THE BUZZER SOUNDS, and Nina grabs hold of the wooden door handle. The ornate stairwell is granite or some other expensive stone; the white veins in its gleaming surface crisscross a light brown background. A few handsome pillars stand between the door and the elevators, emphasizing the lobby’s height. Nina glances at the engraved-brass list of tenants. The clinic takes up the first three floors; the administrative offices are on three.
Nina’s soft-soled sneakers don’t make the tiniest sound on the sturdy red runners. She strides up the stairs to the third floor and knocks on the oak door, which has clearly been updated to a burglary-resistant model recently. It stands out in distinct contrast to the rest of the hundred-year-old Jugendstil building. Nina notices that in addition to the offices of the Bättre Morgondag clinic, a foundation of the same name is housed on the floor too.
A moment later, the door is opened by a clean-shaven but incredibly stressed-looking man of about forty wearing a pink dress shirt, a navy tie, and dress trousers. A sizable, more or less heart-shaped birthmark covers his forehead.
“Nina Ruska. Police,” Nina says, and glances at her watch. The time is nearly two a.m., but CEO Daniel Luoma is still at the office. “Thank you for agreeing to meet at this hour—”
“I took a nap while I was waiting,” the man says, extending a hand. “Daniel Luoma.”
Nina shakes his hand and steps in. The offices smell of freshly sawed wood and varnish.
“You’ve remodeled recently?” Nina asks as she follows Luoma down the hallway. Bright lights sparkle at the ceiling.
“Completed just a couple of months ago. We gradually redid the floors, doors, and window frames. Both up here in the offices and in the clinic on the lower floors.”
“So the clinic has been around for a while?”
“Yes. We’ve been in the same location since nineteen sixty-nine. Fifty years next autumn. The entire building belongs to the Bättre Morgondag Foundation, which also owns the medical clinic.”
They have paused at the door to an office, and now Luoma gestures for Nina to go on in. She eyes the neat room: windows giving onto Bulevardi, snow falling in the glow of the streetlamps. Then she enters and seats herself in a leather chair across from Luoma’s desk.
“I’ll get right to the point. You indicated that both drugs and the equipment needed to administer them are missing from your stocks.” Nina rubs her eyes. She’s dead tired, but now she just has to keep going. They’re close to a breakthrough.
Luoma scratches his bare chin with the nail of his forefinger and then, after a pause that lasts a hair too long, nods.
“And you noticed while you were conducting an inventory?”
“Today, when the police . . . when you contacted us. I performed the inventory myself.”
“You didn’t trust anyone else to do it?”
“To be honest, if you assign a task like that to someone else, regardless of who they are, you can never be a hundred percent confident in the accuracy of the results.”
“So you’re saying that any one of your clinic’s sixteen employees could have taken them?”
“Theoretically. Fifteen, if you discount me. And I’m the one who noticed and reported the missing items, so I hope I’m not on the list of suspects.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“I am. I specialize in psychiatry.”
“Could I have a list of all of your employees?” Nina says, and a moment later, she has a fresh printout in her hand. Not a single name on the list rings any bells. Each employee’s job title is listed after the name and birth date: five doctors, six nurses, and five people in administration. Nina looks back up at Luoma, who is now gazing out the window pensively. His left earlobe looks a little funny; it was torn at some point and scarred over.
“Psychiatry . . . Does the Bättre Morgondag clinic specialize exclusively in mental illness?”
“Oh . . . I thought you knew that.” Luoma leans forward slowly. “Yes. We specialize in treating psychotic patients.”
“A private clinic for psychotic patients? And you have enough business?” Nina says skeptically, still staring at the list of names.
“I suppose you could say unfortunately we do.” Luoma crooks his fingers slowly, to almost hypnotic effect. “Let’s take one illness that causes psychosis: schizophrenia. In Finland, the prevalence is around one percent. In Helsinki alone, there are several thousand people who suffer from schizophrenia. And some of them, or their loved ones, are prepared to invest in the quality of their care.”
“One percent? That sounds pretty high.”
“I understand. You’re thinking about movies now: Norman Bates, John Nash, delusions, imaginary friends. . . . Not all patients suffer equally strong delusions. Sometimes the sole symptoms of the disease are depression and mood swings.”
“So medication and medical equipment required for anesthesia have been stolen from the clinic. What do you use them for?” Nina asks, gripping her chair’s armrests. Despite the recently completed remodel, the air in the room is in some way sticky.
Luoma looks at his computer screen for a moment and then gives Nina a tired smile. “Now and again psychotic patients require anesthetization.”
“I see.” Nina glances mechanically at her watch. “Do you have any idea, any idea at all, which one of your employees might have taken the drugs?”
“No.” Luoma looks back at Nina grimly. Or not exactly directly at Nina, but more like through her.
“All right.” Nina stands, list in hand.
“Please, sit for just a moment longer,” Luoma says calmly, gesturing at the chair.
Nina hasn’t let go of the armrest yet. She sits back down without taking her eyes off Luoma. “So you have a suspicion after all?”
“Not exactly. I don’t believe the person who took the drugs was an employee.”
“Who, then?”
“There’s something you ought to know.” Luoma shuts his eyes. He has suddenly gone white. “You’re investigating the death of Roger Koponen—”
“Yes?”
“He’s one of our oldest patients, and what I’m about to say may sound completely insane . . . but I’m almost certain I saw him standing across the street from our clinic today,” Luoma says, looking more surprised by his words than Nina is.