Silence

by Jan Costin Wagner

  ‘Will you come on, damn it?’ shouted Ketola from above.

  Joentaa started moving, but then he turned back to Marjatta Korvensuo and said, without thinking, ‘I’d like … when all this is cleared up, when there’s more time, I’d like to come back here, and then we can talk.’

  He didn’t know why he had said that.

  Awkwardly, he held out his hand.

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ll send someone who – I’ll make sure someone comes who you can talk to. We have people trained for that,’ he added.

  She nodded again.

  He moved away, and sensed that the picture of the woman standing in front of the blank screen was imprinting itself on his memory.

  Ketola was already in the car, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  The boy had gone back to kicking his ball against the garage door. ‘Goodbye, Mr Joentaa,’ he called as Kimmo got into the car.

  10

  Ketola sat back in a remarkably relaxed, casual attitude as he drove well above the speed limit, while Kimmo Joentaa called Sundström. Sundström reacted with surprise but also with composure, his mind going straight to the point. ‘Rather a lot of coincidences, admittedly,’ he said after thinking for a few seconds.

  ‘Well, naturally none of this is proof of anything,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘No, indeed,’ Sundström agreed. ‘But I’m prepared to take it seriously now. There’s Elina Lehtinen’s impression of him, and the man has child porn on his hard disk, and he was living in Turku in 1974 and moved away in the same year … So Ketola thinks the man’s gone to the lake where the body of Pia Lehtinen was found?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’

  ‘But we’ve searched that one. He’s more likely to be at the lake where he sank Sinikka Vehkasalo’s body … and we don’t know what lake that is yet.’

  ‘Ketola is sure he’s by the lake where Pia Lehtinen’s body was found.’

  ‘Ah. Why?’

  Joentaa glanced sideways at Ketola. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted.

  ‘Well, okay, since that’s the only lake we can connect with the case at all, we’ll drive out there,’ said Sundström.

  ‘Could you phone Helsinki and make sure someone’s with Marjatta Korvensuo? A psychologist, I mean. Someone good at dealing really well with a situation like this,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Sure. I’ll do that. What’s the address?’

  Joentaa gave it to him. ‘And of course someone must secure the computer immediately. We probably left in too much of a hurry.’

  ‘Of course. Right, then I’ll set off to pick up our murderer. Tell me the name again, please.’

  ‘Timo Korvensuo.’

  ‘Timo … Korvensuo. Right.’

  ‘I’ll call the hotel where Korvensuo has been staying. If he happens to be there I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Fine. See you later.’

  Joentaa rang the number of the hotel and found that Korvensuo had checked out that morning. No, there were no records of calls or other messages from any kind of business partner for their guest Timo Korvensuo. Joentaa thanked them, finished the call, dialled another number and passed the information on to Heinonen. Sundström and Grönholm were already on their way to the lake.

  Joentaa leaned back a little, but then sat upright again next moment and thought that all this was moving very fast. Maybe too fast.

  Perhaps Korvensuo was calling his wife at this very moment. Then he’d realize what had happened. If she would speak to him. But she wouldn’t pick up the phone, surely. It was unthinkable that she would pick up the phone if the display showed the number of her husband’s mobile. She wouldn’t be able to speak to him now, she wouldn’t be able to speak to anyone, too much had turned upside down in too short a time.

  Joentaa glanced sideways at Ketola and wondered whether he was thinking similar thoughts. It didn’t look like it. Ketola’s eyes were firmly on the road, and he was almost lying back in his seat, as if planning to drop off to sleep any moment now while doing 200 kpm.

  ‘All clear?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘Sure,’ said Ketola.

  ‘Sundström is on his way to the lake,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Do you think … are you sure? About Korvensuo?’

  ‘Perfectly sure.’

  Joentaa nodded. ‘And what, in your opinion, is he doing beside that lake?’

  Ketola glanced at him. ‘He …’ he began, then fell silent for a while before starting again. ‘Yes, good question. I’d say …’

  Joentaa waited, but Ketola’s eyes were on the road again and he seemed to have forgotten that Joentaa had asked him a question at all.

  Heinonen called and said all was going to plan in Helsinki. Their colleagues there were on their way.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa. He closed his eyes, and saw Marjatta Korvensuo at the moment when she had opened the door to them. The boy kicking the ball against the garage door.

  ‘About your question, Kimmo,’ said Ketola into the silence.

  Joentaa opened his eyes, but once again Ketola did not answer it. Instead, he began to laugh.

  First chuckling quietly.

  Then roaring with wild laughter.

  ‘I don’t know!’ he suddenly cried, began laughing again, and repeated that remark at regular intervals.

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea! I just don’t know! Please don’t ask me. Ask me another! Something easier!’ he kept shouting.

  And all the time he laughed, pausing for a moment only now and then to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes.

  11

  Matti Ylönen tasted peppermint, and yet again he felt an impulse to punch Outi hard in the face.

  Which of course he wasn’t about to do, because men don’t hit women, it simply isn’t done, although he had been getting more and more inclined to entertain powerful doubts of the good sense of this fundamental rule, particularly recently, more particularly when he and Outi were together, for example like now.

