Most of the officers were presumably still out and about seeing people connected with the Vehkasalos – neighbours, friends, relations, acquaintances – interviewing them or taking statements, reading their statements back to them. As yet, so far as could be seen at present, none of these people had been able to give them any useful leads.
Sundström had delivered a final address of some length to the core group of investigators, Heinonen, Grönholm and Joentaa, with a touch of emotion about it, or perhaps of irony, or then again maybe he was perfectly serious; then he told them to go home and have a relaxing evening. Kimmo Joentaa had taken the cardboard box when he left. He had already spent most of the day reading the old files, hoping he might be able to place details of a failed investigation of thirty-three years ago in a new context.
He had told Sundström that he would like to look hard at that aspect of their enquiries to start with, although he didn’t know just why. Very likely he simply wanted to begin at the beginning. If it was the beginning. If there really was any connection between the two cases. The files comprised several thousand pages. Kimmo had leafed through the yellowing folders and kept coming upon Ketola’s handwriting: illegible notes in the margins. Now and then exclamation marks at certain points that left Kimmo none the wiser.
Meanwhile Sundström had asked about Ketola several times, because he wanted to talk to him, but Ketola had not turned up again and couldn’t be reached by telephone that day. Kimmo thought of trying his number again, but something kept him from it.
Instead, he took a folder out of the cardboard carton, sat down at the living-room table and began to read. It was the account of an interview that Ketola had conducted with the missing girl Pia Lehtinen’s parents. Yet another and even more meticulous attempt to arrange all the circumstances of her disappearance in a sequence that would make sense.
During this interview the father had broken down. It didn’t say so in the report, but it was clear from Ketola’s dry phrasing. The mother’s replies sounded monotonous and devoid of hope. The interview had taken place in the couple’s home about four months after Pia Lehtinen’s disappearance. It cast no new light on the investigation. Kimmo sat up straight. Reading between the lines, he could sense the parents’ grief.
Tomorrow he was going to speak to Elina Lehtinen, Pia’s mother. He had rung to make an appointment for the morning. The woman had given a calm, controlled, almost absent impression over the phone and said she had been expecting a call. Her phone number and address were still the same as those they had in the old files. At first Kimmo had been surprised to discover that the woman was obviously living in the same house as before; a moment later he thought of himself. He, too, was still living in the same house. Of course. Of course Elina Lehtinen had stayed there.
Her husband, on the other hand, had left, probably because he couldn’t bear to live there any longer with that memory. Kimmo Joentaa could understand that too and, indeed, he had concluded as much from the files. After a while they had given a new address for the husband.
Once again, and very slowly, Joentaa read every word of Ketola’s interview with Pia Lehtinen’s parents, an interview leading nowhere.
Then he turned the page. A piece of paper scribbled in Ketola’s indecipherable handwriting, which was hard to read, was stuck to the top of the next page. It was a kind of note about the difference between a missing person inquiry and a murder inquiry, and about the bureaucratic guidelines that Ketola was supposed to follow, on the instructions of the officer in charge of the case. Or something of the kind. Joentaa couldn’t make it out. Ketola’s handwriting was even more illegible than usual. As if his hand had been shaking while he wrote.
The note bore the date on which Pia Lehtinen, or the remains of Pia Lehtinen, had been found in a lake on the outskirts of Turku, near the place where she had disappeared.
5
Elina Lehtinen was standing in her garden, watching the men at their work. They were a few hundred metres away, and a faint twilight that would last until morning had fallen, but she could make out the men easily if she looked across the field.
They wore white overalls and white hoods that hid their faces; they were working carefully and doggedly. The men’s second working day here was nearing its close; a little while ago they had switched on searchlights again, giving them some more faint light, and the whole thing looked rather like a scene in a dream.
Elina Lehtinen felt more wide awake than she had been in a long time. She had been perfectly calm when she heard the voices the day before, and had not been surprised when the police car stopped at Pia’s cross.
She had looked out of the window to see the two policemen examining the cross and talking to each other. They had stood there for a while, cautiously walking round something, she couldn’t see what, because the trees hid her view of it. But the police officers had found something.
One of the pair had gone back to the car and phoned.
Elina Lehtinen had stood by her window, feeling a little nugget of emptiness sink very softly down into her brain; then she had realized, immediately and clearly, that something significant was going on. Something she had been expecting. Something that was bound to happen sooner or later, because she had been waiting for it.
Whatever it was.
She had left the house and, with other onlookers, stood behind a barrier at some distance and watched the men at their work.
She had stayed there until evening began to fall. The other onlookers had come and gone, some had stayed for quite a while, others not so long, she had known some and not others, and at one point she found her neighbour Turre standing beside her.
He and his wife Maria had already been living in the house next door all that time ago, on the day when Pia disappeared, and Elina Lehtinen had looked at Turre and seen the question in his eyes, but Turre did not ask her anything and Elina herself couldn’t have answered, for she didn’t know what was going on beside Pia’s cross; she had not the faintest idea what it was. She knew only that she had been waiting for it.
