The Winter of the Lions (19 page)

She sits on the hotel bed, which is soft, with smooth sheets.
She takes an apple and a peach from a white bowl and begins to eat them while she watches a woman with a microphone standing outside the dark house where the smiling man lives. What the woman is saying dies away, and what happened is a tingling on the surface of her skin.

The empty hall.

The questioning look.

The sky made of glass.

Rauna. Veikko. Ilmari.

She feels Rauna’s skin against her cheek, and sees Ilmari apparently about to say something. A little way off, but she can’t hear him. She tries to catch his eye, but both his eyes are closed. One leg is missing. ‘Has the sky fallen down?’ asks Rauna, and she thinks: one leg is missing. Ilmari has put his arm round Veikko, whose body is lying flat on the floor at an unnatural angle to his head. One leg is missing, she thinks, and Veikko is asleep, and only a minute ago everything was still all right.

A rent in the sky. Then another.

Rauna is dancing. Ilmari skids on the ice. Veikko laughs.

Who would understand it if she didn’t?

She is lying on snow, her hand is trembling as she reaches out for Rauna. Sirens and flashing blue lights. Frantic voices. Soothing voices. She nods. Nods and nods and nods, and does not let go of Rauna’s hand.

‘These two must belong together,’ says a voice.

Ilmari’s body is raised and lowered.

Veikko’s body is raised and lowered.

Her body is raised and carried away. The voices retreat.

Rauna is hovering beside her, and asks, ‘Has the sky fallen down?’

The clatter of an engine. ‘Ready for take-off,’ says one of the voices above her. ‘Turku hospital. Land on the lawn outside the main entrance, you’re expected.’

‘Right,’ says another voice.

A door is closed. She shuts her eyes.

‘And now, back to the studio,’ says the woman with the microphone.

Only a minute ago, she thinks.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ says a voice.

Only a minute ago.

‘Everything okay,’ says the voice.

Only a moment has passed.

KAI
-
PETTERI
HÄMÄLÄINEN
looked up at the ceiling and the light and shadows on it. Irene lay beside him. She seemed to be fast asleep.

The tall man and the very tall man spent the night in the guest bedroom. One of them was always awake while the other settled down on the couch that offered normal people a place to sleep, but was much too small for these two. The very tall man had laughed briefly when he first lay down to try it out.

The imps were lying in their sky-blue world on the top storey, either sleeping or talking in whispers about the funny men. Probably they were giggling quietly, because just after the police officers’ arrival the very tall man had suddenly thawed out and played hide and seek with the girls. He had hidden in the wardrobe, under the couch, finally even in the shower. But he took his shoes off first so as not to make the tiles dirty. The imps had enjoyed it and laughed and laughed, and Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen had made a few faces for the two
of them before they staggered off to bed in their pink nighties, worn out but happy and no longer worried.

What a strange evening. What a strange few days. He felt under the covers for the places that hurt on his back and his stomach. There would be a scar, the young medical director of the hospital had said, smiling.

Irene moaned and turned over on her other side. He held his breath. He didn’t want to wake her up, he wanted to be alone.

The tall man or the very tall man, one or other of them, was probably going round the house. Hämäläinen imagined him standing by the wall of glass, peering out into the dark and concentrating, with his eyes narrowed.

He looked at the light and shadow, and thought about the moment when the tall man had asked him in. A guest in his own house. Irene’s silence. The children’s uncertain smiles. A kindly personal bodyguard thinking up amusing games to soothe his daughters’ anxiety.

He thought of the studio. The burgundy carpet with his desk on it. The spotlights, the curved rows of seating for the audience. The cameras. Questions. Answers. Explaining the world and drinking coffee, or the other way around. A white morning. A stab in the back, and Irene falls silent. And the children play hide and seek with a man they don’t know. And Niskanen has refused to come, giving no reasons. At the last attempt he cut the connection before the editorial assistant on the line could even introduce himself by name. Tuula had tried one last time, with the same lack of success, and had then refused to try for the very, very last time. Of course it had been one of the biggest subjects of the last year, which was why, as originally planned, they were going to include a film clip anyway. In which Niskanen claimed to be waiting for the result of the B test.

