The Winter of the Lions (16 page)

‘Not very,’ she said.

‘How … how was your day?’ he asked.

She did not reply for a moment, then she laughed. Laughed at him heartily until, after a while, he joined in.

KIMMO
JOENTAA WENT
to Turku early, leaving Larissa asleep. He hoped she would arrive at work too late.

He wrote her a note:
Dear Larissa, see you this evening, Kimmo
.

In Sundström’s absence, he was in charge of the morning discussion. He listened to Tuomas Heinonen, who looked as if he hadn’t had enough sleep, telling him more details of Patrik Laukkanen’s private life; he listened to an agitated Nurmela demanding results and the latest findings; he phoned Sundström every hour.

In between times he read the papers, which reported Hämäläinen’s recovery and his forthcoming return to the small screen in crude and sometimes curiously martial language, with outsize lettering.

‘Who Is Killing the Lords of Death?’ ran the
Illansanomat
headline.

‘Hämäläinen Defies Madness, Pain and Fate,’ said
Etälsuomalainen
. The words
madness
,
pain
and
fate
were printed in red.

Whatever that might mean.

At midday Kimmo Joentaa had had enough, and he drove to Raisio. Along a familiar road. A short cut, not many people knew about it.

As he drove he thought of Sanna and how she had been sitting beside him in another life, already in her bathing costume because she wanted to jump straight into the water, and ran towards it as soon as he had drawn up in the car park.

A narrow road in the sunlight, yellow lines running along it, surrounded by woods and water. From time to time a house flew past.

Number 12 was a petrol station. Two pumps for drivers who had lost their way. A snow-capped advertising placard sang the virtues of ice cream and pizza.

He got out of the car and walked into the building, wondering what he was doing here. Two young women in identical clothes stood behind the counter. They wore white aprons, pale blue T-shirts, black trousers and peaked caps with the logo of the petrol-station chain. The place was also a small café. A middle-aged woman was standing at one of the games machines. Judging by the steady clinking she had just hit the jackpot, but her expression did not change. A man with a large paunch sat back in his chair at one of the tables, putting a piece of pizza into his mouth.

‘Have you filled up?’ asked one of the young women.

‘Er, no. My name is Joentaa. I’m from the Turku police.’ He showed her his ID.

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘Did you know Raisa Lagerblom?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘She lived here,’ said Joentaa. ‘Or at least, at the time of her death this address was given for her.’

‘There are two apartments upstairs on the first floor.’

‘But her name means nothing to you?’

‘I’ve only been here two months. When did she die?’

‘2005,’ said Joentaa.

‘There’s someone called Lagerblom lives upstairs,’ said her young colleague, who was standing in the background.

‘There is?’

‘Yes. He used to lease the franchise of this place. That was some time ago, but he still lives here.’

‘Is his name Lagerblom, then?’ asked the other girl.

‘Yes, Joakim … Joakim Lagerblom, I think.’

‘The man whose eyes always pop out of his head when he sees us?’ asked her colleague.

‘That’s him,’ said the other girl.

‘How do I get to the apartments?’ asked Joentaa.

‘Out through that door, then turn left and left again behind the building.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joentaa, stepping into the open air.

‘What’s it about?’ asked one of the women behind his back. He did not answer.

The door to the entrance of the apartments was open. Joentaa went up the stairs and knocked. A white-haired, sunburnt man of around sixty opened the door.

‘Mr Lagerblom?’ asked Joentaa.

‘Yes,’ said the man.

‘My name is Joentaa. From the Turku police.’ He showed his ID again.

‘Yes …?’ said the man, sounding neither alarmed nor interested. At a loss, if anything.

‘I’m trying to find out about Raisa Lagerblom,’ said Joentaa.

‘Raisa,’ said the man.

‘Yes … she died in a glider crash.’

‘In the summer of 2005. My daughter,’ said the man.

‘May I come in?’ asked Joentaa.

The man nodded and led the way. The apartment was larger than it seemed from outside. The living-room window looked out on to the road. Further off, the wooden houses of Naantali began, a strip of sandy beach showed, and on the horizon the grey water of the sea merged almost seamlessly with the sky.

