Light in a Dark House (27 page)

Risto.

‘Risto?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you know about this Risto?’

‘Nothing,’ she says.

‘Nothing . . . and everything?’

‘No. Really nothing. I’m sorry.’

‘The music teacher’s boyfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that’s all you know about him?’

‘I think I saw him from a distance a few times.’

‘Yes?’

‘On the bathing beach. Playing volleyball.’

‘With your brother?’

‘Yes, but I never went any closer. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to play volleyball with my brother. I liked to go swimming with my school friends.’

‘But you saw him?’

‘If it was him, yes. A tall man who laughed a lot, loudly. But he never looked happy.’

‘Ah,’ said Westerberg.

‘As I said, I don’t even know if he was the one.’

‘And you never . . . talked to your brother about all this?’

She laughed. ‘Of course not. I went very quietly downstairs to my room that evening. To the day of his death Kalevi wasn’t aware that I knew anything about it at all.’

‘And your mother?’

‘She fell ill and died.’

Westerberg said nothing.

She was trying to remember Westerberg. Another tall man. But one who neither laughed a lot nor seemed unhappy.

Westerberg still said nothing, and for a while she tried to think what she would say next, until she realised that there was nothing more to say.

She broke the connection and turned her mobile off.

69

‘
ATALL MAN WHO
laughed a lot, loudly. But he never looked happy,’ said Westerberg that evening, as they sat at their table in the dimly lit breakfast area near the fruit machines. The same band was playing the same tango music in the restaurant next door.

Westerberg seemed tired. Genuinely tired, not secretly wide awake, and he asked Kimmo Joentaa to make the phone call that still had to be made.

‘Offer to go into his study or something,’ he murmured as Joentaa tapped in the number that Seppo had spelled out from behind his well-organised laptop.

The father of the politician, Joosef Happonen, answered in a voice that sounded sceptical. Probably because he didn’t recognise the number on the display.

‘Kimmo Joentaa from the Turku police,’ said Joentaa. ‘We spoke to each other yesterday.’

‘Yes,’ said Happonen.

‘I have to speak to you again. Only briefly. And perhaps only to you, without your wife.’

Happonen did not reply.

‘Did you hear me?’ asked Joentaa.

‘Yes. My wife is out visiting a friend to play cards,’ he said.

‘Good,’ said Joentaa.

‘Yes. Very well,’ said Happonen.

‘It’s about your son. And the music teacher whom I was asking about yesterday.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘We know now that something happened in the summer of 1985. I believe that you too know something about it.’

‘Yes,’ said Happonen.

‘What do you know?’

Happonen said nothing. Joentaa thought he could hear him walking up and down.

‘Mr Happonen?’

As Happonen went on, his voice sounded businesslike again, as it had directly after his collapse the day before. As if he were discussing something entirely different.

‘In the summer of 1985 my son took part in the rape of a woman. His music teacher. He told me about it several weeks later because . . . because he couldn’t bear the thought of it. We agreed to keep the whole business to ourselves. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

‘His best friend Kalevi was also involved, as well as several men. Markus really had nothing to do with them. They probably met on the beach. There was evidently a man who took the lead, a . . . friend or acquaintance of the teacher . . . and Markus didn’t have the courage to intervene.’

Joentaa made no comment.

‘I don’t know . . . whether he told me everything,’ said Happonen.

‘I have an important question to ask you,’ said Joentaa. ‘Did Markus ever mention another boy? A younger student at the school who was involved in one way or another?’

‘Yes,’ said Happonen.

‘He did?’

‘But how do you know about it?’

‘What did Markus say about this boy?’

It was a long time before Happonen broke the ensuing silence. ‘I watched him,’ he said at last. ‘For months on end.’

‘You watched him? The other boy?’

‘Yes. I waited outside the school in my car and tried to work out what was going on in his mind when he left the school building. Then I drove after him. I accompanied him on his way home, if you like.’

‘You’re talking about Teuvo Manner?’

‘Yes, that’s right. That was his name.’

‘Why did you . . . accompany the boy home?’

‘Because I wanted to be sure that he . . . he could live with it. He didn’t have to say anything.’

‘Didn’t have to say anything about what? About the rape?’

