Below the Surface

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “It’s nice having you home again,” I murmured into Antti’s hair later as we lounged on the living room couch, wrapped in towels and sipping Laphroaig.

  “That was probably my last work trip for a while. The project isn’t going to get its funding renewed. I’ll have to ask around for more work. Maybe the university has adjunct positions available. I met a guy from Cambridge in Edinburgh, and they’re starting a graduate program in category theory. They might have work for me next fall.”

  “In England?”

  “Don’t worry yet. I might be able to do it in blocks, like one week every month. I’m just going to see what happens. You’re working on a murder, right? And one of the suspects is that rally star, Sasha Smeds? I read it in the papers on the plane. Seeing your picture always makes me happy.”

  “No one but you would even recognize that as me. I visited the Smedses’ home today. They live just a few kilometers from your parents’ cabin. Nice area.”

  “Do you remember a couple of years ago when I went to that protest at the Jyväskylä Grand Prix? Sasha Smeds had to drop out of the rally because of engine trouble. I have to admit we felt some malicious glee. Someone came up with the idea of inviting him to our protest, and he actually came.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He even tried to convince all us tree huggers that rally driving doesn’t actually pollute that much. Supposedly the cars have the best possible catalytic converters, ones they’re testing for normal cars. And the Safari Rally and all that creates jobs for poor Africans.” Antti laughed sarcastically and stroked my back.

  “Sasha does seem like an easy guy to like. And besides, he’s an organic farmer.”

  Antti took his hand off my back, drawing away from my side and sitting up straighter.

  “And you’re not usually that naive! The organic farming is just a PR stunt: he produces a few liters of organic milk to compensate for all the pollution and the bad example rally racing sets. I wonder how many times that dude has even milked the cows!”

  I was surprised to see Antti so agitated. He was usually quite calm—if one of us got uptight, it was usually me. I stared at my husband in shock.

  “So you’re saying that someone being a rally driver automatically makes them a bastard?”

  “Doesn’t it?” Antti stood up. “I’m tired from the flight. I think I’m going to go to bed.”

  My irritation felt like tiny needles on my scalp and in my throat. I was annoyed that Antti had ruined his homecoming with a fight. I knew this wasn’t just about rally racing or his uncertain employment situation. Antti had been tense ever since we moved into the White Cube.

  Before the move, we’d debated where we would go and how big of a mortgage we could manage. Antti hated banks and didn’t want anything to do with them, but we didn’t have a choice. Rents in Espoo were insane—purchasing an apartment was the best option. We had about fifty thousand euros in savings when we started, but now all we had was debt. Sometimes I suspected that it bothered Antti that I earned more than him, but I always pushed that thought out of my mind. Antti wasn’t that kind of man.

  I poured myself more whiskey and retreated into my work files. Let Antti sulk in peace. I had brought home the disk with Annukka’s manuscript and a few video cassettes. After finding some headphones for the VCR, I put a tape in and started to watch. Based on the backdrop, it was from the Safari Rally. Sasha’s red Citroen wound through the desert, and people dressed in traditional East African clothing swarmed out of the way. In places the crowd was dangerously close to the track. I wondered whether it worried Sasha that someone might jump in front of his car at such a high speed. Behind him were cars with vaguely familiar names on their sides: Didier Auriol, Tommi Mäkinen, Marcus Grönholm.

  I fast-forwarded the cassette through more racing and segments of reporting about the competition. I found it all pretty boring. I’d never watched a rally race before. I’d only watched Formula 1 once at home with my dad just so I’d know what it was all about. In contrast, my son, Taneli, loved it all. More than once, I’d found him watching a race on TV and enthusiastically mimicking the sounds of the cars and the shouting of the announcers.

  I tried another cassette. This one was from Finland, from the national championships, with a Mitsubishi in the lead. It was Andreas driving this time, and according to the caption it was archival tape.

