Behind God's Back (3 page)

“What about recently? Was he home yesterday? Or the day before?”

“I think he was. Yes, he was. Now that I think about it, he's been home for at least three to four days. Which is a little odd, because he didn't seem ill. Usually if he's ill, his wife stays home to tend to him. The kids have already flown the coop, of course.”

“How well do you know the Jacobsons?” I asked.

“As well as neighbours do after having lived next door to each other for close to thirty years. We used to visit each other now and again, but because we're of different generations that was the extent of it. The Jacobsons have been good neighbours: never make a fuss and keep the yard tidy. The children were always polite, too.”

“Did Jacobson ever mention receiving any threats?”

“No,” the man sighed. “He got along with everyone, at least here in Tammisalo. Belonged to the neighbourhood association, may have even been on the board. Who would want to threaten him?”

“Someone killed him,” Simolin pointed out.

“Yes, that's true,” the man said thoughtfully. “You don't kill someone for no reason, so the murderer must have had one.”

“Do you have any idea what it might have been?”

“No, unless it has to do with him being a Jew – maybe one of those Nazis or terrorists or what have you that hates their kind…” The man glanced at me and must have put together
my name, my appearance and my ethnic background. “It's just that it's been happening lately. They beat up that foreign professor, too. Can't think of anything else.”

“And you never saw anyone suspicious snooping around the house?”

“Nothing but apple thieves. This time of year the kids go around raiding orchards – not as much as they used to, though. You almost wish they would, with the apples rotting on the ground and all…”

“What kind of people live around here?”

“Good people. Over on the other side of the Jacobsons', there's a hockey player who spends most of the year abroad, in the US. Their house has been empty for over a month. No one lives up across the street. An older couple used to live there. He died five years ago, and then she passed two years later. The heirs plan to sell the land, and I guess the house will be torn down, because it's in pretty bad shape. Back in the day, it was the pride of the neighbourhood: huge rosebushes and flowerbeds, cherries, apples, plums and pears. The man had quite the green thumb. Now the yard is so overgrown you can't even see the house from here any more.”

I had noticed the home on the hill when we drove up. Its former beauty was still evident, as was that of the yard, even though the grounds were overgrown and the house was falling apart. There was no doubt that the plot, over twenty-thousand square feet, was worth a bundle.

“Do all the neighbours know each other?”

“Everyone except the hockey player are old Tammisalo locals, have lived here as long as we have… It's a shame. Jacobson and I exchanged a couple of words a few weeks back, and he said he intended to retire at the end of the year and leave the company to his children. Sad. Didn't have a chance to enjoy a single day of his retirement. One thing's for sure: death comes like a thief in the night. You never know whether you have an hour left, or ten years.”

I left my card with the man, who was lost in philosophical reverie, and asked them to get in touch if something came up.

As we walked back over to the Jacobson property, a TV news van pulled up in front of the house. The cameraman and a crime reporter I knew climbed out and walked in our direction.

“Can we shoot the yard?”

“At your own risk. Privacy laws apply to the entire property, as you well know.”

The reporter looked disappointed. Then she told the cameraman to get a few panoramas of the road, the house and the police car.

“We know that the resident was shot at his front door. What else can you tell us?”

“I don't know any more than you do.”

The reporter looked sceptical. “Do you have anything on the motive? Was it a robbery, for instance?”

“Doesn't appear to be, but we're looking into it. We'll send out a press release this afternoon once we get something together.”

A silver Audi was approaching the house. I had seen Jacobson drive it before and knew that it was his wife, Ethel. Facing the loved ones of the deceased was never easy, and it was even less so if you happened to know them and like them. During that brief period when I had spent some time at the Jacobson household, I had liked Lea's mother more than her father. Ethel was a couple of years younger than her husband. Her family was originally from Gdansk, Poland, but had lived in Turku since the '50s. We hadn't seen each other in years, because neither Ethel nor I were very zealous synagogue attendees, and since no familial bond existed, where else would we have run into each other?

I threw a warning glance at the reporter, even though I didn't think that either she or the cameraman would ambush Ethel. “Keep your distance, and think before you shoot.”

I crossed into the yard to wait. Ethel scratched the side of her car against the gatepost, but didn't even seem to notice. She jumped out and lunged for the stairs, where her husband lay waiting under a white sheet. It was like footage from those news clips of war-zone tragedies I'd seen a hundred times. Ethel clutched her husband and held him in her arms as she knelt there on the landing, wailing and rocking the body, face turned heavenwards. Her blazer and shirt were stained with blood, and she was looking off somewhere in the distance beyond me. The emptiness of her gaze frightened me. I touched her shoulder, but she didn't react in the least.

“Ethel. Do you remember me? It's Ariel. Ariel Kafka. I used to date Lea.”

Ethel startled me by grabbing my hand and squeezing it so hard it hurt.

“Ariel. You naughty man… Why haven't you been to see me or Lea?”

I helped her up and she immediately collapsed into my arms, weeping and rambling. “Why did they kill Samuel? He was a good man. You liked him, too, didn't you, Ariel…?”

“Of course I did.”

I led Ethel inside, because there was no point trying to ask her anything while she was standing next to her husband's body. Sensitive Simolin followed at a discreet distance. He was a singularly inconspicuous civil servant.

