‘I think so, yes.’
‘It was hot. All those days were very hot, the whole summer. Then the lesson was over, and I was about to go. I’d packed up my things. The book of music, and the thing that my parents had given me, that device for setting the time . . . do you know what it’s called?’
Joentaa waited for her to go on, but she seemed to be expecting an answer.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Well, we didn’t use it. She just laughed when I took the thing out of my bag, but I had unpacked it, so I packed it up again at the end of the lesson.’
He tried to meet the woman’s eyes, but as she spoke she was looking at the door through which Arja Ekström had disappeared a little while ago. She spoke thoughtfully, and seemed to be concentrating entirely on her memories.
‘Then I went out, and I’d reached the front door, and just as I was going to open it that man came in from outside, her boyfriend. He smiled at me and said something, and pushed me ahead of him into the living room. Then everything happened very fast. I think it only lasted a few minutes. Maybe five.’
The woman turned her eyes away from the door and looked at him, and for some reason Joentaa thought of Christmas. Warm white light, parcels carefully done up with ribbon bows which came undone when you pulled gently at the ends.
‘I remember going home. If I hadn’t known what the man had done to me I could have sworn it hadn’t happened. It was very quick because of the difference in strength between us. And because it was such a surprise.’
She looked at him as if expecting confirmation.
Joentaa nodded.
‘He’d pushed up my skirt and pulled my panties down. I can’t remember the feeling any more. I only know it happened. What I always wondered later was, where was she?’
‘Your . . . piano teacher?’
‘Yes. She’d gone. She had been in the living room just a moment before, and then she’d gone. I wonder where she was. Do you understand?’
Joentaa nodded. Christmas, gift parcels, he thought.
‘I couldn’t ask her. I didn’t go back for any more lessons, and she didn’t come back to the school. I once asked another student who had lessons with her too, but he didn’t know anything . . . she just never came back . . .’
‘Did you . . .’
‘When he let go of me, I left. I ran out and went home.’
‘Can you tell me . . .’
She smiled. ‘I’ve never told anyone what happened before.’
‘I—’
‘I’d like to stop now,’ she said.
‘Right,’ said Joentaa.
She stood up and held out her hand to him. ‘My room is just round the corner here.’
‘I’ll take you there if you like.’
She laughed. ‘I can manage for myself.’
When Joentaa went out into the corridor, he went back the same way as he had come, concentrating on taking the right turns. The word occurred to him. He hadn’t been aware that he knew it.
Metronome.
The device that her parents had given her, with which Anita-Liisa Koponen had been expected to keep time.
47
THE POLITICIAN’S PARENTS lived in a house where Westerberg immediately felt at ease. And also ill at ease.
The rooms were large and light, although grey sleet was falling outside. Through the living-room window he saw a well-tended terrace, and a huge garden. The lawn was so neatly covered with snow that Westerberg wondered whether anyone had lent it a helping hand. Maybe these days, thanks to modern technology, you could not only mow lawns but smooth out a covering of snow when it lay on such surfaces.
He had called that morning to say he was coming, and formed a picture of the man at the other end of the line that was surprisingly close to the reality. Joosef Happonen’s powerful voice belonged to a tall man with hair cut very short and a winning smile; you would never have thought that his son had recently met a violent death.
Joosef Happonen’s wife, Suoma, was small and thin, and her voice sounded as if it came from a tape recorder when she asked if he wouldn’t like to stay to lunch.
‘No, thank you very much,’ said Westerberg. ‘I won’t keep you long.’
‘Really, it would be no trouble at all,’ said Joosef Happonen.
‘All the same, thanks but no,’ said Westerberg.
‘Then let’s sit down,’ said Suoma Happonen.
Westerberg nodded.
‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ said Suoma Happonen, and disappeared into the kitchen while her husband sat opposite Westerberg on the second of the two low red sofas.
‘Well, and how can we . . . help you?’ he asked.
‘As I told you on the telephone, I’ve come from Helsinki. In the course of an investigation, we came upon a cross-reference that brings us here to Karjasaari.’
‘To Karjasaari?’ asked Happonen.
Westerberg was about to go on, but then, in the echo after the word, he heard Happonen’s voice falter when he said Karjasaari.
‘Yes . . . Karjasaari, that’s the name of this place, isn’t it?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Happonen.
‘What is it?’ asked Suoma Happonen behind Westerberg. He turned and saw her standing in the middle of the room with a tray, and Happonen said, ‘Nothing.’
She came closer, carefully put the tray on the coffee table, and sat down beside her husband.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Mr . . . Westerberg is talking about a cross-reference that brought him here.’
‘That’s right. We’re investigating the case of a murdered company director . . . and we found a connection with Karjasaari and your son.’
Suoma Happonen nodded, and Joosef Happonen put an arm round her shoulders.
‘Did you know a boy . . . a man of your son’s age by the name of Kalevi Forsman?’
Happonen shook his head, barely perceptibly, and Suoma Happonen said, ‘Of course.’
