Members of the hospital staff were sitting at the tables in their medical coats, waiting to make statements. The discreet background noise of whispering.
Petri Grönholm was sitting at one of the tables bent over a laptop, and nodding to a young man who kept shaking his head apologetically.
‘It looks as if no one noticed anything,’ said Sundström, and Joentaa listened in vain for the familiar sarcasm in his voice. ‘We have a dead woman no one knows, and a murderer no one saw.’
Joentaa nodded, and Sundström made his way to an empty table at the side of the big room. They sat down, and Sundström took some notes out of his shabby briefcase and put them down on the table like a newsreader about to begin his bulletin.
‘Well then . . . to get into the ward you really have to enter a number code, but it seems that the door wasn’t locked. No one knows why not.’
‘I know,’ said Joentaa.
‘What?’ asked Sundström.
‘I mean I know about the number code,’ said Joentaa. He even knew what it was, unless the code had been changed since then, because Rintanen had given it to him at the time so that he could come into the ward and leave it again when he liked. He had learned it by heart, and he still remembered it.
‘I was talking to Rintanen the medical director . . .’
‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.
He had wanted to thank Rintanen, for everything. He’d catch up with that later.
‘By the way, Kimmo, I heard that this is where your wife died . . .’
‘Yes, it’s a long time ago,’ said Joentaa, wondering why he was talking such nonsense.
‘Oh,’ said Sundström.
‘Quite a while ago,’ said Joentaa.
Sundström scrutinised him for a few seconds. ‘Rintanen says our woman sometimes had to be given artificial respiration. The murderer obviously cut off her oxygen supply. Simply switched the artificial respiration off.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘She was found in a ditch beside the road in summer with severe traumatic brain injury, which was then diagnosed as . . . wait a moment . . . apallic syndrome.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘In other words unconscious, in a coma. Then in a waking coma, a vegetative state. I didn’t grasp what all that means in detail, but anyway, she wasn’t really conscious at any point, she didn’t know what was going on, and since being brought in here in summer she’d been kept alive only with the help of medical technology.’
Kept alive, thought Joentaa.
‘The cause isn’t entirely clear,’ said Sundström. ‘The woman was very badly injured. Maybe a hit-and-run driver knocked her down, or more likely someone not in a car hit her, struck her down and left her in the ditch. Rintanen also thinks it’s possible that she suffered a stroke or a heart attack.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘Inquiries by our colleagues about hit-and-run accidents haven’t come up with any results. The woman was just found lying there.’
‘Just found lying there,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes. Fully clothed, and that’s the point. No papers, no money, no one who knew her has reported her missing, although her photo was in the papers for several days.’
Several days, thought Joentaa.
A woman without a name.
‘Maybe her name’s Larissa,’ he said without thinking.
‘What?’
Joentaa saw Sundström’s baffled face, and couldn’t help laughing. A brief, slightly hoarse laugh. ‘Forget it,’ he said.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Ah,’ said Sundström.
Two women without names. A giraffe. August.
Sundström was looking at the printed sheets of paper.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Joentaa.
‘Various stuff,’ murmured Sundström, without raising his head. ‘I don’t understand why no one knows the woman. Obviously the only people who called in when the photo was in the papers were nutcases.’
Maybe I should write everything down, thought Joentaa.
‘Then we’ll publish the photo again, how about that?’
Everything he didn’t know.
12
14 September now
But when there’s no more to write down, then what?
There are some people you lose for ever.
There are some people who are easy to find.
Kalevi Forsman, for instance. Software solutions adviser. Or something like that. The company’s Internet site is attractive and user-friendly. Forsman is niftily dressed, black suit, white shirt. Black and white. Features curiously soft, as if more work had been done on them after they were first formed.
Not a trace in his eyes of what I remember there – the sudden avidity, the way he froze at the end.
13
THAT AFTERNOON, THE idea had struck him as far-fetched and ridiculous, but in the evening Kimmo Joentaa did indeed begin to write.
He sat at the low table in the living room with a cup of camomile tea, in front of a sheet of white paper, and had the impression that both of them calmed him down a little.
Larissa had not come back. The giraffe was still lying under the apple tree.
The sheet of paper gradually filled up with words. Larissa: likes playing ice hockey; eats a lot of chocolate; enjoys films with shootouts in them; bought a moped in the summer, she goes to work on it, and she’s probably out and about on it at the moment. She used to go on the bus, or she was picked up by her colleague Jennifer – where does she work? She said things about herself now and then, but then she always added that whatever she says is a lie – must think about what could have been true. Find Jennifer.
He stared at the paper. The letters written in a hand that wasn’t really his own, so tidy, so neat, so clearly formed.
Suddenly he sat up straight and turned on the TV set. The late news bulletin was on. The presenter looked grave and composed. The unknown dead woman was one of the headline items. A TV correspondent outside the hospital, frowning. Carefully phrasing his remarks to hide the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea about any of it. How would he? Then the police chief suddenly appeared, Nurmela, facing forward, very upright in the sunlight, in front of those countless windows. August, thought Joentaa, and he thought that he must talk to Nurmela. If you judged the case by what Nurmela was saying, the criminal investigation team had everything under control.
