YUSUF FOLDS HIS hands on the table and waits patiently for the young man across it to collect his thoughts. Now Timo Blomqvist rakes back his thick blond hair.
“I don’t understand. Who could do something . . . ? Lea was the sweetest person in the world. . . .”
“I’m truly sorry,” Yusuf says, eyes lowered to the gaudy rug. He feels like he’s drowning in the incredibly soft blue velvet armchair. The studio in the former working-class neighborhood of Kallio is tidy but tastelessly decorated. The dark green walls clashing with dark red wall hangings and incredibly ugly rugs are a trip to another decade. To some lost past, although Yusuf isn’t sure when that past occurred.
“You understand that it’s important we don’t delay this conversation.” Yusuf sets the tape recorder down on the table.
“Coffee. You want some?” Blomqvist asks absentmindedly, and stands.
“No, thanks.” Yusuf glances at the figure shambling over to the kitchenette. “Do you have any idea who could have done this to your sister?”
“No. Like I said, Lea was a nice person. Bubbly and friendly . . . down-to-earth. I can’t understand why anyone . . .” Blomqvist turns on the tap and fills the stove-top espresso pot.
“Have there been any new relationships in Lea’s life recently? Friends? A partner?”
“Lea is . . .” Blomqvist looks at Yusuf with glazed eyes, then wipes his nose and turns back to the espresso pot. He spoons ground coffee into the filter. The hand holding the spoon is trembling. “Lea had been single for a few years. I don’t think she’d found anyone. If she did, she didn’t tell me about it.”
“Were the two of you close?”
“Our folks live in Spain. . . .”
“Meaning?”
“Yeah, we talked pretty often. I guess not so much lately. We were supposed to see each other this morning at her place in Laajasalo. I rang the doorbell for a long time. . . .”
“Was there a specific reason for the meeting?”
Blomqvist looks surprised. “What?”
“Which one of you suggested the meeting? You or Lea?”
“I don’t remember. It’s not like there was some specific agenda. We would just visit each other a couple times a month for coffee or—”
“Fine. Does anything out of the ordinary come to mind? Did Lea say she was doing anything special, meeting anybody?”
“We hadn’t talked for a couple of weeks. We set up last night on WhatsApp.”
The shocked young man slowly makes his way back to the coffee table and the two armchairs at it. Hot coffee splashes on his fingers, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Lea was a researcher by profession,” Yusuf says.
“Yes. She worked at the university.”
“Got her doctorate a couple of years ago from the department of psychology?”
“She was focused on a pretty specific topic. We barely talked about work, because neither one of us understood what the other one did.” Blomqvist lets out a mournful chuckle. “But . . . I have a copy here . . . ,” he says, quickly lowering his coffee to the table. Then he steps over to the wood-tone bookcase and pulls out a slim volume.
“What’s that?”
“Lea’s dissertation.”
Blomqvist hands the bound manuscript to Yusuf.
LEA BLOMQVIST, TOXOPLASMOSIS AND AGGRESSION. 2017
Yusuf flips through the paperbound book. “What’s it about?”
“Beats me.” Blomqvist bites his lip; tears are plainly not far off. “I work at an advertising agency.”
“Can I borrow this?”
Yusuf rises from the armchair; Blomqvist nods and buries his face in his palms. Yusuf approaches the other man, considers lowering his hand to his shoulder. But for some reason, the gesture feels wrong.
“I’m sorry,” he eventually says, and walks to the door.