Cold Trail hh-4

  Cold Trail

  ( Helsinki Homicide - 4 )

  Jarkko Sipila

  Jarkko Sipila

  Cold Trail

  MONDAY, OCTOBER 8, 2007

  CHAPTER 1

  MONDAY, 2:45 P.M.

  HIETANIEMI CREMATORIUM, HELSINKI

  The coffin was the cheapest model available. Behind it, the pastor once again shifted uneasily from foot to foot and tentatively recited, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

  Aside from the clergyman and his customer, three men in dark suits were the only other people in the large, lofty chapel. The pastor read the Twenty-third Psalm from his book:

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

  The final phrase prompted Timo Repo, who was sitting in the tenth row, to raise his head. Thy rod, exactly, he thought. His father, who was lying in the coffin, hadn’t been one to spare it. It felt like an eternity has passed since those days-or at least decades. Timo Repo was now fifty-two years old, and Erik Repo had lived more or less the average age for a Finnish male, seventy-six years.

  Timo hadn’t seen his father in six years and hadn’t even learned about the cancer that brought his death until after the fact, from his medical records at the hospital.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  Repo wondered if this was the young pastor’s first funeral. Repo wasn’t a big man, clearly under six feet. His face was angular and his dark hair slightly disheveled, as if it had been combed with nothing but his fingers.

  The pastor urged those present to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”

  The younger man with a shaved head sitting next to Repo crossed his hands. Repo knew the prison guard by last name only: Eskola.

  Repo kept his heavily veined hands apart. The funeral’s third attendee sat a couple of rows in front of them, his gray head lowered. Repo knew it was his father’s neighbor.

  In a way, Timo Repo was pleased that there weren’t more mourners. More than anything, he felt uncomfortable. Grief was beyond his reach.

  Luckily, Mom had died back in the early ʼ90s and hadn’t had to suffer through later events. Timo did wonder why his older brother, Martti, wasn’t there. Maybe he was off in Thailand again. Rumors of these jaunts had reached Timo. But his big brother hadn’t even visited him in the joint. Not once.

  The prayer droned on, but Timo wasn’t listening. He had lost his faith in God eight years ago, after he had been sentenced to life in prison for murdering his wife. Timo’s God wasn’t merciful; he was an avenger.

  The interment continued for another twenty minutes. Afterwards, the coffin slid slowly out of the chapel toward the oven, to a recording of “The Lord is My Shepherd.”

  The guard was the first to stand. Eskola was about six inches taller than Repo.

  “Well, that was that.”

  “Yeah,” Repo answered. They stepped into the aisle.

  “Ready to head back?”

  “I need to hit the…,” Repo began.

  The gray-haired man, who moved with difficulty, interrupted. Extending both hands, he squeezed first Repo’s hand and then Eskola’s.

  “Thank you for coming. Erik deserved a bigger send-off, but what can you do.” The old man focused his gaze on Timo. “You’re the younger son.”

  Timo nodded.

  “My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Timo replied politely. The old man looked like he was on his last legs. He might well be the crematorium’s next customer. “And thanks for taking care of the arrangements… I heard you…”

  “I carried out Erik’s wishes. He knew death was approaching.”

  And still didn’t bother to get in touch, Timo thought. That ate at him, but it was typical of his father. Timo wished he could have asked him a few questions.

  “Nice service.”

  “Yes, I apologize for not introducing myself. I’m Otto Karppi, your father’s neighbor. You’ll come to the reception, won’t you?” asked the old man. “The pastor can’t make it.”

  Repo glanced at his escort, who nodded. Prison rules stated that prisoners attending an interment under escort were also allowed to attend memorial services.

  “We can take the prison car,” said the guard. “Did you drive?”

  Karppi grunted. “Doc took my license away three years ago.”

  “Well, the state will give you a ride. The weather’s so bad there’s no point walking,” Eskola said, turning to Repo. “Didn’t you need to use the bathroom?”

  “I can wait till we get to the restaurant,” Repo answered.

  * * *

  The three men in dark suits were sitting at a six-person corner table at Restaurant Perho. There were only a handful of other customers in the beautiful, wood — paneled establishment. A young woman in a traditional black-and-white wait-staff uniform poured them coffee from a gleaming pot.

  Karppi had placed a photograph of Erik Repo on the table and lit a candle in front of it. The elder Repo had a hook nose and vaguely pronounced cheekbones; his hair was gray and short. Timo felt like his father was staring at him and him alone with his grim, almost angry eyes.

  No one seemed to have much to say. Eskola’s and Repo’s dark suits were both from the prison’s limited selection of loaners, from which both prisoners and guards could borrow for such occasions. Eskola’s suit was a little too small and Repo’s a little too big.

  Eskola broke the silence. “So how does cremation actually work?”

  Repo glared at the guard. “They burn the body.”

  “As a matter of fact, it’s not quite that simple,” Karppi interjected. “They heat the oven with natural gas until it’s hot, and then they push in the coffin. It self-ignites and burns for a solid hour, as long as they keep on blowing air. It’s more cremation than burning.”

  “So what’s left over?” Eskola asked.

  “All organic material burns away. The only thing left behind are the inorganic elements from the bones.”

  “So pretty hygienic then,” Eskola reflected.

  “That was the original idea behind cremation. The custom began to spread through Europe during the nineteenth century because of the poor conditions at cemeteries.”

  Repo sipped his coffee.

  “Well, there are still a few practical issues to deal with regarding Erik,” Karppi said. “The urn will be ready in about a week, and I can take it to the vault in accordance with Erik’s wishes. If that’s all right.”

  Timo nodded.

