Silence (20 page)

‘Help yourself, they’re excellent,’ he said, taking a chocolate biscuit. ‘I usually drink plum spirit with them, but you’re on duty, so …’ Pärssinen raised his hands, fending off the mere idea, and smiled. Heinonen nodded.

‘But do have a biscuit. Like I said, they’re really good. And please sit down.’

Pärssinen indicated the sofa.

‘Thank you,’ said Heinonen. He sat down and took one of the biscuits. The chocolate flavour was unusually strong and instantly made him feel rather sick. Plum spirit with it! Cheers, thought Heinonen. The man opposite him looked as relaxed as ever. The flat was meticulously tidy. A huge silver flat-screen TV set stood against the wall, with DVD cases carefully arranged on the shelves beside it, all of them white. There was a fresh, lemony smell, as if someone had only just been cleaning the place thoroughly.

‘Right,’ said Pärssinen.

‘We need information about a small red car for our enquiries,’ said Heinonen. ‘You owned such a small car from 1974 to 1983, is that correct?’

‘A red Ford, yes,’ said Pärssinen. ‘In fact I had it rather longer … it finally gave up the ghost in the mid eighties. And I’d bought it in 1972. But that’s …’

‘Yes?’ asked Heinonen.

Pärssinen helped himself to another biscuit and said, ‘But that’s very long ago.’ He seemed to be thinking. Heinonen waited. ‘Very long ago,’ Pärssinen repeated. ‘I have a Golf now. That’s red too. What’s it all about, then?’

‘What do you think?’ asked Heinonen.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You’ll have heard about the case of the missing girl. The bicycle in a field in Naantali?’

‘No,’ said Pärssinen.

No, thought Heinonen. Not a muscle moved in the man’s face when he said that.

‘Don’t you watch the news from time to time?’

‘No,’ said Pärssinen.

No, thought Heinonen. No. An old man. A strong, sunburnt old man with a few bats in the belfry.

‘I’m the caretaker here,’ Pärssinen explained. ‘I have been for over thirty years.’

Heinonen nodded.

‘Help yourself.’ Pärssinen pointed to the biscuit tin.

‘No, thank you,’ said Heinonen. ‘Can you tell me what you were doing last Friday? Between twelve noon and eleven in the evening, in as much detail as possible?’

‘Of course,’ said Pärssinen.

Of course, thought Heinonen, and Pärssinen took a notebook out of a drawer. ‘In the morning I mowed the grass. From ten till twelve thirty. It’s a large surface, you see. Takes a long time. I like it to look nice. Then I oiled the hinges of the swing, because old Mrs Kononen in number 89 was complaining they squealed. That old bag, oh, my goodness!’ He chuckled to himself and shook his head, presumably at the thought of old Mrs Kononen. ‘At one o’clock I went to Virpi Jokinen in number 90 to repair her TV.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘I don’t have to do that, of course, but I do it all the same. I like to do it. And in return she gave me lunch, it was black pudding with potatoes and mushroom sauce, my favourite. Yes … I noted down that I stayed at her place until three thirty. She was telling me about Mikko, that’s her grandson, and he’s just about to start studying. At least, he wants to start studying, but he’s failed his exam and now they don’t know what to do … his parents, I mean. He wants to study medicine and I said what a good thing he failed the exam, then, because who really wants to go around cutting people up and stitching them together again?’ He looked up and seemed to be waiting for Heinonen to agree. ‘Then … then I had a little nap, and in the evening …’

‘May I see?’ asked Heinonen.

‘Here you are.’ Pärssinen handed him the notebook. Carefully formed letters. Neat handwriting, rather stiff, like a primary school-child’s. Sure enough, no gaps in the record.

‘I’ve been doing that for a long time,’ said Pärssinen. ‘Years and years. I don’t mean like a diary, for God’s sake, no, just so as I know where I’ve been and what I’ve done.’

Heinonen nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He rose to his feet. ‘If I have any more questions I’ll phone. I can reach you here, I suppose?’

‘Of course,’ said Pärssinen. ‘What do you think would become of this place if I wasn’t around?’ He smiled again, his glance still rather absent. Heart trouble, thought Heinonen. Or a slight stroke. Something of the kind, he didn’t know much about these things. Surprising that the man was still able to work.

