THE BUZZING FROM the fluorescent lights on the ceiling is so loud that it catches the attention of everyone who gets interrogated. Nina has often wondered if the lights have intentionally been left unrepaired, if the noise is a method developed by psychologists to break the human spirit. Nevertheless, Torsten Karlstedt pays it no mind. As a matter of fact, he seems perfectly at home. He evinces no interest in his bleak surroundings; instead, he has trained his tranquil gaze directly on Nina. He’s about fifty years old, visibly tanned despite the time of year, and in good shape for his age. His thick hair is a golden brown.
Nina presses the button to turn on the recorder. The interrogation has lasted only a few minutes, but for some reason, she feels like she has spent an eternity in the room.
“Where were you last night?”
“Savonlinna,” Karlstedt answers, then coughs into his fist.
“Why?”
“I was listening to Roger Koponen speak, of course. You know that.”
“With whom?”
“Kaitsu, Kai Lehtinen. You know that too.”
“You seem to know a lot about what we know.”
“I don’t know. But you know. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, would I?”
“Why is it you think you’re here?”
“Is this seriously how this goes? What sort of stupid game is this?”
Nina glances at the recorder on the table. Then at Karlstedt’s black knit top, which has a logo depicting equestrian sports at the breast.
“The two of you drove to Savonlinna in your Porsche Cayenne.”
“Yes, we did. Is that a crime? Driving an overly provocative vehicle?”
Nina smiles wearily. “You know what? You’re right, Torsten. We know all this. If you don’t mind, allow me to ask you some questions we don’t know the answers to.”
“Be my guest.”
“You never got out of the car in Savonlinna. Why not?”
“I didn’t feel like it.”
“So your friend Kai Lehtinen went in alone to listen to Roger Koponen speak. And you sat in the car for over an hour. Simply because you didn’t feel like it after all.”
“That’s correct.”
“Was there anyone else in the car?”
Karlstedt smiles enigmatically. “No.”
“Why did you leave your cell phones at home?”
“Sometimes it’s nice to be off the grid.”
“No doubt,” Nina says, arms folded across her chest. She has questioned hundreds of lawbreakers. Some have been slippery and slick, others stupid and transparent. Torsten Karlstedt doesn’t belong to either group. Nina is starting to agree with Erne that the two men were brought in too soon.
Karlstedt glances at his steel watch to check the time, then unclasps it and lowers it to the table in front of him. His movements are steady and deliberate.
“Nina Ruska,” he says eventually after examining the ID badge hanging around Nina’s neck.
“At the service of the community,” Nina says drily.
“I understand the trip Kaitsu and I made to the provinces seems strange. Especially since Roger Koponen was killed in Juva.”
Nina studies the man closely. Karlstedt knows what he’s just said isn’t true. And, most important, he has to know the police are aware of this too.
“But we have nothing to do with his death,” Karlstedt continues. Absurdly enough, he’s telling the truth. They have nothing to do with Koponen’s death, because Koponen is alive. But they have plenty to do with the death of Sanna Porkka and the as-yet-unidentified man who died with her.
“What about the death of the female police officer Sanna Porkka?”
“I have nothing against female police officers, Nina Ruska.”
Nina ignores the response, moistens her finger with the tip of her tongue, and turns the page in her notepad. “Introduction to the Occult,” she says.
Karlstedt smiles and crosses his legs. “An excellent work, if I do say so myself.”
“You’ve always been interested in magic.”
“In magic? No, no. The occult is about much more than magic. It’s about an incredibly fascinating world of secret knowledge in which magic plays only a small part. I’m assuming you haven’t read it.”
“No. But I happen to know that the work sparked criticism at the time. You didn’t restrict yourself to describing a broad range of occult phenomena; you also wrote rather provocative text in which you defended their somewhat questionable history. Your wrote, for instance, that the Third Reich would not have collapsed so precipitously if the Nazis had dared to put their trust in esoteric teachings. That—and this is a direct quote —‘Heinrich Himmler, one of the most influential figures in Nazi Germany, should have boldly continued his explorations into the occult.’”
“Are you asking now if I’m a Nazi?”
“Potential anti-Semitism doesn’t interest us at all, to be honest, unless a homicide is involved. Nevertheless, details like this support our notion that you’re always hungry for attention. Just like now, here at this table, you do things to provoke. To be remembered.”
“Oho. Did Nina Ruska take a few psychology classes at vocational school?” Karlstedt folds his hands on the table.
Nina smiles but doesn’t look him in the eye. Did you take a few classes on being a sleazeball asshole at business school?
“Did you know Roger or Maria Koponen personally?”
“I’m a big fan of Roger’s books.”
“Answer the question.”
“No, I didn’t know them.”
At that moment, the door to the interrogation room opens. Mikael is standing there in the doorway.
“Nina, could you step out here, please?”
Nina taps her pen against the tabletop and stares at Karlstedt. Then she stands. Slowly, because she doesn’t want to give Karlstedt the impression that when someone whistles, she runs like a dog. “Could you please excuse me for a moment, Torsten?”
“Gladly, Nina Ruska,” he says calmly. The fact that the prick keeps saying her full name makes Nina uneasy, which is the point, of course.
“WHAT IS IT now?” Nina says when the door to the interrogation room shuts. There’s something off about Mikael. It takes Nina a second to realize that he isn’t chomping on gum.
“Get anything interesting out of him?” Mikael asks, hands on his hips.
“Nothing. Maybe Erne was right.”
“Shit.”
“What about Lehtinen?” Nina asks, and glances over Mikael’s shoulder toward the closed door behind which the other man is being interrogated.
Mikael shakes his head and waves dismissively. “Same. Cool as could be. Weird hinting between the lines. Keeps teasing but won’t give it up.”
“Was there anything else? Or should we get back to it?”
“There is,” Mikael says quickly, and waves Nina farther away from the doors. “Wang from tech called. The anesthesia drugs used to knock the victims out . . . thiopental and pancur . . . well, the second one. You know what I mean. And the chloroform and even the cannulas and drip bags . . . A private clinic in Helsinki responded to our request for information. Their inventory is seriously jacked.”
“Goddamn it, Micke,” Nina says, feeling the tickle of enthusiasm in the pit of her stomach. “Do we know who had access to their drugs and supplies?”
“Their staff is pretty small, only twenty or so. The CEO wants to see us and clear up the matter ASAP. My assumption is to minimize any damage to their reputation if the media get their hands on the story.”
“Wants to see us? At this time of night?”
“Yes. He’s still at the office.”
“Then we should be on our way there already.”
“We’re in the middle of questioning these guys.”
“What’s the name of the clinic?”
“Bättre Morgondag. On Bulevardi.”
“‘A Better Tomorrow’? I’ve never heard of it. . . .”
“It’s been around for about fifty years. Sounds like some sort of mindfulness hoo-ha.”
“We’d better get on it right away. Can you keep an eye on these two lunatics if I grab my car and run down there?”
Mikael smiles. “Of course.”
“Good. I have a hunch we’re going to get on these jerks’ trail tonight.”