Light in a Dark House (24 page)

Happonen, thought Lassi Anttila.

Sought as a witness.

All around him, the visitors to the electrical goods store were hurrying about on business of their own without giving him a glance, but sooner or later there was going to be someone who had known him an eternity ago. There might not be many, but there would be someone.

He fished his mobile out of his jacket pocket and tapped in the wrong digits twice before he managed to ring directory enquiries. He asked to be put through to an old people’s home in the vicinity of Karjasaari.

‘In Karjasaari or in the vicinity?’ asked the woman at the other end of the line.

‘I don’t know exactly,’ said Anttila.

‘I’m afraid I need rather more detailed information,’ said the woman.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Anttila.

‘Yes?’

Cunt, thought Anttila. Cunt, cunt, cunt.

He broke the connection and tapped in a number that he knew off by heart. It was ages since he had called it, but he still remembered it. He pressed two fingers to his forehead, and when a strange voice with the right name answered, he said:

‘Lassi here. I’d like to have the number of the home where Jarkko Miettinen is living.’

The man at the other end of the line said nothing, and Lassi Anttila thought that he ought to get his ideas in order first. Think about it properly.

‘Who is this speaking?’ asked the man who had introduced himself as Miettinen. Probably Jarkko’s son, who had taken over the nursery garden business. The same firm. The same telephone number.

‘It’s Lassi. I’m . . . I’m an old friend of Jarkko’s.’

‘Then . . . do you already know what’s happened?’

‘Er . . . I’m afraid . . .’

‘My father is dead,’ said Jarkko’s son.

On the TV screens a ski jumper crashed into a barrier bearing advertisements.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘The name Lassi means nothing to me.’

‘It’s . . . a long time ago.’

‘Are you a reporter?’

Paramedics were bending over the ski jumper. The red of their jackets stood out in sharp contrast to the snow.

‘Hello?’

Anttila ended the call. The ski jumper was being led out of the stadium, his skis still in the run-out position, one lying some way from the other. With a forced smile, the ski jumper waved to the camera.

Dislocated shoulder, thought Anttila.

He called the three digits that every child knew. The answering voice sounded young and pleasingly calm.

‘Police emergency number 112, what are you reporting?’

‘My name’s Anttila. I’m the man you’re looking for.’

‘Can you put that more clearly?’

‘I’m the man you’re looking for. On TV.’

‘What exactly is this about?’

‘On TV. On the news. That photo.’

The man at the police switchboard said nothing for a moment, and Anttila turned his eyes away from the screen and looked into a face that he knew. Or maybe he didn’t.

‘Mr Anttila?’

‘What is it?’

‘We have an appointment.’

‘Oh . . . do we?’

‘What a shame. He’s dislocated his shoulder.’

‘Excuse me, I must just . . .’

‘We spoke on the phone. I’m the security scout.’

‘Er . . . you’re too early. I . . .’

‘No, no, I’m right on time,’ replied the man.

The police officer on the phone said something, but all that Lassi Anttila could hear were the words formed by his own lips. He didn’t know if he was really speaking them or just thinking them.

All around him it was silent, only the words still hung in the air, like drops that wouldn’t fall.

He saw the man making for the exit at a brisk but steady pace, and for a few seconds he felt the soft burning sensation in his stomach as something that he had been expecting for a long time.

62

BY THE TIME
Sundström and Grönholm arrived, the electrical goods store had been closed off, and inquisitive rubberneckers had positioned themselves on the other side of the police tape in the entrance foyer of the shopping centre.

A uniformed man led them past the DVDs and CDs and laptops and computers and washing machines and fridges to the dead body, which was lying on the grey carpet at the centre of the extensive shop floor. Sundström put on the overalls and gloves that one of the technicians handed him and bent over the man. He lay on his back, arms spread wide.

‘CCTV surveillance?’ he asked.

‘The recording is being assessed and prepared for you at the moment,’ said the man in uniform.

Sundström nodded.

‘Lassi Anttila. The store detective.’

‘Store detective?’

‘Yes, I suppose you could call him the combined security man and cleaner of this shopping centre.’