  “According to information obtained by the Checkered Flag Report, this year’s Finnish national rally champion, Andreas Smeds, has been arrested for drunk driving. Smeds and the Mitsubishi team will be holding a press conference tomorrow.”

  The recording went blank. I was just about to rewind it when the picture came back. On the screen I saw an empty table with a bunch of microphones and two bottles of mineral water on it. There was a buzz in the room that went silent when two men dressed in dark suits appeared from behind a curtain. One turned out to be the Mitsubishi spokesman, and the other was a young and anxious-looking Andreas Smeds, who stared at the tabletop instead of looking at the flashing cameras.

  The Mitsubishi man first stated that Andreas had been arrested for drunk driving and announced that as far as the team was concerned, he didn’t need to retire. These things happened, especially when you were in a high-profile career with so much pressure. Then he turned the microphones over to Andreas, who tried to lift his gaze from the tabletop but couldn’t.

  “Um, yeah. As Mr. Ahlfors said, I was caught driving drunk last night, at a police checkpoint on Hanko Road. No one was injured, but I still think it’s best that I end my racing career now. I’m extremely sorry for doing such a stupid thing, and I want to apologize to the entire motorsports community and the Finnish people.”

  After Andreas stopped speaking, the room was quiet. Then, after a few moments, the spokesman opened the floor to questions. Instead of waiting to be called on, the reporters just started shouting over one another.

  “Andreas, weren’t you supposed to move up to the World Rally Championship series? Isn’t it crazy to stop now on the edge of an international career?” asked a man whom I recognized as the Checkered Flag reporter at the time.

  “Maybe it’s crazy, but it’s my only option in this situation.”

  “Is it true that the team would have let you continue? Aren’t you really being pressured to quit?” asked a female voice, and the camera shifted for a moment to Annukka Hackman. I paused the tape and looked at her. She was wearing a stylish black pantsuit and only a little makeup, and her hair was shorter than it had been when she died. Annukka hadn’t wanted to look too feminine in the majority male audience.

  “I made my decision yesterday morning before I talked with the team representatives,” Andreas replied, and Ahlfors looked irritated. People had a tendency to make dramatic decisions in moments like these. Perhaps Andreas should have slept on it for another night.

  “How could you be so stupid to get behind the wheel when you were drunk?” Hackman continued, and the crowd of reporters guffawed at the directness of her question. Andreas blushed.

  “I don’t have any explanations or excuses.”

  “Where were you coming from?” a male voice shouted.

  “That doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have driven drunk, and I’m going to accept the punishment the court imposes on me,” Andreas said quietly.

  Would a similar public shaming work on other reckless drivers? I was willing to bet that most of them would have come prepared with better explanations for their stupidity. There would be stories about tight schedules and miscalculations and the need to get home to see a sick child.

  “What are you watching?” Antti had appeared behind me.

  “Andreas Smeds, Sasha’s brother. He ended his rally career six years ago after getting caught driving drunk.”

  “Well, at the very least we know he could never be a politician,” Antti said with a laugh then sat down next to me. “Come to bed. I’ve been sleeping alone for two weeks.” He wrapped his arms around me. “It’s nice
to be with you again, even though this place . . .”

  “I know. We’ll figure out something soon.” I turned off the VCR and followed Antti to the bedroom. But I didn’t fall asleep because all I could see on the backs of my eyelids were alternating flashes of Carcass Kervinen and Viktor Smeds’s pale face.

  7

  I didn’t turn on my phone on Saturday until after noon when I got back from my run. Again I had ten voice mails and a text message, all of them callback requests from Jouko Suuronen. This time they were about his own interview, which Ursula was trying to set for Monday.

  I’m going to meet Sasha in France on Monday. Tell your officers to meet me there, Suuronen said in his final text.

  I ate a sandwich and drank a large café au lait before I called Suuronen. I didn’t have to call him. If I wanted to be cruel, I could have just stopped him at the airport. Ursula had the weekend off, and I did too, theoretically. But I was the boss, and bosses didn’t usually have the option of invoking the laws that governed working hours.

