He searched the field for a familiar face, but couldn’t find it. In their matching soccer sweatsuits and beanies, the boys all looked the same.
Those parents are probably talking about hockey, Repo wondered. At least that’s what the words he heard—lines, checking, hitting—sounded like. On the other hand, they could have also been talking about prison.
No one paid any attention to Repo.
The vests—more prison slang—were outplaying their opponents, and scored again. One of the boys faked out a defender near the sideline and centered the ball in front of the goal, from where another player headed it into the back of the net.
A dull clapping echoed from the coach’s leather gloves. He called out to the winger, “Great fake and center, Joel!”
Repo startled. Joel. He took a closer look at the boy and recognized the features from the photo Karppi had given him. The face wasn’t as round as it used to be, but it was his Joel, no doubt about it.
The coach continued shouting out the pitch: “Markku, that header was just like Ronaldo! Nice goal! Okay, kick off from midfield.”
The goalie angrily kicked the ball into center field, where one of the vests snagged it out of the air.
Repo heard one of the sweatjackets complaining to the coach about the teams: “All the best kids on the same team. This is totally unfair.”
Joel jogged up to the middle of the field. Repo watched every step.
“Fair and fair. Stop complaining, Leevi,” the coach said, blowing his whistle. The game continued.
Repo watched Joel’s every move. In his day, he had played Division II soccer himself and knew a lot about the game. But that didn’t make any difference now. He didn’t look where Joel was positioned or whether his touches were clean. He wasn’t interested in whether Joel knew how to tackle properly, or whether he led too much with the soles of his feet.
Repo simply watched his son, mesmerized. He felt like running out onto the pitch and hugging him. Telling him how proud he was of him. Tears rose to his eyes as he understood what he had lost.
Repo clearly heard the words when one of the parents standing next to him said to a man in a green ski cap, “That Joel of yours is definitely the best player we’ve got. He’s not going to be hanging around here too long before they move him up.”
The words cut Repo to the quick. That Joel of yours. Of yours.
The boy was his Joel, not anyone else’s. He wasn’t that green-capped guy’s Joel. Repo felt like shouting, but he knew he couldn’t.
Eight years earlier, Joel was a tow-headed toddler he had taken to the soccer fields dozens of times to kick the ball around. Where had the years gone? Repo knew the answer all too well: prison. And for no reason. His wife was dead. His mother was dead. His father was dead, and his son was gone. What did he have left? Nothing.
Repo wondered how Joel would react if he walked out into the field and told him he was his real father. Could they still have a life together?
What would his life be like if his wife were still alive? Once again, thinking hurt too much.
Repo saw now that coming here to stand at the sidelines had been pointless. His son wouldn’t recognize him. What had he been thinking? That Joel would run up to him, stop, and say, “Dad?” That they’d hug and walk off into a new life together? Repo chuckled to himself. The boy wouldn’t remember him, and probably wouldn’t even know his name. The guy in the green beanie was his dad now. Not him.
Repo took a final look at the man in the green cap. Take good care of my son, Repo silently told him, and headed toward the car he had stolen. Where had his life gone?
CHAPTER 10
TUESDAY, 8:30 P.M.
HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA
“What are you going to do about Juvonen?” Joutsamo asked. Takamäki, Suhonen, and Kulta were also sitting in the austere conference room at police headquarters in Pasila. Someone had drawn a big question mark on the flipchart.
“What do you think I should do?” Takamäki asked.
Joutsamo was incensed. “Nail her to the wall. That was a really dirty trick.”
“What’s the crime?”
“I don’t know, but you can’t mislead the police like that.”
Takamäki was silent for a moment. “Resisting police authority. It includes false reports. As I recall, the maximum is three months in jail.”
“That’s not going to get you a search warrant for her phone,” Joutsamo noted.
“Don’t need it. Let’s call her in for questioning and confiscate it. That’ll let us check the numbers called,” Takamäki said. “But we also have to think about costs and benefits here. It’s not in our best interest to create a rift with the media.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about, hopefully,” Joutsamo said. “No one else in the media behaves that way. They always want photos, but we’re going to be screwed if this is how they’re going to start acquiring.”
“Or was it just a one-off overstepping of bounds?” Takamäki wondered out loud. “Happens to police, too.”
“Were you guys planning to continue this conversation on media ethics much longer?” Suhonen yawned. “If we can get back to the case… I think the key is figuring out why Repo took off.”
“You have any ideas?” Joutsamo asked.
“Some ideas, but not too many facts.”
“Maybe he’s offed himself?” Kulta suggested. “Was so shocked by his old man’s death that he flew the coop and ran into Töölö Bay. At least that would explain why we can’t find him.”
“If he wanted to, he could’ve killed himself in prison,” Joutsamo said.
“But if it was the funeral. Temporary insanity.”
“Give me a break,” Joutsamo replied. “When we went to the old man’s house, there was a photo where Timo Repo’s face had been blacked out. They weren’t close. But I bet you’re on the right track, that the dad’s death has something to do with the motive for the escape.”
“Okay, theoretically it’s possible that he had been planning to split for a while, but this was his first chance,” Kulta said.
