Cold Trail (26 page)

Suhonen
had been tooling around Kallio and Sörnäinen, hoping that he would accidentally run into a familiar face. Someone who would be able to tell him something. He had popped into six different bars for a coffee, and now he had to piss like nobody’s business.

On the right
, at the corner of North Shore Drive sand Kirkko Street, rose a handsome building with a tall, round corner tower. It was designed by Theodor Höijer in the 1880s. Suhonen had once staked out one of the sailboats in the nearby marina from in front of this residence and remembered the street-side plaque well. It stated that the lindens fronting the building had been planted by the ambassador of Imperial Japan in the autumn of 1943 as an emblem of the friendship between the peoples of Japan and Finland.

A little
further up Kirkko Street stood the Ministry of the Interior. Maybe they’d let him use the bathroom if he flashed his badge. Then he’d be able to say that for once the ministry had offered genuine assistance to an officer in the field.

Suhonen’s
second phone rang. “Yeah?”

“I
s that Suikkanen?”

“I
s that Juha?”

“N
o, it’s Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“H
uh,” Suhonen growled. “What the fuck?”

“
‘Is that Juha?’ sounded like code language, is all. My code name could be Scarlet Pimpernel from here on out.”

“
I’ll give you a scarlet nose if you don’t get to the point.”

At the
corner of Customs Square, Suhonen turned the car from the North Shore Drive extension onto Alexander Street. He passed a low, one-story brick building on the right.

“I
’ve got an address,” Saarnikangas croaked.

“F
or Repo?”

“I
think he’s there.”

“W
hat is it?”

Saarnikangas
cleared his throat. “Hmm, system’s kind of shutting down here, short-term memory loss. Early onset of Alzheimer’s.”

“S
top using so much junk,” Suhonen growled, turning his car onto Maria Street. On the right, up ahead, was Maria Street 9, which stood out from the street’s other, older, more beautiful buildings. It was a corrugated metal structure built in the sixties. The only good thing about it was the Ace of Spades karaoke bar, the premier karaoke bar in Finland, where not just anybody dared to take the mic.

“G
oddammit,” Juha cried. “You just said what I was supposed to remember. Junk. You promised me a couple of packs. I need them.”

“O
nce I have Repo.”

“Y
ou don’t understand,” Saarnikangas said irritated
.
“I need it so I can pay this one guy. Plus a C-note.”

“M
oney, too?” Suhonen said. He was sure that Saarnikangas was taking him for a ride
.
But he had a lousy hand, and it was best to check what Saarnikangas was holding.
A few Subus and a C-note didn’t make much of a dent in the state budget. “Okay,” Suhonen said before the junkie could start elaborating.

“O
kay? Like Okay-Okay?”

“W
here are you?” Suhonen asked, his voice hard.

* * *

Sanna Römpötti and Anna Joutsamo were sitting in the second-story kebab joint at the Pasila train station.

“H
ow is it?” the reporter asked.

“T
hese always taste the same. Does this place belong to some bigger chain? Someone who supplies the lamb to all these restaurants?”

“I
wouldn’t be surprised,” Römpötti said, plastic-forking chunks of meat from a pita swimming in garlic sauce.

“L
isten,” Joutsamo said. “The food here isn’t the reason I wanted to meet you.”

“R
eally?” Römpötti asked, although she had guessed what was on Joutsamo’s mind as soon as she called.

“
Repo,” Joutsamo said.

“T
he escaped convict? What about him?”

Joutsamo
hesitated again. She knew that with Römpötti
she didn’t have to say
You didn’t hear this from me
, but the situation was still delicate.

“I
t’s the original conviction. I read all the papers and spoke with the lead investigator from the old case, and at least to me, it feels like it’s on really shaky ground.”

“I
nnocent?” Römpötti asked directly.

“I
’m not saying that, but it sparks some questions.”

“L
ike what?” Römpötti asked, pulling a pen and notebook from her bag.

In
ten minutes, Joutsamo repeated the same points she had brought up not long before at police station, and Römpötti jotted them down.

“T
his is a big deal,” Römpötti said, once Joutsamo was finished.

“D
on’t you think? At least those are questions that should be raised.”

“Y
eah, especially since Fredberg, the current chief justice of the Supreme Court, was one of the members of the appeals court bench.”

“W
as he?” Joutsamo asked. Suhonen had brought her the copy of the verdict he had found in Repo’s cell, but Joutsamo hadn’t noticed Fredberg’s name.

“Y
es. For that TV interview I went through all of Fredberg’s life sentence convictions. Of course we didn’t analyze them the way you did. There were thirty of them, but I definitely remember the name Repo.”

“I
have the verdict. I’ll have to check it out.”

“J
ust picture the headline, Supreme Court Chief Sentenced Innocent Man to Life.”

“I
mmediate resignation,” Joutsamo nodded.

“M
ost definitely. How’s the Repo case progressing, anyway?”

“H
aven’t found him yet, even though we’ve been working our butts off.”

“Has
he headed out of town?”

Joutsamo
considered a moment before answering. “We have strong indications that he’s here in the greater Helsinki area.”

“W
hat kinds of indications?” Römpötti fired back.

“H
ey, we gotta have some secrets, too,” Joutsamo chuckled. “No, it’s genuinely information that I can’t divulge without endangering the operation.”