The photo of the unknown woman came on-screen. The one that had already been published soon after she was found, in the hope of tracing family members. Now that the woman was dead, it might arouse a little more attention. Joentaa looked at the picture and tried to memorise it as the news presenter turned to other subjects. A beautiful woman, he thought. But a woman . . . a woman who somehow seemed faceless. A clear, pure, unrecognisable face.
He went on staring at the TV set for a while, neither seeing the pictures nor taking in the words, then stood up and, without stopping to think, called Tuomas Heinonen’s mobile number. Heinonen answered after a few seconds.
‘Hello, Tuomas, Kimmo here,’ said Joentaa.
‘Kimmo,’ said Heinonen. As if he hadn’t linked the name to a face yet.
‘I just wanted to . . .’
‘Nice of you to call,’ murmured Heinonen.
‘. . . wanted to call again,’ said Joentaa. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m in hospital,’ said Heinonen.
‘Yes, I know. I could come and see you again.’
‘Yes.’
‘How are you doing, then?’ Joentaa repeated.
‘Hm?’
‘Tuomas?’
‘Sorry . . . I was just . . .’
‘What is it?’ asked Joentaa.
‘Nothing, I was only . . . sorry. How’s things with you? Say hi to the others for me.’
‘Yes, I will. We had . . . I had a funny sort of day today. Do you remember Larissa?’
‘The woman standing naked in your bedroom doorway last Christmas whe
n I told you about the stuff I’d lost gambling?’
‘That’s right,’ said Joentaa.
‘How could I forget her?’
‘Exactly,’ said Joentaa.
‘That was kind of a nice Christmas Eve,’ said Heinonen. ‘In spite of everything.’
Joentaa nodded, and a smile instinctively spread over his face as he thought of that crazy Christmas Eve. First Larissa or whatever she was really called had appeared on his doorstep, then a totally confused, deeply upset Heinonen had arrived in a Santa Claus costume – Heinonen who was always self-controlled, sober, reserved – telling him about the disastrous present-giving at home, and how he was busy gambling his family’s money away betting on football matches in the English Premier League.
Almost a year ago, thought Joentaa.
‘I only saw her that once. Are you two . . . are you still together?’
Together, thought Joentaa.
‘I don’t know. She’s gone,’ he said.
‘Gone?’
‘Yes, she often goes away, she often stays away, but this is the first time she’s left the giraffe behind.’
‘Ah. Okay,’ said Heinonen. ‘Giraffe?’
Joentaa heard a pattering sound in the background, and Heinonen didn’t seem to be listening to him very attentively.
‘I mean the key to the house. It’s on a giraffe pendant.’
‘Mmph.’
‘So of course I’m worried. Because it’s something new. I mean, for her to leave the key here.’
‘Hmm? Yes. Yes, that figures,’ said Heinonen.
‘Well, tell me how you are,’ said Joentaa.
‘Me . . . fine, I’m fine,’ said Heinonen. ‘Doing this and that. Tomorrow it’s a family therapy session.’
‘A what?’
‘Some therapeutic method. Depth psychology, I think that’s it.’
‘Sounds like . . .’ said Joentaa, but then he didn’t know what it sounded like.
‘I did it once before when I was . . . at my first stay here, and it was okay,’ said Heinonen.
‘What’s all that pattering in the background? Is it something on the line?’
‘Hm?’
‘There’s a kind of pattering sound at your end.’
‘Oh, that’s from the laptop.’
‘Ah,’ said Joentaa, and Heinonen suddenly began giggling.
‘Sorry, Kimmo, I won’t lie to you, I’m so glad you called.’
‘Yes.’
‘It really . . . it means a lot to me. No one but you ever calls. Except for Paulina, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Joentaa.
‘I’ve just been placing a few bets,’ said Heinonen.
A moment of silence.
‘Aha,’ said Joentaa.
‘There’s an ATP major on in the States,’ said Heinonen.
‘Aha,’ said Joentaa.
‘Tennis,’ Heinonen explained. ‘The tournament’s showing live on Eurosport, so I can watch it all happen and see the results of the matches.’
Joentaa nodded, looking at the screen of the muted TV set, where a woman clad entirely in red was soundlessly forecasting sunny weather.
‘I know it’s ridiculous,’ said Heinonen.
‘I’ll come and see you,’ said Joentaa. ‘When would be best?’
‘An evening would be good. It’s all . . . all very open here. We can go out any time and get a drink down by the lake.’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Joentaa.
‘With the weather staying so fine.’
‘Yes . . . well, better go to sleep now, Tuomas. And do stop . . . stop placing bets of any kind.’
‘Okay.’
‘And if there’s anything I can do, call me any time.’
‘Thanks.’
‘See you soon.’
‘Yes, see you soon. And tell Larissa hello from me when she comes back.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘If she remembers me, that is.’
‘I’m sure she does. I’ll just tell her hello from Santa Claus.’
It was a moment before Heinonen laughed. ‘That’s right . . . that stupid costume I was still wearing.’
