I’d moved Lehtinen’s papers from the kitchen cupboard to the hallway. I’d left them next to the door, where I would pick them up on my way out the next morning. I was half sitting, half lying on the living-room sofa with the laptop on my knee. I could have said I had no interest in switching it on, but that would have been a lie. I hadn’t read my emails; I’d not even checked them on my phone. I could see the contours of my figure in the large, black television screen. In the far corner of the room a floor lamp glowed yellow. It was surprisingly easy to imagine yourself drifting through an infinite galaxy, yearning for the warmth of the sun. ‘The ABC of Twerking’; I sighed and switched on the computer.
There was a long list of new emails. Hutrila’s message was the oldest.
I’ll assign a new reporter tomorrow. We’ll go through it in the morning. H.
The next message, sent only a few minutes later, was from pain. [email protected].
Janne,
Did we make a mistake? Are you not the reporter we were looking for after all? Maybe you’re not a reporter at all. We offered you the story of a lifetime, so what’s the problem? Have you come up with too little or too much? Does somebody want to shut you up?
If someone wants to keep you quiet or if you’re being threatened, we believe we can help. We have plenty of resources, but our help is conditional. We’ll give you 24 hours, then we’ll reassess the situation. In a manner of your choosing, you can demonstrate that you are worthy of our trust.
To recap: continue with your work, tell us who or what is threatening you and we’ll take care of the rest. We don’t want to see you fail.
The rest of the messages were routine things: group threads; notices of receipt; someone putting off a lunch meeting. I went back to the anonymous message. Either the sender knew about the threats, or it was a lucky guess. That, in turn, meant that either the senders were very close to me and knew details of the investigation, or they knew nothing. I thought for a moment whether or not to reply, but I didn’t think it would help. The fact was they had made me take on the story in the first place. I read the message once again, stood up from the sofa and walked into the hallway.
The wall clock said it was midnight. I listened for a moment. The apartment was utterly still; the entire house was silent. The neighbours were no longer tenderising anything – a steak or whatever else. People were asleep in their bedrooms.
I carried the boxes into the living room and placed them between the sofa and the coffee table. Very well. I would look through them one last time, and if I found something I would tell the reporter that Hutrila would assign in the morning. I placed the papers in piles on the table and got started.
Three hours later I got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen. I opened the fridge, took out a slab of Emmenthal, toasted some rye bread, opened a tub of fruit yoghurt and took everything back into the living room. I sat down on the sofa to eat, looked at the piles of papers, and reached out to pick up the tub of yoghurt. My hand stopped in mid-air.
Pasteurised milk, peach (4%), kiwi (2%), pineapple (1%), passion fruit (0.25%), setting agents (modified corn starch, pectin), aromas (incl. peach, kiwi, pineapple, passion fruit), sweeteners (Steviol glycoside), acidity regulator (sodium citrate), E211, E013, E141.
That was it. A thing can be fluttering in front of you like a flag and you still overlook it. Until you stumble into it, that is, or even put it in your mouth.
It didn’t take long to find the notebook in which Lehtinen had written down all his contacts. Biologist Tero Manninen. I’d seen Manninen’s name somewhere else too; but where? I leafed through the notebooks, then the loose papers, the printouts. I finally pulled out the newspaper clippings and found what I was looking for. An opinion piece torn from the paper a year and a half ago. Written along the margin in black biro were the words CALL HIM!
Who Will Pay the Price – and For What?
Finland is currently experiencing the second large-scale mining boom in its history. The newest international facility, which opened only a few years ago, is the nickel mine at Suomalahti operated by Finn Mining Ltd. However, the positive media attention the project has garnered and the large economic expectations placed on the mine itself obscure the other side of the mining-industry coin.
One of the problems of this flip side is the damaging impact the mine has on the local environment. The risk of such damage is always present, no matter what the representatives of the mining company or their most fervent supporters say. It is incumbent on the mining company to follow the course of this impact, preferably by allowing impartial observers access to the complex. At the time of writing, this is not the case.
The issues with the local environmental surveying system are well known to all of us who have at some time been involved with it. In many instances, it is clear that the authorities responsible for ensuring standards are upheld at the mines are either directly or indirectly dependent on the financial success of the mines themselves.
Naturally, this is partly a question of geography. Mines are located in sparsely populated areas where solutions to widespread unemployment and other socio-economic problems take priority over anything else. After all, who wants to report bad news about the largest employer in the local area, an employer upon which the job of a family member might depend? Who would dare demand the closure of the mine, if that meant a nail in the coffin of one’s own village?
It is for these reasons that we need a wholly impartial body which – contrary to what common sense might dictate – has no direct links to the wellbeing of any particular area of the country. This impartial body would comprise experts from different fields and it would have the power to recommend the mine be shut down if need be.
I hereby declare my willingness to partake in such a body. I don’t expect to be contacted any time soon.