‘Beautiful,’ said Joentaa.

The man looked at him enquiringly.

‘A beautiful view of Naantali,’ said Joentaa.

The man nodded.

They were standing in the middle of the room, and Joentaa didn’t know what to say.

The man spoke first. ‘What did you want to know about Raisa? And why?’

‘It’s difficult to explain. Can you tell me, are there … apart from you … any other close relatives of your daughter?’

‘Why?’

‘In the context of a criminal investigation, we’re discussing the relatives of people who … who died in accidents such as air crashes.’

‘But why?’

‘I can’t explain that to you in detail.’

The man still did not reply, and Joentaa realised that he was conducting an impossible conversation, one that couldn’t really get anywhere.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It was only her second solo flight,’ said the man.

Joentaa nodded.

‘It was her great wish. She was … a brave girl. She got that from her mother. My wife always said the bravest thing I ever did was to sit out sunbathing in summer and winter alike, and it would make me ill some day.’

Joentaa nodded.

‘But she was the one who died. Of cancer. And Raisa died. Because she so much wanted to fly.’

Joentaa nodded. ‘I’m sorry I …’

‘We ran the fuel station here. My wife and daughter looked after the café.’

Joentaa nodded. He got to his feet, shook hands with the man and said goodbye. He was sweating as he came out into the cold.

He went back into the shop. The two young women behind the counter were leafing through a magazine and giggling. The woman at the games machine was still standing there,
while monotonous, staccato, recurrent tunes came from the machine.

‘Excuse me,’ said Joentaa. ‘Does anyone else work here with you? In particular, is there anyone who’s worked here for several years?’

‘Josefina,’ said one of the girls.

‘Yes?’

‘Josefina bakes the pizzas here. I think she’s been doing it all her life.’

The other girl went on giggling.

‘They’re delicious, too.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Back there in the kitchen. I’ll show you.’

Joentaa followed the young woman. Like the apartment above, the premises behind the shop and café were larger than he had expected. Golden-brown pizzas were baking in two ovens. Josefina, wearing kitchen gloves and with a white plastic cap on her head, was peeling tomatoes.

‘This man wants to talk to you,’ said the young woman from the cash desk. ‘He’s from the police.’

‘Kimmo Joentaa,’ he introduced himself, offering his hand.

‘Police?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I …’

‘Last time the police came here was when Raisa died. In a glider crash.’

‘I know, that’s why I …’

‘They had to investigate. They said every accident of that kind had to be investigated.’

‘That’s right. I’d like to ask you something,’ said Joentaa. Then he dried up, because he didn’t know how to put the question.

‘Yes?’ The old woman was looking at him expectantly.

‘Do you think it’s possible that there might be a member of her family who … who maybe has never been able to
come to terms with Raisa’s death? Who could be going about … feeling angry over it?’

‘Angry?’

‘It’s not easy to explain.’

‘Raisa’s mother is dead. She’d been sick with cancer for a long time, and after Raisa’s death she died too.’

Joentaa nodded.

‘Of course, Joakim has never got over it. How could you get over a thing like that?’

‘I know. Forgive me, I didn’t put it very clearly …’

‘But angry? I’ve never known Joakim seem angry. Angry with what?’

Joentaa shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

He shook hands with both women and left. A blind alley, he thought. An investigation leading nowhere.

He thought of Sanna. Sanna standing in the sunlight at the water’s edge, looking as if she were waiting for something.

He drove back towards Turku along the narrow grey road beside the water.

PAAVO
SUNDSTRÖM FOLLOWED
the editor Tuula Palonen through a labyrinth of glass corridors. She had her mobile to her ear, and she was tearing someone off a strip. When the conversation ended she hissed like a cat, making Sundström jump.

‘All okay so far?’ he enquired.

‘Apparently we can’t get Niskanen here.’

‘The cross-country skier?’ he asked.

She did not reply, and was already talking to someone else on her phone. ‘Kai wants Niskanen, dammit. It must be possible to get the man away from his sheep for a couple of hours … I don’t care about that, the important thing is to get him to agree, by this evening at the latest … Because that’s when the press release goes out to the guests, you fool, that’s why! So you want to see the studio, right?’

