The Winter of the Lions (15 page)

He went down and past the tall, lavishly decorated Christmas tree to the drinks vending machine. He fed in coins and took a bottle of water. When he went back up, Heinonen was coming towards him. With that veiled, hunted look in his eyes.

‘I have to go out,’ he said.

Kimmo Joentaa nodded.

‘Back in ten minutes.’

Joentaa watched Heinonen head out into the driving snow. After walking a few metres he began to run.

THAT AFTERNOON THE
two policemen who had introduced themselves as Sundström and Westerberg the day before came to see him.

‘Hämäläinen,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sundström.

‘Meant to be a joke,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘I see,’ said Sundström, and he did indeed laugh, a short, dry laugh, then pulled up the chair on which Irene had sat that morning. ‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘Fine. In the circumstances. The doctor in charge here, Valtteri Muksanen, thinks I can soon go home.’

‘That’s what we’re here about,’ said Sundström. Westerberg was getting another chair from where it stood by the window. There was a vase on the windowsill containing red and yellow flowers. He didn’t remember Irene bringing flowers … maybe they were part of the décor.

‘It’s like this …’ said Sundström.

‘Those flowers,’ said Hämäläinen.

Sundström followed his gaze. ‘Yes?’

‘Are they real or plastic?’

Westerberg rose, ponderously, and felt the flower petals.

‘Real,’ he said.

Hämäläinen nodded.

‘We would like you to stay here a while longer,’ said Sundström.

Hämäläinen, looking at the flowers, asked, ‘Why?’

‘And then we’ll accommodate you in a safe house for some time, until all this has been cleared up.’

Hämäläinen turned away from the flowers and looked at Sundström.

A safe house …

‘Sounds rather like a spy film,’ he said.

‘That’s only the usual term for it,’ said Sundström.

Hämäläinen nodded.

‘You and your family too, if you like,’ said Sundström.

A safe house …

‘You do realise, don’t you, that you are in danger while our investigations are still going on?’ said Sundström.

A safe house. Surrounded by forest. In a picturesque winter landscape.

‘Do you know Niskanen?’

‘The cross-country skier?’ asked Westerberg.

‘I’m sorry, but the answer is no,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘What?’ asked Sundström.

‘Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather be at home.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ said Sundström.

‘Of course it will be possible.’

‘In view of the …’

‘I’m feeling fine. I have the show to present on New Year’s Eve. Our annual retrospective. The show will go out live. We can’t just use pre-recorded footage for that one.’

Sundström gaped at him. Westerberg seemed to be thinking of something else entirely.

‘That won’t be possible,’ Sundström repeated.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Yes, who is it?’ asked Sundström, as if it were his room.

‘Er … do you know this lady?’ asked the uniformed officer posted outside.

It was Tuula. She looked grey-faced. Tearful and somehow older.

‘Tuula,’ said Hämäläinen, surprising himself by the warmth in his voice.

‘Just a moment. We haven’t finished yet,’ said Sundström.

‘Yes, we have. Sit down, Tuula,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘We have to …’

‘Later,’ said Hämäläinen.

Sundström rose abruptly and muttered something that Hämäläinen couldn’t make out. He was already out in the corridor when Westerberg, who had reached the doorway, asked, ‘Niskanen the long-distance skier?’

‘That’s the man,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘Do you know what …?’

‘The guy who’s breeding sheep these days?’ said Westerberg.

‘What?’

‘Niskanen. He’s breeding sheep in Ireland.’

‘What?’

‘Read it somewhere,’ said Westerberg. He nodded to them again and went out.

‘What was that about?’ asked Tuula.

‘Sheep in Ireland. Did you know that?’

‘Know what?’ asked Tuula.

‘You must check it.’

‘Check what?’

‘Whether Niskanen is really breeding sheep in Ireland. Now, do sit down. We have things to discuss, with the show going out in two days’ time.’