Tero Manninen,
Biologist
Espoo
There was no need to wonder whether the text had been edited or not. The numerous jumps in style and content showed that the original must have been at least twice as long. Lehtinen’s notes contained Manninen’s phone number and email address. I looked at the clock: 3:19 a.m. I stood up from the sofa, walked to the window and leaned against the sill. Along the top of the window frame was a ventilation strip; fresh, chilled air flowed on to my face. I thought of Ella, my home, my family. I tried to fend off what had just occurred to me, tried to keep it at a distance; tried not to think it so attractive. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and looked down at the yard, now white with snow.
Two figures in hoodies were wandering between the rows of cars parked outside. Junkies. Looking for something, frantically, anything they could get their hands on, anything they could change into money. They were out in the freezing cold; I was in the warm. They were outsiders; I was very much an insider. And still I understood something of the force that drove them, that forced them to risk getting caught, to risk anything at all that stood in the way of what they needed to do. The duo stopped at the side of a blue Peugeot; a rucksack moved, a window shattered. The car alarm began to wail; one of the hooded figures pulled something from inside the car. A few seconds later the yard was empty.
I wrote a short email to Manninen the biologist. I sent it at 3:42
18
The men stepped into the stairwell at twenty past nine. The large snowflakes swaying down to the ground didn’t prevent Emil identifying them. One of them was clearly Antero Kosola, the head of security at the Suomalahti mine – a broad-shouldered giant with large hands. Despite his size, Kosola moved quite nimbly; he walked along the slippery pavement with self-assured steps.
The smaller man with the black beard was of a different body type altogether. And for him it seemed as though the world was a profoundly complicated place: the zip on his bulging down coat wouldn’t cooperate; he seemed about to slip over with each step; and as he spat, the saliva meant to lubricate his mouth became stuck in the corner of his lips, leaving him w
ith no option but to wipe it on to the sleeve of his jacket.
The men were walking down Tunturikatu. At the end of the road they stopped by a Jeep Cherokee and climbed in. As the vehicle pulled away from the kerb and jolted over the verge of ploughed snow, Emil slipped his automatic into drive and followed them.
The men drove towards the city centre, followed the flow of the traffic past the Central Railway Station and the Ateneum art museum, then drove through Kaisaniemi and crossed Long Bridge. When they arrived in Hakaniemi, they passed the block where his son worked. After that they steered the car down towards the highway at Sörnäinen. The SUV indicated left. Emil followed the car to the forecourt of the petrol station.
The men parked, got out and walked across the snow-covered forecourt towards the café. Emil left his car at the other side of the lot, at the end of a line of vehicles.
Inside the café he ordered a cup of coffee and a warm bun dripping in butter, and sat down one table away from the two men. They drank their coffees and munched on the sandwiches they’d ordered for breakfast. The man with the black beard dribbled pieces of tomato down his jacket. More plastic than paper, the napkin made the mess worse.
Emil looked outside.
The snowfall had started at around seven that morning. He’d seen the first flakes as he’d sat at the window drinking coffee. There was always something magical about the first moments of snowfall: something began drifting down from the sky, then, before long, the earth was white.
For a long while the men sat in silence. Kosola was sitting with his back to Emil. From his stature, his body language and every gesture, Emil could see he was a noteworthy man. Noteworthy in the dangerous sense. Emil barely paid any attention to the man with the black beard. He would eventually choke on his sandwich or slip on an icy pavement before he had a chance to do any real damage.
The bun was fresh and the well of butter in the middle made it moist and tasty. It was due compensation for the ridiculous spectacle he was watching in front of him, thought Emil.
Kosola said something to the bearded man, who now had a piece of crust the size of a birch leaf hanging from the side of his mouth. Both men looked out into the car park as a white BWV station wagon curved into a free space and switched off its motor and lights. Out of the vehicle stepped a man in a suit and, despite the snow, a thin pair of leather shoes. He stepped inside the café, saw the two men and joined them at their table.
Emil could only make out a word here and there, words that didn’t seem to mean anything. It’s alright, he thought. If the head of security at the mine spends his spare time almost a thousand kilometres from his workplace, there must be a reason. As indeed there must be a reason why these men are meeting right now.
Emil drank his coffee and watched the traffic flow past along the highway. How much of his life had he spent like this, following people, observing them, getting close to them?
And yet there was nothing routine about his work. Emil thought of how one of the two men waiting here – probably the bearded clown with the slippery feet – had kicked his son in the face. How these men had followed his son, either to frighten him or to do something worse. It was hard to hold in check the emotions that these deeds awoke in him. But, as he had learned in the past, the surest way to add fuel to the fire of such thoughts was to try to rein them in. And so he let his feelings hang in the air and waited until they floated away, like a dark cloud disappearing over the horizon. Only by letting everything else go could he finally grasp the important elements, hold them tight. This he had learned.
