KIMMO JOENTAA SAT at his office desk in the neon lighting for a long time, studying the notes made by Heinonen and Grönholm on their research, reading the newspaper reports that Päivi had left in neat piles ready for him. Each of the disasters, to a greater or lesser extent, had provided material for columns in the press, many of them mainly objective, some lurid. Columns well or badly written.
A local paper in Savonlinna had dwelt for weeks on the subject of a young family who died when a passenger plane crashed over Russia. Pictures of the young father, the young mother, even a picture of the still unbaptised baby, pixelated to obscure the face. An interview with the parish clergyman. One with the husband’s sister. Another with his colleagues at work. All the articles were by the same journalist. Joentaa made a note of his name.
Finally the front page of the newspaper published a picture of the house where the family had lived. In the foreground stood a smiling, middle-aged man who had bought the house to live there in future. The man had been interviewed. He was asked if he didn’t feel it was uncomfortable to be living in that house, knowing about the tragedy, and he had said no, adding that he was a widower himself and used to tragedies.
Kimmo Joentaa looked at the picture of the smiling man for a little longer, then he put the report down and picked up the next one.
He made notes, drew up lists, arranged the relatives of the dead in order, rummaged around in other people’s grief, and brought nothing to light but names. Names like the name of Erkki Koivikko, father of a daughter, a bank manager. There was something Koivikko had said that he couldn’t get out of his head. Fifteen years ago. And it hadn’t been his daughter on the stretcher, but …
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what Koivikko had said, but it was no use. He looked at the names on the white paper a little longer, then put the list back with the newspaper reports on the rest of the files that Päivi Holmquist had brought up, and switched off the light. He drove home.
On the way he thought of Erkki Koivikko getting out of his chair, going to the bathroom and throwing up in the washbasin. A strong man who looked as if he was in control of himself. He had said that on the stretcher in the TV show … no, he’d lost it.
He thought of the smiling man who had bought the empty house.
A widower.
Used to tragedies.
He felt as if he were floating over the road; now and then his eyes closed for a second or so. Fresh snow had fallen. Once he was on the woodland track the tyres spun, and he had to turn the wheel to avoid ending up in the ditch. He switched the engine off and went the last hundred metres on foot, as so often at this time of year. He thought of Sanna, who had liked that. When they had first found out that it was often impossible to drive right up to the house in snowy winters, he had stomped through the snow in a bad temper, and Sanna had laughed.
There was a light on in the kitchen; he saw the silhouette of a naked woman behind the windowpane. He stood outside the window for a while, watching as she made the lasagne he had promised her several days before.
Then he moved away from the window, took the few steps to the front door and opened it. The warmth came to meet him, and Larissa called, ‘There you are at last. Supper’s nearly ready.’
He stood in the doorway.
‘You look pale,’ she said.
He nodded.
‘Midnight feast,’ she said, taking the bubbling dish of lasagne out of the oven.
‘It tastes delicious too,’ said Larissa. Or whatever her name was.
‘Nice that you’re here.’
She took two plates out of the cupboard, cutlery out of the drawer, and asked, ‘Why?’
Kimmo Joentaa looked at her.
‘Why is it nice that I’m here?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joentaa.
They ate in silence.
After they had finished, she undressed him, got on top of him, and moved in what seemed a practised, rhythmic way until he came.
She went to shower.
‘Twenty-five,’ she said when she came back.
Kimmo looked at her.
‘I’m twenty-five years old. Grew up in a conventional household. My father raped me over a long period, and my mother never noticed, so I moved out when I was sixteen.’
‘I see,’ said Joentaa.
‘Actually that was all lies.’
Joentaa nodded.
‘I’ll tell you another tomorrow, if you like,’ she said.