“All right. Let’s fast-forward 120 years into Karppi’s house. Timo Repo’s fingerprints were found there in several locations. We can’t tell when he was there or for how long, but he was definitely there. Prints were found on the dining room and kitchen tables, the couch’s wooden backrest, the coffee maker, and in the bathroom. Based on this, we can deduce that he wasn’t there just for a quick visit. And yes… Those prints can’t be eight years old, because the house has been cleaned regularly. And, it’s not likely that Karppi had sworn off coffee for that long, either.”
“What can you tell us about the body?”
The mood seemed somehow tense, so Kannas decided to stick to the facts.
“The body is at the medical examiner’s office, so they will provide more detailed analyses, but it was lying next to the dining table, and there was blood and hair on the corner of the table. A naked-eye estimate: I’d say the gray color of the hair matches the hair on Karppi’s head.”
“So he hit his head on the table.” Takamäki said. It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes, it’s pretty rare for a table to hit someone in the head,” Kannas jibed, but the joke flopped. “There were no substances on the floor that would directly indicate slipping. The deceased’s medical history is unknown, so it’s impossible to say whether he had a propensity for fainting or some other condition that could have caused the incident.”
Takamäki looked at Kannas. “So at this point we know that Repo was inside the home at some point and that Karppi hit his head against the table for one reason or another.”
“The cause of death will be revealed during the autopsy,” Kannas said. “I’d estimate the time of death to be morning, maybe between nine and eleven. It’s also possible that he had a heart attack and lost his balance and… Well, there’s no point speculating. The guys are combing through Repo’s dad’s house now, and after that we’ll take a look at that car Joutsamo found down the street, the one stolen from the swimming pool. They promised to call right away if the prints matched Repo’s.”
“Was there a cell phone or landline in Karppi’s house?”
Kannas thought for a second. “There was a cordless phone in the living room, but we didn’t find a cell phone.”
“I’ll find out whether he had one,” Kohonen announced.
“Let’s get the info on calls made from the landline just in case Repo used it,” Joutsamo continued.
Takamäki thanked Kannas and added, “So the situation is that we have reason to suspect Timo Repo of homicide. Of course it’s also possible that an outsider had been there, but Repo remains our main line of investigation. We’ll decide on the classification of the crime once we have more facts, but as of now we’re looking at murder.”
The others nodded.
“And one more thing. Up till this point, our efforts have earned us an F-minus . Let’s try and do a little better.”
“What about the press?” Joutsamo asked.
Several reporters had asked about Repo’s hunt that day.
“I’m still working on that,” Takamäki said.
* * *
The wipers swept the sleet from the car’s windshield. Suhonen was waiting at a red light at the corner of North Shore Drive and Maneesi Street. It wasn’t an intersection per se; it was a pedestrian crossing signal. A revolving ad display circled lazily in front of a red-and-yellow brick structure dating from 1840, North Shore Drive 18. Liisa Park was on the right, and behind it stood the War Museum. Suhonen had read somewhere that this was Helsinki’s Jugendstil architecture atits best.
No one picked up, and Suhonen tossed the phone onto the gray passenger seat. Goddammit, Salmela! Okay, it was possible that his SIM card could have expired by now.
The lights changed, and Suhonen stepped on the gas.
He hadn’t felt like hanging around the station, where everyone seemed down about their zero-result manhunt. When a case didn’t move forward, police had too much time to think. That’s when it was better to go out onto the streets and see if you could find something there.
Suhonen had been tooling around Kallio and Sörnäinen, hoping that he would accidentally run into a familiar face. Someone who would be able to tell him something. He had popped into six different bars for a coffee, and now he had to piss like nobody’s business.
On the right, at the corner of North Shore Drive sand Kirkko Street, rose a handsome building with a tall, round corner tower. It was designed by Theodor Höijer in the 1880s. Suhonen had once staked out one of the sailboats in the nearby marina from in front of this residence and remembered the street-side plaque well. It stated that the lindens fronting the building had been planted by the ambassador of Imperial Japan in the autumn of 1943 as an emblem of the friendship between the peoples of Japan and Finland.
A little further up Kirkko Street stood the Ministry of the Interior. Maybe they’d let him use the bathroom if he flashed his badge. Then he’d be able to say that for once the ministry had offered genuine assistance to an officer in the field.
Suhonen’s second phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Is that Suikkanen?”
“Is that Juha?”
“No, it’s Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Huh,” Suhonen growled. “What the fuck?”
“‘Is that Juha?’ sounded like code language, is all. My code name could be Scarlet Pimpernel from here on out.”
“I’ll give you a scarlet nose if you don’t get to the point.”
At the corner of Customs Square, Suhonen turned the car from the North Shore Drive extension onto Alexander Street. He passed a low, one-story brick building on the right.
“I’ve got an address,” Saarnikangas croaked.
“For Repo?”
“I think he’s there.”
“What is it?”
Saarnikangas cleared his throat. “Hmm, system’s kind of shutting down here, short-term memory loss. Early onset of Alzheimer’s.”
“Stop using so much junk,” Suhonen growled, turning his car onto Maria Street. On the right, up ahead, was Maria Street 9, which stood out from the street’s other, older, more beautiful buildings. It was a corrugated metal structure built in the sixties. The only good thing about it was the Ace of Spades karaoke bar, the premier karaoke bar in Finland, where not just anybody dared to take the mic.
“Goddammit,” Juha cried. “You just said what I was supposed to remember. Junk. You promised me a couple of packs. I need them.”
“Once I have Repo.”
“You don’t understand,” Saarnikangas said irritated . “I need it so I can pay this one guy. Plus a C-note.”
“Money, too?” Suhonen said. He was sure that Saarnikangas was taking him for a ride . But he had a lousy hand, and it was best to check what Saarnikangas was holding. A few Subus and a C-note didn’t make much of a dent in the state budget. “Okay,” Suhonen said before the junkie could start elaborating.
“Okay? Like Okay-Okay?”
“Where are you?” Suhonen asked, his voice hard.
* * *
Sanna Römpötti and Anna Joutsamo were sitting in the second-story kebab joint at the Pasila train station.
“How is it?” the reporter asked.
“These always taste the same. Does this place belong to some bigger chain? Someone who supplies the lamb to all these restaurants?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Römpötti said, plastic-forking chunks of meat from a pita swimming in garlic sauce.
“Listen,” Joutsamo said. “The food here isn’t the reason I wanted to meet you.”
“Really?” Römpötti asked, although she had guessed what was on Joutsamo’s mind as soon as she called.
“Repo,” Joutsamo said.
“The escaped convict? What about him?”
Joutsamo hesitated again. She knew that with Römpötti she didn’t have to say You didn’t hear this from me, but the situation was still delicate.
“It’s the original conviction. I read all the papers and spoke with the lead investigator from the old case, and at least to me, it feels like it’s on really shaky ground.”