Holy Ceremony

by Harri Nykanen

  “Do you know the names of any of the members?”

  “Nope. That was top secret, too. If you told, you’d be banished from the Vault for thirty years. A horrible punishment, I’m sure. All I know is that one of the members is a big cheese at Nokia nowadays and another one’s a professor in England. I haven’t even met any—”

  “But you still attended the same school for over a year. What do you know about Reijo’s time at boarding school?”

  “Not much. I know he didn’t dig it. It was a boarding school; discipline was tough. I guess his old man made him go. Both his parents were religious. Small-town big shots. Pharmacists.”

  “He ended up in a psychiatric unit. What did he tell you about that?”

  “Who would want to talk about that?”

  “Do you know if Reka has any other friends besides you?”

  “I wouldn’t call myself a friend. We played together in a band, that’s it. When he was sober he was a nice guy, smart and funny, but when he was drunk he’d sink in some seriously murky waters.”

  “Still.”

  “There was a woman. They met about a year ago. Reka called me from the lobby of the main broadcast building and asked if I had time to meet for coffee. I went, and she was with him. Reka seemed surprisingly normal, we reminisced about the past. She was pretty quiet, barely said two words the whole time.”

  “Do you remember her name?” Stenman asked.

  “Isn’t coming to mind.”

  “Could it be Roosa?”

  “Could be. She was good-looking. Clearly younger than Reka. Red hair; I don’t know if it was natural, but it looked like it. Reka’s ex was a redhead, too—”

  Stenman pulled out a photo of Roosa Nevala. “Was this the woman?”

  Sotamaa glanced at the picture. “That’s her.”

  “Didn’t Reka tell you anything about her? Where they met, her profession, anything else?”

  “No. Just introduced her, said this is my girlfriend, Roosa.”

  “Why did he come see you?”

  Sotamaa plumbed his memory for a moment. “Now I remember. He asked if I could look up information on a few people in our news and personality archives. I told him the archives were for internal use only, but he wouldn’t let it drop. Said that they were basically his old friends and the info wouldn’t harm them.”

  “Who did he want information on?”

  “One was a guy who did a dissertation on church music, if I’m remembering right. Can’t think of the name, but there can’t be too many of them. The other one I remember. He was a lawyer, name was Silén. I remember that because when I was in the army, there was a guy with the same name in my squad. And the third… what was your name again, sorry, I didn’t really catch it…”

  “Kafka.”

  “I guess I did after all. I thought I remembered wrong; it’s a pretty weird coincidence. The third one was Ariel Kafka. I guess that’s you.”

  “What kind of information did he want on me?”

  “The kinds of cases your name had been mentioned with in the news. Of course, I asked Reka why he was interested in some detective, and he claimed he wanted to interview you for some book or novel he was writing. I didn’t buy it. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “What kind of information did he want on Silén?”

  “A story about some foundation’s funding and money Silén had lost. There had been a segment on it on some current-affairs program ten, fifteen years ago. I found the script for the show and gave it to Reka. He said he’d get back to me about some other stories, but I told him sorry, I couldn’t help him out anymore, because the archives are for internal use only.”

  “Laurén’s interested in you for some reason. I wonder why?” Stenman pondered as we walked back to HQ. I couldn’t help giving her the once-over. She was wearing jeans, a short suede jacket, and a Burberry scarf. Pricey brands on a police officer’s salary, but she’d been married to a guy with money, no prenup. I’d heard Stenman had gotten half his net worth in the divorce. And held onto it, unlike the ex-husband, whose half had evaporated during a tax-administration investigation of invoice fraud.

  I told her Laurén’s explanation for why he had taken me into his confidence.

  “The Flame of God. Can’t say I get it.”

  “Me neither.”

  “The lawyer Sotamaa mentioned is most likely or definitely named Henry Silén. He’s been missing for almost two months.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read the tabloids. His wife reported him missing. Suspects he’s dead. But his co-workers think he skipped town and is living overseas, because he made a mess of his finances and those of some clients.”

  Now I remembered the headlines from a couple of months back, about the lawyer’s mysterious disappearance.

  “Find out who’s investigating,” I said.

  “Strange coincidence, Laurén asking about Silén a little while before the guy vanishes. What if the same thing happened to Silén that happened to Sandberg? Dropped to the bottom of the sea.”

  “While you’re at it, find out if there are any connections between Silén, Sandberg, Laurén, and Anteroinen.” I made a silent wish that no connections would turn up. If they did, we might have a genuine serial killer on our hands.

  “Where’s Oksanen? I haven’t seen him all day,” Stenman said.

  “Out sick.”

  Oksanen had sent a text message that morning informing me that the doctor had given him two weeks of sick leave because of degenerative back trouble.

  “Flu?”

  A nasty fever had been going around the department. Arja and I were two of the few not to catch it.

  “Nah, it was something else.”

  Stenman glanced at me almost as if she suspected something. Woman’s intuition. “Did something happen?”

  Superiors were forbidden from talking about their subordinates’ affairs with other subordinates. So I settled for a lie. “No.”

  The look on Stenman’s face said she didn’t believe me.

