Vivica Mattsson sat down in one of the armchairs in the lobby and tossed one leg across the other. I eyed her tanned thigh. Despite the warnings of dermatologists everywhere, Mattsson clearly enjoyed sunbathing. It was easy picturing her in a string bikini on the rocks outside a seaside villa inherited from her grandpapa.
I decided it would be more natural if I also sat. Mattsson frowned; it looked as if she were remembering something.
“So Arabs, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“I didn’t see, but I might have heard. Do you speak Arabic?”
“No.”
“Someone angrily shouted something from the bridge in Arabic, or at least that’s what it sounded like. A train went past right then and after that I didn’t hear anything else.”
“We know those two men probably headed this way at about the same time. But you didn’t notice them?”
“I think this one dog owner came over right then to talk, and I was focused on that.”
“The woman with a small black poodle?”
“Right.”
“Do you remember who else was in the dog park?”
“No. It was a late night last night, and I was pretty groggy this morning, I still am. I can’t wait to get some rest… I didn’t feel like talking, but she’s such a chatterbox… Did you need anything else from me? It’s opening night tomorrow…”
“Call me if you remember anything more.”
I gave her my card. She looked at it for a minute and started to smile.
She was beautiful, so beautiful that I couldn’t help taking a quick backwards glance from the vestibule. But she was already gone.
4
Oksanen was sitting in the back of the van, talking into his mobile phone. There was no sign of Stenman. Oksanen hung up as soon as he saw me. From the haste of his movements I knew it wasn’t a work-related call, most likely arrangements related to the next police-guild rally.
“We’re making progress,” Oksanen told me, waving the plastic bag containing the Hertz map.
“How so?”
“This edition of the map only came out a couple of weeks ago, and it’s meant to be left in the car. My buddy at Hertz promised to get his team to find out how many maps have been snagged from vehicles. Then he’ll go into the computers and dig up the personal info on the customers who rented those cars and give it to me.”
“Sounds good.”
“I was thinking, during rush hour, trains would have been going through here pretty often, and some locomotive engineer might have seen something on the bridge. We can get a single message out to all the engineers through the control centre.”
“Also a good idea.”
Huovinen’s metallic green VW Passat was climbing the hill, behind it a black Opel Vectra.
“Here comes Huovinen,” Oksanen said.
You could tell from Oksanen’s voice that he didn’t care for Huovinen, and presumably the feeling was mutual. Huovinen had lectured Oksanen pretty harshly a couple of times about time on the clock going to his rally pursuits.
Huovinen was accompanied by a man of about forty, wearing a light-green poplin coat and dress trousers. He had intense, almost black eyes.
I was sure that I had met him before somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where. Still, I guessed what he was doing with my boss.
“Let’s have a little powwow. Where are Stenman and Simolin?”
I told him.
“We don’t have time to wait.”
Huovinen nodded at his visitor.
“This is Inspector Sillanpää from the Security Police. I’ll let him explain why he’s here.”
Sillanpää had the hard look of a punched-up boxer.
“There are quite a few things about this case that interest us. Two foreigners, facial mutilation, the method of killing, the scene of the crime, which is Finland’s busiest and perhaps most important section of railway track. I also understood that the deceased haven’t been identified yet, and we’d like to assist in identification so we can do background checks on them. If they have a record, maybe we can piece together some kind of scenario for what happened. And of course the case also interests us as a possible hate crime.”
“Do you have any suspicions about what this is all about?”
“No more than you do.”
If Sillanpää was lying, he was used to it.
“What was found on the bodies?” Sillanpää asked.
“On one of them, nothing; on the other, a map of Helsinki and a gun. Or actually, the gun had fallen onto the roof of the train. It was found later at the rail yard.”
“No mobile phone?”
“And a mobile,” I was forced to admit.
“We want the phone. We’ll immediately deliver you everything we recover from it.”
“The phone is critical for the investigation at this stage.”
“You’ll get the call data as soon as we retrieve it. This has already been agreed on with the deputy police chief.”
I glanced at Huovinen. I could tell he was irritated by this news.
“One of our detectives has the phone at the moment.”
“Where is he?”
“Probably already on his way back here.”
“Let him know we want the phone immediately.”
Typical SUPO talk, I thought. Sillanpää spoke as if the entire Security Police, right up to the chief inspector, stood behind his wishes.
“I’ll try to get in touch with him.”
I walked a little way off and called Simolin.
“How’s it going?”
“We’re just about done.”
“There’s a guy from SUPO here, he wants the phone.”
“You want us to quit?”
“Nah. How long will it take?”
“Ten minutes, max.”
“Make a note of all calls, both received and made, and messages, and write down the security code. The boys from SUPO can crack it for themselves.”
I went back to the van.
“He’ll be here within half an hour.”
Huovinen looked at me thoughtfully. He had a keen nose in matters like these. He handed me a printout that was folded in quarters.
“The official press release that was distributed through the Finnish News Agency, in case you’re interested.”
