Below the Surface

by Leena Lehtolainen

  When I walked in the interrogation room, Kervinen looked almost like his old self: his hair was clean and his clothes pressed, and I could smell his aftershave. But his eyes were as empty as they’d been when Koivu and I visited him at home.

  “Hi, Kallio. The boys over in Helsinki aren’t going to be happy when they hear you Espoo types ordered me down here in the middle of an autopsy. It was just a junkie, but it still has to be cleared from the queue. Seventeen-year-old boy, chasing the dragon. We’ve had our fill of them lately.”

  “Cut the crap, Kervinen. Our team found your diaries. You repeatedly threatened to kill Annukka Hackman.”

  Kervinen crossed his left leg over his right and glared at me. “People can write whatever they want in their diaries. That’s the point of them. I didn’t kill Annukka. Jääskeläinen did it when he found out Annukka was leaving him.”

  “Did Hackman tell you that?” Koivu asked. He was sitting in the shadows next to the tape recorder, sipping a cup of coffee. Maybe I should have left him with Kervinen for a minute. Maybe a man-to-man connection would work best. Most people usually trusted Koivu, whether they were experienced killers or scared old women.

  “Annukka hadn’t contacted me in a long time. Back in the beginning, after she married Jääskeläinen, she called me a few times and asked me to leave her alone. Then she made her asshole husband do it. In the end they just stopped answering my calls. What else could Annukka’s call have meant other than she’d finally chosen me?”

  All her family and friends had emphasized Annukka Hackman’s persistence and ambition. A coworker from the TV sports desk had said that Annukka would probably sell her grandmother’s pet dog to get a story she wanted. Hackman’s mother had talked about walking by a movie theater in downtown Helsinki when Annukka was a teenager. A big new Finnish film was having its premiere, and people were lined up to see the celebrities. Annukka said that she intended to become a person other people lined up to see.

  Annukka Hackman had asked Kervinen about DNA. Did Sasha Smeds have an illegitimate child somewhere, or had Annukka thought Heli was pregnant?

  “In your diary, you said that the Sasha Smeds’s book was Annukka’s big dream. What did you mean by that?”

  Kervinen stared at me as if I was an idiot.

  “It was going to be her breakthrough as a journalist. She’d been working on it since before she met Jääskeläinen. Annukka dreamed of an international career, and Jääskeläinen’s pathetic little workshop could never offer her anything like that. Annukka spoke perfect English, Swedish, and German. Back when she was still . . . when we were together, we talked about moving abroad.”

  “Why did she choose Smeds in particular as her topic?”

  Suddenly Kervinen blushed. “Annukka was a motorsports reporter and knew Smeds. I don’t know whether there was more to it . . . Maybe she was interested in Smeds as a person too, not just as a racer. Annukka always said that an inspiring topic is important in journalism. She never could have settled for working at a local newspaper and writing stories about building permits and military parades. At first she considered a biography of a politician, but they usually want to do those themselves. And Sasha Smeds was a better subject than some tongue-tied ski jumper. Besides, the rest of the world isn’t interested in them.”

  Kervinen now spoke calmly about Hackman as if she was someone he was beginning to leave behind. I was relieved that the worst of his emotional turmoil seemed to be over and that he’d been able to return to work.

  We went over his activities on the night of the murder again, and he stuck to his previous story. Still the diary was strong circumstantial evidence. I let him go, but I made it clear that he would be barred from leaving the country at least until his boots had been analyzed.

  “Poor Kallio,” Kervinen said with pity. “You’re on the wrong track again. Go at Atro Jääskeläinen, not me. Jääskeläinen killed Annukka, mark my words.”

  Kervinen left, but the smell of aftershave lingered in the room. Koivu stared at me, looking irritated.

  “I think we should have put him in a cell to think. He’s in the defensive stage now, and he’s trying to convince himself he didn’t do it.”

  “So you think he’s guilty?”

