Silence (27 page)

Authors: Jan Costin Wagner

BOOK: Silence

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‘Marika Paloniemi,’ said Joentaa.

‘That was it. Any connection between Korvensuo and her disappearance seems fanciful, in view of the new situation. Korvensuo had been living in Helsinki for a long time then. And incidentally, he never had a small red car after 1982. That’s according to his wife, who knew him from then on. She says her husband didn’t like the colour red. Which does not suggest that he ever had a red car.’

Or maybe he did have a red car and never wanted to be reminded of it again, thought Joentaa.

He saw Marjatta Korvensuo again in his mind’s eye. The living room where they had sat on white sofas. The bright entrance hall. The sparsely furnished room in the basement, all right angles. Ketola in front of the screen, now switched off. Nothing in that house had been red.

‘It’s quite possible that this small red car never existed. Either in connection with Pia Lehtinen or with anyone else,’ said Sundström. ‘Just a false trail.’

Grönholm nodded. ‘Incidentally, the wife is twelve years younger than Korvensuo. When they met in 1982 he was twenty-nine and she was only seventeen,’ he said. ‘He obviously kept silent as the grave about his days in Turku. His wife knows almost nothing about that time.’

‘Of course our colleagues in Helsinki are seeing if they can connect Korvensuo with any unsolved cases. They’re only just beginning, but nothing so far,’ said Heinonen.

‘Right,’ said Sundström, nodding.

The rest kept quiet.

‘How … how is his wife?’ asked Joentaa.

Heinonen shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

Nor did Grönholm. ‘We’ve only spoken to our colleagues, not to the wife herself.’

‘About the files on Korvensuo’s computer. The thing is stuffed with child pom: photos and clips. What you might call bursting at the seams with them,’ said Heinonen.

‘Charming,’ said Sundström. ‘Then if I may sum up: we have a missing girl who has come home safe and sound. We have a case thirty years old …’

‘Thirty-three,’ said Joentaa.

‘A case thirty-three years old of a murdered girl which was cleared up yesterday, in view of the fact that the presumed murderer drowned himself and his showy car in the lake where he sank his victim back in the past. Right?’

‘That’s it,’ Grönholm agreed.

‘We have a Helsinki estate agent, name of Timo Korvensuo, as the sole tangible object of this … er, absurd investigation. Korvensuo, who goes off two days after the disappearance of Sinikka Vehkasalo, pretending he has a business engagement, to seek out Pia Lehtinen’s mother, give her his business card and take his own life. Belated remorse. Or whatever. Is that it?’

No one replied. No one contradicted him.

‘Okay,’ said Sundström. ‘Great. Speaking for myself, my head is spinning.’ He turned away and had almost crossed the room when he turned once more.

‘And by the way, you’d better start thinking up ideas,’ he said. ‘Ideas for ways to bring tears to Nurmela’s eyes, I mean. Because of the usual present given to sufferers in such cases. He called me half an hour ago. His wrist is broken. In a very complicated way, like he emphasized. Surprise result of the X-ray examination.’

A
quarter to six.

Mow the grass behind number 86.

He wrote it down in his notebook before going out.

A hot sun was shining down. Old Mrs Kononen from number 89 was putting out the washing on her balcony, and ostentatiously looked away when she saw him.

Even though he’d oiled the squeaking hinges of the swings long ago. Not a sound to be heard when the children went on the swings. Like the little boy just now, who shouted that he was just going over the top of the frame.

‘Any moment now! Watch out!’ shouted the boy, and he swung higher and higher, and Pärssinen felt as if the boy would crash to the ground on the seat of his trousers any moment, and took a few steps back, ready to catch him.

But the boy lost impetus and beamed at him, and Pärssinen returned the smile and thought that it must be a lot of fun playing on the swings. Not for him now, though. Not at his age.

He went to the shed and pushed the lawnmower out. He sat on it, started the engine and rode round to the other side, to the back of building 86. He began circling round the grass area that, he knew, it would take him half an hour to cut. Tomorrow it would be the turn of numbers 87 and 88. And the day after that numbers 89 and 90. And next week he would mow the big expanse of turf surrounding the playground. He liked the loud roar of the engine, the effortless power with which it drowned out all other sounds.

He waved to Virpi Jokinen, passing with her two little dogs, and thought of Timo, who had come back. He wondered how Timo was. It had been an odd meeting between them a few days ago. How long ago exactly? He’d written it down in his notebook.

He liked Timo. Always had, even at the time when he’d been so worried, after Timo’s disappearance and after the bad thing that had … had happened to him and Timo.

He wondered whether Timo knew that. Knew that he really liked him, even liked him a lot, or whether Timo maybe saw him in quite the wrong light.

He had a feeling that this time Timo wouldn’t come back, and he felt sad. But maybe he was wrong, because only a few days ago he would never in his wildest dreams have expected to see Timo again, which meant that Timo might surprise him by coming to his door some other day. Some time or other.

Soothed by this idea, he turned off the engine and surveyed the regularly mown grass. It looked lovely. He liked it.

The boy was swinging himself up to the sky as he pushed the mower into the shed.

‘Careful,’ called Pärssinen, but the boy didn’t seem to hear him, or simply didn’t want good advice.

He’s right, thought Pärssinen, he himself hated good advice, and now here he was beginning to hand it out. He really must be getting old.

He went over to the new flower bed at the side of the car park and moved the sprinkler from right to left. The plants were in bloom already.

When he went back to the building old Mrs Kononen called to say he’d done a good job. The swing wasn’t squealing any more.

‘Thanks,’ he called back. ‘Thanks.’

Then he went into the stairwell.

He looked at the time.

Six fifteen.

Sprinkler by the car park moved, he thought.

And thanks from old Mrs Kononen.

He smiled as he entered the darkness of his flat.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks to Niina and Venia, Georg and Wolfgang, Esther and my parents.

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