CHIEF INSPECTOR ERNE Mikson has been down for over two weeks with a nasty flu, but even so, the characteristic odor of the interior of his car—a distinctive blend of marzipan, worn leather, and burned clutch—penetrates the stuffiness in his nostrils. Erne hears a faint beep and pulls the digital thermometer out from under his arm—37.4. Goddamn it. . . . That’s 0.3 degrees higher than it was when he climbed into the car in Pasila. Erne glances at his watch, searches his pocket for the small notebook, and jots down the reading in the next free square. The thick notebook has served him for years, and it is now on its last legs.
Erne starts when the passenger-side door of his old 3 Series opens. A thirty-three-year-old woman with black hair steps in, the angularity of her pretty face exaggerated by her stony expression and the dim lighting. For a moment they stare straight ahead, where a dozen cars stand outside a house a hundred meters up the road. A police van closer by is parked crosswise, blocking the street, its message underscored with the blue-and-white cordon tape of the Helsinki police force.
“Looks like the circus has come to Kulosaari,” Erne eventually says, shoving the notebook back into his breast pocket. He pops a piece of nicotine gum out of its foil and into his mouth. The calming effect of the cigarette he smoked ten minutes earlier with the window cracked has dissipated. Besides, by now it’s high time to cut back. Or even quit. Although it may not do any good.
“Aren’t you coming inside?” Jessica says quietly, then leans her head back against the headrest.
“No. Seeing as how I don’t have to.” Erne’s eyes appear to be yawning. He unrolls the window a little. “Male, forty, average build, relatively broad shouldered, a hundred and eighty centimeters, and . . . lightly dressed, considering the weather?”
“I don’t think a heavy coat would have fit underneath the coveralls.”
“We have six guys who fit the description, but they’re all wearing big coats. One from the street, three from the pub at the shopping center. And two more from the bus stop on the expressway. We set the radius for apprehending potential suspects based on how far he could have gotten at a run. Five more minutes and we would have had to push it out to the Herttoniemi waterfront. And that means we would have run out of resources.” Erne turns to Jessica and continues: “Jessica, you did everything exactly the way you were supposed to.”
Her boss’ words elicit a grunt from Jessica, but they offer no consolation. Erne is speaking to her like a soccer coach talking to a kid he has pulled out of a game after the first half. His compassionate tone doesn’t change the fact that things on the pitch didn’t go as intended.
“Tell me, Erne.” Jessica gulps audibly before continuing: “How long have you been at the unit? And over that thousand years, how many times has an investigator talked with the killer at the scene of the crime and then let him go?”
“You can see it that way if you want to torture yourself.”
“How the hell am I supposed to see it?”
“Well, for instance, he could have pulled a gun and shot all of you if you’d begun to suspect something. No one would have necessarily had time to react.” Erne turns down the radio. From the look on Jessica’s face, he can see there’s a seed of truth in his words. They thought they were safe, and he could have easily hurt anyone who was in the house. Not just Maria Koponen.
“Six suspects?” Jessica finally says, unzipping her coat.
“The fibers from the coveralls will be compared to their DNA.”
“What about the mask?”
“We didn’t find it. Probably in a trash can somewhere. Or with the perp.”
“That makes no sense,” Jessica says softly.
“Because he left the coveralls on the street?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Jessie,” Erne croaks, cutting off pointless speculation. He focuses his gaze on the man stepping through the gate of a yard across the street, whom Yusuf is gesturing to stay away. The nosy neighbors have caught the whiff of carrion. “Do you think you’d recognize his voice?”
Outside the car, one of the investigators starts to take a statement from the neighbor, who’s wearing a parka, pajama pants, and low boots.
“Sure. But I’ll bet you none of them is the perp.”
“A pessimist is never disappointed.” Erne reaches into the backseat for his leather satchel and pulls out a tablet. A second later he hands it to Jessica. “Six videos. Same sentence six times.” That’s it for the first one.
Jessica watches the clips, listens to the voices, and looks deeply into the eyes of each suspect, wanting to believe she would recognize the culprit. The creep who, just forty-five minutes ago, was standing in front of her at Maria and Roger Koponen’s record shelf. Two of the men in the digital lineup are clearly intoxicated, which has been confirmed with Breathalyzer results recorded in the comments at the bottom of the screen. One is incredibly—if not particularly suspiciously—relaxed; the other three seem annoyed. And Jessica can’t blame them: who wouldn’t be pissed off, having to stand in the glare of bright lights, reciting a phrase fed to them by the cops without the slightest idea what was going on? Someone has more than an idea. But just as Jessica guessed, it’s none of the men from the video.
“No,” she says, and hands the tablet back to Erne.
“Are you sure?” Erne says, knowing full well that the question doesn’t warrant a response. After a moment of silence, he rakes a hand through his thick gray hair and coughs to open up his voice. The wheeze carrying from deep within his throat does not disappear with the coughing, however.
“Here. Rasmus has gathered all the relevant info on Maria Koponen,” Erne says, handing Jessica a printout. The dead woman’s curriculum vitae, all the basics on her abbreviated life. Jessica takes hold of the sheet of paper and starts reviewing it, line by line.
“‘Age: thirty-seven . . . Education: PhD in pharmacy . . . Profession: VP, product development, Neurofarm Inc. . . .’”
“I don’t know if you’re going to get anything useful out of that.”
“That remains to be seen,” Jessica says, then folds the paper up and slips it into her pocket. A white hare bounds across the road. Maybe she should interrogate it too.
“I have to head over to HQ to prepare a press release,” Erne continues.
“Lucky you.”
“The circumstances are pretty unusual. We need to warn people.”
“How? ‘Don’t open your door for a criminal investigator’?” Jessica grumbles as she strokes her knuckles. Erne lets out a joyless chuckle. Black humor is part of the job, and Jessica is a master at taking it to the extreme. They sit there for a moment longer, collecting their thoughts.
“We need to expand the investigation. And then there’s interrogating Roger Koponen,” Erne eventually says, rolling up the window. “I’ll handle all that. Your job now is to figure out what the hell happened in that house. It looks like we’re already talking to the neighbors. Maybe one of them saw something.”
“OK.” Jessica opens the passenger door. “Try not to have a heart attack, Ser Davos.”
“If anyone’s going to give me one, it’s you, Arya.”