  “So Sasha didn’t turn out to be your murderer?” Suuronen snapped. “And now you’re attacking me? Goddamn it! Of course I knew Hackman. I tried to talk some sense into her when she started going rogue with her book. I said that if one single thing wasn’t true, we’d see her in court. And we don’t plan to back down on that, even though the bitch is dead now.”

  “When did you last see Annukka Hackman?”

  “At the Jyväskylä Grand Prix. She tried to worm her way in to talk to Sasha, but I had security run her off. Goddamn bitch! Luckily she didn’t manage to bother Sasha, and he won handily.”

  “You said you’re traveling to France on Monday. What are you doing tomorrow morning?” If Ursula wasn’t willing to pull overtime, I could go see Suuronen myself.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’ll be hungover.”

  I laughed. “So we’ll talk when you’re hungover.”

  “You aren’t going to give up, are you? Fine, let’s meet tomorrow at one here at my place in Westend. I imagine you can look up my address.”

  One o’clock was near our family Sunday lunchtime. Antti wouldn’t like it. I tried to get in touch with Ursula, but couldn’t reach her. I wondered if she’d convinced Puustjärvi to go out for that drink after all. But that was really and truly none of my business.

  I left a message on Ursula’s cell and started cooking Antti’s favorite food, potato wedges and baked pike. I put a bottle of white wine in the fridge to chill.

  After I’d wined and dined Antti enough, I worked up the courage to tell him I was going in on Sunday.

  He sighed. “You promised when you went back to work that you weren’t going to do overtime anymore.”

  “I guess I did,” I admitted and wondered why I’d made a promise like that when I knew I’d end up breaking it.

  Ursula didn’t text me until Sunday morning. Sorry, my battery was dead and the charger is missing. I’m at Levi in Lapland catching the first snow, and I’m not coming back until the last flight.

  Ursula hadn’t mentioned any skiing plans on Friday, but of course she didn’t have to tell me about her leisure activities. And whether or not she was telling the truth in her text message, she did have the weekend off. I called the station, and Liisa Rasilainen happened to be on call; she promised to go to Westend with me.

  Jouko Suuronen managed a wide range of athletes: ski jumpers, track-and-field stars, and a couple of swimmers. I wondered what the division of labor was between him and the Citroën people. I’d always thought the team would handle the racers’ sponsorships. Having so many people hovering around you, taking care of everything, probably felt strange. What word had Andreas used? Headquarters.

  Sasha and Heli probably never had the chance to get tired of each other, with him spending half the year traveling around the world for races. At least they didn’t have children. I never could have been a professional athlete’s wife. No hockey stars for me. You’d never know where in the world your husband might be sent next, and building a life of your own would be nearly impossible. I remembered what Antti had said about Cambridge and shivered.

  Liisa Rasilainen picked me up at home. I wanted to arrive in Suuronen’s driveway in a police cruiser—his attitude irritated me that much. Liisa was also in uniform, and it suited her. I’d tried to recruit her to the Criminal Division and our unit, because I liked working with her, but she’d stayed in Patrol for salary reasons.

  “Do you really suspect Suuronen?” Liisa asked as we parked in front of a large house in the wealthy neighborhood of Westend. Apparently managing athletes was lucrative; the place must have been worth a million euros. The lots around us were large, with space for landscaping, two-car garages, and swimming pools. Many of the yards were behind high walls and gates with electronic locks. However, Suuronen’s house only had a low, recently trimmed hedge around it. There was a new-looking Citroën parked in the driveway. I didn’t notice a security camera until we were at the door.

  Based on his voice and manner of speech over the phone, I’d expected Suuronen to have an unpolished appearance, especially since he’d promised to be hungover. But the forty-something man who answered the door was clean and well kempt. He was wearing a dark-blue suit and tie, and his aftershave had an understated scent. There was no hint of a hangover about him. His eyes were bright and his dark hair was neatly combed.