THAT EVENING
PÄIVI
Holmquist brought up a list. She stood beside Joentaa while he read it.
September 2003, aircraft, Russia, four victims Finnish, known by name: Sulo (aged 43) and Armi (48) Nieminen, address Rautatietori 32, Helsinki; May 2005, aircraft Vaasa/FIN, light plane, two Finnish victims, both known by name: Matti Jervenpää (29) address Kalevalankatu 45, Vaasa, Kaino Soininen (42) address Täälönkatu 83, Helsinki; January 2006, train crash, Kotka/FIN, one dead, Eija Lundberg (16)
…

The list comprised fifteen victims and nine surnames. The letters flickered before Joentaa’s eyes. He thanked Päivi Holmquist.

‘It will probably be quite easy to find out the names that are still missing. I’ll go on with it later today.’

‘Yes … thanks again.’

‘There are still gaps in the list, but accidents of the kind you’re after aren’t all that common. So if you’re looking exclusively for people who died in disasters exactly like that, then you should be able to find the people most affected here.’

Joentaa nodded. He read the names and no longer understood his own idea.

‘Of course, there are many unknown factors in the
equation. I began by going back over air and rail accidents from now to ten years ago, but the incident you’re looking for could presumably be even further back in the past. Or it could be an accident that didn’t get into the media, although that seems to me rather unlikely. Even the crash of that light plane in Vaasa was reported in several newspapers. Another problem is that I began by concentrating on victims who were Finnish citizens, which may be an unreliable criterion.’

Joentaa nodded.

‘I did find a fire on a ghost train, but that was over fifteen years ago. Three children died in it. It was at a funfair in Salo.’

‘Yes …’

‘I haven’t been able to find out their names yet.’

‘No. Thank you, Päivi. I know … well, now I don’t know any more. My idea seems rather far-fetched. Vaasara was probably right.’

‘Vaasara?’

‘Yes, Mäkelä the puppet-maker’s assistant. He couldn’t make out what I was getting at when I talked to him about it.’

Päivi Holmquist did not reply.

‘I don’t know why I came up with the idea. Somehow or other Larissa – that’s a friend of mine – she put it into my mind. Because of the funeral the wrong way round.’

Päivi Holmquist gave him a wry smile and said, ‘Kimmo, this is one of those times when it’s difficult to understand what you’re saying.’

‘Sorry. Anyway, thank you for the list.’

‘Would you like me to carry on with it?’

‘Yes … yes, please.’

Päivi Holmquist nodded and smiled at him before going away, and Kimmo Joentaa couldn’t take his eyes off the words that she had written down, and behind which, he suspected, an answer might lie.

Name, address, date of birth.

Sanna Joentaa, address …

He rang his own number. Waited. Heard the manufacturer’s standard wording. Please leave your massage after the tone. He cut the connection, and a moment later the phone rang.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Kimmo?’ asked Sundström.

‘I got them to tell you I …’

‘I couldn’t care less what you got them to tell me. I want to know what you’re doing. Why did you simply go off?’

‘I had an idea that I …’

‘Such as what?’

‘What I was saying to you this morning. I think there’s an irrational motive to do with the puppets and the way they were displayed on the talk show.’

Sundström said nothing, and seemed to be waiting for a more detailed explanation.

‘It was a funeral the wrong way round.’

‘A what?’

‘And Hämäläinen. Mäkelä and Patrik were …’

‘Were what?’

‘Were … desecrating a grave, if you like. Without meaning to, of course. But I don’t know … maybe that’s a blind alley. I have a note here of names that Päivi found for me, but I doubt whether they mean anything.’

Sundström said nothing for a long time.

‘Paavo?’

‘Hämäläinen is better. He wants to go home and be back presenting the show in the near future. In fact, on New Year’s Eve. And a Happy New Year to you too.’

‘That’s bad,’ said Joentaa.

Sundström laughed mirthlessly. ‘Or good. The perfect bait. Always supposing we’re dealing with one of those weirdos who seem to populate this country in increasing numbers these days.’

He seemed to be waiting for either contradiction or agreement.

‘The Institute of Criminal Technology is still working on the tread of those tyres. There were two witnesses who say they saw a small dark car outside Mäkelä’s house. Exact colour unknown. Maybe a Renault Twingo. If we can line up the tyre tread of that car we’ll be getting somewhere.’

‘Good,’ said Joentaa.

‘I’ll stay here for the time being and concentrate on Hämäläinen’s security. I can hardly believe that our comatose friend Westerberg is capable of doing it.’

