerated and made a U-turn. They passed the park again, and Wallander was now sure it was the Verman’s Park; then they drove back towards the city center. Baiba Liepa was leaning forward in her seat, as if giving the driver silent instructions by breathing down the back of his neck. They went along Aspasias Boulevard, passed another of those deserted squares, and crossed a bridge whose name Wallander didn’t know.
They came to a district of ramshackle factories and grim housing estates. They seemed to be going more slowly now; Baiba Liepa was leaning back in her seat, and Wallander assumed they were confident that nobody had managed to get on their trail.
Minutes later they drew up outside a rundown, two-story building. Baiba nodded to Wallander, and they got out. She led him swiftly through an iron gate, up a gravel path, and unlocked a door. Wallander heard the car driving off behind them. He entered a hall that smelt faintly of disinfectant, noting that it was lit by just one dim bulb behind a red cloth shade, and it occurred to him that they could well be at the entrance to a disreputable nightclub. He hung up his thick overcoat, put his jacket over the back of a chair, then followed her into a living room where the first thing he saw was a crucifix hanging on one wall. She switched on some lights, and all at once she seemed quite calm. She signaled him to sit down.
Afterwards, long afterwards, he would be astonished to find he could remember nothing at all about the room in which he had his meetings with Baiba Liepa. The only thing that stuck in his memory was the black, meter-high crucifix hanging between two windows whose curtains were carefully drawn, and the lingering smell of disinfectant in the hall. But as for the worn armchair in which he sat, listening to Baiba Liepa’s horrific story—what color was it? He couldn’t remember. It was as if they had talked in a room with invisible furniture. The black crucifix could just as well have been suspended in mid-air, held up by a divine force.<
br />
She had been wearing a russet-colored dress which he later learned the major had bought for her in a department store in Ystad. She had put it on in order to honor his memory, she said, and she’d also thought it would be a reminder of the crime she herself had suffered through the betrayal and murder of her husband. Wallander did most of the talking, asking questions which she answered in her restrained voice.
The first thing they did was to do away with Mr. Eckers.
“Why that particular name?” he had asked.
“It’s just a name,” she said. “Maybe there is such a person, maybe not. I made it up. It was easy to remember.”
At first she spoke in a way that reminded Wallander of Upitis. It was as if she needed time to close in on the point she may well have been frightened of reaching. He listened attentively, afraid of missing any implied significance—something he had discovered was a feature of Latvian society, but she confirmed Upitis’s account of the struggle that was taking place in Latvia. She spoke of revenge and hatred, of a fear that was slowly starting to lose its grip, of a post-war generation that had been suppressed. It seemed to Wallander that she was anti-communist, of course, anti-Soviet, one of the friends of the West that, paradoxically, the Eastern bloc countries had always managed to produce to give succor to their imagined enemies. Nevertheless, she never resorted to making claims she could not support by detailed argument. He realized afterwards that she was trying to get him to understand. She was his teacher, and she didn’t want to leave him in ignorance about the circumstances that lay behind the current situation, that explained the events of which it was too soon to establish an overall view. He realized that he had been far too ignorant of what was really going on in Eastern Europe.
“Call me Kurt,” he had said, but she shook her head and continued to keep him at the distance she’d settled on from the start. He would continue to be Mr. Wallander.
The Dogs of Riga: A Kurt Wallendar Mystery Page 16
