Light in a Dark House (Detective Kimmo Joentaa)

by Jan Costin Wagner

  I spent a day and a night with you, Teuvo. You sat leaning against a tree, not alive any more, and no one had taken any notice because no one ever seems to walk in the part of the forest just beyond Saara’s house.

  I left you sitting there – telling someone might have endangered my plan to bring this all to an end, and I also felt that you were in the right place.

  I gave you back the diary, because it’s yours. I made a copy for myself, because it seemed to be important to you for me to have it.

  Well, now they are about to close the gate.

  Dear diary, 25 December.

  I don’t know what will happen next.

  Contrary to all logic, that’s not a bad feeling.

  79

  THAT AFTERNOON WESTERBERG stood beside Seppo in an office with large glazed windows providing a good view of Hall A of Frankfurt airport, looking alternately at the passengers hurrying by and the names coming up on the small monitor.

  Lauri Lemberg.

  Next to the names, they could see a cross-section of the aircraft and seats in various different colours, occupied and vacant, and the seat that had been occupied by Lauri Lemberg a few hours ago was highlighted in a different colour again, orange, close to the front of the screen.

  ‘Actually he was sitting right behind you,’ said the friendly man from the German airline in English, a comment very much to the point, and Seppo tilted his head to one side as if he hoped he would understand it all better if he read Lauri Lemberg’s name at a different angle.

  ‘Yes,’ said Westerberg, and he thought of Kimmo Joentaa sitting in a forest, leafing through an exercise book and coming up with names that were hard to grasp.

  Lauri Lemberg, Helsinki to Frankfurt. A one-way ticket, so no return journey, just like Risto Nygren several months earlier. Lauri Lemberg had arrived in Frankfurt, but he had booked no flight back or onward. At least not for anyone bearing that name.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Westerberg, and Seppo still had his head on one side, but tilted the other way. Their German colleague’s handshake was firm as they finally parted between Arrivals and Departures, wishing each other luck, assuring each other of close cooperation, and then Westerberg and Seppo flew back to Helsinki early in the evening.

  At least the investigations in Finland had swiftly come up with results. The last privately registered residence of the wanted man, Lauri Lemberg, had been in Naantali near Turku, but he had been staying recently with his sister in Helsinki, in Länsisatama to be precise, a prosperous residential district in the west of the city.

  They arrived on time, the snow was whiter, the street lighting brighter and the evening darker than in Germany as, led by the woman’s omniscient and gentle voice, they drove along the street to Länsisatama.

  There was a light on in the house where Lauri Lemberg was staying, and as Westerberg followed Seppo up the drive he thought for a split second that Lauri Lemberg would open the door, smile and ask them in.

  Seppo rang the bell and a boy opened the door, flinging it wide. He had been expecting someone else.

  ‘Oh. Who are you?’ he asked.

  I’m beginning to ask myself that question, thought Westerberg, and then a young woman appeared behind the boy. Seppo asked her name, got an answer, showed her his ID and hummed and hawed for a while, because he wanted to let her know their business without upsetting the boy.

  ‘Lauri . . . isn’t here,’ said Leea Hankala-Lemberg.

  Westerberg nodded.

  ‘But do come in,’ she said.

  An aroma came from the kitchen that, curiously, reminded Westerberg of his childhood, although he couldn’t have said what his memory consisted of. Leea Hankala-Lemberg took them into the living room, suggested that they should sit down, and then asked if everything was all right . . . with Lauri. There was a Christmas tree with real candles against the wall with the windows in it. Westerberg liked that.

  ‘We’d like to talk to him. Do you know where he might be?’

  She seemed to be thinking about it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He’s made an office for himself in the loft here, and he has another at the Stock Exchange in Helsinki. He works for an online investors’ magazine.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘He’s been away a good deal recently. Olli, go to bed, please.’

  The boy was standing in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll come and see you in bed in a little while,’ said Leea Hankala-Lemberg.

  Olli rolled his eyes and put his head on one side, just like Seppo that afternoon at Frankfurt airport.

  ‘Say goodnight to these gentlemen,’ said Leea Hankala-Lemberg, and Olli lingered in the doorway for a few moments, then said, ‘Goodnight,’ and went away.

  ‘Can’t you tell me what’s . . . what’s happened about Lauri?’ asked Leea Hankala-Lemberg.

  ‘Do you know whether he was planning to fly to Germany? To Frankfurt?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Then the answer is no.’

  ‘Of course not. Why would he do that?’

  ‘In fact he did fly to Frankfurt today.’

  She gave Westerberg a long look. ‘It could have been on business,’ she said at last.

  Westerberg nodded. ‘Do you have a photograph?’

  ‘Of Lauri?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Westerberg.

  She went away and came back with an iPhone. ‘There are a good many here, I think,’ she said. Concentrating, she searched what was obviously an extensive picture library and handed him the device. ‘Here, this is Lauri,’ she said, and Westerberg looked at the smiling face of the man who had cut Risto Nygren’s throat that afternoon. Seppo leaned down to him, and gave a start of surprise on seeing the picture. Lauri Lemberg in front of a wintry scene, pulling a sledge behind him.

