Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa)

by Jan Costin Wagner

50

  KIMMO JOENTAA STOOD there, feeling weak at the knees, and wondered if this really was Westerberg.

  He had got the hospital to give him a few more names and addresses, relations of Anita-Liisa Koponen. Then he had driven to Karjasaari along the long, narrow road leading over the water.

  He had found the house where Anita-Liisa Koponen’s parents used to live; it stood looking well-tended but abandoned under a pale sun on the outskirts of the woods. After that he had driven to the school.

  A friendly secretary had spent several minutes looking through files, and finally said she was afraid that it was difficult to find the name of a supply teacher who had spent only one summer at the school, when that summer was more than twenty years ago. But she had promised to let him know if she found anything or came across anyone who could help him further.

  After that he had booked into the only hotel in the place, had spent some time sitting on the bed with his laptop open in front of him without getting any message from Larissa, had let Sundström know that he was investigating in Karjasaari – ‘Where? What?’ Sundström had responded – and finally went to sleep in the hotel room when it was nearly afternoon, seconds after his head hit the pillow at last. And now he wondered vaguely whether he was still dreaming.

  ‘Kimmo,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘Marko,’ said Joentaa. He was pleased to see him, a man he hadn’t thought of for a long time, but who was none the less familiar to him at once. He had been listening to the two of them, Westerberg and his colleague, for a while as they talked about names, false and real, and Westerberg had fed the poker machine with coins without concentrating on the game.

  False names, real names. The number you have called is not available. While Westerberg introduced his young colleague Seppo, Joentaa realised why he had been so pleased to see Westerberg. Meeting someone you don’t expect to meet. Who could have been anywhere, but who happened to be here in this dark hotel, playing that machine.

  He thought of the key under the apple tree, the light in the windows.

  He sat down at the table where Seppo was already sitting, which was covered with file folders just like the ones Joentaa had been leafing through the night before. 2,711 leads from the public. Angels. Devils.

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘Same to you,’ said Joentaa, and Seppo asked whether he would like some coffee, pointing to a white pot.

  ‘Is there any tea?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘I really came down to make myself a tea,’ said Joentaa. He stood up, but Westerberg got in first.

  ‘Coming in a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you one.’

  ‘Camomile, please,’ said Joentaa.

  A few minutes later Westerberg came back, put the cup down carefully in front of Joentaa, a live band began playing a tango in the adjoining restaurant, and it was Seppo who, after a brief pause, asked the obvious question. ‘Seeing that you’re, well, a police officer too . . . ?’ he began.

  Joentaa nodded. The sound of the music was muted as it reached the large breakfast room where they were sitting, and Joentaa felt a curiously gentle, almost pleasant pain behind his forehead.

  ‘So what are we all actually doing here?’ asked Seppo.

  ‘Well,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘You’re here on professional business?’ said Seppo.

  Joentaa nodded. He looked at the files that Seppo had pushed over to him. ‘Can you two tell me what your case is about?’ asked Joentaa.

  Westerberg nodded to Seppo, and Seppo began telling the story. Joentaa listened intently, and only occasionally interrupted with a question. When Seppo finished, the music in the restaurant had also come to an end, and a few shadows passed by, almost inaudibly wishing each other goodnight.

  Joentaa leaned back and drank the last cold dregs of camomile tea.

  A dead company owner in Helsinki.

  A dead politician in Tammisaari.

  A confused woman, her mind clear as glass, in a hospital in Ristiina.

  An unknown dead woman in the cemetery in Turku.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and Seppo went to get some coffee. The fruit machine rattled a little way off, and Joentaa looked at Westerberg, who was always wide awake when he looked as tired as he did now, and he thought of what Seppo had said at the end of his story.

  A false name on a finely designed business card.

  A murderer passing the time of day in a friendly manner.

  Seppo brought the coffee back, and Westerberg asked Joentaa, ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘The unknown woman who died,’ said Joentaa. ‘You must have followed that case.’

  ‘The coma patient in the hospital in Turku ...’ said Westerberg.

  Joentaa nodded.

  ‘Oh,’ said Seppo.

  ‘What does she have to do with Karjasaari?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ said Joentaa. ‘But going through our leads I came upon a woman who said the dead woman had been her piano teacher.’

  ‘Piano teacher,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘Yes, in the summer of 1985, here in Karjasaari.’

  ‘Summer of 1985,’ said Seppo.

  ‘Karjasaari,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘The woman’s statement didn’t seem credible at first, since she’s having psychiatric treatment. I met her in a hospital in Ristiina.’

  ‘Then did she give you a name?’

  Joentaa shook his head. ‘She either doesn’t know the name or doesn’t want to give it. She described the woman as an angel.’

  ‘Angel,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘1985,’ said Seppo.

  ‘I don’t know exactly why I followed up the lead. A friend of mine . . . she said I should look for signs of violence in connection with the dead woman. And in fact the autopsy did come up with suggestions of the effects of violence in the distant past. The statement given by the witness, Anita-Liisa Koponen, is full of hints of that kind.’

  ‘1985,’ said Seppo again. ‘Only then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘You said the witness mentioned the year 1985.’

