Behind God's Back (18 page)

“About thirteen litres per hundred kilometres in the city; you can get down to about eight or nine on the highway. You have to be prepared to pay for your hobbies. Simolin has his redskins; I've got anything that rumbles and roars.”

Oksanen was divorced and had a teenage son who was having discipline problems. Oksanen's interpretation was that the kid had been spoilt by his mother. The boy had already had a couple of run-ins with the police: once for theft, once for possession of a narcotic substance. “How's your son?” I asked.

“I sat him down for a serious talk, and I'm hoping he's finally learnt his lesson. Just to be sure, I made a deal with the warden at the juvenile prison out in Kerava that I can bring him in for a scared-straight visit whenever I want. He's a smart kid, but sometimes I think he's solid bone above the shoulders. Nothing sinks in.”

*

Jari Wallius was standing in the road in front of his house when we arrived. He had heard us coming for blocks and was waiting to find out what kind of roadster was headed his way.

“Put on your tough-guy face,” I told Oksanen as we stepped out of the car. In all likelihood, it would be our last chance to squeeze the kid for anything he hadn't told us yet.

“How many HPs does this have?” Jari asked, peering into the car.

“350.”

“Wow… Dad's Volvo doesn't even have 200.”

I handed the boy a copy of the print from the surveillance camera.

“This is the guy we saw,” Jari said as soon as he saw the photo. “Is he the one who killed Mr Jacobson?”

I didn't answer. There were some things little boys didn't need to know.

“Have you remembered anything else? Anything you forgot to tell us last time we saw you?”

“No…”

Oksanen put on an intimidating expression, and bent down.

“You sure about that? You seem like a bright kid who notices all kinds of things other people don't.”

“About the murderer?”

“About anything that might have to do with this murder mystery.”

The boy thought for a minute and then tentatively said: “Could the other man have something to do with it?”

“What other man?”

“The one who came from the Jacobsons' back yard. He looked kind of suspicious and emign… enigmatic.”

“When did that happen?” I asked.

“A little before we saw the guy with the car. When I took the shortcut to Sami's house, he was just sneaking out of the Jacobsons' back yard. Sami was still eating, so I had to wait for
him for a second. After that we went straight to the Seppäläs' yard to eat plums.”

“So about twenty minutes before you saw the guy with the car?” I suggested.

“Yeah, about.”

“Go tell your Mom that you're going over to the Jacobsons' with us.”

“My Mom's not home.”

The boy climbed into the back seat of Oksanen's car, his face beaming. A moment later we were at the Jacobsons' neighbours'. I asked the boy to wait in the car. The old man wasn't as certain, but said it was possible that the photo was of the impostor he had seen.

“Did you see anyone besides the policeman?” I asked the couple.

“I would have told you if we had,” the man said.

We went back out and let the boy guide us to the spot where he had seen the other man.

“That's where he came from,” Jari said, pointing at a spot where the hedge was thin. “And he went that way.” Now he was pointing in the direction of the canal.

“And where were you when you saw him?”

“Over there.”

It was about a hundred feet to where the boy was indicating.

“And you didn't see what he looked like?”

“He hurried by really fast, and he didn't look at me… Oh yeah, he had a hood on.”

“What kind of clothes was he wearing?” Oksanen asked.

“Black – black sweatshirt and running shoes. He looked like he was out running.”

I thanked the kid. It was time to pay a visit to Ethel and Lea.

“Can I get a ride with you guys?” the boy begged.

“If you wait in the car for a second,” Oksanen promised. We walked around the yard and rang the doorbell. Lea opened the door.

I introduced Oksanen, and we stepped in. Ethel called down: “Who is it?”

“Ari… Ari Kafka.”

Ethel hurried downstairs, and noticed Oksanen.

“Detective Oksanen.”

“Did you catch him yet?” she asked, ignoring the introduction.

“Unfortunately not, but we've made progress. I'd like to ask you something. Is there a spare key to the house hidden outside somewhere?”

“Yes… or at least there used to be,” Lea said.

“It's still there,” Ethel said.

“Where is it?”

“In the back.”

I asked them to show me.

The back door opened directly onto a patio furnished with a weathered porch swing and a set of silvery teak patio furniture. Lea took the key from a small terracotta pot under the stairs.

“I thought the murderer came in through the front door,” Lea said.

“Probably.”

We went back inside.

“Could you please take a look at this photograph?”

Ethel snatched the picture out of my hands and stared at it.

“Is he the one who killed Samuel?”

“Almost certainly.”

It's rare to see such a primitive reaction. Ethel lifted the photo up to her face and spat on it.

“May he burn in hell.”

That was a lot, coming from a Jew.

I took the picture and showed it to Lea. I saw her face grow rigid. Her eyes were nailed to the image.

“Have you seen him before?”

It took Lea a long time to respond. “Yes.”

*

“Pull over somewhere,” I said, once Oksanen was approaching Roihuvuori. “Let's think for a minute about what we've got.”

Jari Wallius' revelation had shattered the picture that had been growing more and more complete: that the man whose face we had got from the surveillance camera and whose name we had got from Lea was the murderer.

Oksanen pulled into a parking spot next to the library. “Are you talking about how this second guy changes things?” he asked.

“That's exactly what I'm talking about.”

“It might be something totally simple. There were two killers, and they were working together. One went ahead, the other one followed behind. Why didn't we think of that in the first place?”

“They were in the house at different times,” I reminded him. “According to the boy, about twenty minutes passed between the visits.”

