‘The general managership might be closer than you think,’ I say.
Kristian stops. ‘Seriously?’ he asks.
‘Oh, yes.’
In the blink of an eye he seems overwhelmed with emotion.
‘Tough love, right?’ he says. ‘Your methods are harsh, but you know what you’re doing. You’re a good boss.’
I give him a few taps on the shoulder and see tears welling in his eyes. Then I continue on my way. I don’t care to correct his misunderstanding of the situation or to explain that my visionary leadership will likely soon be the subject of police scrutiny.
I step into Esa’s control room. The air is almost as thick as jelly and smells so strongly of sulphur that breathing it hurts even the deepest recesses of my brain. Esa spins round in his chair and stands to attention when he sees me.
‘Would you like a seat?’ he asks.
No, I think instinctively, because if I sit down, I’m unsure whether I’ll ever walk again, and regardless of what lies ahead of me, the idea of perishing in a cloud of human gas would feel like something of a … waste, in so many ways.
‘No, thank you. I just wanted to say that I admire and respect what you do. Thank you for all your good work.’
Esa shakes his head.
‘I’m the one who should thank you,’ he says. ‘You’ve brought new rigour to the park. You take responsibility, you lead by example. First to fight, as they say in the marines. It feels like I can finally relax a bit. I’ve even started cycling to work. I’m keeping my Škoda here in the car park, is that OK?’
‘Of course,’ I quickly reply. Parked at the back of the building, Esa’s camouflage-painted station wagon is hardly an intrusion. I have a very unpleasant sense that my face is starting to melt. I realise this is factually impossible, but my thirst for oxygen is all the more real. ‘Carry on as you are. There’s no sense in exhausting yourself. No sense at all.’
I return to the hall and walk through it with a strange sense of melancholy. I could never have imagined looking at these slides or the assault course in Caper Castle and feeling overcome with emotion. I wave to Samppa; he waves back enthusiastically and gives me a thumbs-up with both hands. Kiddies’ Day is closer than he realises.
I arrive at the office wing and find Minttu K in her office, her forehead literally against the desk. She is wearing a trouser suit – as usual, black and tight-fitting – and her bronzed hands with all their silver rings are resting next to her head. The room smells of gin, cigarettes and a particularly pungent men’s aftershave, which surely can’t be emanating from Minttu K.
‘Is everything alright?’ I ask.
Minttu K bounces upright. At first, she looks like she has just arrived on a new planet, but two seconds later she is her old self again.
‘You were right,’ she says without a good morning or any other pleasantries and takes a cigarette from the packet on the desk. ‘Sometimes old school is the best option. You don’t have to reach every single influencer. Anyway, some influencers are just assholes.’
‘I meant that because our marketing budget is limited…’
‘Honey…’ she says, lights the cigarette and points it at me ‘…exactly. I like your thinking. More bang for your buck. When Juhani was here, things got a bit out of hand. No offence.’
‘Right…’
‘Honey,’ she says, her voice sounding more and more like an antique chainsaw, ‘you’ve got good style, let’s go with that. Now if it’s all the same, I’m going to make a few calls, secure us a little discount.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Great that everything is in order.’
I genuinely mean it. I have barely walked out of the door when I hear the hiss of a can being cracked open.
I switch on my computer, and as soon as the relevant programmes are up and running, I get to work fast. My plan is to leave my successor, whoever that may be, a set of book-keeping documents that are as simple and as easy to use as possible – and which will stand up to close scrutiny. The bulk of the work was done last night. Now it’s just about the finishing touches, and as I suspected, there is hardly anything to do. From the outset, I have been meticulous – for want of a better word, methodical – so this side of matters is quickly taken care of. I lean back in my chair and look around. Juhani’s jacket is still hanging on the coat stand. But even that no longer seems about to fly away on the back of someone leaving the room as the door closes behind them. It is empty, resigned to its fate.
I have tidied the room, gradually putting things in order, so whoever ends up sitting in this chair will be able to look at neat piles of papers and a clear, empty desk. I am ready.
