Derailed

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Yes. But first you and Puupponen take a turn chatting with Toni Väärä while Pekka and I take care of Koskelo. Väärä seems like a pretty inexperienced kid. It’s time for you to turn on the charm,” I told Ursula.

  “So I’m supposed to whore it up to get information?” she replied coldly. “If you want that, then you’ll have to leave me alone with him. Or should I take him to the lounge?”

  I sighed. There was no point trying to rein Ursula in. As long as she did her job well, I would have to endure her. I was the one who chose her for this team, after all. And I hadn’t responded to Taskinen’s invitation to lunch any more warmly than she was responding to me now.

  “Just do what you can do under Ville’s watchful eye. Send Koskelo in here on your way.”

  I was cold because the cuffs of my pants still hadn’t dried properly, but at least I had extra shoes with me. Ilpo Koskelo padded into my office in rubber boots; it must have been raining in Turku too. His beard and mustache were almost entirely gray, and he sat carefully, as if his back hurt. According to his personal information, Koskelo lived in Rusko, about ten miles north of Turku. He’d worked as a physical education teacher before he retired. Koskelo had been married to his wife, Sinikka, for forty-one years, and, in addition to their three daughters, they had three grandchildren.

  “Such an honor to be able to speak with so many detectives,” Koskelo said. He had a southwestern accent, which sounded funny to my eastern Finnish ear. “I already told those other ones everything I knew about Pentti Vainikainen. Do I have to repeat everything again?” Koivu adjusted the video camera lower than it had been with Väärä, since Koskelo was quite short.

  “We’re going to talk about some other things. Why didn’t you want Toni Väärä to ride with Jutta Särkikoski on the twenty-sixth of last September?”

  The question surprised him.

  “What does that have to do with Pentti Vainikainen’s death?”

  “I’m asking you. What were you afraid Toni would tell Jutta during their drive? Or had you been warned ahead of time that her car would be involved in an accident?”

  Koskelo tugged at his beard, seeming confused. “I don’t understand what you’re asking. Of course I didn’t know they would be in an accident. It was a terrible shock. The boy had just run the best race of his life, and then he had to start over from zero. I felt so guilty when I heard. It was like I’d sensed something would happen, though I don’t believe in things like that.”

  “Did you know that after the Swedish meet, Pentti Vainikainen offered Toni a chance to switch trainers and take advantage of some experimental biomedical training techniques?”

  Koskelo’s astonishment seemed to deepen.

  “Who said that?”

  “We have our sources.”

  “Was it Jutta? Well, even if Pentti made that offer, the boy must have said no! He’s been working with me like always. And Pentti never hinted to me that he’d talked with the boy. He and I designed the next season’s training plan together, which the federation approved. We had long camps planned and everything. He wouldn’t go behind my back like that . . . Is this crazy story from Jutta?”

  “Do you think Jutta Särkikoski is a liar?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  Koskelo’s indignation seemed genuine. Had he known about the attempt to lure his protégé into using shady training practices, he would have had good reason to hold a grudge against Pentti Vainikainen. But Toni Väärä had refused to join up, so there was no fight between the two men, as far as I knew. Although we only had Väärä’s word for that.

  “When was Toni Väärä’s last drug test?” Koivu asked, once again baffling Ilpo Koskelo.

  “Not since that international meet more than a year ago. That was the last time he competed. He isn’t even licensed for this season! During his recovery he’s had to take medication that’s on the banned substances list. You have no idea how tough he’s been fighting the pain. It shows true Finnish grit.” Suddenly Koskelo wiped his eyes and glared at us, as if expecting us to dare claim otherwise.

  “How did Toni Väärä get you to coach him? Or did you find him?”

  Koskelo was more than happy to speak on this subject. Five years previously, Koskelo had been watching the junior track-and-field competitions and noticed a thin slip of a boy running with spikes that looked too big for him, against boys who were larger and a year older than him.

