The Winter of the Lions (4 page)

‘Yes, of course,’ said Joentaa.

He felt a little dizzy as he followed Sundström to the car. He was thinking of Laukkanen, and how Laukkanen’s assessments had always been clear-sighted and often very helpful. Perhaps that was what was wrong in this picture. Laukkanen lifeless in the snow. Laukkanen restless and efficient in the silence of the green-painted mortuaries. Laukkanen who had given an impression of having more control over death than anyone else.

SHE PARKS THE
car and takes the rucksack off the passenger seat. She walks through slush on a radiantly blue day and smiles at Aapeli, who thanks her for the Christmas card.

‘My children forgot me, but you don’t,’ says Aapeli.

She smiles.

‘A lovely photo of Ilmari and Veikko. Where … where did you take it?’

‘In Stockholm, by the river,’ she says, smiling.

Aapeli nods. ‘Well, see you soon,’ he says.

‘See you soon,’ she replies.

‘And all the best. All good wishes,’ says Aapeli.

‘The same to you,’ she says.

She watches Aapeli taking each step carefully as he walks towards the white trees.

Pushing the door to the stairwell open, she goes down to the laundry room. She takes the clothes out of the rucksack and looks at the stains for a while. She knows what has happened, but she can’t remember it.

She puts the clothes in the washing machine, adds detergent, and feeds a coin into the slot. For a while she watches the water as it mingles with the detergent and begins to foam.

She takes the knife out of the rucksack, goes over to the sink, turns the tap on and holds the knife under the flowing water until it looks like new.

Then she goes upstairs. While she is unlocking the door to her apartment she feels hungry for the first time in a long while.

THEY DON’T HAVE
far to drive. Patrik Laukkanen had been found murdered very close to his house. A clinker-built wooden house surrounded by a large garden. It looked as if it had only recently been painted, a soft pastel shade of orange reminiscent of apricots. This was the first time Joentaa had been there.

‘Here we are,’ said Sundström.

Joentaa nodded.

Sundström sat where he was, and Joentaa thought of what Salomon had said.

‘They have a child. A small baby,’ he said.

‘Oh, no, that too,’ said Sundström. He slumped back in his seat. Then he catapulted himself forward and opened the car door. ‘Right, let’s get this over with,’ he said, climbing out. Joentaa followed him. He thought he saw the silhouette of a woman behind the window next to the front door. The nameplate on the letterbox said
Laukkanen/Jauhiainen
. Sundström rang the bell. Joentaa heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and felt a stabbing pain inside him. Leena Jauhiainen opened the door.

‘Oh, Kimmo … and …’

‘Sundström. Paavo Sundström. We met briefly at the Christmas party.’

‘Of course. I remember. Patrik isn’t here. Since the snow started he’s been going out cross-country skiing every morning. I hope … I hope he doesn’t have to go in to work today, does he?’

‘Leena …’

‘Yes?’ she said. A baby was crying in the background. ‘Is … is everything all right?’

‘May we come in?’

‘Of course. Go into the living room, I must just see to Kalle for a moment.’ She went into another room, and Joentaa followed Sundström into the house. A large, lavishly decorated Christmas tree stood in the living room. Leena came back with the baby, who was not crying so noisily now, in her arms.

They stood looking at each other for a little while.

‘Has … has anything happened? You’re kind of frightening me,’ she said.

‘Patrik is dead,’ said Sundström. ‘He was … was attacked while he was skiing and killed.’

Leena did not reply, and Joentaa froze.

‘I … I’m very sorry,’ said Sundström, and Leena shook her head.

The baby smiled.

SHE STANDS AT
the foot of the slope for a while, looking at the long building. In the strong winter sunlight its yellow paint is the colour of lemon ice cream. The children are tobogganing. Their laughter, many voices all at once, drifts down to her, and she feels that the sound must carry all over the city.

Slowly, she goes up the hill, past the children racing triumphantly down the slope. She has been looking for Rauna, but Rauna doesn’t seem to be among the children tobogganing.

She goes down the long corridors. There are Christmas stars made of paper and cardboard on the walls, along with Christmas trees, dark green triangles on little trunks. She finds Rauna in the day room, sitting at a table with Hilma. The two of them are doing jigsaw puzzles. Hilma is humming to herself, rocking her chair back and forth, while Rauna concentrates on putting the pieces of the jigsaw carefully in place.