Once again Happonen said nothing. The word lingered in the air as if three-dimensional.

‘Yes. About the rape.’

‘You wanted to reassure yourself that the boy Teuvo Manner was carrying on with his life, and saying nothing to anyone about the rape in which your son took part.’

‘Yes.’

‘Which means that the boy was there. He saw it all too.’

‘Yes. He had a piano lesson that day. A younger boy from the school. And the music teacher’s boyfriend . . . probably thought it would be particularly amusing if that boy had to watch as well.’

Particularly amusing, thought Joentaa.

‘The man . . . well, he must be out of his mind.’

‘Did you talk to the boy?’

‘No. Of course not. I followed him for several months. At increasingly wide intervals. In a way they were only spot checks, and then I had a feeling that everything was all right with that boy. And then we all forgot it. Markus forgot it. I forgot it. And I think the boy did too.’

Forgot it, thought Joentaa.

‘I could have been wrong,’ said Happonen.

‘What do you know about the music teacher?’

‘What would you expect me to know about her?’

‘Didn’t the question of what became of her bother you?’

‘She stopped coming to the school. Markus told me that.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Some time that winter Markus came to me and said the woman had gone. And her boyfriend as well. They’d moved away.’

‘What do you know about the boyfriend?’

‘I know his name was Risto,’ he said.

‘That’s all?’

Happonen seemed to be thinking it over. Then he said, ‘That’s all.’

Risto, thought Joentaa. If names don’t matter, then why was this man reduced to a single name?

‘I didn’t want to know any more,’ said Happonen. ‘Surely you can understand that. The man must be out of his mind. Dangerous. I didn’t want to know anything about him, I just wanted my son to survive what happened.’

‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

‘And as for the woman . . . Markus dropped a few hints. Said that up to a certain point she went along with it.’

‘Went along with it,’ said Joentaa.

‘Yes. Went along with them touching her. Well, that boyfriend of hers did it, and the others could watch and that didn’t bother her. Do you see what I mean? The whole thing . . . well, the woman wasn’t . . . wasn’t normal.’

Normal, thought Joentaa.

‘Do you understand me?’

‘No, Mr Happonen. I don’t understand you. I understand that you wanted to be there for your son, but I don’t understand any of the rest of what you’re telling me.’

Happonen did not respond.

‘Thank you. I’ll call again if I have any more questions,’ said Joentaa.

‘Yes,’ said Happonen. ‘Of course. I’m at your disposal any time.’

‘Thanks. Goodbye.’

He put the mobile down on the table in front of him, stared at it, and felt a sudden barely tolerable longing, a painful wish that Larissa would call. Now, at this very moment.

‘Kimmo?’ asked Westerberg.

Joentaa picked up the mobile and tapped the number in. Larissa’s number. Quickly, because he felt there was no time to be lost. Quick, quick, quick. Talk, laugh, laugh together, explain it all, understand it all.

He waited, although he knew what was going to come next.

The friendly, impersonal voice of the recorded message.

The number you have called is not available.

‘Kimmo?’ asked Westerberg.

‘What?’

‘Are you crying?’

‘Sorry,’ said Joentaa.

‘Not a problem,’ murmured Seppo.

‘I . . . I’ll make you a tea,’ said Westerberg, getting to his feet. ‘Camomile?’

Joentaa nodded.

‘Coming right away,’ said Westerberg.

‘I’ll be okay in a moment,’ said Joentaa.

‘What . . . what’s the matter?’ asked Seppo.

Joentaa shook his head. ‘Difficult to explain,’ he said, and then Westerberg came back with a cup of steaming hot water and a camomile tea bag.

Joentaa put both hands round the cup and felt his tears die down. Only to come back later some time. He breathed steadily in and out.

‘I’ll be okay in a moment,’ he said.

‘Take your time,’ said Seppo, and Westerberg smiled.

‘Good tip, Seppo.’

Joentaa stared at the mobile lying dark and silent on the table in front of him. He ran his hands over his face, and thought of Teuvo Manner, a boy of twelve. Who had gone to piano lessons because he’d fallen in love with his teacher.

‘The boy was there,’ he said.

‘The model student,’ said Westerberg.

‘Yes. Teuvo Manner. He had a piano lesson that day. Then Risto and the others came in.’

