The lieutenant entered the license plate number, and the system indicated that the owner was an Espoo leasing company. A guy named Tomi Manner was registered as the lease-holder. Takamäki looked up more info on Manner; according to his social security number, he was thirty-seven years old. His address was in Espoo, in the neighborhood of Tuomarila.
Joutsamo was a whiz with computers, but Takamäki could navigate the basics pretty well. Manner owned a small private security company. Maybe he had fled the scene because he was afraid of losing his security company license. On the other hand, it would be even worse to get caught fleeing the scene, on top of hitting a pedestrian.
Manner’s record showed a couple of old traffic citations, but he wasn’t suspected or convicted of anything more serious. Takamäki started wondering how far he should go. It wasn’t like he was conducting an investigation or anything. He was mostly just satisfying his curiosity.
So Takamäki pulled up Manner’s license photo, too. The young Tomi Manner had a crew cut and a confrontational gaze. At the time the photo was taken, his cheeks were covered in dark stubble. To Takamäki, Manner looked aggressive, exactly like the kind of person who would flee the scene of an accident. The photo was almost twenty years old, but it still communicated arrogance. Maybe that was because Manner’s jaw was tilted higher than necessary. Takamäki started getting the feeling he’d like to exchange a couple of words with the guy.
* * *
Repo was lying on Karppi’s sofa. His eyes were closed, but he was awake. Karppi was reading some biography at the dining table. Since finishing their coffees, the men had barely spoken to each other. The papers and photos Karppi had given him were in a plastic shopping bag on the floor.
Thanks to his prison time, the position was a familiar one to Repo. He could lie for hours without thinking about anything or, if he felt like it, thinking about everything, Now, all kinds of things were going through his head: his father’s death, the escape, meeting Karppi, and the things he wanted to do. Or not just wanted to do, but what he intended on doing.
The problem with thinking was that once your thoughts got out of the corral, it was tough to wrangle them back in. Arja came back into his mind. And the image wasn’t that smiling, beautiful woman from the wedding photo, but Arja’s lifeless, slightly yellowed face. It was impossible to read anything from the dead woman’s expression, not even pain, despite the fact that the deep wound in her neck reached almost from ear to ear.
Repo could still remember waking up. The memories came back, no matter how much he wished they wouldn’t. He was lying on his bed, and a man in a blue uniform was shaking him by the shoulder. He felt nauseous, and could make out the barrel of a pistol through his booze-blurred eyes. On with the cuffs and into the paddy wagon.
What happened next at the police station was like a nightmare. Repo didn’t remember anything about Arja’s death. The detective laid into him. “C’mon, admit it. Do you confess? Why don’t you remember? Goddammit, stop wasting our time! Be a man and take responsibility for your actions.”
In the end, Repo had taken responsibility, since there was no other alternative. Even his attorney had advised him to. The evidence was clear, but that slippery snake had promised him that he’d get convicted of manslaughter, and that he’d be out after sitting six to seven years of a ten-year sentence.
But the district court had sentenced him to life in prison. Repo remembered the verdict being read. It felt like he was a bystander-he was watching some random show on the TV bolted to the courtroom wall. He wished he could change the channel or even scream when the district judge said the words, “Sentenced to life in prison for the crime of murder.”
And the same thing in appeals court, even though by then he had denied having committed the crime. He hadn’t been able to imagine himself ever having been capable of it.
Like it did every time, Repo’s head began to ache.
“Hey, Timo,” Karppi said, shaking him by the shoulder, the same way the police officer had on that one day. “Were you sleeping?”
Repo could see the old man smiling.
“No.”
“Really, now? Well, you should probably eat something anyway. I made fish soup.”
Repo noticed the smell of the soup and figured that he had fallen asleep after all. He should have heard the sounds of cooking.
“Did you go to the store?”
“No,” Karppi smiled. “Straight from the freezer.”
The men sat down at the table. Karppi had set out bowls and spoons.
“Voilà, le potage de poisson.”
In addition to the steaming pot, two pitchers stood on the table. Karppi poured himself some cranberry juice, and Repo helped himself to water.
“You have any aspirin?”
“No,” Karppi said. “I hate pills.”
Both ladled soup into their bowls. Repo tasted it; it needed salt. There wasn’t any on the table, and he didn’t feel like asking for it.
“You really speak French?”
Karppi nodded. “I used to work there.”
“Not the Foreign Legion?”
“Oh, no. I worked for the Ministries of Defense and Foreign Affairs. Finland used to buy weapons from France.”
The topic didn’t interest Repo, but he could imagine Karppi and his old man, Erik, having talked about it frequently.
“Listen,” Karppi began. “Change of subject. How long were you planning on shacking up here? Shouldn’t you head on back to prison to sit out those couple of years you have left?”
A couple of years? Repo thought. Eight behind and maybe six before parole. But he let it pass. “Don’t worry about it. A day or two, then I’ll be gone.”
“Where?”
“Now, that’s none of your business,” Repo said coolly. “And I’d suggest you don’t ask.”
CHAPTER 8
TUESDAY, 2:50 P.M.
HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA
Takamäki hesitated for a moment but then picked up the phone. He called the switchboard at Espoo Police and asked to be connected to the Traffic Crimes Unit. After three minutes and two call transfers, Takamäki discovered that Espoo didn’t have a unit that investigated traffic crimes, but a PSPCIU, or Public Safety Productivity Center Investigative Unit. Traffic accidents were its responsibility . Takamäki got the name of the officer investigating the Sello incident. The name Lauri Solberg was unfamiliar to him.
“Solberg,” answered a male voice. Judging by it, Takamäki figured the Espoo police officer was about thirty-five years old.
“Hi, Kari Takamäki here,” Takamäki replied in a friendly tone. He had gone back and forth several times as to whether he would introduce himself as a VCU lieutenant right from the start, but had decided to be plain old Mr. Takamäki, the victim’s father. At least at first.
“Good afternoon,” Solberg responded officially , inspiring formality in Takamäki’s voice, too.
“I’m calling about the hit-and-run that took place yesterday at the Sello shopping center. You’re the investigating officer, correct?”
“Correct. Are you a witness?”
“No, I’m the father of the boy who was hit. I was curious as to the status of the investigation.”
Takamäki could hear the radio playing in the background as Solberg paused. “Preliminary stages. How’s your son doing, by the way?”
Takamäki felt like swearing out loud. He understood that “preliminary” meant that nothing had happened with the case other than the patrol on the scene having had submitted its report. Solberg had doubtless received the report that morning, but hadn’t done anything about it. He hadn’t even called the hospital to check on the status of the injured victim.
“He’s doing pretty well. Squeaked by with a broken arm.”