The Winter of the Lions

by Jan Costin Wagner

  Joentaa nodded.

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you very much.’ He got up, and offered Koivikko his hand. Koivikko shook it.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Joentaa, removing his hand from Koivikko’s.

  Then he quickly walked down the corridor and out into the fresh air, feeling a little better when he was surrounded by the biting cold.

  54

  KAI-PETTERI HÄMÄLÄINEN LEFT the hospital under cover of darkness, through a side entrance.

  The young doctor with the peculiar name had shaken hands with him, keeping hold of his hand for a long time, and asked him once again to take it easy in the coming days and weeks. The nurses and patients had stared at him as he went down the long corridor towards the lifts. Now, flanked by two police officers, one of them tall and the other very tall, he and an anxious-looking Tuula Palonen were walking through the cold air to a limousine. The police officers wore long coats; their faces were expressionless. Tuula peered to left and right, and seemed relieved when they were in the car and the very tall man threaded his way into the evening traffic.

  ‘It worked,’ said Tuula. ‘No one saw you.’

  Hämäläinen nodded, and thought of the conversation he had had that afternoon, a discussion over the phone with Tuula and Raafael Mertaranta, the TV station’s controller, who had congratulated him on his imminent discharge from hospital as if it were a major achievement.

  He had been sitting on his bed, with one of the nurses watering his flowers, and Tuula and Mertaranta had agreed to pick a good moment to smuggle him past the waiting cameras and back into everyday life unseen, so that his reappearance on the screen would be all the more effective and make a lasting impression. On New Year’s Eve. Back to health, in cheerful mood, to present a retrospective look at the past year to viewers.

  Phoenix from the ashes, he thought, and the car, driven by a silent giant, rode smoothly through a clear winter night. They left the city behind them, and he closed his eyes for a while.

  When they came to a halt, the officer on the passenger seat spoke for the first time. ‘We’re here.’

  Hämäläinen looked out of the window in search of his house. The big garden, the terrace surrounded by tall fir trees, the swimming pool with its plastic cover, the warm, muted lighting behind the windows. Irene. The twins. ‘We’re where?’ he asked.

  ‘Your home,’ said the very tall officer who had been driving.

  He looked out of both side windows again.

  ‘We’re going to approach from some way off, making for the back of the house,’ said the other man. ‘Come along.’

  He got out.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness. They were standing on the outskirts of a wood rather rocky in places.

  ‘Haven’t you ever walked home through this wood?’ asked the very tall man, and Hämäläinen shook his head.

  ‘The path is quite steep, but it’s a nice walk,’ said the not so tall man.

  Hämäläinen nodded and gritted his teeth as the others walked easily ahead of him. Obviously no one seemed to remember that he had been the victim of an attempted murder only two days ago.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Tuula, as the façade of the house emerged from the darkness some way off.

  ‘Fine,’ said Hämäläinen, and the very tall police officer opened the little gate that was always kept locked.

  ‘I didn’t even know we had a key to this gate,’ said Hämäläinen.

  ‘It was hanging on a board with the other keys,’ said the tall man.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Your wife gave it to us,’ said the very tall man.

  Hämäläinen nodded. They were standing in the far corner of the large garden. Beyond the white fir trees were the windows, behind the windows there was light. Irene, he thought. He had spoken to her on the phone at midday, feeling that she was a long way off.

  ‘We’ll go over to the terrace,’ said the very tall man. He hunched his shoulders as he walked. Tuula followed, and the other police officer came behind Hämäläinen. He suddenly took Hämäläinen’s arm and held it for a few seconds. But there was nothing in sight; it was only wind rippling the plastic tarpaulin that covered the pool.

  The very tall officer had reached a window in the façade and tapped the glass. Irene’s silhouette appeared behind the pane. A door opened.

  ‘Welcome home,’ said the tall officer, with a gesture inviting him into his own house.

