Helsinki White iv-3

by James Thompson

  “Can niggers dance?”

  “I thought that the French Foreign Legion has been primarily involved in peacekeeping missions over the past couple decades,” I said.

  “Many people require a demonstration that it is to their benefit to be peaceful,” Moreau said, “and I haven’t been in the Legion for some time. My missions have had a wide variety of objectives since then.”

  I say to Saukko, “May I ask you some questions?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Why did you change your mind about your donation to Real Finns?”

  “All the patriots are connected. Real Finns. Neo-Nazis. Others. There are several groups populated by many of the same members. I wanted a demonstration of intent from them, not just talk. And I didn’t ask them to kill anyone, just be more up front about the contagion of non-white immigration.”

  “What form of demonstration?”

  He hesitates, considers the ramifications of his answer. “Are you a real white man? Is our conversation off the record?”

  “Yes.”

  “Finland was a white man’s paradise. Now good Finnish blood is soiled by poisonous nigger bacterial infection. We’re overrun by mud people. Zionist vampires. Jewish cancer. It’s time to take our country back. Sacrifices must be made. Blood spilled.”

  He starts to ramble. I put on my practiced smile that shows agreement. At the moment, it’s good that I feel no emotion. If so, I might have given him the beating of a lifetime. I listen.

  “Mud babies. Filthy white girls with no self-esteem desecrate themselves with filthier septic black men-tar people-and make mud babies. Certain parties sell the niggers heroin to sedate them. They should contaminate the heroin with strychnine to reduce the numbers of tar people and slow the contamination of pure Finnish blood. The whites that use it are flawed, of no use to society. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But these men who supposedly are ready to lay down their lives for the cause refuse to poison tar people because they’re afraid of prison, as if they would be common criminals rather than patriots and political prisoners. Cowardice. Pure cowardice. Yet, they come to me with their grubby hands out.”

  I neglect to point out that his own daughter was a heroin addict, and now a methadone addict, or that, although I don’t know the statistics, Muslims aren’t inclined toward the use of narcotics. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that quite a few Muslims here have taken up drinking. Maybe a significant number use narcotics as well.

  “Have you considered that the murder of Lisbet Soderlund may have been just the sort of demonstration you sought?” I say.

  “I have considered it, and would reward it, if I knew who did it.”

  I sip cognac I don’t want and force a sound of satisfaction. “Excellent.”

  “Indeed.” He tosses his off, gets up, pours a triple, sits down again.

  “I understand that you and your son Antti had a falling-out before his kidnapping.”

  He smirks. “We had many falling-outs. He always came groveling back, and I rewarded his cringing monetarily.”

  “What if this time he didn’t come groveling back? What if this time he teamed up with the extremists who felt betrayed by you-I understand they were all well acquainted-and together, they faked the kidnapping? It does appear, after all, that Jussi Kosonen was a patsy. Upon examining the man, it even seems ridiculous that he could have pulled off such a crime.”

  “Then why,” Saukko asks, and pours another couple hundred euros down his throat in a gulp, “was Kaarina murdered? Antti wouldn’t have shot her.”

  “But Kosonen was shot. Maybe Antti fucked his buddies, killed Kosonen, and disappeared with the money. They might have shot Kaarina as payback.”

  “Antti,” Saukko says, “is a fucking pussy. He hasn’t got the balls to shoot anyone.”

  I smoke, try not to choke on the cigar and damage my manly image that he seems to value so highly. I hate cigars. “On the contrary, I’m told he’s crazy for water sports-surfing, yachting-and also extreme sports like skydiving and bungee jumping. The impression is that he has plenty of balls and is reckless.”

  “A facade, and far different from physical confrontation.”

  “True. However, people will surprise you. I understand that the three paintings stolen from you were as yet uninsured. That would be difficult information to ascertain and to cull out from your vast holdings.”

  He takes this in. “Somewhat difficult.”

  “Who, may I ask, saw to the installation of the security system, which I understand is relatively new?”

