James Thompson - Lucifer's tears

“The only other option,” Jyri says, “is to let the case go unsolved. Release Rein Saar on the grounds that he couldn’t have been tased and then murdered Iisa Filippov.”

This is the lesser of two evils, but unsatisfactory. Ivan Filippov deserves punishment. “What about your precious murharyhma track record?”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“Because I ruined it, I’ll look like an asshole, like a shitty detective. And it’s not a great start for Milo’s career, either.”

“True, but on the other hand, you two are both famous hero cops at the moment. Discrediting you and making you disappear would be a way of keeping the black-ops unit secret. I believe the term is sheep-dipping. You go away, then quietly reappear, out of the public eye.”

And I’m supposed to trust him with this. Not a fucking chance. I make up my mind. One way or another, the murder of Iisa Filippov-whether it’s Iisa, and not Linda, in a cold drawer in the morgue-will be punished. I just still don’t know how to accomplish it. I lie. “Okay, Jyri, we’ll do it your way. I’ll call you later and let you know what Filippov and I work out.”

“Just buy us some time to find his other mistakes. Make some cockamamie deal, then later, no matter what you agree to, we’ll put the fucks to him.”

As is Jyri’s habit, he hangs up without saying thank you, fuck you or good-bye.

I turn back to December Day, think about calling Milo to get his opinion, but decide I don’t want it. I turn my latest conversations with Filippov and Jyri over in my mind, try to find chinks in their armor I can chisel open, but I can’t. My cell phone rings. It’s Arvid.

“How are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer straight away, and when he does, his voice cracks. “Son, I’ve been better.”

Arvid keeps his emotions, except anger, tight. I’m worried. “What’s the matter?”

“Can you come here? Right away?”

I look out the window at a blizzard. Snow comes down in a deluge. “I don’t know if I can. The roads might not be passable.”

“I’m asking you, please.”

“What’s the matter?”

Long pause. “It’s Ritva. She’s passed away.”

It almost brings tears to my eyes. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”

“I need you to do her death investigation.”

“Even if I wanted to, it’s not my jurisdiction.”

His sigh is long and full of sorrow. “It has to be your jurisdiction. Ritva had bone cancer. I helped her to die. I need you to cover it up.”

I don’t know what to say, and say nothing.

“It was her wish,” he says. “I know you can’t just take my word for it. We’ve known this day would come for a long time and planned for it. Ritva wrote you a letter to explain.”

I still don’t know what to say.

“Please help me,” Arvid says.

“Hang tight,” I say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

The drive to Porvoo is treacherous. My Saab slips and slides all over the road, and visibility is nothing. The trip, usually little over half an hour, takes me two hours.

Arvid ushers me in. He’s wearing his usual starched and pressed pants and his hair is perfectly combed. I get the idea that he made himself as presentable as possible before seeing his wife off to the next world, made their last moments together as special as he could.

We take our now customary places at his kitchen table. He brings us coffee and cognac. “Let’s drink to her,” he says, and raises his glass.

I raise mine, too.

“To Ritva, may she rest in peace,” he says.

I repeat it after him, and we drink.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Boy, are you going to do me this favor and sign off on her death? I’ll get Ritva’s letter for you.”

The pain in his voice makes further proofs unnecessary. “I don’t need to see the letter, unless you want me to read it. And of course I’ll help you.”

“Ritva was eaten up with bone cancer. Her pain got worse and worse, and the days she could even get out of bed were fewer and farther between. In the end, she was in near-constant agony.”

“Like I said, you don’t have to tell me this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to. She was only seventy-six, but I’m ninety. I do my best, but I’m not strong enough anymore to take care of an invalid. The time came where she had to go to a hospital to die, and she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to die here with me. In our home, and in my arms. So today, we renewed our wedding vows, and I overdosed her with morphine. She fell asleep and passed without feeling any pain.”

He starts to cry a little. He needs privacy. “Let me go have a look at her,” I say, “just to make sure you didn’t leave any clues somebody might pick up on.”

He nods.

I go upstairs and find their bedroom. She’s covered with a sheet. Ritva’s eyes are closed and her arms are folded across her chest. Her hair is done up in a neat bun. I pull back the sheet. She’s wearing a long silk nightgown. I don’t see anything that might cause suspicion of anything but death due to cancer, no reason for an autopsy.

I go back downstairs. “Everything is fine,” I say. “You did everything just right. Do you want me to call the mortuary now?”

“Give me a few minutes with her first,” he says.

I sit by myself for a while. When he comes back, he tells me to make the call. I do, and sit with him while we wait.

“Tell me about your goings-on with the Filippov case,” Arvid says.

At this moment, he looks every day of his ninety years. He just lost his life partner of more than fifty years. His face is all grief and pain. I guess he wants to think about something else for a little while.

I bring him up to speed, tell him that it looks to me like Filippov-protected by the powers that be-will walk away from murdering his wife. If it is his wife and not her half sister. An innocent man may be made a scapegoat and have his life ruined. And I have a feeling I’m going to be hung out to dry and have my career destroyed. I say I have no idea what to say or do when I meet Filippov at Kamp at five, but come hell or high water, I’m determined to convict him.

“Kamp,” he says. “I used to love that place back in the war years. Great food. I miss that food.”

“My wife is the general manager of the hotel,” I say. “Come there sometime, I’ll ask her to comp us and we’ll have a nice meal together.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “But this Filippov case. It’s going south on you. One way or another, you’re going to be the one hurt by it, and the bad guys are all going to walk away like it never happened.”

I light a cigarette. He takes one, too. “I smoked like a train when I was young,” he says. “Always loved smoking. I’m going to take up the habit again.”

“Sometimes, Arvid,” I say, “I think these cigarettes are the only things keeping me alive.”

He stubs out a cigarette, lights another, finishes off his cognac. “You’re a good boy. This situation of yours. We’re going to have to do something about it.”

I have no idea what he means by “we.” Sometimes I wonder if he’s still whip-smart or mentally feeling the effect of his years. “You have your own problems at the moment.”

His smile is knowing. The old man has depths I don’t fathom. “Well,” he says, “I guess we better do something about them, too.”

He switches gears. “You know anything about the Arctic Sea case?” he asks.

“A little. Why?”

“The ship the Arctic Sea left Kaliningrad, in Russia, in July of last year and picked up a little less than two million euros’ worth of wood in Finland. Depending on who you listen to, the ship either was or wasn’t tested for radiation. If it was, the paperwork has disappeared. Shortly after departing Finland, it was hijacked by eight men, supposedly of various nationalities from former Eastern Bloc countries. But the hijackers spoke English to the Russian crew. In this day and age, despite current technology, the ship disappeared. When finally located, the Arctic Sea was three hundred miles off Cape Verde, thousands of miles from its original destination. Who the fuck commits piracy for timber?”