It all happens so fast, that’s why one has to write it down. To fix it on paper. And be able to remember it later.
‘See you in the morning,’ says Leea.
An empty space that I found without looking for it.
31
KIRSTI FORSMAN ARRIVED in Hämeenlinna at 22.46 hours. She walked through the pedestrian precinct at the end of which she lived, going over several messages that she had emailed or left by voicemail from her mobile as she went along.
Since the company had launched its new fruit yoghurt – with splinters of coconut and chocolate, sold in a Tetra Pak – legal questions about its manufacture and marketing had been accumulating.
She had a conversation of some length with the managing director, stopping from time to time in the warm lights of the shop windows to look at the displays. Clothes, shoes, delicatessen. The managing director seemed to take it for granted that he could bother her with clauses and their necessary rewording late in the evening.
At the end of the conversation he thanked her and asked her to turn up punctually for tomorrow’s meeting although, unlike him, she was always punctual. It had turned cool.
Two excavators stood outside the last clapboard house at the end of the shopping arcade. Renovations to the gas mains, according to the letter put through all doors by the municipality. The works would be finished in two weeks’ time, it said. Two weeks. Two weeks ago Kalevi had been alive, not that she had noticed it. Only now did it occur to her that his death left something missing, although she didn’t know exactly what.
As she climbed the stairs and looked for the key to her apartment, the idea formed in her mind: she was the last. The last of them still alive.
She had not been consciously aware of her father’s death, and she knew him only from family stories. The death of her mother . . .
Her hand was trembling. The key didn’t seem to fit the lock and fell on the floor. She picked it up and tried to calm herself as the trembling took over her whole body.
She concentrated on getting the key into the lock.
Her mother hadn’t really died until yesterday.
Because now Kalevi too was dead.
At last.
She pushed the door open, went straight to the kitchen and opened the bottle of red wine that an over-attentive colleague in the law practice had given her on her birthday a few weeks ago. She drank, and thought that Kalevi hadn’t called those few weeks ago to wish her a happy birthday.
She thought of the photograph. Kalevi had not looked the way she remembered him. Probably because she had no concrete memory left of Kalevi’s appearance as a schoolboy. It was only the smile she had recognised, and it had looked as if Kalevi was pleased with himself. Although the date had been on the back of the photo: 19 August 1985. Pleased with himself and in a good temper.
She sensed memories coming back. Very specific memories. Things that had been said; she recalled them verbatim. Even the rising and falling of voices, the moments when her mother had begun shedding tears.
Kalevi’s voice, which had lost its resonance. The murmuring and lamentations, all about something incomprehensible to her.
And then that photo. The normality of it. Kalevi smiling at the camera and noting, on the back of the photo, that he didn’t have to worry about it. Because R. said so. That was the only indication of what might have been going on in his mind. The fact that he could no longer write the name out in full.
Risto. A name.
She picked up her glass and went into the living room. On the way she stopped several times because waves of feeling were running through her body. She went on.
When she was standing in the middle of the room the scream came out at last. It built up slowly and rose, until it finally broke out, too loud and too painful for her to hear it herself.
WINTER
32
WHEN WINTER CAME the body of the unknown woman, reference number 1108–11, was buried.
Kimmo Joentaa, representing the investigating team, and Salomon Hietalahti, the forensic pathologist, were the only people who came to the funeral. Four employees of the cemetery carried the coffin; the pastor officiating said a few words that seemed to be lost before they could reach anyone listening.
It was cold, but not snowing yet. When the funeral was over, Kimmo Joentaa spent a few more minutes standing at the side of the grave, thinking that there must be people alive somewhere who missed this woman. People who laughed and suffered with her. And thinking that there would have been hundreds at the funeral, hundreds of strangers, if the date had been publicly announced. Fortunately it had not.
Most of the methods and opportunities known to forensic medicine had been tried with the unknown woman, but they had not provided any decisive clues as to her identity. An isotope analysis had shown that she was of northern European and probably Finnish origin.
‘A Finnish woman. A perfectly normal Finnish woman,’ Sundström had said, putting into words what they were all thinking – if, in that case, the dead woman had spent most of her life in Finland, then the absence of any useful clues was particularly annoying.
The number of people calling the police about the unknown woman had fallen, and her photograph appeared in the media only when the press office deliberately placed it there, to keep the stream of further information from drying up entirely.
There would presumably be a revival of interest at the end of the month, when the unsolved murder was one of the incidents mentioned in the Turku university hospital’s retrospective survey of the year. A private broadcasting station had already asked Police Chief Nurmela for an interview, and he had said he was inclined to accept.
Nurmela had drawn Kimmo Joentaa aside several times in the corridor or the cafeteria to ask about Larissa in a whisper, with an almost comic conspiratorial expression on his face. Was she back? Had he heard anything of her?
Kimmo Joentaa had said no, and Nurmela had nodded in silence. Once Joentaa had plucked up courage, or simply obeyed an impulse, and asked the question that was of no significance, yet was still on his mind.
