There had been no issues with Customs or otherwise. The majority of the ship’s cargo was headed directly for the Russian border, save for his two containers, which were en route to Kouvola, a town of about 90,000 just north of Kotka.
Markkanen had booked a warehouse in an industrial park, where the TVs would be unloaded and the containers filled with rubber gloves, as the packing list stated. The containers would then be shipped to Russia. The same gloves had already been back and forth over the border half a dozen times.
Each container could fit fifty to seventy large flat-screen TVs. Retail values for each was between eight and fifteen thousand euros. The TVs already had a buyer, though Markkanen only had a name, probably fictitious, and a phone number.
Only twenty more miles to go.
Over the past year, the news had been reporting that Russians were buying cabins and lakeshore lots in Eastern Finland. Markkanen wondered if these TVs were bound for their summer villas, or to be sold in shady retail stores. It was none of his business. His job was to ensure that the transfer at the warehouse went smoothly, and to collect the money.
The speedometer had climbed over sixty, and Markkanen eased his foot off the gas.
* * *
Suhonen’s phone beeped. He bolted awake and snatched it off the nightstand before realizing that it wasn’t a call, but the alarm. The room was dark; the curtains blocked out the sunlight.
He flopped onto his back and scratched his side. An old stab wound itched from time to time, begging for lotion.
Suhonen stretched his arms and legs. He’d have to make it to the gym today. That and wash the dishes, do laundry, and vacuum. His two-bedroom in Kallio wasn’t exactly tidy.
After Suhonen’s “marriage candidate” had moved out, Kulta proposed that they room together. If they pooled their money, they could save enough for a flat-screen TV and a housekeeper. The stove and dishwasher were dispensable, since the pizza guy would bring the food. If you brought a girlfriend to the pad, you’d have to fill the fridge with beer. The house cleaner could be paid with deposit returns from all the empty bottles and cans.
Suhonen had promised himself that he’d eat healthier. But once again, the night had ended with a meat pie doused in ketchup and mayo and a pint of milk from a 24-hour grill stand. He had pounded down the calorie bomb at four in the morning.
Should, should, should… He should get in the shower now.
Suhonen grabbed his phone off the table and squinted at it. The clock said 9:31 A.M. He checked the GPS tracker for Saarnikangas’ van. It was still at the apartment in Pihlajamäki and hadn’t moved all night.
He selected another vehicle from the drop-down menu. This one had sat in Pikku-Huopalahti overnight. The previous evening, he had caught up to Ilari Lydman’s Mazda, followed it, and installed a tracking device in the parking lot.
Suhonen stood up, took off his boxers, and headed for the shower.
He stopped at the bedroom door and took turns stretching his quads.
CHAPTER 17
PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
THURSDAY, 10:30 A.M.
“Glad to see everyone made it,” Lieutenant Takamäki said to start off the meeting. He had arranged it on short notice. Mikko Kulta, Kirsi Kohonen, and Anna Joutsamo sat on one side of the conference room, Takamäki and Suhonen on the other. Kannas, the head of Forensics was at the end of the table behind a stack of papers.
Sergeant Maija Laakso from the Financial Crimes Unit sat a couple chairs further down. Earlier, Suhonen had wondered aloud why she was attending, but Joutsamo explained that Laakso was representing the computer nerd unit. Apparently, they had found something on Eriksson’s laptop.
Suhonen tasted his coffee. He could have gone for some pastries too, but thanks to budget cuts, they were bound by a coffee-only policy. He studied Joutsamo’s timeline on the wall. Eriksson’s movements on Monday evening were beginning to come together.
“Let’s get started,” Takamäki continued, glancing at Kannas.
“Okay,” the big man growled. “Some of the evidence from the crime scene has been analyzed. We found a decent amount of hair and fibers, but we haven’t been able to go through them all yet. We do know that someone with blue overalls and a black wool hat has been at the scene. Of course, we’re waiting for you to bring us samples for comparison.”
The detectives nodded.
“We found a wad of chewing gum and some cigarette butts in the yard. There were plenty of those, but we focused on the fresh ones. The most interesting piece of evidence was the gum, which gave us a DNA sample. We compared it to the DNA database this morning and found a match,” Kannas paused. “In other words, we have a possible suspect.”
“Wow,” Kulta exclaimed.
Kannas slid a document toward the detectives. Joutsamo snatched it first and glanced at Suhonen. “Juha Saarnikangas.”
Suhonen’s face was expressionless.
“It’s difficult to determine how old the gum is, but we can probably try some further analysis at the lab. I would think they could tell from the composition whether it’s relatively fresh or been there awhile, but I don’t actually know. However, it’s clear that Saarnikangas has been at the crime scene at some point. The timing could be confirmed by analyzing the tires on his van. The tire tracks at the scene were left by GT Radials, and, according to Joutsamo, Saarnikangas has a matching set on his van. If we get our hands on the tires, we can easily check whether it was the same van.”
Takamäki nodded. “So Saarnikangas is a strong suspect. You all remember, of course, that Saarnikangas owed Eriksson a rather large sum of money. I should also mention that according to Customs, the tip about Eriksson being their informant is not true.”
