Takamäki and Snellman were sitting at the large conference table in Snellman’s office. Snellman had ordered sweet rolls, but neither was in the mood for pastries.
“It’s an interesting link, that’s for sure,” Snellman said.
Takamäki had just explained Eriksson’s connection to Nyholm’s daughter.
“But on the other hand,” he went on, “none of us are responsible for the decisions of our adult children. Fortunately.”
“No, of course not,” the lieutenant answered.
“So,” the assistant director said, standing up. He stepped behind his desk. “I guess our only choice is to ask Nyholm himself.”
“Don’t…” Takamäki started to say, but Snellman had already pushed the button for the intercom. He told Nyholm to come over.
“I’m not so sure this is a good idea right now,” Takamäki said.
“We need answers, don’t we?” Snellman grumbled. “If your suspicions prove misguided, you can rule him out. But Nyholm could know something useful about the victim.”
Takamäki didn’t believe that for a second. Had he known something, Nyholm would have told them about it a couple of days ago when first asked to look into Eriksson’s connections to Customs. Snellman seemed to have some sort of power over Nyholm-maybe it was worth a shot.
They heard a cautious knock on the door.
“Come in,” Snellman roared.
Takamäki noticed immediately that something was wrong. Nyholm’s hair was messed up, and he was trembling. One hand was concealed behind his back.
“What’s wrong?” Snellman asked, puzzled.
“Nothing,” he answered, wiping his nose with his left hand. His right was still behind his back.
Snellman glanced at Takamäki, who looked equally perplexed.
“Well, listen, Jouko,” Snellman said in a gentler tone. “The police have discovered that your daughter was dating this Jerry Eriksson, the guy who was murdered. Do you have anything to say about that?”
Nyholm remained standing, but looked a little calmer.
“Sure, I knew that…of course.”
“Well, why didn’t you mention it when you were looking into Eriksson’s background?” Snellman said quietly.
Takamäki had a sudden image of an exchange between a father and son, who’d been caught stealing apples.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t. It…it…”
Snellman’s gaze hardened. “Just spit it out, Nyholm,” he snapped. “We don’t have all day to listen to your blubbering.”
Nyholm’s expression went cold, and he slowly drew his hand from behind his back. It was holding a black pistol.
Both Takamäki and Snellman flinched.
“Shit Nyholm! What are you doing?” Snellman bellowed.
Nyholm raised the gun and pointed it at the men seated at the table. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.”
Takamäki felt like getting up, but decided it was better to obey. His own gun was back at Police Headquarters, locked in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Nyholm pressed the gun against his own temple. His expression was stoic.
“Don’t do it,” Snellman said.
Nyholm turned towards Takamäki. “Eriksson met my daughter last spring and quickly found out what I did for a living. Of course, I checked his record. Her life was messed up already, and there was nothing I could’ve done about it anyway. Then the blackmail started…”
Takamäki listened to the outburst. “What blackmail?”
“Eriksson wanted information on our surveillance ops. They were trafficking electronics, primarily to Russia through Finland. The paperwork always said rubber gloves or toilet paper. All I had to do was tell them whether the shipment was slated for inspection. They paid me for it.”
“Mole!” Snellman roared.
The gun didn’t waver from his temple. “That’s right. I told my wife I was gonna kill him, this Eriksson. When I heard he’d been found dead, I thought I might be a suspect. But the scheme went on. Another guy named Markkanen took Eriksson’s place. I don’t know if that’s his real name, but his number is in my cellphone.”
His gaze was still locked on Takamäki. “With that number, you should be able to track him down.”
“Who’s behind this?”
“Yes, I figured that out too. It took a little effort since they hid the scheme behind fronting companies. You’ll find the paperwork in my office. The Finnish side is headed by a man named Kalevi Lindström. The Russian side has several names, but I’m sure there are even bigger bosses behind them. Any other questions?”
Takamäki noted the man’s unusual calm.
“This isn’t necessary,” the lieutenant said quietly. “Shooting yourself won’t solve anything.”
“Hmph, especially not in my office,” Snellman grumbled. “You’d make a terrible mess.”
“Be quiet,” Takamäki snarled.
Nyholm looked at Takamäki. His finger tightened around the trigger.
“Yes, it will.”
Takamäki tried again. “Let’s just talk about this. You’ve helped us already, and we need you for the investigation. Your situation’s not easy, but it’s not that bad either. We have time to talk. Let’s work out the issues, one at a time.”
Nyholm’s trigger finger started to quiver.
“I’m here to listen,” Takamäki said again. “Don’t.”
Nyholm lowered the gun to his side and wept. “I can’t do anything…not even this,” he said and fell to his knees.
Takamäki bolted out of his chair toward Nyholm, who was shaking and sobbing loudly. The gun was still visible, dangling from the man’s hand. Takamäki twisted it free and set it on the coffee table.
Snellman was still sitting in his chair. “Goddamn!”
“You said it.”
“Take him to jail.”
Takamäki glanced at Nyholm, then took out his cellphone.
“I think we’ll send him to the hospital first.”
* * *
Suhonen got out of his car. The southern tip of Hernesaari wasn’t an official parking lot; it was mostly used as a pier for dumping snow into the sea. Only a few decades earlier, it had been an island, but had since been connected to the mainland with landfill. It sported a shipyard, a helicopter port, some office buildings, and of course, a hockey arena.
The wind swept across the bay, and the trees on the island of Pihlajasaari were visible less than a half mile away.
Markkanen had seen Suhonen pull up, and he got out of the car.
“Hello,” Suhonen said, zipping up his leather jacket.
Markkanen gave a nod, went to the trunk of his car and opened it. Suhonen joined him. Inside the trunk was the same hockey bag he had used for the pig’s head. Suhonen guessed it contained something else now, though the nauseating stench remained.
“Well, what now?” Suhonen asked. Markkanen had called him fifteen minutes earlier to say that plans had changed and arranged a meeting in the remote, vacant lot.
“Suikkanen, the situation has changed.”
“Huh? You don’t want me to swipe the cash?”
“No. The old man wants to meet me at four. I don’t know what he wants, maybe to pay up.”
“Should I do the job after that?”
“Maybe,” Markkanen said. “We’ll see how it goes, but now I need you to watch my back.”
Suhonen nodded. “Sure, I can do that, as long as the pay’s the same.”
“This one’s only worth a grand.”
“What do you mean only a grand?”
“Cuz you’re just back-up,” Markkanen snapped.
“Two grand.”
“Alright,” he relented.
Suhonen gave him a hard look. “A grand up front.”
Markkanen smiled, but fished out his wallet, counted off ten one-hundred-euro notes and handed him the money.
“Happy?”
Suhonen stuffed the cash into his pocket and grinned.
“Let’s get to business then.”
Markkanen stooped down, pulled the hockey bag out of the trunk and opened it. Inside was a long, skinny black-and-white bag, intended for junior hockey sticks. On the side, large letters spelled out, “FAT PIPE.”