  11

  The bureaucrats at the Ministry of the Interior could be grouped, roughly speaking, into two categories: ascetics who ran marathons, rowed in competitions, cycled to work from March to November, and ate nothing but supplements intended for that purpose and special fiber-rich cereals that set the digestion working. Then there was the softer species that had a taste for the good life. In the minds of this class, the inherent advantages of their station – whether opera tickets sent by advertising agencies, Estonian wild-boar hunts sponsored by banks, or cooking courses billed to insurance companies – were meant to be enjoyed. Anywhere they went, there was at least one acquaintance in proximity who was packing a company credit card. Arto Kalliola belonged to the latter caste. I amused myself by imagining his bulging gut in a pair of tight rally coveralls.

  We met for coffee at Market Square, in a tent that looked like a ramshackle shelter for construction workers. The chill in the air was banished by patio heaters. Aside from us, only a few tourists were present.

  Kalliola sipped at his coffee, then lowered his cup to the table and focused on me. “Pleasure meeting you. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you… you fish?”

  I detected a Turku accent.

  “No, except for the odd angling at my brother’s cabin.”

  “We’re setting up a trout-fishing trip to Ahvenanmaa this spring with a great bunch of guys. There’s still room to join if—”

  I encouraged Kalliola to get to the point. “I get seasick easily. You wanted to talk?”

  “Super you could meet on such short notice; I figured it would be best to talk face to face. Professional to professional. As I mentioned, Oksanen called and told me about the allegations contained in the letter you received at the department.”

  The way Kalliola pronounced the word “allegations” told me there was no mistaking his views on the matter. Old-time crooks spoke of snitches with the same disdain. “I have to say, I’m spee
chless. It’s extremely unfortunate that such a beneficial and worthwhile hobby has been besmirched with such unpleasant accusations. It’s incalculable, the amount of positive PR the Finnish police enjoys thanks to the activities of its rally club. We’ve gotten to know our brothers and sisters in blue from countless other countries, up to the highest echelons. I can vouch that every minute devoted to it has been more than worth the investment.”

  I didn’t respond. The tourists had left, leaving us the sole customers in the tent. Our only companion was the salesperson reading the paper behind the counter.

  “I understand, of course, that the department is between a rock and a hard place.”

  The only one between a rock and a hard place was Kalliola, which is why I said: “I don’t see it that way.”

  I saw Kalliola’s brow furrow. The guy’s forehead was more expressive than the average Finn.

  “What do you mean? I spoke with your superior, Superintendent Huovinen, and at least he indicated he felt badly about the situation you’ve been placed in.”

  Out of sheer politeness, I thought, but I said: “I mean we’re taking the steps the circumstances require. The ministry has drafted precise instructions for situations like these. And we’re following them.”

  Kalliola’s round face turned toward the two Russian women peering in through the door flap. They were wearing furs and tall, shiny leather boots. They turned away.

  “Ladies of the night out and about during the day,” Kalliola enthused. “An old pro can always spot them…” Kalliola realized he had wandered off topic, and in the wrong direction to boot. “And what do the circumstances require, in your view?”

  “We’ll be interviewing the individual who sent the letter, of course, as well as the company’s owner. After that, we’ll ask for comments from the interested parties. Only then will my superior and I decide what course of action to take.”

  “And you’re the one who’ll be doing the interviewing?”

  “Presumably.”

  I had heard enough stories about a Kalliola much harder than the present soft demeanor indicated that I was curious to see what sort of tactics he’d adopt. If the CEO’s secretary story held – and it was hard to see how it wouldn’t – then Kalliola was in the worst jam of his civil-servant career, and he was well aware of it. Oksanen could hide behind Kalliola’s broad back, and no doubt was doing so. After all, he’d acted with the blessing of a superior many links higher in the chain of command.

  Kalliola’s phone beeped, indicating an incoming text message. He fiddled with his smartphone and guffawed. “This is good. What do a Somali, a Russian, and a Finn do at the whorehouse? The Somali cleans, the Finn screws, and the Russian waits for his old lady to get off work.”

  When I didn’t join in the revelry, Kalliola hurriedly shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Since we’re playing with such high stakes here, I’d love to read what was written about me.”

  “Of course you’ll be able to read the letter if this goes anywhere. But at first I need to find out what’s been going on and who would be responsible for investigating, the National Bureau of Investigation or the prosecutor general.”

  Kalliola stopped breathing for a moment. “Come on, there’s no way a ridiculous little thing like that can escalate to such levels. The media vultures will gorge themselves on it. All that would accomplish is damage to the organization as a whole, infinite damage.” The furrows in Kalliola’s forehead screamed disapproval.

  “Like I said, first we’ll look into it, and then we’ll decide.”

  Kalliola smiled broadly, trying to chuckle. The laughter sounded more like the death rattle of a dying man. “I suppose you understand where this is going. The sense of proportion is all out of whack… and if I can be frank and split hairs, who’s innocent enough to start throwing stones? Judge not lest ye be judged, says the big book. As I recall, your organization’s magazine has more advertisements than stories, just like everyone else. There are more police magazines than our rally car has HP, and all of them are scrapping for advertising sales as fast as they can. That money is used for the good of police personnel, including clubs. What’s the difference?”