  “Everything points that way. But I’ll go sit in my own goddamn windowless box to think up some other theories. Want to guess whether I’m going for a beer after work?”

  “It does a body good.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Sorry. Antti’s got something going on tonight, probably a protest rally.”

  “Who could I protest against?” Koivu said bitterly, then got up and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  I stayed in the sparse interrogation room and listened to Kervinen’s answers one more time on the tape recorder. His motive and his death threats in the diary wouldn’t be enough to file charges; we needed forensic evidence. Maybe some time in a cell would have broken him.

  Ursula was coming down the hall as I dragged myself to my office. My muscles were strangely sore, as if I had a flu coming on.

  “So you finally believe me?” Ursula said, smiling happily. “Did Koivu confess? Maybe I don’t have to contact the papers after all. Of course they’d be interested to know this kind of thing is happening in precisely the unit that’s investigating their colleague’s murder.”

  “Do you really want someone digging through your private life? I’m sure you understand that would mean everything coming out, just like in the Hackman case.”

  “At least that woman knew what she wanted and was ready to take risks to get it. She was a real pro. You can’t get ahead in this world playing softball.” Ursula smiled again, then turned into her office.

  In the old days, criminal investigation had been a game between the police and the criminals, but now the media had joined the fray. I had tried to maintain a good relationship with the reporters who worked in my area, and usually that had been easy. Now and then we’d had run-ins about them protecting their sources, but I didn’t want to endanger anyone’s life just to identify some snitch. With this case, the usual informants had been remarkably quiet, so I firmly believed that Annukka Hackman’s murder wasn’t a professional job. This was a first timer who just knew how to cover his tracks. Who else could that be but Kervinen?

  Hackman had dreamed of making a breakthrough. Two decades ago, an ambitious journalist would have longed for her own Watergate, but now exposing the private life of a random celebrity was enough. It didn’t demand much journalistic skill. Although I’d always been interested in people, I didn’t even try to keep up with all the models, talk show hosts, and tango royalty who rotated monthly on the front pages of newspapers and magazine covers. In a lot of previous investigations it had been helpful to know something beforehand about the victim, but now even that wasn’t getting me anywhere.

  Once I’d settled at my desk, I set a meeting with Alavirta, the workplace safety officer, for the next morning; he’d left me a message saying he wanted to hear my opinion on what had happened between Ursula and Koivu. I also had several callback requests from Jouko Suuronen, which was no surprise. I’d have the report from the search of his house tomorrow morning, so I decided not to respond just yet.

  I was home with the kids by a few minutes past four, and it felt luxurious to have so many hours simply to be. After snacks, we watched The Moomins and Tiny Two together. Once the kids’ shows were done, I left the TV on for the news in case they showed the rally that Antti was going to against George W. Bush and the bombing of Iraq. In the spring the kids and I had gone with him to a march against the fifth nuclear reactor the Finnish government wanted to build, but it didn’t help much.

  The Iraq protest was only mentioned as a footnote, but I still saw a familiar face before the broadcast ended. Television cameras had been waiting for Heli and Jouko Suuronen at the airport. Suuronen tried to shield Heli, but it didn’t work.

  “Mr. Suuronen, what’s Sasha Smeds’s conditi
on right now?”

  “He’s stable. He needs skin grafts, which is why he stayed in England.”

  “Will we see Smeds on the rally circuit again?”

  “It’s too early to say.”

  Then the same inquisitive journalist attacked Heli.

  “Heli Haapala, my condolences. Your husband lost the world championship last year because of a decision by his team and now this year because of a tragic accident. Do you think he’ll be up to fighting for the title again next year?”

  Looking pale, Heli tried to smile. “There’s no way I can answer that. A lot depends on how Sasha’s recovery goes.” Then suddenly she broke down as her gaze shifted somewhere outside of the camera’s field of view. Her eyes filled with tears. The television camera zoomed out, and the still-camera flashes continued firing. It made me sick the way Heli’s pain was being turned into public property. Then I saw a tall figure dressed all in black appear from behind the cameras. It was Andreas Smeds. He said something to Suuronen, and together they started guiding Heli past the reporters and photographers.