“
Aww, I wouldn’t tell anyone except a million of my closest friends.”

* * *

Suhonen found a small space in front of a red stucco building on Korkeavuori Street and parallel-parked his Peugeot in it. His urge to piss had disappeared after he dropped by the burger joint at Kasarmi Square. He hadn’t ordered any more coffee.

Suhonen
got out of the car and waited for the number 10 tram to rumble past. He leapt across the road, trying to dodge the puddles. The double towers of the neo-Gothic Johannes Cathedral rose before him. Saarnikangas had told him he was inside the hundred-year-old church. What the hell, Suhonen thought. At least it was a change from the endless smoky bars.

Suhonen
leapt up two stairs at a time as he strode up to the double doors. The church was shaped like a cross, with the entrance at its foot. Suhonen had never been inside, but ten years ago at the station they had watched the televised service for the two officers who had been shot execution-style on Tehdas Street by an escaped Danish convict.

The church was bigger than
it had looked on TV. The dark, ornate pews, heavy candelabras, and stained glass made the interior gloomy, even though the walls were pale. Five people appeared to be sitting in the hall. Four were at the front; one sat further back. Suhonen immediately recognized Saarnikangas’s matted hair. The junkie was sitting near the central aisle.

Suhonen
sat down next to him.

“A
re you seeking redemption?” Suhonen whispered. “I am the way and the path.”

Saarnikangas’s eyes were tired
. “Who’re you, Jesus Crystal?”

“L
isten, Juha,” Suhonen said gravely. “If you want to check yourself into a clinic, I can get you in. Seriously.”

S
aarnikangas looked at Suhonen. “I don’t think I’m feeling it... I tried once, but I cut out mid-treatment. It’s not for me.”

“A
re you sure?” Suhonen asked. He didn’t want to moralize and preach about a better life, because it wouldn’t do any good. Juha Saarnikangas had an alternative, but the motivation had to come from himself, no one else. Suhonen knew a lot of junkies and crooks who had made it, but many more who had died.

“
Check out that altarpiece,” Saarnikangas asked. “Do you know who painted it?”

Suhonen
shook his head.

“E
ver heard of Eero Järnefelt?”

“N
ot on my list of APBs.”

“F
unny,” Saarnikangas said, without smiling. “That was originally supposed to be Albert Edelfelt’s painting
Bethlehem
, but he crossed swords with Melander, the architect. The architect won, and Edelfelt’s work ended up a couple of years later in a church in Vaasa as an altarpiece titled
The Shepherd Kneels
.”

Saarnikangas
looked at the tall
,
narrow painting of three men and a horse gazing up at the Lord standing amid the clouds.

“H
ow do you know all that?” Suhonen asked.

Juha
disregarded Suhonen’s question. His eyes remained on the painting. “This heavenly vision is oil on canvas and the theme was taken from the New Testament, Acts of the Apostles. The guy who’s on his ass, blocking the light with his hand, is Saul. Old Saul here persecuted Jesus’ apostles and wanted to imprison them.” Saarnikangas’s tone turned biblical. “And suddenly there shined round about him a light from heaven: And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? And he said, Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But arise, and go into the city, and it shall be told thee what thou must do.”

Juha
turned his gaze to Suhonen. “Saul became the Apostle Paul.”

Suhonen
didn’t reply.

“A
rt history, at the university. My short-term memory is shot, but stuff like this I remember.” Saarnikangas attempted a grin, but the expression was sad. “Well, in any case, even though it’s a Järnefelt, for practical purposes it’s a copy of a painting by Vincenzo Camuccini from a church in Rome.”

Saarnikangas
fell silent. Suhonen didn’t have anything to say, either. The few others in the church were still sitting quietly, and no one else had entered.

“W
ell,” Juha said, running his hand through his filthy hair. “I’m not here to waste your time. We had a deal.”

Saarnikangas
held out his hand, and Suhonen slipped him two packs of Subutex with a hundred-euro bill rubber-banded around them.

“D
a Vinci’s
The Last Supper
,” Saarnikangas said quietly. “Lord, who is it? Lord, is it I?”

Suhonen
looked at the altarpiece.

“
Hietalahti Shore Drive
17, the A entrance,” Saarnikangas whispered. “Third floor. The door says Mäkinen. It’s an old servant’s apartment, a little studio. You might want to check it out. He might be armed.”

Suhonen
stood, but Saarnikangas stayed sitting in the pew.

Saarnikangas
kept his gaze down until he was certain that the undercover cop in the leather jacket had exited the church.

Juha
rose, stepped into the aisle, and moved closer to the altar. There was a man in a gray coat sitting in the seventh row, and Saarnikangas sat down next to him. There was a large shoulder bag at the man’s feet.

“T
hank you,” Repo said quietly. “Is this going to cause problems for you?”

“N
o worries.”

“W
hat if the cop comes back?”

“I
can handle him,” Saarnikangas said. “He’s not too bright. I made a reference to that Leonardo da Vinci painting
The Last Supper
and said, ‘Lord, who is it?
Lord, is it I?’”

Repo
gave a slightly perplexed look at the long-haired junkie, who was smiling smugly. “And?”

“W
ell, who am I referring to with that quote?”

“J
udas Iscariot?” Repo guessed.

Saarnikangas pursed his lips.
“Agh, you don’t get it either. It was Simon Peter, the most faithful disciple.”