couldn’t remember her exact words. Turku lay in the sun beyond the glass wall, and the woman behind the counter asked what he would like.
He asked for a camomile tea, closed his hands round the hot cup and sat down at one side of the room. His mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket. Sundström’s number. He waited until Sundström gave up, and put the phone on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but failed because he didn’t know where to begin.
Then he picked up his mobile and wrote an email to Tuomas Heinonen:
Dear Tuomas, hope you slept well. Please don’t forget what I said about the tennis. Will come and see you at the weekend.
He sent the message and then stared for a while at the text of it. Then he tapped in Larissa’s number and quickly wrote:
Dear Larissa, hope you slept well, how about ice hockey or doing something else nice this evening?
He sent the message, and waited to hear back that it could not be delivered. He looked at the message telling him that the recipient was not known, and he should check his details.
Recipient not known. Check the details.
Ice hockey in summer. But it was really autumn.
He drank his camomile tea and followed the arrows pointing the way to Intensive Care. Grönholm was still deep in conversation, but with someone else this time. Kari Niemi, head of Forensics, smiled at him, and Joentaa asked Grönholm whether his mobile had Internet access.
‘Yes, sure, why?’ said Grönholm.
‘I have to look for something,’ said Joentaa.
‘I see.’ Grönholm took the phone out of his trouser pocket and handed it to him.
‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa, and he went down the corridor, following the arrows to the exit. When he was in the car he began looking for the pictures that he had found online. He needed only a few minutes.
Larissa’s face was unrecognisable in the photos, but everything else was on view. Her naked body in assorted unnatural positions. The tattoo on her upper arm. Some kind of fabulous creature, she had said. Behind the disguised eyes and the disguised face, he guessed at the trace of a smile. He tried to imagine the person behind the camera getting her to give that smile. Larissa, teens, dream body, top service. 84 Satamakatu. Ring bell for Nieminen.
He closed the Internet browser and dialled Grönholm’s number. It took him a while to realise that he was holding Grönholm’s phone in his hands. Then he started out. The police car had a satnav system. He tapped in the address and was reminded of the arrows in the hospital as a soft, strange female voice guided him to his destination. He parked the car and looked in vain for her moped as he went up to the house. Nieminen, whoever that was, lived right at the top. He rang the bell.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Hello,’ said Joentaa.
‘Up at the top, sixth floor,’ said the woman.
Joentaa took the stairs. The building was in a good state of repair, inside as well as out; the white paint on the walls looked fresh. The door on the sixth floor was not locked. He waited for a while, and then it was pushed open. In the doorway stood a red-haired woman wearing a white bathrobe.
‘Come in, darling,’ she said, beckoning him in.
Joentaa nodded, and stepped into the corridor, lit by a faint lilac-tinted light.
‘Been to see us before, darling?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll introduce the—’
‘I’m looking for Larissa,’ said Joentaa.
‘Larissa . . .’ said the woman.
‘I saw the ad.’
‘Oh,’ said the woman. Joentaa got the impression that she had lost a good deal of her interest in him.
‘The advertisement. On the Internet.’
‘It’s not right up to date,’ said the woman. ‘Larissa doesn’t work here any more. But we have two lovely girls who are very like her—’
‘I want to see Larissa,’ said Joentaa.
‘Like I said, she doesn’t work with us these days.’
‘Jennifer,’ said Joentaa. Her colleague who sometimes came to pick
He asked for a camomile tea, closed his hands round the hot cup and sat down at one side of the room. His mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket. Sundström’s number. He waited until Sundström gave up, and put the phone on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes and tried to think, but failed because he didn’t know where to begin.
Then he picked up his mobile and wrote an email to Tuomas Heinonen:
Dear Tuomas, hope you slept well. Please don’t forget what I said about the tennis. Will come and see you at the weekend.
He sent the message and then stared for a while at the text of it. Then he tapped in Larissa’s number and quickly wrote:
Dear Larissa, hope you slept well, how about ice hockey or doing something else nice this evening?
He sent the message, and waited to hear back that it could not be delivered. He looked at the message telling him that the recipient was not known, and he should check his details.
Recipient not known. Check the details.
Ice hockey in summer. But it was really autumn.
He drank his camomile tea and followed the arrows pointing the way to Intensive Care. Grönholm was still deep in conversation, but with someone else this time. Kari Niemi, head of Forensics, smiled at him, and Joentaa asked Grönholm whether his mobile had Internet access.
‘Yes, sure, why?’ said Grönholm.
‘I have to look for something,’ said Joentaa.
‘I see.’ Grönholm took the phone out of his trouser pocket and handed it to him.
‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa, and he went down the corridor, following the arrows to the exit. When he was in the car he began looking for the pictures that he had found online. He needed only a few minutes.
Larissa’s face was unrecognisable in the photos, but everything else was on view. Her naked body in assorted unnatural positions. The tattoo on her upper arm. Some kind of fabulous creature, she had said. Behind the disguised eyes and the disguised face, he guessed at the trace of a smile. He tried to imagine the person behind the camera getting her to give that smile. Larissa, teens, dream body, top service. 84 Satamakatu. Ring bell for Nieminen.
He closed the Internet browser and dialled Grönholm’s number. It took him a while to realise that he was holding Grönholm’s phone in his hands. Then he started out. The police car had a satnav system. He tapped in the address and was reminded of the arrows in the hospital as a soft, strange female voice guided him to his destination. He parked the car and looked in vain for her moped as he went up to the house. Nieminen, whoever that was, lived right at the top. He rang the bell.
‘Hello,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Hello,’ said Joentaa.
‘Up at the top, sixth floor,’ said the woman.
Joentaa took the stairs. The building was in a good state of repair, inside as well as out; the white paint on the walls looked fresh. The door on the sixth floor was not locked. He waited for a while, and then it was pushed open. In the doorway stood a red-haired woman wearing a white bathrobe.
‘Come in, darling,’ she said, beckoning him in.
Joentaa nodded, and stepped into the corridor, lit by a faint lilac-tinted light.
‘Been to see us before, darling?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’ll introduce the—’
‘I’m looking for Larissa,’ said Joentaa.
‘Larissa . . .’ said the woman.
‘I saw the ad.’
‘Oh,’ said the woman. Joentaa got the impression that she had lost a good deal of her interest in him.
‘The advertisement. On the Internet.’
‘It’s not right up to date,’ said the woman. ‘Larissa doesn’t work here any more. But we have two lovely girls who are very like her—’
‘I want to see Larissa,’ said Joentaa.
‘Like I said, she doesn’t work with us these days.’
‘Jennifer,’ said Joentaa. Her colleague who sometimes came to pick
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