  Outi was sitting on the towel, calmly consuming the contents of the picnic basket, which he had put together with some care, and burying her face in a fashion magazine, while complaints and insults issued freely from her mouth.

  So he was a weed and useless in bed, was he? Not that Outi was in any position to judge, since she kept putting him off until later in that respect. Furthermore, he was a figure of fun, or then again a stupid arsehole, her girlfriends had probably been right to say nothing would come of their relationship, all she was saying was, it had lasted nearly six weeks now, so maybe it was past its best.

  That was how she put it, past its best after six weeks, and right at that moment Matti Ylönen felt so too, he had to agree with her wholeheartedly there, and when Outi also stuffed the last chewy sweet into her mouth without even offering it to him, he realized that the time had now come, he was about to punch her this minute; then, at that very moment, the relationship would indeed be past its best, the whole thing would be over, and to his entire satisfaction at that.

  He spat out his now tasteless chewing gum, took a step her way, felt the anger gathering in his arm, in his fist, and Outi raised her head and for the first time in a long while looked him straight in the face and said, ‘You stay away from me, you sod.’

  He took another step her way and was just deciding not to punch her but to start by slapping her face good and hard, when a sound stopped him in his tracks.

  A sound that he couldn’t identify, because he had never heard anything like it before.

  A long-drawn-out whistling. It began quietly, it grew louder, it ebbed again and then grew louder once more.

  He saw Outi’s mouth drop open. She looked up, because she seemed to suppose that the sound came from the sky, and he thought he had gone too far, some awful retribution was about to descend upon him, although he hadn’t even touched her yet.

  Now the sound was very high and very shrill, and when Outi got up and came to stand beside him, when sh
e even took his hand, he realized that the sound was the scream being uttered by the man on the opposite bank of the lake.

  The man was walking. No, he was running. He ran round his car, a silver sports model at which Matti Ylönen had earlier been gazing, fascinated, whereupon Outi had said that men who defined themselves through cars were just ridiculous, and if memory served him right, that exchange of words about the silly sports car had started the whole silly quarrel in the first place, and now the man on the opposite bank of the lake was running round his car. He slipped, he got to his feet, he ran again and let out a scream that seemed to go on for ever, and to Matti Ylönen it didn’t sound particularly human.

  He felt the firm pressure of Outi’s hand in his.

  They stood in silence as the man ran faster and faster, and the scream turned into a kind of hysterical native-American howl, and when the unknown man finally, as if guided by sudden inspiration, got into his car and roared the engine, drove away over the landing stage and catapulted himself and his car into the lake in a high arching flight, it occurred to Matti Ylönen, oddly enough, that he and Outi were going to live together.

  It was as simple as that.

  They belonged with each other.

  Whether she wanted that just now or not.

  The car sank into the churned-up water surprisingly fast, then all was calm except for the echo of the scream, and Outi leaned her head on his shoulder.

  12

  Laura was lying in the sun.

  Aku was diving.

  Pia was laughing soundlessly.

  Don’t breathe, said Marjatta.

  He didn’t want to breathe.

  13

  Aku was running. He kept turning round, because he was sure they would follow him, Laura at least would have to run after him to fetch him back, or anyway ask what he thought he was doing, but no one came. There were strange men in the house, some of them had smiled at him while he tried to find out why they were there. After a while the men began avoiding his gaze and looked as if they didn’t even notice his presence.

  Laura had been hovering on the edge of the group, smiling uncertainly. Her girlfriend had gone home. The strange men had carried his father’s computer out of the house.

  His mother had been sitting on the sofa with one of the men beside her. She hadn’t spoken, not a single word; she had just been nodding as she listened to the man, who spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, and Aku had gone out without saying goodbye.

  He was standing at the bus stop. He could see the house, the window of his room on the top floor. The bus came. He got in, and had just enough money for a ticket to the city centre. He sat in the back row and watched the suburbs flying past.

  He wondered what the men wanted the computer for. Especially because easily the best computer in the whole house was in his own room.

  He got out in the inner city, and just walked around for a while, because he had no money left, not even enough for a single scoop of ice cream. Then he sat down by the harbour and watched the ferries gliding over the water. Next week they were going to Tallinn on the ferry. He was looking forward to that.

  When he got home there was only one of the cars left outside the house. Laura opened the door. Her face looked white and stony. The man and his mother were sitting on the sofa. The man was still talking, his mother was nodding. As if only a few minutes had passed. No one asked where he had been.

  He ran up to his room, flung the door open and saw his computer standing on the table. For a few moments he was relieved. So they’d left his considerably better computer here.

  He sat down on the bed and began looking at a comic. He hummed a tune to himself.

  Now and then he looked out of the window to see if the car was still there. The car that belonged to the man who was sitting beside his mother in the living room.

  14

  Even from a distance, Joentaa could see the car sticking up above the water, Sundström and Grönholm and the divers, and members of the salvage team. A boy and a girl were hanging around on the outskirts of the group, talking to Tuomas Heinonen. Niemi and his colleagues were scattered over the entire area, in white overalls. The body was in the driving seat of the car, slumped over the steering wheel. The car was just being pulled out with heavy lifting gear.

