My head aches. I’m sitting in my office, the door is shut, and the sounds from the hall seem muted, as though the screams and squeals are coming from underwater. Lunch, however, has left a nasty taste in my mouth. Naturally, I have no idea what Juhani and Kuisma Lohi talked about after I left, but I can make a number of educated guesses. I left at the point when Juhani began speculating about the kind of share options that might be available to the new owners. I declined Lohi’s offer of a ride; instead I walked to the metro station at Itäkeskus, and after arriving back at the park I came straight to my office, where waiting for me was the most recent report on our customer numbers. And there is a direct correlation between the data and my burgeoning headache.
We are losing customers.
On a day-to-day basis, the loss isn’t very dramatic, but the direction of travel is clear. I can see where the downward trend started: the same week as our competitors revealed their new acquisitions and announced that the extension to their facility was ready to be opened. They are taking our customers. We have to fight back, but that isn’t going to be possible in the current circumstances, with Juhani trying to sell the park off to Kuisma Lohi and with Toy of Finland sending us old-fashioned equipment for which we’re expected to pay through the nose. On top of that, we need something that will turn the tide and bring the customers flocking back to us.
We need the Moose Chute.
Either we get the Moose Chute or we—
There’s a knock at the door.
I do a mental roll call of all the potential door-knockers and their probable reasons for doing so. Minttu K wants more money for marketing, advertising and sponsorship agreements. Samppa wants to expand his therapy sessions and thereby increase the provision of spiritual wellbeing at the park. By this point, we can assume that Esa would like the park to acquire its own Space Force Unit to patrol the park from the skies. Johanna might well want us to hire a fisherman from Normandy for her own personal use. And, depending on the time of day, Kristian wants a whole variety of things from becoming CEO to new mint-flavoured protein bars, and his whims all have one feature in common: without exception, they come at the worst possible time.
Once I am ready, I beckon the door-knocker inside. The door opens, and my headache becomes suddenly more acute.
Pentti Osmala remains standing in the doorway for a good while. At first I wonder if this is his attempt to make his entrance all the more dramatic, but then I realise he has stopped because he has noticed the name on the sign by the door. It still bears Juhani’s name. I don’t know why that sign is still there. Osmala stops scrutinising the sign and steps into the office. He bids me good afternoon and says he hopes he’s not interrupting anything important. Continuing my strategy of telling him half-truths, I say, ‘Of course not,’ and show him to the chair opposite me. Osmala sits down in the office chair, which looks like it belongs in a doll’s house compared to the detective inspector. He spends the next thirty seconds adjusting his jacket, his trousers, shirt and shoes – those shiny brown ballet shoes – then tugs his jacket again before finally reaching a comfortable position. He looks at me with those blue eyes, his rugged face like a chunk of hewn rock.
‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ he says, and I think to myself that this is hardly the case because he’s already been in my office or standing in the doorway for over a minute without getting anywhere near the point. ‘It’s to do with the guy we found in the pond in the forest, the one with a ticket to your park in his pocket.’
I tell him I remember the case.
‘There were other things in his pockets too,’ says Osmala, and starts rummaging in his own pockets. ‘Lots of things that we couldn’t immediately link to anything in particular. But over time, things started to make sense.’
Osmala pulls his hand from his pocket.
‘This,’ he says, holding up his hand. The serrated edge of a key is pointing towards the ceiling, but that’s the only thing I can say about it. It looks like any other key. ‘First you have to work out what kind of lock it fits, then where that lock might be. The latter can take some time.’
I’m not sure whether I am supposed to offer some suggestions as to where that lock might be located. I say nothing. Osmala looks at the key, and when he finally speaks again, it seems as though he is speaking to the key in his hand.
‘This key fits the kind of lock you find in only one place,’ he says. ‘Caravan doors. And not just any kind of caravan. First we had to establish where this type of caravan might be, then think what might be the most probable location for a guy operating in and around the Helsinki metropolitan area. You work with probabilities, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes,’ I say, then for some reason I add: ‘And risk management.’
Osmala moves his eyes from the key to me. ‘Really,’ he says, and nothing about his intonation suggests this is meant as a question. ‘That’s convenient. In many ways, I mean. Well, eventually, we found the caravan in question. In Helsinki, just as I suspected we would. In Rastila.’
I’ve already had a few seconds to prepare myself for the revelation that I know is coming. I’m familiar with Osmala’s way of presenting information now. And yet, when he says it, it’s like a bomb going off; its shockwaves run through me, and I have to command them to stay there. Eventually, I don’t think there is any discernible change in my demeanour. What’s more, Osmala can’t see the back of my shirt, which is soaked with sweat and glued to my skin.
