THE OFFICER IN uniform raises his hand to shield his eyes against the car’s headlights. Yusuf reaches for the pack of cigarettes lying on the center console, but then thinks about Erne, the raspy wheeze that sounds like a plastic pipe being cleaned with a metal brush. Maybe he’s smoked enough for one day.
Yusuf doesn’t kill the engine. He lets his gaze sail across the Koponens’ house, its front yard. The neighboring lots and the lots opposite. Some of the houses are old, but most are new construction built on property that has been subdivided, the majority luxurious works of skimmed concrete and glass. Not one of the residences on this street changes owners for under a million euros, and the Koponens’ waterfront house has certainly cost several million.
Yusuf looks up the slope of the tall hill. At the crest stands the old woman’s wooden villa, which reminds Yusuf of the Moominhouse: not the familiar blue tower from the Japanese cartoon, but the more villalike version that Tove Jansson built a scale model of herself. Yusuf saw it at the Tampere Art Museum while he was at the police academy; he spent a sunny Saturday at the museum with his nine-year-old sister. Now Nezha is sixteen and isn’t interested in Moomintrolls anymore, or much of anything for that matter. To be honest, Yusuf has no idea what Nezha likes and what she expects from life. It’s been a while since he had a proper conversation with his sister. Yusuf doesn’t know Nezha anymore, not the way he used to. He doesn’t remember the last time he got a real answer when he asked her how she was doing, the kind that reveals something real about the person answering.
“Hey.” Yusuf comes out of his reverie. A police officer in blue coveralls has sidled up to the car door without Yusuf noticing. Yusuf doesn’t know him. The officer knocks on the window; Yusuf opens the door.
“Yes?”
“Umm . . . you’re with homicide, right?”
“Yes.” Yusuf flashes his badge just in case.
“Fine. I just came over to make sure—”
“That some random black dude didn’t drive up to the crime scene,” Yusuf says, and turns off the engine.
The constable gulps. “No, I—,” he protests but falls silent when he sees Yusuf smile.
“I’m just giving you a hard time. I get it. There have been all sorts of weird people creeping around this crime scene.” Yusuf decides to bring his cigarettes along after all and climbs out of the car. The strong wind makes the air, which has dropped below zero again, bone-chillingly cold.
“Koivuaho,” the officer says, extending a hand.
“Pepple.” Yusuf lights a cigarette, then lifts the hand holding the cigarette and points at the man questioningly. “Koivuaho? Weren’t you the first patrol on the scene yesterday?”
“Yes.” Koivuaho pulls on his gloves more snugly. “I showed Sergeant Niemi around. Is she coming by?”
“Apparently you have a report of the neighbors’ responses to questioning?”
“Yup. But it hasn’t been typed up yet.” Koivuaho reaches into the breast pocket of his coveralls and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “We went around to all the houses a few hundred meters in every direction. Only one hasn’t answered all day. We collected some of the statements last night. Like Mrs. Adlerkreutz’s,” he continues, looking cold, then wipes his nose and points at the wooden villa across the street. The Moominhouse, where Yusuf and Jessica looked out the upstairs window less than twenty-four hours ago.
Yusuf smiles involuntarily. “Did you say ‘Adlerkreutz’?”
Koivuaho nods and takes the cigarette Yusuf offers him. A moment later, a short stick of rolled paper glows in the fingers of each man.
“Any highlights?” Yusuf asks, exhaling in brief puffs. The freezing air condenses the smoke.
“No one noticed anything out of the ordinary. Or anyone suspicious. No one remembers seeing Maria Koponen all day, or even Roger Koponen pulling out of the drive in his car yesterday morning. The whole street has been sound asleep.”
“You can’t blame them for that.” Yusuf takes the sheaf of paper Koivuaho hands him. The patrol officer is shorter than Yusuf but twice as burly. His stubble looks so coarse that you could stick cotton pads to it. Koivuaho must be about ten years older than Yusuf, and as a police officer much more experienced. Even so, he’s still working patrol. Yusuf knows not everyone is interested in rising to chief or even investigator, but it never ceases to amaze him that so many of his fellow officers don’t mind driving around in a van, handing out fines and chauffeuring drunks. There isn’t the slightest trace of bitterness or envy in Koivuaho’s eyes. Nor does Yusuf discern any of the racism masked as locker room talk that he’s been forced to tolerate in various forms over the course of his career and life.
“Thanks. I’ll have a look at these.” Yusuf flicks the butt in a handsome arc to the base of Mrs. Adlerkreutz’s hedge. “And hey, which house is the one where there wasn’t anyone home?”
“It’s marked down there. Number twelve,” Koivuaho mumbles, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and points farther away, outside the cordon. “Big old brick house. The gate says ‘Von Bunsdorf.’”