‘I see.’

‘Like I said, combined security man and cleaner,’ the uniformed man persevered.

Salomon Hietalahti of Forensics was leaning against a desk on the periphery of the scene with a sign saying
Information
in large yellow lettering above it, making notes. Sundström went over to him.

‘You’re in the right place,’ he said.

Hietalahti glanced up and looked at him enquiringly.

‘You’re in the right place. Information.’ Sundström pointed to the sign above Hietalahti’s head.

‘Ah, I see.’

‘So?’

‘The man was stabbed. A single stab wound.’

‘A single stab wound?’

‘Inflicted horizontally. One quick, fast, powerful stab wound.’

‘Okay,’ said Sundström. Fast and powerful, he thought.

‘As far as I can see at present,’ said Hietalahti.

‘Ah,’ said Sundström.

‘Come over here, would you, Paavo?’ Grönholm called from some way off. He was standing beside a small woman wearing a dark brown trouser suit who came over to him with, in view of the circumstances, a surprising spring in her step. Sundström was already moving in that direction.

‘Mr Sundström?’

‘That’s right,’ said Sundström, returning the woman’s firm handshake. She introduced herself as Johanna Eklund, deputy business manager.

‘We have the CCTV recording ready for you. Would you like to see it?’

‘Very much,’ said Sundström.

He followed Grönholm and the woman through the concourse to the escalator and down to the basement floor. The little woman, her step still lively, walked briskly ahead and said, as she finally opened a door, ‘Sad as it is to say so in the circumstances, this is poor Mr Anttila’s domain.’

Sundström looked around the dead security man’s office, and nodded to the man standing bent over a keyboard.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he said.

‘This is Tommy Timonen. A colleague of Mr Anttila’s.’

‘That’s right.’ Timonen turned away from the monitor. ‘Do sit down. I’ve looked through it once . . . that was okay, I hope?’

‘Hmm?’ asked Sundström.

‘Okay that I’ve looked at it myself? I had to look for the right place.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s fine,’ said Sundström.

‘We have several cameras. I’ll just show you what I’ve spotted so far.’ He typed on the keyboard, and a grey image jerked into life on the little monitor.

‘That’s the camera fitted over the information desk. There, in front of the widescreen TV. See it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there’s Lassi.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Sundström leaned forward, and sensed Grönholm beside him doing the same.

‘He’s standing in front of the TV set looking at the camera.’

‘Ah, yes, I can see him.’

‘And it’s odd, because Lassi stands there for quite some time. He seems to be watching what’s on the TV screen.’

‘Yes,’ said Sundström.

‘Then it all gets kind of fast and furious. Just a moment.’ He wound forward a little way.

‘He’s phoning,’ said Grönholm.

‘Exactly. And now . . . in a minute . . .’ The voice faltered slightly, and out of nowhere a man came into view. He seemed to be speaking to Lassi Anttila, and at the same moment he struck him down. Although from the bird’s-eye view they had here, they could hardly see that any physical contact had taken place at all.

A single quick stab wound, thought Sundström.

‘There . . . now . . . somehow it got Lassi, and the other person disappears from the picture.’

On a grey, coarse-grained screen, Lassi Anttila was in his death throes, and all around him people stood looking at the electrical goods on display and noticed nothing.

‘Good heavens,’ said Grönholm, sighing.

‘Do you have a larger or clearer picture of the man?’ asked Sundström.

‘Yes, at the exit. Wait a moment.’ He typed on the keyboard again, and other grey pictures came up on the monitor.

‘That’s the camera trained on every customer leaving the sales area,’ he said. He pointed to a small line on the screen that quickly came closer and took shape. ‘Here he comes.’

Sundström and Grönholm leaned forward again. The figure on the screen was looking down and wore a hooded jacket; he had drawn the hood over his head. It was impossible to guess whether he was young or old. The way the figure walked looked as if he was indeed a man, but who could tell even that for certain?

The man, assuming he was a man, walked on with remarkable composure, considering what had just happened.

‘Do you have one of him coming into the electrical goods store?’ asked Grönholm.