‘We didn’t find much in the caravan,’ Osmala continues. ‘A few guns, knives, a can of pepper spray. The usual for these guys. There was a phone, too, but it was clean, as they call it. The cleanliness of the caravan, however, left a lot to be desired.’
He pauses. I’m certain he expects me to ask something. The only question that comes to mind isn’t the most ingenious question ever posed in the history of humanity, and it isn’t even really a question I want to ask, but asking it feels inevitable.
‘And?’
‘Not so much and, more but,’ he says and in doing so seems to accept my attempt to move the conversation onwards. ‘Or better still, however. Let’s look at the matter from another angle for a moment. Our man leaves his most hardcore tools in his caravan – he even leaves his phone, so his movements can’t be traced – then carefully locks the door behind him. What does that sound like to you? Exactly, me too: he’s going to work. This is an easy gig: a little pressure, a little intimidation, maybe some fisticuffs, a spot of wrestling, boxing, strangulation – and the message is loud and clear. But something goes wrong. Or, if we look at it from the perspective of this guy’s target, things might have gone very right.’
Osmala looks at me – we stare at each other. Then he clenches the key in his hand, slips his hand into his jacket and, I assume, drops the key into his pocket.
‘Well, this is just me thinking out loud about different probabilities,’ he says. ‘And maybe a spot of risk management too.’
‘Absolutely,’ I say, though I’m not sure I wholly agree with his mathematical categorisations. But that’s a conversation for another time. During my time at the adventure park, I’ve learnt not to get involved in disputes and inaccuracies like this that appear from time to time, no matter how much they bother me.
‘How is the artist doing?’
Osmala’s question affects such a different world, a different dimension, that it takes me an extra second to understand what he means. I realise he is referring to Laura Helanto.
‘As far as I know,’ I say, ‘she’s doing very well.’
‘You told me last time she was planning to create something new here.’
‘She is planning…’ I begin, then realise I’m not sure quite how to describe what she is planning ‘…some additions to the murals.’
‘Contemporary sculptures, you mean? I like that sort of thing very much. Especially the kind that turns old junk into something new and surprising, something moving. Kari Cavén is a personal favourite.’
I haven’t counted how many times Osmala has taken me by surprise during the course of this conversation, but it’s a lot.
‘That would explain the pieces of tape on the floor,’ he continues, and he looks as though he has been giving the matter a great deal of thought. ‘And the other markings too. It all sounds very promising.’
Of course. He’s already walked around the park.
‘Give her my best, won’t you,’ says Osmala, and starts getting up from his dollhouse chair. Watching him stand up is like watching a giant tower being built up to roof height in seconds. ‘I’m really happy for her success. A fresh start. It’s rare, you know.’
I say nothing. Osmala gives his jacket another tug. Eventually he gets it into a position he approves of and looks like he is ready to take his leave. I’m ready to sigh with relief.
‘Perhaps you could walk me to the front door,’ he says.
I follow him out into the corridor, and from there into the hall. Osmala doesn’t take the most direct route to the entrance hall but sets off behind the Komodo Locomotive and around the Strawberry Maze. We try to avoid the customers, and Osmala appears to refrain from talking, perhaps because our voices might not necessarily be heard above the din. Then we pass the Crocodile Canyon, which Kristian seems to have almost completely dismantled. Osmala glances at the canoes piled one on top of the other, then looks at me. It’s possible that I have a tendency to connect things that aren’t necessarily connected, but as for probabilities, they are always either greater or smaller. Osmala knows the three men from Toy of Finland, he already told me he’s very interested in them, so he may well know the origins of the Crocodile Canyon. And now he wants to show me that all roads lead not only to the heavy, badly designed plastic fangs of the crocodiles but back to him too.
We arrive in the entrance hall, and we have taken a few steps out into the darkening evening when a curious little scene plays out around fifty metres in front of us.
An expensive, exotic car comes to a halt. The driver, who seems to walk on air and looks as though this is something he does effortlessly, gets out of the driver’s seat, walks around the car, opens the back door. Juhani gets out of the car, adjusts the position of his sunglasses – which, given the weather, are wholly redundant – then starts walking towards the staff entrance. The car pulls out almost silently, then glides serenely away. Juhani disappears inside the building.
Osmala and I stand for a moment in silence.
‘Looks like the adventure-park business is a better money-spinner than I’d thought,’ he says and walks off towards his car.