I read the release. Huovinen had been unusually succinct. I was sure the journalists wouldn’t be satisfied.
“I promised to flesh it out this evening. You have anything to give me?”
For a moment no one spoke. The silence clearly bothered Oksanen the most.
“I’ll call Arja and ask about the security cameras. I could go get the tapes.”
“Good,” said Huovinen. He looked preoccupied.
Huovinen was forty-seven, but he was already greying. He was a handsome man, so handsome that during our time in the police academy he had earned money on the side as a male model for a clothing manufacturer. He was remarried, and wife number two was an Estonian-born cellist.
Huovinen came out of his reverie.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Coming from Huovinen, this meant almost completely free rein. He probably knew how to cut the corners that could slow an investigation better than anyone else at headquarters.
Sillanpää was also roused from silence.
“I’ve got other things I could be doing. Where’s this detective? I’ll go pick up the phone from him myself.”
“I didn’t think to ask, but he’ll be right here.”
Sillanpää eyed me with the usual suspicion. He had a clearly exaggerated need for control. Maybe it was part of the job description.
Huovinen buttoned up his charcoal-coloured wool coat. “You gentlemen can manage without me. I’m going to head over to the ministry. If something comes up, call. I’ll let you know about the meeting.”
He got into his car and drove off.
“Was the phone unlocked?” Sillanpää asked.
; “Nope. Apparently it died or broke when the guy hit the roof of the train or the ground. Will you guys be able to unlock it?” I asked innocently.
“I think we can manage that.”
“We expect you to deliver all call data as soon as you retrieve it.”
“Of course.” Once again, Sillanpää’s promise seemed so breezily tossed out that I didn’t believe it. Luckily, thanks to Simolin, I was a few steps ahead, and I intended to stay there.
“Of course, why wouldn’t we?” Sillanpää added, and I trusted him even less.
Oksanen returned, looking busy. One more rally arrangement had been squared away.
“Arja’s almost here… Mind if I take my legal lunch break now?”
“What about the security cameras?”
“Arja’s bringing a list. I’ll go through it right away.”
“Don’t be long. How are you going to get anywhere? Arja has the car.”
“A buddy’s coming to pick me up.”
Oksanen rushed off to meet his friend. Work matters were clearly interfering with the demands of his busy free-time schedule.
“Someone told me you’re Jewish,” Sillanpää blurted out.
“Someone was right.”
“I heard a Jewish joke yesterday. You want to hear it?”
“Don’t let a good opportunity go to waste.”
Sillanpää’s eyes bored into me.
“Let’s leave it for another time. You speak Hebrew?”
I looked at the humourless inspector.
“A little.”
“We might be able to use you from time to time. Rumour has it you’ve practised martial arts and were the best shot in your academy class.”
Sillanpää was right. I had started taking tae kwon do at the Maccabi, the Jewish congregation’s athletic club, during my first year of high school. When I was younger, I also played table tennis in the club’s competitive team.
“Let me guess: someone told you?”
Sillanpää chuckled.
“I’m serious. If you’re interested in something a little different, we might be able to use you more than you realize…”
Simolin sped up the hill and shuddered to a stop. I didn’t have time to think about what Sillanpää meant.
“Here comes the phone,” I remarked.
“Think about what I said.”
Sillanpää took off. He grabbed the phone on the fly from Simolin and jumped into his car. As soon as it disappeared from view, Simolin pulled his notebook out of his pocket.
“I wrote down all the calls out, calls in, and messages. As it turns out, the messages are in French. The last three calls out were placed to the same number, two this morning and one yesterday evening. I already checked it: some Ali’s Body Shop in Vartiokylä. Three calls were international, two to France, one to Israel, and the rest to one and the same unlisted mobile phone. I called the body shop on my way over, but no one answered.”
Simolin saw my expression and explained: “I would have just asked how much a brake job costs. Besides, it would have been the truth; the Renault needs new brake pads, and the tailpipe’s leaking too.”
I was tired of standing there, so without giving it any further thought, I said: “Let’s head over and find out in person how much a brake and tailpipe job would cost for the Renault.”
The body shop was off the Eastern Expressway, a couple of miles past Itäkeskus towards Porvoo. A right turn at the Teboil station, and then another immediate right.
The area was a mishmash of small industry housed in buildings of various ages. Some were corrugated-metal prefabs on the verge of falling apart, others were brand-new contemporary industrial structures, the rest somewhere in between. The body shop was located in one wing of an old yellow building; the entrance was at the rear. Out back there were a couple of rusty shipping containers, dented body parts, an ancient, completely rusted-out Mercedes, a newish Volvo hatchback and a relatively old 300-series BMW. At the edge of the property, right under a birch tree, stood a boxy white RV.
Over the door to the shop, it read A. Hamid, Auto Body & Paint. The door was locked, but the crossbar that should have been padlocked was dangling.
Simolin groped for his weapon. I instinctively did the same; my gun was right where it was supposed to be.