  Joentaa nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. She said the woman had been there only for that one summer, she was standing in for a teacher who was ill, and then she fell ill herself.’

  ‘Summer of 1985,’ said Seppo, looking at Westerberg.

  ‘Got the photo there?’ asked Westerberg.

  Seppo nodded, took a photograph out of one of the folders and pushed it Joentaa’s way. ‘August 1985,’ said Seppo. ‘That’s Happonen on the extreme right, with Forsman next to him.’

  Joentaa picked the photograph up. The sun in the picture was shining considerably more brightly than the dim light in the room where they were sitting. A bright sun long ago. Two boys in swimming trunks who were no longer alive. Two men he didn’t know.

  ‘Who are the other two?’ he asked.

  ‘We haven’t been able to find out yet,’ said Westerberg.

  Joentaa turned the picture over and read the text on the other side.

  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.

  He looked up.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Westerberg.

  Joentaa held the photograph up to the dim light and concentrated on the woman in the background. She was propping her head on one hand. Her eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses.

  ‘That woman?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Seppo.

  Summer of 1985, thought Joentaa.

  ‘We’re in the process of identifying the people in the picture, but it’s difficult,’ said Seppo.

  ‘Neither Happonen’s parents nor Forsman’s sister recognise anyone in it,’ said Westerberg. ‘Happonen senior even said he didn’t recognise his own son.’

  Joentaa looked up.

  ‘His wife was forthcoming, but the man’
s father . . . he sort of shut down on us when we asked about the photo. And about his son’s younger days. It was the same with the sister of the other murdered man, Forsman.’

  Joentaa thought of the woman in the hospital, with her clear face behind the heavy make-up. I can manage for myself, she had said before closing the door behind her.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Happonen’s parents,’ he said.

  Westerberg nodded. Seppo yawned, and passed his hand over his eyes. Westerberg began humming the last tune that the tango band had played.

  ‘Right,’ said Seppo. ‘Forsman, Happonen, and the unknown woman in Turku, then. Yes, there does seem to be some connection, do we all agree?’

  Westerberg stopped humming, but did not reply, and Joentaa thought of Roope, shooting at an empty goal because the goalie was missing.

  ‘Hello?’ said Seppo.

  ‘Let’s think some more tomorrow,’ said Westerberg, standing up. ‘Sleep well, both of you.’ He went up to the poker machine again and gave it an enquiring look, as if he expected to get his money back. Then he turned away. ‘Sleep well,’ he repeated, and went out.

  ‘Right, see you in the morning, then,’ said Seppo.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ said Joentaa.

  Seppo gathered up his files, and Joentaa said, ‘Could you leave that photo with me?’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ said Seppo. He took the picture out of one of the folders and handed it to Joentaa.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa. He stayed sitting there alone for a few minutes longer, holding the photo up to the dim light. He concentrated on the woman in the background. Her sunglasses hid her eyes. She seemed to be turning to the sun, and at the same time glancing sideways at the men in the foreground. Her lips were compressed. The trace of a smile, as if she had instinctively reacted to the camera although her thoughts were far away. She seemed to be lying on her stomach in a relaxed position, her head propped on one hand. At the same time she looked tense. As if she had had difficulty in achieving her relaxed, casual manner.

  Joentaa looked at the picture until he could no longer see it. He went up to his room and switched on his laptop. He had two messages. His new telephone bill, and an email from veryhotlarissa.

  From: veryhotlarissa@pagemails.fi

  To: kimmojoentaa@turunpoliisilaitos.fi

  Yes.

  Joentaa looked at the single word for a long time before he finally began to laugh. Yes. A wonderful word. He wrote:

  Dear Larissa,

  I suspect that by ‘Yes’ you mean that I ought to follow up the lead I sent you. The piano teacher, right? Lovely that you’re there.

  Love from

  Kimmo

  He sent the message and an answer came back within seconds:

  From: veryhotlarissa@pagemails.fi

  To: kimmojoentaa@turunpoliisilaitos.fi

  Yes.

  He laughed. A burst of hearty laughter, louder than he’d laughed for some time. Then he picked up the photograph, put it on the bed, and wrote:

  ‘19 August 1985. We had a barbecue. No one talked about what happened. She smiled at me. Everyone’s the same as usual, and R. says I’m not to worry.’

  Does that say anything to you?

  Oh yes, something else – did I tell you that the boys would like to play ice hockey with you again?

  The giraffe and I are both waiting rather impatiently.

  Yes.

  See you soon, sleep well.

  Kimmo

  He waited a long time, but no new answer came. Instead, his mobile rang at two in the morning. It was Tuomas Heinonen to tell him that he’d won the jackpot.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘The jackpot. I’m winning it all back. A tournament on the PGA tour. Woods played a round in sixty-five.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Golf. The PGA tour. He did it. He really did it, and broke the record for the course. And I was betting on him.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s just finished.’

  ‘Tuomas, you know that I—’

  ‘Sleep well, Kimmo, I just wanted to let you know.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wanted to share my pleasure.’

