Behind God's Back by Harri Nykänen

make out the licence plates because the camerais filming straight from the side. It was a quiet night. Only a few cars drove past, and some of those were patrol cars or security company vehicles.”
    â€œWell, if we don’t get anything else, maybe at least we’ll get the time… Can you stay late tonight?”
    â€œI’m in no rush. The boys will be fine by themselves.”
    Both of Stenman’s sons were over ten years old, and she had a mother in good health who lived nearby and was willing to watch them.
    I told her about the call I had just received from Auvinen. “It sounds like Jacobson was hiding from whoever it was. I’ll ask Simolin to trace the call.”
    Stenman was doubtful. “It’s probably one of those prepaid numbers.”
    Simolin walked in, carrying a notebook. “I’ve checked with all of the rental agencies in the Helsinki area. It’s not a rental.”
    â€œNo cars have been reported stolen, it hasn’t been rented, and chances are it’s not the killer’s own car. What alternatives do we have left?” I pondered.
    â€œBorrowed,” Simolin suggested.
    â€œProfessionals don’t borrow cars. Too big a risk,” Stenman said.
    â€œBorrowed without permission, from some company or by blackmailing the owner.”
    â€œPossible, but that’s also risky, unless the killer has the owner of the car in a serious vice. What if the car was stolen from someone who couldn’t report it, like long-term airport parking? The owner might be abroad.”
    â€œThe new Golfs are equipped with immobilizers, and there are surveillance cameras at the parking lots. I just had an idea. What if the car is foreign, say Estonian? You can buy cars there without ID; you can make up any name you want. There’s no way to connect the buyer to the car.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” I said. “The important thing now is to find that car. It was already on the news, but we’ve got to get it into the papers, too. Find a photo of a similar Golf somewhere and askthe papers to print it. Not everyone knows what a Golf looks like – at least, not all women do.”
    â€œCome and take a look at this,” Stenman said.
    She rewound the recording and pressed Play. The footage showed a car, irritatingly at the far right of the screen, pulling up in front of Jacobson’s company. A man who appeared drunk climbed out. He looked around nervously, hurried over to the mail box, and slipped in an object that looked like a letter. The time on the screen read 6:32 a.m.
    Even in still mode the image was so grainy and blurry that there was no way of identifying the guy. Stenman wound it back and forth a few times, but it didn’t do any good. The clothes were normal; they didn’t have any logos. Then Stenman fast-forwarded.
    â€œOh, for Christ’s sakes,” Stenman said. The car backed away and disappeared for good.
    Simolin provided the play-by-play: “Turned around by backing up in the drive.”
    â€œWe’re not going to get the car or the guy from that,” I said, exasperated. You could only see a foot of the car’s nose, and even that was caught in an annoying shadow that fell across the front grille. You couldn’t even tell what colour it was, just that it was dark.
    â€œShitty luck, nothing we can do,” Stenman said.
    â€œWhat about Oksanen?” Simolin suggested.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHe came in second in the Tech World car identification competition a couple of years back. I just saw him in his office, even though he’s supposed to be on vacation.”
    â€œAsk him to come in here,” I said.
    As we waited on Oksanen’s expertise, Stenman rewound and fast-forwarded through the footage a few more times and fine-tuned it. Then Simolin walked in with Oksanen.
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?” Oksanen asked confidently. Simolin must have given him the