"The Dogs of Riga" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mankell Henning)

CHAPTER 9

The pungent smell of damp wool.

That was how Kurt Wallander would remember his night-time drive through Riga. He had crouched down and clambered into the back seat, and before his eyes had grown used to the dark unknown hands had pulled a hood over his head. It smelled of wool, and when he began to sweat he could feel his skin start to itch. Nevertheless, his fear, the intense conviction that everything was wrong, as wrong as could be, had disappeared the moment he got into the car. A voice he assumed belonged to the hands that had pulled the hood over his head had tried to calm him down. We are not terrorists. We just have to he cautious. He recognised the voice from the telephone, the voice that had inquired about Mr Eckers and then apologised for getting the wrong room. The soothing voice had been absolutely convincing, and afterwards it occurred to him that perhaps this was something people in the chaotic, broken-down Eastern-bloc countries had to learn: how to sound convincing in claiming there was no threat, when really everything was threatening.

The car was uncomfortable. The sound of the engine told him it was Russian – presumably a Lada. He couldn't work out how many people there were in the car, just that there were at least two: in front of him was the driver, who kept coughing, and the man beside him who had spoken so soothingly. Now and again his face was hit by a draught of cold air as somebody wound down a window to let the cigarette smoke out. For a moment he thought he could detect a faint trace of perfume in the car, Baiba Liepa's perfume, but he realised it was only his imagination, or perhaps a hope. It was impossible to judge how fast they were going, but when there was a sudden change of road surface he assumed they had left the city behind them. The car occasionally slowed down and turned left or right, and once they negotiated a roundabout He tried to keep a check on the time, but soon gave up. Finally, the car took one last turning, and started bumping and jumping about in a way that suggested they had left the road altogether, and the journey came to an end. The driver switched off the engine, the doors were opened, and he was helped out of the car.

It was bitterly cold, and he thought he could smell conifers. Someone was holding him by the arm to prevent him from falling. He was led up some steps, a door creaked, he entered a warm room, there was a smell of paraffin, then the hood was removed. He gave a start. He could see again – and the shock was greater than when the hood had first been pulled over his head. The room was oblong, with rough wooden walls, and his immediate impression was that he was in some kind of hunting lodge. There was a stag's head mounted over an open fireplace, all the furniture was made of pale wood, and the only light came from a couple of paraffin lamps.

The man with the soothing voice began to speak. He face was nothing like Wallander had imagined – in so far as he had imagined him at all. He was short, and astonishingly thin, as if he had endured terrible hardship or been on a hunger strike. His face was pale, his horn-rimmed glasses seemed far too big and heavy for his cheek bones, and Wallander thought he could be anything from 25 to 50. He smiled, indicated a chair, and Wallander sat down. Without a sound another man emerged from the shadows with a thermos flask and some cups. Maybe it's the driver, Wallander thought. He was older, swarthy, and definitely the kind of person who rarely smiled. Wallander was poured a cup of tea, the two men sat down on the opposite side of the table, and the driver turned up a paraffin lamp with a white porcelain globe that stood on the table. An almost inaudible sound came from the shadows beyond the light of the paraffin lamp, and Wallander realised there were other people present. Somebody's been waiting for me, and made the tea.

"We can only offer you tea, Mr Wallander," the man said. "But you had dinner shortly before we collected you, and we shan't keep you long."

There was something about what the man said that annoyed Wallander. As long as he'd been Mr Eckers, he'd felt it was nothing to do with him personally; but now he was Mr Wallander, and they had been watching him from some invisible spy-hole, observed him having dinner, and the only mistake they'd made was to phone his room a few seconds too early, before he'd managed to open the door.

"I have every reason to distrust you," he said. "I don't even know who you are. Where's Baiba Liepa, the major's widow?"

"Please excuse my impoliteness. My name is Upitis. You can be completely calm. The moment our conversation is over, you can return to your hotel, I promise you."

Upitis, thought Wallander. It's like Mr Eckers. Whatever his name is, you can be sure it's not that.

"A promise from an unknown person is worthless,"

Wallander said. "You drove me off with a hood over my head. (Is hood really the right word?) I agreed to meet Mrs Liepa on her terms, because I knew her husband. I assumed she might be able to tell me something that could help the police to throw light on why Major Liepa was killed. I've no idea who you are. In other words, I have every reason to distrust you."

Upitis thought for a moment, and nodded in agreement.