  ‘Tuomas, you really must—’ said Joentaa, but Tuomas Heinonen had already broken the connection.

  Kimmo Joentaa put his phone on the bedside table, lay down on the bed and soon fell asleep.

  He dreamed of a large, picturesque golf course with no one playing on it, although the stands were full of spectators.

  51

  IN THE MORNING, when Joentaa was sitting at breakfast watching Westerberg and Seppo shovelling multicoloured muesli flakes into their mouths, he had a curious phone call, from Holmgren. It took Joentaa a few seconds to work out who that was.

  ‘What did you do to our patient?’ asked the man who had introduced himself by that name.

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘She’s screaming. Screaming and laughing.’

  Holmgren. The bearded head psychiatrist at the Ristiina hospital.

  ‘Anita-Liisa Koponen. You questioned her yesterday, and a little later she started screaming and laughing. And then she made pasta and tomato sauce for the patients and the staff.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. This is a breakthrough. It gives us hope.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But I have to know what she told you.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I . . . well, I don’t know whether I can tell you.’

  Holmgren did not reply.

  ‘She said she’d never told anyone about it before. So I don’t think I can tell you behind her back.’

  Holmgren still said nothing.

  ‘Do you understand?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmgren. ‘Yes, I do understand.’

  ‘You could ask her about it, see if she’ll tell you too.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holmgren. ‘Several times in my career I’ve had to refer to my medical duty of patient confidentiality, although the other way around . . . but yes, I do understand. You’re perfectly right.’

  ‘I may have to speak to Ms Koponen again,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Please do. Any time you like,’ said Holmgren.

  ‘And very good luck to you and Ms Koponen for now,’ said Joentaa.

  Holmgren laughed. ‘The same to you,’ he said and ended the conversation. Westerberg, coming up to the table with another bowl of muesli, asked, ‘Anything important?’

  ‘That was the doctor at the hospital in Ristiina,’ he said. ‘The psychiatrist treating my witness Anita-Liisa Koponen.’

  ‘The one who recognised the dead woman as her piano teacher?’

  ‘That’s the one. It seems she’s doing better. I don’t exactly know why, but she told me something yesterday. An incident in the past . . .’

  ‘Ah,’ said Westerberg.

  Violence, thought Joentaa. Casual brutality. A natural enough catastrophe, but Anita-Liisa Koponen hadn’t seen it coming. It had been twenty-five years before she was able to talk about it for the first time. And then, at last, she had begun to scream.

  He thought of what Westerberg had said. That the father of the dead politician refused to recognise his son in the photograph. And the same was true of the sister of the other dead man, Forsman.

  ‘Are we going to see the politician’s parents?’ he asked.

  Westerberg nodded. ‘After breakfast. I said we’d be there at ten.’

  ‘Good,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘And Kimmo, I’ll need that photo back,’ said Seppo. ‘I want to show it around today.’

  Joentaa nodded. ‘I’ll bring it right away,’ he said. He went to his room and called Sundström, to bring him up to date with developments.

  ‘Westerberg?’ asked Sundström. ‘You mean Marko Westerberg from Helsinki?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘There in that dump? Karjasaari.’


  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because of a double murder.’

  ‘Presumably.’

  ‘That’s somehow connected to our dead woman.’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Because a nutcase thinks she recognises the woman as her piano teacher.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Whose name she doesn’t know, she only knows she was an angel.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Joentaa.

  He waited for Sundström to crack a joke and dismiss the subject of Karjasaari and all the rest of it, but as so often Sundström surprised him. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘If anything else comes of this it could get us further forward. Will you call again this evening and tell me what the prospects are?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘And send me through the addresses of the nutcase’s relations. We’ll set about checking up with them. Maybe they’ll be able to remember the piano teacher’s name.’

  The nutcase’s relations, thought Joentaa.

  He put his mobile on the bed, picked up his laptop and switched it on. No new messages had come in.

  No news of a big win on the lottery.

  No telephone bill.

  Not even a ‘Yes’.

  52

  25 November 1985

  Dear diary,

  Saara isn’t there any more. The house is empty. No one lives there now.

  Anita-Liisa Koponen told me that today. She told me although I didn’t ask her, and I never talk to her, but she came up to me at break and told me.

  At midday I went there with Lauri, and the house really is empty. Risto’s big car has gone, and so has Saara’s little one. The curtains have gone. I didn’t want to, but Lauri kept saying we ought to go into the garden and see what it looks like inside, and then I went with him, and when we were in the garden I suddenly thought that Risto might be there after all, and I began trembling. Trembling like mad. Lauri asked if everything was all right, and I said yes, yes, everything was fine.

  This morning Lauri helped me a lot with the dictation, because I was sweating so much I almost burst into tears, because I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t keep up. It was all much too fast, and then Lauri took my exercise book and wrote the dictation out for me, and old Itkonen didn’t notice because he never sees anything. Later Lauri even apologised to me because he made a couple of mistakes on account of doing it in such a hurry, my goodness. I didn’t say so, but I couldn’t care less whether I make ten mistakes or a hundred or a thousand. Nothing matters now, but no one would understand that.