Once inside, Ethel was able to detach herself from what had happened, and began thinking about practical matters. “I have to call Roni. Roni's in Lapland… and Lea's in Israel… Both the children are away when their father dies…”

She was cut off by a gush of tears, but it didn't take her long to pull herself together.

“I'd like to ask a few questions. It's important that we get the investigation started as quickly as possible. Do you think you can you manage that?”

“Of course. Luckily, you're a good detective and you'll find whoever did this. Ask whatever you need to.” Ethel blew into her handkerchief, and looked at me expectantly.

“Your husband stayed home from work for several days. Why was that, even though apparently he wasn't ill?”

“I don't know.”

“But his absence from work was not due to illness, is that correct?”

“That's correct.”

“And you don't know the cause?”

“Of course I asked him. He said he had his reasons, but that he couldn't talk to me about them. I was worried, because work is so important to him… I tried my best to get him to explain what was going on, but he wouldn't budge. He could be a stubborn man. He wouldn't let me help, his own wife…”

I continued questioning before her emotions got the best of her again.

“How many days had he been away from work?”

“Three.”

I glanced around. The living room looked almost exactly the same as it had twenty years earlier, with the exception of a new flat-screen television in place of the old TV and a couple of striking bronze sculptures standing on the floor. But the sofa was the same one where I had tried to warm up Lea on the few evenings we had spent out from under the watchful gaze of her parents.

“And you don't have the slightest idea what it could have been about?”

“No. I thought so hard I couldn't sleep and my imagination started conjuring up all kinds of strange ideas, but in the morning I understood they were complete nonsense.”

“I'd still like to hear them.”

“At first I thought Samuel had written something that had angered those crazy racists. I kept telling him to think twice before he wrote but —”

“Where did he write?”

“For
Hakehila
.”

Hakehila
was the publication of the Helsinki Jewish congregation.

“Then I thought he had embezzled money and was too ashamed to go in to work… Until I realized that you can't embezzle from yourself, can you?” Ethel laughed bitterly. “It even crossed my mind that he may have had some ugly affair at the office, and that the woman's husband was threatening him.”

“Affair? Was he involved with one of his employees?”

“No, but I imagined he was. He had several attractive women working for him.”

“Did he seem anxious?”

“I asked him if had done something that was forcing him to hide. He denied it. I still thought he was afraid, though. He tried to act as if everything was normal, but I noticed that he'd walk over to the window from time to time and look out, and he tested the door several times a day to make sure it was locked. He told me not to let in anyone I didn't know. It wasn't until I asked him why that he told me he might be in danger. He wouldn't say any more than that.”

“Did anything else come to mind besides racists or a husband who had been cheated on?”

“My mind was on a roller coaster. I thought it was one thing, then something else. In the end I decided it was money… Maybe he'd had a disagreement with someone over money, a deal or something like that… Maybe someone felt like they had been cheated.”

“How did he respond?”

“He said it wasn't about money. For him, life was too short to argue about money.”

I had a slightly different view of Jacobson's philosophy of life, but this wasn't the right time to discuss it.

I took Ethel's hand and gave it a consoling squeeze. It was well manicured; the back of her palm was soft as chamois. It was the hand of an ageing woman.

“I'm sorry, but I need to ask you some unpleasant questions. Is it possible that Samuel had any gambling debts?”

“Not in a million years,” Ethel huffed. “Samuel wouldn't even play bridge, no matter how hard I tried to get him to. Gambling didn't interest him in the least.”

“Might he have been mixed up in something criminal, financed a project that later turned out to be criminal?”

“Neither he nor the company had enough money to fund criminal activity. Ariel, I'll be honest with you… Building our own office building was Samuel's biggest mistake. We did it right at the peak of the construction market, and it cost five million euros, two of which were borrowed. The building was finished three years ago, but anything extra still goes to paying off the construction loans. Meanwhile, turnover has dropped and things are getting worse and worse. Samuel was worried about that, because he had promised Roni that he would turn over directorship to him at the end of the year. The whole reason Samuel wanted the new building was that it was important to him that Roni have a successful business to run, like the one he had received from his father. Roni and Lea were everything to him. Which is why he decided to stay on as CEO until it was back on its feet…”

Ethel's self-control began to crumble, but I had to press on. The previous question had laid the foundation for the one I wanted to ask next. “What if he had been forced to fund criminal activity for the very reason that he wouldn't have been able to manage the loans otherwise?”

“Oh, things weren't that tight for us. And he meant to take out a new loan from a Finnish bank and pay off the old one. He said he'd had a better loan offer.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Where did the old loan come from?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't? But you worked for the company, too, didn't you, in accounting?”

Tears were streaming down Ethel's cheeks, and she didn't even try to wipe them away.

“Do you know what the worst thing is, Ariel? We parted in strife. I gave him a piece of my mind this morning… But how could I have known, you never know… which is why you should always part as friends. When we started dating, we agreed that we would never go to bed until we had settled any arguments…”

I gave her a minute to calm down and repeated: “You also worked for the company. Shouldn't you have known about the loan, too?”

“All I know is that the loan was brokered by Samuel's friend and the money came from Estonia, but from which bank, I couldn't tell you. The broker held on to the paperwork.”