  “He’s from Nurmo, which is baseball country, and their sports club had some serious wrestlers back in the day. But the boy wanted to run. He says in running you get to compete mostly against yourself, and he doesn’t have to be dependent on other people’s training schedules. He also didn’t have time or money for the more expensive sports, since he had to help out at home. I hear his mom is eating for two again, even though she’s forty-six, but for them children are a blessing from God.”

  “Is the family Laestadian?” I asked.

  “No, Smith’s Friends. It’s another one of those sects, but I’m no expert on the distinction. I’m just a weddings-and-funerals Christian. Although I did get down on my knees to pray for Toni right after the accident.” Koskelo sighed. “The Vääräs are a good family, but they don’t have much, living on his dad’s wages as a welder. I don’t charge Toni my regular coaching fee; I make up for it with my other students. And soon I’ll start getting my pension. I already told those other detectives that I’ve known Pentti Vainikainen for thirty years, and I have no idea who would have wanted to hurt him. Are you sure it wasn’t just food poisoning? The spread in those sandwiches was strange. I’ve always told the boy, and everyone I train, to watch what they put in their mouths. When we go abroad for camps and meets, we always take our own food.”

  As with the others, I asked Koskelo to recount the events of the campaign launch. He’d come to Espoo with Toni Väärä, because “the boy,” as he called him, had been nervous about the public appearance and wanted his coach there for moral support. At the event, Koskelo had stayed in the background, although a few reporters had asked him about Väärä’s recovery and prospects for the next season. He told them that Väärä was shooting for a spot on the Olympic team.

  “I felt a little sorry for the woman taking care of the food. She was so upset when they realized she forgot the special bread. I said I could help her, since I wasn’t doing anything, but she wouldn’t hear of it because I was a guest. Vainikainen’s wife told me to mind my own business. I’m surprised there’s speculation that it might be a heart attack. I’ve seen enough of those to know right off that it wasn’t that, but heart attack is an easy explanation for a healthy person suddenly keeling over. After that, the boy and me left to drive home, because there was nothing we could do for Pentti anyway.”

  “Did you know everyone who stayed for the after-party?” Koivu asked. I noticed that the audio recorder wasn’t working. I picked up the device and pressed record, but the cassette was full. I turned it over. It would be stupid if we had to question Koskelo again because of a technical error. Fortunately, Koskelo’s words would be caught on the videotape.

  “I only knew the boy and Pentti and, of course, Pentti’s new wife, since she used to work at the federation. I guess that’s where they met. I already told the other detectives: even though I’m a track-and-field guy, I remember when Merja Ikonen was skiing like a bat out of hell and when she tried jumping too. Matti Pulli and all the other coaches couldn’t wrap their head around a girl who was more promising than most of the boys her age. But she wouldn’t have become a jumper anyway. Merja has a woman’s body. Too much air resistance.” Koskelo glanced at Koivu.

  In interviews I’d encountered dozens if not hundreds of times this same “only a man will understand this joke” look. I was immune to it. Even though Merja Vainikainen had told me only a little about her sports background, I could well imagine the sexism a girl who wanted to be a ski jumper would have encountered in the early 1980s. In my teenage years, I’d played soccer on a boys�
�� team and bass in a punk band as the only woman. The music world had made more strides toward equality than the sports world. In pairs figure skating, men and women competed together, but the gender roles were still rigid. Still, that was one of the few sports in which female athletes were admired as much as the male ones, and both sexes received similar prize money.

  “Did Toni share with you his suspicions about the car accident being intentional?”

  “Jutta started talking about that in the hospital. I didn’t take her seriously. But I guess it’s possible, especially if it turns out that Pentti took poison meant for Jutta. I don’t know what to believe . . .”

  Koskelo stroked his beard again, which seemed to be a habit. I tried to remember of whom the gesture reminded me, and my uncle Pena came to mind. He had done exactly the same thing. Koskelo’s gray pullover jacket had a little dandruff on the shoulder, and a few white hairs stuck out from his ears. According to Pentti Vainikainen’s logic, Koskelo was a relic from another era, a man incapable of coaching Finland’s next great runner.

