Remarkably enough, he's always managed to avoid going to prison – but maybe we can nail him this time.'
The car slowed down and stopped by a wharf with piles of scrap iron and abandoned cranes. They got out of the car and walked to the water's edge.
'That's where Major Liepa was found.'
Wallander looked round, trying to establish basic facts.
How had the murderers and the major got here? Why just here? It wasn't good enough to say that this part of the docks was remote. Wallarider inspected the remains of what had once been a crane. Please, Baiba Liepa had written. Murniers had lit a cigarette, and was stamping his feet rhythmically to keep warm.
Why doesn't he want to tell me about where the crime actually took place? Wallander thought. Why does Baiba Liepa want to meet me in secret? When somebody telephones and asks for Mr Eckers… What am I really doing here in Riga?
The anxiety he'd felt that morning had returned. He wondered whether it had to do with the fact that he was a stranger in an unknown country. The job of a police officer was to deal with circumstances of which oneself was a part. Here, he was an outsider. Perhaps he could penetrate this foreign environment in the guise of Mr Eckers? Kurt Wallander was a Swedish police officer, and he felt helpless in these alien circumstances. He went back to the car.
'I'd like to study your documentation,' he said. 'The post-mortem, forensic reports, photos.'
'We shall have all the papers translated,' Murniers said.
'It might be quicker if I have an interpreter,' Wallander suggested. 'Sergeant Zids speaks excellent English.'
Murniers smiled wryly, and lit another cigarette.
'You are in a hurry,' he said. 'You're impatient. Of course Sergeant Zids can translate the reports for you.'
When they got back to police headquarters, they'd gone behind a curtain and watched Colonel Putnis and the man he was interrogating through a two-way mirror. The interrogation room was cold and furnished with only a small wooden table and two chairs. Colonel Putnis had taken off his tunic. The man sitting opposite him was unshaven and looked exhausted. His answers to Putnis's questions were very slow.
'This will take some time,' Murniers said pensively, 'but we'll get to the truth sooner or later.'
'What truth?'
'Whether or not we're right.'
They returned to the inner sanctum of the labyrinth, and Wallander was shown to a small office in the same corridor as Murniers's. Sergeant Zids arrived with a file on the investigation into the major's death. Before Murniers left them to get on with it, he and the sergeant exchanged a few words in Latvian.
'Baiba Liepa will be brought here for an interrogation at 2 p.m. this afternoon,' said Murniers.
Wallander was horrified. You have betrayed me, MrEckers. Why did you do that?
'What I had in mind was a conversation,' Wallander said. 'Not an interrogation.'
'I shouldn't have used the word 'interrogation',' Murniers said. 'Allow me to explain that she indicated she would be delighted to see you.'
Murniers left, and two hours later Zids had translated all the documents in the file. Wallander had examined the blurred photographs of Liepa's body, and his feeling that something vital was missing was reinforced. Since he knew he could think more clearly when he was doing something else, he asked the sergeant to drive him to a shop where he could buy long Johns. The sergeant didn't appear surprised at his request. Wallander was struck by the absurdity of the whole situation as he marched into the outfitters selected by the sergeant: it was as if he were buying underpants with a police escort. Zids did the talking for him, and insisted that Wallander should try on the long Johns before paying for them. He bought two pairs, and they were duly wrapped up in brown paper and tied with string. When they emerged into the street, he suggested they should have lunch.
'Not at the Latvia Hotel, though,' he said. 'Anywhere else, but not there.'
Sergeant Zids turned off the main street and drove into the old town. It seemed to Wallander that he was entering a new labyrinth he would never be able to find his way out of alone.
They stopped at the Sigulda restaurant. Wallander had an omelette, and the sergeant a bowl of soup. The atmosphere was stifling and heavy with cigarette smoke. The place was full when they arrived, and Wallander had noted that the sergeant had demanded a table.
'This would have been impossible in Sweden,' he said as they were eating. 'I mean, a police officer marching into a crowded restaurant and demanding a table.'
'It's different here,' Sergeant Zids said, unconcerned. 'People prefer to keep well in with the police.'
Wallander could feel himself getting annoyed. Sergeant Zids was too young for such arrogance.
'I don't want to jump any queues in future,' he said.
The sergeant stared at him in astonishment.
'Then we won't get any food,' he said.
'The dining room at the Latvia Hotel is always empty,' Wallander replied curtly.
They were back at police headquarters just before 2 p.m. During the meal Wallander had sat there without speaking, trying to establish in his mind just what was wrong with the report Zids had translated. He had concluded that what worried him was the very perfection of the whole thing – it was as if it had been written in such a way as to make questions unnecessary. That was as far as he had got, and he wasn't sure he was right. Maybe he was seeing ghosts where there weren't any?
Murniers wasn't in his office and Colonel Putnis was still busy with his interrogation. The sergeant went to fetch Baiba Liepa, leaving Wallander alone in his office. He wondered if it was bugged, if someone was observing him through a two-way mirror. As if to assert his innocence, he took off his trousers and put on his long Johns. He had just noticed how his legs were starting to itch when there was a knock on the door. He shouted, 'Come in,' and the sergeant ushered in Baiba Liepa. I'm not Mr Eckers. There's no such person as Mr Eckers. That's exactly why I want to talk to you.
'Does Major Liepa's widow speak English?' he asked the sergeant. Zids nodded.
'Then you can leave us alone.'
He had tried to prepare himself. I must remember that everything I say and do can be monitored. We can't even put our fingers over our lips, let alone write notes. But Baiba Liepa has to understand that Mr Eckers still exists.
She was dressed in a dark overcoat and a fur hat. Unlike earlier in the day, she was wearing glasses. She took off her hat, and shook out her dark hair.
'Please sit down, Mrs Liepa,' Wallander said. She immediately smiled, a quick smile, as if he'd sent her a secret signal with a torch. He noted that she accepted it with no trace of surprise, but rather as if she'd expected nothing different. He knew he had to put to her all the questions he already had answers to. Perhaps she could send him a message through her responses, some insight into what was being held back for the eyes of Mr Eckers only?
He expressed his sympathy – formally, but sincerely even so. Then he asked the questions that were natural in the circumstances, bearing in mind all the time that some unknown person would be monitoring them.
'How long were you married to Major Liepa?'
'For eight years.'
'If I understand correctly, you didn't have any children.'
'We wanted to wait. I have my career.'
'What is your career, Mrs Liepa?'
'I'm an engineer. But these last few years I've spent most of my time translating scientific papers. Some of them for our technical university.'
How did you fix serving me breakfast? he wondered. Who is your contact at the Latvia Hotel? The thought distracted him. He asked his next question.
'And you thought you couldn't combine that with having children?'
He regretted asking that question straight away. That was a private matter, irrelevant. He apologised by not waiting for an answer, but just pressing on.
'Mrs Liepa,' he said. 'You must have thought, worried, wondered about what really happened to your husband. I've had the interrogations you had with the police translated. You say you don't know anything, don't understand anything, have no idea about anything. I'm sure that's the case. Nobody wants your husband's murderer to be