At some point Turre told her that his wife had fallen out of bed in her care home the night before, and would have to be in hospital for quite a while. Elina had said she was very sorry to hear that.
Then they had stood in silence for a long time looking at the bicycle lying on the path. And the police officers kneeling down carefully beside it, now and then slipping small objects into plastic envelopes.
Later Turre had left without saying anything else. He had just touched her shoulder briefly, a light touch. Elina didn’t know if that was by accident or on purpose, but she could feel the touch on her skin as she slowly returned to the house, and she still felt it now. She had only to concentrate on the place that Turre’s hand had brushed.
She glanced at Turre’s house. There were no lights in the windows. Perhaps he was already asleep, or had gone to visit Maria in hospital.
The men were now packing up their equipment, patiently and with practised movements.
Another searchlight was on. It stood close to a minibus bearing the logo of Finnish state TV Elina saw a young man with a camera trained on a woman. The woman was holding a microphone and giving the man instructions; she wasn’t satisfied; presumably she wanted him to hold the camera in some other way. Or, at least, that was Elina’s impression from a distance.
A second man got out of the minibus, and she could even hear what he called to the woman, because all was perfectly still otherwise. A quiet, still evening.
‘We’re on in twenty seconds!’ called the man. The woman with the microphone nodded.
Elina nodded as well, and went indoors to watch the news.
6
Timo Korvensuo lay in bed beside Marjatta, concentrating on her quiet, peaceful breathing.
The children were sleeping in the tent.
The four of them had played a board game that evening. Aku had won, not least because Timo Korvensuo let him win, for he himself had had unusual luck throwing the dice
all evening, and he kept having to make strategic mistakes to compensate for that luck.
Aku was the only one who hadn’t grasped what his father was doing. Marjatta had smiled to herself. Laura had wrinkled her nose, and at the end of the game Aku couldn’t contain his delight.
Then Laura had pointed out that Papa had been taking sides anyway, because dear little Aku couldn’t lose, and they didn’t want him throwing the pieces all over the place and wrecking the board again. But in his moment of triumph Aku had just laughed at that.
It had been a pleasant evening. All through it, second by second, Timo Korvensuo kept thinking what an improbably pleasant evening this was. Otherwise there had been nothing in his mind, just a droning in his head and a flickering in front of his eyes.
First thing after breakfast tomorrow, after a quick goodbye, he would drive to Turku.
10 JUNE
1
Early in the morning Kimmo Joentaa drove to Lenganiemi. As the ferry made the crossing he stood in the cool breeze with his eyes closed, thinking of Sanna. Without forming any clear picture of her; he just thought of her name.
The ferryman was looking at Joentaa with a sullen or bored expression when he opened his eyes again. The man turned away as their glances met.
The graveyard lay in the morning sunlight. Joentaa was the only visitor. When he came here he sometimes met the pastor, who usually said a friendly hello before disappearing into the red wooden church, but now and then he came over to join him and they stood together by Sanna’s grave, exchanging a few words.
Today Joentaa was alone. He watered the grave, looked at the gravestone for a while, the name on it and the figures framing Sanna’s life, the wide blue expanse of the sea. Then he knelt down and began talking quietly.
Once, in the first months after Sanna’s death, the pastor had taken him by surprise, suddenly appearing there behind him. Joentaa had risen abruptly to his feet and coughed, hoping the pastor would think he had just been coughing all the time, rather than talking to himself. The pastor had smiled, a gentle, knowing smile – presumptuous, Joentaa had thought at that moment, and ever since he had made sure there was no one near before he began his conversations. Conversations with Sanna. Or perhaps with himself after all, or with the sun, the rain or the snow It made no difference.
He touched the earth on the grave and talked about all kinds of things, anything that came into his mind. He talked for quite a long time. What he said became more and more meaningless and indiscriminate, more and more rambling and liberating, and sometimes he laughed, knowing that Sanna too would have laughed at what he had just been saying, and in the end he even forgot to wonder if there was anyone close enough to hear him.
He talked until he was drained and exhausted.
Then he returned to his car and drove home on the mainland.
2
Timo Korvensuo stopped for a rest halfway to Turku. He sat in the service area drinking coffee. He developed a kind of rhythm between the moment when he put the plastic beaker down and the moment of his next sip, and it soothed him slightly.
He had finally slept after all last night, but it had not been a refreshing sleep. His sleep had been full of dreams, although now he couldn’t remember what they were about.
After his first cup of coffee he got himself a second, and began thinking what to do next.
All through his journey he had entertained the idea of turning back immediately. At one point he had actually done it, driving some twenty kilometres back towards his weekend house. He had thought what to say to Marjatta and the children. The client from Turku had called and cancelled their meeting. Just like that. Put it off. Until further notice. Very likely Marjatta and the children wouldn’t even ask, they’d just be glad to see him home so soon.
Then he had turned the car and started back along the road to Turku, his foot hard down on the accelerator, closing his eyes nowand then and letting his mind wander. For a while he had counted out loud every kilometre he had driven.