Tuula had given him a rundown on the sequence of events.
It was now lying on the living-room table. He felt that he would like to look through it. He knew most of it already. The programme was fixed, the little yellow Post-It notes with the questions he was going to ask were in the office, carefully arranged. The presenter’s text was on the teleprompter.

He slowly sat up and left the bedroom on tiptoe. The house lay in darkness; downstairs a single light flickered. The television set. He went down the stairs. The very tall man was perched on the arm of an armchair watching the
Hämäläinen
show.

Hämäläinen quietly went up to him.

‘Kind of funny,’ said the very tall man, turning towards him. ‘There you are on TV. And here you are in this room at the same time.’

‘Did you hear me coming?’ asked Hämäläinen.

The very tall man nodded.

‘I was keeping very quiet,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘All a question of practice,’ said the very tall man. ‘I didn’t know they put the show out this late.’

‘They always show repeats at 1.30,’ said Hämäläinen.

‘Ah,’ said the very tall man.

Hämäläinen saw himself on the screen, his lips moving fast but inaudibly. The Hämäläinen on screen looked relaxed and much amused, and beside him stood the forensic pathologist whose name he couldn’t remember.

‘What’s this one …?’ he murmured.

‘What did you say?’ asked the very tall man.

‘Oh, it’s the programme with the puppets,’ said Hämäläinen. The very tall man followed his gaze and said nothing. Of course, thought Hämäläinen. A day before his return home they had transmitted the programme with Mäkelä and the forensic pathologist again. It all seemed to be somehow connected with that programme. Tuula hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand, why should she? The obvious show to
resurrect. The forensic pathologist laughed. Mäkelä laughed. The very tall man asked, ‘Shall I turn the sound up?’

‘No, no,’ said Hämäläinen.

He went to the table where the schedule for the show lay ready. He had only glanced briefly at it before going to bed. He sat down and began to read. The ski-jumping team’s gold medals, the flood of the century in and around Joensuu. That rock band’s surprise European hit. The conservative MP’s sex and drugs orgy. He read until the letters and numbers with which Tuula allotted minutes and seconds to each subject blurred before his eyes. He looked up. His eyes were burning. The final credits were coming up on screen. Keep watching the show. See you tomorrow.

The very tall man switched off the TV set. ‘You should try to get some sleep,’ he said.

Hämäläinen nodded.

The very tall man left the room, and Hämäläinen watched the blank screen for a long time without thinking of anything in particular.

KIMMO
JOENTAA SLEPT
late, and felt heavy as lead when he woke up.

Larissa had left a note on the living-room table.
Happy New Year, dear Kimmo, see you soon
.

He put the note carefully back on the table. Outside, early fireworks were going off with muffled bangs.

He showered, dressed, made a cup of tea and tried to hold on to the idea that had been there at the moment when he woke.

An idea connected to Erkki Koivikko and what he had said.
Our daughter’s death is fifteen years in the past. And the charred plastic figure on the stretcher in that TV show was male
.

He drove to the office. The last day of the year was beginning with a radiant blue sky, like the day before. Fluffy new snow lay in the sunlight. Petri Grönholm was sitting at his desk, and said that Tuomas Heinonen had phoned in to say he would be off sick.

‘What?’ said Joentaa.

‘Sick. Sounded like a heavy cold.’

‘Shit,’ muttered Joentaa.

‘I delegated all the stuff Tuomas was supposed to be working on today,’ said Petri Grönholm.

‘Hm? Yes … yes, good.’ He stood there indecisively. He must call Tuomas. Or Paulina. Or both of them. He went down to the cafeteria and sat there for a while beside the big Christmas tree that would be cleared away within the next few days. He saw the reception area, and the place where
Larissa had been standing on Christmas Eve. Everything was different today. There were three of his colleagues in the reception area, the corridors were full of a steady buzz of voices, and there was no Larissa. A plate of biscuits still stood on the table. Star-shaped biscuits. Joentaa helped himself to one and tasted maple syrup. He phoned, thinking what to say to Tuomas, but it was Paulina who answered.

‘Hello … Paulina, it’s Kimmo here.’

‘Kimmo, good of you to call. Tuomas is … is sick.’

‘Yes, Petri told me already. Is there … can …?’

‘A bad cold,’ said Paulina. ‘He’s not feeling at all good.’

