entirely understand, that autumn would come after all.
He turned and saw his young colleague Seppo, still busy questioning the smartly dressed waitresses, although by now it had become clear that they had nothing to contribute apart from the little that had already been said. Westerberg was reminded of Hämäläinen, the talk-show presenter who had been stabbed not so long ago on the premises of a TV station, and not a soul had noticed.
Obviously violent death had a certain casual look to it these days. Nothing that would strike anyone as particularly unusual. And anyway, the TV show host had survived, and according to the ratings was now more popular than ever as a result. Kalevi Forsman the software adviser hadn’t been so lucky.
Westerberg looked at the young women helplessly shaking their heads, and Seppo, patiently nodding and taking notes, and he wondered what a software adviser actually did. At some point he had missed out on this terminology. Software adviser, account manager, help-desk administrator. What the hell did all that guff mean?
A forensic officer in white was leaning over the conference table, apparently looking for the particle of dust that would identify the murderer. Seppo thanked the smart young ladies and walked briskly towards him, but only to say that nothing new had turned up. Westerberg nodded.
‘But at least what we do have is a start,’ said Seppo. ‘Two men. One rather short, wearing a striking sky-blue bow tie and a crumpled suit. That was Forsman.’
Westerberg nodded.
‘And a second man who was already here before Forsman arrived. Not tall, not short. Well, if anything quite tall. Between one metre eighty and one metre eighty-five – perhaps, because one of the waitresses thought he was taller than that.’
‘So quite tall,’ said Westerberg.
‘Not fat, not thin. Just normal,’ said Seppo.
‘Didn’t one of the ladies say he was wiry?’
Seppo nodded. ‘Yes, but the others couldn’t confirm it. Good-looking, they all said that. But in an everyday kind of way. And in all seriousness they mentioned three different hair colours.’
‘Three?’
‘Fair, brown, grey.’
‘Oh,’ said Westerberg.
‘He even said a friendly good morning to them, all the ladies agree on that.’
Friendly, thought Westerberg.
‘He was standing on the roof terrace and seemed to be enjoying the view while the women set up the buffet,’ said Seppo. ‘The waitresses assumed that he and Forsman both belonged to the company that had hired the conference room. A chain of fitness studios, or more precisely two fitness studios that could be merging.’
Fitness studios, thought Westerberg, and he noticed that Seppo said the word as if it were perfectly normal.
‘Forsman is not on the list of participants, and as matters stood has not the slightest . . .’
‘This is getting me down,’ said Westerberg.
‘. . . not the slightest thing to do with the studios,’ said Seppo.
‘This is getting me down. Fitness. Account. Software adviser. Flat-rate surfing.’
Seppo didn’t seem to understand him.
‘All that shit,’ Westerberg specified more precisely.
Seppo nodded.
‘Never mind. So Forsman has nothing to do with the conference. In all probability the murderer won’t be on any list either, but of course we’ll have to work through the names.’
‘Interviews are already in progress,’ said Seppo.
Westerberg was about to say something else, but stopped and watched the forensic officer lying on the floor and feeling the underside of the table.
‘Yes,’ said Seppo.
‘What actually happened here?’ asked Westerberg.
‘Well . . .’ said Seppo.
‘A man calmly goes up to the fourteenth floor of a hotel, says good morning to the catering ladies – in a friendly way, of course – stands on the roof terrace and enjoys the view. Then a second man comes along, the two of them talk. Then one of them falls off the roof and the other goes home. The end.’
Seppo nodded to
He turned and saw his young colleague Seppo, still busy questioning the smartly dressed waitresses, although by now it had become clear that they had nothing to contribute apart from the little that had already been said. Westerberg was reminded of Hämäläinen, the talk-show presenter who had been stabbed not so long ago on the premises of a TV station, and not a soul had noticed.
Obviously violent death had a certain casual look to it these days. Nothing that would strike anyone as particularly unusual. And anyway, the TV show host had survived, and according to the ratings was now more popular than ever as a result. Kalevi Forsman the software adviser hadn’t been so lucky.
Westerberg looked at the young women helplessly shaking their heads, and Seppo, patiently nodding and taking notes, and he wondered what a software adviser actually did. At some point he had missed out on this terminology. Software adviser, account manager, help-desk administrator. What the hell did all that guff mean?
A forensic officer in white was leaning over the conference table, apparently looking for the particle of dust that would identify the murderer. Seppo thanked the smart young ladies and walked briskly towards him, but only to say that nothing new had turned up. Westerberg nodded.
‘But at least what we do have is a start,’ said Seppo. ‘Two men. One rather short, wearing a striking sky-blue bow tie and a crumpled suit. That was Forsman.’
Westerberg nodded.
‘And a second man who was already here before Forsman arrived. Not tall, not short. Well, if anything quite tall. Between one metre eighty and one metre eighty-five – perhaps, because one of the waitresses thought he was taller than that.’
‘So quite tall,’ said Westerberg.
‘Not fat, not thin. Just normal,’ said Seppo.
‘Didn’t one of the ladies say he was wiry?’
Seppo nodded. ‘Yes, but the others couldn’t confirm it. Good-looking, they all said that. But in an everyday kind of way. And in all seriousness they mentioned three different hair colours.’
‘Three?’
‘Fair, brown, grey.’
‘Oh,’ said Westerberg.
‘He even said a friendly good morning to them, all the ladies agree on that.’
Friendly, thought Westerberg.
‘He was standing on the roof terrace and seemed to be enjoying the view while the women set up the buffet,’ said Seppo. ‘The waitresses assumed that he and Forsman both belonged to the company that had hired the conference room. A chain of fitness studios, or more precisely two fitness studios that could be merging.’
Fitness studios, thought Westerberg, and he noticed that Seppo said the word as if it were perfectly normal.
‘Forsman is not on the list of participants, and as matters stood has not the slightest . . .’
‘This is getting me down,’ said Westerberg.
‘. . . not the slightest thing to do with the studios,’ said Seppo.
‘This is getting me down. Fitness. Account. Software adviser. Flat-rate surfing.’
Seppo didn’t seem to understand him.
‘All that shit,’ Westerberg specified more precisely.
Seppo nodded.
‘Never mind. So Forsman has nothing to do with the conference. In all probability the murderer won’t be on any list either, but of course we’ll have to work through the names.’
‘Interviews are already in progress,’ said Seppo.
Westerberg was about to say something else, but stopped and watched the forensic officer lying on the floor and feeling the underside of the table.
‘Yes,’ said Seppo.
‘What actually happened here?’ asked Westerberg.
‘Well . . .’ said Seppo.
‘A man calmly goes up to the fourteenth floor of a hotel, says good morning to the catering ladies – in a friendly way, of course – stands on the roof terrace and enjoys the view. Then a second man comes along, the two of them talk. Then one of them falls off the roof and the other goes home. The end.’
Seppo nodded to
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