  “I meant to ask whether Toni told you that he suspected he was the target of the accident, not Jutta Särkikoski,” I said to clarify, and received another baffled stare.

  “No! How would he have gotten something like that into his head? Everyone was happy about Toni’s win. Even his dad said that if God blessed him with fast legs, then he had to use them to show his thanks. And we haven’t had anyone running Olympic-level times in the 800 meter since the days of Ari Suhonen. Who would wish evil on someone like that? The boy has his own demons, and he’s a pessimist sometimes, so maybe that’s why he thought that. But he hasn’t said anything like that to me, and if he did, I’d tell him to shut his trap!”

  That was all we could get out of Koskelo. Koivu and I took him and Väärä to the train station on our way to Hillevi Litmanen’s apartment. In the car, Koivu tried to strike up a conversation about the upcoming ice hockey season, but the track-and-field men had nothing to add other than that TPS, the Turku team, were sure to play better this year than last. Thankfully Puupponen wasn’t around to plug KalPa, the Kuopio team.

  After we dropped them off, Koivu demanded that we get something to eat before going to see Litmanen, so we turned toward the Big Apple Mall. Espoo was often criticized for lacking a proper single city center. But instead of having an outdoor square, Espoo had large shopping centers like the Big Apple and Cello. Why develop artificial outdoor spaces when climate change was going to stretch November across a third of the year? Their heated concourses were perfect for hanging out on a cold winter day, and restaurants offered a range of food and drink. The sound of traffic didn’t disturb conversation, and the music and advertisements coming from the shops created an urban, hectic feel that some people liked. And at the Big Apple, there were places you could go for free, like the library and the chapel. This was city life for the new millennium.

  We ended up at Chico’s, because Koivu was an avowed aficionado of spicy Mexican food. “What do you think about Koskelo and Väärä?” I asked as we gorged on fajitas as if we hadn’t seen food in weeks. This was another familiar phenomenon: during a really intense investigation, I was constantly on overdrive and rarely remembered to eat until my blood sugar dropped dangerously low.

  “I was just thinking that Koskelo doesn’t have a son. All his grandchildren are girls too.”

  “And?” I asked with intentional impatience in my voice, because I knew where Koivu was headed.

  “Maybe Koskelo thinks of Väärä as some sort of foster son, always calling him ‘the boy’ like that. And Väärä would have had a hard time getting attention in his own family, what with eleven siblings and number twelve on the way.”

  “What you’re wondering is: Would Koskelo kill to protect his foster son?” I licked some guacamole off my lip, and Koivu took another bite of tortilla and meat. I felt pleased in a way, now that, after the slow start, we had at least two people with a possible motive for killing Pentti Vainikainen: Toni Väärä and Ilpo Koskelo.

  “How are we supposed to answer that? What does it take to put poison in a sandwich? It’s too bad the television crew was only there at the beginning of the event. Let’s see what Hillevi can tell us. This is probably going to be brutal. Let’s take some napkins along in case she’s out of tissues,” Koivu said.

  After divorcing her husband, Jouni, Hillevi Litmanen had moved from their two-bedroom apartment in Lippajärvi to a studio in Matinkylä. In the divorce settlement, Jouni had received more than half of their assets, because his abuse hadn’t figured into the division. And, he pointed out, he had paid the mortgage, and as an electronics technician, he earned three times as much as Hillevi did pushing paper. I’d never visited Hillevi’s home, but she’d told me about her apartment and the things she’d filled it with. She was planning to adopt her grandmother’s maiden name, Sydänmaanlakka, once she was finally done with Jouni Litmanen.

  Hillevi’s apartment was in a high-rise a couple of blocks away from the Big Apple, so we left the car in the mall garage and walked. Being outside, if only for a few minutes, was pleasant despite the drizzle and the wind that blew raindrops in our faces. It was bracing. Koivu wanted to take the elevator to the second floor, because his stomach was so full, but as his boss, I ordered him to climb the stairs. Hillevi’s apartment door had a peephole, and I heard her approach and then fumble with the security locks before opening.

