Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“Anna?” Takamäki turned to her.

“So he drives an old van, huh? According to Kannas, the tire tracks they found were from a van, and they were worn out… But your way is fine with me. It’s not like we have to hurry to prevent a crime or anything. But when you plant the tracking device, check out those tires.”

“Okay,” Takamäki said. “Phone tap and tracking device.”

“And the tires,” Suhonen added.

MATINKYLÄ, ESPOO

WEDNESDAY, 3:05 P.M.

Markus Markkanen was lounging on the sofa in front of a blaring TV. The sports channel was showing a rerun of an NHL hockey game, but he wasn’t watching, just staring past the screen.

His “ex”-wife Riikka was in the kitchen making coffee.

“Want some?” Riikka called.

There was no answer.

“Hey,” Riikka called again. “Coffee or not?”

“I don’t think so,” Markkanen drawled.

He turned his blank stare toward the kitchen. Riikka was measuring coffee into the filter. A shapely woman in her thirties, her perky breasts seemed to stand at attention beneath her white T-shirt. Markus and Riikka had been together, or, more accurately, had been drinking together in the same circles since the late nineties. They quickly took to one another, and Riikka had gotten pregnant unexpectedly. Eetu was born in 2000.

Although Markus had spent a year in prison, the marriage had endured. A few years ago, it had ended in name only, but the relationship had continued. They told the boy that his daddy had gone to workabroad for the year. The last few years had been better, thanks to money. Since he had been working for Lindström, they had much more of it. Money didn’t just soothe the family; for them, it actually created happiness.

“Maybe I will have some,” Markkanen said, sitting up on the sofa. He was wearing gray wind pants and a black T-shirt. He surfed through the channels absent-mindedly, but couldn’t seem to find anything interesting. Eetu had gone to a friend’s house after school.

“You have anything going on today?” Riikka wondered.

“A meeting at four.”

“With Lindström?”

“Yeah,” Markkanen grumbled. She knew his line of work, but they didn’t talk about the details.

“Why do you let him boss you around?”

“He doesn’t boss me around,” Markkanen snapped.

“Does too. Come here, go there, take care of this, do that. For all that you do, you should be able to run his business yourself.”

“Do you remember who paid our bills when I was doing time?” Markkanen asked, though he knew very well that she remembered.

Riikka fell silent, and they listened quietly as the coffeemaker gurgled. Markkanen had always suspected that Riikka had paid Lindström back with something other than legal tender. They had never talked about that, though. And never would. If something had happened, it was in the past.

“Listen,” Riikka said, sliding onto the sofa next to him. “I need some money.”

He wanted to ask what she needed it for this time, but he dug out his wallet and counted out three hundred.

“That enough?”

“Yeah,” Riikka said. “It’s a really gorgeous blouse.”

Markkanen laughed silently when she kissed him on the cheek. He’d have to remember to shave before leaving.

“You know, we should go on a vacation somewhere warm,” Riikka suggested.

“Again?”

“Yeah, it’s so depressingly dark and cold here.”

Markkanen stood up. Riikka remained sitting.

“Where you going?”

“To get some coffee.”

His cellphone rang in the hallway, and he had to rummage through the pockets of his jacket to find it.

“Hello,” Markkanen answered.

The caller was Lindström. He sounded angry. “Where are you?”

“Why?”

“You were supposed to be here at three.”

“You said four.”

“Shut up! Get over here now.”

“Okay,” Markkanen replied.

Riikka watched him from the sofa, gloating. “No…he doesn’t boss me around. No, no…”

“Shut up,” Markkanen said, pulling his jacket on. About to leave, he called out, “Remember to take Eetu to hockey practice tonight.”

The ice rink was only minutes away from home, but still too far for the kid to walk with a heavy hockey bag.

* * *

It was almost four o’clock and Suhonen was standing at the turnoff onto Vuolukivi Street in the Pihlajamäki neighborhood. Pale, sixties-style four- and eight-story towers loomed overhead.

Rocky Pihlajamäki was the first Helsinki suburb built in the sixties to be officially preserved by the city. The Finnish Historical Board had also requested protection for it, though Suhonen wondered why. The Historical Board had also worked to preserve the “Sausage House,” a monstrosity of a building just across the street from the Helsinki Railway Station, named for the sausage-shaped ring encircling the second floor. For the people of Helsinki, the Sausage House is an institution. For visitors, it’s a curiosity.

Suhonen’s cellphone buzzed. Raija again. This time he decided to answer it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she wanted to meet.

“Hi,” Suhonen said, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

“Hi,” she said back. “Why don’t you answer your phone?”

“Been busy at work. You know the drill.”

“Yeah. I know,” she answered coolly.

Raija was quiet for a moment and Suhonen wondered if she was calling to complain or just to chat.

“Listen, I just called because I left that teapot of mine at your place. I want it back.”

“Huh?”

“You know, the one I bought last spring. I forgot it in the rush.”

“Oh yeah? That’s what you’re calling about?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll just bring it to your office when I get a chance,” he said, feeling his temper flare. “Sorry, gotta go. More work.”

He hit “End Call” and watched as a couple of pot-bellied men lumbered into a local bar. A gaudy sign in the window advertised free karaoke and billiards. Suhonen felt like joining them. He didn’t care for karaoke, but billiards and beer would be just fine. It would soften his stale mood.

But there was no time now. He had gotten ahold of Saarnikangas on the phone, and they had arranged to meet in Pihlajamäki. Did Juha live around here nowadays? He wasn’t sure. Last he knew, the guy had lived in Itäkeskus, near the infamous shopping mall. He was now three miles northeast of there, next to the Lahti Highway.

Saarnikangas’ dirty Fiat sat in the parking lot. Suhonen had swung by the van and installed the tracking device. It hadn’t taken more than twenty-five seconds. While he was at it, he had checked the brand on the tires.

According to the DMV, the van was owned by one Krister Vuori. The man was doing three years in Helsinki Prison for drug trafficking.

Suhonen’s second phone-the prepaid one-rang.

“Well?”

“Where are you?” Juha asked.

“Out front.”

“Come on in. Stairwell B in the long building. Third floor; the door says Teräsvuori.”

Suhonen strode through the quiet yard and entered the stairway. The spiral stairs were built into the side of the building and surrounded by glass walls. Suhonen dashed up the stairs two at a time and, reaching the third floor, rang the doorbell.

Saarnikangas was already at the door, and he opened it quickly. Suhonen suspected he had been lurking behind the door, peering out the peephole. A black Metallica T-shirt and tattered jeans were draped over his skinny frame. His hair was tangled as usual.

Suhonen stepped past him into the studio, which opened up from the hallway to the left. A beat-up mattress lay on the floor surrounded by a cluttered pile of paperbacks. Next to the balcony door, a TV sat on the floor and a plastic patio table served as a dining table.