The Dogs of Riga: A Kurt Wallendar Mystery

by Henning Mankell

  He had asked her where they were.

  “In an apartment belonging to a friend,” she told him. “To endure, and to survive, we have to share everything—the more so as we are living in a country and at a time when everyone is being urged to think only of themselves.”

  “As far as I can see, communism is the opposite of that,” Wallander said. “I thought it claimed that only things thought and carried out collectively were acceptable.”

  “That’s the way it used to be,” she said. “But everything was different in those days. It might be possible to recreate that dream some time in the future—perhaps it’s impossible to resurrect dead dreams? Just as once you’re dead, you’re dead forever.”

  “What exactly happened?” he asked.

  At first she seemed not to understand what he meant, but then she understood that he was asking about her husband.

  “Karlis was betrayed and murdered,” she said. “He had penetrated too far under the surface of a crime too massive, that involved too many important people, for him to be allowed to go on living. He knew he was living dangerously, but he hadn’t yet been exposed as a defector. A traitor inside the nomenklatura.”

  “He came back from Sweden,” Wallander said. “He went straight to police headquarters to deliver his report. Did you meet him at the airport?”

  “I didn’t even know he was coming home,” she answered. “Perhaps he’d tried to phone, I’ll never know. Maybe he’d sent a telegram to the police headquarters and asked them to inform me. I’ll never know that either. He didn’t call me until he was in Riga. I didn’t even have the right food to celebrate his return. One of my friends gave me a chicken. I’d only just finished preparing the meal when he turned up with that beautiful book.”

  Wallander felt a little guilty. The book he had bought, in great haste and without much thought, was lacking in emotional significance. Now, when he heard her speaking of it like this, he felt as if he had deceived her.

  “He must have said something when he came home,” Wallander said, painfully aware of the limitations of his English vocabulary.

  “He was elated,” she said. “Naturally, he was also worried and furious; but what I shall remember above all is how elated he was.”

  “What had happened?”

  “He said something had become clear at last. ‘Now I’m sure I’m on the right track,’ he said, again and again. Since he suspected our apartment was bugged, he took me out into the kitchen, turned on the faucet, and whispered in my ear. He said he had exposed a conspiracy that was so gross and so barbaric that you people in the West would finally be forced to recognize what was happening in the Baltic countries.”

  “Is that what he said? A conspiracy in the Baltic states? Not just in Latvia?”

  “I’m quite certain of it. He often grew irritated because the three Baltic countries tend to be regarded as one entity, despite the big differences between them, but this time he wasn’t only talking about Latvia.”

  “He actually used the word ‘conspiracy’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you realize what was implied?”

  “Like everybody else, he’d known for a long time that there were direct links between certain criminals, politicians and even police officers. They protected each other in order to facilitate all kinds of criminal activity, and then shared the proceeds. Karlis himself had been offered bribes on many occasions, but he had too much self-respect to consider accepting any. For a long time he’d been working undercover, trying to track down what was happening and who was involved. I knew all about it, of course. I knew we lived in a society that was fundamentally nothing but a conspiracy. A collective philosophy of life had turned into a monster, and in the end the conspiracy was the only valid ideology.”

  “How long had he been investigating this conspiracy?”

  “We were married for eight years, but he’d started those investigations long before we met.”

  “What did he think he was going to achieve?”

  “At first, nothing more than the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “For posterity. For a time he was certain would eventually come. A time when it would be possible to reveal what had really being going on during the occupation.”

  “So he was an opponent of the communist regime? In that case, how could he become a high-ranking police officer?”

  Her response was angry, as if he were guilty of serious slander of her husband.

  “But don’t you understand? A communist is precisely what he was! What made him so disappointed was the massive betrayal! The corruption and indifference. The dream of a new kind of society that had been turned into a lie.”

  “So he led a double life?”

  “You can hardly be expected to understand what that involves, year after year being forced to pretend you are somebody you are not, professing beliefs you abominate, defending a regime you hate. It didn’t only affect Karlis, though. It affected me as well, and everybody else in this country who refused to give up the hope of a new world.”

  “What had he discovered that made him so elated?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t have time to talk about it. We had our most intimate conversations under the covers, where no one could hear us.”

  “He said nothing at all?”

  “He was hungry. He wanted to eat and drink wine. I think he felt that at long last, he could relax for a few hours. Give in to his feelings of elation. If the phone hadn’t rung, I believe he’d have burst into song with his wine glass in his hand.”

  She broke off, and Wallander waited. It occurred to him that he didn’t even know whether Major Liepa had been buried yet.

  “Think back,” he said gently. “He might have hinted at something. People who’ve made an important breakthrough can sometimes let slip something they don’t intend to say.”

  She shook her head. “I have thought,” she said. “And I’m quite certain he didn’t. Maybe it was something he’d learned in Sweden? Maybe he’d worked out in his head the solution to a crucial problem?”

  “Did he leave any papers at home?”