‘Yes,’ said Timonen. ‘Here you are.’

Seconds later, a new picture flickered into life on the screen. The hooded man was approaching from the opposite direction, moving with equal composure.

‘If I didn’t know what was going to happen next I’d have said he was just strolling casually along,’ said Grönholm.

The man disappeared, and Timonen froze the picture. ‘That’s all,’ he said.

‘Outside cameras? In the car park?’

‘I haven’t checked them yet,’ said Timonen.

Sundström nodded. Something else seemed to him considerably more important. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and went quickly ahead along the dark corridor to the escalator, through the concourse and back to the large, brightly lit store in the middle of which the body of Lassi Anttila was still lying.

He knelt down and bent over the dead man. Anttila’s mobile lay half covered by his right leg, level with the back of his knee. Sundström pulled it out without touching the body and studied the display before bringing up the record of calls. He stared at the number.

‘What is it?’ asked Grönholm behind him.

‘Just before his death he called the police emergency number,’ said Sundström.

‘What?’

‘But that’s not the really surprising thing.’

‘What is, then?’ asked Grönholm.

‘Before contacting the police he called a number with an area dialling code that I’ve known for some days, because that’s where Kimmo always calls from.’

‘Kimmo?’

‘Karjasaari,’ said Sundström.

63

A dead man whom no one has reported missing. He is sitting leaning back against a tree, in summer, in autumn, in winter. He doesn’t feel the rain, the snow or the cold any more.

But I wonder whether the shoebox will keep out the water. For a little longer, that ought to be enough.

Sometimes I search the Internet for any indications that the dead man in the forest has been found. There’s nothing of the kind. Maybe he doesn’t exist. Maybe my memory is a fantasy. Maybe I didn’t sit with him for a night and a day. Maybe I’m just imagining that I did because it seems to me appropriate.

Dear diary. 16 December.

I’m on the way back to Helsinki, sitting in the dining car drinking coffee with plenty of sugar and plenty of cream.

The woman sitting opposite me thinks that’s amusing, and has given me the biscuit served with her own espresso.

Lassi Anttila, cleaner, store detective. Surrounded by TV sets showing his face. I didn’t have much time. Unfortunately I had no chance to give him the business card, but he paid me the compliment of recognising me.

There was perplexity in his eyes, but also, in that last long second, the dawn of understanding.

64

KIMMO JOENTAA LOOKED
at the multicoloured muesli flakes in Seppo’s bowl, thought of Larissa, and called Tuomas Heinonen in hospital yet again.

Tuomas did not reply, and he decided against leaving another message, since it would only have been a repetition of the one he had left in the small hours.
Hello, Tuomas, thought I’d just call and ask how you’re doing.

The last he had heard from Tuomas had been the alarming message about a big win. Tiger Woods. Record for the course broken. In spite of everything. Tuomas had called in the middle of the night to share his delight with him.

He looked for Heinonen’s landline among the stored numbers, and called Paulina. Getting to his feet, he walked a few metres away from the muesli-eating Seppo. One of the twin daughters answered.

‘This is Vanessa at the Heinonen home,’ she said.

‘Hi . . . this is Kimmo. Kimmo Joentaa. I’m a colleague of your father’s,’ said Joentaa.

‘I know,’ said the little girl. ‘Daddy isn’t here.’

‘Er . . . well, I wanted to speak to Paulina.’

‘I think she’s in the bathroom. Wait a minute.’

He heard her calling her mother.

‘She’s just coming,’ said Vanessa. Then she took a deep breath, noisily. ‘Hear that? Did you notice I’m sick?’

‘Yes, you sound sick,’ said Joentaa.

‘Tonsillitis. Both of us.’

‘Then I hope you get well soon,’ said Joentaa.

‘That’s okay. School can wait.’

‘I see.’

‘And we’re really feeling fine because of the antibiotics.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Joentaa.

‘But we have to stay at home all week.’

‘Have a nice time,’ said Joentaa, and then Paulina was on the line, and Joentaa realised that he didn’t know what he wanted to say to her.

‘Kimmo?’ said Paulina.