Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa)

by Jan Costin Wagner

  Oh, well, thought Risto Nygren. A sudden vague sadness came over him; in a way it somehow felt good. He hadn’t thought of Saara for a long time. Really, not since the day when he left her in the ditch and drove on to Helsinki and the airport.

  His last thought of Saara had been when he felt an impulse to tell the flight attendant, the girl who looked at him with such concern, all about it, 10,000 metres above the ground.

  Tell her everything. How he had killed a woman who had meant something to him. How it made him sad. The flight attendant in her smart uniform had looked as if she would understand him.

  There’s something the matter with her, he thought.

  Likelihood of going back: 0%.

  He tried to form a picture of Loverboy-5000. A banker. Between twenty and thirty. Who had something important to do at the office on 24 December, and then quickly saw to little Julia. And then, in the subway, gets out his iPhone or iPad, to send like-minded guys a report on his recent experience. Before Mama served the Christmas goose at seven and made him try on his new tie.

  He logged out and closed the system down. Sat in the silence smiling slightly to himself.

  Outside, idiots were throwing fireworks. At Christmas.

  He closed his eyes.

  After a while, as the image of Saara withdrew into mist, and made way for little Julia’s faint smile, he fell asleep.

  71

  KIMMO JOENTAA SPENT Christmas in the small house in the forest, now standing empty, where the piano teacher Saara Koivula had lived twenty-five years ago.

  The present owners of the property, a young married couple with a three-year-old daughter, had moved out a few months ago taking everything with them, except for a table and a chair, both made of pale wood the same colour as the floorboards.

  Joentaa had had a short phone conversation with the young husband, and ended by asking him if, by any chance, he knew where the piano had stood. The man didn’t understand, and when Joentaa had finally managed to convey what he meant said that there had been no piano in the house, at least not when he and his family moved in. Joentaa had thanked him and apologised for his silly question.

  He had been here several times in the last few days, trying to imagine what it had looked like in the summer of 1985. He assumed that the piano stood against the wall with the window next to the door to the terrace, which led straight out into the garden. He had a feeling that that would have been a good place for it.

  He opened the terrace door, sat down on the wooden chair, and looked around the living room, which was small and square. A narrow corridor led to the kitchen, a small bathroom with an even smaller sauna, and another room that had presumably been the bedroom. Another door led from the bedroom out into the open air and the garden, which seemed to merge with the forest after about 20 metres. Snow blew in through the open door; the air was cool and clear.

  A little way off a church bell rang, and a few minutes later the muted sound of Christmas carols being sung could be heard. Joentaa had seen the church when he turned off the narrow road along the even narrower track through the forest leading to Majala and Saara Koivula’s house.

  He closed his eyes and thought of the telephone conversation he had had with Sundström that afternoon. The country-wide search for Teuvo Manner was turning out, so far anyway, to be a complete failure. Teuvo Manner didn’t seem to exist. All trace of him was lost in 1991, after he left school here in Karjasaari. Manner’s mother had died in 2003, also here in Karjasaari, and her son had obviously not been to the funeral. He had gone away, he was always going away, a friend of his mother had said.

  It was a real problem, Westerberg had commented, and Joentaa had thought: Another shadow.

  He thought of Seppo, spending Christmas in his hotel room and thereby probably annoying his fiancée and several family members who had expected him back in Helsinki for the holiday season. But Seppo was a man possessed by the idea that he could make a name emerge from a sea of photographs. He had been back to the local journalist to borrow her extensive photographic archive, had returned to the hotel with three large boxes, had dragged them up to his room, and announced that he was going to find what he wanted at any price.

  However, he hadn’t found it yet, nor had Joentaa found anything out, although he had had many conversations over the last few days: with Happonen’s father again, with Miettinen’s son, with Anttila’s daughter and other people who had been in Karjasaari long enough to remember the summer of 1985.

  Teuvo Manner had disappeared.