  He’s coming around and takes time to think before answering. “Antti.”

  “How much of this information have you shared with the detective now in charge of your case, Saska Lindgren?”

  He scoffs. “As little as fucking possible. That goddamned Gypsy comes here to the house and he steals, and I have to have the place sterilized after he leaves. That’s why Adrien is here. To sort this out, get my money back and kill my daughter’s killer.”

  I never really believed all that crazy shit they said about Howard Hughes before now. His soul mate is sitting in front of me.

  “Sir, would you have any objection to me exploring the possibility that Antti was involved in a bogus kidnapping, set up and killed Kosonen, and escaped with your ten million euros?”

  “No. You may explore it.”

  “I’ll have to call Saska Lindgren and ask for his go-ahead.”

  “I’ll make the fucking call.” He disappears to another room. He comes back and hands me his cell phone. The prime minister is on the line. “I know you can’t talk in front of Saukko,” he says. “Yes, you can take the case, at least for now, and I’ll square it with Detective Sergeant Lindgren. And I’ll see that he gets credit if you solve it. He’s got a year invested in it after all. It’s only fair, because Saukko impeded his investigation.”

  “OK,” I say. The PM rings off.

  I sit down again. “You have your own dry dock here, correct?”

  “Yes, I have a number of craft of different sizes and varieties, including my smallest yacht. I also collect vehicles and have a large garage for them. And I employ a full-time skipper, crew and mechanics to maintain them all.”

  “Would you notice if a small craft was missing?”

  “Not necessarily. As the whole family has access to the vehicles and watercraft, only the skipper would know by checking the manifest. The kids sign them out when they take them.”

  I finish the cognac, stub out the cigar. “Kosonen was killed on the riverbank. Antti would have needed a small craft to get away. Could we go now and check the manifest to see if a suitable craft has been missing since the kidnapping?”

  “Sure.”

  The three of us ride across the estate in a golf cart and pull up at the dry dock. We go inside. It’s massive for a personal dock, has about fifteen vessels in it. Most are small, but one is a thirty-one-foot yacht. But, I reflect, he is the richest man in Finland. I suppose this is to be expected. The skipper, who must have the easiest job in the world when Saukko isn’t about, compares the vessels to the paperwork. Two vessels are missing and haven’t been recorded as taken out for over a year. One is a normal boat meant for fishing, but with powerful twin engines. The other is an underwater Jet Ski.

  I ask him to check the specs on the Jet Ski, its possible speed and range. It can travel seven and a half miles an hour underwater, faster on the surface, and the battery holds a charge that lasts about an hour.

  This is perfect for following the Aurajoki undetected out to sea. But he had to pull not only himself but two heavy bags of money.

  The skipper says they own three batteries. All are gone. So, Antti had the ability to bear a load and an extended range.

  Saukko fires the skipper on the spot. The skipper stammers, shocked, “I’ve… I’ve worked for you for eighteen years.”

  “You have ten minutes to gather your things, and then security will escort you off the property.”

  I
meet some of the nicest people in my profession. I ignore all this and say to Saukko, “Let’s picture this scenario. Kosonen was to meet Antti, who had come to pick him up in the boat that Kosonen purchased a few days earlier. But Antti kills Kosonen, ditches the boat, and leaves with the Jet Ski. Where would he go?”

  I copy the makes and serial numbers of the Jet Ski and missing boat down in my notepad. Like Sweetness, the alcohol seems to leave Saukko unaffected. Practice makes perfect. “To Aland,” he says.

  I suspect the same. Aland, an archipelago in the Baltic, between Finland and Sweden, comprises over six thousand five hundred islands and skerries, sixty-five of which are populated. Many of them are little more than flyspecks that stand only a few inches over the waterline. In the summer, Aland is bustling, infested with boats and tourists. However, most congregate on Fasta Aland, the main island, and the islands in the surrounding area.

