Jarkko Sipila - Against the Wall

“Morning,” said the sixty-something man. His gray suit matched his hair. Von Marzen lived upstairs.

The man’s expression was dour. “I have something to tell you, neighbor.”

He spoke decent Finnish, but with a German accent. Lindström knew he had moved to Finland in the eighties and didn’t start studying Finnish until then.

“What is it?”

“Somebody broke into our garage.”

“What’d they take?”

“Didn’t take a thing. But they did something on your side.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing on my side, but your car…ehhh… schwein …” he groped for the words, “had pig head on the hood.”

“What? A pig’s head?” Lindström looked incredulous. He wanted to ask why, but Von Marzen wouldn’t know.

“Right. A pig’s head. But not to worry. I called police about the break-in and told them about the schwein .”

Lindström ran his hands over his face. Eriksson dead, and now this. Clearly a warning. It couldn’t be anything else. What was happening? He ought to call Markkanen. Maybe he could shed some light on the situation. Who the hell was behind this?

* * *

Suhonen was perplexed. What was going on here?

At headquarters, he had checked the plate numbers for Markkanen’s BMW and the Mercedes in the garage. They were owned by different companies, but the ultimate owner turned out to be the same person. Suhonen’s colleagues in the Financial Crimes Unit said the guy was some shady lawyer. The similarities didn’t end there, though. Two junkies, well-known to the police, sat on the boards of both firms.

Why in the world was Markkanen’s Beamer registered under the same owner as the pig’s head Mercedes?

The connection got him thinking, and he considered the various possibilities.

With one phone call, he identified the driver of the Mercedes. The building super said that Kalevi Lindström owned the garage, and that he also lived in the building.

Lindström’s name didn’t turn up in any police records. Nothing on the Web either, nor in any business journal archives. Apparently, they weren’t dealing with a major industrialist.

A former criminal with a violent streak and an apparently wealthy sixty-year-old man were at odds, but somehow in cahoots as well. Their backgrounds revealed common denominators, such as the shared car ownership. And how was Eriksson mixed up in this?

Suhonen was aching for coffee and decided to brew a pot.

It would have to wait. The GPS system in his phone alerted him that the green dot had begun to move. Green was for Markkanen.

* * *

“A pig’s head?” Markus Markkanen looked baffled. “Why?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” Lindström responded.

The men were sitting in Lindström’s sumptuous library. Lindström had cancelled with his trainer and summoned Markkanen for a meeting.

“It’s definitely a threat. Somebody thinks you’re worthless. I remember this one shithead back in the nineties. We used to put dried pigs’ ears through his mail slot,” Markkanen went on. “They were fine for pet food, but the message was clear: you’re worthless.”

“But, why?” Lindström wondered.

Markkanen could smell the old man’s fear-Lindström wasn’t used to playing hardball. That was good.

“Somebody wants something from you.”

“But what?”

Markkanen looked out the window, brooding.

“It’s gotta have something to do with Eriksson. He must’ve been involved in something or pissed off someone. And what’s worse for you…or us, is that they’ve connected the dots from Eriksson upward to you.”

“How?”

Idiot, Markkanen thought. You should have thought of that when you hired that kid to do my job. Of course, he had the in with Customs, but loyalty should be respected. I shouldn’t have been humiliated like that.

Markkanen watched two little boys cross the street, and it made him think of his own family. He had called his wife in Turku the night before. Everything was going well at the spa and the boy was happy to have an extra vacation. He had even made a new friend.

He turned away from the window and looked Lindström in the eyes.

“I don’t know. This is strange.”

Lindström stood up. “What should we do, then?”

“I’ll ask around some more and see who’s behind this, but after that we have two choices.”

“And those would be…”

“Either we take action or pay up.”

“Violence or money?” Lindström summarized.

Markkanen nodded. “Well, there’s always a third alternative, but it doesn’t apply here.”

“What?”

“Sex… But I doubt the enemy is interested in either of us like that.”

Lindström smirked. “That’d probably be the easiest alternative.”

Markkanen looked at his boss, not sure if he was joking.

Lindström settled back into his armchair. “I got a message from the Russians. In three days’ time, a shipment of washing machines will be arriving in Kotka.”

“Washing machines?”

Lindström nodded. “Yes. Several hundred. The entire shipment is headed straight for the border, and the buyers want to know if the goods are being tracked.”

Markkanen picked a handwritten note off the table that showed the details of the shipment.

“Soo-o. The name of the ship is M/S Gambrini ,” Markkanen said. “These are all going straight through?”

“Like I said, directly to Russia. If they make it through Finland as some kind of junk, the Russian authorities won’t be interested either. It’s all about taxes. Or evading taxes, rather.”

“How much do they make?”

Lindström shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. That’s their business; we’re just here to help.”

Markkanen nodded. He was glad that Lindström was speaking more openly about the scheme.

“Okay. So you’re sure there’s no trouble with the Russians?”

“Yes. If there were, they’d have contacted me directly. Our problems have nothing to do with them. The Russians are reliable partners, and we have open lines of communication.”

“You know…back to Eriksson,” Markkanen said. It was time to throw more fuel on the fire. “The more I think about this, the clearer it becomes. Given what happened to him, it looks like the Skulls have been sicced on us.”

“The Skulls? Why?” Lindström looked puzzled.

“You’d have to ask Eriksson. It just reeks of a professional hit, and that’s what the Skulls do.”

“Then why was the body found? Looks to me like they messed up.”

Markkanen shook his head. “Could be, but I’ll find out more. Maybe someone got a whiff of your business.”

“And is trying to cut in?”

“Or take over.”

Lindström stared at Markkanen for a long time, then shook his head. “Maybe.”

“The danger here is that if the enemy thinks they won’t get a big enough payoff, they’ll rat us out to the cops for revenge.”

“But wouldn’t that connect them to the murder?”

Markkanen laughed. “Of course not, the tip would be anonymous, and focus on the Customs stuff. You’d…we’d get busted and someone else would scoop up the business.”

“What should I do?”

“Like I said. Either take care of it with money, or play hardball. Both have their risks.”

Lindström seemed to be thinking. “Indeed.”

“Are you protected well enough? I don’t wanna know anything about it, but if the cops bust through that door, is the money safe?”

Lindström tried to smile, but his eyes darted toward a painting on the back wall. Markkanen caught the movement and guessed the safe was behind the painting. There probably wouldn’t be much cash, though there might be some info on his other assets.