  55

  KIMMO JOENTAA SAT at his office desk in the neon lighting for a long time, studying the notes made by Heinonen and Grönholm on their research, reading the newspaper reports that Päivi had left in neat piles ready for him. Each of the disasters, to a greater or lesser extent, had provided material for columns in the press, many of them mainly objective, some lurid. Columns well or badly written.

  A local paper in Savonlinna had dwelt for weeks on the subject of a young family who died when a passenger plane crashed over Russia. Pictures of the young father, the young mother, even a picture of the still unbaptised baby, pixelated to obscure the face. An interview with the parish clergyman. One with the husband’s sister. Another with his colleagues at work. All the articles were by the same journalist. Joentaa made a note of his name.

  Finally the front page of the newspaper published a picture of the house where the family had lived. In the foreground stood a smiling, middle-aged man who had bought the house to live there in future. The man had been interviewed. He was asked if he didn’t feel it was uncomfortable to be living in that house, knowing about the tragedy, and he had said no, adding that he was a widower himself and used to tragedies.

  Kimmo Joentaa looked at the picture of the smiling man for a little longer, then he put the report down and picked up the next one.

  He made notes, drew up lists, arranged the relatives of the dead in order, rummaged around in other people’s grief, and brought nothing to light but names. Names like the name of Erkki Koivikko, father of a daughter, a bank manager. There was something Koivikko had said that he couldn’t get out of his head. Fifteen years ago. And it hadn’t been his daughter on the stretcher, but …

  He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what Koivikko had said, but it was no use. He looked at the names on the white paper a little longer, then put the list back with the newspaper reports on the rest of the files that Päivi Holmquist had brought up, and switched off the light. He drove home.

  On the way he thought of Erkki Koivikko getting out of his chair, going to the bathroom and throwing up in the washbasin. A strong man who looked as if he was in control of himself. He had said that on the stretcher in the TV show … no, he’d lost it.

  He thought of the smiling man who had bought the empty house.

  A widower.

  Used to tragedies.

  He felt as if he were floating over the road; now and then his eyes closed for a second or so. Fresh snow had fallen. Once he was on the woodland track the tyres spun, and he had to turn the wheel to avoid ending up in the ditch. He switched the engine off and went the last hundred metres on foot, as so often at this time of year. He thought of Sanna, who had liked that. When they had first found out that it was often impossible to drive right up to the house in snowy winters, he had stomped through the snow in a bad temper, and Sanna had laughed.

  There was a light on in the kitchen; he saw the silhouette of a naked woman behind the windowpane. He stood outside the window for a while, watching as she made the lasagne he had promised her several days before.

  Then he moved away from the window, took the few steps to the front door and opened it. The warmth came to meet him, and Larissa called, ‘There you are at last. Supper’s nearly ready.’

  He stood in the doorway.

  ‘You look pale,’ she said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Midnight feast,’ she said, taking the bubbling dish of lasagne out of the oven.

  ‘Looks delicious.’

  ‘It tastes del
icious too,’ said Larissa. Or whatever her name was.

  ‘Nice that you’re here.’

  She took two plates out of the cupboard, cutlery out of the drawer, and asked, ‘Why?’

  Kimmo Joentaa looked at her.

  ‘Why is it nice that I’m here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Joentaa.

  They ate in silence.

  After they had finished, she undressed him, got on top of him, and moved in what seemed a practised, rhythmic way until he came.

  She went to shower.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ she said when she came back.

  Kimmo looked at her.

  ‘I’m twenty-five years old. Grew up in a conventional household. My father raped me over a long period, and my mother never noticed, so I moved out when I was sixteen.’

  ‘I see,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Actually that was all lies.’

  Joentaa nodded.

  ‘I’ll tell you another tomorrow, if you like,’ she said.

  56

  THAT NIGHT, ON the news, she sees the smiling man. A photograph of him. He has left hospital, no one saw him leave, but he is said to be getting better.

  She sits on the hotel bed, which is soft, with smooth sheets. She takes an apple and a peach from a white bowl and begins to eat them while she watches a woman with a microphone standing outside the dark house where the smiling man lives. What the woman is saying dies away, and what happened is a tingling on the surface of her skin.

  The empty hall.

