It was often like this: at first everything was like a vague, opaque mush that nobody wanted to touch, and when they did every thread seemed to lead to a dead end, then amidst it all the telephone would ring or someone would walk in and from that moment on the case seemed electric, so many sensible tasks to take care of that you didn’t know where to start, and each check, in one way or another, led you another step forwards, and more importantly the mood changed, the spirit, and it was suddenly clear that the case was about to wind itself up, that the perpetrator would be caught in a matter of days if not hours.
Harjunpää felt just like this; he sat in his chair impatiently, doodling small birds on the cover of the telephone directory – they oddly resembled chaffinches – but officially he was waiting for the man sitting opposite him to read through his interview statement. The man was being agonisingly thorough, occasionally flicking back to the previous page and thinking about something, his head tilted to one side, then he would scroll down the page with his finger until he found the relevant place and continue reading. He might have been feeling unwell and his bandage may have hampered his reading: one side of his face was swollen and partially covered in plasters, and around his forehead was a bandage that covered one of his eyes almost entirely.
The man was one Juha Backman. In her own office, Onerva was interviewing a Raija Somebody-or-Other; Harjunpää couldn’t remember her surname. Backman had dashed into the stairwell after an intruder, switched on the lights and was close enough to get a relatively good look at the man for about ten seconds. The description was included in his statement, and Harjunpää had realised while he was writing it down that it wouldn’t be too difficult to find potential suspects that fitted the description from their online photofit database.
‘That sounds fine. Of course, the height’s only approximate – I was looking at him from above and he was all hunched up.’
‘It’s close enough for me. These descriptions are always approximate. I’d just like to double-check what you said about his feet…’
‘He was barefoot, I’m absolutely certain. He was carrying all his clothes crumpled up in a ball with his shoes dangling at the front, a pair of light brown trainers.’
‘And he wasn’t wearing any socks?’
‘I think I would have noticed, especially as he was completely naked. What does it matter? I’m sure he’s wearing some now.’
‘The soles of your feet have the same kind of friction ridges as your fingers… If you’d like to wait outside for a moment, I’ll fetch a witness, we can sign your statement and go to the flat together.’
Harjunpää glanced into the corridor but Onerva’s door was still shut. There wasn’t the faintest sign of Lampinen or Juslin, and with a sense of relief he returned to his desk and dialled the Forensics office.
‘Thurman.’
‘Harjunpää here. I need someone to come with me to a scene in about twenty minutes. Dagmarinkatu 10.’
‘A body?’
‘No. An apartment fresh from our mystery intruder.’
‘And?’
‘We’ll bring the lock back here, take it apart and photograph it, so bring a spare latch with you. Most importantly we’re looking for prints. Fingerprints. Primarily from the door but also from all around the flat below waist level: he moves around on his haunches and might have steadied himself against something. And the bed apparently has wide, painted boarding around the edges, so they might give us something.’
‘OK. But you know it’ll take longer than a quarter of an hour.’
‘I know. And we have to start off by looking for footprints. Our man was barefoot and the place is covered in smooth vinyl flooring. Then we’ll look for any fibres, at least in the hallway – it would be logical for him to leave his gear there.’
‘Not a problem. We’ll take care of it.’
‘Thanks. I’ll ring when we’re ready to go.’
From the corridor came the joyful clip-clop of high heels, and without even looking up Harjunpää could see how Onerva’s skirt fluttered around her legs and clung to her thighs… A moment later she was at his door. She was smiling about something. They had conducted the initial interviews together and both knew the particulars of the case, and now there was a glimmer of happiness in her eyes once again, the same happiness that shone out of her knitting, and even now her hands moved nimbly as though she were holding her knitting needles, tying the whole case together just as she did everything else. And again Harjunpää wanted to touch her.
‘Timo, I think only one of us should go to the Dagmarinkatu flat. The other should stay here and call through the list of other plaintiffs.’
‘Maybe it would be best just to have a quick look around then leave Thurman to get on with it. I’m itching to see what the photofit database will come up with.’
‘Excuse me…’
Kauranen had appeared at the door. He’d been on night shift and you could tell. His face was a pallid grey and his eyes seemed distracted, as though they were caught up in the past, and everybody knew with what: blood and guts, tears and sorrow. In his hand he had a printout and a plastic bag containing a number of bottles of pills.
‘I think you can wind up one of your cases,’ he yawned. Harjunpää and Onerva were silent. ‘I’ve just got back from the scene. At first I thought it was suicide, pills and alcohol, but there was nothing to back it up, no note, nothing organised. These don’t look out of the ordinary and there were even some pills left. Judging by the number of bottles, I’d say the victim was only a moderate drinker. But both of them together… Vomited in her sleep then choked to death. It’ll probably be recorded as accidental death. It’s just that I found your card at the scene and there was a note in the case folder.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s… hang on a minute.’ Kauranen fumbled around. There were so many things running through his head after his shift that he had to consult his papers. ‘Pirjo. Pirjo Marjaana Lehmusto. Worked in telesales.’
Onerva turned her back to the others; it looked as though she brought her hands up to her face.
Harjunpää made to stand up and groped at the air for a moment, as though reaching for a handbrake that didn’t exist. Was it only yesterday morning she’d been here?
Pirjo had been sitting in the foyer like a startled butterfly; her hair was very short, the shape of her head was beautiful, her neck slender with an endearing furrow running down the middle. He’d wanted to protect her, help her – she was so frightened – and her whole body had seemed to ask forgiveness simply for existing.