The Mine

by Antti Tuomainen

  A shot. A rifle. Large calibre.

  The man was standing there like a lighthouse. A shot to the neck. Fatal.

  A snowmobile. Very nearby.

  At that moment it was obvious: crystal clear what he was; what his role was, now and forever.

  His lungs burned, his throat rasped. He trudged forwards through the snow. He saw the headlamps thrashing frantically as his son and the woman scaled the opposite verge, then the lights disappeared into the whirling snow. He imagined that Janne and the woman must have torn the lamps from their heads and stuffed them into the snow. He’d seen that they had hand-held torches too and guessed the two of them would find their way back to the car using them. Unless…

  He dashed in the direction from which the shot and the sound of the snowmobile had come.

  As if from out of nowhere, the lights of the vehicle appeared at the edge of the verge. Abandoned at the bottom of the trench, the lamp lit the side of the mobile just enough to show the contours of two men. The one sitting at the rear had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and he was noticeably shorter than the broad-shouldered long-armed man behind the wheel.

  Emil knew instantly who they were. He had sat near them and watched them. Now he also knew why the shorter man was always brought along. Despite the dark and the snow, he had just hit a small target in the middle of the open countryside.

  The snowmobile had come to a halt. The men had pulled their snow glasses up to their foreheads. The large blond man was lying on his side at the bottom of the ditch, his arms and legs splayed in all directions as though he’d been running sideways and frozen on the spot.

  Emil needed only a few seconds. He pulled the glove from his right hand, opened his hunting knife and gripped it in his fist. In this situation it felt more familiar than anything else.

  The driver’s thumb was about to press the gas to start the engine. Or perhaps Emil simply imagined he could see this clearly. He came out of the snow, the darkness, from behind a collection of large boulders.

  The driver turned and saw Emil. His large, powerful legs propelled him up. His right hand dropped his glove and moved to his waist. For his size the man was fast, immediately standing to his full height. In the same movement he had slipped his left leg over the seat and dropped down into the snow in front of Emil. His right hand found what it had been fumbling for at his waist.

  A pistol.

  Again Emil had to improvise. In the sinking snowdrifts, everything happened in slow motion. First, he did what was necessary; that is, what was possible. By now he was standing right in front of the man.

  When the man’s long firing arm was almost fully extended, Emil stuck the knife into the man’s bare wrist, right the way through it. Then Emil yanked out the knife, pulled his arm back and straightened himself up again. He noted where the man’s pistol had fallen and took another step closer. The man tried to lash out with his left hand. Emil dodged the punch, grabbed the man and struck quickly. The blow was quick and precise, aimed at the only bit of bare flesh, the only part of the body not covered in thick, weather-proof material. The blade of the knife sunk into the man’s eye right up to the hilt. Emil pulled the knife free and sunk it into the other eye. The man fell to his knees in the snow and rolled on to his left side.

  The smaller man with the dark beard might have had trouble eating a doughnut or buttoning up his jacket, but not with handling a rifle. In the brief moment Emil had spent neutralising the driver, the smaller man had taken the rifle from his back, cocked it and raised it. Emil thrust his hand into the snow and found what he was looking for. He raised the pistol and shot the bearded man three times in the face. There came a spluttering cry from inside his balaclava and the man fell backwards. The bearded man’s trigger finger clenched shut. A bullet rocketed off towards the snow falling from the sky.

  Emil switched off the snowmobile’s motor but left the lights on. He listened. Nothing but the wind in the trees and the whirl of the snow. He looked down towards the stream.

  24

  After being called once more, I again walked from one end of the corridor to the other. I’d been held for interview for a day and a half, and I guessed I’d soon know the inside of the Kemijärvi police station better than I did the home of my former family.

  I had told them what I knew many times over. At times I was left to try and rest in a bleak staffroom normally used by employees on the night shift, but I couldn’t get to sleep.

  It was nine in the morning. The door of the interview room was open and I stepped inside. Behind the desk sat a man in his forties, who stood up when he saw me and reached out a hand.

  ‘Antero Halonen. We’ve spoken on the phone.’

  I recognised the name and the voice. I had called him to ask whether the police were looking into the deaths of the board members of Finn Mining Ltd. We shook hands. Halonen smelled of expensive aftershave, a whiff of another world. He was wearing a dazzlingly white shirt beneath a black jacket, both clearly by top-end designers. His hair was short and dark, with a stylish peppering of grey at the sides. His jaw was wide and the stubble carefully trimmed.

  ‘From the Helsinki crime unit?’ I said.

  Halonen smiled. The smile was charming.

  ‘That’s right. We’re helping out a little here,’ he replied. ‘Please sit down.’

  Halonen sat at the desk, opened the folder in front of him and took a small Dictaphone from his pocket.

  ‘Alright if I record?’ he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. It certainly didn’t sound like one. He picked up one of his papers, read it for a moment then placed it on the desk.

  ‘You arrived in Suomalahti the day before yesterday. Who were you travelling with and what was the purpose of your journey?’