  Koivu had told me what kind of shape Hillevi had been in during the domestic violence investigation. Even so, I was shocked at the appearance of the woman who stood before me. In our meetings, Hillevi had always been almost compulsively well-dressed and groomed. Now she was wearing grubby pajamas, and her short dark hair was plastered to her head. She didn’t have her glasses, and without them she appeared half blind. The apartment smelled the same as train smoking cars used to. Full ashtrays were scattered around, and the bed in the alcove was unmade. My first thought was to open the door to the balcony and the kitchen window to get a little airflow. Then I realized that my comfort was not the most important thing here.

  “Hello, Hillevi. How are you?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “How long do you have off work?”

  “I’ll be back on Monday. The person who died wasn’t my family member, so . . .” Hillevi lit a cigarette and sat on her bed. Koivu collapsed on the couch, and I took the armchair. Koivu had brought the tape recorder and set it up on the coffee table. This time he made sure he had a new cassette. We’d left the video camera at the station.

  In theory it was an attractive apartment. The decor was white and blue in a vaguely French farmhouse style, and Hillevi had many knickknacks and a few still life paintings of flowers. On the bookshelf there were more videos and DVDs than books. Jouni had broken Hillevi’s stereo, so she’d bought a new one as soon as she received the damages the court awarded her. I could see Jari Sillanpää’s latest album sitting on top of the unit. Hillevi had told me that Sillanpää’s music kept her alive during the worst times, but of course Jouni had mocked her idol. I wondered whether it would put Hillevi in a better mood if we played some music. But she began speaking before I could put it on.

  “I didn’t do anything. You believe me, don’t you? I made the sandwiches exactly how Merja told me to. Didn’t I already tell you everything?” These last words were directed at Koivu. Then Hillevi turned to me.

  “And you look familiar . . . But I can’t find my glasses. You are . . . Who are you? Are you one of Jouni’s girlfriends?”

  “I’m Maria, from the domestic violence research project. But right now I’m a police detective,” I responded reassuringly. Koivu stood up and started rearranging pillows and lifting stacks of magazines. He must have been looking for Hillevi’s glasses. He went into the kitchen, and I heard him opening cupboards. Then the tap turned on, there was a rustling of paper towels, and Koivu returned with the glasses.

  “I rinsed them off because you accidentally left them in the fre
ezer. Here.” Koivu’s voice was kind. Hearing him, Hillevi made a sound like a cat whose tail had been stepped on but then extended her hand and accepted the glasses. She put them on her nose and looked at me in surprise.

  “It is you . . . But why?”

  I explained briefly, although Hillevi didn’t seem to fully understand. Her first interview after Pentti Vainikainen’s death had been muddled and fragmented, and the transcript was nearly impossible to make sense of. Officer Autio had handled it, and in my experience, he did significantly better with hard-boiled repeat offenders than he did with hysterical women. “Should I make you some coffee or tea?” Koivu asked, in the same voice I’d heard him using to talk to his children when they were sick. “Or would you like some food? When did you last eat?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Hillevi replied. “I just end up thinking about Pentti . . . throwing up. And Merja said I put something in the sandwiches! I didn’t do anything. Believe me!”

  “We do believe you. We just want to know how you ended up being the one handling the food at the launch event.” I smiled at Hillevi, even though I was having trouble breathing due to the smoke. Hillevi lit another cigarette immediately after stubbing out the first.

  “I know how to make beautiful sandwiches. I always have. Before, I always organized all our food, before Jouni . . . Before my sick leave that is. Jouni tried to say I didn’t know how to do anything, but I don’t have to worry about Jouni anymore, right, Maria?”

  “Right. You can forget Jouni.”

  “Neither of the MobAbility women were cooks, so Merja said we would have to use a catering service, but that would be expensive. So I said I could handle it. I enjoy being in the kitchen. Merja was pleased with me for once. We planned the menu together. It was very simple. We would buy ready-made cookies and make the sandwiches ourselves. Everything was going well, but then I forgot the gluten-free rolls . . .”