‘Well, then …’ said Pärssinen.

‘Right, thank you. Goodbye.’ Heinonen, as he went out of the door, toyed briefly with the idea of visiting Virpi Jokinen at number 90, but decided not to. For one thing he had only twenty minutes before the meeting at two.

The dark green expanse of turf lay there in the midday sun like an optical illusion.

Before he drove away, Tuomas Heinonen also opened a notebook. He put a special mark against the name of Pärssinen, one he had not put by any of the other names. Slowly and carefully, almost in the style of that strange old caretaker himself, he traced a question mark.

5

P
ärssinen sat in the dark, relishing the sweet, fruity flavour on his tongue.

The chocolate biscuits were only half as good without plum schnapps, he had explained that clearly and distinctly, but you could understand that a policeman on duty had to turn down the offer. Particularly as this one was the very correct sort. He’d seen that at first glance.

He topped up his glass and let his eyes wander over the flickering images. One of his favourite films at present. One of those he really knew by heart. Every movement, however small, every facial expression. Every change, however slight. Every barely perceptible twitch of the little bodies. Five men and two girls. He thought of the young policeman.

A policeman had come to the door of his flat only once before, in all these years. Because he had been careful. He had never lost control again, but once, that first time, he
had
lost control and Timo had gone off, simply disappeared, and a few weeks later there had been a policeman at his door.

That time, too, it had been about a missing girl. Back then, he didn’t know why any more, he had soiled himself during the interview. He had felt the soft shit trickling gently down his thighs. He had crossed his legs and told the police officer everything he wanted to know, and that time it had also been about his car, his little red Ford that had done him good service for years.

When the policeman had left that first time he had gone straight to bed, trembling all over, and next morning he had got up in the firm belief that he was done for. But the policeman had never come back, and everything went on as usual.

Then, yesterday, Timo had come back after all these years, and he had been glad to see him.

And now another police officer had come to his door and it hadn’t meant anything.

Today, when he thought of what had happened in the past, he couldn’t remember any details. Not with the best will in the world. He just felt something warm, a kind of warm wave pouring over him and burying everything that had once been.

The girls were kneeling in front of the men with their heads bowed. The scene was coming to an end. He could already feel the urgent pain between his legs and the beginnings of release. After a while he straightened up, with difficulty. He was feeling exhausted and a little dizzy.

He would have liked to go on sitting there, but he had to move the sprinkler. And then he would water the new bed beside the car park, or nothing would ever come of it.

Two fifteen.

Water flowers by car park.

He noted it down for his records before he went out.

6

E
lina Lehtinen stood there in the silence, and through her open window watched the wind blowing over the field.

She was thinking of Turre. And Maria. Maria had died in the care home. She had not recovered from her fall. Her body had become smaller and thinner within a few days, then she had died.

That was how Turre had described it the evening before. They had sat out on the terrace and Turre had been in tears, and Elina had talked, although she hadn’t known what to say.

Maria and Turre. They had never had children. They had been fond of Pia. They had always given Pia a present on her birthday, and every time Turre’s and Maria’s present had been one of those that Pia liked best.

That was very long ago, but Elina Lehtinen remembered how Pia’s eyes used to shine on her birthday. And she remembered a young, strong Turre bringing Pia her present as soon as she came home from school. And Maria standing beside Turre and insisting that Pia must unpack the present at once, because she wanted to see her delight.

Then months of helpless silence, because there was nothing left to say after Pia’s death. At most they might say the wrong thing.

Then years of quiet, careful remarks feeling their way around the gap that could never be filled.

Then, at some point, an easy and natural tone in their voices. And Maria looking at the photograph in the living room and saying how she missed Pia. She smiled as she said it, and they stood together in silence for some time in front of the photo.

Then came the years in which Maria began to drift away from reality and Turre lost all his strength. The day when Turre called, looked out at the snow-covered garden and said that Maria would soon be living in a care home, and Pia had not stopped smiling in her photograph on the wall.

The sports car had shone like silver, brighter than the sun. She had seen the man coming towards her house and had gone step by step to open the door.