Now he was sitting at a table for two in a service station, watching the cars racing by. His thoughts were circling around the fact that he still had a choice: go on to Turku; turn back home.
Or simply stay sitting on this chair, not moving. For an indefinite time. He would carry the cardboard beaker to his mouth at regular intervals, and watch the cars driving back and forth.
Korvensuo smiled a little at his own idea, and a young woman who met his glance at that moment narrowed her eyes, shook her head and turned her back to him.
A little later Korvensuo continued his drive. The sun was dazzling; a hot day lay ahead.
He imagined Laura and Aku diving head first into the clear water, and drove on to Turku at a moderate, regular speed.
3
The girl in the photograph was laughing. A peal of laughter, thought Joentaa, those were the words that had occurred to him when he saw the picture of the girl. Pia Lehtinen.
Joentaa stood in front of the photograph and felt a tingling sensation at the idea that it had been hanging here for decades. Just as Sanna’s photos would still be in the same place, decades from now.
‘That’s Pia,’ said Elina Lehtinen, who had come to his side. She was carrying a tray with cups, plates and a blueberry cake still steaming from the oven.
‘I know,’ said Joentaa.
‘Of course. You have a photograph in your files,’ said Elina Lehtinen.
Joentaa nodded.
‘It’s incredibly long ago,’ she went on, without taking her eyes off the photograph. ‘I was thinking about that yesterday, and I was surprised to realize that today Pia would be a woman of forty-six. Hard to imagine.’ She looked at him and smiled.
Joentaa nodded again. ‘I …’ he began.
‘Yes?’
‘Excuse me, I’m sure this is a strange question, but … but do you know what Pia was laughing at so much?’
Elina Lehtinen looked at the picture again and thought for a moment. The photo had been taken in winter; there was snow in the background, but otherwise it showed only Pia’s face in close-up.
‘No,’ said Elina Lehtinen at last. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I think my husband took it – my former husband – on a skiing holiday. Maybe he wanted to take her by surprise, and she laughed when she saw that, and then he took the photo.’
‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.
‘No one else has ever asked that in all these years,’ she said.
‘Hm.’ Joentaa had another question on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t know how to put it.
‘Most people just pass her photo as if they didn’t know it was there,’ she said. ‘Even today. Of course some people don’t know who Pia is, but not many. Those are the ones I haven’t known long. I don’t tell everyone about it straight away, but somehow the conversation always gets around to her.’
Joentaa nodded, and once again felt the impulse to ask his question, but he refrained. He turned away and followed Elina Lehtinen out on to the terrace.
‘Home-baked.’ She put a slice of cake on his plate.
‘Thank you,’ said Joentaa.
She sat down and looked at Joentaa enquiringly.
‘Well …’ said Joentaa.
He was silent for a while and Elina Lehtinen said, ‘You’re an odd sort of policeman.’ For a moment she looked very like her daughter.
‘Am I?’ Joentaa asked.
‘Yes, definitely,’ said Elina Lehtinen.
‘I … I’d like to ask you something, something not at all important. My wife … she died two years ago, of cancer, and I’m still living in the house we shared. And her photos, well, there are photographs of her there, and what I want to ask is this … not that I know how … I have no idea what I really wanted to ask …’
He felt the sweat standing out on his forehead and saw Elina Lehtinen calmly returning his gaze. A slender woman with a strikingly round face and laughter lines in the places where her daughter too would have had them.
‘So
rry … I really don’t know what I … probably just living up to my reputation.’
‘Reputation?’
‘For being an odd sort of policeman,’ said Kimmo Joentaa.
Elina Lehtinen gave a little laugh. A laugh that Joentaa couldn’t interpret.
‘I …’
‘How are the parents managing?’ asked Elina Lehtinen.
‘The parents?’
‘The parents of the missing girl. On TV they just call her Sinikka. It was the same back then, they just called her Pia. But there was much less news about it then. Or else I simply wasn’t following it, I don’t remember any more. I do recall a colleague of yours very well, another young police officer, very – very committed. He was an odd sort of policeman too.’
‘I know the man you mean. We worked together for several years,’ said Joentaa.
‘Not any more?’
‘No, he’s retired, since early this year.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s only in my mind that he’s still a young man. Do try the cake.’
Joentaa raised his fork to his mouth.
‘Once I really did have a great fit of laughter,’ continued Elina Lehtinen and she was laughing again now as she saw Joentaa’s face. ‘An extraordinary fit of laughter, it’s my most vivid memory. On the day my husband left me. He said he was going now, and I started laughing and couldn’t stop until that evening, and next day I rang my neighbours’ doorbell and they took me to a hospital, and I spent a long time having treatment there. Is the cake all right?’
‘It’s very good,’ said Joentaa.
‘My most vivid memory,’ she repeated. ‘Everything else is almost just a … well, a feeling of everything being over. It’s sometimes close, sometimes further away. You talk to people, that sometimes helped me. And now it’s ages ago, but it’s beginning all over again.’
‘You mean the missing girl, Sinikka?’
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