Cold Trail (8 page)

* * *

In the dark house, Karppi kept his shotgun trained on Repo at a distance of maybe ten, twelve feet.

“
Were those your friends?”

“W
ho?” Repo wondered. He was still holding the Luger, but the barrel was pointed at the floor.

“T
hose two who just left.”

“N
o,” Repo grunted. “They were cops. Looking for me.”

Now it was
Karppi’s turn to laugh. “You did hightail it out of that restaurant pretty fast. Is that what you came here to get?”

Repo
gathered the old man meant the pistol. “No, but it was there in its old spot in the hatbox.”

“E
rik told me the story.”

Repo
wondered which story his father had told his neighbor. “The war thing?”

Karppi
nodded.

According to the story
, Erik Repo had been given the gun right after World War II, as a young man of fifteen, by an old vet who wanted Erik to safeguard it for him. Apparently it had been used to shoot more than a few Russkies—the rumors were that several Soviet commissars had been executed at close range. The vet had been more than happy to give it away, so it couldn’t be traced back to him.

“T
his gun is the real deal,”
Repo said, activating the safety with his thumb and shoving the gun into his waistband. “But we don’t need any more bodies.”

“W
e sure don’t,” Karppi agreed, lowering the barrel of his shotgun to the floor.

The men stood across from each other in silence
.

“Y
ou didn’t get a chance to finish your coffee back at the restaurant. Would you care to now?”

Repo
shrugged. “Maybe. But not here.”

“O
f course not. Those cops might come back. I meant over at my house. Might be a better place for you, anyway.”

* * *

Karppi poured the coffee. The cups were delicate and old fashioned, not mugs.

“
Cream or milk?”

“N
o thanks,” Repo answered. He was sitting at the dining table in his black suit. He had loosened his tie.

“Y
ou take it bald, huh?”

“W
hat?”

“U
p north they used to say if you drank your coffee black, you liked it bald,” the old man explained.

Karppi
’s house was the same size as his neighbor’s, but the decor was a touch more genteel. The difference lay in the dark furniture and the massive bookshelf that took up a whole wall.

Karppi
sat down across from Repo. There were also sandwiches and mineral water on the table.

“Y
ou and your dad have some of the same features. He’d always sit the same way, a little hunched over with his arms across his chest.”

The remark
prompted Repo to sit up straighter and uncross his arms. Karppi laughed and tasted his hot coffee.

Repo
glanced at Karppi’s old-fashioned cell phone on the kitchen table. “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

“H
ow do you know I’m not about to?”

Repo
didn’t respond.

“W
hy did he hate you so much?”

Repo
turned his gaze to his black coffee. “Why do you think?”

“B
ecause of what happened back then.”

“W
e never really talked about it, so it’s hard to say. You never asked him?”

Karppi
dodged the question. “Erik was a reticent man.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing. “Why did you kill your wife?”

Repo
didn’t answer, and Karppi backed off.

“I
was just asking. That photo on top of the TV always made me wonder.” Karppi stood. “Why the hell did your dad keep it out? If you want to forget something, you don’t keep a photo that reminds you of it in a prominent spot.”

“H
e may have had his reasons.”

“I
suppose he did,” Karppi said. He walked over to the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a folder. “I wasn’t blessed with children, so maybe that’s why I found it so intriguing. I don’t think I would have been capable of that sort of hatred myself.” He set the green folder down in front of Repo. “Here.”

“W
hat’s that?” Repo asked, without touching it.

“I
gathered a few papers that looked important from your father’s home a few days after his death. Just in case burglars came to call.”

Repo
opened the folder. The documents that had once belonged to his father were neatly organized in plastic sleeves. The bank statements were on top. Repo skipped past them and browsed through documents regarding the house, paid bills, a passport, and other important-looking papers. There were about fifteen plastic sleeves. The second-to-last one contained cash,
maybe three hundred euros, at an eyeball estimate.

“T
ake it. You must need money.”

Repo
fished the bills out and placed them in his breast pocket.

The
final sleeve, clearly the fattest, contained letters. Repo pulled them all out and glanced at Karppi.

“I
haven’t read them.”

Topmost were post
cards printed in a child’s hand. Someone else had written Erik Repo’s address on them. One was from the Canary Islands. “Hi Grandpa! We’re in the
Canary Islands. It’s nice and warm here. I’ve been swimming every day. Love, Joel.” The postmark was January 2003; Joel would have been eight years old.

The coffee was cooling.
Karppi watched closely as Repo scanned through the mail.

There were
several vacation and Christmas cards. There was also a letter from Joel. Timo read it quickly. In it, the boy thanked his grandpa for the Christmas money. He had used it to buy a computer game. It also contained a photograph of a boy, about ten, smiling broadly in front of a Christmas tree.

Karppi
caught Repo wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Timo
stared at the photo for a long time. He hadn’t seen his son in eight years because the child had been taken into custody and placed with a foster family, and Repo wasn’t allowed any information about them.