  And Risto was still just Risto. A single name.

  At least their colleagues in Helsinki, to which Westerberg had now returned, had found out Saara Koivula’s last address. She had lived a quiet life on her own in a one-room apartment in the city centre, with a view of the sea and the ferries going out and coming in.

  She had last worked several years ago, teaching music and several languages at evening classes for adults, and after that she lived on state benefits, which had been paid up to and including December, because the state bureaucracy had not yet realised that Saara Koivula was dead.

  Former students at her evening classes had been questioned. They had reacted with dismay to the news of her death, and were very positive in what they said about her. She had been a good, kind and patient teacher. None of them had connected her with the photograph shown in the media, the woman lying dead in the Turku hospital. The photograph hadn’t looked at all like her.

  Westerberg had sent Joentaa a picture by email, a digital photograph taken by a woman who had attended her classes. Saara Koivula laughing among her students. If you looked very closely, you could just about see the laughing woman in the picture as the dead one in Turku hospital, but in a certain way they really were two different faces.

  One laughing woman, one dead woman, Joentaa had thought, and then thought the idea was both true and stupid.

  No one had noticed Saara Koivula’s disappearance. She hadn’t taught evening classes for years now. There seemed to be no relations or close friends who would have noticed that she was missing.

  His mobile lay on the wooden table in front of him. He picked it up and called a number, the one he kept on calling recently. His own. No one answered. The house was empty, the giraffe was lying in the snow.

  He thought of Tuomas Heinonen; he had phoned him the day before. Heinonen had said he was spending Christmas Eve at home with Paulina and the twins, and Joentaa had said he was very glad about that. He wrote a message: Dear Tuomas, a very happy Christmas to you and Paulina and the twins. See you soon, Kimmo.

  Then he leaned back on the chair and closed his eyes. The cold came in through the open door to the terrace. A text message from Tuomas came in: Dear Kimmo, I wish you a happy Christmas too. We’re at home, it’s all lovely. I have a silly question to ask, and I really do ask you only because I know you won’t take it the wrong way – can you lend me a little money in the next few days? 500 euros?

  Joentaa stared at the text message. For a few minutes he wondered whether it was possible that Tuomas Heinonen really did just mean to crack a joke.

  Then he leaned forward, laid his head on the top of the table and closed his eyes. He tried to think about the boy Teuvo Manner, but the thought eluded him. He thought of Larissa, and that thought eluded him as well, and he dreamed of a woman who looked like Larissa.

  When the familiar melody of his telephone roused him from sleep, he was sure that the call came from Sanna. Sanna had risen from the dead and had a mobile on which she was calling him now, at this moment, in the dark beside the red wooden church, standing beside her grave.

  He raised his head from the table and reached for the phone. Put it down, picked it up again.

  ‘Hello,’ he shouted.

  No one answered.

  ‘Yes!’ he shouted.

  ‘Er . . . Kimmo?’ asked the caller. He sounded uncertain.

  ‘Yes . . . sorry!’ shouted Joentaa.

  ‘Er . . . Kimmo, you’re shouting.
’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Never mind. Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I thought I’d give you a call at once,’ said Seppo.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Kimmo . . .’

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘I’ve got him.’

  Now Joentaa heard the new tone in his voice. Triumph and excitement.

  ‘Risto Nygren.’

  Joentaa said nothing.

  ‘Winner of the beach volleyball tournament on Karjasaari bathing beach on 24 July 1985. Captain of the team that won not only the honour but also a voucher for brunch at the fish restaurant there. In the photo Risto is holding the cup up to the camera, with the others in the background grinning for all they’re worth.’

  R. says I’m not to worry about it, thought Joentaa.

  ‘Do you understand? All four of them. Happonen, Forsman, Miettinen, Anttila.’

  The entire volleyball team, thought Joentaa.

  ‘We’ve got him, Kimmo,’ said Seppo again.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joentaa. A puddle had formed on the square metre of floor in front of the terrace door, and Joentaa wondered vaguely if it would damage the floorboards.

