Выбрать главу

“Innocent?” Römpötti asked directly.

“I’m not saying that, but it sparks some questions.”

“Like what?” Römpötti asked, pulling a pen and notebook from her bag.

In ten minutes, Joutsamo repeated the same points she had brought up not long before at police station, and Römpötti jotted them down.

“This is a big deal,” Römpötti said, once Joutsamo was finished.

“Don’t you think? At least those are questions that should be raised.”

“Yeah, especially since Fredberg, the current chief justice of the Supreme Court, was one of the members of the appeals court bench.”

“Was he?” Joutsamo asked. Suhonen had brought her the copy of the verdict he had found in Repo’s cell, but Joutsamo hadn’t noticed Fredberg’s name.

“Yes. For that TV interview I went through all of Fredberg’s life sentence convictions. Of course we didn’t analyze them the way you did. There were thirty of them, but I definitely remember the name Repo.”

“I have the verdict. I’ll have to check it out.”

“Just picture the headline, Supreme Court Chief Sentenced Innocent Man to Life.”

“Immediate resignation,” Joutsamo nodded.

“Most definitely. How’s the Repo case progressing, anyway?”

“Haven’t found him yet, even though we’ve been working our butts off.”

“Has he headed out of town?”

Joutsamo considered a moment before answering. “We have strong indications that he’s here in the greater Helsinki area.”

“What kinds of indications?” Römpötti fired back.

“Hey, we gotta have some secrets, too,” Joutsamo chuckled. “No, it’s genuinely information that I can’t divulge without endangering the operation.”

“Aww, I wouldn’t tell anyone except a million of my closest friends.”

* * *

Suhonen found a small space in front of a red stucco building on Korkeavuori Street and parallel-parked his Peugeot in it. His urge to piss had disappeared after he dropped by the burger joint at Kasarmi Square. He hadn’t ordered any more coffee.

Suhonen got out of the car and waited for the number 10 tram to rumble past. He leapt across the road, trying to dodge the puddles. The double towers of the neo-Gothic Johannes Cathedral rose before him. Saarnikangas had told him he was inside the hundred-year-old church. What the hell, Suhonen thought. At least it was a change from the endless smoky bars.

Suhonen leapt up two stairs at a time as he strode up to the double doors. The church was shaped like a cross, with the entrance at its foot. Suhonen had never been inside, but ten years ago at the station they had watched the televised service for the two officers who had been shot execution-style on Tehdas Street by an escaped Danish convict.

The church was bigger than it had looked on TV. The dark, ornate pews, heavy candelabras, and stained glass made the interior gloomy, even though the walls were pale. Five people appeared to be sitting in the hall. Four were at the front; one sat further back. Suhonen immediately recognized Saarnikangas’s matted hair. The junkie was sitting near the central aisle.

Suhonen sat down next to him.

“Are you seeking redemption?” Suhonen whispered. “I am the way and the path.”

Saarnikangas’s eyes were tired. “Who’re you, Jesus Crystal?”

“Listen, Juha,” Suhonen said gravely. “If you want to check yourself into a clinic, I can get you in. Seriously.”

Saarnikangas looked at Suhonen. “I don’t think I’m feeling it… I tried once, but I cut out mid-treatment. It’s not for me.”

“Are you sure?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t want to moralize and preach about a better life, because it wouldn’t do any good. Juha Saarnikangas had an alternative, but the motivation had to come from himself, no one else. Suhonen knew a lot of junkies and crooks who had made it, but many more who had died.

“Check out that altarpiece,” Saarnikangas asked. “Do you know who painted it?”

Suhonen shook his head.

“Ever heard of Eero Järnefelt?”

“Not on my list of APBs.”

“Funny,” Saarnikangas said, without smiling. “That was originally supposed to be Albert Edelfelt’s painting Bethlehem, but he crossed swords with Melander, the architect. The architect won, and Edelfelt’s work ended up a couple of years later in a church in Vaasa as an altarpiece titled The Shepherd Kneels.”

Saarnikangas looked at the tall , narrow painting of three men and a horse gazing up at the Lord standing amid the clouds.

“How do you know all that?” Suhonen asked.

Juha disregarded Suhonen’s question. His eyes remained on the painting. “This heavenly vision is oil on canvas and the theme was taken from the New Testament, Acts of the Apostles. The guy who’s on his ass, blocking the light with his hand, is Saul. Old Saul here persecuted Jesus’ apostles and wanted to imprison them.” Saarnikangas’s tone turned biblical. “And suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do.”

Juha turned his gaze to Suhonen. “Saul became the Apostle Paul.”

Suhonen didn’t reply.

“Art history, at the university. My short-term memory is shot, but stuff like this I remember.” Saarnikangas attempted a grin, but the expression was sad. “Well, in any case, even though it’s a Järnefelt, for practical purposes it’s a copy of a painting by Vincenzo Camuccini from a church in Rome.”

Saarnikangas fell silent. Suhonen didn’t have anything to say, either. The few others in the church were still sitting quietly, and no one else had entered.

“Well,” Juha said, running his hand through his filthy hair. “I’m not here to waste your time. We had a deal.”

Saarnikangas held out his hand, and Suhonen slipped him two packs of Subutex with a hundred-euro bill rubber-banded around them.

“Da Vinci’s The Last Supper,” Saarnikangas said quietly. “Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?”

Suhonen looked at the altarpiece.

“Hietalahti Shore Drive 17, the A entrance,” Saarnikangas whispered. “Third floor. The door says Mäkinen. It’s an old servant’s apartment, a little studio. You might want to check it out. He might be armed.”

Suhonen stood, but Saarnikangas stayed sitting in the pew.

Saarnikangas kept his gaze down until he was certain that the undercover cop in the leather jacket had exited the church.

Juha rose, stepped into the aisle, and moved closer to the altar. There was a man in a gray coat sitting in the seventh row, and Saarnikangas sat down next to him. There was a large shoulder bag at the man’s feet.

“Thank you,” Repo said quietly. “Is this going to cause problems for you?”

“No worries.”

“What if the cop comes back?”

“I can handle him,” Saarnikangas said. “He’s not too bright. I made a reference to that Leonardo da Vinci painting The Last Supper and said, ‘Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?’”

Repo gave a slightly perplexed look at the long-haired junkie, who was smiling smugly. “And?”

“Well, who am I referring to with that quote?”

“Judas Iscariot?” Repo guessed.

Saarnikangas pursed his lips. “Agh, you don’t get it either. It was Simon Peter, the most faithful disciple.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Repo said coldly.

“Look, I gave the cop a clue, but because he’s so dumb he didn’t understand that I’m not betraying you. So he deserves to be betrayed,” Saarnikangas said with a smile.

“If you say so,” Repo replied coolly. “It is what it is. Thanks for the pad. I needed the sleep. I won’t forget you.”