Raid and the Blackest Sheep (10 page)

    
“You have a fine profession.”

    
Anna looked almost bashful when she asked, “And your wife? Would she move to the country with you?”

    
“Maybe.”

    
“You must be happy together.”

    
“I have a good wife.”

    
“And she certainly has nothing to complain about.”

    
“Well, I’m old, tired and bored.”

    
“I wouldn’t say so. Sympathetic and safe, with a good sense of humor. You wouldn’t believe how much women appreciate those things.”

    
“That so?”

    
“You bet. And fifty-four’s not so old, at least not for a man. I’m forty-two myself.”

    
“Now that I don’t believe,” said Jansson.

    
Anna smiled at his politeness. She took his hand and held it between hers.

    
“Will you at least come for lunch?”

    
“I guess so,” he shrugged.

    
“Good.”

    
She rose, but hesitated before leaving.

    
“You’re a good listener… It’d be nice to talk more sometime… Just the two of us.”

    
Anna left, leaving only the scent of her perfume in the room and a restless feeling in Jansson’s chest. Was it really just a chat she wanted, or was that a sign that she wanted more?

    
Over the course of three days, Jansson had noticed that many couples had formed among the men and women at the rehab center. He also knew that some of them had arranged to meet again.

    
Jansson had been faithful for all thirty-two years of his marriage. As far as he was concerned, his wife hadn’t shown adequate appreciation for his faithfulness. Unlike the other women Jansson knew, his wife was nearly devoid of jealousy, so devoid that it sometimes troubled him. Did she think he was unable to attract other women?

    
Unable to sit still any longer, he stepped into the shower. On his way downstairs, Officer Susisaari called to tell him about Lieutenant Kempas’ request.

    
“I just chatted with him yesterday.”

    
“He wants all the files on Raid. Didn’t you have a whole binder on him?” she asked.

    
“Go ahead and send it. It’s filed in the archives.”

    
“You know…Kempas is a good detective and all, but I don’t like his style.”

    
“Neither do I. Try to put up with it.”

    
“How’s Huusko managing?”

    
“Huusko manages no matter what.”

    
“Are we talking about the same guy? Detective Hannu Huusko?”

    
“One and the same.”

    
“Tell him I said hi. You guys are missed over here, even him.”

    
The lounge in the lobby was nearly empty and the veterans’ table was deserted. Jansson grabbed the day’s edition of the
Helsingin Sanomat
and started to leaf through it. From the lobby, he could see the cafeteria where they were preparing for lunch. The staff was setting piles of food and plates onto the buffet.

    
A group of women in white terry cloth robes with towels wrapped around their heads was coming from the direction of the swimming pool. Huusko was lagging behind a bit, his arm around a woman in a bikini who was laughing at his banter.

    
“See you tonight,” said Huusko as he cut off in Jansson’s direction.

    
“What’s going on tonight?” asked Jansson.

    
“A dance. Nice to finally see you among the living again. I was afraid I’d have to break down the door.”

    
Jansson marveled at Huusko’s carefree manner. He would have expected the setback with Anna to have slowed him down a bit.

    
“Susisaari called and sends her greetings.”

    
“I’m gonna toss my bag in the room. You’re coming to lunch, right?”

    
“I guess so.”

    
Huusko hurried off to his room. Apparently forgetting that he was a patient at a physical rehab center, he bounded up the stairs by fours.

    
The war veterans seized their regular table again. Jansson’s cellphone rang and he withdrew to a quiet corner.

    
“It’s me.”

    
Jansson recognized the voice immediately.

    
“Hope it’s not a bad time. I heard you were
in physical
rehab.”

    
“Not a bad time at all. I heard you were in Finland.”

    
“Right.”

    
“Work or play?”

    
“Tough to say.”

    
“Why?”

    
“Sometimes it feels like work, sometimes it feels like play.”

    
“What does?”

    
“You don’t know?”

    
“Yeah. You’re on the road with Nygren. Should I know why?”

    
“Not as a cop.”

    
“You’re not up to anything criminal?”

    
“Not really.”

    
“Not doing anything I wouldn’t do?”

    
“No. Pretty sure you’d approve of everything I’m doing.”

    
“A certain colleague of mine thinks Nygren’s planning a big job.”

    
“Not true.”

    
“You sure?”

    
“Yes.”

    
“Why’d you call, then?”

    
“I want you guys to leave us alone.”

    
“Hey, I’m just a plain lieutenant—I don’t have that kind of sway. Besides, the lieutenant who’s after Nygren is a pretty tough nut to crack. Almost impossible.”

    
“You can assure your colleague he’s wasting his time. We’re attending to fully legitimate matters.”

    
“Have you known Nygren long?”

    
“Yes.”

    
“You protecting him from someone?”

    
“Yes again.”

    
“You staying in Finland long?”