  I was giving Taneli his bedtime snack when Antti came home. Taneli was being a wild man and demanding to feed himself, which meant yogurt all over the kitchen. Iida watched with a look of superiority as her brother made his mess.

  “How was the rally?”

  “Bloody cold and poorly attended. Your friend Riita Kuurma from the Security Intelligence Service says hi. She was there too. I’m still not sure whether she comes to spy on us or if she really supports the cause.”

  “She’s probably still catching flak over the nuclear plant protest. Should I put some water on? Do you want tea or a red wine toddy? I could use something to warm me up too after I get Taneli down.”

  I was in our bed reading Taneli a picture book about trains, which he loved, when my phone started ringing. It was in the kitchen, and Iida ran to fetch it for me.

  “Iida Sarkela,” I heard her say. “Yes, Mommy’s home, but she’s reading to Taneli. I’ll take her the phone.”

  I handed the book to Taneli while I took the phone from Iida.

  “Hi, it’s Puupponen.”

  “Hi.”

  “Sorry to bug you at home like this, but I thought you needed to hear this right away. I’ve been through all of the evidence we confiscated from Jouko Suuronen’s house, and there’s something really interesting, namely a disk with Annukka Hackman’s book on it.”

  Taneli pulled on my arm, wanting me to stop talking and finish the story. “Wait just a second, honey,” I whispered to him. “What’s the date on the file?”

  “There are several versions, but the most recent one is from the end of October. It has a section on Sasha’s marriage to Heli.”

  “Does it—”

  “It claims that Sasha’s brother is having an affair with his wife. That’s quite an accusation.”

  “And true. Get Suuronen to the station right now, and call me when he gets there. Then we’ll let him sweat for a while. I’ll get the kids to sleep and then come in.”

  I’d only managed to sip a third of my red wine toddy, so in a couple of hours I’d be good to drive again. I read the rest of the train book, brushed Taneli’s teeth, and sang him a lullaby. Antti read Iida Pippi Longstocking. I poured the rest of my toddy into his half-empty glass.

  “What now?”

  “I have to go in to handle something.”

  Antti had no reaction.

  After I’d put back on my black pantsuit, I redid my makeup. Sasha Smeds winning the world championship would have definitely been in Jouko Suuronen’s interest. Had he told Heli and Andreas that he knew about their secret? Had he trusted that they wouldn’t say anything about it before the race series was over and decided to kill Hackman so she wouldn’t tell either? Of all my prime suspects, Suuronen was the easiest to imagine as a cold-blooded killer.

  I went to sing Iida a lullaby too, and Taneli tossed and turned restlessly in his bed. When Iida started school, the kids would need their own rooms, or we’d have to bring Taneli into our room.

  “If I end up on unemployment, then you can work nights too,” Antti said as I punched a number into my phone.

  “Why do you have to say stupid things like that? We’ve just spent two weeks on this investigation, and now we finally have the clue we needed at the beginning.”

  “Will you be all night? I’ll make up the couch so you don’t wake me.”

  The light shining from the lamp cast Antti’s features in sharp relief. He’d lost weight over the fall. His hair, which was black when we met, had grayed significantly over the past few years. In December he’d turn forty. Impending unemployment and crossing the final threshold into middle age were understandable causes for a crisis, but I didn’t always have the energy to be understanding. I thought warmly of Taskinen. He wouldn’t have groused at me for wanting to do my job. Then I realized how stupid and dangerous thinking like that was.

  Puupponen called at nine.

  “We’ve got Suuronen here now, and he’s pretty hot under the collar. It took him a while to answer the door at his place. He was in the sauna and claims he didn’t hear the doorbell or the phone. He’s had a few beers too, so I’m not sure he’s in any shape for an interrogation.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll be right over. Get the recording equipment ready. Including video. I want to be able to analyze his body language later. You went to that lie-detecting course in the spring, right?”

