Behind God's Back (14 page)

It was getting dark, and I could see there was a light on in the cabin. A school of small fish sent the surface of the water skittering; the sea smelt heavy but intoxicating. Once when I was at the marina with Dad when I was little, he told me that if I listened very closely, the sea would tell me its secrets. It would tell me of sunken ships, of golden treasure, of pirates and Indians living on the other side of the world, of kings and princesses. The stories had travelled with the waves for hundreds of years, and now they were here. Then he lifted his hand to his ear and asked me to listen too. He described everything so vividly that I really imagined I could hear the sea telling those stories to me.

The pontoons creaked and swayed under my feet. I breathed in the salt smell of the deeps. Maritime life had its appeal.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and turned. A figure dressed in dark clothes and a hoodie leapt from Max's boat to the dock and ran to its seaward end. He didn't look back.

“Hey! Stop —”

The figure stopped and turned. I saw him raise one of his hands. It took an instant before I understood what he was doing. I threw myself onto the dock stomach-first and the bullet whizzed over my head, striking the dock. The gun had a silencer; all I heard was the sound of the bullet's impact and its ricochet.

I had landed in an awkward position and it took agonizingly long to draw my weapon, so long that I could feel my guts wrench in panic. The guy had plenty of time to shoot again if he wanted to. But there was no second shot. By the time I twisted myself around in his direction, gun in hand, he had disappeared.

I kept scanning as I warily crept to the end of the dock, gun at the ready. I heard a splash and saw a blue kayak flash between some boats. The kayak slipped behind them and raced off in the direction of the West Harbour. By the time I caught sight of it again, it was almost a hundred yards away. For a second I considered going after the shooter, but I knew that in just a minute he would be on the opposite shore making his escape, whereas I would have to pursue him in my car, looping around several kilometres across the bridge.

I pulled out my phone and tapped in the emergency number. As I waited for a response, I walked back to Max's boat. I rapped on the bow rail and called out: “Max!”

No one answered. The waves slapped against the yacht's hull and the dock. Normally the sound would have been soothing, but not now.

“Max!” I called out again, climbing aboard. The heavy vessel barely moved under my weight.

I peered in through one of the cabin windows. I saw the lounge decorated in exotic woods and velvet.

Max was sitting on the sofa, bent forward. There was a whisky bottle on the table in front of him. I knocked on the window, but Max didn't move a muscle.

I circled around the lounge and climbed down to the rear deck. The teak door was ajar. I stepped in and felt soft, heavy carpeting under my feet.

“Max!”

Max still didn't move, but now the reason was obvious. There were two bullet holes in his left temple only a quarter of an inch apart. Just then, emergency response answered. It was the best timing ever in my entire career as police officer.

I requested several patrols to look for the killer who had fled by kayak, and warned them that he was dangerous. After that I called Simolin, even though I knew he had put in a long day. I also called Huovinen at home. We agreed that I would lead the investigation, because the incident was apparently
linked to the Jacobson case. Huovinen promised to send reinforcements.

After I had made the calls, I sat down on the sofa across from Max. I had sat on that very sofa before, but it had been in much more jovial company. One of Max's eyes was slightly open, and I could see the light reflecting off of it. His head was angled and his back was hunched, like a man already weighed down by sorrow and tribulation who was anticipating the final blow with complete indifference. At least death brings the gift of comforting oblivion.

It was only now that I realized that Max was, despite all his bravado and egotism, a knight of doleful countenance.

I stood up and went off in search of the security guard. I found him in his hut, flipping through a boating magazine and sipping coffee. Sandwiches waited on the table. The heater was on, and the hut was stiflingly hot.

The guard was a sixty-year-old man wearing a turtleneck sweater, a black baseball cap and short rubber boots. The night's forecast was for rain. I introduced myself and asked when he had last done a round. He looked flustered, and didn't know what to say.

“Did crazy old Heikkilä call you again? It's not worth calling in the police just because I'm a tiny bit late, is it? He said that life vests had been stolen from his boat and that I'm the one responsible…”

I reassured him that this was about something completely different, something much more serious. Evidently I chose the wrong words, because he didn't appear reassured.

“Why don't you just tell me when you last did a round?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

“What should I have seen?”

“Did you go out on C Dock?”

“Of course.”

“And you didn't see anything out of the ordinary?”

The guard was dismayed. “I don't understand what you're getting at.”

I told him that a body had been found on a boat on C Dock.

The man's face went white, and he put his coffee cup down.

“It's not my fault. I was late because my wife didn't bring the car home on time. She was supposed to be home by 5:30 at the latest, but —”

His explanations carried a hint of panic.

I cut him off. “I'm not blaming you for anything. Tell me about this evening. What have you done since you arrived at the marina?”

The man tossed the boating magazine onto the table.

“The guard's supposed to go around to all of the docks and make sure that the boats are properly secured. I did my rounds half an hour ago and didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Did you say C Dock? The lights were on in Oxbaum's boat, and he looked like he was in there. That's not a crime, so I let him be.”

“What do you mean, looked like?”

“I saw someone moving around inside. The curtains were drawn, and I assumed it was Oxbaum.”

“Did you see Oxbaum arrive at the marina?”

“It was around seven.”

“And he was alone?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No… maybe someone came in while I was in the bathroom.”