  “So I get two lady cops, do I? Does the department have men at all anymore?” he said in greeting. He was just as rude as he had been on the phone. “Come on in. Do I have to make you coffee?”

  “No,” I said with a laugh and followed Suuronen into a living room with a high ceiling and an enormous television. The room smelled of tobacco smoke, and Suuronen lit a cigarette before sitting down on the brown leather sofa. I took the armchair across from him, and Liisa sat in its twin. It appeared that Suuronen had no small children: no Legos on the floor, no juice stains on the couch. He’d been married a couple of times in the early nineties, but each union had ended quickly.

  “Couldn’t we have handled this over the phone? I only knew Annukka Hackman professionally and didn’t have any interest in her beyond that. Sasha said you were asking his family for alibis for last Tuesday. I came back from Stockholm on the five o’clock flight. My car was at the airport, and I was in traffic on Ring I until seven. The gridlock here is worse than Athens these days!”

  “Whose decision was it for Sasha to withdraw from the biography project?”

  “His.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought Annukka Hackman was a good reporter. She had a nose for news and, for a woman, she had a surprisingly good understanding of the motorsports world. At first everyone was excited about the biography, including the team, the sponsors, and me. It was a good derivative product for Sasha’s brand. But then Annukka said she didn’t want to paint a glossy portrait; she wanted to tell about the Sasha behind the stardom. And not just about Sasha’s life as a driver but about his background and his family.”

  Suddenly Suuronen stood up and walked to the bookshelf. He opened a cupboard door, and I caught a glimpse of a respectable collection of bottles. He opened a carbonated mineral water, which overflowed onto his pants, and I noticed that his hands were shaking. He drank straight from the bottle and continued speaking where he stood.

  “Sasha wanted to keep his private life to himself. And Heli doesn’t want to be trotted around as Sasha’s wife, no matter how hard the women’s magazines beg. And to tell the truth, she isn’t media sexy in the way a lot of other drivers’ wives are. I think Heli was probably behind Sasha’s decision, or maybe Andreas. I say that because Annukka also wanted to write about the end of Andreas’s career, and he can’t stand to have anyone even talk about it. He always goes back to drinking, then his family suffers.”

  “So Andreas has an alcohol problem?”

  “He’s sort of a situational drunk. He hits it hard for a few days and then goes sober for months.”

  Could An
nukka Hackman have been shot by someone under the influence? He might have driven out to the lake drunk. As a professional driver, he probably thought he could drive fine, regardless of his state of intoxication. After all, he hadn’t been caught because of the state of his driving before; he’d simply been stopped at a routine police checkpoint. But could he have shot a gun precisely if he was drunk? We still didn’t know how many shots the murderer had fired before hitting Hackman. Dragging of the lake hadn’t yielded any results: the gun was still missing.

  “Do you know whether Jääskeläinen still intends to publish the book?” Suuronen asked.

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  “If the police suspect someone was murdered over the book, it’ll be good for sales. It’ll be too bad for Jääskeläinen if you catch the murderer too soon.” Suuronen gave a malicious smirk. “Annukka Hackman stepped on a lot of toes.” Suuronen proceeded to give us a list of motorsports influencers and some business leaders whose sponsorship activities were impacted by Hackman’s reporting over the years.

  “That should give you girls plenty to investigate. Leave the Smeds family alone. And me too. Now I have to leave for my next meeting.”

  Suddenly Suuronen stepped in front of me and started to shake my hand.

  “Keep your fingers crossed for Sasha this weekend,” he said. “Annukka’s death has really rattled him. Hopefully this won’t affect his driving in the championship rally. There’s a hell of a lot riding on this.”

  Suuronen wiped his brow, which was suddenly bathed in sweat.

  Then he turned and disappeared into the next room.

  “So that’s what a high-flying sports manager is like,” Liisa said with a laugh once we were back in the car. “You want me to drop you back at home?”

  “Yeah, thanks. You have time next week to hit the gym with me?”