  It wasn’t my job to defend the magazines or those who wrote them, which is why I said: “I’m not taking a stance on that, but if the magazines are violating the directives in the Police Act, then it’s my understanding that it’s the ministry’s responsibility to intervene.”

  Now it was my phone’s turn to ring. I silenced it, even though I saw the caller was Laurén’s ex-wife.

  Kalliola unconsciously slipped into the jargon he’d picked up at the ministry. “I can assure you that the matter has undergone thorough review, as the ministry has no desire to tarnish the unshakable trust the police force enjoys among the general public. We have, however, adopted a lenient policy, as it is our firm belief that all manner of leisure activity that meets legal and moral standards is of use in furthering the police force’s capacity to carry out its demanding work. You must have a hobby, too, don’t you? Golf, tennis, curling, sailing, opera, I love opera myself, models, diving—”

  “I don’t have any hobbies, at least nothing that would be subsidized through advertising sales in police magazines.”

  Kalliola momentarily lost his tongue. He raked his hand through his hair and looked off into the distance, as far as one could look inside a tent. Then he roused himself, the recipient of a fresh insight.

  “One of our most active supporters is Lännen Osa. It’s owned by Ruben Lasker. A very nice gentleman. Eats sausage just like everyone else without studying the ingredients too closely, and isn’t a stickler when it comes to the Sabbath. He was very grateful when the department solved a break-in that had taken place at his warehouse. Got back a pretty significant haul. Maybe you ought to talk to him to form a more nuanced picture.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s one of you, a Jew.”

  “I know. So what?”

  “Are you saying you believe his generous support of our club’s activities makes him guilty of bribing a civil servant?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. If one of my subordinates accepts a bribe from him and someone reports it, I might care. A Jewish offender isn’t going to get any sort of fellow Jew break from me.”

  “Just a moment…” Kalliola escaped into his cell phone again. He tapped at it for at least a minute before victoriously pressing the Send button.

  “I was supposed to join the commissioner for a game of tennis at Taivallahti, but my back has been giving me trouble for a week. The wife gets to handle the business in bed while I just kick back and enjoy…” Kalliola’s expression turned pained. “I went to this sports masseur I know yesterday, but the kinks still haven’t worked themselves out… Highly recommended; it’s the same guy who works on Mika Salo. Doesn’t take new clients, but if I put in a good word…”

  Kalliola scanned my face for any traces of empathy for his suffering. I satisfied myself with saying: “Sedentary work.”

  Kalliola’s compass needle was spinning, searching for the right direction. In his experience, everyone had a string you could pull. He clearly didn’t care for my attitude, but decided it was wiser not to show it. It wasn’t worth angering me, at least not right now. Once this incident was safely behind him, he would have plenty of opportunity to pay me back, and with interest. I was setting myself up for future pain by irritating him.

  “Oksanen and I have chatted about the department’s attitude towards his rallying. He says everyone is supportive except you. He thinks you’ve decided to single him out because of it. Is that true?”

  I nearly burst out laughing. Kalliola had turned our roles upside down; now he was the superior demanding explanations. I didn’t answer, at which Kalliola scratched his earlobe.

  “I was hoping there wasn’t any sort of personal tinge involved.”

  “You can rest assured there isn’t. Oksanen is into cars; another one of my subordinates is into
Native American culture. It’s all the same to me if they want to paint china, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their work and doesn’t lead to anything illegal.”

  A troop of heavily swathed Japanese women entered the tent and commandeered the bench. The salesperson stiffly hauled herself up out of her seat. Serving customers clearly was not a pleasure for her.

  Kalliola crumpled up his paper cup and dropped it in the trash. “Your brother’s a lawyer, isn’t he?”

  I conceded he was.

  “And a competent one, too, they say… it’s just I heard he was involved in an unfortunate incident where his business partner was shot. Am I remembering right?”

  “More or less,” I said, trying to figure out where Kalliola was going with this. His bringing up Eli was no accident.

  “Things like that can eat at a man. How has he rebounded?”

  “Well, as far as I understand.”

  Kalliola’s forehead telegraphed that the kicker was coming. “A former colleague of mine is an inspector at the Security Police. He felt the case deserved closer examination. According to him, your brother’s business partner was up to his ears in shady business affairs that bordered on treason.”

  “It’s not too late,” I said.

  “You think you know someone, but you never do. People are a mystery, even to themselves.”

  I didn’t understand what Kalliola meant, and he probably didn’t either. He glanced at his watch. “Look at the time. This job is nothing but one meeting after another. Fieldwork had its own pluses. I have to admit, sometimes I wish I were back on the streets… as a detective, shouldn’t you be sitting at your desk instead of running around all the time?” Kalliola’s tone wasn’t inquisitive; it was critical.

  “Things are more interesting out in the field.”

  “And evidently we’ll meet again, once you’ve made some progress in your investigation.”

  Kalliola clearly hoped he would never set eyes on me again as long as he lived. He looked past me with a sour face, brusquely squeezed my hand, and left me to the company of the Japanese tourists.