“He could’ve got himself sent to a hospital, if he faked it well enough,” Joutsamo noted.
Kulta wouldn’t give up. “Revenge? Bitterness?”
“Toward whom?” Suhonen continued. “He stopped filing appeals. Guys like that are psychologically wired so that if they’re bitter about something, it snowballs and they start seeing conspiracies everywhere. If Repo was spinning out of control, the guards would have noticed something. It would’ve showed somehow in the pen, overall edginess or continuous bitching. But he’s been a total sheep ever since he gave up appeals,” Suhonen said. “He wasn’t cracking. We’re missing something here.”
“Or not,” Kulta reflected. “It could just all be in his head. Something no one else can understand.”
“But even that would have been evident in the pen.”
“What if he hasn’t changed? What if he’s been screwed up the whole time, but was able to hide it?” Joutsamo suggested.
“All of these lead back to the suicide theory one way or another,” Takamäki noted. “A desperate man commits a desperate act, and because we don’t know why, we assume the only answer can be suicide.”
“There’s not always an explanation in cases like these,” Kulta said. “Sometimes a human life hangs by an extremely slender thread.”
“But if we go back to the act itself,” Joutsamo began. “His wife’s murder.”
Takamäki waved a hand. “Not right now. Let’s go back to it tomorrow. Suhonen, you have anything going on tonight?”
Suhonen shook his head. He never had anything going on that would’ve taken precedence over work.
“Find Saarnikangas. That’s the only name on the outside that has come up. Being a junkie, he’s probably on the move at night, even if Repo stays holed up. That might lead us somewhere.”
“Maybe,” Kulta said.
“You got any better ideas?”
“No, I just don’t think it’s a very strong direction.”
“It’s not,” Takamäki admitted. “But it’s the only one we have.”
“We could go check the old man’s house again,” Joutsamo suggested. “Mikko and I could drop by.”
“Oh, we could, could we?”
“Yes,” Joutsamo smiled.
“Sounds good,” Takamäki said, standing and flipping over the sheet with the question mark.
* * *
Takamäki quietly opened the front door of his house. It was a little before nine o’clock. He figured Jonas might already be in bed. Kaarina wasn’t, though. She was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop.
“Hey,” Takamäki said softly.
“Hey,” Kaarina answered. Takamäki detected a coolness in her voice.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine. Nice you could make it home so early.”
Takamäki took off his coat and hung it up in the entryway. The lower floor of their townhouse contained a kitchen and a living room. The three bedrooms and a sauna were upstairs. The house had been built around 1990, and had suffered serious water damage a few years back.
“There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
Takamäki sat down at the table. “Not really,” he replied, browsing through the day’s mail. Nothing important: the latest issue of Technical World, a bank statement, some bills, a couple of ads.
“How’s Jonas?”
“What about him?”
“How’s he doing?”
“Not great. I gave him some ibuprofen that ended in a huge string of zeroes.”
“The samples you got from work?”
Kaarina nodded. She was a head nurse at the municipal hospital.
“He’s sleeping now. He did ask for you a bunch of times earlier this evening.”
Takamäki felt bad. He should have been there to answer his son’s questions. “What did he want?”
“Mostly he was interested in whether the entire hockey season was gone thanks to his arm. I didn’t know the answer.”
Takamäki felt a pang of regret. “He should have called me.”
“You’ve told the boys time and again that they shouldn’t call you at work. I’m assuming that’s why he didn’t want to bother you.”
“Well, the season probably isn’t totally gone yet. It’ll be six to eight weeks, I’d say. Or guess.”
“Jonas probably would have liked to hear that. But there’s no point waking him now. His arm was really sore, and he had a hard time falling asleep.”
Takamäki went over to the fridge and took out a beer.
Kaarina couldn’t resist needling him: “There’s food in there, too.”
Takamäki didn’t bother answering; he popped off the cap with the opener on the fridge and drank straight from the bottle.
Kaarina turned back to her laptop for a moment, but then interrupted herself. “Who hit him?”
“Don’t know.”
“The Espoo Police must be looking into it.”
“Yeah.”
“No one from there has called me. Did anyone call you?”
“I called the investigator,” Takamäki said. “As a matter of fact, I dropped by Sello and picked up the surveillance camera images.”
“Why? Shouldn’t the Espoo Police take care of that?”
“They should, but I thought I’d make sure it happened.”
“Can you see the hit-and-run in the pictures?” Kaarina asked hesitantly.
Takamäki nodded.
“How bad did it...?”
“There were a few stills. You can see the collision and the car’s license plate number.”
“So he’ll get caught?”
“Possibly. You can’t make out the driver.”
“Whose car is it?” Kaarina asked.
Takamäki took a swig of his beer. “I don’t know. Let’s allow the Espoo Police to do their job.”
“Well, they don’t sound very efficient, since they haven’t even questioned Jonas about the incident yet, and you had to pick up the photos.”
“The investigator’s pretty busy. I promised I’d take him the photos tomorrow.”
* * *
The green Volkswagen Golf turned onto the Tuusula Expressway, as sleet slapped into the windshield.
