‘Thank you, Henri.’
33
It takes two days. Then the tabloids have a field day with the news.
‘BODY IN THE BARN’
‘SHOWDOWN IN THE UNDERWORLD?’
I glance through the news until I find the crucial piece of information I am looking for: ‘One suspect has been detained on suspicion of murder. The suspect has a history of involvement with the criminal underworld and is well known to police.’
It seems I have succeeded, I think. It’s over. Everything is over.
Or, as I have realised earlier today, almost everything is over.
I lock the back door of the adventure park and take the metal steps down to the forecourt. It is eleven o’clock, the air cold and still. Without electric lighting, the world would be like an immense, dark cellar. I carry a rubbish bag out to the bins, open the lid and dump the bag inside. The lid slams shut and lets out a clang that is just as loud as I’d hoped. One way or another, I want my departure to be noticed. I want to be seen walking away from the adventure park.
After walking around the corner, I set off diagonally across the car park. Once I am far enough away I glance to my right, and against the wall of the building I see the same slender, vertical reflection as before.
I should thank the news headlines for bringing it to my attention.
After reading the headlines earlier this morning, I really needed some fresh air. The news was good, or as good as could be expected, but it triggered a delayed yet massive stress reaction, which in many ways was linked to Laura, to everything being … over.
I walked around the adventure park. As I was finishing my walk and began to calm down again – my breathing stabilised, I was getting enough oxygen, and my stomach no longer felt as though it was filled with thawing metals – I arrived in front of the big YouMeFun sign on the roof, the clouds in front of the sun parted and something flashed in the corner of my eye.
At first, I couldn’t see anything else.
Then I looked more closely at the wall and saw where the flash had come from. Seen from the right angle, the sun was reflected from a thin wire cable running down the length of the building. From where it touched the tarmac, the cable ran along the ground and behind a concrete bollard, where it lay tangled in loops on the ground. Then it ran up the wall and disappeared over the gutter and onto the roof. I went back inside, climbed up to the roof via the indoor access stairs and walked over to the spot where I assumed the cable must be. The other end of the clean, new cable had, it seemed, recently been knotted around the YouMeFun sign.
Now, as I arrive at the side of the car park near the road, I turn right and continue along the cycle path. As usual, I head towards the bus stop. When I arrive at the spot where the cycle path veers off between the rocks and a thin strip of woodland, meaning there is no way of looking back to the road, I leave the path, climb over a small ridge covered in trees and reach the car park of a neighbouring furniture outlet, walk around the furniture store, and before long I am approaching the adventure park from the other direction. I find a suitable place to wait in the shadows of an unlit road-side greasy spoon café. The café has permanently closed its doors, but the smell of last spring’s fast food still lingers in the air.
I have been seen leaving the park, I was the last person to leave, and the wire cable is waiting. Everything is ready. The equation is beautiful in its simplicity. I notice I am finally rediscovering my calculus mojo. It comes in fits and starts, still feels as though there is a tiny yet all the more determined grain of sand in the cogs, I just don’t know where. The friction is akin to completing a jigsaw only to discover that the final piece is missing; the larger picture feels unsatisfyingly incomplete.
Then, finally, the missing piece of the equation pulls into sight.
A Hyundai slows and seems to hesitate before turning into the adventure park. I see exactly what I expected to see: a bumper guard. I mentally thank Osmala. The vehicle that knocked over the flagpole turns carefully into the car park. It continues diagonally across the asphalt, and now I understand why: the driver wants to scout out the area at the back of the park first. Once the Hyundai disappears from view, I start running.
I have crossed the road and made it into the adventure park complex, and I am sprinting along the building’s tall façade when I hear the sound of the truck again. I stop. Just around the corner, the truck approaches, getting closer and closer…
Until it stops.
I peer round the corner. The driver is turning the vehicle, reversing towards the wall. I take out my phone, then a moment later return it to my pocket. The towbar stops a few metres from the wall, then the driver’s door opens. The driver jumps out and runs over to the bollard. The driver is wearing a large jacket and a hoodie beneath it, the hood of which is pulled so far over their head that their face remains obscured in the shadows. The driver picks up the wire from behind the bollard and starts attaching it to the towbar.
I take a few brisk strides towards the knot-tier. The truck’s engine covers the sound of my steps. The driver finishes tying the knot, stands up straight, and is about to dash back to the vehicle when I reach out a hand and grip the perpetrator by the shoulder.
The driver both turns and lurches backwards. This happens with the sheer momentum of the movement; I neither shove nor hit out. The driver falls back, knocking their head and shoulders against the truck, and gives a yelp. A rather high-pitched yelp. The hood has fallen right in front of the driver’s face; the hoodie is about three sizes too big. The driver is clearly disorientated. And only now do I realise how short and small that driver is.
I grip the hood, pull it back and – find myself looking at a young woman.
‘Venla?’
‘What?’ she asks.
It looks as though I’ve calculated correctly, right down to this final detail. Venla looks a bit shocked and more than a little annoyed. She has very short bleached hair and startlingly angry blue-green eyes.
‘First you knocked over my flagpole,’ I say. ‘Then you pushed a frozen chicken leg under the tracks of the Komodo Locomotive. And now you’re trying to pull the sign from my roof.’
‘So?’
‘So … the adventure park pays your wages. You don’t get a monthly salary to sabotage the park but, in your case, for your customer-service expertise. This isn’t at all sensible. The adventure park is suffering. Your father’s Hyundai will suffer.’
‘How do you know…?’
‘I checked the registration number a moment ago,’ I say. ‘And I doubt your name is Tero. This has to stop.’
Now there’s something else to Venla’s expression besides frightened irritation. More than anything else, she looks confused.
‘Who are you?’
I explain who I am, how I ended up doing what I am doing. I tell her about Juhani’s untimely death, the park’s current state of affairs, the growth in footfall. I also mention that the ticket office is badly in need of another member of staff, particularly one who is already on the payroll.
‘Juhani’s dead?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Didn’t Kristian tell you?’
Venla shakes her head. ‘We never talk about anything. I just WhatsApp him and ask if he can stand in for me, and he replies with a heart and thumbs-up emoji.’
‘It’s highly likely he has a crush on you.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I have experience of such things, and it’s not exactly hard to see,’ I say, eager to change the subject – for a variety of reasons. ‘But that’s not why we’re here this evening. This evening, we are—’