‘He was at school with your son . . . so you remember him?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Suoma Happonen, and her husband said, ‘No, I’m sorry . . . but there were . . . Markus had a lot of . . .’
‘But you must remember Kalevi, they were very close friends for a time.’
‘Do you remember when? At what age?’ asked Westerberg.
‘Yes . . . not long before they left school, I think . . . the two always went swimming together during that particularly hot summer.’ She picked up the coffee pot, and sat like that for a few seconds. ‘Yes, it was the summer of their last year at school. 1985.’
1985, thought Westerberg. 19 August 1985. We had a barbecue. No one talked about what happened. She smiled at me. Everyone is the same as usual, and R. says I’m not to worry about it.
Happonen was sitting there as if turned to stone. His wife poured coffee.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Black, please,’ said Westerberg.
She made as if to hand her husband a cup, but he did not react.
‘Joosef?’ she asked.
‘Hm?’
‘Coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the cup.
‘I want to show you something,’ said Westerberg.
‘What is it?’ asked Happonen.
‘Just a moment.’ Westerberg opened his bag, which he had put on the sofa beside him, and took out the photograph. Markus Happonen, Kalevi Forsman and two unknown men in the sun.
‘Is that your son in the picture? With Kalevi Forsman?’
Suoma Happonen reached for the photograph, looked at it and nodded.
‘Yes, that’s Markus.’
‘May I?’ said Happonen, taking the picture.
‘I recognise Kalevi as well,’ she said.
‘How about the other two?’ asked Westerberg.
‘No, to be honest, they don’t mean anything to me. What about you, Joosef?’
Joosef Happonen looked at the picture. And at something behind it, Westerberg thought.
&nb
sp; ‘Joosef?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I . . . don’t recognise anyone in it. Not even Markus. Are you sure that’s him?’
‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘I even still remember . . .’
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Happonen.
‘. . . I even remember his swimming trunks.’
Happonen laughed – a forced laugh – and gave the photo back to Westerberg.
‘Thank you,’ said Westerberg.
‘Is it . . . is it important?’ asked Happonen.
‘It’s the cross-reference,’ said Westerberg.
‘I see,’ said Happonen.
‘Is that . . . do you mean . . .’ said Suoma Happonen.
‘Kalevi Forsman is dead,’ Happonen said. He seemed to be addressing neither Westerberg nor his wife nor himself. He was addressing no one in particular. He gave the information as a plain statement of fact.
Westerberg waited a few seconds. ‘Yes, you’re right. We found this photo in Kalevi Forsman’s apartment. Under the mattress of his bed.’
‘Under his bed?’ said Suoma Happonen.
‘The photograph . . .’ said Happonen.
‘Yes?’
‘The photograph is rather old.’
Westerberg nodded. He looked at the wintry scene beyond the window, the summery scene in the photo, and thought of Kirsti Forsman, the dead software adviser’s sister, who didn’t answer the phone when he called her, and who had said exactly the same thing in another room a few months ago.
48
14 December now
Dear diary,
Back in Helsinki, in time for my interview with the chart technician. The building where the Stock Exchange is housed is a grey block of masonry with banners on its flat roof waving in the wind.
We’re sitting in a small, stuffy room. The chart technician is very young, he is smoking, he wears a blue suit and a yellow tie, his hair stands up in peaks, and from what he says I conclude that he seriously thinks he is some kind of scientist.
He talks about the past and the future, about geometry and statistics, and I make a few notes while he enjoys the sound of his own voice and assembles platitudes, speculation and the pseudo-intellect of business management to build up a whole.
Of all the joke characters working on the money markets, chart analysts are the most amusing. With their fingers on the pulse of the financial world. Or something of that nature.
The interesting thing is that a few weeks after the system crashes, no one can remember the crash any more. Sometimes I wonder if I could achieve some of that deeply internalised suppression of reality myself.
He explains that there is cause for concern in the banking sector, and he anticipates being obliged to lower target prices. Lower them considerably, he adds.
Finally I ask him, just by the way, about Sedigene stocks; in what current trend of the charts does he see them?
‘Sedigene?’ he asks. ‘Biotechnology?’
‘That’s right,’ I say.
He seems to be thinking – thinking, mainly, what answer that question is expected to elicit.
‘Neutral,’ he says at last. ‘Why?’
I wave the question away, and a little later I set off for home. Evening is falling. Leea gives me a hug and goes into the kitchen to make coffee. Olli is pleased to see me and wants to play what at present is our favourite game.
‘Get it all set up,’ I tell him, and I go into my room.
An Internet search of the surprisingly up-to-date home page of Seudun Sanomat, the Rantaniemi local paper, tells me that an inmate of the care home for senior citizens was taken to hospital after a collapse of his cardiovascular system, and died there. According to this article, the initial suspicion that it might have been due to food poisoning has not been confirmed, since apart from the dead man no inmate of the care home has complained of stomach pains, and no more such cases are expected.
An interesting line of reasoning, leaving several variables out of account.
I join Olli in the living room. Olli is kneeling on the floor with the board and the cards lying carefully arranged in front of him.
