Authors: Harri Nykanen
Nights of Awe (9 page)
Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to look at Inspector Sillanpää. We were clearly in SUPO territory now. Sillanpää didn’t even bother standing.
“We don’t have any indication that a terrorist attack was being planned, and I venture to claim that we’re the ones who know most about such matters. In addition, we collaborate with the intelligence agencies of numerous other countries and are immediately informed if even a single suspected terrorist approaches our little northern paradise. Agents of foreign powers aren’t in the habit of coming here to carry out operations, at least on the scale that the aforementioned theory would require.”
Sillanpää’s delivery was convincing. And yet I still sensed that he was steering and slowing the investigation. I was good about picking up on stuff like that, or at least that’s what I liked to believe.
“Simply the fact that all of the victims are Arabs shouldn’t make us jump to hasty conclusions,” Sillanpää continued. “Of course we shouldn’t discount the possibility of terrorism either. We’re looking into the backgrounds of the deceased with the help of our international contacts. I would, however, continue to urge caution in the use of the word terrorism. If it leaks into the papers, we won’t have a moment’s peace. And of course if we’re really lucky, the story will get picked up by the international media.”
“It already has,” Huovinen noted. “
Aftonbladet
called a couple of hours ago and
Expressen
right after, and at that point there were only two bodies. Both of them asked if there were any terrorist links in the case. I don’t get where they got that from.”
Aftonbladet
called a couple of hours ago and
Expressen
right after, and at that point there were only two bodies. Both of them asked if there were any terrorist links in the case. I don’t get where they got that from.”
Deputy Police Chief Leivo still looked peeved. He was probably wishing he could have seen his name, preferably with an accompanying photograph, in the pages of the Swedish papers.
“In any case, we need to agree on the specific communications tactics, down to turns of phrase, that we will all use. And no one slides from them.”
“We won’t be commenting on the case other than to state we are following the investigation, as always occurs in cases like these,” Sillanpää said. “Public mention of terrorism in particular inevitably points at certain states. We can’t prevent the media from speculating. If police command wants to explain matters at the diplomatic level, then go right ahead, but don’t get us mixed up in it.”
Deputy Chief Leivo’s expression grew more concerned. He clearly didn’t want a diplomatic incident, even a minor one.
“If SUPO knows more about this than we do and doesn’t want us fouling things up, they’d better spit out everything they have.”
“I’d tell you if I knew anything,” Sillanpää said. “I was just offering my opinion. I assume that’s the reason I’m here.”
Huovinen turned back to me.
“I propose Lieutenant Kafka decides. He’s got the best sense of the case.”
I eyed Sillanpää, who stared back stonily.
“I agree to some extent with Inspector Sillanpää. We’re going to continue trying to figure out the identity of the unidentified victim with our own resources. If that doesn’t work, then we can reconsider releasing the photograph.”
Sillanpää gave a near-imperceptible nod.
On the way to my office, I remembered that my colleague who sat a few rooms away, Lieutenant Kari Takamäki, had just wrapped up an investigation of the murder of a young Arab man.
I figured I would be at least partially retracing some of the same paths as him, and I wanted all of the advice he could offer. I showed him the photos of the deceased, but he didn’t recognize any of them. We chatted for a minute and Takamäki suggested that I have a word with the communications officer or imam from the Islamic Society, and gave me a name and number for both. I thanked him for the good advice.
6
Imam Omar Nader was evidently a tolerant man. At least he didn’t give the slightest indication that Stenman and I were unwelcome guests, although it was unlikely that a Jew and a policewoman were everyday sights at the offices of the Islamic Society.
I had called the imam at home, and he had suggested that we meet at the society’s offices. Stenman and I had agreed that I would handle most of the talking, just to be sure.
The imam was a gentle-looking man with thick-framed glasses. It was difficult to say how old he was, but I estimated around fifty. I deduced this based on the fact that the beard, which didn’t really suit his round face, was going grey. In a slight contradiction to his role, he was wearing a youthful sweater.
“You said that you needed my help. How can I be of assistance?”
The imam spoke almost perfect Finnish. I had seen him on a television programme once and knew that he had already lived here some twenty-odd years.
“To start with, I’m hoping you can identify someone.”
I handed the imam the photo of the body that had been found on the tracks. The photo had been retouched so that the bruising from the collision wouldn’t be visible. The imam raised his glasses and stared at the picture for a long time.
“I’ve seen him at the mosque once, but I don’t know his name. I got the impression that he was French, that’s why I remember him. Is he dead?”
“Do you know whose guest he was?”
“No. Not necessarily anyone’s. Perhaps he just wanted to pray and meet fellow Muslims during a trip to Finland. That happens often.”
“How did you come to the conclusion that he was French?”
“I think that someone mentioned it, I don’t remember who. That’s the impression I was left with, however.”
I gave the imam three more photos.
“What about them?”
This time a concerned and at the same time mournful expression flashed across the imam’s face.
“Does this have something to do with what was on the news?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“Are they all dead?”
“Yes.”
“This is a day of sorrow for me, in many ways. May Allah be merciful to them.”
“Do you recognize any of these others?”
The imam hesitated for a moment, but then pointed at Ali Hamid’s photo.
“He was a good Muslim, he came to the mosque often to pray. The whole family did. They’re all good people, good Finns.”
The imam pulled a checked handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow.