‘No,’ said Joentaa. ‘Paulina, listen … I know about it, you don’t have to …’

‘Know about what?’ said Paulina, her voice suddenly sharp.

‘Tuomas has told me about his … his gambling addiction. I thought you knew about that …’

‘Tuomas has a bad cold,’ said Paulina.

‘Yes. Can I have a word with him?’

‘He’s not feeling at all well.’

‘I really would like to speak to him. I’d like to speak to you both, I think you two will have to do something …’

Paulina was silent for a moment, then uttered a shrill laugh. Joentaa was thinking that he had no idea. He didn’t know what was happening to Tuomas and Paulina, and he wouldn’t be able to help them.

Suddenly Tuomas was on the line. ‘Kimmo?’

‘Hi. I only wanted to ask how you are. Whether everything’s … well, all right.’

‘Sure,’ said Heinonen.

Joentaa did not reply.

‘I have this cold. I’ll have to stay off work today.’

‘Tuomas … have you lost again?’

‘A cold. I can’t come in to work.’

‘No.’

‘See you soon, Kimmo.’

‘I’d like to help you. I think you need to do something fast to get the better of this thing.’

‘Sure,’ said Heinonen.

‘Think of Paulina. And the children,’ said Joentaa.

‘I will,’ said Heinonen. Since the beginning of their conversation he had been speaking in one and the same tone of voice. Quiet and monotonous.

‘I wish I could say something to help you,’ said Joentaa.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Heinonen.

‘Tuomas?’

Heinonen had ended the call.

Joentaa went back to the office and thought he would really have to talk to Paulina. Get her to keep the money safe. All there was of it. Once Tuomas had no money left to fall back on he wouldn’t be able to go on gambling. It was as simple as that.

Grönholm was brooding over the files when he came back into the office. He looked up when he saw Joentaa. ‘I don’t think this is going to get us any further,’ he said.

Joentaa went to his desk, took the stack of Päivi Holmquist’s printouts, and rearranged them. ‘The event isn’t long ago.’

‘What event?’ asked Grönholm.

‘We’re going to concentrate entirely on the most recent incidents now. Probably something that happened in the course of this year,’ said Joentaa.

‘We’ve already done that. At least, I’ve worked my way from the more recent cases back to the older ones.’

‘Yes, but now let’s concentrate exclusively on incidents of quite recent date,’ said Joentaa.

‘Why?’ asked Grönholm.

‘I don’t know,’ said Joentaa.

‘Now that’, said Grönholm, ‘is a real Kimmo-Joentaa kind of answer.’

Joentaa sat down and read Päivi’s list. Only three of the cases she had researched were less than two years ago. Two dead in the crash of a light plane in Tampere, four Finnish victims when a passenger plane came down over Estonia, one dead in a rail accident near Paimio. He looked at the names and dates and thought that they didn’t add up to anything.

‘I really don’t know that we’re on the right track here,’ said Grönholm.

Joentaa nodded, and thought of Tuomas Heinonen, and the old woman who had baked pizzas, and the giggling cashiers in the fuel station, and the road leading to the water, and then of what Erkki Koivikko had said.

It’s fifteen years in the past.

And the figure on the stretcher in the TV show …

Unrecognisable, Vaasara had said. Certainly unrecognisable. True to life but unrecognisable. Cloths being raised and lowered again. Men laughing.

On the stretcher in the TV show, Koivikko had said. He had gone to the bathroom to throw up, and then he watched the end of the programme.

Joentaa abruptly sat up, and Grönholm raised his eyes enquiringly. ‘All right?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t seen on TV at all,’ said Joentaa.

‘What?’ asked Grönholm.

‘It must have been immediate.’

‘Oh?’

‘Immediate. No TV screen in between,’ said Joentaa.

‘Oh,’ said Grönholm again.

Joentaa picked up the phone and called the number of
Hämäläinen
’s editor Tuula Palonen. No one answered. He tried again, also unsuccessfully. ‘I don’t believe it, there must be someone there,’ said Joentaa, and tried again a few seconds later.

‘What’s up?’ asked Grönholm.

The phone rang and rang and no one picked it up.

‘I want to ask if they still have material from that programme in the archives. They always show the audience as well.’