her up in the morning, before Larissa got the moped.
‘Jennifer’s here,’ said the woman, her tone a little friendlier again.
‘Good,’ said Joentaa.
Then he stood in a dark room waiting for Jennifer. He had spoken to her only a few times. Hello and goodbye. Jennifer usually gave a wry smile when she saw him. Supercilious. Ironic. Or insecure. He didn’t know which, and it hadn’t interested him. This time she didn’t smile when she came into the room. She looked rather confused.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Larissa has gone,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes,’ said Jennifer.
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘No idea,’ said Jennifer. ‘She hasn’t been here for several days.’
‘But you two are friends,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes,’ said Jennifer. ‘Of course. Sort of.’
‘Sort of,’ said Joentaa. ‘Of course.’
‘I like her a lot,’ said Jennifer.
‘So do I,’ said Joentaa. ‘That’s why I want to find her. As quickly as possible.’
Jennifer did not reply.
‘What’s her real name?’
‘Whose?’
‘Whose? Whose? Larissa’s, of course.’
‘You don’t know?’
Joentaa waited. She spluttered with laughter. Then she fell silent again and looked at him for a long time.
‘I don’t know either. We probably none of us talk about ourselves much, but she’s . . . she’s rather peculiar,’ she finally said.
Top body, thought Joentaa. Dream service. The tattoo on her arm, the mole on her breast. He felt dizzy, and Jennifer fidgeted with her panties as she thought.
‘Yes, rather peculiar. She always had pay-as-you-go mobiles and never topped them up – she threw them away instead – and when I told her she ought to sign a proper agreement she said she never writes her name on forms of any sort, on principle.’
Recipient unknown. Check the details.
‘But I know she really likes you. If that . . . if that’s any help,’ said Jennifer.
‘Where could she be?’ asked Joentaa.
Jennifer shifted her weight to her other leg and seemed to be thinking again. In the end she shrugged her shoulders. ‘We sometimes went for a drink, or to a club. But if I had to look for her I’d probably begin with you.’
Joentaa nodded, and thought of the giraffe under the apple tree.
‘Could you please call me if you hear anything from her?’
‘Yes . . . I think so . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes . . . of course. Why not? But you’re a cop, you’ll probably—’
‘Good, then let’s exchange phone numbers, okay?’
‘Give me yours, that’ll be enough,’ she said.
The dizzy feeling grew as Joentaa scribbled his number on a supermarket receipt. Jennifer took the scrap of paper and seemed to be wondering where to put it.
‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa, going past her to the door.
‘I’ll show you out,’ she said.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Good luck,’ she said, giving him a wry smile before she closed the door. Ironic. Or insecure. He didn’t know which.
The sun was on his back as he drove away.
He was thinking vaguely of August, and the broad white bed in the small dark room, and the note with his telephone number that Jennifer, or whatever her real name was, had after some thought stowed away in her panties.
18
MARKO WESTERBERG SUPPRESSED a yawn and a vague sense of sadness.
He leaned over the balustrade and looked down at the dead man on the ground. Fourteenth floor, his young colleague from Forensics had said, with a gleam in his eyes that Westerberg didn’t understand.
Kalevi Forsman had fallen fourteen floors down. From the roof terrace of a hotel with an extremely fine view of the sea.
A long queue of cars had formed in front of one of the big steamers. The passengers were now sitting in a café in the sun, or leaning against their cars drumming their fingers on the paintwork, waiting impatiently to get away from Helsinki at last. For whatever reason, and wherever they were going. The sun was a little cold, and Westerberg thought, with a satisfaction that he didn’t
‘Jennifer’s here,’ said the woman, her tone a little friendlier again.
‘Good,’ said Joentaa.
Then he stood in a dark room waiting for Jennifer. He had spoken to her only a few times. Hello and goodbye. Jennifer usually gave a wry smile when she saw him. Supercilious. Ironic. Or insecure. He didn’t know which, and it hadn’t interested him. This time she didn’t smile when she came into the room. She looked rather confused.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Larissa has gone,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes,’ said Jennifer.
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘No idea,’ said Jennifer. ‘She hasn’t been here for several days.’
‘But you two are friends,’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes,’ said Jennifer. ‘Of course. Sort of.’
‘Sort of,’ said Joentaa. ‘Of course.’
‘I like her a lot,’ said Jennifer.
‘So do I,’ said Joentaa. ‘That’s why I want to find her. As quickly as possible.’
Jennifer did not reply.
‘What’s her real name?’
‘Whose?’
‘Whose? Whose? Larissa’s, of course.’
‘You don’t know?’
Joentaa waited. She spluttered with laughter. Then she fell silent again and looked at him for a long time.
‘I don’t know either. We probably none of us talk about ourselves much, but she’s . . . she’s rather peculiar,’ she finally said.
Top body, thought Joentaa. Dream service. The tattoo on her arm, the mole on her breast. He felt dizzy, and Jennifer fidgeted with her panties as she thought.
‘Yes, rather peculiar. She always had pay-as-you-go mobiles and never topped them up – she threw them away instead – and when I told her she ought to sign a proper agreement she said she never writes her name on forms of any sort, on principle.’
Recipient unknown. Check the details.
‘But I know she really likes you. If that . . . if that’s any help,’ said Jennifer.
‘Where could she be?’ asked Joentaa.
Jennifer shifted her weight to her other leg and seemed to be thinking again. In the end she shrugged her shoulders. ‘We sometimes went for a drink, or to a club. But if I had to look for her I’d probably begin with you.’
Joentaa nodded, and thought of the giraffe under the apple tree.
‘Could you please call me if you hear anything from her?’
‘Yes . . . I think so . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes . . . of course. Why not? But you’re a cop, you’ll probably—’
‘Good, then let’s exchange phone numbers, okay?’
‘Give me yours, that’ll be enough,’ she said.
The dizzy feeling grew as Joentaa scribbled his number on a supermarket receipt. Jennifer took the scrap of paper and seemed to be wondering where to put it.
‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa, going past her to the door.
‘I’ll show you out,’ she said.
‘Right,’ he said.
‘Good luck,’ she said, giving him a wry smile before she closed the door. Ironic. Or insecure. He didn’t know which.
The sun was on his back as he drove away.
He was thinking vaguely of August, and the broad white bed in the small dark room, and the note with his telephone number that Jennifer, or whatever her real name was, had after some thought stowed away in her panties.
18
MARKO WESTERBERG SUPPRESSED a yawn and a vague sense of sadness.
He leaned over the balustrade and looked down at the dead man on the ground. Fourteenth floor, his young colleague from Forensics had said, with a gleam in his eyes that Westerberg didn’t understand.
Kalevi Forsman had fallen fourteen floors down. From the roof terrace of a hotel with an extremely fine view of the sea.
A long queue of cars had formed in front of one of the big steamers. The passengers were now sitting in a café in the sun, or leaning against their cars drumming their fingers on the paintwork, waiting impatiently to get away from Helsinki at last. For whatever reason, and wherever they were going. The sun was a little cold, and Westerberg thought, with a satisfaction that he didn’t
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