She tried to feel something and thought of Maria. Of their last meeting. Maria had rung the bell and slapped Elina’s face with the flat of her hand before Elina understood what was happening. Turre took floozies to bed with him, she said. Any number of floozies. Floozies. She remembered Maria’s voice and it had not been Maria’s voice any more, nor had it been Maria’s eyes looking at her.

A few days later Turre and Maria had gone to the care home, and Elina regularly visited Maria there, but she had never come home again.

She was waiting to feel something, but she felt nothing. She only thought of Maria and that she was dead, and two names were wandering through her mind, two names of people she didn’t know. Perhaps that. A vague sense of sadness.

She had already forgotten what the man looked like. A silver sports car, brighter than the sun. And a business card. It lay smooth and cool in her hand.

She made herself go to the telephone and dial a number. The voice that answered sounded more familiar than she had expected.

‘Happy birthday,’ she said.

‘Oh … you know.’

‘You’d had a few too many and let it slip about your birthday.’

‘Ah,’ said Ketola. ‘Well, thank you.’

‘You were right,’ she said.

‘I was right?’

‘He came here.’

Ketola said nothing.

‘I know his name,’ she went on.

Still Ketola said nothing. A few seconds passed.

‘I’ll come right over to you,’ said Ketola. Now there was a strange and agitated tone in his voice.

Two names. Of people she didn’t know.

‘His children are called Aku and Laura,’ she said and hung up.

7

A
ku was dipping one hand in the water.

Laura was lying in the sun.

Pia was laughing soundlessly.

I know this place, Pärssinen had said. Had braked the car sharply, jumped out, opened the boot. He himself had stayed sitting in the car, watching Pärssinen and thinking of nothing in particular, only that it was a beautiful lake and Pärssinen was disturbing its peace.

He remembered that now. It was not so long ago. What were thirty-three years?

At that time all had been still here; he had heard just that one sound. The sound that Pärssinen made dragging the lifeless body over the sand and stones towards the water.

Timo Korvensuo got out of his car. He stretched and looked up at the sky for a while. His legs were giving way. He waited until he could stand on them, then went to the bank, crouched down and held one hand in the water.

Like Aku. He sensed what Aku was feeling. Now, at this moment, and it felt easy. Even easier than this morning.

Elina Lehtinen was a nice woman. A clever woman. He liked her. A woman with a strong will to live and a quiet pain in her eyes that he had absorbed until his whole body was permeated by it.

He straightened up and took his mobile out of his trouser pocket. He tapped in the number. Marjatta’s voice sounded close and distinct. He turned, suddenly thinking that she must be standing behind him, but there was only his car, its silver paint slowly beginning to soften under the weight of the sun.

‘How are you all doing?’ he heard himself asking.

‘Fine. How about you?’

‘I’m fine too.’

‘Of course we miss you a bit. Was that what you wanted to hear?’

Marjatta laughed. Marjatta’s clear, genuine laughter.

‘No, no,’ he said.

‘It’s true, all the same,’ said Marjatta. ‘Aku keeps asking about you.’

‘Yes …’

‘And I slept badly. It seems I somehow miss your snoring.’

She laughed again.

‘I …’

‘Where are you now? Is there any progress with this business?’

‘I’m beside the lake,’ he said.

‘The lake.’

‘Yes, beside the lake. Rather a beautiful lake.’

‘What sort of lake? I thought you were looking at the site for that development?’

‘Yes, yes … I’ll have to say goodbye now. Tell Aku and Laura …’

‘When will you be coming home?’

‘Soon. Today.’

‘Good. Pekka was asking after you as well.’

‘He’ll manage,’ he said. ‘Tell Aku and Laura that … that they’re the best kids in the world.’

‘Well, they’ll be glad to hear that. See you this evening, then. We’ll look forward to it.’

Marjatta had broken the connection.

He crouched down, switched off the mobile, put it down and dipped his hands in the water again. He let them rest on the cool, smooth stones on the bed of the lake.

At that time all had been still; today he could hear distant voices. That was the only difference. On the other side of the lake there was a couple. Teenagers, if he could judge that from this distance. When he arrived they had been tucking into the contents of a picnic basket, but now they seemed to be quarrelling. He could hear the girl’s shrill voice and the boy’s calmer but irritated tones.