TUOMAS HEINONEN SLEPT on the living-room sofa, the woman whose name he didn’t know slept beside him in his bed in the bedroom, and Kimmo Joentaa lay awake.
Again, he concentrated on the woman’s quiet, regular breathing and the silence in the background. A clear day was beginning to dawn outside.
He still felt light. Tired and light and thirsty. He went about on tiptoe so as not to wake his guest. Tuomas Heinonen was sprawled on the sofa. Judging by the look of him, he was fast asleep. The bottle and the milk carton stood on the kitchen table.
Joentaa drank a glass of water and watched the morning turn bluer and brighter and whiter and sunnier, until it filled the rectangle of the window like a perfect picture postcard. He thought of the silence, and at almost the same time heard the telephone ringing and a heavy thud. ‘Shit … what’s that, then?’ muttered Heinonen, who was lying on the floor.
‘You all right?’ asked Joentaa.
‘I fell out of bed … I mean off the sofa,’ said Heinonen, as Joentaa searched about for the phone. He couldn’t find it. Heinonen scrambled up and asked vaguely if he could help.
‘It must be here somewhere,’ said Joentaa.
‘These cordless things … I can never find ours either, and then there’s a twin in each arm and I’d need a third hand to find the phone,’ said Heinonen sleepily.
The phone stopped ringing, and a few seconds later the ring tone of Joentaa’s mobile sounded out in the corridor. He went and got it out of his coat pocket.
‘Joentaa.’
‘Kimmo, Paavo here. Christmas is over. I came back on duty early. The crime scene is in the forest. Go out of town down Eerikinkatu right to the end of the road, then turn left, keep going up the rise for quite a while and then along the forest track until you get there.’
‘Right, I’ll …’
‘Are you with me so far?’
‘Yes, sure … have Laukkanen or his colleagues been informed yet?’
‘Laukkanen is there already. He’s the victim.’
‘Right, I’ll just go and get …’
‘Are you awake yet? I said, Laukkanen is the victim.’
‘Laukkanen …’
‘Our forensic pathologist Laukkanen is lying out there in the forest. He’s wearing cross-country skis and he’s dead,’ said Paavo Sundström.
Joentaa said nothing.
Silence is easy, he thought.
‘What is it?’ asked Heinonen behind him.
‘Will you call Heinonen? I’ll inform Petri Grönholm. As far as I know he should have been back from the Caribbean yesterday,’ said Sundström.
‘Yes, I’ll …’
‘Kimmo, get moving, please!’ said Sundström, cutting the connection.
‘What’s up?’ asked Heinonen again.
‘Laukkanen …’ said Joentaa.
‘Yes?’
‘Paavo Sundström says he’s dead,’ said Joentaa.
‘Oh?’ Heinonen looked at him like a question mark personified.
‘Paavo’s there already. He said Laukkanen was the victim.’
‘But that’s crazy,’ said Heinonen.
‘Let’s get out there,’ said Joentaa.
‘He’s taking the piss. These practical jokes are getting to be a pain,’ said Heinonen.
‘Let’s get out there,’ said Joentaa again.
Heinonen nodded. ‘Of course. But there’s something wrong about this. I mean, it’s crazy,’ he said, reaching for his clothes, which he had left draped over the armchair. ‘Oh … sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to lend me something. I had that Santa Claus outfit on.’
‘Just a moment.’ Joentaa went into the bedroom and put on a pair of trousers and a pullover. The woman had wrapped herself up in the duvet and was fast asleep. He looked at her for a while. Then he took a shirt and a pair of trousers for Tuomas Heinonen out of the wardrobe, carefully closed the bedroom door, and went back into the living room.
Heinonen had the clothes on within seconds. ‘Shall we go?’ he asked.
‘Wait a moment.’
Joentaa found a piece of paper and a pen, and stood there, wondering what to say.
‘Er … Kimmo?’ said Heinonen.
‘Sorry,’ said Joentaa, and he wrote: Dear Larissa, I have to go out on a case. Hope you slept well. Would be nice if you were still here when I get home. Kimmo.
He put the note and the spare front-door key to the house on the living-room table, where she would be bound to see them. The winter day was yellow and blue, and gave him a prickling feeling behind his eyes.
Heinonen called his wife as they drove off, and Kimmo Joentaa thought of coming home to an empty house in the evening. And then he thought that he didn’t know her address, or her date of birth. All he knew was that her name was not Larissa.