  ‘I’ll call when we get more concrete facts,’ said Seppo.

  ‘Right,’ said Joentaa.

  Then he sat in the silence again, in the empty house where Saara Koivula had lived with her boyfriend Risto Nygren. A brilliant volleyball player. He got up to close the terrace door, but when he reached the door he decided to go outside. Into the garden that merged with the forest after about 20 metres. There was a swing to one side of the garden; it looked home-made. Probably by the young father of the family, the man who wanted to sell this house.

  Joentaa brushed off some of the snow and sat on the swing. He swung back and forth a little, looking through the windows into the living room of the house. After a while he heard the sound of his ringtone again. He walked in, slowly, and when he got to the mobile the display told him a call had been missed. Seppo’s number. He called back.

  ‘Kimmo?’

  ‘Yes. You called.’

  ‘I did. Well, we’re scoring hits thick and fast here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Risto Nygren. A Finland Swede with German roots.’

  ‘Aha.’

  ‘Originally comes from Laappeenranta. Fifty-seven years old. Paper manufacturer, one of the four largest in Finland. Sold the firm a few years ago, seems to be living on the interest from the proceeds. A millionaire, I assume. Unmarried, no children. Has a handsome house near Turku, but he isn’t there now.’

  Another house standing empty, thought Joentaa.

  ‘Our colleagues disturbed several Christmas parties in the area, and found out that Nygren hasn’t been seen since the summer of this year. That wouldn’t be considered anything unusual, though, because Nygren’s former company has branches in various countries, and he always spent a lot of time travelling.’

  ‘Hasn’t been seen since the summer of this year,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Exactly. And it all began in summer when Saara Koivula was found in the roadside ditch.’

  Joentaa remembered the conversation with Rintanen, the doctor in the Turku hospital. Apallic syndrome as the result of severe trauma of the skull and brain. Lack of oxygen, circulatory arrest.

  ‘And here it comes,’ said Seppo. ‘We’ve scored another hit, with luck the crucial one. Risto Nygren flew to Germany on 24 June. The first findings are that he’s been living there ever since, in Frankfurt. He’s taken a suite in a five-star hotel for an indefinite period.’

  ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘Marko Westerberg and I are flying out tomorrow. I’ll go back to Helsinki first thing after breakfast, and our flight for Frankfurt takes off at eleven thirty-five. Shall we see each other first? At seven, maybe?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ said Seppo, and then, once again, Joentaa was sitting in the silence that was filled with something he couldn’t yet pin down. Risto Nygren, Germany, five-star hotel. Paper manufacturer. Millionaire, Seppo assumed.

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again he had a feeling for some moments that he could see it all. The shimmering heat, the garden in flower, the film of sweat on the forehead of the boy who has struck a wrong note, but is happy all the same. For those moments he could see it, even the absent piano. Then everything was back to how it had been before.

  An empty house in winter, snow blowing in through the terrace door. Risto. Manufactures paper.

  A white sheet of paper. Nothing written on it.

  A woman with no expression in her face any more.

  A giraffe that won’t be able to breathe if the snow doesn’t stop falling.

  He heard a sigh, and not until seconds later did he realise that it had come from his own mouth. He stood up and went to close the door carefully before he went down the slope to his car.

  72

  ON THE MORNING of 25 December Kimmo Joentaa was slowly eating a bowl of multicoloured muesli flakes, looking at the empty chair where Seppo had been sitting just a moment ago.

  Seppo had said goodbye and taken a taxi to Laappeenranta station, and Kimmo Joentaa felt as if he were now not just the only guest but the only human being in this hotel.

  The old man who often breakfasted here, doggedly reading a newspaper, was not in evidence, and the young woman who had served them coffee had also said goodbye, taking care to wish him all the best in the New Year. Joentaa had returned her good wishes.