She stands in the doorway, watching them for a little while. ‘Aren’t you two going out to toboggan?’ she asks.

‘That’s what I said too, but Rauna wants to finish that silly puzzle,’ says Hilma.

Rauna smiles and beckons her over. She moves away from the door and goes up to the table.

‘Nearly finished,’ says Rauna, looking in turn from the pieces of the jigsaw to the lid of the box showing the complete picture. A Noah’s Ark. Lions, elephants, giraffes, monkeys, and a bearded man already waiting at the helm to put out into the water. Hilma jumps up and presses her face to the windowpane beyond which the children are tobogganing. Rauna fits the last piece into the jigsaw and examines the picture for a while before clapping her hands. ‘Done it!’ she cries.

‘So now let’s go on the toboggans!’ cries Hilma, running off.

‘Will you watch?’ asks Rauna.

She nods.

Rauna jumps up and follows Hilma, and she looks down again at the picture that Rauna’s hands have put together. Piece by piece until the parts make up a whole. She gently caresses it. Then she slowly goes out of doors. Hilma and Rauna are standing in line to get one of the toboggans. Hilma is given a brown wooden toboggan, Rauna gets a red plastic one.

‘First down is the winner!’ cries Hilma, launching herself down the slope. She has a start on Rauna, who hesitates for a moment and then sits down carefully and pushes herself off. Down at the bottom Hilma shouts that she has won the race. Rauna nods, turns, looks uphill and seems to be in search of something.

‘Here I am, Rauna!’ she calls. ‘Up here. I saw you slide down!’

She waves, and Rauna waves back.

IT WAS SNOWING
that evening, and there were no lights on in the house.

Kimmo Joentaa left his car under the apple tree and walked through the cold air. Once inside, he stood motionless in the corridor, straining his ears for any sounds suggesting the presence of a human being. No address, no date of birth. He didn’t know her name; he’d never find her again.

He went into the kitchen and switched the light on. The milk carton and vodka bottle were standing on the table. On the draining board beside the sink stood a bowl and the packet of oat flakes, with a spoon beside them.

Obviously the woman had eaten a bowl of cereal after getting up. Before closing the door after her and leaving.

Joentaa sat down at the table and thought about Patrik Laukkanen and the way they had been discussing death in calm, down-to-earth tones a couple of days ago. About Leena, holding a baby in her arms while Sundström tried to explain the incomprehensible facts to her. About Sundström, who
marked out everyone’s special areas of responsibility in his striving for efficiency. About Heinonen who, when Kimmo drove him home that evening, had said quietly, abstractedly, ‘I won’t be going out there again,’ and Kimmo hadn’t grasped his meaning. The big matches in England were on tomorrow, Heinonen had said, and Kimmo still didn’t understand.

‘That’s when the English Football League has its Boxing Day games. I’ve got quite a lot riding on Manchester United versus Arsenal.’

Kimmo had just stared at Heinonen.

‘You see what I mean?’ Heinonen had asked, and Joentaa had nodded vaguely.

Heinonen had said goodnight, and Kimmo had seen Paulina opening the door and Heinonen bending down to pick up the twins in his arms.

Joentaa stood up and went into the living room. Children were playing ice hockey on the lake outside the picture window. There was a pale moon in the sky above them, and Tuomas Heinonen’s Santa Claus outfit still lay on the sofa.

He thought he heard knocking behind his back. He waited. Yes, there it was again. Someone knocking at his door. Probably Pasi Laaksonen, asking if he’d like to go round and eat with them that evening. He hurried to the door, and was slightly out of breath when he opened it.

‘Watch out,’ she said, and Joentaa stood back as the blonde woman precariously staggered past him with a tree. A spruce about a metre high. She made straight for the living room and put it down at the far side of the room beside the picture window.

‘This is where I’d like it best,’ she said, and Joentaa nodded.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘Yes, definitely. Looks good,’ he said.

‘Got anything to decorate it with?’ she asked.

‘To …?’

‘Well, you know, like red baubles, for instance.’

‘Yes, yes … I’m afraid I’ll have to search for them.’

‘Then get searching,’ she said.