It took Sundström a few seconds to realise that this last remark was meant for him, not the fool at the other end of the line.

‘Yes, exactly. That would be kind.’

‘Why do you want to see it?’

Yes, why, he wondered, why indeed?

‘We’d like to position security guards at sensitive points. We need an overall view of the studio,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ said Tuula Palonen, who seemed to be giving him only half her attention.

‘That’s why it’s important for me to see the studio and the entrance area for the audience,’ said Sundström.

‘Bodyguards for Kai,’ said Tuula Palonen, seeming thoughtful.

‘Yes, until our investigations are …’

‘Do you think we could get that into the show?’

‘Er …’

‘Only in passing. Maybe a short interview with one of the police officers?’

‘No. I’m sorry, but no.’

‘Kai probably wouldn’t like it anyway,’ she said. Her mobile played a symphony, and she began talking about Niskanen again.

They entered a large, dark room, with a front wall consisting entirely of a huge glass window that had a view into a brightly lit studio. To one side stood mixing desks, just below the
ceiling there were large flat screens showing various programmes. One displayed the show now being recorded in the studio beyond the glass window.

It was fitted out like a law court. A judge in his robes, a defendant with stooped shoulders, a girl in the middle who was presumably playing the part of a witness. To right and left were the audience, all the seats full. He cautiously approached.

‘Don’t worry, they can’t see us,’ said a man whom he saw only now. He was sitting in a swivel chair, leaning back and looking alternately at what was going on in the studio and on the screens.

‘They can’t?’ asked Sundström.

‘No, it’s the same glass you use yourselves. When you’re interrogating suspects.’

Sundström nodded vaguely.

‘You are one of the police officers, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Sundström.

‘Then you’ll know all about it. We can see them in there, but they can’t see us.’

‘I understand,’ said Sundström. I understand, he thought. The imaginary judge is examining the imaginary defendant. The audience is examining them both. The man in the swivel chair is examining everyone. ‘Ah,’ he said, and Tuula Palonen shouted to her colleague on the other end of her phone and said she was going to call Kai now and tell him Niskanen had died.

‘Figuratively speaking,’ she said as she caught Sundström’s eye. She tapped a number into her mobile, waited, and took a deep breath. Hämäläinen didn’t seem to be answering his phone.

The voice of the judge raising an objection came tinnily over some loudspeakers. The girl witness spoke quietly, in a trembling voice. The audience looked spellbound, as if they were concentrating hard.

‘That’s the studio we use,’ said Tuula Palonen, bringing Sundström out of his thoughts and back to earth.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘It will be on a similar layout. Kai’s desk will be where the judge is sitting, and as seen from here the guests will be to his right. The audience will be where the audience for this show is sitting now.’

‘I see.’

‘Just in case that could be important to you in any way.’

‘Yes, thank you. Where does the audience come in?’

‘Over there. The door on the right leads straight into the entrance hall. The audience will come through the main entrance and will then be escorted through the hall and the cafeteria to the studio.’

‘I see. We’ll have to check out the audience.’

‘What?’

‘We’ll have to check them out,’ said Sundström. ‘Frisk them for weapons.’

‘That’s … er, interesting,’ said Tuula Palonen.

‘There won’t be any great fuss. How many people does the studio hold?’

‘Yes, interesting,’ repeated Tuula Palonen. ‘We’ll have to shoot a little footage of that. We can’t just leave the subject alone. Right at the beginning,’ she said.

‘That’s okay,’ said Sundström. ‘How large an audience will the studio hold?’

‘About two hundred and fifty. Many of them prominent people. Tickets go to the sponsors. And invited guests. The tickets for this retrospective are sold out at least six months in advance. Which means you really don’t have to worry.’

Sundström nodded. Good, he thought, one thing less to worry about. He would have to get the guests checked out, all the same.

‘Is Kai really in danger?’ asked Tuula Palonen.

Sundström looked at her and wondered how anyone could ask such a stupid question. ‘Not if we’re prepared for all contingencies,’ he said.