  ‘Can you show us his office here, please?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  They followed her up to the top floor of the house. The room looked like a hotel room that had just been cleared; the narrow bed was made up, the desk uncluttered by anything.

  ‘Does he have a PC?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘A laptop. But he always takes it with him when he . . . goes away.’

  ‘Did you speak to him this morning?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? And what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘He didn’t say he was flying to Frankfurt. I thought he was simply going away and would be back. He said he had to go to the office, and I did think that was funny. On Christmas Day. But as I said, he’s been away a lot. Particularly over the last few days, when he seemed to have . . . something important and time-consuming to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Westerberg. And someone to shadow, he thought.

  The boy Olli appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I’ll be with you in just a minute,’ said his mother.

  ‘Is something the matter with Lauri?’ he asked.

  ‘No. We’re going to talk a little longer up here, and then I’ll be with you,’ she said.

  Olli left them, and they stood in the empty room, rather at a loss. Another empty room, thought Westerberg.

  Lauri Lemberg’s sister opened the wardrobe. A single jacket hung in it. ‘Most of his things have gone,’ she said. ‘And his travelling bag, but he usually keeps that in his car. As if he were somehow . . . always on the move.’

  Westerberg looked at the freshly made bed. Neat and clean.

  ‘Can’t you please tell me what’s going on?’ asked Lauri Lemberg’s sister.

  An investigation full of empty rooms.

  ‘Your brother . . .’ Westerberg began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell us something about him. Anything that occurs to you.’

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘He’s the dearest, craziest person I know,’ she said.

  Westerberg tried to meet Seppo’s eye, but Seppo was l
ooking at the woman and seemed to be waiting for her to go on. He looked strangely sad.

  ‘Lauri is . . . special. Very clever. Top grades in his school-leaving exam, top results in his university studies.’

  ‘Please go on.’

  ‘What am I to tell you? He’s a dear. He seldom does anything you’d expect. In fact never. But he’s always there when I need him. He has four university degrees, all with distinction. Since my husband died he’s been living with us, helping out. He does relatively odd things that no one else understands. For instance, he once spent a year working as a waiter at an igloo hotel in the north of Finland – with his four brilliant degrees.’

  Westerberg nodded.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can understand that, can you? I can’t either. But that’s how he’s always been.’ She looked at him enquiringly, in search of help.

  ‘Do you remember a friend of his, a school friend? Teuvo Manner?’

  ‘Teuvo . . . yes, certainly.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes, they were close friends, but that was ages ago. As you said, when they were at school. I was Lauri’s little sister, but I do remember that Teuvo sometimes visited us.’

  ‘Yes?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘In retrospect, they were an odd couple. I remember they once let me play Monopoly with them, and Teuvo made sure that I could go safely down Lauri’s streets on the board. In the end, thanks to Teuvo, I even won the game, and Lauri’s feelings were slightly hurt, but not for long.’ She smiled, and Westerberg could see the scene before his eyes. Teuvo Manner, Lauri Lemberg, Lauri’s little sister Leea and a board with small green houses and red hotels, and a Lauri who didn’t want to lose.

  ‘If your brother comes back or gets in touch with you, please let us know at once,’ said Westerberg.

  ‘I really would like to know what’s going on,’ she said.

  ‘I can understand that. Your brother is suspected of killing a man today in Frankfurt. And that’s linked to further investigations on which we’re working at the moment.’

  She said nothing. He thought he could see how hard she was trying to understand that, but she didn’t. Of course not. Westerberg walked a little further into the room, looked round him, and sensed that they were not going to find anything here. Although of course they would try.

  ‘Is your son on holiday?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Of course. Christmas. ‘I’d like you to take him out on some kind of excursion tomorrow. A team of forensic officers will have to spend a few hours in your house, and there’s no need for him to see that.’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ll call you at about eight, and we’ll discuss the details then. Is that all right? And I’ll need this iPhone, with the photos on it. You’ll get it back tomorrow,’ said Westerberg.

  She nodded.

  They went downstairs, and when they were finally trying to find words to say goodbye, Westerberg had a feeling that Olli was with them. Standing in a doorway somewhere, making no noise, trying to hear words that were left unspoken.

  80

  LEEA HANKALA-LEMBERG read Olli a bedtime story about a little boy fearlessly putting monsters to flight.

  At the end Olli asked if Lauri would be coming back soon, and she said yes. A few minutes later Olli was asleep. She waited there for a while, looking at her sleeping son. Then she carefully rose to her feet, tiptoed to the door and then went straight to the kitchen, because that morning she had left something there, next to the fruit and vegetables, and now it was urgent for her to take a closer look at it.

  There was only one word on the slim package – Infopost. She held it in her hands for a while, looking at the brown envelope, reading the single word again and again, and remembering the conversation she had had with Lauri some time ago. Lauri had been amused by her credulity, and suggested that junk mail should go straight into the recycling bin rather than being opened.

  She opened the envelope, and then stared at its contents for several minutes before spreading them out on the kitchen table and reading the handwritten note.