And as if by design, Johanna appears at my office door and, though I have already seen her, she knocks on the doorframe. I gladly stand up. Johanna is the one employee with whom I have spoken least. The Curly Cake Café is a success story, and Johanna runs it like clockwork. If at times I have queried her methods, she has always explained things from a practical point of view. And there is something very practical about her: she never seems to do anything that doesn’t have a purpose, even the smallest movement is carefully considered. Her face is furrowed, harsh perhaps, she is strong and muscular.
‘You’re wanted in the café,’ she says. ‘Well, the kitchen.’
I walk ahead of her.
‘Thank you,’ she says as we walk across the southern end of the hall.
I glance over my shoulder. ‘For what?’
‘The freedom.’
‘The Curly Cake Café is a success story,’ I say. ‘You run it excellently.’
We arrive at the café and continue through into the kitchen.
‘I don’t mean that. You’re the best thing that could ever have happened to this place.’
I don’t have time to ask what she means. We enter the kitchen, and I see Detective Inspector Osmala and two uniformed officers wearing light-blue latex gloves.
28
‘Morning,’ says Osmala and waves a blue hand.
He is standing in the café, his blazer open and his back to the freezer, almost as if he is trying to hide it behind him.
‘Good morning,’ I reply.
‘Mind if we take a look in the freezer?’ he asks.
Needless to say, the question is irrelevant. Osmala can look wherever he wants, whenever he wants. That’s his job. I am about to turn to Johanna to ask her to remove the padlocks on the freezer doors when I notice they have already disappeared.
‘By all means,’ I say eventually.
Osmala nods to the officer on his right. They have clearly agreed on the choreography in advance. The officer steps towards the freezer, opens the lid and positions himself next to it. Osmala turns towards the freezer and bends down to look inside. A cold wave surges through the kitchen.
Osmala nods at the other officer, who positions himself next to the detective inspector in front of the freezer. Osmala begins handing items taken from the freezer to the officer, who sorts them into piles on the metallic table.
‘They’d better not thaw out,’ I hear behind me.
We all turn around. Johanna seems utterly serious. Of course she is. She doesn’t know what I have preserved at the bottom of the freezer. I glance at Osmala. He is holding a bag of thirty pre-baked Belgian buns.
‘These could have been used in the commission of a crime,’ he says, brandishing the pastries at Johanna.
She doesn’t look at all convinced. I need to get her out of the kitchen. I decide that what is about to happen here is my responsibility and mine alone.
‘Can she go and serve the customers?’ I ask Osmala. ‘There’s quite a queue in the café.’
Osmala is still weighing the pastries in his hands.
‘Why not,’ he says eventually.
I look at Johanna. Perhaps my expression tells her it’s probably best to leave. She glances over at the freezer once more, almost offended, then leaves. Osmala and the officer continue emptying the freezer. I note that the other officer doesn’t seem to be watching the freezer, which is motionless, but me – unlike the freezer, I have a pair of legs. He has moved quietly, imperceptibly, and has positioned himself between me and the kitchen door. It’s hardly surprising.
The freezer is gradually emptied of its contents. Now the chicken wings are beginning to appear on the counter. After the bags of chicken wings, there is a thick layer of croissants, which I recall only too well. I can’t remember the exact number of croissants, but I’m sure the packet Osmala is currently pulling up is one of the last. I am right. He stops. I assume that right now he is looking at the layer of polystyrene panels and white paint, and it will confuse him for a few seconds at most. But he remains in the same position for far longer than I presumed he would, and when he finally moves, he moves in a way that doesn’t suggest he has discovered anything out of the ordinary. He begins pulling more bags of chicken wings from the freezer.
I don’t know how many packets of wings come out of the freezer because I don’t have the strength to count them. There are a lot. The volume of chicken wings building up on the counter represents more or less that of one professional hitman. Osmala leans forwards and his upper body, which is broad and large, disappears inside the freezer. I hear him tapping his knuckles against the walls and bottom of the freezer, running his fingers along the insides. Judging by the noises he is making, he sounds like a man who is disappointed. The anonymous email specified that this was the freezer in question. I should know, because I wrote it myself.
Eventually Osmala reverses out of the freezer. His face has turned a shade somewhere between cherry violet and fire-extinguisher red: he has been dangling, head upside-down in minus twenty degrees for several minutes.
‘Let’s see the other one,’ he says.
‘By all means.’ I don’t know what else to say, to him or myself. To say that this doesn’t line up with my calculations would be something of an understatement.