  The questioning look.

  The sky made of glass.

  Rauna. Veikko. Ilmari.

  She feels Rauna’s skin against her cheek, and sees Ilmari apparently about to say something. A little way off, but she can’t hear him. She tries to catch his eye, but both his eyes are closed. One leg is missing. ‘Has the sky fallen down?’ asks Rauna, and she thinks: one leg is missing. Ilmari has put his arm round Veikko, whose body is lying flat on the floor at an unnatural angle to his head. One leg is missing, she thinks, and Veikko is asleep, and only a minute ago everything was still all right.

  A rent in the sky. Then another.

  Rauna is dancing. Ilmari skids on the ice. Veikko laughs.

  Who would understand it if she didn’t?

  She is lying on snow, her hand is trembling as she reaches out for Rauna. Sirens and flashing blue lights. Frantic voices. Soothing voices. She nods. Nods and nods and nods, and does not let go of Rauna’s hand.

  ‘These two must belong together,’ says a voice.

  Ilmari’s body is raised and lowered.

  Veikko’s body is raised and lowered.

  Her body is raised and carried away. The voices retreat.

  Rauna is hovering beside her, and asks, ‘Has the sky fallen down?’

  The clatter of an engine. ‘Ready for take-off,’ says one of the voices above her. ‘Turku hospital. Land on the lawn outside the main entrance, you’re expected.’

  ‘Right,’ says another voice.

  A door is closed. She shuts her eyes.

  ‘And now, back to the studio,’ says the woman with the microphone.

  Only a minute ago, she thinks.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ says a voice.

  Only a minute ago.

  ‘Everything okay,’ says the voice.

  Only a moment has passed.

  57

  KAI-PETTERI HÄMÄLÄINEN looked up at the ceiling and the light and shadows on it. Irene lay beside him. She seemed to be fast asleep.

  The tall man and the very tall man spent the night in the guest bedroom. One of them was always awake while the other settled down on the couch that offered normal people a place to sleep, but was much too small for these two. The very tall man had laughed briefly when he first lay down to try it out.

  The imps were lying in their sky-blue world on the top storey, either sleeping or talking in whispers about the funny men. Probably they were giggling quietly, because just after the police officers’ arrival the very tall man had suddenly thawed out and played hide and seek with the girls. He had hidden in the wardrobe, under the couch, finally even in the shower. But he took his shoes off first so as not to make the tiles dirty. The imps had enjoyed it and laughed and laughed, and Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen had made a few faces for the two of them before they staggered off to bed in their pink nighties, worn out but happy and no longer worried.

  What a strange evening. What a strange few days. He felt under the covers for the places that hurt on his back and his stomach. There would be a scar, the young medical director of the hospital had said, smiling.

  Irene moaned and turned over on her other side. He held his breath. He didn’t want to wake her up, he wanted to be alone.

  The tall man or the very tall man, one or other of them, was probably going round the house. Hämäläinen imagined him standing by the wall of glass, peering out into the dark and concentrating, with his eyes narrowed.

  He looked at the light and shadow, and thought about the moment when the tall man had asked him in. A guest in his own house. Irene’s silence. The children’s uncertain smiles. A kindly personal bodyguard thinking up amusing games to soothe his daughters’ anxiety.

  He thought of the studio. The burgundy carpet with his desk on it. The spotlights, the curved rows of seating for the audience. The cameras. Questions. Answers. Explaining the world and drinking coffee, or the other way around. A white morning. A stab in the back, and Irene falls silent. And the children play hide and seek with a man they don’t know. And Niskanen has refused to come, giving no reasons. At the last attempt he cut the connection before the editorial assistant on the line could even introduce himself by name. Tuula had tried one last time, with the same lack of success, and had then refused to try for the very, very last time. Of course it had been one of the biggest subjects of the last year, which was why, as originally planned, they were going to include a film clip anyway. In which Niskanen claimed to be waiting for the result of the B test.