  Some of the islands are flat as planks. The most popular ones have well-kept bicycle paths, and the area is a favorite of cycling enthusiasts. The residents own far more bikes than motorized vehicles for this reason. In some places, they’re rendered almost unnecessary. Many of the islands have old cottages, most just shacks, the most basic of structures-that were once used by commercial fishermen. Now they serve as crash pads for whoever wants to spend the night.

  “Can you think of anywhere in particular he might be drawn to as a place to hide? Do you own a private island Antti could be hiding on?”

  Saukko laughs. “You know, I almost forgot about it. I own so much shit. I have a private island called Saukkosaari-Saukko Island-and it has an excellent summer cottage on it. In fact, it’s a bit sumptuous to be called a cottage. I bought the island and it had an old, run-down house on it, which I had refurbished. This was fifteen or twenty years ago. I went there a couple times and got bored with it. Just never went back. And none of the rest of the family uses it, either. I hired a gamekeeper who lived in a cottage there. I have no idea if he’s still there or not. For all I know, he might have dropped dead and is still on the payroll. With three batteries, Antti could have made it there.”

  This heartens me. However, there’s also the other missing boat. He could have used it to flee considerably farther away.

  Saukko says, “I also owned over a hundred islands up north in the archipelago. I created a foundation out of them but kept the hunting and fishing rights. Not even tourists go up there much. And it’s a barren area. No amenities. Nothing. I doubt he’s there. If he is, he’ll be damned hard to find. But I still don’t put much stock in this Antti-is-a-murderer-theory shit.”

  I seriously doubt he’s there, either. But still. “Doesn’t cost anything to look.”

  “True,” he says. “What the fuck. Take my yacht.”

  “Thanks, but we can take a police boat.”

  “Do police boats have fully stocked bars and come loaded with fishing gear?”

  I admit that they don’t.

  “Then I insist you take the yacht.” Then it dawns on him. “Fuck. I just fired the skipper.”

  This boat is motorized. No sails. Doesn’t take the same level of professional skill. “First, I want to check out Saukkosaari. My partner Milo knows how to sail, he can pilot. I’ll call him now.”

  Moreau says he can also handle a yacht. Moreau. Master of All. It’s starting to get on my nerves. I call Milo and Sweetness and tell them to be here in an hour.

  36

  Milo’s father is dead but apparently was something of a character-Milo’s mother once stabbed him for philandering-but Milo seldom mentions him. However, he taught Milo to sail. He fires up the engines, gives instructions, and we’re out on the open sea in just a few minutes. Milo can be an aggravating fuck, but his confidence with all things technical can be reassuring at times, and this is one.

  He’s dog sick from pontikka overdose, pukes over the rail a few times. Sweetness is no better, even by his standards he got shitfaced and looks like death. In addition to being sick from drinking, they’re covered with cuts and bruises from fighting. Milo has a butterfly Band-Aid holding his eyebrow together. Both of them have black eyes. Milo limps. Sweetness has a fat lip, split open but short of needing stitches. Neither holds a grudge, though. Instead, they laugh about it. It was just what they needed. Men are like that sometimes. Sweetness finds the bar and hair of the dog.

  After a couple hours, we find the island, tie the boat off at the dock next to an older, smaller and somewhat dilapidated vessel. We walk up a winding path to the so-called summer cottage. I would guess it’s about a hundred years old, and as Saukko said, “cottage” is a misnomer. It’s bigger than a house, too small to qualify as a mansion.

  We find no one here, but someone was here, a while ago. The garbage wasn’t taken out. Dirty dishes left in the sink. And Saukko was right about the gamekeeper. His cottage is empty. His belongings are in the house proper. I guess at a certain point, maybe after some years went by, he realized that the place was forgotten, that he was employed but forgotten too, and moved into a lovely remodeled home in an idyllic setting. We take a walk around the grounds, both forest and meadows are behind the home, the ocean view in front of it.

