EARLY IN THE evening the doctor phoned and said Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen was conscious and able to answer questions. They drove to the hospital.
Hämäläinen was lying motionless on the bed, surrounded by tubes and other apparatus, and nodded to them as they came in. ‘The gentlemen from the police,’ he murmured, and seemed to smile. He sat a little way up and looked relieved. Free of the fear of death, Joentaa suspected, and Westerberg began asking questions. Hämäläinen’s quiet, surprising answers fell slowly into the silence, deepening it.
‘Nothing?’ said Sundström. ‘You saw nothing at all? You didn’t notice anything?’
‘A shadow,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘A shadow?’
‘I remember leaving the cafeteria and making for the lifts. I … I was trying to remember the name of that forensic pathologist, and I could only remember his son’s name.’
‘His son’s name?’ said Westerberg.
‘Yes, it was Kalle. The forensic pathologist told me he was going to have a little boy and they would call him Kalle. I remembered it, and after that I saw a shadow, and then …’
‘Yes?’ asked Sundström.
‘… then everything seemed very slow. I felt I was hovering, and I felt a pain in my back – as if something had grazed me or stabbed me.’
They waited.
‘A shadow. And then that pain. And then I was out of there, being carried. Then I woke up here.’
They waited, but Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen had told them all he knew.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Sundström.
Westerberg turned to look at him.
‘Impossible,’ Sundström repeated.
Hämäläinen nodded, and Joentaa thought again that he seemed different.
‘I wish I could help you,’ he said.
‘Did you see anything earlier?’ asked Sundström. ‘When you came down and into the cafeteria? Or even before that, when you came into the building?’
Hämäläinen thought for a while, then shook his head.
‘Someone or other who caught your attention? Someone who didn’t belong in the TV station. Did you feel you were being watched?’
‘No,’ said Hämäläinen. ‘Nothing at all. Naturally, there were people around when I arrived, and no doubt when I went to the cafeteria, but I didn’t notice anything.’
Silence again.
‘Isn’t there … hasn’t anyone … do you have no idea who did it?’ asked Hämäläinen.
‘I’m afraid not, no,’ said Westerberg.
‘But someone must have seen something.’
‘We suspect that your attacker came into the building with a group going on a guided tour through the various editorial departments,’ said Westerberg.
‘Of course it’s possible that it was someone who works there,’ added Sundström.
Hämäläinen lay motionless and said nothing for a while. Then he said, ‘What’s going on, anyway? Why was I …?’
Westerberg tried to find words, and Sundström said, ‘We don’t know.’
‘But it must … it must be something to do with that interview. The interview I did with Mäkelä and the forensic pathologist.’
Sundström did not reply, Westerberg did not reply, and Joentaa thought that Hämäläinen was stating the obvious.
‘But what did we do, dammit?’ said Hämäläinen. ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary.’
Silence again.
‘It was a perfectly normal interview. I’ve done hundreds of them,’ said Hämäläinen. ‘There was nothing special about it. A forensic pathologist talking about his everyday life, a puppet-maker describing his working methods. That was all.’
‘We don’t know what the background is. It’s all the more important for you to remember every detail of today’s incident. You must … forgive me, but you must have noticed something.’
‘A shadow,’ said Hämäläinen. ‘As I said.’
‘A shadow’s not enough,’ said Sundström.
‘I know.’
Behind them the door was opened. The woman who had been standing beside Kimmo at the viewing window in the morning, looking at the unconscious Hämäläinen, appeared in the doorway.
‘Irene,’ said Hämäläinen.
Irene Hämäläinen moved hesitantly into the room.
‘It’s not so bad,’ said Hämäläinen quietly, but with the confident note in his voice that was his trademark as a presenter. ‘Looks worse than it is.’
The woman nodded.
‘Does it look bad, by the way? I’m feeling pretty good,’ said Hämäläinen.
The woman nodded to them and went up to the bed.
‘Where are those imps of ours?’ asked Hämäläinen.
‘With Mariella. They’re in good spirits,’ she said. Her voice sounded cracked, but also strong.
‘That’s good,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘Well … we’ll be on our way,’ said Sundström, getting to his feet. Halfway to the door, he turned back. ‘The doctors say you’ll be here for a few more days. There are police officers on duty to keep this ward secure. Only your wife and the doctors treating you have access. And so do we, of course.’
Hämäläinen nodded.
‘We’ll discuss everything else next time,’ said Sundström.
Hämäläinen nodded again and looked at his wife, and Joentaa thought once more that he seemed different.
Exhausted. Marked by his experience. Relieved. Liberated.
Irene Hämäläinen sat down on the chair where Sundström had been sitting. Joentaa turned away and thought of Kai-Petteri Hämäläinen, the expression on his face that was always the same, the smile when he said goodbye and his guests left the stage, and he thought:
Liberated, but not from the fear of death.
Liberated from the oppressive sense of being immortal.