  Tuula had given him a rundown on the sequence of events. It was now lying on the living-room table. He felt that he would like to look through it. He knew most of it already. The programme was fixed, the little yellow Post-It notes with the questions he was going to ask were in the office, carefully arranged. The presenter’s text was on the teleprompter.

  He slowly sat up and left the bedroom on tiptoe. The house lay in darkness; downstairs a single light flickered. The television set. He went down the stairs. The very tall man was perched on the arm of an armchair watching the Hämäläinen show.

  Hämäläinen quietly went up to him.

  ‘Kind of funny,’ said the very tall man, turning towards him. ‘There you are on TV. And here you are in this room at the same time.’

  ‘Did you hear me coming?’ asked Hämäläinen.

  The very tall man nodded.

  ‘I was keeping very quiet,’ said Hämäläinen.

  ‘All a question of practice,’ said the very tall man. ‘I didn’t know they put the show out this late.’

  ‘They always show repeats at 1.30,’ said Hämäläinen.

  ‘Ah,’ said the very tall man.

  Hämäläinen saw himself on the screen, his lips moving fast but inaudibly. The Hämäläinen on screen looked relaxed and much amused, and beside him stood the forensic pathologist whose name he couldn’t remember.

  ‘What’s this one …?’ he murmured.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked the very tall man.

  ‘Oh, it’s the programme with the puppets,’ said Hämäläinen. The very tall man followed his gaze and said nothing. Of course, thought Hämäläinen. A day before his return home they had transmitted the programme with Mäkelä and the forensic pathologist again. It all seemed to be somehow connected with that programme. Tuula hadn’t discussed it with him beforehand, why should she? The obvious show to resurrect. The forensic pathologist laughed. Mäkelä laughed. The very tall man asked, ‘Shall I turn the sound up?’

 
; ‘No, no,’ said Hämäläinen.

  He went to the table where the schedule for the show lay ready. He had only glanced briefly at it before going to bed. He sat down and began to read. The ski-jumping team’s gold medals, the flood of the century in and around Joensuu. That rock band’s surprise European hit. The conservative MP’s sex and drugs orgy. He read until the letters and numbers with which Tuula allotted minutes and seconds to each subject blurred before his eyes. He looked up. His eyes were burning. The final credits were coming up on screen. Keep watching the show. See you tomorrow.

  The very tall man switched off the TV set. ‘You should try to get some sleep,’ he said.

  Hämäläinen nodded.

  The very tall man left the room, and Hämäläinen watched the blank screen for a long time without thinking of anything in particular.

  31 DECEMBER

  58

  KIMMO JOENTAA SLEPT late, and felt heavy as lead when he woke up.

  Larissa had left a note on the living-room table. Happy New Year, dear Kimmo, see you soon.

  He put the note carefully back on the table. Outside, early fireworks were going off with muffled bangs.

  He showered, dressed, made a cup of tea and tried to hold on to the idea that had been there at the moment when he woke.

  An idea connected to Erkki Koivikko and what he had said. Our daughter’s death is fifteen years in the past. And the charred plastic figure on the stretcher in that TV show was male.

  He drove to the office. The last day of the year was beginning with a radiant blue sky, like the day before. Fluffy new snow lay in the sunlight. Petri Grönholm was sitting at his desk, and said that Tuomas Heinonen had phoned in to say he would be off sick.

  ‘What?’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Sick. Sounded like a heavy cold.’

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Joentaa.

  ‘I delegated all the stuff Tuomas was supposed to be working on today,’ said Petri Grönholm.

  ‘Hm? Yes … yes, good.’ He stood there indecisively. He must call Tuomas. Or Paulina. Or both of them. He went down to the cafeteria and sat there for a while beside the big Christmas tree that would be cleared away within the next few days. He saw the reception area, and the place where Larissa had been standing on Christmas Eve. Everything was different today. There were three of his colleagues in the reception area, the corridors were full of a steady buzz of voices, and there was no Larissa. A plate of biscuits still stood on the table. Star-shaped biscuits. Joentaa helped himself to one and tasted maple syrup. He phoned, thinking what to say to Tuomas, but it was Paulina who answered.