  “I have looked. He was very careful, though. The written word could be far too dangerous.”

  “Did he give anything to his friends? Upitis?”

  “No. I’d have known if he had.”

  “Did he confide in you?”

  “We confided in each other.”

  “Did he confide in anyone else?”

  “Obviously he trusted his friends; but we have to understand that every secret we confide in another person can be a burden to them. I’m quite sure nobody else knew as much as I did.”

  “I must know everything,” Wallander said. “Every little detail you know about this conspiracy is important.”

  She sat in silence for a while before she spoke. Wallander realized he’d been concentrating so hard that he’d broken into a sweat.

  “Some years before we met, at the end of the 1970s, something happened that really opened his eyes to what was going on in this country. He often spoke of it, saying that every person’s eyes need to be opened in an individual way. He used a metaphor I didn’t understand at first. ‘Some people are woken up by cocks crowing, others because the silence is too great.’ Now I know what he meant. What happened, more than ten years ago, was that he’d been involved in a long and meticulous investigation that eventually led to his arrest of the culprit. It was a man who had stolen many icons from our churches, irreplaceable works of art that had been smuggled out of the country and sold for huge sums of money. Karlis had no doubt the man would be found guilty. But he wasn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He wasn’t even taken to court. The case was abandoned. Karlis couldn’t understand what was going on, of course, and demanded a trial—but without warning the man was released and all the documents on the case declared secret. Karlis was ordered to forget the whole business. The man who issued that order was his superior. I can stil
l remember his name, Amtmanis. Karlis was convinced that Amtmanis was himself protecting the criminal, and may even have been sharing the spoils. That incident hit him very hard.”

  Wallander’s mind went back to that snowy night when the nearsighted little major was sitting on his sofa. “I’m a religious man,” he had said. “I don’t believe in a particular God, but even so one can still have a faith.”

  “And then?”

  “I still hadn’t met Karlis then, but I think he went through a serious crisis. Maybe he thought of resigning from the police. As a matter of fact, I believe it was me who convinced him he should continue in his job.”

  “How did you meet?”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Does that matter?”

  “It might. I don’t know. All I do know is I have to keep asking questions if I’m going to be able to help you.”

  “How do people meet?” she said with a sad smile. “Through friends. I’d heard about this young police officer who wasn’t like the others. He didn’t look like much, but I fell in love with him the first time I saw him.”

  “So you got married? He kept on working?”

  “He was a captain when we met, but he was promoted unusually quickly. Every time he took another step up the ladder, he would come home and say that another invisible little funeral wreath had been hung on his shoulder straps. He continued to try to find proof of a link between the leading politicians of our country, the police, and various gangs. He had made up his mind to pin down all the contacts, and he once talked about a secret government department here in Latvia whose only purpose was to coordinate contacts between the underworld and the politicians and police officers involved. About a year ago I heard him use the word ‘conspiracy’ for the first time. You mustn’t forget that he had the feeling then that he was in step with the times: perestroika in Moscow had spread as far as Latvia, and we’d begun to meet more often and to discuss more openly what needed to be done in our country.”

  “Was his boss still Amtmanis?”

  “Amtmanis had died. Murniers and Putnis had become his immediate superiors. He distrusted both of them, and had the definite feeling that one of them was involved in, and possibly even the leader of the conspiracy he was trying to penetrate. He said there was a ‘condor’ and a ‘lapwing’ in the police force, but he didn’t know which was which.”

  “A condor and a lapwing?”

  “The condor is a vulture, but the lapwing is an innocent wader. When Karlis was a boy, he was very interested in birds and had even dreamed of becoming an ornithologist.”

  “But he didn’t know which was which? I thought he had decided it was Colonel Murniers?”

  “That was much later, about ten months ago. Karlis was on the trail of a huge drug-trafficking ring. He said it was a devilish plan that would be able to kill us twice.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know.” She stood up quickly, as if she were suddenly scared of going any further. “I can offer you a cup of tea,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t have any coffee.”

  “I’d love a cup of tea,” Wallander said.

  She disappeared to the kitchen and Wallander tried to decide the most important questions to ask next. He was sure that she was being honest with him, but he still didn’t know what she and Upitis thought he could do to help them. He doubted he’d be able to fulfill the expectations they had of him. I’m just a simple police officer from Ystad, he thought. What you people need is a man like Rydberg—but he’s dead, like the major. He can’t help you.

  She came back with a teapot and cups on a tray. There must be somebody else in the apartment, he thought—the water couldn’t possibly have boiled as quickly as that. Wherever I go there’s a hidden guard keeping watch on me, and I understand very little of what’s really going on.

  He could see she was tired.

  “How long can we go on?” he asked.

  “Not much longer. My house is bound to be under observation—I can’t stay away too long, but we can continue here tomorrow night.”

  “I’m invited to Colonel Putnis’s then.”

  “I understand. What about the following night?”

