Minttu K arrives to tell me the material she has ordered will be delivered tomorrow, so for the time being I will have to tell people verbally about the possibility of a loan. I have never done direct marketing like this before, but I quickly learn the most effective way to offer people our new service. I make a comment, insinuating that they look more or less penniless, and say I’d like to help them. Things quickly start to take off. Just as I’d imagined, many people need small amounts of money, just a hundred or two hundred euros to help them out. But a surprising number of people opt to take out the maximum amount of two thousand euros right away. This takes me by surprise, especially as the adventure park’s pricelist is displayed at the counter, so it only requires a simple calculation to work out how much tickets and a trip to the café will cost. Besides, prices seem to lose their meaning the minute I press ‘enter’ to indicate that the loan has been approved. But most surprising of all is the fact that people don’t seem to pay the slightest attention to the one thing I’ve put most thought into: our more than fair rate of interest. The question of interest is something people don’t even want to hear about. As the number of loans begins to grow, the matter perplexes me all the more. All I have to do is mention the possibility of money, and people close their ears to everything else.
I’ve hardly been able to develop the thought further when I notice that a man has been standing just inside the doorway, facing me, for some time. At first he looks like one of many mothers and fathers in my peripheral vision, people waiting, either coming or going, and who then disappear into the park (having borrowed some money) or the car park (having spent the money they borrowed).
At some point, however, I realise that this man isn’t waiting for the start or end of a day of fun and games in the park. Instead, he seems to be waiting for the foyer to empty so that we will be alone. When that happens, once the final shrill cries disappear into the melee inside the park, he approaches the counter.
The man is heavy-set, but his gait is resolute. He is wearing a pavement-grey blazer, a blue-and-white checked shirt, blue flannel trousers and a pair of black leather shoes. What is left of his blond hair is combed tightly back over his scalp. His face is large and angular, his eyebrows look almost worn away. He is both stocky and has a belly. His light-blue eyes look here and there with a sense of careful purpose before coming to rest on me.
‘Pentti Osmala, Helsinki Police. Afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ I say, trying not to stiffen completely. Perhaps I’ve been expecting this would happen at some point, subconsciously preparing myself for the inevitable. Still, the fact that I am now face to face with an actual policeman sends a chill the length of my spine.
‘I’d like to talk to the manager, Juhani Koskinen.’
‘He passed away, unfortunately,’ I say, baffled at my choice of words. Of course, Juhani’s passing was unfortunate – that’s exactly what it was – but is it unfortunate right now, in this particular context? Perhaps the reason for the policeman’s visit only concerns Juhani, in which case it wouldn’t be unfortunate in the least.
Osmala waves his right hand. He is carrying a small briefcase, which looks more like a box of some description. He opens it, and with his left hand he pulls out a sheet of paper. He looks at the document.
‘Who is in charge of operations here?’
‘I am,’ I say.
‘And you are…?’
‘Henri Koskinen.’
‘I see,’ he nods. ‘That makes sense.’
Osmala puts the document back where it came from and remains silent. He doesn’t look as though he is about to tell me exactly what makes sense.
‘I wonder if we could talk for a moment,’ he says. It’s more a statement than a question. ‘I quite fancy a coffee and maybe something sweet.’
I escort him to the Curly Cake Café. The place is swarming with people, fewer than half of them adults. The noise is dizzying. The café smells of the dish of the day, Mum’s Meatballs and Bouncy the Mashed Potato. The policeman and I silently stand in line. Once it’s our turn, Osmala takes the Very Vanilla cake and I have Grandma’s Best Blueberry Pie. As she pours the coffee, Johanna watches the coffee, the officer and me.
There is only one free table, set suitably far away from the others, next to the kitchen door. The children’s table is low and small, but the chairs are the café’s regular, adult-sized chairs, meaning we have to lean over to place our coffee and cake on the miniature table. Osmala seems unfazed by this, and it doesn’t bother me either. What bothers me far more, causing a certain sense of restlessness, is what I can see through the rectangular window of the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. The freezer-cum-coffin stands, grand and gleaming, only four and a half metres away.
‘I’m sorry about your brother’s passing,’ Osmala says before he has even taken a bite. He sounds as though he has uttered more or less the same words many times before. I still don’t know how to answer. Thanking him feels unnecessary: Osmala isn’t really sorry, any more than I can be grateful for his insincere words.
‘Did it come out of the blue?’ he asks.
‘Juhani had a congenital heart defect,’ I reply. ‘Why? Are the police … I mean, you, Officer…?’
‘Call me Pentti,’ says Osmala. ‘No, the police are not investigating Juhani Koskinen’s death.’
So, I surmise, his name is Pentti and he is investigating something else. My appetite for blueberry pie has suddenly disappeared.
‘Actually, it’s a more unfortunate matter, one that inevitably concerns your brother too. We have reason to believe that he had dealings with some criminal elements.’
Osmala bites off a chunk of cake and looks at me across the oozing vanilla filling.
‘Criminal elements?’
Osmala nods. It takes a gulp of coffee to restore his ability to speak. After placing the cup back on the table – he is forced to double over as though he were tying his shoelace – he opens his box-shaped briefcase, removes some coloured printouts and places them next to my coffee cup. The photograph is a standard mugshot. The man looks more tanned in the photo than in my freezer. Otherwise, this is unquestionably the same person.
‘We suspect that this man and your brother had some form of financial dealings. This man is a professional criminal. He has a long rap sheet featuring everything imaginable, right up to manslaughter. An extremely dangerous character. And it seems he has disappeared. He might have left the country, though personally I don’t think that’s very likely, or he might be in hiding, either of his own will or … otherwise. In his circles, it’s not uncommon for people to simply disappear. Between us, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had lost their temper with him and given him a little helping hand into hiding, if you get my drift. The guy wasn’t exactly up for the Nobel Peace Prize.’
I keep my eyes on the photograph.
‘Have you ever seen him in your brother’s company?’
‘No,’ I answer, truthfully.
‘And do you know him at all?’
‘I can’t say I do.’
Osmala slides the photo back to his side of the table, then puts it back in the briefcase along with his other papers.
‘So you own the amusement park now, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ I reply and explain that it is an adventure park, not an amusement park. This I do at considerable length, mostly because it gives me time to prepare for what I assume will happen next. As I guessed, Osmala isn’t interested in the difference between the two types of park.