THAT AFTERNOON THE two policemen who had introduced themselves as Sundström and Westerberg the day before came to see him.
‘Hämäläinen,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sundström.
‘Meant to be a joke,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘I see,’ said Sundström, and he did indeed laugh, a short, dry laugh, then pulled up the chair on which Irene had sat that morning. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Fine. In the circumstances. The doctor in charge here, Valtteri Muksanen, thinks I can soon go home.’
‘That’s what we’re here about,’ said Sundström. Westerberg was getting another chair from where it stood by the window. There was a vase on the windowsill containing red and yellow flowers. He didn’t remember Irene bringing flowers … maybe they were part of the décor.
‘It’s like this …’ said Sundström.
‘Those flowers,’ said Hämäläinen.
Sundström followed his gaze. ‘Yes?’
‘Are they real or plastic?’
Westerberg rose, ponderously, and felt the flower petals.
‘Real,’ he said.
Hämäläinen nodded.
‘We would like you to stay here a while longer,’ said Sundström.
Hämäläinen, looking at the flowers, asked, ‘Why?’
‘And then we’ll accommodate you in a safe house for some time, until all this has been cleared up.’
Hämäläinen turned away from the flowers and looked at Sundström.
A safe house …
‘Sounds rather like a spy film,’ he said.
‘That’s only the usual term for it,’ said Sundström.
Hämäläinen nodded.
‘You and your family too, if you like,’ said Sundström.
A safe house …
‘You do realise, don’t you, that you are in danger while our investigations are still going on?’ said Sundström.
A safe house. Surrounded by forest. In a picturesque winter landscape.
‘Do you know Niskanen?’
‘The cross-country skier?’ asked Westerberg.
‘I’m sorry, but the answer is no,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘What?’ asked Sundström.
‘Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather be at home.’
‘That won’t be possible,’ said Sundström.
‘Of course it will be possible.’
‘In view of the …’
‘I’m feeling fine. I have the show to present on New Year’s Eve. Our annual retrospective. The show will go out live. We can’t just use pre-recorded footage for that one.’
Sundström gaped at him. Westerberg seemed to be thinking of something else entirely.
‘That won’t be possible,’ Sundström repeated.
There was a knock on the door.
‘Yes, who is it?’ asked Sundström, as if it were his room.
‘Er … do you know this lady?’ asked the uniformed officer posted outside.
It was Tuula. She looked grey-faced. Tearful and somehow older.
‘Tuula,’ said Hämäläinen, surprising himself by the warmth in his voice.
‘Just a moment. We haven’t finished yet,’ said Sundström.
‘Yes, we have. Sit down, Tuula,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘We have to …’
‘Later,’ said Hämäläinen.
Sundström rose abruptly and muttered something that Hämäläinen couldn’t make out. He was already out in the corridor when Westerberg, who had reached the doorway, asked, ‘Niskanen the long-distance skier?’
‘That’s the man,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘Do you know what …?’
‘The guy who’s breeding sheep these days?’ said Westerberg.
‘What?’
‘Niskanen. He’s breeding sheep in Ireland.’
‘What?’
‘Read it somewhere,’ said Westerberg. He nodded to them again and went out.
‘What was that about?’ asked Tuula.
‘Sheep in Ireland. Did you know that?’
‘You must check it.’
‘Check what?’
‘Whether Niskanen is really breeding sheep in Ireland. Now, do sit down. We have things to discuss, with the show going out in two days’ time.’