Joentaa thought of Westerberg, who had been bright as a button on the phone in the middle of the night.

‘See you later,’ said Sundström.

‘See you,’ said Joentaa.

He put the phone down on the desk and picked up the piece of paper. His eyes kept going back to one of the names: Raisa Lagerblom (28). Died in August 2005 when a glider crashed. Had lived in Raisio, not far from Turku.

Joentaa didn’t know her name, but he knew the place where she lived. On a country road leading to Naantali. The house number was 12.

He had driven along that road on summer days when Sanna and Raisa Lagerblom were still alive.

AS SHE WALKS
to the apartment building with Aapeli, the picture comes back to her. Aapeli opens the door, sighing quietly, and says he is a little tired now.

Then they stand facing each other in the stairwell, and he keeps thinking of something else he wants to say. She can’t hear it. Aapeli speaks almost soundlessly, trying to hold on to the day that is slipping away from her.

‘Rauna’s a great girl … you might have thought we were a family. Daughter, Mama, Grandpa,’ he says and laughs.

She reads what he is saying from his lips.

Has the sky fallen down? asks Rauna, and she can’t move. She doesn’t feel the pain, and she looks at Rauna and tries to attract her gaze when Rauna, in the dark, closes her eyes, and she thinks: yes, it has fallen down. Yes.

Aapeli has bent his head, and she can see that he is afraid he has said something wrong.

‘I’m going to watch the whole Moomin series now,’ he says. ‘My sons will be surprised when I ask them to lend me the children’s DVDs.’

He laughs.

‘Yes. Have a nice evening. See you soon,’ he says.

‘See you soon,’ she says, and waits until the door has latched behind him.

Then she goes into her apartment. A red light is blinking. There’s a message on her answering machine, the first in a long time. She presses the button, and hears the announcement, followed by a young man’s dynamic voice.

‘Hello, Mrs Salonen, my name is Olli Latvala. I’m calling about your arrival here tomorrow. The tickets should have reached you by now. I’ll meet you at the station at 18.30 hours. Is that all right? I’m afraid I don’t have a mobile number for you. Would you call me back tomorrow morning? Have a nice evening, and we’ll speak tomorrow. We look forward to seeing you.’

She thinks about words as she goes into the bathroom.

Tomorrow. We look forward to seeing you.

She sits in the hot water, shivering, and Ilmari and Veikko are shadows in her mind.

TUULA
PALONEN SAT
in front of the flickering screen and read the press release that she had recently composed for a whole series of newspapers, asking them to make changes at short notice to their front pages.

She had decided on the text along with members of the editorial team, but she still couldn’t make up her mind whether or not to send it on its way.

Above all, she wasn’t sure whether Kai-Petteri had really thought everything through. In the clear light of day, she had gleaned the opposite impression at the hospital. He had seemed different. Very calm, almost high-spirited. Yet weakened. Of course. And somehow strange … abstracted. Several times she had felt he was talking in a confused way, not at all like the Hämäläinen she knew.

So he wanted to come back. Only a few days after an attempt on his life. The programme was to go through as planned. No changes to the guest list, no new contributions. Nothing to be included about … about what had happened to him. Even though that was the whole point: how could you have a retrospective look at the subjects of the year without including
the
subject of the year? He wanted to come back as if nothing had happened.

No changes to the guest list with one exception, Niskanen. She was to get hold of the cross-country skier Niskanen in Ireland, or wherever he might be, and have him there on the
sofa, and if Niskanen refused she could draw on next year’s budget until he agreed. She had done her research, and it was a fact: Niskanen the cross-country skier was now breeding sheep in Ireland.

She looked at the press release, and for one last time withstood the impulse to call Kai-Petteri and talk him out of it. Presumably he’d be asleep by now, and Mertaranta was all for transmitting the show anyway.

Her finger rested on the key for a few seconds, and then, aware of doing something momentous, she sent news of Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen’s forthcoming resurrection out into the world.

WHEN
KIMMO
JOENTAA
got home, Larissa was sitting on the steps outside the house in her white coat. He got out of the car, went up to her and guessed at the look in her eyes in the pale light. ‘Brr! It’s cold here,’ he said.