“Thank you for allowing me to attend,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No one dies unless Allah permits,” Abdi says. “We must pray for God’s mercy on the departed in the hope that they may find peace and happiness in the afterlife. We must strive to be patient, and remember that Allah gives life and takes it away, at a time appointed by Him. It is not for us to question His wisdom.”
Jorma gets out of the driver’s side, opens the rear of the hearse. I’m taken aback, because there isn’t a coffin. Sufia’s body is wrapped, with obvious precision, in cloth as white as the snow that blankets the graveyard.
“There were many difficulties in preparing for Sufia’s parting,” Abdi says. “As a Muslim, she may not share a burial ground with infidels. I purchased a plot in the corner of the cemetery, and those plots surrounding it, so that her resting place may remain separate and undefiled. The grave must be aligned on a northeast-to-southwest axis, facing Mecca. It was most difficult to communicate the importance of this to the grave diggers.”
“Jorma told me there were complications,” I say.
He sighs. “More than I would have imagined. Proper burial garments and bindings were difficult to obtain. Her body should not be embalmed or placed in a coffin, but this is not in accordance with Finnish law. I had to obtain special permission to forgo the casket and instead place her in a grave with a concrete liner. Women may not accompany the departed to the site of burial. As such, my poor wife has had to wait here and suffer in this frozen graveyard.”
I’m surprised and touched by his candor. I would never have expected it of him. “Are there no other mourners or clergy?” I ask.
“There is no mosque in this town, no Muslim community. We have no friends here. As her father, it is permitted that I serve as imam and offer the spoken prayers. It will not be difficult for you. They are similar to the five daily prayers, but most are silent. No bowing or prostration is required. Would you assist me in taking her to rest?”
He means will I help him carry her body. With care, we take her from the hearse.
“We must place her in the ground on her right side,” he says. “It should be so that I remove the veil from her face, but because of her condition, I choose to leave it covered. I do not believe this will be displeasing to Allah.”
We carry Sufia through the snow on our shoulders. It’s not easy and we move with slow care. Hudow looks on as we place Sufia in the concrete liner. Abdi adjusts the arrangement of Sufia’s body in minute ways and looks up at Hudow. She nods, saying without speaking that Sufia’s final resting place is to her satisfaction.
The grave was dug with a backhoe, the earth piled up in a neat mound. Abdi takes three clods of earth, which he must have broken up beforehand, because the dirt is frozen rock-hard and there’s no way he could have done it otherwise, and drops them in the grave. Hudow does likewise. He offers three clods to me and I toss them onto Sufia’s shrouded body. He says a short prayer in Arabic. He translates for me and asks me to recite it. “We created you from the earth, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.”
I say the prayer and he offers some others. It doesn’t take long. “Now we must pray for the forgiveness of the dead,” he says.
We do it in silence. I’m so moved by the service that I’m tempted to abandon my plan to lure him into a confession. I remind myself that no matter the cause, Heli’s murder was a monstrous act that must be punished.
When it’s over, he takes me aside. “We must not linger long,” he says, “because Hudow suffers greatly. The Prophet said that three things continue to benefit a person after death. Charity given during life, knowledge imparted unto others, and a righteous child who prays for a departed parent. Now, after our own deaths, Hudow and I will not benefit from the prayers of a righteous child. You cannot know, but my daughter was a warm and delightful person. She brought us great joy and did not deserve what befell her in this evil place. I believe Allah will receive her with open arms. In this world though, there must be an accounting. How do you progress?”
“I’ve failed,” I say. “Seppo Niemi murdered your daughter, but I can’t prove it and he’ll go free. I’m sorry.”
He rocks on his heels like I slapped him. “This cannot be, I will not allow it.”
“There’s another option.”
I see rage in his face. “Which is?”
“I’ll create an opportunity for you to take your vengeance.”
Rage is replaced by curiosity. “Why would you do this?”
