Against the Wall (4 page)

He wasn’t muscular, but wiry. His short hair had turned gray, and he had wondered if he should dye it back to black, but had decided instead to embrace it. He believed it made him look more sophisticated.

Markus Markkanen leaned against the wall, watching Lindström’s workout with amusement. Lindström also paid a fitness instructor to come on Fridays. In Markkanen’s opinion, his boss was tossing money down the drain—unless, of course, he was banging her as well, but he wasn’t going to say anything.

If Lindström evoked an image of the elderly Roger Moore, Markkanen was more like a plain version of Sean Connery in
Dr. No
.

It bothered him that the gym didn’t smell like sweat, just some citrus-scented air-freshener that either Lindström or the house cleaner sprayed everywhere.

“You seen Eriksson?” Lindström asked and hopped up to the pull-up bar from a little stool.

Markkanen knew that Lindström wouldn’t make it past four. “No. He said he was going to the bar last night, and he’d call me in the morning. Hasn’t called.”

“Count out loud,” the older man commanded.

Markkanen clenched his chiseled hands into fists, but Lindström didn’t notice. Markkanen wore jeans and a gray sweatshirt. He had to leave his shoes in the entryway, and had learned to always wear nice socks so the old man couldn’t tease him.

A tall, muscular man, Markus Markkanen’s face was flat and featureless. His brown hair was straight and closely cropped around the ears.

The first chin-up was easy. “One,” Markkanen said in a bored voice. His thoughts wandered elsewhere. His son had been slapped with a D-minus on his math test, and it worried him.

“Count louder!” Lindström snapped.

In good form, he completely straightened his arms, then pulled himself up again.

“Two,” Markkanen said with a little more pep.

Same thing again. So far so good.

“Three!”

Lindström lowered himself somewhat, but this time he didn’t straighten his arms. He wrestled his chin over the bar anyway.

“Four.”

“One more,” Lindström panted.

This time he only let his arms go to ninety degrees before starting to pull himself up again. His face was bright red, and his chin barely squeaked over the bar. Markkanen couldn’t have cared less had a blood vessel popped in the man’s brain.

“Five,” Markkanen counted.

Lindström hopped down. “Five! A new record, and good form too. I should make you go the gym more often. It’d do that paunch of yours some good!”

What paunch, Markkanen thought, but didn’t say anything. He was six foot three and weighed just under 220 pounds.
Maybe his stomach had gotten a little softer in the last year, but as far as he was concerned, he was still in very good shape. He had gotten his body as a youth, street fighting and running from the cops. It had been perfect training for a street debt collector.

He had met Lindström about five years ago, and soon started working for him. Since then, his job description had changed—he didn’t have to beat the shit out of junkies anymore. That morning, Markkanen had used a scanning device to check the apartment for any microphones or taps. As usual, he hadn’t found any.

Kalevi Lindström’s background was a whole different story: a good family, MBA, and now, a few businesses operating on the very fringes of the law—some on the wrong side.

Markkanen wasn’t in the loop about everything, nor was it his place to ask.

“Go ahead!” said Lindström, challenging him. “Five chin-ups, bet you a ten-spot.”

Markkanen hopped up to the bar. He knew he could do at least ten, but after two, he let his hands tremble and rose only halfway.

“Ha! I knew you’d choke.”

Markkanen fished a rumpled ten-euro note out of his black pants and set it on the bench of the rowing machine.

Lindström sat on an exercise mat and stretched his hamstrings. “You should be doing this, too. Feels good in the… I gotta talk to Eriksson.”

“I don’t know where he is. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“Shit! Go find him,” Lindström snorted. “Tell him to get over here.”

“Is it something I can help out with?”

“No.”

Geezer, Markkanen thought, as he slipped quietly out of the room.

* * *

Juha Saarnikangas’ eyes were clouded. He was waiting at a red light near the Ruskeasuo Teboil station, heading downtown. The worn-out wipers struggled to clear the rain off the windshield, only succeeding in smearing the dirt.

Juha hadn’t slept at all last night. The events at the garage seemed like a bad dream. He had been on the verge of loading the body into the van when he decided that it wasn’t his kind of work.

There was a limit to what he would do. Stolen goods and drugs were his turf, not corpses.

Saarnikangas had shut the rear doors, jumped into the van, and had made it to Beltway One before he started to shake. He had to go back. Had to get rid of the body. He had no choice; they’d find him for sure.

Juha’s hands wouldn’t obey his head, nor the other way around. He hadn’t gone back. Instead, he had driven a hundred miles north to Tampere and from there, another sixty miles further. In the early morning he had stopped for gas at an unmanned Parkano ABC, then turned back toward Helsinki.

Fucking Lydman had gotten him into this. That shit-face had a lot to answer for. As he had neared Tampere for the second time last night, Saarnikangas wondered if he should pull out the gun he still had. With the barrel at his temple, Lydman would have plenty of answers. Luckily his better instincts prevailed. He was no hit man, just a small-time junkie in a tight spot.

At the Valkeakoski interchange, he had turned off onto a side road to throw the gun into a lake.

He had tried to sleep in the van a bit, but without success. He had to do something about the body. Bury it? Throw it in a lake? He had no idea; this wasn’t his thing. He thought about the body, lying dead on the concrete floor. He didn’t even know who the guy was. This had nothing to do with him at all.

The red light changed to green, though Juha didn’t notice it till the car behind him honked. He turned right towards Pikku-Huopalahti. The new suburb was built in the nineties and dubbed “Legoland” because of its apartment buildings in pastel shades of pink, turquoise, and violet. Architecturally, it was meant to counterbalance the abundance of concrete gray housing developments from the seventies nearby.