The men had finished eating. Kosola looked at his phone, tapped a few buttons. The bearded man managed to snap a toothpick between his teeth and gave out a yell. By now Emil knew the men well enough.
Kosola stood up first. He was already at the door while the bearded man lumbered behind him. From Kosola’s broad shoulders Emil could see just what Kosola thought of his mate. For some reason it seemed necessary to drag this fool along with him.
The Jeep drove off the forecourt. Emil watched it churn up the fresh snow on the road, swerve through the blizzard and head eastwards along the highway.
19
As the metro glided across the bridge to Kulosaari and the rocks disappeared from beneath us, it seemed as though we were driving into the very heart of the earth, white and squalling. To the left you could normally make out the silhouette of the downtown area, to the right the tall apartment blocks of Pihlajamäki, the row of houses along the shore at Arabia, and the green of the bay at Vanhakaupunki, and beneath the train, on both sides, the sea. Now all of this was a matter of faith. The doors rattled as the wind tested their strength, and the train hurtled blindly forwards.
My phone chimed. An email. Biologist Tero Manninen. I read the message and began to feel a little more uncomfortable. When I’d finally gone to bed at five to four that morning, I’d imagined I would wake up with a brighter, lighter mind and with a clear idea of what to do next. Of course I knew what I was going to do, I just couldn’t yet admit it to myself. For all its conciseness, Manninen’s message couldn’t have been clearer: he was still willing to volunteer his services.
Upon reaching Hakaniemi, the snow did the same to humans as it had to the train moments before. It formed a tunnel around me, making me follow a narrow track, hoping it led where I wanted to go. I found the front door of the editorial office and bounded up the steps to the third floor. I knocked the snow from my shoulders and undid my scarf, only to realise that this wasn’t the only reason I felt as though something was gripping my throat.
I could see right into Hutrila’s office. He looked up, and he must have seen that I didn’t have the box of Lehtinen’s papers with me. His eyes darkened. He turned back to his computer. I took my coat to my work station, pulled a box containing some of Lehtinen’s papers from beneath the desk and placed it beside my computer.
If anyone ever asks me what causes seismic shifts, I would have an answer immediately: they begin with tiny, insignificant shifts, like someone moving a cardboard box from one place to the next. I didn’t fetch any coffee but instead headed straight for Hutrila’s office. At the southern end of the open-plan office I saw the golden flicker of Tanja Korhonen’s arms.
‘You changed your mind,’ said Hutrila.
He didn’t raise his eyes from his computer screen.
I closed the door.
‘I’ve got new information.’
‘I think you’ll find that coming up with new information is part of the job description,’ he said.
I ignored the jibe.
‘You haven’t spoken to anyone else yet, have you?’ I asked.
Hutrila moved his fingers from the keyboard to the edge of the desk and leaned back on his chair. He can see me for what I am, I thought.
‘Did the folks back home change their mind too?’
I shook my head. Hutrila’s face remained expressionless.
‘I haven’t spoken to anyone yet,’ he said. ‘I had the impression you weren’t entirely convinced about what you were doing.’
I said nothing.
‘You know what happens now, don’t you?’
Yes. Hopefully. Unfortunately.
‘You and I are going to make a deal,’ he said. ‘You look into this mining story, dig as deep as you have to, don’t leave a single stone unturned. And this isn’t just a play on words, you understand?’
‘It’s a deal.’
‘You start straight away. When you’re standing in that spot on Monday morning, you’ll have a double-page spread of the story ready to go to print. If it isn’t ready, it needs to be very close, and I need to think so too. If it’s nowhere near, you won’t have to ask for a transfer again. You’ll start the week by proofreading the weddings and obituaries, and you’ll stay there until you retire. You will cover all your own expenses for this story – travel costs, everything – and I’ll decide later how much of it, if anything, the paper will reimburse. Everything depends on results. You will also a
gree not to ask me for anything at all for at least the next thousand years. Do we understand each other?’
Did I even understand myself? I decided not to answer my own question and called Manninen, the biologist. He said he would be ready to leave at two hours’ notice; that being the time he needed to gather all the relevant equipment.
‘In that case we’ll leave in two hours,’ I said.
I was about to hang up, when he asked me if I knew anyone with a thorough knowledge of the mining complex. When I told him I didn’t, he had a suggestion of his own.
‘Maarit Lehtinen.’
20
Emil pressed the telephone against his ear and glanced around him. The bookstore was quiet in the mornings, but you could never be too careful.
‘I mentioned this work matter and the other … events when we met the other day,’ said Janne. ‘I thought I’d better tell you the rest. I’ve decided to go up north again. To Suomalahti. We’re planning on taking some samples.’
‘Planning?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not alone?’
‘There are … three of us,’ said Janne. There was something else about his voice; as if he was talking about something other than his work. He was like a little boy owning up to something. And in this scenario he was – he had to search for the word – a father. That’s what it must have been like, he thought. This is what it could have been like.
The Mine Page 15