    
“Tough to say.”

    
“Is there a number I can get hold of you at…if I hear something.”

    
“I’ll call you.”

    
“Might be better to meet in person.”

    
“Not yet.”

    
“Where you at now?”

    
“On the road,” Raid replied in English.

    
“On the road,” Jansson repeated.

    
“Right.”

7.

Raid and Nygren were the only customers at the village general store. The shopkeeper stood behind the meat counter in a white coat, following them with a curious gaze. The little store had been forcibly converted into a crowded mini-mart and the register had been squeezed right in front of the entrance. Behind the register was a woman in her fifties, likely the shopkeeper’s wife, judging from her self-important expression. She sat ramrod straight, like a prison guard. Not a single customer would get by her without paying.

    
Nygren had piled a case of beer, a loaf of bread, cheese, canned pea soup, sausage links, a can of coffee and a couple of cartons of milk into the shopping cart. He lingered in the cookie aisle and picked out some chocolate cookies with strawberry filling, then veered sharply right and stopped in front of the meat counter.

    
“A half pound of sliced ham.”

    
The shopkeeper took careful aim with his metal tongs and lifted a pile of ham onto some wax paper. The scale showed nine ounces.

    
“That’s fine,” said Nygren.

    
His generosity won the shopkeeper’s approval.

    
“Might I ask if you’re the owner of the old Nurminen place?”

    
Nygren nodded.

    
“Pleased to meet you. Folks around here sometimes wonder what type of guy owns that place.”

    
“This type.”

    
The shopkeeper glanced at Nygren as conspicuously as he dared. Dressed in sunglasses, a long black Italian coat and handmade Mexican boots, Nygren was certainly not a common sight at the village store. He wasn’t a common sight anywhere.

    
“Not that we’re all that nosy out here in the country—it’s just nice to know…in case we bump into each other.”

    
“Right.”

    
The shopkeeper could see he wasn’t getting any more out of Nygren.

    
“Anything else I can get you?”

    
“A couple dozen cabbage rolls.”

    
“Garbage rolls…as they’re called around these parts.”

    
The shopkeeper’s regional Savo humor got no rise out of Nygren. He remained taciturn.

    
The cashier studied Nygren’s bills as though certain they were forgeries. Nygren glanced at Raid. His background was evidently well known to the townspeople.

    
“Thank you,” said Nygren, looking the cashier directly in the eyes. The woman covered her neck with her hands, seemingly fearful that Nygren might pull a stiletto and part her throat from ear to ear.

    
The Mercedes climbed a long hill, curving steadily to the right before abruptly reaching the turnoff to Nygren’s estate. On the left was a steep bluff and just before the turnoff was a dense birch forest. There were no road signs or mailboxes at the intersection, nor anything else to indicate what lay ahead.

    
Raid feathered the brakes just enough to make the turn without stopping at the intersection.

    
The road was pitted and flanked by birches. A slippery layer of leaves had already fallen onto the road.

    
They passed a barn with corn-crib siding that was listing to one side. At one end of the barn were some farm machines unfamiliar to Raid. On the right, they passed a small yellow wooden house. A woman’s bicycle was parked in front of the stairs and smoke rose from the chimney.

    
“That old lady’s almost eighty and still gets by on her own,” Nygren said without turning his head. “Some claim she takes the tractor and plows the road by herself.”

    
They approached a turnoff up ahead where a smaller road broke off to the left. Nygren pointed left with his thumb. A sign at the turnoff read: Nurminen.

    
This side road of a side road went on for a couple of hundred yards and terminated in front of a house on a hill. Thinly scattered birch whips were growing in the driveway, and the apple trees were sprawling and dilapidated. The supports that held up the branches had rotted and snapped, but despite their neglect, the trees were brimming with apples.

    
The lawn had grown into a tall meadow that was now yellowing and dying.

    
At the foot of the trees was a garden swing, and beyond that, about ten berry bushes and an overgrown potato field.

    
Further still was a fallow field that sloped gently toward a lake about two hundred yards away. A few summer cottages were visible on the opposite shore.

    
The one-and-a-half-story house was large and straight, but just as neglected as its surroundings. The granite foundation was level and solid. White paint was flaking off the walls, revealing the gray surface of the wood. The moldings around the windows were crazed with cracks, but the small window panes were intact.

    
Behind the house was a large barn with a stone foundation and a shed, which housed what appeared to be a sauna on the opposite end. Next to the wall, an old wood-burning stove with a pile of crumbling sauna rocks had been left out to rust.

    
If the outbuildings had ever had paint, there was no evidence of it. Still, they stood straight and square.

    
Nygren looked around with a lordly expression.

    
“It looks better than I expected. It’s been three years since I was here last. I figured the local hooligans would’ve at least busted the windows for lack of anything better to do.”