Juha knew that he shouldn’t confront Lydman; he’d have to figure out something else. Still, the guy didn’t have the right to send these kinds of shit jobs his way.

A streetcar
turned suddenly in front of him, and Saarnikangas had to jam on the brakes.

He kept both hands on the steering wheel—having something to hold onto kept them from trembling.

Now flanked on either side by five-story apartment buildings, he turned left onto Tilkka Street and continued another hundred yards. The lower half of the apartment building was brick-red, while the upper half had been painted pink.

Juha parked the van at a small parking lot in front of the building. A mother pushing a baby carriage scowled at him, but didn’t say anything. Juha hurried to the door.

It was barely nine in the morning, Lydman would definitely be home.

Saarnikangas bounded up the stairs two at a time to the third floor. Though the sign on the door said “Nurmi,” Lydman had lived there a long time already. He had been busted for a series of three bank robberies in the nineties and had spent several years in prison. The contacts he made there had helped the now-forty-something man find his true colors. He had also served a couple of other short stints in jail.

Juha pressed the doorbell and heard it ring.

A dog barked loudly, reminding him that Lydman had a huge Rottweiler.

The door opened an inch and Juha saw that the security chain was engaged. He tried to jam his foot in the doorway; it didn’t work. Lydman just kicked it out.

“Shit.”

“What now?” Lydman growled. His naked upper body was heavily tattooed. He had short, sandy brown hair and a crooked nose, broken in a fight. All he had on was a pair of black jeans.

“What kind of a job you send me out on, for chrissakes?”

“I don’t know nothin’ about it, and I don’t wanna either.”

“But I…”

“I said I don’t wanna know nothin’ about it,” Lydman persisted.

“This was your deal.”

Saarnikangas heard a woman asking who was at the door. “Nobody,” Lydman said. The Rottweiler stood behind him, growling.

“Stay,” Lydman commanded. Saarnikangas stiffened.

“I need your advice…”

“Hey, Saarnikangas! You took the job. That was your choice. If you got problems, they’re yours,” he said and pulled a couple wrinkled hundred-euro notes from his pocket. He shoved them through the opening. “There’s your money. The other five will go toward your debt, assuming the job was done right.”

“It was,” Juha said, looking the man in the eyes.

Lydman’s gaze fell for a second, then rose again.

“Good. Do as you’re told, and nothing bad will happen. The less we know about anything, the better.”

“But I want…”

“What you want doesn’t mean shit. This is no game, these are brutal people.”

Juha was puzzled and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Two girls, probably first-graders, came down the stairs. Both of them wore bright red jackets and were chattering loudly. Saarnikangas heard them say something about knitting.

Lydman slammed the door shut, leaving Saarnikangas alone on the landing. He made the mistake of smiling at the girls, who hurried down the stairs. “Gross! Did you see his teeth!” he heard one of them sneer.

Saarnikangas waited for a couple of minutes before going down the stairs. He didn’t want anyone to think he was following the girls.

By the time he got out the door, they were already out of sight. He stumbled back to the van, wondering what to do. Both of his hands were trembling, probably from lack of sleep. He would have liked to sleep, but he could barely close his eyes. Some downers would help, except he didn’t have any. He did have money, though. Shit.

Saarnikangas imagined himself lying in bed. He could just lie there, and nothing would matter. That shithead could say whatever he wanted about brutal people this, that, and the other, but it wouldn’t matter to him.

The Ducato roared to life. He had to get back to the garage. He had to think. Enough blundering.

CHAPTER 4

HELSINKI PRISON

TUESDAY, 10:03 A.M.

Saku Ainola, warden of the Helsinki Prison, was wearing his usual old, gray suit. Suhonen was sure the man had been in the same shabby outfit for at least the last ten years. A dreary man in his forties, Ainola waited for Suhonen to pass through the metal detector at the entrance. Suhonen had left his change, phone, and Glock 26 in a locker, so he made it through without a beep.

The drawn-looking guard at the gate was expressionless. He had seen people of every stripe pass through, and this guy in a leather jacket was just one more. Though Suhonen looked more like one of the inmates than a visitor, the guard had seen the police-issued Glock and guessed correctly that he was a cop.

“Hello,” Ainola said dryly, offering his hand. Both men had firm handshakes. Ainola had been with the Helsinki Prison for a long time, starting as a guard. In his spare time, he had earned a law degree and had worked his way up over the years.

Ainola flashed his ID card at the sensor, which unlocked the door of the gatehouse. He opened it and led the way. The gatehouse was part of the prison’s perimeter wall, some twenty yards from the brick-walled, nineteenth century central building. Helsinki Prison housed mainly high-risk repeat offenders.

Suhonen dodged the puddles in the paved yard. His cross-trainers were water-resistant, but not waterproof. A steady drizzle fell from the gray sky.

“Thanks for arranging this,” said Suhonen.

“No problem.”

Suhonen had specifically requested that Ainola personally arrange the meeting so that no inadvertent rumors would spread.

Ainola again swiped his card and pulled open the door to the main building. He led Suhonen to a basement room reserved for police interrogations.

“Call me when you’re ready,” Ainola said and slipped out. The door clanged shut, and Suhonen heard the lock engage.

The room reminded him of the interrogation rooms at the police headquarters. Gray walls, a beige table, a phone on the wall, and a couple of chairs. Sporting straight, close-cropped hair, Eero Salmela sat at the table. He was wearing dark gray prison-issue pants, a white T-shirt and a blue hooded sweatshirt. He appeared to have lost weight—his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes set deeper than before. He looked at Suhonen gravely, his mouth a thin crack. Prison wasn’t easy on a man.