  ‘I’ve told your colleagues all this—’

  ‘Then you can tell me again,’ said Halonen.

  ‘Maarit Lehtinen. Tero Manninen. Me. We wanted to examine the mining complex and take some samples.’

  ‘You knew, of course, that entering the complex is strictly forbidden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Halonen looked at me for a moment before continuing. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We reached the spot we were looking for: the river. We took some samples. Somebody shot Tero Manninen. Maarit and I managed to run away. We reached our car, but Manninen had the keys. He had driven us all the way from Helsinki to Suomalahti. We started walking back towards the village and as soon as we could get a signal we called the police. We walked for another half an hour before the first police car arrived. And it was in that car that we were brought here to Kemijärvi.’

  ‘What exactly happened at the river? Tell me everything in the order in which you remember it.’

  ‘I bored a hole in the ice. Manninen took the samples. I heard the sound of a snowmobile again – I’d heard it earlier but didn’t know what it was. We started getting ready to leave. Manninen packed his bag, gathered his equipment: the shovel, the bore. Then came the shot. Manninen fell to the ground, and we started running.’

  ‘You didn’t see anybody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Neither before nor after the shooting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So at no point while you were in the woods was there anyone other than you, Maarit, Manninen and the snowmobile you mentioned?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about the samples?’

  ‘All in Manninen’s red bag, which was left at the scene.’

  Halonen looked at me with his green-blue charmer’s eyes. ‘Did you hear any other shots?’

  ‘Other shots? No. Just one. Manninen died.’

  ‘Were you shocked?’

  ‘Of course I was shocked. I haven’t slept since.’

  ‘That’s understandable.’

  Halonen again turned his attention to his folder. He lifted the papers one at a time: one, two, three, four … At the tenth paper he leaned back in his chair. His body remained poised, but now he was looking at me as if
from a distance, as if he were examining the entirety of me.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You ran from the scene – you and Maarit. Were you together all the time – from that point until the police car arrived?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Neither of you remained by the river for any length of time? Neither of you deviated from the route?’

  ‘No and no.’

  ‘Are you sure Maarit will tell us the same story?’

  ‘Of course she will. Is she saying something different?’

  Halonen looked at me. ‘No.’

  We sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘How well do you know Maarit?’ Halonen asked eventually.

  ‘Not very well.’

  ‘Do you know Santtu Leikola?’

  ‘The same Santtu Leikola who…?’

  ‘… who climbed on to the roof of the Parliament. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not at all. What’s he got to do with this?’

  Halonen didn’t reply. He waited for a moment. ‘Let’s go back to the night in question. Did you at any point realise you were being followed?’

  ‘I just told you I heard the sound of the snowmobile. I told you Manninen died after someone shot him. So yes, we did realise we were being followed.’

  ‘What about the journey from Helsinki?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘And later on, while you were running from the scene?’

  ‘I thought they would be following us all the while.’

  ‘Who are “they”?’

  I was beginning to lose my patience.

  ‘The men on the snowmobile,’ I said slowly. ‘Maybe alone, maybe with someone else. I imagined they, he or she – would be following us.’

  ‘So you didn’t know that the men driving the snowmobile were also found murdered?’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Nobody told me anything about that,’ I said.

  ‘I asked them not to tell you.’

  Silence filled the room. The Dictaphone’s red eye stared at us, unflinching. The suave DI Halonen looked across the table at me, his expression neutral.

  ‘Now I understand why I’ve been asked to stay here and why everyone has been asking me the same questions,’ I said. ‘You’re hoping I’ll slip up, mess up the story and suddenly reveal that I actually killed a bunch of men in the woods. Well let me help you out: it wasn’t me.’

  Halonen looked at me for a moment longer then closed his folder.

  ‘Let me ask you a favour,’ he said.

  ‘What? A confession?’

  Halonen ignored my comment. ‘As far as possible, we’re trying to keep this matter away from the media. We would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t talk about any of this. For the time being.’

  Halonen stared at me. He reached out his right hand, picked up the Dictaphone and switched it off. Its red eye closed.

  ‘Like I said, keep what you saw to yourself for a while. One other thing – and this is just as important: let me know the minute you remember anything new or hear anything that might be linked to the events at the mine. You tell me. Immediately. As a reporter, you must appreciate the power of words – the devastating effects they can have.’

  25

  He watched as his son stepped out of the police station into the frozen morning, looked up towards the sky, glanced around him and walked to the edge of the pavement. His son looked in both directions, but didn’t notice him. There were about two hundred metres between them. At that distance people only see what they are looking for.

  His son walked off along the main street. Emil pressed a button and the Volvo XC70 came to life. He had rented the car in Rovaniemi using a Belgian passport and credit card. His son’s steps were those of an exhausted man. The pharmacy, the bookstore, a clothes retailer, a kiosk. His son didn’t so much as look at them. Only once he reached a small, two-storey hotel did he slow his step.