‘Sleep well, Tuomas,’ said Joentaa. ‘And no more tennis tonight.’
‘Night,’ said Heinonen.
Then Joentaa sat in the silence, watching with only half his attention as the bald man on the screen stood on the edge of a swimming pool in the sun, shooting people down with an outsize gun.
Late-evening entertainment.
He stood up, turned the TV off, and went to fetch his laptop.
He sat on the sofa, started the computer, and waited.
He had no new messages.
He sat there with the computer on his lap, and thought of Tuomas Heinonen sitting on his bed in his small room, also with a computer on his lap, watching tennis.
14
7 July 1985
Dear diary,
People really do say that, Lauri told me, and he should know. I asked him if I could give him all this to read some time, but he raised his hands and said oh no, that would never do, then it wouldn’t be a diary any more, no one’s allowed to read it except me. That surprised me, because I’m sure I’d be interested to read Lauri’s diary if he wrote one, specially if Saara was in it. The other boys, I mean Pekka and Aulis, have dropped out. I think I’m the only boy going to piano lessons now. I get some remarks at school, they call me a model student and all that, but I don’t care. In fact I even laugh at it, and that feels good.
When I arrived this afternoon Anita-Liisa Koponen had just been plunking away on the piano, it almost made me feel ill. She can’t play at all, but Saara still said she was doing well, which kind of made me angry, because that’s what she always says to me too, and I hope she doesn’t say it to everyone, or at least that she means it seriously when she says it to me.
I’d never have thought I’d play the piano of my own accord, but I even like it. Today we played some kind of classical piece as a duet, I mean I only played the bass notes, but it sounded lovely, and Saara asked if I could sense that. That it sounded lovely, I mean. I said yes.
Saara was wearing that dress, that very light, airy dress. As if she had just that dress on and nothing else.
Seeing that no one but me can read this diary, I’ll be completely honest: when she opened the door to me in that dress, and I followed her into the living room, and saw her back where the dress was cut low, I got a hard-on. I had to bend over a bit and make funny distorted movements so that she wouldn’t notice. She laughed. Such a nice, clear laugh, I couldn’t feel bad about it.
Later her boyfriend Risto came along, and he and I played football a bit in the garden. I was in goal, and Risto shot low into the corners, so I had to throw myself full length.
When I got home there was trouble, because my mother thought I’d skipped the piano lesson on account of my dirty trousers, and she even phoned Saara to ask. I think it was Risto who answered, because after a while my mother laughed the way women only laugh when they’re talking to men.
Anyway, then she came and put her hand on my head and apologised and even said she was proud of me. Probably because I play the piano.
Dear diary.
And not because of the e-rec-tion.
15
IN THE MORNING information began coming in. A number of people were sure they knew the dead woman. A number of people said they thought they knew her. A number of people weren’t sure, but wanted to tell the police that the woman looked familiar to them. She had lived in Helsinki. In Seinäjoki. In Tampere and Joensuu. In Kotka, Savonlinna, Hämeenlinna. She had been unmarried, lived a secluded life, was gregarious, married, the mother of sons and daughters, a professor at the university, head bookkeeper for an insurance company, a cleaner in a department store.
The officers who took the phone calls and emails reported no definite leads, and other officers went out to check the most plausible stories.
Sundström had left hi
s office door open, so that Grönholm and Joentaa could see him setting up one of his Excel spreadsheets. He typed names and times in with two fingers, jobs done and to be done, questions asked and to be asked; he cursed to himself when his computer crashed and closed his eyes as it rebooted.
‘You want to save now and then,’ muttered Petri Grönholm without looking up from his notes, and Joentaa leaned in the doorway unable to take his eyes off Sundström; it was going to take him quite a while to get the spreadsheet up and running again. But in the end it would be a smooth, white, symmetrical document made up of words without a single grammatical mistake, and it would indeed give some structure to the investigating team’s work for the first time.
‘I’ll have it in a minute,’ said Sundström.
‘Easy does it, we still have ten minutes before the meeting,’ called Grönholm from the next room.
Then the printer was running, and Joentaa jumped when Sundström said, ‘We’ll find her.’
He thought of his empty house in the morning. And in the night, part of which he had spent lying awake, in a drowsy state between dream and reality.
‘We’ll find her,’ said Sundström.
Find a dead woman, thought Joentaa.
Then they went along the corridor to the conference room, from which came the sound of the other officers’ conversation as they waited for them. Murmurs, suppressed laughter, some voices loud and clearly articulated, others softer, hesitant. They all fell silent when Sundström pushed open the door and entered the room, which was flooded with autumnal light.
‘Morning, men,’ he said, and Joentaa thought that he had the gift of injecting force and confidence into his voice, casually and without effort. They all sat down at the snow-white table, and Sundström had the spreadsheet handed round until they all had a copy in front of them.
Grönholm reported on what they knew, which was practically nothing. A dead woman. Name unknown. Origin unknown. Age unknown, estimated at between fifty and sixty. There had been nothing on her except the clothes she was wearing. No one had asked after her. No one had visited her in hospital. Reports of missing persons over the last few months had not uncovered any trail so far.
Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa) Page 4