“Kids that age don't have any sense of that kind of stuff.”

“The boy said that after he saw the man in the hoodie, he went to his friend's a quarter of a mile away, and waited for him to finish eating and put on his clothes. From there, they went back to the house, which is another quarter of a mile. When the boys arrived, the man in the car was just leaving. It's only a minute's drive from the Jacobsons' to the other yard; it would only take a second to get the car into the garage, another couple of minutes to change clothes. Why would the killer have hung around for so long while the risk of getting caught was growing all the time?”

“Maybe he was waiting for his friend?” Oksanen suggested.

“According to the boys, the guy with the Golf was alone. The next question is, why didn't they leave together in the car?”

“That is weird,” Oksanen said.

“And was the guy in the hoodie inside the Jacobsons' home? It would have been easy for him to enter with the spare key, but based on the patterns of the bloodstains, Jacobson was shot from the front, in the doorway to his home… And all the bullets were from the same gun.”

“Where would he have found out about the key? According to the wife, only the family knew about it. Maybe the guy in the hoodie was some local prowler who happened to be on the property then,” Oksanen said.

I stared ahead thoughtfully. “It's just that a man in dark clothes and a hood sounds a little too much like the guy who shot at me at Oxbaum's boat.”

18

Agent Sillanpää from the Security Police and I were old acquaintances. At times it felt like he was having me monitored, because he usually showed up when I least needed it, making demands I needed even less. Like now. He was sitting on another chair in Huovinen's office, studying his knuckles as if he had just punched someone between the eyes and hurt his hand. And in a way, he had.

“Why can't we give the killer's photograph to the press?” I snapped.

Sillanpää dropped his still-balled fists to his lap. “Because doing so would endanger Operation Haemorrhoid.”

I saw an expression cross Sillanpää's face that, if one were being charitable, could be interpreted as a smile.

“Don't let the name fool you. It's a major case, big-time. Its real name is Operation Jaffa, but the boys call it Haemorrhoid because we're watching a place around the clock and it's hard on the glutes.”

“Is the target the same guy we're looking for in conjunction with the Jacobson murder?” Huovinen asked.

“He happens to be, unfortunately.”

“What could be more serious than murder?”

“Two murders, or three, or even more. Taking him in now may have grave consequences.”

“If we take him in, he can't murder anyone else,” I said.

“Then he'll be replaced by someone else; someone whose name and identity we don't know.”

“Who is the intended target of the guy we're looking for?”

“We don't know. That's the whole reason Operation Jaffa was set up.”

“What exactly is it that you know, and why are you so sure he's intending to kill?”

“Tricks of the trade.”

I considered what Sillanpää had said, and decided to pose a nasty question: “If you're been watching him for so long, how the hell was he able to kill Jacobson, and apparently Oxbaum, without you noticing? Is that a trick of the trade, too?”

“No, that was a lapse. But take into consideration the fact that the location is a difficult one to stake out with the resources at our disposal, and he's a professional. He's top of the line, Mossad-trained. It's hard to stay on his tail and…”

Sillanpää broke off and glanced at each of us in turn. “Everything I'm telling you stays in this room. Here's my offer. Kafka comes and works for us until this show's over. After that, you can do whatever you want with the guy.”

“The guy named Leo Meir, formerly Vesa Nurmio.”

Sillanpää looked at me, slightly surprised, but then he chuckled. “Looks like you've done your homework. I call him Nurmio; the Israelis can call him whatever they want. It's all the same.”

“Then you'd better tell us the whole story,” Huovinen said.

Sillanpää pulled a piece of paper out of his inner pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to me. “Sign here first.”

“Do I get to read before I sign?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The paper stated that I agreed to upholding confidentiality as outlined in such-and-such law, and if I violated the terms of the agreement, I could be convicted to a prison term of such-and-such length…

I signed.

“You could have consulted me before you did that,” Huovinen said sullenly.

“This is the fastest way to move the investigation forward,” I assured him, even though I didn't believe it myself.

“I don't think this is going to go on much longer. We've already been staking Nurmio out for over a month. He's too expensive a target to let dangle forever.”

Huovinen cut to the chase. “You promised to tell us who Nurmio is.”

“Kafka already knows.”

“But I don't.”

“Leo Meir, former name Vesa Nurmio, is a former Finnish citizen who has had previous dealings with the police, as the newspapers put it. In other words, we can call him a criminal without having to worry we'll be sued for slander. Nurmio checked out of Finland over fifteen years ago, around the same time the police were hunting for him on suspicion of felony battery and even more felonious narcotics violations. We didn't pick up his trail until a few years later, when he was living in Tel Aviv. And the next time he popped up, another few years down the road, he was already an Israeli citizen named Leo Meir.”

“Why do you suspect this Nurmio of being here to assassinate someone?” Huovinen asked.

“Let me give you a little more background on Nurmio first, if you don't mind. The way Nurmio became Meir initially aroused quite a bit of speculation among us at the Security Police. We were sure that it all led back to Nurmio's past in the UN. In the '70s, he had served almost three years in the Golan as a young sergeant. During his final year there, he had been the commander's driver. According to Nurmio's UN buddies, he had spent a lot of time fraternizing with the Israelis. They suspected that he had cut some sort of deal with them. It was even alleged that he had taken care of some Palestinian activists for the Mossad; in other words he was a professional hitman. And apparently a pretty good one, because he was rewarded with Israeli citizenship.”