rear-view mirror and so many dice that he was lucky he could see the road.”
“The red BMW?” I offered.
“Yeah.”
Both cars were still in the yard. They were being checked at the moment and would soon be moved to police premises for even more thorough examination.
“What kind of man was Wasin Mahmed?” I asked.
“Hard-working, good kid. I gotta hand it to the Muslims, they respect their elders. Always calling me papa: papa this and papa that. Wouldn’t get me booze, and believe me, I asked.”
“Did you see any other cars?”
Jäppinen’s eyes searched around for something else to wet his whistle but came up empty.
“Last night, you mean?”
“Right.”
“No, but I was down at the Teboil station for a while.”
“How long were you there?”
“As best as I can recall, I had a beer and then came straight home. About half an hour.”
“You have the receipt?”
“The receipt?” he repeated, perplexed, but then he fumbled around the table for his glasses, which were missing one arm, stood, and went over to the coat rack near the door. He fished his hand into the side pocket of the old-fashioned leather jacket and carried his catch over to the table. A broken cigarette, a six-millimetre bolt, a couple of small coins and a few slips of paper tumbled from his fist. I picked up the slips and found what I was looking for.
According to the receipt from the petrol station, he had bought sausages, milk, bread and a six-pack of beer. The sale had been made at 8:05 p.m.
Jäppinen looked outside through his teetering, one-armed spectacles and saw the police officers moving around the yard.
“There’s cops out thicker than blueberries in a bog. Were those devils dealing drugs or selling stolen goods or something?”
I didn’t answer, I just asked: “Do you remember anything else about last night? What did you do when you came back here?”
“I guess I watched the news… and knocked back a few beers. Then I went to bed.”
“Do you have a prostate problem?” Stenman asked. I glanced at her, slightly taken aback.
“I’d wager at this age, just about every man does.”
“You drank a beer at the Teboil and more when you got back. Where did you do your business?”
“Out back, behind the RV.”
“And you didn’t see anything then either?”
“I was looking at the stars, it was a clear sky, and the moon, there was a fine moon. And I was a little tipsy, I guess.”
The apartment building was one of those well-built ones from the 1950s, four stories of plastered brick. The stairwell smelt of food and floor wax and I knew that the basement smelt of lime wash. These kinds of buildings always make me feel cozy and safe. Maybe it was because I had lived the first ten and happiest years of my life in one. I was positive this had the same kind of chicken-wire walk-ins as in the basement of my childhood home. In one of them, on a foam mattress laid out on the floor, I had done my damnedest to try and get into the pants of Karmela Meyer, my girlfriend who lived in the same building. Although Karmela breathed promisingly in my ear, I had to work at it for almost a year before I succeeded.
I studied the name board in the lower lobby, the same kind where as kids we used to move the letters around to make up new, better names for the residents. Hamid lived on the third floor. There was no elevator.
I had asked Stenman along. I wasn’t eager to face the wife and four kids whose husband and father had been killed all alone. Besides, you never knew what you’d find waiting for you in someone’s home.
“Who breaks the news?” Stenman asked, when we reached the second floor.
“You do, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. You know if they speak Finnish?”
“Pretty sure. They’ve lived here eleven years already.” I had called HQ from the car and got the stats on Ali Hamid and his family. Aged forty-six, wife and four kids, a girl and three boys. The oldest fourteen, born in Iraq, the
“The red BMW?” I offered.
“Yeah.”
Both cars were still in the yard. They were being checked at the moment and would soon be moved to police premises for even more thorough examination.
“What kind of man was Wasin Mahmed?” I asked.
“Hard-working, good kid. I gotta hand it to the Muslims, they respect their elders. Always calling me papa: papa this and papa that. Wouldn’t get me booze, and believe me, I asked.”
“Did you see any other cars?”
Jäppinen’s eyes searched around for something else to wet his whistle but came up empty.
“Last night, you mean?”
“Right.”
“No, but I was down at the Teboil station for a while.”
“How long were you there?”
“As best as I can recall, I had a beer and then came straight home. About half an hour.”
“You have the receipt?”
“The receipt?” he repeated, perplexed, but then he fumbled around the table for his glasses, which were missing one arm, stood, and went over to the coat rack near the door. He fished his hand into the side pocket of the old-fashioned leather jacket and carried his catch over to the table. A broken cigarette, a six-millimetre bolt, a couple of small coins and a few slips of paper tumbled from his fist. I picked up the slips and found what I was looking for.
According to the receipt from the petrol station, he had bought sausages, milk, bread and a six-pack of beer. The sale had been made at 8:05 p.m.
Jäppinen looked outside through his teetering, one-armed spectacles and saw the police officers moving around the yard.
“There’s cops out thicker than blueberries in a bog. Were those devils dealing drugs or selling stolen goods or something?”
I didn’t answer, I just asked: “Do you remember anything else about last night? What did you do when you came back here?”
“I guess I watched the news… and knocked back a few beers. Then I went to bed.”
“Do you have a prostate problem?” Stenman asked. I glanced at her, slightly taken aback.
“I’d wager at this age, just about every man does.”
“You drank a beer at the Teboil and more when you got back. Where did you do your business?”
“Out back, behind the RV.”
“And you didn’t see anything then either?”
“I was looking at the stars, it was a clear sky, and the moon, there was a fine moon. And I was a little tipsy, I guess.”
The apartment building was one of those well-built ones from the 1950s, four stories of plastered brick. The stairwell smelt of food and floor wax and I knew that the basement smelt of lime wash. These kinds of buildings always make me feel cozy and safe. Maybe it was because I had lived the first ten and happiest years of my life in one. I was positive this had the same kind of chicken-wire walk-ins as in the basement of my childhood home. In one of them, on a foam mattress laid out on the floor, I had done my damnedest to try and get into the pants of Karmela Meyer, my girlfriend who lived in the same building. Although Karmela breathed promisingly in my ear, I had to work at it for almost a year before I succeeded.
I studied the name board in the lower lobby, the same kind where as kids we used to move the letters around to make up new, better names for the residents. Hamid lived on the third floor. There was no elevator.
I had asked Stenman along. I wasn’t eager to face the wife and four kids whose husband and father had been killed all alone. Besides, you never knew what you’d find waiting for you in someone’s home.
“Who breaks the news?” Stenman asked, when we reached the second floor.
“You do, if you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. You know if they speak Finnish?”
“Pretty sure. They’ve lived here eleven years already.” I had called HQ from the car and got the stats on Ali Hamid and his family. Aged forty-six, wife and four kids, a girl and three boys. The oldest fourteen, born in Iraq, the
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