"You're right" he said. "Please don't think we are being so cautious without good reason. I'm afraid it's essential. Mrs Liepa was unable to be with us tonight, but I'm speaking on her behalf."

"How can I be sure of that? What is it that you want, in fact?"

"We want your help."

"Why do you have to give me a false identity? Why this secluded meeting place?"

"As I've already said, I'm afraid it is necessary. You haven't been in Latvia very long yet, Mr Wallander – you'll understand eventually."

"How do you think I could help you?"

Once again he heard an almost imperceptible noise from the shadows beyond the faint light of the paraffin lamp: Baiba Liepa, he thought. She's not coming out, but she's there all right, very close to me.

"You must be patient for a few minutes," Upitis said. "Let me begin by explaining what Latvia really is."

"Is that necessary? Latvia's a country like any other country, though I have to admit I don't know what your flag looks like."

"I think it is necessary for me to explain. The very fact that you say our country is just like all the others means that there are certain things you really do have to understand."

Wallander took a sip of tea. He tried to penetrate the shadows with his gaze: maybe there was a hint of a beam of light he could see from the corner of his eye, as if from a door that wasn't properly closed.

The driver was warming his hands round his mug. His eyes were closed, and it was clear to Wallander that the conversation was to be between himself and Upitis.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Tell me that at least."

"We're Latvians," Upitis answered. "We happened to be born in this stricken country at a very unfortunate time, our paths have crossed, and we have realised that both we and you are involved in a mission that simply must be carried out."

"Major Liepa?" Wallander asked, but left his question unfinished.

"Let me start at the beginning," Upitis said. "You have to understand that our country is on the verge of total collapse. Just as in the other two Baltic states, not to mention the other countries that were treated as colonies by the Soviet Union, people are trying to recover the freedom they lost after the Second World War. But freedom is born of chaos, Mr Wallander, and monsters bent on achieving ghastly aims are lurking in the shadows. Assuming that one can be either for or against freedom is a catastrophic error. Freedom has many faces. The large number of Russians who were moved here in order to dilute the Latvian population and bring about our ultimate demise are not only worried about their presence being questioned, but naturally enough they're also frightened of losing all their privileges. There is no historical precedent of people voluntarily surrendering their privileges, and so they are arming themselves to defend their position, and doing so in secret. That's why what happened here last autumn came about: the Soviet army seized control and declared a state of emergency. It is an illusion to suppose that one can emerge as a unified nation from a brutal dictatorship, and proceed easily to something like democracy. As far as we are concerned, freedom is alluring, like a beautiful woman one cannot resist. But others regard freedom as a threat that must be opposed at all costs."

Upitis fell silent, as if what he had said was a revelation that shook even him. "A threat?" Wallander said.

"We could be faced with civil war," Upitis said. "Political dialogue might be replaced with a situation in which people bent only on revenge run amok. The desire for freedom could turn into a horrific state of affairs that no one can foresee. Monsters are hovering in the wings, knives are being sharpened in the night. It's just as difficult to say how the showdown will turn out as it is to predict the future."

A mission that simply must be carried out. Wallander tried to decide exactly what Upitis meant by that, but he knew in advance that he was wasting his time. His ability to grasp what was happening in Europe was practically non-existent: political goings-on had never had any place in his police officer's world. He usually voted when elections came round, but haphazardly, without any committed interest. Changes which had no immediate effect on his own life left him unmoved.

"Chasing after monsters is hardly the kind of thing police officers get up to," he said tentatively, trying to excuse his ignorance. "I investigate real crimes that have been committed by real people. I agreed to become Mr Eckers because I assumed Baiba Liepa wanted to see me with nobody else present. The Latvian police have asked me to help them to track down Major Liepa's murderer, primarily by trying to find out if there is any link with the two Latvian citizens whose bodies were washed ashore on the Swedish coast in a life-raft. And now, all of a sudden, you seem to be the ones asking me for help – is that right? If so, it must be possible to put the request more simply, without making long speeches about social problems I can't understand."

"That is correct," Upitis said. "But let's say we shall be helping each other."

Wallander couldn't remember the English word for "riddle", and had to express himself in a roundabout way.

"It's not clear enough," he said. "Can't you say exactly what it is you want, come straight to the point?"

Upitis slid over his notebook, which had been hidden behind the paraffin lamp, and produced a pen from the pocket of his shabby jacket.

"The bodies of two Latvian citizens drifted ashore on the Swedish coast," he said. "Major Liepa went over to Sweden. Did you work with him?"

