THE WHITE WALLS of Erne’s office feel like they’re closing in on the desk where he’s sitting, a red radiophone to his ear. It has a direct link to a special telephone network reserved for authorities; with its long antenna, it resembles the first heavy-duty cell phones of the nineties. The sweat dripping down his cheeks signals that the combination of stress and the inflammation festering in his body is sending his temperature up again. It must be over 38 at the moment. It has to be. Not that it makes a difference anymore. Now that he has received his death sentence, he can stop taking his temperature.
“How do you want to proceed?” The low male voice at the other end of the line belongs to the SWAT team leader. Nina, whom Erne a few minutes ago designated the officer in charge of the operation in the field, didn’t arrive at the rendezvous and isn’t answering her phone. For a few seconds, Erne stares out at the sleeping building site surrounded by a siege of construction cranes that will come back to life in a few hours. He grips the phone and glances at Rasmus, who looks back at him apprehensively from the other side of the desk, arms folded across his chest and fingers buried in the folds of his sweater. Erne should be sending the SWAT team out to look for Nina. She can’t have gotten far in her red Škoda.
“You have the address?” Erne says. He registers that his voice is trembling; the decision is the most difficult one of his career.
“Yes.”
“Proceed according to the plan. Report to me in real time.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
Erne lowers the radio to the table and grabs his mobile phone.
“Rasse, I need you to file a report on a missing police officer immediately. I want any and all patrols available to be looking for Nina’s Škoda, which is probably in Laajasalo. Nina did manage to communicate that she was in the immediate vicinity of the rendezvous.”
“Roger.” Rasmus pops up from his chair more quickly than one might think possible, based on his appearance.
“And, Rasse, have Micke come in here. He gets to go out into the field.”
Rasmus nods and vanishes through the doorway.
Erne presses the phone to his ear again and listens to the dial tone for a second. Goddamn it, Jessica! What the fuck is going on? He rubs his chest to slow his galloping pulse. He brings up Yusuf’s number. No response.
Something is seriously awry.
Take it easy. One of them will call you back any minute now. Jessica and Yusuf are together. They aren’t in any danger. . . .
Why the hell didn’t he stick more firmly to his decision to keep Jessica home and under guard until this unprecedented murder spree was solved?
Jessica is going to call any minute. Or Yusuf.
“Erne? I reported the missing officer, and the patrols have been alerted,” Rasmus says from the doorway. “A roadblock is being set up on the bridge leading from Laajasalo to Herttoniemi.”
“Good. What about Micke?”
“I didn’t see him—”
“Find him, goddamn it!” Erne’s growl ends in a cough. Rasmus vanishes into the corridor again.
Erne wiggles his fingers over his keyboard, then enters bättre morgondag helsinki into the search engine and clicks the first result. He opens the Staff page and scrolls to first Daniel and then Emma Luoma. Waves of nausea roll through him.
The Luomas are dead. Daniel Luoma was driven to Savonlinna the day before yesterday in Torsten Karlstedt’s trunk. Alive, as the medical examiner has confirmed. They stopped Sanna Porkka’s car, set her and Daniel on fire. Meanwhile, someone sowed his DNA around Koponen’s waterfront house. Emma Luoma was abducted, probably at the same time as her husband, and taken to Haltiala. In the end, whoever these people are entered the Bättre Morgondag offices on Bulevardi with the couple’s keys, called the police, and met Nina. And now—
Everything has gone to hell.
Erne opens the About Us page and reads the brief history presented there.
Specializing in the treatment and therapy of psychotic patients, Bättre Morgondag . . . operated by a foundation of the same name established in 1959 . . . founder and chair, psychiatrist Camilla Adlerkreutz, MD, PhD . . . Alternative, drug-free forms of treatment . . . a model of open dialogue.
The comprehensive history is studded with a dozen black-and-white photographs. The topmost one is of the first clinic, Villa Morgon. Then a portrait of the foundation’s founder dating from the nineteen sixties. Her face looks exactly the same as it does in the painting; only the background is different.
“Six minutes to target,” a voice blares from the radiophone.
Erne acknowledges receipt of the message and buries his face in his fingers.