Joentaa nodded, and went downstairs to the cellar. He knew where to look. He knew all about the chaos in his laundry room. The red baubles she wanted were in a cardboard box along with several wooden angels and an assortment of Magi.

He took the whole box upstairs with him. Larissa was beside the tree checking to see if it was straight.

‘Here … baubles and so forth,’ said Joentaa, handing her the cardboard box.

‘Looks good, don’t you think?’ she asked.

Joentaa nodded, and watched her carefully arranging the Christmas decorations on the spruce tree. Then they stood side by side in silence.

Out on the lake the children were arguing. Their voices came through the glass. There seemed to be a disagreement about the state of play.

Joentaa stared at the tree, and felt a smile spreading over his face.

HE WOKE UP
in the night because a heavy weight was pressing down on his body, and when he opened his eyes he saw that Larissa had gone to sleep on top of him.

He cautiously sat up and pushed her over to the side. Covered her up and hugged her. Kept his arms round her
until, half asleep, she began to laugh and asked if he wanted to squeeze her to death.

‘Definitely not,’ he said, loosening his grip.

She nodded, and quickly dropped off to sleep again.

He looked at the swirling snowflakes outside the window and thought of Leena Jauhiainen, who had quietly collapsed at midday. She had been sitting on the sofa for several minutes, holding the baby and asking questions that Paavo Sundström had answered. She had seemed very calm all that time, but then she carefully put the child down beside her and slipped off the sofa to the floor in floods of tears. Joentaa had sat down between her and the baby, holding her shoulder with one hand and the baby’s hand with the other. The baby had been lying still on the sofa, eyes wide open. Sundström had rung the doctor on emergency call, who came quickly and prescribed her tranquillisers.

He got up and went into the kitchen, made himself some herbal tea and sat down at the table with the steaming cup. He wondered whether Leena Jauhiainen was asleep now. Probably she was, thanks to the drugs. Only two days ago he and Patrik Laukkanen had been talking about exactly such drugs. A woman dead of an overdose of sleeping tablets, and now Leena was taking them because Patrik was dead, and tomorrow was Boxing Day. A big day in the English Football League, so Tuomas had said. Joentaa wondered exactly what Tuomas meant when he said he had quite a lot riding on Manchester United versus Arsenal.

‘Everything all right?’ asked Larissa.

She was standing in the doorway, wrapped in the quilt, and Kimmo Joentaa felt a surge of relief and happiness because she was there, and he wondered why.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said.

She sat down at the table opposite him.

‘Would you like a cup of tea too?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Peppermint okay?’

‘Lovely.’

They sat opposite each other, and he began talking about Laukkanen. And Leena. She just nodded, and did not seem greatly impressed.

‘Not that expert pathologist on TV, was he?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That forensic pathologist who was on
Hämäläinen
.’

‘I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

‘Hämäläinen’s chat show, there were these two characters on it a little while ago. One of them was a forensic pathologist, the other was a make-up artist or a puppet-maker or whatever you call the people who make those puppets for TV, dead bodies for films.’

‘Yes …?’ said Joentaa, still at sea.

‘It was about those puppets, and how they’re made to look very like the real thing, and the forensic guy said dead bodies can give the investigating officers important clues to their murderers, and he illustrated it with the puppets.’

‘Oh,’ said Joentaa.

‘You’re the policeman around here, you ought to know what I’m talking about.’

‘Yes … in principle,’ said Joentaa, and now he vaguely remembered that Heinonen and Grönholm had been talking about it. How forensic medicine was going to be discussed on Hämäläinen’s chat show. For some reason or other they’d thought it hilariously amusing. Had they mentioned Patrik Laukkanen? He had followed the conversation only with half an ear, wondering what the hilarity was all about.

‘I hated that bit of the show,’ said Larissa.

Joentaa nodded.

‘I don’t remember just why, but something about the show really upset me,’ she said.

Joentaa decided to ask Heinonen and Grönholm about the Hämäläinen chat show when he got the chance, although it presumably had nothing to do with the murder investigation.

WHEN
KIMMO
JOENTAA
woke in the morning Larissa was up already. He heard the water rushing in the shower. After a while she came in and said she was going back to work today. He lay in bed sleepily thinking of what she had just said.