“Not even in a canoe?”

“I know I didn't see a single person in a canoe.”

“How long were you in the bathroom?”

“About ten minutes. My stomach's been a little hard lately. I tried to get someone to cover for me, but no one could make it. It's not my fault if… The harbourmaster came by and said hello around 6:30, when he was taking a new gas cylinder out to his boat, but I guess he doesn't count. There were probably
other folks here, too. This is a big marina and folks come down here in the evenings to fish, but I didn't pay any attention to them because nothing out of the ordinary happened…”

I wonder what it would have taken for the guard to have noticed anything.

“So what time did you see someone moving around on Oxbaum's boat?”

The guy glanced at his watch. “About 8 p.m. The round began at eight.”

“What time did your shift start?”

“Six… but I was fifteen minutes late because my wife —”

“The gate to C Dock was open when I got here. Did you close it behind you?”

“Of course… or I mean, I normally would have closed it, but Oxbaum asked me to leave it open because he was expecting a guest. He promised to shut it behind him. It's not my fault if —”

“Did Oxbaum came by car?”

“Yes, in that black Benz SUV of his. Parked it in the lot.”

I saw two patrol cars turn into the marina.

“I'll be right back. Stay here in the hut.”

The man was clearly interested in seeing a real body. He looked disappointed. “I have to inform the harbourmaster about this.”

“Tell him to come here. I want to talk to him. Don't talk to anyone else yet.”

I went and explained the situation to the police. While we were talking, Simolin drove into the marina, followed by the forensic investigators. I led them to the yacht. Simolin stood on the dock, looking around.

“Expensive barge. You knew the owner?”

“He's my brother's business partner.”

“And Jewish, based on the name.”

“Yes.”

“So he knew Jacobson, too, I guess?”

“Yes. This has to be related somehow,” I said pensively.

“Small world,” Simolin mused. “Pretty unusual. The killer flees by kayak. I haven't come across too many kayak killers in my day. On the other hand, it was a pretty ingenious move. Straight across the channel there and you're long gone, free and clear.”

As soon as Simolin said
kayak killer
, I knew that's the exact phrasing the tabloids would use in their headlines.

“Did the bullet come close?” Simolin asked.

“Way too.”

“What were you doing down here, anyway?”

I told him about Max's call.

“And he didn't hint as to what it was about?”

“No… He said he wanted to tell me something that would help me with the investigation. This morning at the funeral he was still claiming that everything was fine and he didn't know anything about anything.”

“I wonder what made him change his mind?”

I didn't bother answering. I was mad at myself for not having raked Max over the coals and demanding more information on the phone.

The forensic specialist found footprints on the deck of the yacht. I told her that I had been inside and would definitely have left footprints on the deck, too. She took my prints for later comparison and elimination.

“Could you please check the pockets of the deceased? I need his car keys… and cell phone.”

The investigator passed my request on to her colleague inside, and I got the keys.

“There's no phone. This victim was also shot with a .22, by the way. That means it could be the same perp as with the Tammisalo murder.”

The matter would resolve itself as soon as tests were conducted on the bullet that would be retrieved from Max.

I thanked her and climbed back onto the dock. The first drops of rain fell softly on my face. It was almost dark now, and the city lights gleamed beyond the channel.

My phone rang. It was a patrol reporting that they had found the kayak potentially used by the killer at the West Harbour. There was no trace of the kayaker.

“I'll go have a look at the car before I leave,” I said to Simolin. Oxbaum's car was in the lot, just like the guard had guessed. I circled it and looked in. Then I opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. There was nothing on the seats, but there were a few CDs in the door compartment. I opened the glove box and emptied the contents onto the passenger seat. Meanwhile, Simolin examined the trunk.

Vehicle registration, a Swiss army knife, a parking fine in a plastic sleeve, a few parking stubs and a receipt from a gas station. It indicated that Max had bought thirteen litres of gas at the ABC service station in Vantaa. There was another receipt for two coffees from the same place. I shoved the receipts into the plastic sleeve containing the ticket, and put it in my pocket.

Simolin opened the door and looked in. “I found this in the spare tyre compartment,” he said, showing me a small, battered handgun. “What would a lawyer need a gun for? Unless he was afraid of something… But why didn't he take it with him onto the boat?”

“Because he was expecting me.” I took a closer look at the gun. I picked it up and examined it very carefully. Simolin handed me his LED lamp. The pistol was a 1938 Beretta. There was a chip in the right-side Bakelite plate, and the front of the grip had been roughened with a file.

The gun had been my father's. He had got it from his own father, who had brought it home from the war. It was one of thousands of illegal firearms that were souvenirs of the war.

I handed the weapon back to Simolin, who looked a little baffled at it.

We went back to the marina and I asked the forensic investigator to tow Max's car in for examination. I wanted them to get everything they could from it, down to the last fingerprint, hair, fibre and skin cell.

By now it was almost ten. I drove Simolin downtown so he could continue by bus to Puistola, where he and his girlfriend had just bought themselves a town house. He was excited about having his own sauna and about the hobby room that had been built in the basement. Someone at work had asked about a housewarming party, but Simolin had awkwardly dodged the question. He didn't want to admit such a large crowd of co-workers into his private sphere.