Harri Nykanen - Behind God's Back

“Of course.”

I saw Stenman jotting something down in her notebook. She looked at it and said: “According to the CFO, there had been no big problems with the loan payments, meaning there wouldn’t have been any reason to strong-arm Jacobson. And generally finance companies send debt collectors after people who owe them money, not killers. A dead man isn’t going to be making too many payments.”

Huovinen looked at me.

“I asked my brother about the loan. According to him, Jacobson’s most recent loan payments were late, but they came to an agreement, and a new payment schedule was drafted.”

“Anything new on the murder weapon?”

It was Simolin’s turn to share information: “According to the lab, it’s a.22 calibre Russian Margolin, probably silencer-equipped. It’s a common sharpshooting weapon both here and abroad. Hundreds of thousands have been manufactured. Hundreds, if not thousands, exist in Finland. If you use projectiles slower than the speed of sound, it’s quieter than an air gun.”

I used to own a Margolin, too. I got it when I graduated from the police academy. I used to shoot quite a bit with it at the Viiki shooting range, but eventually I got bored and sold it to a co-worker.

“Divers searched the sea yesterday along the getaway route. They didn’t find anything. The search will continue today.”

“Good… Did you get anything from the uniform that was recovered from the Golf?”

“Not genuine. Normal blue nylon overalls with badges cut out of duct tape glued to them. Pretty resourceful, actually. From a few yards away it looks completely authentic.”

“I got a call from the Jewish congregation yesterday. What do you think, are there any investigative obstacles that require postponement of the funeral?” Huovinen asked me.

“No, no obstacles.”

“Well, then you can give their burial society permission to pick up the body. Will you be attending the funeral, by the way?”

“I was planning on it.”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow morning, probably. The daughter’s flight from Israel doesn’t arrive until tonight.”

“Be sure to talk to her, too,” Huovinen reminded me.

Stenman’s phone rang. She glanced at the number and said: “It’s the CFO, Pekka Hulkko. I’ll put it on speakerphone.”

Everyone quietened down to listen.

“You asked me to ask if any of the employees own a dark, possibly green, old-model Ford Mondeo. The answer is no, but one of our employees knew that Kari Mikkola owns a car like that.”

“Who’s Kari Mikkola?”

“That employee we talked about, the one who was fired for drinking on the job. One of the other employees said that he bumped into Mikkola in the Citymarket parking lot at Itäkeskus Mall. Mikkola had been driving a dark-green Mondeo with a picture of a dog in the back window. One plus one is often two.”

Stenman agreed that that was so. “Did Mikkola have any other run-ins with Jacobson?”

“Which one, father or son?”

“Mostly the father, but the son will do, too.”

“As far as I’m aware there was no bad blood between Samuel and Mikkola, but something about Roni rubbed him the wrong way. At least, Mikkola cursed Roni out on his last day on the job. Intoxication may have played a part, of course.”

“Did he make any threats?”

“No. If I recall correctly, he used the words ‘cocksucking candy-ass scumbag’. I have Mikkola’s address if you want it…”

Stenman thanked him and wrote down the address. Mikkola lived in Vantaa.

“Why don’t we go have a look? We don’t really have anything else going on,” Stenman suggested.

“I’ll come with you,” said Simolin.

“No, I will,” I interjected, using my prerogative as superior. I wanted to get some fresh air. My brain was shutting down.

We were in luck. The car was parked out in front of the building. We took the elevator up to the fifth floor. There were several dents in the lower half of Mikkola’s door, as if it had suffered from some kicking. Apparently someone on the outside had wanted to get in. I listened for a second, and then rang the doorbell. Nothing happened, and I pressed it a couple more times. It took half a minute before the door opened, and I could see Mikkola’s hungover face in the crack. He smelt the cop on us and the look on his face grew even queasier.

“Criminal police,” I said, confirming his fears. “The green Mondeo parked in front of the building is yours, isn’t it?”

He gulped, exhaled a breath that reeked of stale booze, and said: “So?”

“You paid a visit to your former place of employment in that car yesterday morning.”

His face blazed with guilt. This was no hardened criminal. “Fucking fuck. OK, I admit it, it was me, but that Jew deserved it. It was a witch hunt.”

“You mind if we come inside?” I didn’t wait for an answer; I just pushed my way in.

The place looked the way you’d expect for guy on a drinking binge. Fetid, funky air; stacks of newspapers, bottles and dishes. Waking up in surroundings like that doubled the agony of a hangover.

“Are you saying that Samuel Jacobson had it out for you?”

“Sami? No, Sami was a good guy; he understood that life isn’t always peaches and cream. When he heard my old lady had split and taken my daughter with her, he came and talked to me. I’m talking about his scumbag son Roni. What an asshole. The drinking was obviously just an excuse. He wanted to get rid of me, and made up the drinking because there wasn’t anything else.”

“So you admit to placing the threatening letter in the company’s mail box?”

“I guess there’s no denying it. I got the idea when I read about those racists who’d been sending letters to Jews. OK, so it was stupid, but I’m a fair guy. You treat me right, I’ll treat you right… Besides, I was pretty drunk… How did you find me?”

“It’s what detectives do.”

“Is it true that someone killed Sami? I’ve been drinking for four days straight. I’ve been blacking out, kind of going in and out of consciousness… Except when I took the letter. I was stone sober then,” Mikkola added, once he realized what he had said.

“Yes, it’s true,” Stenman said. “We asked all of the employees at the company if they knew anything about it, for instance if they knew about any enemies Jacobson had, or threats he had received. So I’ll go ahead and ask you, too, since we’re here.”

“The only thing I know about is this thing of mine. Believe me. It’s already been a month since I was fired.”

“You said Jacobson’s son Roni had it in for you. Why?”

“Probably because I knew he was plotting against the old man. I heard him talking on the phone one day when he thought no one else was in the warehouse. He noticed me when I was leaving. Right after that he started spying on me, and when I took a little hair of the dog in the warehouse one day, he made a huge deal about it. I gave that company the best fifteen years of my life, and I get fired for one sip. Is that fair?”

“What did Roni say about his father over the phone?”

“Something like he had a way of getting rid of his dad… and that it wouldn’t take long.”

“Try to remember the details,” I said. “Every word could be important.”

Mikkola nudged a heap of clothes aside and lowered himself into a recliner. The effort winded him.

“He said… ‘Dad’s not going to be a problem much longer… someone promised to take care of it…’”

“Someone? Did he mention a name?”

“Might have, but I don’t remember.”

Mikkola’s pained expression indicated that we wouldn’t be squeezing anything else out of him. His gaze wandered over to a half-empty bottle of cheap cognac standing on the table.