"Yes. He was a good police officer."

"But he was only in Sweden for a few days?"

"Yes."

"How could you know he was a skilful investigator after such a short time?"

"Thoroughness and experience are almost always evident straight away."

It was clear to Wallander that the questions seemed innocent enough, but that Upitis was quite sure of what he was after. The questions were a way of spinning an invisible web. He was like a skilful investigator himself, heading for a specific goal right from the start. The simplicity of the questions was an illusion. Perhaps he's a police officer,

Wallander thought. Maybe it isn't Baiba Liepa hiding in the shadows? Maybe it's Colonel Putnis? Or Colonel Murniers?

"So you thought highly of Major Liepa's work?"

"Of course. Isn't that what I said?"

"If you discount Major Liepa's experience and thoroughness as a police officer?"

"How can one discount that?"

"What impression did you have of him as a man?"

"The same as I had of him as a police officer. He was calm, thorough, very patient, knowledgeable, intelligent."

"Major Liepa had the same opinion of you, Mr Wallander. He thought you were a good police officer."

Alarm bells rang in Wallander's mind. It was only a vague feeling, but he suspected Upitis was coming round to his important questions. At the same time he realised something was wrong. Major Liepa had only been home for a few hours before he was murdered, but even so here was this Upitis, obviously knowing details of the major's trip to Sweden. Only the major could have passed on that kind of information, either directly or via his wife.

"That was nice of him," Wallander said. "Were you very busy during the time Major Liepa spent in Sweden?"

"There's always a lot to do when you're investigating a murder."

"So you didn't have time to socialise?" "I beg your pardon? I don't understand the question." "Socialise. Relax. Laugh and sing. I've heard the Swedes like singing."

"Major Liepa and I didn't start a choir, if that's what you mean. I invited him to my home one evening, but that was all. We emptied a bottle of whisky and listened to music. It was snowing heavily that night. He went back to his hotel afterwards."

"Major Liepa was very fond of music. He sometimes complained at how rarely he had time to go to concerts."

The alarm bells rang louder. What the hell is he trying to find out, he wondered. Who is this Upitis? And where's Baiba Liepa?

"May I ask what the music was you listened to?" Upitis asked.

"Maria Callas. I don't remember which opera. Turandot, I think." "I'm not familiar with it." "It's one of Puccini's most beautiful operas." "And you drank whisky?" "Yes."

"And it was snowing hard?" "Yes."

He's coming to the point now, Wallander thought feverishly. What does he want me to say without my realising I've said it?

"What brand of whisky were you drinking?"

"JB, I think."

"Major Liepa was very moderate when it came to strong liquor. Mind you, he did occasionally like to relax over a drink."

"Really?"

"He was moderate in all respects."

"I think I was probably more affected by the drink than he was. If that's what you want to know."

"Nevertheless, you seem to have a clear memory of the evening."

"We listened to music. Sat there with glasses in our hands. Chatted. Sat quietly. Why shouldn't I remember that?"

"No doubt you continued discussing the bodies in the life-raft?"

"Not as far as I remember. Major Liepa probably did most of the talking, about Latvia. It was only then that I discovered he was married, by the way."

Wallander noticed a sudden change in atmosphere. Upitis was observing him intently, and the driver changed his position on his chair almost imperceptibly. Wallander was so sure his intuition was reliable that he had no doubt they had just passed the point in the conversation that Upitis had been working towards all the time. But what was it, exactly? In his mind's eye he could see the major sitting on his sofa, resting the glass of whisky on one knee, listening to the music. There must have been something more to it, something that justified the creation of Mr Eckers as a secret identity for a Swedish police officer.

"You presented Major Liepa with a book as he was leaving, is that right?"

"I bought him a book of photographs of Skåne. Not very imaginative, perhaps, but I couldn't think of anything better."

"Major Liepa much appreciated the gift." "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 realising 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 organisation," he said.

"Rather a loosely connected circle of people. An organisation 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 unfreedom. We are free in the sense that we're able to analyse 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."

Dead right, 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 straight out."

"There are no short cuts 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 realise, 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 recognised 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 tooth 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 Latvians 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 he 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 gendy in the draught 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 carried on 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 got 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. 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 screwed the back off his alarm clock.

The microphone was about as big as a penny piece, three or four millimetres thick. It was jammed between the two batteries. At first, Wallander thought it was a lump of fluff, or a piece of grey 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.