‘WE HAVE SOMETHING,’ said Grönholm.
‘Yes?’ asked Joentaa.
‘Yes, it’s here.’
‘Right, looks as if there was only one little boy among the dead. The names you probably want are Ilmari and Veikko Mattila.’
Kimmo read the two names.
‘Father and son,’ said Grönholm. ‘The father was thirty-five, the son five, registered address in Turku, Asematie 19.’
Name, address, date of birth.
‘However, so far we haven’t found anyone of that name among the injured. The name of Ilmari Mattila is still in the phone book, no one else is listed there.’
Kimmo and Sanna Joentaa, he thought. And a number at which Sanna Joentaa could no longer be reached. In autumn a woman had rung trying to sell Sanna a magazine subscription.
‘Have you called the number?’ asked Joentaa.
‘Er, no.’
‘Let me have it.’
‘Just a moment.’
Joentaa heard paper rustle, then Grönholm was back, dictating the number to him.
‘Thanks,’ said Joentaa, ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘Do we have something?’ asked Sundström.
‘A number,’ said Joentaa.
He rang it.
This is Veikko speaking. I’m not here. Papa isn’t here. Mama isn’t here either. See you later. Byeee.
A child’s voice.
‘Well?’ asked Westerberg.
And now the message for serious enquiries. A woman’s voice, slightly self-conscious, because she had felt it awkward to be sending a message out into nowhere. The child was laughing in the background. The woman gave the full names of the people mentioned by Veikko only as Papa and Mama, and promised to call back as soon as possible.
Then the sound of the signal.
‘Well?’ asked Sundström.
Joentaa thought for a moment, then he typed the woman’s name into Google and looked for pictures. He recognised her at once, although she was a good deal younger in the photograph. She was wearing a fancy dress costume and standing at the wheel of a ship, with the sea and Naantali beach behind her.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Sundström.
‘Little My,’ said Westerberg. ‘Or at least, she’s dressed up as Little My.’
Joentaa maximised the picture, which was illustrating a local newspaper article. It was about the beginning of a long-forgotten summer and the introduction of new attractions to Moomin World, like the ship. The woman in the photo was laughing heartily and seemed to be turning the ship’s wheel in a direction of her own choice.
‘But that … that’s the woman who was sitting in the audience, isn’t it?’ said Tuulikki.
Joentaa nodded. He glanced at the screen on which the Finnish boy band were singing their summer hit. The catchy music seemed to be coming at them from several loudspeakers.
His mobile rang.
‘We have something,’ said Grönholm. ‘Ilmari Mattila was married, but his wife kept her maiden name.’
‘I know,’ said Joentaa.
‘You do?’ asked Grönholm.
‘Who is that woman?’ asked Sundström.
The applause was dying down. Hämäläinen’s voice came over the loudspeakers.
‘Salme Salonen,’ said Joentaa.
‘Salme Salonen,’ said Hämäläinen.
‘What?’ asked Sundström.
‘Salme Salonen,’ Joentaa repeated.
‘Welcome to our next guest, and I am particularly glad to have her here today … Salme Salonen,’ said Hämäläinen.