AAPELI RAANTAMO WAS woken by the footsteps. And the tables or chairs being pushed back and forth. It was still dark outside. The clock said 4.30.
He had spent New Year’s Eve alone. Had made himself tomato soup, pasta with a cream sauce and curried prawns. When the time came he had watched the firework display. The couple who had recently moved into the apartment right at the top of the building had been giving a party, and he had stood outside in the cold, knees shaking, among a crowd of young people, and some of them had hugged him and wished him a Happy New Year.
He had returned their good wishes, and he looked out for Salme, but she wasn’t there, and there had been no lights on in her apartment. He had asked the couple from the top floor about her as they watched the fireworks, closely entwined. They didn’t know where Salme was either.
But now she seemed to be back. Chairs were being moved about in her apartment, and he heard footsteps and voices. He sat up and concentrated on the noises. Men’s voices, lowered, but easily audible. And now steps in the stairwell too. Several men.
He got up, put on his coat and his slippers, and opened the door. The stairwell was brightly lit. One man jostled him as he came out.
‘Sorry,’ murmured the man, and hurried on downstairs. Aapeli Raantamo went up. The door to Salme’s apartment was open. He approached it cautiously. When he reached the door, a tall, broad-shouldered man came towards him and said, ‘There’s nothing to see here.’
‘Excuse me, please,’ said Aapeli. ‘Who … who are you?’
The man seemed about to reply brusquely, but then he stopped and said, ‘You live here?’
‘Yes, down below. One floor under Salme.’
The man nodded. ‘My name is Grönholm. Police, Criminal Investigation Department. What’s yours?’
‘Aapeli … Aapeli Raantamo. Where … where is Salme, then? Is everything all right?’
‘Weren’t you watching TV?’
‘Why … why do you ask?’
‘Never mind. I have things to do here. I’ll look in on you later.’
‘Oh, yes, I was,’ said Aapeli.
‘You were what?’
‘Yes, I was watching TV. Yesterday evening.’
‘Then you must have recognised Mrs Salonen.’
‘I was watching an old film. With Cary Grant,’ said Aapeli.
‘Oh,’ said Grönholm.
‘What’s happened to Salme?’
The man said nothing for a while. ‘I’ll look in later. Get a little more sleep, all right?’
Aapeli nodded, and the man turned away and went back into the apartment. Salme’s apartment. But Salme wasn’t there.
Aapeli slowly went downstairs. Something bad, he thought. Something bad has happened. His hands were shaking as he turned on the TV. The teletext.
The first headline ran: Murderess on the sofa with Hämäläinen. Underneath, it said: Assumed murderess Salme S. arrested during chat show. A line lower down, in green lettering: Chronology of events. Under that the sports reports. Ski-jumping. A Finn had won the qualifying round in Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Aapeli looked at the lines of text. He read and read and didn’t understand anything. He felt the strength drain out of his body.
He sat on his bed and could not take his eyes off the text on the screen. Up in Salme’s apartment, there were footsteps and men’s muted voices. After a while he looked away and saw the card leaning against the candleholder. Salme’s Christmas card.
He stood up and went over to the table, picked up the card and opened it. Ilmari and Veikko in Stockholm. Salme must have taken it herself. His hands began trembling again, so badly this time that the card dropped from his fingers.
He sat down on a chair and looked at the card lying on the floor, while outside the darkness gave way to dawn.