I notice that as I’ve been doing these calculations my heart has started beating harder and louder, that a freezing wind has been moving and gathering speed within me. I look again at the results. Mathematics is incorruptible, it always tells the truth. And the truth is, I have been outcounted. And that’s not all. Now it feels as though the truth has sharp, cold, deeply personal nails ready to scratch and tear at me. I keep staring at the numbers, the wind gathers force and the nails grow sharper.
Finally, I give in and let the storm come.
TWO WEEKS LATER
The parking lot fills up at midday. The sheer noise and frantic movement inside the park suggest that this might be our best Sunday – or any day – this year. The number of tickets sold offers solid proof: it is our best day of the year. While this feels rewarding in both personal and financial terms – at this rate we will be back in the clear sooner than I had anticipated – it also means I’m running at great speed from one crisis to the next.
In the last hour alone, there have been incidents ranging from a sprained wrist, counterfeit entrance tickets and a bubble-gum-induced blockage at one of the slides, to a pair of quarrelling mothers who are first escorted outside, then all the way to their respective cars.
I stand by one of the cars on this cloudless, chilly October afternoon, and I can still hear the cursing coming from inside the vehicle when I receive a text message from the Curly Cake Café. The message is short and to the point; from Johanna, I would expect nothing else. The mother in the car twice shows me her extended middle finger: first as she backs out of her parking space and again a second later as she speeds away.
I find Johanna in the kitchen, which is both spotless and full of action. This in itself is unsurprising. Johanna is dedicated to her café and she keeps it running like clockwork. She sees me and nods. My first impression of her as a fearless Ironman competitor, hard as rock, hasn’t changed. I still haven’t had an actual conversation with her, a conversation longer than a few words here and there. There’s been no need. Even now, everything in the kitchen seems to be running in synchronised harmony: the ovens, the fryers, both dishwashers, the big steel dough kneader the size of a small cement mixer. At a quick glance, I can’t see anything that I could help her with. Before I can ask or say anything, she gestures toward one of the tall stools.
‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Very well.’
‘Eight minutes,’ she says as she slides a tray of croissants into the oven the way curling players send off the pin, only she does it faster and with even more precision. She closes the oven door and consults her smart watch. ‘That should do it.’
I am unsure whether she is referring to the croissants or the estimated length of our conversation, so I remain seated and wait. I realise this is the second time in recent weeks that I’ve found myself racing against the clock and buns in ovens.
‘I’m sure you’ve noticed something is missing,’ she says, and I think I see her nod in the direction of the freezer, but I’m not sure. ‘All you need to know is that you don’t need to worry about it.’
Now I am absolutely positive, one-hundred-percent certain.
‘Thank you,’ I say hesitantly. ‘For the chicken wings.’
‘As I said before, I’m the one who should be thanking you. But there’s something else missing too, right?’
This is all going too fast, I think. On the other hand, if Johanna already knows … If the freezer is anything to go by, she might even know more than I do. A lightning-quick re-evaluation of the situation tells me this must be the case.
‘The hundred and twenty-five thousand euros,’ I say.
‘Any theories?’
Again, this is too fast, but I conclude that since she must already have a grasp of the basics, so to speak, I can safely present a theory of my own. Because that’s all I have. A theory.
‘She did it,’ I say. ‘Laura did it. I can only guess when it all started, but I think I know. When those two men visited, she recognised the one I call Lizard Man. Perhaps he was one of her ex’s acquaintances, the ex whom she eventually joined in prison. Laura realised the park was in financial difficulty, maybe she noticed something during Juhani’s tenure here too. Then you looked in the freezer and discovered the man I had temporarily hidden there. The way she talked about you and the fact that she let you look after her daughter told me you two were close. I think I know where you and she met and when.’
I pause. Johanna remains silent – but she doesn’t deny it. So I continue.
‘Perhaps one of you recognised the man in the freezer. Then I told Laura about the plans to set up the bank. As someone very familiar with the park’s finances, she knew that the park itself didn’t have any capital. She knew the money must have come from outside, and because she knew who I was dealing with, she also knew that money would be tainted. Everybody learned how to work the bank’s new software. Laura has experience of how certain kinds of transfers can take place under the radar and how everything can be made to look legal as long as those transfers meet certain criteria. She knows I don’t think collection agencies charge a fair interest rate and she knew I wouldn’t contact Osmala, whom you recognised right away – of that I’m quite sure. She trusted that eventually I would put a stop to it all. The rest was about making sure there was nothing to connect her to the park any more. Laura took the money, and now she’s gone.’
Johanna’s expression hasn’t flinched. She looks at her smart watch, and perhaps there is a slight flicker of something on her face. For the first time in my presence, she looks worried. Perhaps at the thought of the croissants over-heating, I think, but dismiss the idea. This is something else.
‘No,’ she says.
Her eyes are fixed on mine.
‘It’s a theory…’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she says.
The machines hum steadily. The only sound in the kitchen is their low purr.
‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘She did know where the money was coming from. She also knew the park was in danger – and she knew you were in danger too. She wanted to help the park and to help you, but she had to stay away from both once the detective turned up. The detective I recognised. You were right about that too.’
‘But when I said she took the money, you said “no”.’
‘Because your theory was wrong,’ she says. ‘She didn’t take the money.’
Given all the nonsensical things I’ve heard lately, this last sentence makes the least sense of all. I’m trying to see any new scenarios, new ways the chain of events could have panned out, but they are scarce. In fact, they are non-existent. Johanna must sense the cogs aimlessly ratcheting in my brain.
‘Not for herself,’ Johanna says. ‘For the park. The money is ready to be used for the park when the time comes. As far as I’ve understood, certain parties might still show an interest in the park’s finances.’
She is, of course, referring to Detective Inspector Osmala. From what I gather, the police are winding up their investigation into the park. But that is not the reason I feel as though the world is fading away, the reason I can no longer hear the noise of the park behind me, the hum of the kitchen, the reason that my ears are now filled with the sound of my own heart and blood.
‘Assuming that is what happened…’
‘It is.’
‘Why would she … go through all that?’
Johanna no longer looks like an Ironman competitor. Now she looks like an Ironman winner, the toughest, the hardiest of them all.
‘You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?’