  He nodded, took a sip of tea (which was weak), and continued asking his questions. “You must have wondered what Karlis meant by the drug-smuggling ring killing twice,” he said. “You must have discussed it with Upitis, surely?”

  “Karlis once said that you can use anything at all for blackmail purposes,” she answered. “When I asked what he meant by that, he said it was something one of the colonels had told him. Why I remember that particular detail, I have no idea. Maybe because Karlis was very quiet and withdrawn at the time.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “That was the word he used.”

  “Who was going to be blackmailed?”

  “Latvia.”

  “Did he really say that? A whole country could be subjected to blackmail?”

  “Yes. If I weren’t certain, I wouldn’t say it.”

  “Which of the colonels had used the word ‘blackmail’?”

  “I think it was Murniers, but I’m not sure.”

  “What did Karlis think of Colonel Putnis?”

  “He said Putnis wasn’t among the worst.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He observed the law. He didn’t take bribes from just anyone.”

  “But he did take bribes?”

  “They all do.”

  “Not Karlis, though?”

  “Never. He was different.”

  Wallander could see she was starting to get restless. The rest of his questions would have to wait.

  “Baiba,” he said—and that was the first time he used her first name—“I want you to think over everything you’ve told me this evening. The day after tomorrow I might ask you the same questions again.”

  “Yes,” she said. “All I do is think.”

  For a moment he thought she was going to cry, but she regained her self-control and got to her feet. She drew back a curtain hanging on one wall to reveal a door, which she opened. A young woman entered, smiled and began to clear away the tea things.

  “This is Inese,” Baiba Liepa told him. “You went to visit her this evening. That’s your explanation if you’re asked. You met her in the nightclub at the Latvia Hotel, and she’s become your lover. You don’t know exactly where she lives, only that it’s on the other side of the bridge. You don’t know her second name as she’s only your lover for the few days you’re in Riga. You think she’s a filing clerk.”

  Wallander listened open-mouthed. Baiba Liepa said something in Latvian, and Inese struck a pose for him.

  “Remember her face,” Baiba Liepa said. She’ll be collecting you the day after tomorrow. Go to the nightclub after 8 p.m., and you’ll find her there.”

  “What’s your own alibi?”

  “I went to an organ concert, then visited my brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He was the one driving the car.”

  “Why did you put a hood over my head when I went to meet Upitis?”

  “His judgment is better than mine—we didn’t then know if we could trust you.”

  “What do you really think I can do to help?”

  “See you the day after tomorrow,” she said evasively. “We have no time to lose.”

  The car was at the gate. She didn’t say a word during the drive back to the city center. Wallander suspected she was crying. When they dropped him not far from the hotel, she shook his hand. She muttered something in Latvian, and Wallander scrambled out of the car, which disappeared in a flash. He was hungry, but even so he went straight up to his room. He poured himself a glass of whisky, then lay down on the bed, under the covers.

  He could think only of Baiba Liepa.

  It was after 2 a.m. before he undressed and got into bed. In his dreams, someone was lying at his side. It wasn’t his “lover” Inese, but somebody else, someone the colonel
s directing his dreams never allowed him to see.

  Sergeant Zids collected him the next morning at exactly 8 a.m. At 8:30 a.m. Colonel Murniers came to his office.

  “We think we’ve found Major Liepa’s murderer,” he said.

  Wallander looked at him in astonishment.

  “You mean the man Colonel Putnis has been interrogating these last couple of days?”

  “No, not him. He’s no doubt a slimy criminal who’s also involved in some way or another—but we’ve got another man. Come and see!”

  They went down to the basement. Murniers opened the door to an antechamber with a two-way mirror on one wall. Murniers beckoned to Wallander, inviting him to take a look.

  The room behind the mirror had bare walls, a table and two chairs. On one of the chairs was Upitis. He had a dirty bandage on his forehead. He was wearing the same shirt he’d had during their nighttime conversation in the unknown hunting lodge.

  “Who is he?” Wallander asked, without taking his eyes off Upitis. He was afraid his shock might betray him. On the other hand, maybe Murniers knew already.

  “He’s a man we’ve had our eyes on,” Murniers said. “A failed academic, poet, butterfly collector, journalist. Drinks too much, talks too much. He’s spent quite a few years in prison, for all kinds of offenses. We’ve known for some time that he was involved in serious crime, although we could never prove it. We had an anonymous tip suggesting he might have something to do with Major Liepa’s death.”

  “Is there any proof?”

  “Needless to say, he doesn’t confess to anything at all—but we have evidence as significant as a voluntary confession.”

  “What?”

  “The murder weapon.”

  Wallander turned to look at Murniers.

  “The murder weapon,” Murniers repeated. “Perhaps we should go up to my office so that I can give you the background to this arrest. Colonel Putnis ought to be there as well by now.”

  Wallander followed Murniers up the stairs. He noticed the colonel was humming to himself. Somebody’s been leading me up the garden path, he thought, horrified. Somebody’s been leading me up the garden path—but I don’t know who. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why.