THE STAIRWELL IS utterly silent. Jessica opens the door with the phone to her ear and pauses at the alarm-system keypad, only to realize she never turned it on in her hurry to get back to her studio earlier that evening.
“What is it?”
Jessica notes the morning flexibility in Yusuf’s voice; her colleague has no doubt detected the hurry and tension in hers.
“I just got a call from a woman named Irma Helle. I believe she’s in immediate danger. I called in a patrol; they should be there any second now.”
“Who is she?”
“Owns a dressmaking shop. She’s the one who sewed the victims’ evening gowns. Every single one.”
“What makes you think she’s in danger?”
“Someone who looks like Maria Koponen just tried to enter the shop,” Jessica says, striding briskly across the living room to the kitchen. Her wallet is exactly where she left it. But why wouldn’t it be? Everything feels hazy and unreal. Once again, a human life is in danger.
“Looks like Maria Koponen . . . ,” Yusuf says skeptically after a moment’s silence. “A woman?”
“Right. A woman. Maria Koponen ordered the dresses herself. What do you think that means?”
“I have to say, it sounds really strange.”
“Maria Koponen gave Helle the women’s dress sizes; she must have been personally acquainted with each of the victims. Or at least known their exact measurements.”
“But . . . we’ve been looking for a connection between the women. And so far we haven’t found anything. No hobbies in common, no calls made to each other . . . They weren’t even each other’s Facebook friends. And Laura Helminen told us she’d never heard of the other victims, let alone known them.”
“Even so, Maria Koponen knew their dress sizes.”
“That doesn’t mean she knew them. Someone could have given her a list.”
“Who though? Were Maria and Roger Koponen in this together? Is that what’s going on here? Have Maria and Roger been helping some sick prick carry out this charade?”
“Maria Koponen is still dead, Jessica. I don’t think she would have intentionally aided in her own murder.”
“It must have been Roger who passed the dresses on.”
For a moment neither of them speaks. Then Jessica asks: “Where are you?”
“I just turned the car around. I’m headed toward Ullanlinna.”
“Pick me up.”
“What?”
“Come pick me up. I’m coming with.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What about Erne?”
“Erne can kiss my butt.”
“Argh, I don’t know. What if you’re the real target? Wouldn’t it be smarter to stay out of the field for a while?”
“I’m getting the feeling that I’m more of a target here at home.”
“Take a cab. Otherwise Erne is going to have my ass on a platter—”
“Goddamn it, Yusuf. If you don’t drive that piece of shit up to my door—”
“You really are a witch, Jessica.”
“What’s your ETA?”
“Ten minutes.”
“I’ll come down.”
“Wait,” Yusuf says, and Jessica hears him turn up his police radio.
She can just about make out every word of the clearly articulated communication: “. . . the display window of the shop on Korkeavuorenkatu. We see a woman lying on the floor. She is not moving. She is not reacting to our knocks. We’re going to use force to enter. An ambulance has already been called.”