  The gamekeeper must have lived in peace and comfort, until one day a bad man or men came and ruined it all. We find four shallow graves behind the house. A little scooping and kicking away dirt with our hands and feet reveal four bodies in late decomp, consistent with about a year since death. A grown man and three children. The gamekeeper and Kosonen’s three kids. So they were kept here as blackmail to force their father to carry out the kidnapping. There’s still no solid proof that Antti was behind it, but I’d give good odds on it.

  A hypothesis forms of its own accord, just hits me all at once. Killing three children wouldn’t come easy to an inexperienced killer. I think he had an accomplice or accomplices. In this investigation, I’ve come across three men I believe capable of the crimes that have occurred. One of them is here with us now. The other two sell heroin and pate.

  My guess: The gamekeeper was murdered straightaway. Antti hid out here on this island while he was supposedly kidnapped. His job was to kill Kosonen, come back here with the money, wait for his accomplice or accomplices, divide up their ten million euros, and then they would go their separate ways and he would disappear, begin life anew under a different identity.

  But he didn’t wait. He had another boat he had stolen from his father, an Ocean Master 310 Sport Cabin, according to the manifest. He abandoned the children to his partner or partners in crime to deal with them and left. Realizing they had gotten fucked, they killed the kids-they were witnesses, after all-and set about finding Antti and their money. They’re still looking, most likely why Moreau is here, because they enlisted him, offering him Antti’s share. They killed Kaarina to punish Antti and, if my guess is right, are now just making foie gras and waiting for this to all play itself out.

  Lisbet Soderlund. How does she fit into this and why was she murdered?

  Her death wasn’t what Saukko asked for, but was the kind of symbol he sought in order to relinquish his million euros. He and Jesper talked about selling heroin to sedate the black masses. I’m in charge of cleaning up drugs in Helsinki. I proved myself more than capable. Moreau told me the lesson learned is that narcotics are needed but must be controlled. The interior minister told me that he believes men adroit at one task are nearly always adroit at others and gave me an additional task, the skank sheet, hinting at additional responsibilities. He and others believe I’ll find the money. It will disappear. Saukko will never get it back.

  I think they all know the pate peddlers murdered her, and that Antti has the ten million euros. Plus the other promised million in exchange for “a display of dedication to racist policies” makes eleven. This money is to be pooled and divided among various interests. Am I reading too much into this, or are the Legionnaires to have the heroin importation concession, the neo-Nazis the wholesale concession, our immigrant population to be the tar
get consumer market, this money also to be shared? As I’ve learned, the amounts involved in dope are huge, and even small pieces of the pie could make many men rich. And I’m to be Finland’s drug czar, discouraging other narcotics entrepreneurs around the country, as I have in Helsinki? I’m to be a cop in name, but Finland’s narcotics power broker in truth, much as the former Legionnaires are foie gras dabblers in name but heroin kingpins in reality.

  It’s so insidious that it’s difficult to conceive, but I believe it entirely possible.

  Saukko won’t like it, but the discovery of the children’s bodies rightly goes to Saska. I call him, suggest he come here in a police helicopter, chopper them home and concoct a tale to explain the breakthrough in the case.

  The question remains: Where is Antti? I think he’s hiding somewhere, just waiting to be forgotten. We leave so we can be out of the way when Saska makes his fake break in the case, and go back to Saukko’s mansion.

  Saukko is so thrilled that the hunt is on again after a year that he doesn’t even gripe about Saska’s involvement. Saukko insists I hunt to the north. I give in and ask him for a map of his foundation properties. After some searching, he produces one.

  I also call the interior minister and explain the situation. I ask him if he can make arrangements to use the radio-controlled pilotless planes as during the original search for Antti, to avoid his suspicion should he be in northern Aland. I tell him the type of craft we’re looking for.

  Some of the islands have rock shelves or caves on their coasts. Small craft could be hidden there, invisible from above. I suggest the Border Guard send vessels to circle all the islands and ensure Antti hasn’t hidden his boat in such a place.

  “No, Inspector,” the interior minister says, “these are not good ideas. They limit our options. The Border Guard would have to arrest Antti. If you were to take him into custody, our options would remain open.”