  Emil knew what Janne was searching for. His look was hungry. He parked the car about fifty metres from the entrance to the hotel and took his black bag from the passenger seat. Despite the thermometer above the supermarket giving a temperature reading of minus eighteen degrees Celsius, it didn’t feel particularly cold: the air was dry and motionless.

  He saw his son at a table in the window of the hotel. The dining room was a typical, small, multi-purpose space: a breakfast room, lunch restaurant, dining area, and nightclub. Liquor advertisements on the wall, fitted carpet, dark furniture. There was a time when everybody had furniture like this. His son was fiddling with his phone, the way everybody younger than Emil did nowadays – moving from one place to the next like the walking dead, receiving instructions from the small screen in their hands. He only raised his eyes from the phone as Emil pulled a chair from the neighbouring table and placed his bag on the chair. Emil walked round the table and sat down opposite his son. Janne’s eyes followed his movements, didn’t so much as glance at the black sports bag.

  ‘Morning,’ said Emil when they were finally face to face. ‘Breakfast time. Have you already ordered?’

  ‘Morning. Yes.’

  ‘What are you having?’

  His son stared at him. ‘Breakfast. There’s only one. Porridge, eggs, bread, sausage and cheese. And coffee.’

  Emil turned, looked at the waiter and caught his attention. The waiter arrived, took Emil’s order and disappeared, probably into the kitchen to prepare their breakfast himself. The waiter was also probably the receptionist, the chef, the caretaker, the karaoke host and the doorman.

  There was nobody else in the breakfast room. It’s just as well, thought Emil. People react to things in different ways, but one thing they all had in common: people get upset when the truth is revealed. Some are more upset than others. You can never tell in advance how it’s going to go.

  Janne somehow looked tired – and yet not. They stared at one another.

  ‘Human resources,’ said his son.

  Emil said nothing.

  ‘It seems that covers quite a lot,’ he continued.

  ‘We both need a good breakfast,’ Emil said. ‘Low blood-sugar levels are the cause of many a bad decision.’

  ‘Does a low blood-sugar level make you follow people?’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘How am I feeling?’ said Janne, and stared at him. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  Emil sat still and waited. He was good at that, he’d had lots of practice.

  ‘How did you know to follow me up here?’ asked his son.

  ‘I followed you from the police station.’

  ‘How did you know I was at the police station?’

  ‘You’re my son,’ said Emil. ‘I want to know where you are.’

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I believe I did.’

  ‘Fine father-and-son moment this is,’ said Janne. ‘It was almost worth waiting thirty years for.’

  Their breakfast arrived. Bowls of steaming porridge, a litre of coffee in a metallic pot. Slices of cheese and pepperoni were piled up on the same plate; the bread was ready-sliced. Both ate the way hungry men should.

  ‘What’s in that bag?’

  ‘Let’s eat first.’

  They were drinking their coffee when Janne looked first at Emil then again at the bag. Janne turned and pulled open the zip. Emil saw a strip of the red backpack and turned around. Apart from them, the room was empty. The fact that the restaurant was doing badly was a blessing in disguise. Janne pulled the zip shut and looked at him.

  ‘I assume that was the reason for your trip?’ asked Emil.

  ‘You could say that,’ Janne nodded slowly. ‘Where did you get this?’ ‘I found it.’

  ‘Seems you’re quite good at finding things. You found me, my mother. A bag belonging to a biologist shot in the woods. You know I’ve just come from the police station.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘You know I could take that and walk right back there.’

  ‘
Life is often more complicated than it seems. Rash decisions tend to have longer-lasting effects than carefully considered ones.’

  ‘So now you want to teach me about life, tell me some great universal truths?’

  ‘I’m sharing the experience that comes with age. That’s not quite the same thing.’

  An elderly couple walked past the window. Their outdoor clothes were so colourful that he could almost hear them as they shuffled past. Janne leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his chest.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m your father.’

  ‘I don’t mean that. What are you? What do you do?’

  Emil looked outside. A small, cold northern town on a winter’s morning. Emil, sixty years old. This is where he had ended up. This is what everything had come to. It happened to all of us: the place where we ended up always came as something of a surprise. Emil met his son’s eyes.

  ‘I kill people.’

  Sometimes time leaps forwards, sometimes it crawls. Sometimes time disappears and leaves us floating in space. After that, all that is left for us is a free-fall back to the earth, a return to a life that has changed irrevocably, become fragile and startlingly unfamiliar. They were two men who had once again met each other for the first time.

  ‘You’re serious,’ said Janne. ‘People?’

  ‘Men,’ Emil clarified. ‘Men who deserve it.’

  ‘How can anyone deserve that?’

  ‘By crossing a line.’

  Janne looked at him. ‘And you decide when that happens, do you?’

  ‘Never. They do it themselves.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We all know when we’ve done something we shouldn’t.’

  ‘That’s quite a vague definition.’

  ‘Actually it’s quite specific. To cross the line I’m talking about, you always need to make a conscious decision. I only take on assignments that meet that criterion.’