  Dear Leea,

  We won’t be able to see each other for some time. I’ve left you the money I made on the Stock Exchange. Please use it mainly for what Olli will need in the next few years. I’ll visit you both as soon as the whole thing has stopped mattering, but that could take some time. I’m fine. I’ll call you and Olli, but I have yet to work out a clever way to do it. Oh, and another thing – if Koski phones or even turns up on your doorstep, he could be a little angry. The Securities and Exchange people will probably want to investigate me for helping a biotechnology company to show a sudden leap in profits, but in the circumstances that’s the least of my worries, and the money in this envelope was worth it to me.

  See you some time, love to Olli and to you, from Lauri.

  She read the letter twice, then put it down on the table and began counting the money. Mauve notes, yellow notes that looked like play money, and to Lauri that was all it would have been. She counted until at last a round sum began to emerge: 100,000 euros. For Olli. Whatever he wanted them for.

  She thought of what the police officer had said and that had been going round in circles in her mind ever since, a few centimetres away from her ability to take in its meaning. He’s suspected of killing a man today in Frankfurt.

  She went on sitting at the table for some time, thinking of toy money and the game of Monopoly that she had won, thanks to Teuvo and to Lauri’s annoyance. In the end Lauri had swept the hotels off the board, torn a 10,000 note in half, and told Teuvo not to laugh in that silly way.

  She tried to hold the picture in her mind: Lauri, Teuvo and herself, as children.

  She closed her eyes.

  For some seconds she thought that the voice speaking to her from a little way off was part of the memory.

  ‘Is that money real?’ asked Olli.

  81

  KIMMO JOENTAA DROVE through the night over the water and over the apparently endless bridge, and then followed the blue-and-green signs purporting to direct him to Turku.

  There was very little traffic on the roads. Now and then he met snowploughs clearing the carriageways of the large amounts of snow that were falling thickly, snow in large flakes.

  He phoned Sundström in Turku and Westerberg and Seppo in Helsinki. In turn, they brought him up to date with the latest developments, and they had various questions to ask about Teuvo Manner, the diary and the summer of 1985.

  The diary, the blue exercise book, lay on the passenger seat beside him, and as he drove and talked and most of all listened, a picture began to emerge.

  Lauri Lemberg, thirty-seven, born 17 February 1973, resident in Naantali and recently in Helsinki with his sister Leea and her son Olli; graduated with distinction in biochemistry, Finnish literature, economics and jurisprudence, subsidiary subjects physics, mathematics, cultural history and psychology; several years as a lecturer at Turku university; broke off studying for a doctorate in biochemistry after a few weeks and went to north Finland to work as a waiter for a year; then occasional jobs, after that journalistic work for a cultural journal in Turku, then a post he held for rather longer as representative for the pharmaceutical products of the firm of Kloks OY. Fired from that post, according to the CEO, for telling the firm’s indignant customers that the medicinal drug it was offering was useless and not worth their money.

  ‘Oh,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Yes,’ said Seppo. ‘But he was right. The drug in question was taken off the market a little later.’

  Seppo said goodbye and promised to phone again, and Joentaa thought of Larissa riding a moped through a snowstorm, and then his mobile rang, and this time it was Westerberg, who immediately began talking about Lauri, going on from where Seppo had left off.

  Lauri Lemberg, representative for pharmaceutical products; then economic journalist on the investors’ magazine succinctly entitled Shareholders.

  ‘And here comes
the crunch,’ said Westerberg. ‘He made money out of insider knowledge. I don’t quite understand how, but he ended up giving false information and writing reports that were pure imagination.’

  Must ask Lauri tomorrow, thought Joentaa.

  ‘Kimmo?’ asked Westerberg.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I can’t think of anything to say, can you?’

  ‘No,’ said Joentaa, and then he went on driving by himself, missing Westerberg’s voice. Then Sundström called to say that Saara Koivula had gone to see Risto Nygren a day before she was found unconscious and severely injured in the roadside ditch.

  Joentaa did not reply, but tried to concentrate on the road ahead of him.

  ‘The surveillance cameras caught her. Nygren convicted himself, so to speak, because his house has a lot of expensive security fitted to deter burglars. The cameras show Nygren putting the unconscious Saara in the boot of his car that evening, a few hours after she arrived, and then driving away.’

  Joentaa still said nothing, and concentrated on the road.

  ‘Next morning he flew from Helsinki to Frankfurt.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

  Sundström ended the call, and Joentaa drove on by himself thinking of the dead man in the forest, Teuvo Manner, who had been a boy and perhaps had stayed a boy, always hearing the last chord that Saara Koivula had played.

  After some more time had passed, it was Seppo who told him that a letter had been found in Lauri Lemberg’s office on the Stock Exchange in Helsinki.

  ‘The desk was empty, just this letter in it. For us,’ said Seppo. ‘A letter from Manner to Lemberg.’

  From Teuvo to Lauri, thought Joentaa.

  ‘Dated 27 June. It must have been with the diary. Manner writes that he saw the photograph of Saara Koivula in the paper, and indicates that he meant to take his own life.’

  Like a whispered scream, thought Joentaa.