  Ketola parked carefully beside the police cars and looked at the scene without saying a word. His eyes were reddened; he had been laughing until just before they arrived. Laughing and laughing and laughing, until the moment when he braked sharply and turned into the woodland path leading to the lake.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said after a while, and fell silent again, as if all had now been said.

  Joentaa got out and went over to Sundström and Grönholm. His glance kept going to the crumpled body on the driver’s seat. He thought of the boy kicking his football against the garage door. Again and again. Again and again. He thought of Sanna. He saw nothing, only the wreck of a sports car. He thought of Sanna’s name.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Sundström too when Joentaa was beside him.

  Joentaa nodded.

  ‘The car is registered in the name of Timo Korvensuo. Astonishing. I’ll admit I’m prepared to congratulate Ketola. When I get a chance. All we need now is the girl’s body,’ said Sundström.

  ‘What exactly happened?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘The man screeched like a lunatic, got into his car and drove straight into the water, just like that.’

  Joentaa looked at him, intrigued.

  ‘I didn’t see it myself. That couple over there did.’

  Joentaa followed Sundström’s eyes and saw the two teenagers standing with Heinonen.

  ‘Of course they’re pretty upset, but they’ll get over it,’ said Sundström.

  Behind them, two more vehicles came to a noisy halt. One was a TV outside broadcasts van.

  Nurmela, the chief of police, got out of the other. He walked over to them at a rapid but well-controlled pace, waving before he reached them. ‘A television team from YLE. For the news. I’ll give them a short statement and then they’ll be off again. So they told me.’

  Sundström nodded.

  ‘Good work,’ said Nurmela, looking in turn at Sundström, Grönholm and Joentaa, and clapping Joentaa on the back before walking away towards the TV van. Joentaa watched him go and felt, with some reluctance, that the praise pleased him. Even though he had nothing at all to do with it and there was not the slightest reason to be pleased.

  ‘I’m an arsehole,’ said Joentaa.

  Sundström and Grönholm looked at him, taken aback.

  ‘What?’ asked Sundström.

  ‘I said I’m an arsehole,’ Joentaa repeated.

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Sundström.

  ‘And I wish I knew what those bastards are doing here.’

  ‘Er …’ said Sundström.

  ‘How come Nurmela is giving an interview for the news when we know absolutely nothing? Like, for instance, why Korvensuo drove into the lake?’

  ‘Guilty conscience?’ suggested Grönholm.

  ‘Guilty conscience. After thirty-three years. And before that he just quickly does away with another girl in the same spot. Then he suddenly starts bothering about his conscience. Or what?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Sundström, unmoved.

  ‘I’m not convinced,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Kimmo, calm down, do. You’ve had a strenuous drive. Don’t upset yourself. If Nurmela is going to talk nonsense, that’s his problem. It makes no difference.’

  ‘It does make a difference. The wife of the man who was driving that car is sitting at home in Helsinki. And Nurmela is shooting off his stupid mouth with the wreck of the car as a backdrop.’

  ‘They won’t show the body. Not on prime-time television.’

  ‘That’s not the point, you idiot!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sundström.

  ‘For God’s sake!’Joentaa turned and walked away, without knowing where he intended to go. He himself w
as surprised by his fury. Presumably Ketola’s fits of laughter had got on his nerves. Why was he always the one who let these things get to him? Why was he always the one who was supposed to keep calm?

  He stood there undecidedly for a while, then went purposefully towards Kari Niemi, who was issuing instructions to his colleagues and, of course, gave him an easy smile as he approached.

  ‘Hi, Kimmo,’ he said.

  That was all, but it was enough to restore a little of Joentaa’s sense of balance.

  Niemi went on talking to his team, and Joentaa looked at the boy and the girl standing sheepishly beside Heinonen.

  Further away something attracted Joentaa’s attention, although for a moment he couldn’t see what it was. A car was beginning to move away. His own police car. Ketola was driving it off along the woodland path. Without any frantic haste, perfectly calm again now. Times when Ketola calmed down had always had something final about them. Joentaa watched the car moving away, and told himself that something had come to an end.

  Nurmela had finished giving his interview and waved to him.

  Again and again, thought Joentaa. Again and again. A ball, a red ball. And a garage door. Again and again, never stopping.

  His legs gave way. He sat on the ground, cross-legged, and watched the members of the salvage team hauling the silver sports car up on land, little by little, metre by metre.

  15

  Tapani came that evening. To wish him a happy birthday. He handed him a cake. A chocolate cake with kiwi fruit and raspberries.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Ketola and for a while he looked at the raspberries, which appeared to be arranged in numerals or letters that he couldn’t work out.

  ‘AK,’ explained Tapani after a while. ‘Antsi Ketola. The birthday boy’s name.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Ketola.

  ‘Makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ketola answered, realized that they were still standing in the doorway and asked Tapani in.

  They sat in the living room, both of them eating slices of Tapani’s cake.