  Puupponen laughed. “Yeah.”

  The Police University College had offered a training to teach interrogators how to analyze subject body language. The trainer was an FBI expert from the United States.

  In the car I started becoming irritated with myself that I hadn’t thought to videotape Kervinen’s interrogation. An experienced criminal psychologist might have been able to tell from the video whether Kervinen was telling the truth. The way I kept letting my emotions and empathy for our suspects and witnesses cloud my judgement were hampering this investigation. For a second I considered calling Jyrki, since I really needed a pep talk. Instead I turned on the radio. John Lennon assured me that love was the answer. I grimaced. Love had actually messed up a lot of people’s lives instead of making them simpler.

  A faint hint of Carcass Kervinen’s aftershave still hung in Interrogation Room 4, but the smell of cigar smoke wafting from Suuronen gradually began to overwhelm it. I didn’t believe that Suuronen had only drunk a couple of beers during his sauna, since I could also pick up the scent of cognac. Suuronen had been picked up forty-five minutes earlier. He was still on the uphill side of his buzz, but that wouldn’t last long. His face and eyes were red, and the knot of his tie hung loose.

  “I’m going to file a complaint about you to the Chancellor of Justice,” he bellowed as I sat down. “And then I’m going to sic every newspaper in Finland on you. Don’t we have laws in this country anymore? What grounds did you have to search my home? Goddamn rubber boots and tire tracks? I already told you I came home on the five o’clock flight from Stockholm on the night of Hackman’s murder. Haven’t you checked?”

  “We have. The plane was a little early, and according to our records, there were no traffic jams that night,” I lied. The information about the airplane was correct, but I hadn’t remembered to ask anyone to check the traffic reports.

  “Goddamn it! If I say there was a traffic jam, then there was a traffic jam. Do I have to buy a goddamn tracker for my car so I can prove to the police where I’ve been? How about you check my cell phone instead. I was sitting in traffic on Ring I talking to Sasha. You have my permission. I don’t have anything to hide!”

  Suuronen’s hair was damp and a tuft stuck up at his forehead, which he kept trying to smooth back down.

  “Nothing to hide, you say? Not even a copy of Annukka Hackman’s manuscript at your house?”

  I stood up and walked to Suuronen, and to my surprise he flinched. Puupponen’s eyebrows went up. As I stood there in front of him, I saw beads of sweat
form on his forehead. The interrogation room was hot enough that I felt like taking my jacket off.

  “I asked to read the book, of course. I did that back in the spring. That was why Sasha made the decision to pull out of the project.”

  “In the spring? Be more specific.”

  “I don’t remember exactly! Maybe it was between the Cyprus and Catalonia rallies. Sasha won all the races earlier in the season, then he had a small hiccup in the summer, but . . .”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that the disk with the manuscript has files that were updated this fall? Did you start adding to the book yourself?”

  Now Suuronen was really sweating. With a groan he took off his suit coat. There were wet splotches under the arms of his blue shirt. He glanced around looking for a drink, but found nothing.

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Go right ahead,” I said coldly. Suuronen pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket and pressed a shortcut key. I could hear it ringing, then an answering machine picked up.

  “Jalle, damn it, it’s Jokke. Call me right now. It’s important! I repeat: right now.” Cursing to himself, he hung up. “I’m not answering any more questions until I’ve consulted with my attorney.”

  “That’s fine. You can wait in a cell for him to get here. That’ll give you a chance to lie down too. Unfortunately you’ll have to leave your phone with the guard, but I’ll instruct him to answer it for you.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, girl?” Suuronen tried to stand up but then fell back, clutching his cell phone as if it were some sort of safety handle.

  “You’re under arrest for concealing evidence and being an accessory to murder,” I said, listing off the first charges that came to mind. Puupponen continued raising his red eyebrows, and the freckles on his forehead stretched into ovals. Suuronen sat in silence for nearly a minute, and when he did start talking again, his voice had a forced calm to it.