“Should probably run a lie-detector test,” said Kulta, sipping his coffee.
“Doubt that would help,” said Takamäki. “He can’t lie if he doesn’t comment.”
“At least we’d see what questions rile him.”
Takamäki glanced at the clock: just past eight in the evening. In the windowless conference room, they hadn’t the slightest idea about the weather. When Takamäki was summoned to the station more than three hours earlier, the sky had been bright and sunny. The day’s temperature had been closer to what you might expect for late August rather than September, but the days were getting shorter. By now it would be nearly dark out.
Damn. It just had to happen now, this murder. Only a week earlier, security measures for a massive international meeting involving a number of heads of state and the resulting obligatory anarchist demonstration had stretched the entire department’s resources and overtime quotas to the breaking point.
Takamäki’s thoughts strayed back to his family for a moment: had Kalle finished his math homework? Takamäki had been helping his younger son with it and promised to play some street hockey with him afterward. Then the phone call had come.
“So how do we proceed?” asked Joutsamo. Takamäki tried to clear his head, but the promise he had made to his son lingered in his mind.
“Why don’t you boil some water for your tea. I need to make one last call.”
“Uh…sure,” muttered Joutsamo, and she ambled over to the conference room’s kitchenette. Coffee was never in short supply at the station, but Joutsamo only drank it under exceptional circumstances. And though Joutsamo had been on the team for four years already, nobody ever remembered to boil water for her tea.
Takamäki slipped out into the hallway and took his cell phone out of its holster. The lieutenant had on jeans and an army green sweater. Daily jogging had kept his cheeks tight and his stomach firm. “Hey,” said Takamäki into the phone.
“Hey,” said Kalle.
“You get it done?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Difficult?”
“Nah. Joonas helped me out with a couple.”
“Good.” Takamäki paused briefly. “I’m not gonna make it home tonight, but you can sure watch the game if you want.”
“So what happened?” asked the boy, with a shade too much enthusiasm in his voice as far as Takamäki was concerned. A little disappointment would have seemed more appropriate, since Takamäki had promised to watch a pay-per-view soccer match between Arsenal and Chelsea with him after street hockey. Maybe the kid would make a fine cop someday.
Takamäki paused for a few seconds. “A shooting. Might have been a contract hit.”
“You gonna be on TV tonight?”
Takamäki smiled. “No, not this time. We haven’t informed the press, yet. You keep quiet about it too.”
“So who was shot? Some kinda gang war?”
“No comment,” Takamäki laughed. “Listen, you watch the game and then go to bed. I’ll be working late. Mom home yet?”
“Not yet. Have you set up any phone taps?”
Takamäki was quiet for a while. Clearly classified information. “What do you think?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you might be right. Straight to bed after the game, alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. But you’re gonna tell me about
this case.”
“At some point, maybe. G’night. Tell Mom too.”
“Okay… Oh yeah. Our bet… The score?”
Right, thought Takamäki. Between math problems, they’d speculated on the score of the game and settled on a one-euro wager. Kalle put his money on Chelsea. “Well, I’ll go with a scoreless game. Both teams will be playing strong defense.”
“Alright. One euro, then. Chelsea wins, the money’s mine. Tie and it’s yours, but if Arsenal wins, it’s a draw.”
“Got it. G’night.”
“Night Dad.”
Takamäki hung up the phone with a momentary feeling of satisfaction over not having forgotten to call. But soon enough, the feeling was gone.
This shooting case was at a critical phase, and still in disarray. He’d need to stay focused. It looked like a hired hit: somebody had wanted Tomi Salmela dead, but who, and why? He had no answers. In less than half a minute, he had already forgotten the details of their friendly wager.
CHAPTER 2
SUNDAY, 8:15 P.M.
THE JAIL AT PASILA POLICE HEADQUARTERS
Fucking pigs, thought Esa Nyberg, balling his hand into a fist. He lay on the bunk of a spartan cell at the police station, the cot thin and flattened from use. The assholes had to be bluffing. They wouldn’t go spreading a nark rumor like that. And even if they did, he’d just drag the pricks to court. If that wasn’t slander, what was?
Nyberg closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, but it wasn’t so easy. Not quite five hours ago he had shot a man dead. The thought made his heart flutter. Numerous times he had beaten people to within an inch of death, but he had never killed anyone. None of it seemed real. There was a hell of a lot of power in the act, and he had enjoyed it. Might have been a bit jittery with the trigger. Could have pulled a little smoother, but he had heard the first kill was always like that. Ease came with experience, or so he had read in his war books.
Shit. He’d have been a first-class soldier. As always, the thought soothed him. He pictured himself in the trenches during the Winter War, fighting the Soviets, the softly falling snow punctuated by exploding grenades. Someone next to him caught a bullet in the head and keeled over. His rifle sight panned from Russkie to Russkie, felling each one with a single shot.
Why couldn’t he be in a war right now? He’d briefly considered the Foreign Legion, and maybe it still wasn’t too late. He was only twenty-three years old. Might get shipped off to some African country to mow down spooks. Fuck. Boot camp would be rough, but he’d manage. He had no problem with the push-ups. Then he’d march down Paris’s Avenue des Champs-Élysées with a Foreign Legion kepi perched on his head. The old man would have been proud, if he hadn’t gone and croaked.
Nyberg opened his eyes to the toxic green of the cell walls glaring back. He rose nimbly to a seated position on the bunk. Goddamn. That fucker Salmela had to learn his lesson-one he wouldn’t forget. One he’d remember in the fires of hell.
They’d caught up with him. Fucking cops had appeared outta nowhere and slammed him to the pavement. Name, rank and serial number. They were supposed to get nothing more, and they hadn’t. That’s what they had all agreed.
The Viet Cong used shock therapy in the Rambo flicks, but the cops hadn’t resorted to that yet. They could wire his nuts and he still wouldn’t talk. What a shitty attempt at sweating a suspect, he thought. Trying to spread rumors that he was a nark-nobody in the pen would believe that. Rambo hadn’t cracked either, and went on to take his vengeance. He would too…just had to bide his time and keep his trap shut. Don’t comment, don’t even speak, don’t listen to their promises. Police suspect or prisoner of war, the two were one and the same.
As Nyberg lay back down and closed his eyes the murder crept back into his mind. For an instant he felt the fear of his deed, but a rush of power washed away his uncertainty. He wouldn’t talk.
* * *
Takamäki, Joutsamo, Kohonen, Kulta and a couple of other cops from Takamäki’s team had gathered in the conference room. Takamäki had phoned his undercover man Suhonen, but got no answer. He had left a message.
“Let’s run through this quickly,” said Takamäki. He had a reputation for running efficient meetings to bring everyone up to date. “At 4:33 P.M, someone called 911 to report a gunshot. That likely pegs the time of the murder at around 4:32.”