Joutsamo interjected. “In other words, Saarnikangas had an apparent motive, and we’ve linked him to the crime scene. His criminal record is another strike.”
Takamäki interrupted Joutsamo. “Before we make any conclusions… Maija, why don’t you tell us what you found on the computer.”
Laakso had dark hair, a round face, and heavy build, and she wore glasses. Suhonen figured she hadn’t attended the police academy, but was hired from some IT firm.
“Right,” Laakso began. “The computer was a run-of-the-mill laptop, costs about a thousand euros. The internet service provider was Wizard. We haven’t received the broadband service reports from the ISP, so for now we’re just relying on the data from the laptop.”
Laakso glanced at the others, but nobody said anything.
“So… We found Jerry Eriksson’s fingerprints on the keyboard, along with somebody else’s,” she said, glancing at Joutsamo. “Based on an initial comparison, the second person was probably Kristiina Nyholm.”
Joutsamo cut in. “This Kristiina was here this morning to report Eriksson as missing, and I interviewed her. She told me about the events of the evening, and also gave me Eriksson’s cellphone number. We’ve filed a warrant for the phone records. Just in case, I took her fingerprints and had a look at them with a magnifying glass. They appear to match those found on the laptop.”
“Did you have the legal authority to take her prints?” Kulta asked.
“I asked her and she agreed,” Joutsamo answered.
“I don’t suppose you told her that her lost property had been found already.”
“No.”
“Cruel,” Kulta scolded.
Before Joutsamo could say anything, Takamäki interjected, “Anna and I agreed on that strategy. Go on, Maija.”
Kulta shrugged.
“He had your typical Windows software, but we didn’t find any interesting documents. There was some photo-editing software and what not, but no photos on the hard drive. Because of child porn cases, we have excellent programs for finding photos anywhere on the hard drive. Nor did we find any Word or Excel documents. The email application had never been used.”
“What we found on the internet side was much more interesting. Apparently, he used the computer for banking. Her
e’s the account number,” Laakso said, passing a sheet of paper to Takamäki.
“Whose is it?”
“It belongs to a fronting company. We haven’t requested the official account information since that requires a lieutenant’s authorization.”
“Consider it done,” Takamäki said, handing the paper to Joutsamo.
“The computer has also been used to access a couple of free email servers. Here are the user names and passwords,” she said, and gave the paper straight to Joutsamo. “We found a few fragments of text, which are included on that document.”
Joutsamo glanced at the page. The text was a lot of sports talk, but more importantly, the recipient’s email address was included. It was unlikely that Eriksson would jabber on about hockey games with his killer, but if need be, the address would allow them to learn more about his circle of friends. At this point, that was unnecessary: Saarnikangas’ DNA had been found at the crime scene. That was strong evidence.
“In addition, I have a list of the webpages he visited recently. To an outsider’s eye, it looks like fairly ordinary internet activity, but since I don’t know the details of the investigation, I’ll leave that to you. But there are, for example, Google searches for ‘police’ and he’s also been reading about criminal law.”
“A civilized criminal,” Kulta said.
“Thank you, Maija,” Takamäki said.
Laakso stood up. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“The DNA evidence is definitely the most significant,” Kulta said.
“Thanks,” Kannas muttered. “Crime scene investigation. Work with a purpose!”
Kulta spoke up. “I think we should take Saarnikangas into custody and start the interrogation. He’ll talk. Maybe not right away, but he’s in so deep that he’ll have to say something.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Joutsamo added.
Takamäki looked at Suhonen.
“I don’t think he did it,” Suhonen pronounced. “And even if he did, it wasn’t because of the debt. Yesterday I went to shake him up a bit, and right afterwards he left to meet a certain Ilari Lydman. Then, right away, a livid Lydman went out of his way to make a call on a landline. Those actions don’t indicate that debt was the motive.”
“I’m not arguing with that,” Joutsamo added. “This could very well be a contract hit, but we’ll know more when we get him to talk. If he doesn’t talk, then that’s his own fault. He’ll get life.”
Takamäki nodded. “Suhonen, bring him in.”
* * *
Markus Markkanen reached the entrance of the warehouse grounds and opened the padlock on the chain-link gate. The lock was new, but the fence was falling apart. Rust had eaten through the coating on the steel.
Maybe the Kouvola industrial district was too crowded for this type of job, but nobody would pay attention. The section he had rented was tucked away on the perimeter.
Markkanen drove inside, leaving the gate open. The warehouse was clad in corrugated sheet metal, and was large enough that a semi-truck could fit inside.
He left his car behind the building and walked the grounds. Not much to check out: a few worn-out tires and a stack of pallets.
The gate key also fit the lock for the warehouse, and he opened the door. The building was long, cold, and empty, designed expressly for unloading cargo. He snapped on the lights.
The semi would have enough room to back up to a loading dock in the rear. From there, a ramp descended to ground level. The goods would be quickly transferred from the shipping container to a truck or van. The smaller vehicles had a separate entrance. When a van was full, another would take its place. The forklift in the corner of the building would speed things up considerably.