“Y
ou can sleep on the sofa.”

“I
’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“W
here else are you going to go? It’s comfortable enough.”

Repo
took a sandwich and reflected. In a lot of ways, running into Karppi was a stroke of luck—and would definitely make things easier.

TUESDAY MORNING

CHAPTER 6

TUESDAY
, 8:30 A.M.

HELSINKI
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA

Joutsamo yawned. They had searched for Repo until after eleven the previous night, after which she had biked home to Töölö. She hadn’t slept properly, and a few hours later she had cycled back to Pasila.

“G
ood morning,” Takamäki called from the doorway.

J
outsamo turned around. “Good morning. How’s Jonas?”

“B
roken arm and mild concussion. Kaarina’s staying at home with him.”

“T
hank God it wasn’t worse. Who was the driver?”

“D
on’t know. Took off.”

“H
it-and-run, huh?” Joutsamo said.

“T
he Espoo Police Department is investigating.”

“I
n that case, you’ll never know,” laughed the sergeant. She had worked in the Espoo PD Narcotics division before transferring to Helsinki Homicide.

“I
don’t know. It’s not such a tough case. Happened near Sello. There are a ton of surveillance cameras around there.”

“T
he Sello shopping mall, huh?” Joutsamo turned back to her computer. Takamäki walked over behind her to follow along as she looked up data from Homicide’s list of surveillance cameras.

“T
here,” Joutsamo said. “They’ve got two kinds of recordings. Some are stored for a week, but others just for twenty-four hours. Hopefully they’ve got the sense to go look at the images today.”

“
Could be that some eyewitness caught the license plate and they wouldn’t even need photos,” Takamäki said, before changing the subject. “Where are we with the escaped convict?”

“S
uhonen and I were out looking for him all evening. Went to the father’s house, but got nothing. Well, we did find out that relations between father and son probably weren’t the warmest. The brother indicated the same about their relationship, too. After murdering his wife, Timo Repo was
shut out by his family.”

“W
ell, he can’t make it on his own out there. He’s going to need help. He probably doesn’t have any money,” Takamäki said.

“S
uhonen and I were thinking the same thing. We agreed I’d go visit the Riihimäki police and check out those old preliminary investigation reports, see if maybe we can find some names there. Suhonen will work the prison angle.”

“G
ood,” said Takamäki. “Any new cases last night?”

“N
othing serious. A couple of assaults out east at Itäkeskus, but the precinct will handle them. Couple of cars disappeared, a few B&Es, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Y
ou need some extra hands to help you with the Repo investigation? I could free up Kohonen and Kulta. They’ve almost got the railway station homeless
case wrapped up.”

“I
don’t think so. Let’s see how things start rolling here. If we find any names in the old documents or the prison, then maybe.”

Takamäki
walked to the door. “Okay. Let’s have a status check at two.”

“I
f the rat stays in his hole and doesn’t move, it’s going to be pretty hard to find him. Should we use the media to smoke him out?”

“W
e’ll take a look at two.” Takamäki thought for a moment. “What do you think, should I make sure the Espoo police picked up those images from Sello?”

“I
’m pretty sure they’ve got it under control.”

* * *

Takamäki deleted an email from the National Police Board reminding staff of the communication guidelines, thanks to some hapless sergeant who had given a lecture at some school. According to the new, stringent regulations, no officer was to make a public appearance without a written request detailing the purpose and message of the visit delivered in advance to the National Police Board.

Takamäki
couldn’t get the Sello surveillance images out of his head; he had to call. The mall switchboard connected him to the head of security currently on duty.

A male voice
grumbled into the phone, “Aho.”

“L
ieutenant Takamäki here,” Takamäki said, intentionally omitting Helsinki Police.

Aho
suddenly sounded like a security guard whose sights were set on the police academy: “What can I do for you, sir?”

Takamäki
held a brief pause. “Something pretty simple, actually. There was an accident yesterday evening over on the side of the mall facing the railroad. A cyclist was hit by a car.”

“R
eally? There wasn’t anything in the papers.”

“W
ell, the injuries weren’t very serious, but now we’re tracking down the driver, who fled the scene.”

“S
o you’re looking for surveillance footage.”

“R
ight,” Takamäki said. “There’s a little uncertainty here as to whether someone has asked for it yet.”

“N
ot today, at least,” Aho said. “I’ve been here all morning, and of course I can check yesterday’s log, too.”

Takamäki
could hear Aho tapping at his computer.

“N
ope, the images haven’t been picked up. I mean, no one has even requested them.”

“S
o you have the footage?”

Aho
backtracked. “I’m not sure about that. I’m just saying it hasn’t been turned over.”

Taka
mäki began to see why the guy hadn’t made it into the police academy and probably never would. Nevertheless, he kept his voice as steady and relaxed as possible.