Harri Nykanen - Behind God's Back

“Maybe the person making the threats figured that the old man was the one with the money. He doesn’t care who pays, as long as he gets his dough.”

“Should we take a closer look at the company’s finances, and the son’s, too?” Stenman asked. “Maybe it’s worth having another word with CFO Pekka Hulkko.”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

I got to my one-bedroom apartment in Punavuori around 9 p.m. and was greeted by the fug of loneliness that clings to every bachelor pad. I had a reputation of sorts as a ladies’ man, although I didn’t get where it came from. Maybe I was paying for my years of youthful experimentation and unsavoury stories were being passed from one Jewish family to the next as a cautionary example. The fact was that it had been over six years since I had last lived with a woman. At the time, I had been in a relationship with a Finnish teacher named Suvi whom I had met at a colleague’s wedding. I still wasn’t sure why the relationship had ended, but apparently the blame was mine.

Living alone had its advantages, but it wasn’t a dogma or principle for me. It was ninety per cent sad, especially when your wildest partying days had passed and you started valuing other things.

I don’t know what my problem was, but I attracted the wrong sort of women. They represented one of two extremes: either they were too bossy and domineering, or too meek and adaptable.

Another problem was that all the women my age were divorced and usually bitter about it. Plus they had children, and even though I had met some nice kids, I didn’t want to be a father to the children of a man I didn’t know.

As a bachelor over the age of forty, my relatives considered me a strange bird. I was continuously dodging their attempts to marry me off. “Good Jewish girls” were foisted off on me under any variety of pretences.

I may not be qualified to comment, but I think women found me pretty interesting, and pretty good-looking, too. Something in my melancholic disposition aroused their protective instincts. Plus I kept myself in shape, owned a place in a good neighbourhood, and had a respectable job. I should have been a good match, but I just wasn’t able to sell myself to anyone.

I shook myself out of my gloomy musings, popped open a beer and wondered what I should do about Eli. I eventually made my decision and called him. We used to get together at least once a week, but now it had been three weeks since we had last seen each other. We must have overdosed on each other’s company at the cottage.

Eli was the first to speak. “What’s up, little brother?” I knew him well enough to tell he was drunk — not very, but still.

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah, I’m sipping some pricey vintage whisky. Got it from the father-in-law. What about you?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Is it about Jacobson? I heard someone shot him.”

I wasn’t the least bit surprised Eli knew about the case. He was on the executive council of the congregation, just like Jacobson, and even if he hadn’t been, he still would have heard about it. Someone called someone else, and that someone called a third person. Two hours later, half the Jews in Helsinki knew about it. We had always been good at disseminating information.

“Are you investigating?”

“Yup. Why would you think I’d be interested in discussing Jacobson with you, of all people?”

“Because I know him and —”

“You have time to meet?”

“There’s plenty in this bottle for the both of us. Come over and join me.”

“No thanks. Half an hour, at the shore?”

“At the same old spot?”

*

The same old spot was the Compass Terrace at Kaivopuisto marina. When we were kids, Dad would take us down to the shore and regale us with all sorts of stories about the city. At one point, we had an old wooden fisherman’s boat, and it had been moored down at the marina, too. An autumn gale had smashed the hull, and it sank a day before Dad was supposed to pull it out for the winter. We never went out in it, because Dad didn’t trust the engine, but we’d often take day trips down to the dock. We’d sit in the boat and fish, and Dad would cook for us on a camp stove. We even spent the night a couple of times. I’ll always remember the smell of diesel and damp wood that rose from the engine and the bilge.

Eli only lived a couple of hundred yards from our meeting place, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had shown up in his car. He came on foot, though, and as if by tacit agreement, we headed down the shore towards Cafe Ursula.

Eli broke the silence. “You dated Jacobson’s daughter for a while, didn’t you? Wasn’t her name Lea?”

“You have a good memory.”

“It’s a small world.”

“Smaller than you’d think. Jacobson’s wife told me that they took out a loan for their company through you and Max.”

Eli shrugged. “Could be. Max handles that side of the business. Besides, you’re talking as if we’re a bank. All we do is refer clients to the finance company and receive a certain compensation for that. It’s not enough to get rich off.”

“Where does the money come from?”

“A lot of places. The company I represent has operations in numerous countries. Do you think we have something to do with Jacobson’s death? Is that the reason for this clandestine rendezvous?”

“Well, do you?”

“Hey, don’t joke around about serious stuff. What the hell is going on here, little brother?”

Even though Eli was trying to keep the tone light, I could sense the fear in him.

“Jacobson wasn’t killed by some neo-Nazi or crazy racist. The killer was dressed like a police officer because Jacobson knew that something might happen to him. He had barricaded himself up at home. He was frightened. And he wouldn’t tell anyone why, even his wife.”

“What reason would anyone have to murder a guy who sells office machines?”

“Depends on whether he was just a guy who sold office machines. Or something more.”

“A spy?” Eli chuckled. “It’s hard to imagine anyone more strait-laced than Jacobson. People like that don’t get mixed up in anything dangerous.”

“What were the terms of the loan like?”

“What you’re asking is confidential information.”

“I doubt Jacobson’s very concerned any more.”

“Who would take a loan from us if the terms weren’t good?”

“What about collateral?”

“Totally normal. Corporate real estate and the house.”

“So why did Jacobson want to switch banks if everything was so good?”

Eli slowed down and looked at me. “I don’t know anything about that. Where did you hear that?”

“His wife.”

“I seriously don’t know anything about that, but I can ask Max… or you can ask him yourself.”

“You didn’t tell me anything about the company you represent. What’s it called?”

“Baltic Invest. It’s an investment and finance company.”

“Estonian?”

“No, it’s part of a larger international concern.”

“Come on, who owns the company?”

“It’s part of an Israeli conglomerate. The principal shareholder is a businessman named Benjamin Hararin.”

“A Jew.”

“What could be finer than the success of one of our own?”

“How did it so happen that you and Max became the company’s agents in Finland?”

“Through Max. A friend of his knows Hararin and suggested it to him. I wasn’t thrilled about it, but Max felt like free money was being thrown into our laps. All we had to do was introduce potential borrowers and lenders to each other. We’d get a slice of every loan — a slim one, but it wasn’t much work. Once Max filled out the papers for a million-euro loan in fifteen minutes. We got 20,000 euros for that. Pretty good hourly rate.”