Why August?
Nurmela had stared at him, and in those seconds of silence Joentaa had wondered what devil had impelled him to ask.
But then Nurmela just uttered a brief, dry laugh and said, ‘Well, no idea.’
‘Probably a silly question,’ Joentaa had said.
‘Hmm? No, not at all. A good question. Wait a moment.’
Nurmela had gone to the drinks dispenser, fetched himself a coffee, and then sat down at the table again.
‘Although there are one or two things that would interest me,’ he said. ‘For instance, how you came to know that woman. What were you thinking of?’
‘What do you suppose I was thinking of?’ Joentaa had replied.
‘Kimmo, sometimes I seriously doubt whether—’
‘I met her at Christmas last year. She simply turned up. I like her a lot. That’s all.’
Nurmela had looked at him for some time.
‘That’s really nice, but the lady practises a profession that—’
‘And by the way, she plays ice hockey really well. She’s a goalie,’ Joentaa had said.
Nurmela had leaned back to drink his coffee, and Kimmo Joentaa had thought about that remark of his. She simply turned up. I like her a lot. That’s all. And really there wasn’t much more to say. Except that he missed her.
Investigations of the case of the unknown murder victim concentrated on information that had come in, not all of which the team had yet looked at, although the number of new calls had died down. Day after day Joentaa, Grönholm, Sundström and three more detectives who had been assigned to the core group interviewed people who claimed to have known the woman in the photograph, but it turned out that none of them did.
They also interviewed those who asked after missing persons. Several cases that had been put on ice some time ago had been solved that way in the last few months. An elderly married couple from Paimio had bee
n reunited with their daughter after many years. She had gone abroad and entirely forgot to tell her parents about it.
On the evening of 12 December, the first snow fell. It had covered the giraffe under the tree when Joentaa came home.
33
12 December now
Dear diary,
OMX Nordic stands at 945 points, OMX Helsinki25 at 2,057 points.
Koski wished me a nice weekend and a good holiday.
I have now found them all except for one.
Kalevi Forsman, forty-three, software adviser.
Markus Happonen, forty-three, second mayor, town councillor. Or something along those lines. It makes no difference now.
Lassi Anttila, fifty-seven, cleaner and store detective in a shopping centre in Raisio near Naantali. Another interesting combination. He was hard to find . . . Nothing about him on the Internet, not listed in the phone book. Lives quietly and more or less alone.
Jarkko Miettinen, sixty-four, pensioner. Lives near Lappeenranta, in a care home specialising in the treatment of those with Parkinson’s disease. They slow down, suffer from stiff muscles, tremors. The disease develops slowly. At first its progress is hardly perceptible.
There’s one still missing. Risto.
When I got home Leea’s friend Henna and her baby were visiting. Leea had baked a cake; it was very good. The baby laughed at me, and Henna was so pleased that she gave me a hug before they left.
Olli is in a phase where he gets cross when he loses. He had terrible luck throwing the dice all evening.
It’s snowing outside, big flakes.
I bought the costume today. It looks convincing, presumably because it’s real. Or at least, so the boy behind the counter claimed. He seemed almost proud of it.
Leea stands in the doorway and says she’s going to bed.
‘The velocity of its fall is about 4 kilometres per hour,’ I say, without taking my eyes off the window.
‘Velocity of what fall?’ she asks.
‘The falling snow. A speed of about 4 kph.’
She says nothing for a few seconds, and then asks how I’m feeling.
‘I’m going away,’ I say.
She asks where to.
‘Only for a few days,’ I tell her.
34
IN THE NIGHT he switched on his laptop, put it on the sofa and wrote to veryhotlarissa.
Dear Larissa
It snowed for the first time today. Did it snow with you? Where are you? You’re not getting in touch, so I can tell you what’s up here. At the moment we’re trying to explain the death of a woman who hasn’t yet been identified. Maybe you’ve heard or read about it. It’s as if she didn’t live anywhere. As if she’d fallen from the sky and straight into a coma. Sorry, what I’m writing is nonsense, but I’ll send it anyway.
See you soon.
Love from Kimmo
He sent the message, put the laptop on the table, opened the glass door and ran down the slope to the lake where Larissa had played ice hockey and Sanna used to swim.
In the last weeks of her life, before he had to take her to the hospital, she would sit on the landing stage wrapped in rugs. She had told him not to worry when he asked if she hadn’t better come into the warm house.
He remembered that. And his absurd hope that the illness would go away because he wanted it to. And the clumsy prayers he had sent up to a God in whom he couldn’t believe.
He decided to visit Sanna’s grave and call her parents. It was a long time since he had heard from them. Some while ago Merja, Sanna’s mother, had spoken to his answering machine and asked how he was. Her voice had sounded clear and calm, stronger than the last time. He had been glad of that. And maybe it was the reason that he hadn’t called back. He didn’t want to find out that he had only imagined Merja’s strength.
