“Did he explain the call in any way?”
“Not a word. He was quiet for the rest of the trip; he was clearly thinking about something.”
“Do you remember the exact date?”
“Tuesday. It was the third. Check the phone data and you’ll find out who it was who called. I have a hunch it could be the killer. The boss was afraid of him, at least.”
“Does anything else come to mind?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
“What was your opinion of Jacobson?”
“In what sense?”
“Overall impression. What was he like?”
“A stubborn old bird, but otherwise a nice guy. On a pretty different wavelength from Jacobson junior.”
“Are you saying they fought a lot?”
“Not a lot, but sometimes. The son wanted to establish a subsidiary in Tallinn, but the boss thought it was too risky.”
“What about others? Did Jacobson have disagreements with anyone else?”
“No.”
“Not even Hulkko?”
“Nah, Hulkko is an even-keeled guy.”
“Could Jacobson have been involved with a woman?”
Auvinen laughed. “Not a chance. He was terrified of women.”
“What do you think about the threat that turned up this morning? Did you hear about that?”
“Yeah. There are all kinds of nut jobs on the loose, but it didn’t seem like much.”
I thanked Auvinen and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. I never finished my soup. I headed right up to Stenman’s office, where she was watching the security tape fast-forwarded many times the normal speed.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m already at 6 a.m. I’ve noted the times of any vehicles that have driven past, plus the make if I recognize it. No Golfs so far. I can’t make out the licence plates because the camera is filming straight from the side. It was a quiet night. Only a few cars drove past, and some of those were patrol cars or security company vehicles.”
“Well, if we don’t get anything else, maybe at least we’ll get the time… Can you stay late tonight?”
“I’m in no rush. The boys will be fine by themselves.”
Both of Stenman’s sons were over ten years old, and she had a mother in good health who lived nearby and was willing to watch them.
I told her about the call I had just received from Auvinen. “It sounds like Jacobson was hiding from whoever it was. I’ll ask Simolin to trace the call.”
Stenman was doubtful. “It’s probably one of those prepaid numbers.”
Simolin walked in, carrying a notebook. “I’ve checked with all of the rental agencies in the Helsinki area. It’s not a rental.”
“No cars have been reported stolen, it hasn’t been rented, and chances are it’s not the killer’s own car. What alternatives do we have left?” I pondered.
“Borrowed,” Simolin suggested.
“Professionals don’t borrow cars. Too big a risk,” Stenman said.
“Borrowed without permission, from some company or by blackmailing the owner.”
“Possible, but that’s also risky, unless the killer has the owner of the car in a serious vice. What if the car was stolen from someone who couldn’t report it, like long-term airport parking? The owner might be abroad.”
“The new Golfs are equipped with immobilizers, and there are surveillance cameras at the parking lots. I just had an idea. What if the car is foreign, say Estonian? You can buy cars there without ID; you can make up any name you want. There’s no way to connect the buyer to the car.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “The important thing now is to find that car. It was already on the news, but we’ve got to get it into the papers, too. Find a photo of a similar Golf somewhere and ask the papers to print it. Not everyone knows what a Golf looks like — at least, not all women do.”
“Come and take a look at this,” Stenman said.
She rewound the recording and pressed Play. The footage showed a car, irritatingly at the far right of the screen, pulling up in front of Jacobson’s company. A man who appeared drunk climbed out. He looked around nervously, hurried over to the mail box, and slipped in an object that looked like a letter. The time on the screen read 6:32 a.m.
Even in still mode the image was so grainy and blurry that there was no way of identifying the guy. Stenman wound it back and forth a few times, but it didn’t do any good. The clothes were normal; they didn’t have any logos. Then Stenman fast-forwarded.
“Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” Stenman said. The car backed away and disappeared for good.
Simolin provided the play-by-play: “Turned around by backing up in the drive.”
“We’re not going to get the car or the guy from that,” I said, exasperated. You could only see a foot of the car’s nose, and even that was caught in an annoying shadow that fell across the front grille. You couldn’t even tell what colour it was, just that it was dark.
“Shitty luck, nothing we can do,” Stenman said.
“What about Oksanen?” Simolin suggested.
“What about him?”
“He came in second in the Tech World car identification competition a couple of years back. I just saw him in his office, even though he’s supposed to be on vacation.”
“Ask him to come in here,” I said.
As we waited on Oksanen’s expertise, Stenman rewound and fast-forwarded through the footage a few more times and fine-tuned it. Then Simolin walked in with Oksanen.
“What’s the trouble?” Oksanen asked confidently. Simolin must have given him the low-down.
“Do you recognize that car?” Stenman asked.
Oksanen bent towards the screen and, without a moment’s hesitation, said: “Late ’90s Ford Mondeo. The last year they made them was ’97, if I remember right. Piece of cake.”
I was blown away. “Are you sure?”
“This is one of the easiest models to identify. The newer ones would be a lot tougher. See how the headlight curves in from the edges in that weird way?”
“Great,” I said, instinctively slapping Oksanen on the shoulder. He took it as praise, and exited with a smile on his face.
Simolin’s phone rang. I continued talking to Stenman: “Let’s ask Hulkko and the other employees about the car…”
The eagerness in Simolin’s voice caught my attention. I looked over and saw him lift up a thumb.
“No, tell me… where is it…?” Simolin wrote something down. “Good, I’ll go over right now and have a look. Call in forensics and a tow truck, too.”
I guessed what had happened. Simolin ended the call and confirmed my suspicions.
“We have our Golf.”
5
I was forced to admit that Jacobson’s killer was not your average criminal. He had left the car only a hundred yards from the scene of the murder. It was discovered in the garage of the house that was across the street and up from the Jacobsons’, the beautiful old run-down house that Jacobson’s neighbour had mentioned. The trees and bushes had blocked him from seeing that the car had been driven there.
From up close, the house was in even worse shape than I had imagined. It was a two-storey villa, with a glassed-in porch and steep-pitched roofs. The paint was flaking and the roof tiles were green with moss, but even the ravages of time couldn’t mask its beauty. That beauty wasn’t likely to keep the heirs from tearing it down, however. Money steamrolled over sentiment, too. Still, at least three generations had lived in the house, and even those who remained had started life there.
The garden was overgrown, as if no one mowed or pruned it any more. Saplings and grass, almost waist high, thrust up through the gravel drive. The ground under the fruit trees was blanketed with rotting apples of all varieties that would never find their way into a jam jar or juice bottle in anyone’s cellar. The air was laden with end-of-summer abundance.