“Have you read the papers? Do you know what Seppo did to me, how my ex-wife betrayed me and Seppo made me a cuckold?”
He nods.
“You could take vengeance for both of us, redress all the wrongs done to us.”
He studies me. “I see.”
“I know certain things,” I say. “You aren’t Dr. Abdi Barre. He was killed with a tire necklace outside Karaan Hospital in 1990. I think you killed him, stole his passport and used it to escape Somalia with your wife and daughter. I further believe that you murdered my ex-wife to punish Seppo. As you put it, ‘eye for eye.’ I’m not judging you for this, I’m glad she’s dead.”
His face betrays nothing. “You must believe yourself quite clever,” he says.
“I’ll take Seppo to Heli’s funeral this afternoon. Afterward, I’ll bring him to the lake, to the same spot where you killed Heli. I’ll leave him there with you. Give me some time to get back to town and establish an alibi, then kill him. Make it look like a suicide. It’s the only way we can make things right.”
He lifts a gloved hand and presses a long finger to pursed lips as he contemplates. “Why have you investigated me?”
I shrug. “It’s my nature. Meet me at six P.M.”
“You must think me foolish,” he says. “Forgive me for saying that you do not have my full trust in this matter. I must decline.”
“I don’t think you have much choice. If you refuse, I’ll arrest you for Heli’s murder. You’ll serve a lengthy prison term, and afterward you’ll be deported back to Somalia.”
“I see.”
“Are we agreed?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “Do as you will.” I start to walk away.
He calls after me. “Inspector, it is unfortunate that you were not as assiduous in the investigation of my daughter’s murder as you have been in your inquiry of me. Much would have been spared us all.”
“I’m sorry for that, I did my best.”
I turn and don’t look back. My bad knee has stiffened from the cold. I limp across the windswept graveyard through the crackling snow and drive away.
I go to Seppo’s house and look for clothes appropriate for a funeral. I pick out a charcoal pinstripe suit for him, find him a long heavy wool coat so he doesn’t get frostbite during last rites at the cemetery. Back at the station, I let him use our sauna and shower room to prepare himself, clean up and shave.
I talk to Valtteri. He’s been on the phone, calling people from the church, trying to make sure Heli gets a proper send-off. He’s gotten everything together: his white winter camouflage suit, a video camera, recording equipment and a scoped AK-47. I let Seppo sit in the common room without handcuffs. It seems too cruel to make him linger in his cell while he waits to bury his wife. I sit in my office alone for a while and smoke cigarettes.
When it’s time, Seppo and I drive to Kittila’s church in my car. The day is wretched. Cold, dark and miserable. He sits in the passenger seat beside me and maintains his composure. He attempts conversation, wants to commiserate over Heli. I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t feel like chatting.
Like in many small Finnish towns, our church is simple and wooden. The turnout is good, maybe sixty people. Some knew Heli when she was a girl, some come out of obligation because a member of the congregation has died. Her family is there. Her mother and father barely acknowledge Seppo, but hug me like I’m sti
ll their son-in-law. Jorma did a good job. Her casket is white with polished brass handles. There’s no clue that preparations were made at the last minute.
Pastor Nuorgam, a Laestadian, holds the service. He goes through the ritual parts, then begins the sermon. It starts nicely enough, mourns the loss of a daughter of the church who was for a time a lost lamb but who thanks be to Christ recovered her faith before her passing. Then it devolves into a rant, low-key and in a calm voice, but a rant nonetheless, about original sin and the tortures of hell. It ends with the expression of hope that Heli won’t suffer such torments.
I’m asked to be a pallbearer. I decline. We tramp out into the frozen graveyard, my second trek through it today. Heli’s burial plot is about seventy-five yards from Sufia’s. The wind has died down, a small blessing. Heli is lowered into the ground, a few more prayers are offered, and then it’s over. Seppo cries a little, but overall comports himself well. There will be no wake.