He went a few steps out on the ice and thought it seemed fragile. Although the children had been playing ice hockey on it that evening; he had watched them for a while. They had been shooting at an empty goal. As if they were waiting for the woman who had parried their shots last winter, protected by a cycling helmet.
The goal was still standing on the ice, with a pair of gloves and a forgotten stick. Kimmo Joentaa sat down in the goal and thought that he was seeing what Larissa had seen. Only the pucks flying around her ears were missing.
In the distance, he saw someone slowly moving towards him, running over the snow-covered grass, the snow-covered sand and the frozen water. Joentaa felt a pang, and thought for long seconds that it was Larissa.
Then he saw the boy coming closer. Roope, from one of the neighbouring houses. Roope slowed down and suddenly looked uncertain of himself, presumably seeing a shadow in front of the goal.
‘It’s me,’ called Joentaa. ‘Kimmo.’
‘Oh,’ said Roope.
‘Sorry if I startled you,’ said Joentaa.
‘No, nonsense, not a problem. I just . . . I forgot my stick and my gloves.’
Joentaa picked up those items and handed them to Roope, who came hesitantly closer.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what I was doing, leaving all my gear here.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘That stick is brand new,’ said Roope.
‘Looks like a good one,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes, Jokinen plays with that make,’ said Roope. ‘And the whole national team, they’re the main sponsors. I mean, they play with sticks like that and the same tape . . . and so on.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘Where’s Larissa?’ asked Roope.
Joentaa looked at Roope, the boy from a nearby house. He had shot up in height. He thought of a day some years ago when a much smaller Roope had sat at his kitchen table drinking hot cocoa.
‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Roope.
‘You missed her today playing ice hockey.’
‘Yup. It’d be . . . cool if she would play with us again.’
‘I’ll tell her that as soon as I see her,’ said Joentaa.
‘Okay,’ said Roope, and after a few seconds’ hesitation he turned away.
‘See you soon,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes, see you. And . . . and tell her good wishes from me too, will you? From Roope.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Joentaa.
‘Okay, goodnight, then,’ said Roope.
‘Sleep well,’ said Joentaa.
He watched the lanky figure of Roope walking away, pulling his stick along behind him, going over the ice and up the slope.
For a few minutes he tried to find the strength he needed to stand up. Then he went back the same way as he had come.
The house was empty. The laptop was purring like a cat. A robot cat, thought Joentaa vaguely, and it was time to get some sleep.
He bent down, pressed a key and then another, and for a while he looked at the screen. There was a message from Larissa flickering on it. He stayed in the same position, bending over, and stared at the words.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Your unidentified dead woman. It’s to do with male violence.
He sat down on the sofa, without taking his eyes off the screen.
He sat there for several minutes without moving. Then he leaned forward and began to write.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Dear Larissa
Lovely to hear from you. It’s good that you’re still around.
I was talking to Roope just now, he asked if you’d be back to play ice hockey with him and his friends again.
See you soon.
Kimmo
He sent the email, feeling a relief that made his throat tighten.
He switched off the computer, took the woollen rug off the old armchair and lay down on the sofa. He thought vaguely of the words in Larissa’s message. Of the unknown dead woman whose name had been replaced by a
reference number.
Names don’t matter, he thought.
Then he fell asleep, and slept deeply, calmly, without dreams.
35
11 November 1985
Dear diary,
I went there today.
At last I went back there.
I was trembling all the time and I couldn’t think straight. But I simply had to go there, and all the time I had the thought of seeing her in my head.
And telling her how much I like her.
And that I’ll always be there for her and I can help her.
But it didn’t happen like that.
I got off the bike quite early, where the path narrowed and the last row of houses began. I’d never been that far before. I’d kept going as far as the narrow road and then I always turned back, because I didn’t know how I could avoid him if he came driving towards me in his great fat car. It was snowing hard.
I hid the bike in the wood, and went round the long way, along the field as far as the hill. From there you can get a good view of the house and the whole property, and you’d only have to walk through the wood for a few minutes to reach it; the garden leads straight to the little field and into the wood.
Risto’s garden. Risto’s field. Risto’s wood.
It seemed to me that it all belongs to him, although that’s not true.
Nothing belongs to him.
Nothing and everything.
I couldn’t help thinking of Anita-Liisa Koponen who looked at me in such a funny way at school today, and asked if I knew what the matter with Saara was. Because Anita-Liisa Koponen has been having piano lessons from Saara too. I only said no, I didn’t know what was wrong with Saara. And I tried to act as if everything was normal.
I lay on the hill, keeping low down among the trees so that no one could see me. I was thinking that it all belongs to Risto and here I was in the middle of it. And that Risto would kill me if he found me there.
And Saara too. He’d kill her then as well.
I couldn’t stop trembling, because I was cold too, but the cold came from inside me. I lay there feeling stupid and staring at the house, and I began crying because she wasn’t there.
Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa) Page 9