  He went to his room and sat on the bed for a while before he began packing his few things in his travelling bag. When he had packed the bag he sat down on the bed. After a few more moments he pulled his laptop close to him and opened the email program. He had one new message. Not a lottery win, not a phone bill. A message from veryhotlarissa instead. Sent at 04.27 hours last night.

  Happy Christmas, dear Kimmo.

  He sat looking at those words for a little while. Looked at them and looked through them. Now and then a colourful ad popped up in the picture, exploding into a thousand sparks like a firework, only to come back a few seconds later. Joentaa tried to bring himself to obliterate the ad from his screen, but he didn’t have the strength. At some point a message came up saying that battery power was running low, and then the screen went black and the computer stopped humming.

  Joentaa put the computer in his travelling bag and lingered in the doorway for a while before he left. He took the lift down. There was no one at the reception desk, but the old man who spent hours every day reading his newspaper was sitting in a niche in the breakfast room. So he had come after all, but a little later today, the first day of Christmas.

  Joentaa left his key on the counter at reception; the police expenses department in Turku would deal with everything else. Then, on impulse, he went over to the old man and wished him a merry Christmas and a happy New Year.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ said the old man, without looking up from his paper. ‘And the same to you.’

  As Joentaa stepped out of the hotel his mobile rang.

  ‘Yes?’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Moisander, remember me? From Karjasaari police station.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Joentaa. He had met Moisander once, and had talked to him on the phone several times when he wanted information on addresses and contact data in Karjasaari.

  ‘We spoke on the phone several times,’ said Moisander.

  ‘Yes, I know. What . . . what is it?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘We have something here. Something that might interest you,’ said Moisander.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up,’ said Moisander, ‘if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Yes, fine, no problem. I’m outside the hotel here, I was really about to . . .’

  ‘I’ll be with you in five minutes,’ said Moisander.

  ‘Right,’ said Joenta
a.

  He went to his car, put his travelling bag in the boot, and waited for Moisander, who did indeed turn into the hotel car park with verve a few minutes later. The light on top of his patrol car was blinking, but the siren wasn’t sounding.

  ‘Hello,’ said Joentaa. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We none of us know for sure at this point,’ said Moisander. ‘I haven’t been to the scene yet. We’d better drive there and take a look for ourselves.’

  Joentaa nodded and leaned back. He was feeling leaden weariness, and thought of the euphoric Seppo, who had sounded so triumphant first thing this morning. He closed his eyes, thinking that in a certain way everything, while still in progress, had come to a halt.

  Those involved had been named, and now had only to be found.

  Moisander took the car along increasingly narrow tracks through the forest, and Joentaa thought of Nurmela’s birthday party on the summery autumn day that now seemed so long ago. Maybe because Larissa had still been there that day, and next day she had gone. He thought of the last dance – of August Nurmela’s offbeat music in the night – a dance that came to an early end when Grönholm threw up on Nurmela’s fitted carpet.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Moisander, beside him.

  ‘Isn’t this . . .’ Joentaa began.

  ‘Hmm?’

  They went along another forest track, this one covered with snow, and some way off Joentaa saw two more police cars and another used by Forensics.

  ‘It’s over there,’ said Moisander. He expertly drove the car through the deep snow and parked beside one of the police cars. Joentaa narrowed his eyes and peered through the windscreen.

  ‘No, that way,’ said Moisander, pointing in the opposite direction, but Joentaa was climbing out and went a few steps up the slope. The trees grew very close together here, but he made his way through them.

  ‘Okay?’ called Moisander.

  ‘Just coming,’ said Joentaa, climbing on. He had not been mistaken. He had thought he saw the swing through the branches of the trees, and now the house itself was ahead of him. He went on, although Moisander was calling something or other, and then at last he was in the little garden and sat down on the swing where he had been sitting last night. Only a few hours ago. The windows were like mirrors, he could see nothing. But he knew what was on the other side of them. A chair, a table, no piano.