Along the wall were a tall stack of cardboard boxes and some plastic pallets with Russian text. Those were the rubber gloves.
He tried the forklift, which started easily. Everything was in order. He glanced at the clock: 10:40 A.M. The buyer’s vehicles would be there at 10:50 and the first semi at 11:00. If everything went smoothly, the loading and unloading would take less than an hour.
Markkanen checked the holster on the small of his back again. The gun was still there.
* * *
Takamäki was sitting in his office, sifting through piles of email. It seemed like the Ministry of Interior had gone nuts. Every week, a new flood of directives on criminal investigations arrived. This time, the Narcotics Unit was to blame-a few of their officers had allegedly used rogue investigative methods, which had been making headlines for a year now, but the case was still pending. Takamäki couldn’t help thinking that on paper things were simpler-out on the streets, it was different. Maybe the desk jockeys ought to spend more time working undercover before judging others, he thought.
The ministry’s new position was that all crimes should be solved according to strict standard protocols. The laws governing police investigations, interrogations, and operations were also being reformed. It would be interesting to see what came of it. One thing was clear: it was almost impossible for the new rules to be any more complicated than they already were.
Takamäki wondered if he’d done the right thing ordering Saarnikangas’ arrest. If the man didn’t cooperate, he’d be convicted of murder with the evidence they already had. In court, his silence would be taken as an admission of guilt. If he was innocent, he had every reason to clear his name, and they would give him every opportunity to do that.
On the other hand, Saarnikangas might take the rap to protect somebody else. In that instance, despite a successful conviction, the killer would go free.
But Takamäki believed Saarnikangas would talk. After all, this was the same guy who had told Suhonen about the body in the first place.
His phone rang.
“Hello.” The caller’s number was displayed as “Unknown.”
“Hi. Sanna Römpötti here,” said a woman’s voice.
Takamäki would have recognized her voice anyway. She was a veteran crime reporter for Channel 3 TV news.
“What now?”
“Don’t steal my questions.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” she laughed.
Takamäki was quiet for a moment. “But aren’t the detectives supposed to ask the questions first?”
“True. So what’s new?” Römpötti went ahead with her interview.
“What’s new… Actually, not much,” he said. Under no circumstances would it make sense to talk about the Eriksson case at this sensitive stage. Broadcasting it would only complicate matters further.
“Nothing?” she pried in a voice that suggested she knew better.
“Nothing that I can talk about or that would interest TV reporters.”
“Well, I heard you found a body.”
Takamäki swore to himself. “We find bodies every day. The population of Helsinki isn’t getting any younger.”
“I mean a homicide victim.”
Takamäki wasn’t sure how much she knew. So far, she was just baiting him with questions.
“Like I said, nothing that I can talk about or that would interest TV reporters.”
“How do you know what interests us? Besides, we’re not just TV news anymore, We’re on the internet in real-time,” she said, more aggressively.
“I see.”
“Listen, Kari. You’ve been investigating this murder since the beginning of the week, which means it’s pretty interesting. If it was a routine case, you would have announced it right away.”
“Sorry,” he said bluntly. “No Scoop of the Year this time.”
“So you’re declining to comment.”
“What’s there to comment about?”
Römpötti was silent for a moment. “Well, I guess I’ll just put it on the website then.”
“Put what?”
“Check our website in five minutes,” she said and hung up.
Damn. How in the hell had she found out about the case already? That would be almost
impossible to answer. Journalists had their sources and dozens of people knew about Eriksson’s murder.
Competition for internet news had changed the relationship between the police and the media. Now journalists demanded every crumb of information immediately, and more often than not they published it the moment they heard it. There was a time when Takamäki could have asked her to call back in the afternoon, and they could have dealt with the issue like grown-ups. Now, Römpötti was in a rush to get the story online before somebody beat her to it.
One thing was for sure: some details of the case were about to become public. Now Takamäki had to consider its impact on the investigation.
CHAPTER 18
KOUVOLA WAREHOUSE
THURSDAY, 10:58 A.M.
The Russian truck driver was a pro. He effortlessly backed the trailer into the warehouse, hopped out of the cab, and ducked behind the corner to smoke a cigarette. The system was simple: the driver disappears so he never sees what goes in or comes out of the truck. The second semi was idling nearby, waiting its turn.
Markus Markkanen only knew Jormanainen-the buyer-by his last name, and figured it wasn’t real. The bearded man was in his fifties and wore a ragged brown leather jacket. Markkanen knew the man had received a suspended sentence for fraudulent invoicing of construction companies.
Jormanainen had brought along a couple helpers.
“Makle, Axeli, and Rahkis, let’s move.”
A guy in a windbreaker and a baseball cap dragged himself to his feet and slowly swung open the container doors. A younger fellow with copious amounts of gel in his hair started the forklift. The third, a bald man smoking a cigar, sat on the back bumper of an empty cleaning company truck.
“Didn’t you clowns hear me? Get to work!”
The TV sets were arranged lengthwise in special racks inside the container. Helmet-hair forked the first rack of ten sets out and paused on the loading dock while Jormanainen jotted down the screen sizes from the cardboard boxes.
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