“Okay,” Suhonen said, hardening again. “How far do you want this to go?”
“Just rough him up a little…that should be enough. He’s weak.”
Markkanen was sure Lindström wouldn’t open the safe without a fight. Might even die first.
His plan was beginning to look better and better. Suikkanen would take care of Lindström, and the Skulls would off Suikkanen. And even if Lindström didn’t die, he’d certainly end up in the hospital for a stretch. Suikkanen had what it takes. Shit, he even beat up a cop. In any case, the old power struggles would cease, and Markkanen would be firmly second in command, maybe even in Lindström’s shoes. That gave him another idea: might it be better if he arrived just in time to save Lindström’s life?
Eriksson had wormed his way into his job with deceit and lies. Now he would do the same. His hand was just a little heavier.
“When?” Suhonen asked.
“Today. It’s urgent. He’ll be at home from three o’clock onward. Be there at four.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and began to sketch a floor plan of the apartment.
Suhonen was at a loss. It was obvious Markkanen was after Lindström’s money. But what would be the best course of action? Suhonen didn’t have enough evidence yet to arrest him for incitement. He would actually need to carry out the attack.
* * *
The enormous Skull escorted Salmela to Larsson’s cell door, then stood guard outside. Larsson had been resting on the bottom bunk, but now he sat up. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, and his tattooed biceps bulged in full view.
Various pin-up girls decorated the walls. Salmela recognized the blonde: she had appeared in a few low-budget domestic porn flicks. He remembered hearing that Larsson had dated this Sara at one point. In any case, he was glad he’d remembered it. It’d be a bad idea to crack jokes about the guy’s girlfriend.
“So what’d Markkanen want?”
“He said he wants to use Korpela again. Apparently everything’s under control, no worries.”
The gangster sneered. “Yeah, right. The dick fucks it up, then refuses to pay for it.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“What did he offer?”
“Same as before, but I thought…”
“You thought?” Larsson snapped. “You ain’t supposed to think, just deliver the damn message.”
Salmela continued, unruffled. “I thought the old rate was low, so I got thirty percent more.”
Larsson broke out laughing. “Damn good thinking.” But his expression hardened immediately. “Who is it?”
“Wasn’t sure if I should ask, but I did anyway. A forty-something small-timer from Lahti…goes by Suikkanen.”
Larsson’s face tightened. “Suikkanen? Fuck me, I know that guy.”
Salmela was dumbfounded. Had Suhonen tried to infiltrate the Skulls as Suikkanen? He stayed quiet, waiting to see if Larsson would say anything more.
Spit flew from the gangster’s mouth. “That Suikkanen’s a fucking cop. He’s an undercover pig.”
Larsson turned to a narrow bookshelf and slid out a paperback with a red cover. He shook some photos out of the pages and riffled through them. When he found the right one, he handed it to Salmela. “Look for yourself.”
The photograph showed the front of the Pasila Headquarters. Suhonen was descending the stairs at the entrance, chatting with another man. Salmela recognized him as Lieutenant Takamäki.
“The one with the leather jacket is Suikkanen,” Larsson continued. “He landed me in here last summer.”
“Don’t know him.”
Larsson’s gaze was hard. “Good. Better stay away from him.”
“Anyway, back to Markkanen. I said we would…or you would contact him by phone. If he’s asked about his brother, the answer is yes. If about his sister, then it’s a no.”
“Hell yeah, we’ll do it,” Larsson said, and whistled. The hall guard stepped inside. “Get word to Korpela that we’ll take Markkanen’s job. Tell him to do it right…that Suikkanen’s a cop. But don’t tell Markkanen that we know that-he could be in with them. We might have to bump him, too… Also, get Korpela on the phone. I want to talk to Tony myself.”
Interesting, Salmela thought. The Skulls had stashed away an illegal cellphone, which Larsson could use to stay in touch with the outside.
“Anything else?” Salmela asked.
“No,” Larsson said. “Get lost.”
Salmela got up and stepped into the corridor. His cell block was one level up. The doors to the stairwells weren’t locked during the day. Now he had to warn his old friend Suhonen about the Skulls’ plan. He’d need phone authorization immediately, or he’d have to get word out some other way.
As he climbed the staircase, a blue-uniformed guard approached from the opposite direction. Salmela had just squeezed past the lout when he heard a voice from behind, “Hey, Salmela…”
Suddenly, he felt a crushing impact in his right leg. The pain in his knee shot through his entire body, and his leg buckled beneath him. Salmela tumbled onto his side and hit the stairs.
The guard was still standing a bit further down. “Raitio wanted to send his regards to you and your knee.”
Salmela caught sight of a raised hand. It came down hard, then everything went black.
The nightstick hit Salmela just above his left ear.
The guard glanced around. The stairwell was quiet, no witnesses. He pulled out his radio andreported that an inmate had either been assaulted or fallen down the stairs. Unable to haul the unconscious victim to the infirmary alone, he requested assistance.
A dreary voice on the other end asked if there was any sign of the perpetrator. The guard said no; he had just found the victim in the stairwell.
A thin stream of blood trickled out of Salmela’s ear and ran down his neck.
* * *
Markus Markkanen passed the Helsinki Ice Arena and stayed right at the Y intersection. Behind the arena were the Olympic Stadium, host of the 1952 summer games, and a smaller soccer stadium. He was satisfied. Someone had called him to ask about his brother, so Suikkanen’s fate was sealed. Lindström had taken the bait, as had Suikkanen.
His stomach growled and he glanced at the dashboard clock-he could go for some food. He took a right turn onto Urheilu Street, then a quick left. A former gas station had become a McDonald’s years earlier.
There was a line for the drive-thru, so Markkanen swung the Beamer into a parking space in front of a hedge. He’d get his food quicker if he went inside. Maybe he’d eat in, too.
The rock ’n’ roll themed interior was actually kind of fun; it reminded him of his youthful fascination with James Dean.
Markkanen was already at the door when one of his phones rang. It was his wife.
“Hey,” he answered softly. “How’s it going?”
“How are you?” she said, sounding a bit tense.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. We’ve been swimming, swimming, and swimming, but…”
“But what?”
She hesitated a moment. “This is a little strange. Lindström called and asked me the same kind of questions you might ask. How’s it going and what not.”
Damn, Markkanen thought. What was Lindström doing calling his wife?
“What did he want?”
“Nothing, really. He was very friendly. Asked me if we needed any money or anything. Just to chat.”
“Did he ask where you were?”
“Well, uhh…yes.”
Markkanen groaned. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“Well, of course I told him. What else could I say?”
“Stupid.”
“Don’t get mad, Markus. It just slipped out somehow.”
“Well, pack your stuff and leave town.”
“To go where?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go to Tampere. I’ll meet you there tomorrow, if I can make it. Check in at the Hotel Ilves.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Markkanen hung up and considered what this meant. Lindström shouldn’t have any reason to talk to Riikka.