‘The flagpole has fallen over,’ he states once I am within earshot.
The information is wholly redundant: I am the owner of this adventure park, and Osmala knows it.
‘I know,’ I reply. ‘We’ve just ordered a new one.’
Osmala stares at what is left of the flagpole, scrutinises it for a long time. Then he slowly turns, running his eyes across the car park, and rotates through 360 degrees.
‘It didn’t fall over by itself,’ he says eventually. ‘Look at the break; you can tell from the angle. There’s a dent and an impact mark. It would be hard to hit something like this by accident. Even for someone who finds reverse parking a more complicated affair than most.’
‘We’ve chosen a new one and…’ I pause.
‘Who knocked it over?’ Osmala asks.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, honestly.
‘Isn’t it on the security cameras?’
I tell him this part of the car park is in a blind spot, due to a faulty camera that was badly installed. The journey from the road to this particular spot is right in the middle of the blind spot. Either Osmala looks pensive or he’s pretending to look pensive. Judging by the shade of red on his nose and ears, I assume he has been waiting for my arrival for some time.
‘Can you think of anyone who might want to knock down your flagpole?’ he asks.
‘No, I can’t.’
‘You don’t think this is some kind of message?’
‘A message?’
‘Someone who wants to remind you of something?’ he suggests.
I shake my head and look at the metallic stump.
‘This doesn’t remind me of anything,’ I say – and it’s true. Like Osmala, I’ve wondered whether there might be a message implied in the felling of the flagpole, but if there is, I’m unable to read it. Because, ultimately, knocking down a flagpole isn’t particularly sensible.
‘Do you remember that photo I showed you?’ Osmala asks.
I tell him I do.
‘Could he have been involved in vandalising the flagpole?’
Only if he climbed out of the freezer, walked into the car park, put his foot on the gas, knocked over the flagpole and returned to the freezer afterwards, I think to myself.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I think it’s highly unlikely.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It just … Well, you told me the man’s a professional criminal. This looks more like an amateur job to me.’
I hear my own words as if someone else has said them, and I realise that is precisely what has happened. On the one hand, the flagpole was damaged on purpose, but in many ways its demise was something of a DIY job. All of a sudden, the matter is crystal clear.
‘But I’m not here because of the flagpole,’ he says.
This is Osmala’s style, that much I’ve learned. Rapid changes of tack, trying to catch people off guard. I know how I need to respond.
‘Is there any new information about my brother’s death?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ he says, and doesn’t appear the slightest bit confused by my conversational attempt to switch lanes. ‘It was a fairly clear-cut case, if you’ll pardon the phrase. How well do you know your staff?’
‘I’ve only been at the adventure park since—’
‘Of course,’ Osmala nods, then continues. ‘In such a short time, it’s hard to really get to know anyone, to become intimately acquainted with them, if you will.’
I say nothing. Now Osmala is scrutinising me with the same keen interest that a moment ago he reserved for the flagpole stump.
‘But did your brother ever speak about the members of staff? Did he ever tell you anything about who he hired, ever comment on how the hiring process worked?’
‘No,’ I say, again truthfully. ‘We didn’t speak about that … either.’
‘And what about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Have you brought up the matter with them? Have you had, say, performance appraisals with the staff and got to know them that way? This type of leadership approach is very popular, I understand.’
‘I really haven’t had time … Perhaps once I’ve familiarised myself with—’
‘Exactly,’ Osmala nods. ‘Participatory leadership, they call it – boss and employees sitting down together, talking, letting one another speak and be heard, opening up, talking about their lives and needs. So I’ve heard.’
There’s something very odd about Osmala’s tone of voice. We’re standing in the middle of an enormous car park, there beneath the clear, open sky, and still I feel as though I’m in a very small, badly ventilated room. One with glass walls, perhaps.
‘I’m running a bit late,’ I say, and take a cautious step towards the entrance to the adventure park. ‘If it’s all the same…’
‘Duty calls.’ Osmala nods and waves a hand. ‘By all means.’
His gesture looks as though he is showing me the way to the front door.
21
The barn where the man was hanged is red and large and stands clearly apart from the other buildings on the farm. From my perspective, one positive factor is that the forest extends almost right up to the southern side of the barn. Furthermore, due to the location of the sun, the forest is currently shady and protected. I am slightly out of breath after the long, brisk walk, and I’m still not entirely sure what it is I have to do next. A strip of woodland a few metres wide is all that separates me from a stretch of open land; from there, it is about fifteen metres to the end of the barn. Around the corner, in the middle of the building, is a door, left just open enough for a cat or a dog to pass through. Or a young piglet. Or a slim man, his body slightly elongated from the noose. I catch my breath, lean my shoulder against an old spruce and try to gather my thoughts. There are certainly plenty to gather.
The forest smells of autumn.
As contradictory as it sounds, given the circumstances, the last few days have been the happiest of my life. That sleepless night that Laura spent with me lit a fire within me, a fire I didn’t even know existed until now. And the fire hasn’t confined itself to my inner world. By that, I don’t mean I have suddenly turned into the smooth-talking touchy-feely type like Perttilä, or that I am constantly flexing my biceps and back muscles like Kristian. I have simply noticed that I speak in a slightly different way, I move differently. Quite simply, I have more certainty about things. And every time I see Laura, that certainty, that fire – they nurture and warm each other.
Laura has been painting her murals at an increased pace. Every time I walk past the walls she is working on, I am bewildered and beguiled. And every time, I have to pull myself away. Not that Laura is keeping me; she is so focussed on her painting that sometimes she even forgets to respond to my greetings.
I draw the forest fragrance deep into my lungs, bring myself back to my location behind the barn, to the cool of the autumn afternoon, to what I am doing, and why.
The adventure park’s financial affairs are not what they should be.
The bank has essentially awarded all the loans that the balance sheet will allow. The park’s revenue is at a decent level, but that’s still not enough. Money is a growing problem.
And naturally it’s not the only problem.
I will have to do something about the CCTV footage. Thankfully, footage over a week old is automatically deleted, and Esa doesn’t routinely go through the tapes without good reason. The chase and my act of self-defence with the rabbit’s ear have long since disappeared into the ether. To my knowledge, Esa hasn’t watched the videos showing me hiding the body in the freezer either. I would have noticed this in his behaviour as we sat in the thick, gaseous environment of the control room and he explained which cameras cover which areas of the park. He did ask why I was interested in the tapes. I gave him an honest answer: I am concerned about the park’s security.