A Man with a Killer's Face by Matti Rönkä

Author:Matti Rönkä
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Garnet Publishing (UK) Ltd
Published: 2017-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

15

The Mercedes from Ruuskanen’s Quality Motors was waiting for me in the garage at Ruskeala. I took the keys and switched my Russian papers for the Finnish ones and left Igor Semyonov in his cardboard box to await new assignments.

At the border, the landscape seemed to change, turning neater and brighter as though spring were suddenly much further along. I drove south along Highway 6; the Mercedes’ diesel motor ticked along nicely, and my speed picked up just as the thought of the work waiting for me in Helsinki came into mental focus. My number-one priority was Sirje Larsson, of whom I still hadn’t found a trace.

At the Kouvola junction I turned west and reached Lahti by early afternoon. I looked among Aarne Larsson’s papers for his first wife’s address. The terraced house was easy to find.

I reclined the driver’s seat further back and slouched there, almost horizontal, listening to an afternoon talk show on the radio and watching Helena Larsson’s apartment. The street was so quiet that after half an hour I was worried I might draw attention to myself. People drove back from work, children were running off to their after-school activities, floor-ball sticks slung over their shoulders or riding helmets under their arms – but in Helena Larsson’s apartment not even the curtains twitched.

I stepped out of the car and walked around the terrace. The small gardens were at the back of the building, and I would have needed a good pair of boots to get there in all the snow. I tried to look across the hedgerows as if I was minding my own business, but I knew I looked suspicious.

I walked back around to the front of the long terrace and rang Helena Larsson’s doorbell. A low booming was coming from inside which, as doors opened inside the house, I recognized as bass-heavy metal music.

Kimmo Larsson looked vaguely like his father. Aarne’s features were replicated in him, only they were softer, smaller and more delicate. The boy was scrawny and about my height. He had long hair, which he scooped away from his face with both hands. He stood with his shoulders hunched forward, his loose trousers scraped across the floor. He could have been anything at all – a junkie, a goth or a gospel guitarist. Perhaps not a hockey jock though, I concluded.

‘Hello. I’m Viktor Kärppä from Helsinki. Your father Aarne has asked me to investigate the disappearance of Sirje Larsson. Is your mother Helena at home?’

‘Mum’s still at work or… out shopping or, whatever, I don’t know. She should be back soon. Er, come on in.’ The boy spoke clumsily, but in a surprisingly low, resonant voice. I wondered what kind of contralto his mother might be. His father’s voice was metallic and grating and his son’s voice was round, soft and grown-up. It was the kind of voice you could imagine coming from the throat of a much older, fatter man.

The hallway opened up into a dim, brown living room. I sat down in a springy armchair.

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