“Think we should load?” Simolin asked.
I nodded and pulled a round into the chamber, set the safety, and put my gun back into its holster. Simolin held on to his, but concealed his hand under the edge of his coat.
I knocked on the metal-plated door and listened. There was no response. I rattled it a little, but that didn’t produce any results either.
“Take a look in the side window,” I ordered Simolin. He obeyed, returning a second later.
“Don’t see anyone, but the lights are on.”
I beat on the door more heavily. It still didn’t open.
“Why don’t I get some tools from the car?” Simolin suggested.
“Do it.”
Simolin bounded off. When he returned, he was carrying a crowbar and a one-pound mallet.
“Go for it.”
Simolin pounded the crowbar in between the door and the jamb, right next to the lock. When it had sunk in deep enough, he lowered the mallet to the ground and twisted the crowbar. The door popped open on the first try.
The heavy, gentle scent of motor oil wafted out. Right across from the door there was a car with the hood up. A burning work lamp hung over the engine block. The distributor cap was off and the plug wires were unattached. Problem with the ignition, I figured.
The space was approximately fifteen by thirty feet. Another car was against the long wall. It had been driven onto the lift and raised a couple of yards off the ground. At the far end of the space, there was a little office around thirty square feet with big windows. Across from it was a much larger walled-off space, with double doors big enough for a car. An ad for car paint hung on the wall, next to a shelf full of paint cans. From that and the paint splatters, it was easy to deduce that cars were painted behind the double doors.
I peeked into the office. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, unless you count the fact that there wasn’t a single girlie calendar on the wall. Customer appointments had been marked in a desk calendar; it looked like A. Hamid had his hands full.
“Not a living soul,” Simolin said.
I stopped in front of the double doors and sniffed the pungent fumes coming from the painting chamber. Then I opened them.
A young man in overalls was leaning in a sitting position against a wall covered in splashes of paint. Another, older man dressed in slacks and a checked jacket was sprawled in a recliner sitting in the middle of the floor, both hands tied to the arms of the chair. There were bruises on his face and two bullet holes at his right temple. A fire-engine-red air compressor stood next to the chair, its hose dangling in his lap.
Simolin peered over my shoulder and saw the same thing I did. He said, almost enthusiastically:
“That’s four bodies already. Looks like we got the biggest case of the year.”
As I looked at the bodies, the Rabbi’s words came to mind: Yamim Noraim.
Yamim Noraim, the Days of Awe.
If Rabbi Liebstein was right and the world was falling to pieces, an unpleasant role had been reserved for me. It was my job to gather up all of the gears that were flying off and repair the clock so it would work again.
5
A good thirty minutes later, the crime scene was buzzing. The area was marked off, the medical van had come and gone, and an ambulance had been ordered for the bodies. The same CSIs who had been at Linnunlaulu, Manner and Siimes, were opening their aluminium cases.
I had already called Huovinen and apprised him of the situation.
“Stay there and direct the investigation; I’ll send over as many people as I can tear away. Someone’s going to regret they ever started making trouble in our territory. Tell everyone no breaks, not even for a second, no
t even if they see a pair of elephants fucking right in front of their face. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
I went back inside. I had already communicated our movements to Manner, who was marking them on the floor with chalk. He saved himself from having to take a few shoe prints this way. Siimes was getting some wider shots before moving in to the details. Manner walked over to me.
“A day to remember.”
“You can say that again. How does it look?”
“I can already tell you that this was a last-nighter, in other words these two were offed first, before the guys at Linnunlaulu. Based on the samples, I’d say it looks like the same killers were at work.”
I had come to the same conclusion, and it hadn’t been the least bit hard.
“This guy lounging in the chair here was tortured before he was done in: you notice the compressor and the air hose? The other one was just shot; there’s no sign of other external injuries.”
Manner squatted and inspected the pockets of the body that was in the chair. In the breast pocket of the sport coat there was a wallet; the side pocket contained two bunches of keys. He opened up the wallet and showed me the driving licence in its plastic sheath.
“Ali Hamid, apparently the owner of this body shop. In addition to the driving licence, a little money, business cards for the shop, photos of the wife and kids, that’s it.”
He put the wallet away and studied the keys.
“Two normal Abloys: one to a Disklock and the other to a deadbolt. The other bunch is all car keys.”
“Check the other body while you’re at it.”
Manner put the wallet into a plastic bag and tucked the bag into his case. Then, carefully picking each step, he walked over to the other, noticeably younger victim. A black wallet was found in the back pocket of his overalls.
“Wasin Mahmed, born 1979,” Manner said. “Judging by his outfit, works here.”
Wasin Mahmed’s wallet also contained business cards for the shop, plus a photo of him posing with a man about ten years older with bad skin. They had similar features; perhaps they were brothers. There was still sixty-five euros in the wallet, a few coins, and a letter in Arabic that was, judging by its shabbiness, at least several months old.
Nights of Awe Page 4