‘And . . . the boy had to watch it all?’ asked Seppo, without expecting an answer.

They sat for some time in the silence that had fallen, and then the band in the restaurant next door stopped for a break.

After a while Seppo cleared his throat. ‘So . . . if I have the right idea of it . . .’ he said.

‘Yes?’ asked Westerberg.

‘We’re looking at a kind of . . . campaign of revenge. On the part of the boy. Teuvo Manner.’

‘Who isn’t a boy any more,’ said Westerberg.

Or maybe he is, thought Joentaa. Maybe he stayed a boy for ever, a child. Experiencing the same thing over and over again, until at last, decades later, it’s over. He thought of Anita-Liisa Koponen. Westerberg stood up and threw a coin into the machine, which thanked him with a metallic sigh. Seppo sat up and tapped with flying fingers on the keyboard of his laptop. ‘Let me bring you up to date with the latest developments,’ he said.

‘Go ahead,’ said Westerberg.

‘We still haven’t found Saara Koivula’s last address, although we’re looking for it. But we now know – the information came in about half an hour ago – where she was living in the months she spent here in Karjasaari.’

The summer of 1985, thought Joentaa.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Well, judging by the address it’s in a place that’s part of the municipality but even smaller than Karjasaari itself. Apparently just a few farms and small houses, otherwise only fields and forest. Number twelve Metsänkatu, in the Majala district.’

Joentaa nodded.

‘There’s a search on for Teuvo Manner. No results so far, but only a few hours have passed since we had the name.’

Revenge, thought Joentaa. The word seemed to him curiously inappropriate.

‘There’s still Risto,’ said Westerberg.

‘Manner’s next victim,’ said Seppo.

‘I don’t know that victim is the way to put it,’ said Westerberg.

Risto. A shadow. A tall shadow, laughing loudly.

Seppo held the photo up to the faint light and seemed to be looking for something. ‘What I’ve been wondering all this time . . .’ he murmured.

‘What have you been wondering?’ asked Westerberg.

‘Two boys, two men. Happonen, Forsman, Miettinen, Anttila. We know them all now.’

‘Yes,’ said Westerberg.

‘They’re all dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Westerberg.

‘The whole gang, but where the hell is Risto?’

R. says I’m not to worry about it
, thought Joentaa. The man pulling all the strings.

If no one says anything, nothing happened.

The woman in the background is turning to the sun and trying to forget it, but an impulse makes her look in the direction of the camera.

Seppo’s question was a good one, and the answer suggested itself.

‘Risto was taking the photograph,’ said Joentaa.

CHRISTMAS

70

RISTO NYGREN WAS
sitting in front of his screen and keyboard in the dim light, writing.

Today, Christmas Eve, went to see Julia. You know who I mean. THAT Julia. Can’t confirm the comments of our fellow-punter. Short personal description. Origin: Russia; age: c. 18 (if that’s true, Smiley); height: c. 1.60 m; figure: dress size 10; small tits, skinny, wide hips, flat bum; hair: long and red; other features: a piercing in her navel. As for the action – not all that sexy to look at, but she has the charm of the girl next door; a girlfriend attitude, slightly forced; kind of depraved naivety in her eyes, just my kind. Tried to make a little conversation at first, wasn’t easy because I found that Julia speaks very little German and English . . . and as for Finnish, forget it. You all know I’m from the far north. Agreed on blow-job, straight, anal, fisting for 100, and guess what, she provided what she promised, a little too much use of hand in the blow-job, but she’s a good girl, doesn’t use her teeth, and threw in a little squeal when she came. Not really included in the price, but fine by me. So much for now. Details later.

He read this through twice, correcting a couple of spelling mistakes before sending it to the forum. Minutes later the first thumbs-up messages came through. Greg and whorefucker25 liked his account of the experience.

Risto Nygren ran his hands over the mouse, let them rest there for a moment and wondered what sort of guys they were, Greg and whorefucker25.

He had an image before his eyes. Greg was a student. First semester, philosophy or maybe literature. Greg had already posted 113 accounts of his experiences on the forum, and was always particularly pleased to get an unprotected blow-job at a price that didn’t seem too steep for small, fat students.