“I’m afraid that this is going to bring us a lot of trouble. People have many misplaced prejudices against us Muslims. Finland has treated us well, and we don’t want to repay good with evil. This is why you can be sure that the majority of Finnish Muslims condemn all forms of violence, as does the Koran. It will be sad and unfortunate if we are linked to these violent deeds. I always say that violence begets more violence.”
“According to Ali Hamid’s wife, her husband attended the mosque the night before last with his cousin. Did you see him?”
Once again, the imam hesitated.
“We greeted each other, but we didn’t speak.”
“Did you know his cousin, Tagi Hamid?”
“I’ve seen him a couple of times, nothing more.”
“Did Ali Hamid speak with anyone other than his cousin?”
“Of course. He’s doesn’t go around not speaking when he’s in the company of friends… But I know what you mean. I didn’t notice anything like that.”
For the first time, the imam sounded a little impatient.
“Could you please tell me what this is about now?”
I looked at the imam and believed he was sincere.
“We don’t know yet. The murders occurred in two different places, but we know that they are related. Do you know, did these four men have anything to do with each other?”
“I don’t know the other two at all, but apparently they’re Arabs. There aren’t very many Arabs living in Helsinki. Maybe they know each other, maybe not, I can’t say.”
Stenman had had enough of keeping quiet.
“Do you have any idea what might be the motivation for the killings?”
“There are some people and some parties that do not like us. I don’t know what else to say. You know these parties as well as we do.”
“Could it be a matter of a disagreement between two militant Arab groups?”
“There might be, and are, differences of opinion, but almost everyone is in agreement about the main issues. I don’t understand why Arabs would kill each other, especially here in Finland.”
I didn’t know how the imam would react to the request I was about to present, but I presented it anyway.
“I was hoping you could show these photos to the members of your congregation as soon as possible. We’d be grateful for any information we can get about them.”
“Do you suspect them of something?”
“We don’t, but naturally we want to know why they were killed. The investigation isn’t going to go anywhere until we discover the motive. We don’t believe that this was a hate crime. We’re particularly interested in the unidentified man you guess was French and Ali and Tagi Hamid. The fourth one is Hamid’s employee. We believe he was killed simply because he was in the body shop when Hamid was killed.”
The imam gazed at the images of the deceased and, without looking up, said: “I’ll do what I can.”
I drove Stenman home and returned to HQ to hear the latest news. I wasn’t surprised to find the light still on in Simolin’s room.
I had been the same way when I started in the Violent Crimes Unit. I’d sit in my office until the wee hours, sifting through the details of a case. I enjoyed being able to chat with the detectives who were on night duty and hear their experiences. I was an avid listener. We’d down cups of automat coffee and talk. Sometimes an interesting call would come in and I’d tag along. I understood Simolin better than he knew.
He was sitting at his desk, bent over a sheaf of papers. He had taken off his jacket. His shirt was blindingly white and there was a dark-blue tie at his neck.
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I took a little nap. I’m still going through the last of the tip-offs.”
“Anything interesting?”
“As expected, some are racist – you know, those ragheads got what they deserved, etc. There might be some important information in here too, but it’s still tough to tell at this point. I’ve sorted them into some semblance of priority. I can read you a few.”
“Go for it.”
“Mrs Aune Kujala says that she saw a young, foreign-looking man lifting a bicycle into a white van in front of the City Theatre at eight-thirty in the morning. There were two men, also foreign-looking, in the car. No licence-plate number, no make. It did occur to me that to an old woman, a minivan might look like a van.”
“Drop by tomorrow and find out more.”
“Then there’s this tip-off from a service-station owner who says three skinheads were laughing knowingly while watching the five o’clock news on the killings. We got the tapes from the petrol-station security camera and there’s a pretty decent shot of all three. We’re looking for them. SUPO gave us a name and address for one of them, but he wasn’t at home. A patrol is going to try again later tonight.”
“I don’t believe they’re our guys.”
“Me neither,” Simolin said.
“Didn’t anything come in about the Citroën Hamid rented?”
“Amazingly enough, no.”
Earlier that evening, Oksanen had discovered that Ali Hamid had rented a green Citroën C5 hatchback from Hertz. We didn’t release the vehicle details to the media until all patrols had searched for it for a couple of hours with no results. I thought it was strange that no tip-offs from the public had come in.
“That car’s got to be in someone’s garage,” Simolin remarked. “And it could be that it hasn’t been used since it was rented. Maybe it’s being saved for a specific purpose.”
“Could be.”
Simolin made no effort to decorate his office with anything that reflected his personality. There were no fishing or hunting pictures on the walls, no cartoons or Che Guevara posters or any other ideological material. All that was on the shelves were case folders and a slim collection of legal literature. Simolin preferred looking up information online. The sole spark of personality was the image on his computer’s screen saver. It was of a Sioux Indian chief in a magnificent feathered headdress. I knew that the Indian belonged to the Sioux tribe, because I had asked Simolin.
Later I heard from one of Simolin’s academy classmates that Simolin was crazy about North American Indians and had made himself a complete Indian outfit out of moose skin, plus a perfect replica of an Indian bow and arrows. I wasn’t surprised; somehow I could imagine him being into stuff like that.
The information about Simolin’s hobby had spread rapidly around the VCU, and for a while it was impossible for him to escape it. Whenever he was in a meeting, some wiseass would fold his arms akimbo and end whatever he was saying with: “Ugh! I have spoken!” Until the joke got old, words like forked tongue, paleface, papoose, teepee, great white chief, long knife and yellow-hair were tossed around the department in all possible contexts.
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