We get back in my car and pull out onto the road. “I’m going to take you to the lake now,” I say, “to the place where Heli was killed.”
“Is Sufia’s father coming?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes. “I suppose you don’t think so because of the things I did,” Seppo says, “but I loved Heli more than you imagine. I don’t know how I’ll live without her.”
I keep my eyes on the road, but out of the corner of my eye, I see Seppo shed a tear. “I’m certain you’ll find a way,” I say.
“You’re a strong man,” he says. “You must have loved Heli after so many years together, even after what happened between you at the end, but no one could have guessed how much pain you were in at the funeral.”
This is the second time in two days I’ve been told I still loved Heli, and it’s fucking annoying. “Yesterday, you were convinced I hated her enough to kill her, now you think I still loved her. Which is it?”
The dimwit puts a consoling hand on my shoulder. “Both.”
I push his hand away. “You’re wrong. I didn’t hate Heli. It took time and self-discipline, but I did something worse to her. I forgot her, deleted her from my mind like she never existed. I threw out every picture of her. If I had something I thought she might even have touched, I got rid of it. If I had seen her on the street, I wouldn’t have acknowledged her presence. I would have looked past her like she wasn’t there. If she was starving and came to me begging, I wouldn’t have given her pocket change for something to eat. If her lungs were on fire, I wouldn’t have pissed down her throat to put it out. If it hadn’t been for this investigation, I would have never, ever, spoken to her again. You get it now?”
He takes this in. “I would have liked it better if you hated her,” he says.
He stays quiet after that.
34
We get to the lake and I pull off to the side of the road. The sky is overcast and the snow reflects only the dimmest of light. A small fire is burning on the ice where Heli died. I clip a microphone to the inside of my fox fur hat, chamber a round into my Glock and slip it into my coat pocket. I snap cuffs on Seppo to make it seem that he hasn’t come of his own volition.
“I’m afraid,” he says.
I don’t comfort him.
We lurch through the snow down the embankment. The lake looks the same as the day Suvi drowned. The wind has polished the surface until it’s as slick and clean as a slab of slate. The muted light makes it appear the color of dark pearl. I look off into the woods. The shadows are impenetrable, but it’s reassuring to know that Valtteri is there, watching and listening.
We walk across the lake. Abdi has gathered wood and made a small campfire. He’s sitting on a tire, warming his hands, a can of gasoline beside him. A few feet away from him, the ice is still scorched in the spot Heli was burned.
We come close to him. I push Seppo down on his knees.
I look at the tire and gas can. “That’s a messy suicide you’ve concocted.”
Abdi raises a hand, levels a pistol at my face. This isn’t according to plan. “Where did you get the gun?” I ask.
“I’m a businessman and transport quantities of cash. I have a license to carry it.”
We stare at each other. I don’t know why I’m not afraid.
“You were correct in certain assumptions, wrong in others,” he says. “No, I am not Dr. Abdi Barre, my name is Ibrahim Hassan Daud. I did not kill Dr. Barre, in fact, I rather liked him. I did, however, take his passport. After all, he had no further use for it. Your inquiry into my identity has raised certain difficulties.”
“Who you are isn’t my concern,” I say. “It has no bearing on what happens here.”
“But it does. Although I did not kill Dr. Barre, I have killed others. I took no pleasure in it, but it was a time of war, something I doubt you can understand. One does what one must in order to survive. I take no pleasure in what I do now, but once again, I do what I must. You have placed us both in a most uncomfortable position. Were I to be deported back to Somalia, I would be summarily executed. Hudow has already lost her only child, and she would be left here alone, incapable of fending for herself. This, I must not allow.”
I try to keep him talking, to get his confession. “Who would execute you?”
“I served as an officer in the security service of the now-deceased former president of Somalia, Siad Barre. The doctor and he were not related. Barre is a most common Somali surname. Like you, I was once a policeman. Because of my duties in that capacity, many would take pleasure in my death.”