‘Off you go, then,’ I say, and Olli picks up the dice. He waits for a moment, closes his eyes, concentrates, and throws.
49
WESTERBERG SPENT A considerable part of the evening with the poker machines in the hotel lobby.
Seppo sat bent over the files in the dimly lit, deserted breakfast area, muttering barely audibly from time to time that no one could win against the machines.
Westerberg fed another handful of coins into the machine, and Seppo murmured, ‘It’s an impossibility.’
‘What?’ asked Westerberg.
‘An impossibility. Beating a machine.’
Westerberg concentrated on the cards fizzing up on the display. King, king, jack, jack. And an eight.
‘Double pairs,’ he said. ‘With kings.’
‘That’s not much,’ said Seppo.
Westerberg pressed a button to get rid of the unwanted eight of clubs. He thought of the dead politician’s parents, of the moment when the father’s voice had faltered, and Seppo said the question of the business card was bothering him a little.
‘What?’ asked Westerberg.
‘The business card.’
Full house, thought Westerberg.
‘I’ve got a full house,’ he said.
‘With kings?’
‘With jacks.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What do you mean about the business card?’
‘The lady at the Town Hall, Happonen’s secretary . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, former secretary would be more like it.’
‘Yes, yes, Seppo. The business card . . .’
‘She remembered that Happonen had had one of our man’s business cards. He left it there after the preliminary conversation. It didn’t turn up in the course of the investigations, which suggests that the murderer took it back, presumably after committing the crime.’
‘Aha!’ said Westerberg, as coins rattled out of the poker machine.
‘Congratulations,’ murmured Seppo. ‘Unfortunately the lady didn’t know any more.’
‘It’s not likely his own real name and address were on it,’ said Westerberg.
‘Exactly,’ said Seppo.
Westerberg nodded. ‘Why the card, then?’
‘Exactly,’ said Seppo.
‘And what was on it, if not his real name?’ said Westerberg.
‘Exactly,’ said Seppo.
Westerberg thought it over while he counted the coins.
‘Twenty-three euros sixty cents,’ he said.
‘And how much did you put in the slot?’ asked Seppo.
More than that, thought Westerberg. ‘If the real name wasn’t on it, then presumably . . .’
‘. . . it gave a false one,’ said Seppo.
‘Hmm,’ said Westerberg.
‘Why risk it?’ said Seppo. ‘He must have reckoned with the possibility of not getting the card back.’
Lost in thought, Westerberg contemplated his next hand. Seven of clubs, nine of diamonds, queen of diamonds, ten of hearts, ten of clubs. He turned his eyes away from the flashing display and looked at Seppo, who was leafing through a file.
‘You’re looking for . . .’
‘Mentions of a business card,’ said Seppo.
‘In connection with Forsman.’
‘Exactly.’ Seppo took out his mobile, tapped in a number and waited. Westerberg turned back to the screen and exchanged the seven, the nine and the queen for cards that improved his chances only slightly.
Seppo apologised to whoever was at the other end of the line for disturbing him so late, and assured him that it was important. Then he listened for a while, and finally asked several times why he hadn’t been told about this before. He did not seem to get any sensible answer, and ended the conversation. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘Yes, I understand, yes, fine, thank you, goodnight.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Westerberg.
‘Jussilainen,’ said Seppo. ‘Forsman’s partner in the firm.’
‘Yes?’ said Westerberg.
‘He thinks he remembers that Forsman had a business card – he even thinks he remembers holding it once himself – because Forsman liked the design.’
‘The design,’ said Westerberg.
‘Yes, Forsman held the card in front of Jussilainen’s face. Because of the design. And only now we hear about it.’
‘Can Jussilainen remember the name?’
‘No. Only that it was unusual in some way. And he didn’t like the design himself.’
‘Ah.’
‘Jussilainen didn’t like the colour combination. And he remembers that the name sounded funny, and the man’s profession was given as adviser. In Happonen’s case it just said journalist.’
‘Adviser,’ said Westerberg.
‘Yes, the man said he planned to buy Forsman’s software on behalf of a bank.’
‘Yes,’ said Westerberg.
‘And no such business card turned up when we sifted through their contacts.’
Westerberg nodded, and watched the machine swallowing up his coins. A pair, then a double pair. Not enough, as Seppo so rightly said.
‘Perhaps he simply wanted to make his cover story more plausible?’ said Seppo.
Westerberg thought about that. ‘Perhaps. But I’m thinking of something else.’
‘Maybe, for some reason or other, he really did use his real name?’ said Seppo.
Westerberg shook his head. ‘He knows that, with a little luck, we could get our hands on the card.’
‘But why this whole rigmarole? Why was it important to him to give Forsman and Happonen his false name?’
The machine made triumphant clanging sounds.
‘Names don’t matter,’ said someone behind Westerberg’s back. He turned, and thought he liked the look of the man before remembering that he knew him already.
There in the dim light was Kimmo Joentaa, the young policeman from Turku, with whom he had worked on a very curious case at Christmas a year ago.
Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa) Page 13