“Have you ever played boardless chess?” Kulta asked Joutsamo. He was at the wheel.
“What?”
“Boardless chess. Chess without a board and pieces. Let’s give it a shot,” he suggested, turning off the highway. They still had a mile or so to go. “I’m white, so that means my pieces are in squares one and two. You have seven and eight.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll make the first move. Pawn from D2 to D4.”
Joutsamo smiled. “OK, knight...ummm, B8 to C6.”
“Good,” Kulta said, slowing down. He let an old woman cross the road. “Pawn from E2 to E3.”
Joutsamo tried to picture the chessboard. “Knight from E6 to B4. Have you played this before?”
Kulta kept his eyes on the road. “Once with Suhonen. We got to the third move before we started arguing about where the pieces were.”
“So let’s quit while we’re ahead,” Joutsamo said. “Turn right up there.”
Kulta spun the wheel, and the car curved onto the street where the deceased Erik Repo’s home stood.
“It’s that one,” Joutsamo said, and Kulta eased off the gas. The sides of the road were again lined with parked cars, but Kulta managed to crank the Golf into a space so tight Joutsamo wouldn’t have even bothered trying to squeeze into it.
The officers stepped out of the car, and Joutsamo tugged up the zipper of her black coat. She fumbled around in her pockets, but didn’t find her hat or gloves there.
“Queen from D1 to G4,” Kulta said.
“That’s a dumb move,” Joutsamo answered. “My knight is going to move to C8. Check. And then I’m going to take your rook.”
The streetlights bathed the yard in a yellow glow, but the wooden house itself was dark.
“Bet you a coffee that this trip is a complete waste,” Kulta said, not waiting for a response.
The detectives started walking toward the house. Joutsamo tried looking for signs of forced entry, but there was nothing visible. At the gate, she took a quick look inside the mailbox. It was empty. A black garbage can stood next to it in a small wooden shelter. She looked inside that, too: also empty.
“No sign of Repo in there?” Kulta joked, continuing on to the house. He peered in through the window first, but didn’t see any movement in the dark interior. He took the windows to the left; Joutsamo took those to the right. They met at the back of the house, both of them shaking their heads.
“I think I won that coffee,” Kulta said.
“I never bet you,” Joutsamo protested, looking over at the house next door.
“An espresso will work, too.”
“Let’s go talk to the neighbor,” Joutsamo said. She started circling around to the front yard the way Kulta had come.
“What neighbor?” Kulta wondered, following her.
“The one who was just watching us out of that window.”
Kulta looked at the neighboring home, but the window facing them was dark.
“Wow. X-ray vision, huh?”
“You get it with your sergeant’s stripes. You should apply for those brass classes, too. Plus, think about who’s emptying Repo’s mailbox. They deliver the neighborhood paper three times a week here, as I recall.”
The pair returned to the street and headed toward the neighbor’s house. Joutsamo checked the name on the mailbox: Karppi. The house gave the impression of belonging to an elderly person or couple.
The windows were dark, but Joutsamo was certain she had seen movement. Of course it could have been nothing more than a cat walking across the windowsill.
Joutsamo rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang again. Nothing.
“Agh,” Kult
a grinned, reaching under his coat and pulling out his Glock from its holster on his belt. “Deadbolt’s not on, so all we need to do is give the lock a little tickle.”
Joutsamo sighed.
“No?” Kulta said, twirling the gun around and giving the door a couple of sharp raps with the butt. He called out in a commanding tone: “Police! Open up now! I repeat, Police. Open this door immediately!”
Kulta smiled when he could hear movement and the sound of footfalls inside. “I get at least a double espresso for this.”
“Except if whoever’s inside has a heart attack, in which case you’ll get an indictment.”
Rustling could be heard from inside. Joutsamo recognized it as the sound of an old-fashioned chain. The door opened, revealing an elderly, gray-haired man in a brown sweater. He looked scared and immediately took a couple of steps backwards.
“Anna Joutsamo from the Helsinki Police Department,” Joutsamo announced, showing her badge. “This here is my colleague, Mikko Kulta.”
“From the same firm,” Kulta quipped.
“You’re police officers.”
“That’s what we just said,” Kulta said.
Joutsamo thought the jab was unnecessary and clearly missed its mark. The old man didn’t catch it.
“You were watching us from the window a minute ago. Did you think we were criminals?”
The man grunted. “This place is swarming with them. Last summer, two houses were emptied on this street alone. The residents were on vacation and everything of any value was taken.”
“Do you live alone?” Joutsamo asked.
The man realized he hadn’t introduced himself, despite the fact that the officers had. “Right, of course, I’m Otto Karppi, and yes, I live alone. My wife died years ago.” He didn’t extend a hand, though.
“Well, we’re not investigating break-ins right tonight, we’re interested in whether anyone has been over at Repo’s house during the past couple of days.”
“Why are you interested in that?”
“Why don’t we ask the questions here,” Kulta growled.
“I’m just interested because I’ve been managing my old friend’s affairs.”
Helsinki homicide: Cold Trail Page 11