“What you’ve done in the past doesn’t matter to me,” I say. “I have no interest in having you deported.”
“As I suggested to you earlier today, forgive me if I lack enough confidence in you to place myself and my wife in your hands. Your performance to date has been most unacceptable. Please surrender your weapon.”
I don’t move.
“I won’t hesitate to kill you Inspector, and our time is short.”
I set my Glock down on the ice.
He looks at Seppo. “Defiler of innocence and murderer. You are not forgotten. I will deal with you shortly.”
Seppo starts to snivel and swear his innocence.
“Shut up,” Ibrahim Hassan Daud or Abdi or whatever-his-real-name-is snaps, “or you will be dealt with sooner rather than later.”
Seppo shuts up.
“You must be cold Inspector. Please come and sit by the fire.”
I do it. Now I’m getting scared, but I think of Valtteri in the forest with the rifle, maybe fifty yards away, an easy shot.
Abdi keeps the pistol trained on me with one hand, sets the tire upright and starts pouring gasoline into the inner ring with the other.
I’m so scared now that I’m shaking, wondering why Valtteri hasn’t done something, if he’s really out there at all. Kate was right, and I was wrong about everything, and like she said, this is going to end badly. “Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“It is the only solution to my dilemma. It will appear that Seppo Niemi murdered you, as he did his wife, and then committed suicide. My wife and I will be safe, and my daughter will be avenged.”
“I have a wife too, she’s pregnant with twins. They need me as much as Hudow needs you.”
He sighs. “I am sorry for your family. Blame yourself. You have placed yourself and them in a situation of your own making.”
I try to stand, to at least make him shoot me instead of burn me, but my bad knee is locked and I can’t get up.
“You are also incorrect in believing that I murdered your ex-wife,” he says. “As I told you at our first meeting, I expected you to be my surrogate in seeing justice done on Sufia’s behalf. Now you must reap the consequences of your incompetence.”
“If you didn’t kill Heli,” I ask, “how did you know she was murdered here?”
“Your local newspaper published the name of the lake. Ice
blackened by fire gave me the exact location. Had wind not swept the new-fallen snow away, I might not have been able to find it.”
He has no reason to lie. I’ve gotten it all wrong. I’m frightened and bewildered. I’m going to die without ever learning the truth. I’m going to die for nothing. Because of my stupidity, Kate will be left alone to raise two children. The children will grow up without a father. It took me almost forty years to find Kate and happiness, and now I’m going to have my life cut short, lose everything, because I’m a fool. I sit on the ice and await my execution. He lifts up the tire to hang it around my neck.
A rifle booms. The bullet whines past my head and strikes Ibrahim in the shoulder. He lurches sideways and falls, still holding the tire, onto the campfire. The gasoline ignites and he bursts into flame. He tries to stand, but wobbles and collapses, a ball of fire screaming and writhing on the ice. It doesn’t last long. He lays still and burns. It happens so fast that I can’t even try to help him.
Valtteri runs out of the forest onto the lake. In his winter camouflage, he looks like a white wraith streaking out of the darkness. He reaches me in a few seconds. “Oh Kari,” he says, “please tell me you’re not hurt.”
He helps me up onto shaking feet, hugs me and starts crying. I promise him I’m okay, tell him to calm down.
He pulls away from me and nods. A few feet away, Seppo is still on his knees. Valtteri walks over to him and draws his pistol, presses the muzzle to Seppo’s forehead.
I’m confused, don’t know what to do. “Valtteri,” I say, “please stop. Talk to me.”
Seppo doesn’t move, his mouth opens and closes like he’s searching for words but can’t find them.
“I’ve got to kill him,” Valtteri says. “Like you said, this ends today.”
He keeps the pistol pressed to Seppo’s forehead, bends down on one knee to look in his eyes. “Because of you,” Valtteri says, “two women are dead. Because of you, my son committed murder and suicide and burns in hell. You’re as guilty of his death as if you’d hung him yourself.”
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