  “Then there’s the matter of the estate. There’s an inheritance of sorts to be divided up. The assets consist primarily of your father’s house. And, as far as I’m aware, the heirs are yourself and your brother.”

  “Don’t our kids get anything?”

  “Do you have children?” Karppi asked.

  “I have one, and I’m assuming my brother does too, although I don’t know how many.”

  “According to the estate law, grandchildren don’t get anything if the children are alive.”

  Repo noticed the pretty waitress approaching with a plate of sandwiches.

  “Uh, listen, I need to hit the john now. My stomach’s acting up.”

  The woman placed the sandwiches on the table.

  “You guys go ahead and start. I’ll be right back,” Repo said, standing.

  “No funny business?” Eskola asked.

  “’Course not. I’m just going to the bathroom.”

  “Okay,” Eskola said, giving Repo a stern look. He checked his watch: 4:05 p.m.

  The bathroom was near t
he front door. Repo walked there with rapid steps. He knew Eskola’s eyes were on him. There was a line of sight from the table to the front door, but not to the bathroom area, which was tucked into a small niche near the coat racks.

  Repo made it around the corner and paused for a moment at the coat rack. The parties at the other tables seemed to be in the middle of their meals or just getting started. No one was paying attention to him. Repo pulled a gray trench coat that looked about the right size from a hanger. No one started shouting, at least not immediately.

  The restroom, with two urinals and two stalls, was empty. There was no window. That would have been too easy, Repo thought. He’d have to go with plan B.

  He bent over the sink and examined his thatch of hair. He drew an old plastic tortoise-shell comb from his breast pocket and tidied his mane. The front door was his only alternative. Eskola had a direct view of it from his seat and would definitely be keeping an eye on it. Repo needed a head start of a few minutes; prison life hadn’t exactly improved his endurance. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the young guard in a flat-out race.

  Repo decided to wait a minute or two, until Eskola would be distracted by his sandwich.

  The situation made Repo nervous enough to take a leak, wash his hands, and comb his hair again. He put on the gray coat and tried to get a rear-view glance of himself in the mirror. It just might work, he thought. Eskola wouldn’t get more than a few-seconds-long look at him. And if he changed his gait into more of a shuffle, that might help, too.

  The prisoner tightened his shoelaces. His black ankle-boots were a size too large, but he couldn’t let that get in his way now.

  Repo gave himself a final once-over and stepped out of the restroom.

  There was no one at the coat rack. That’s all he would have needed, the coat’s owner standing there, wondering where his missing trench coat was. Repo tried to take small, tight steps. He had an impulse to look over in Eskola and Karppi’s direction, but that would have been a huge mistake. Repo could feel the back of his shirt dampening with sweat.

  He walked over to the door, expecting the whole time to hear a loud “Stop!”. But it never came. Maybe Karppi was lecturing Eskola on the history of cremation while the latter munched on his sandwich. How did Karppi know so much about it anyway? Repo thought, pushing open the door to the vestibule. Two more steps and he’d be outside. The urge to look backwards was overwhelming, and Repo almost bumped into a middle-aged couple entering the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” he said, rudely shoving his way out between them. Now was not the time for politeness.

  A tram was clattering down Mechelin Street, and a bleak wind was blowing. The rain on his face felt cold but good. Repo turned right so he wouldn’t have to walk past the restaurant’s windows. After a couple of shuffling steps, he broke into a run, headed north. Now he needed to put some distance between himself and Eskola.

  * * *

  Eskola had finished his sandwich and was starting to get antsy. Maybe he shouldn’t have let the prisoner go to the bathroom by himself after all. But as they had been driving out of Helsinki Prison, Repo had promised to be on his best behavior. Nothing in the inmate database indicated that Repo was a flight risk. He had already done eight years of his life sentence without chalking up any incidents. He would be allowed to start taking unescorted leaves in a year’s time. Besides, Eskola had been hungry, and the sandwich had looked tasty.

  He had kept an eye on the door, and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. There had been a little activity, but no one who looked or moved like Repo. Still, he was uneasy. Eskola glanced at his watch: 4:14 p.m. There was still a minute to go of the allowed ten-minute bathroom break. Eskola decided to go check on things anyway .

  “I’m gonna go to the bathroom, too.”

  “What’s wrong with you young men?” Karppi said.

  Eskola marched into the bathroom, checked the stalls, and swore a blue streak. He rushed back out into the entryway and scanned the restaurant. Then he flew out the front door, but Repo was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  Repo had slowed to a brisk walk. He had two reasons for doing so: he was out of breath, and a man running in a dark suit and trench coat always attracted attention. He tried to remember when he had last walked down Arkadia Street toward the railway station in the rain. He couldn’t even remember doing it on a sunny day.

  The past eight years had gone by in various prisons. Before that he had lived in Riihimäki, forty miles due north from Helsinki. He had rarely visited the city-except maybe his father’s place in the northern part of town. But even there pretty infrequently, and that had all been before his life sentence. Some kid in a hoodie rode past on a dirt bike, and Repo was reminded of his own bicycle from the ʼ60s, with its banana seat, chopper-style handlebars, and frame decorated with old bottle caps.

  Repo quickly shook off the vision and concentrated on his surroundings. By this time, Eskola would have noticed his disappearance and reported him to the police. Should he ditch the gray overcoat? Would it be mentioned in the description? Or would they say he was wearing a black suit? Repo wasn’t sure and decided to hang on to the coat, partly because of the rain. He might arouse more suspicion in the chilly weather in just a suit.

  When Repo reached the Museum of Natural History, he picked up the pace again. He wondered what new building had risen where old Little Parliament restaurant used to be.

  Little Parliament had had a pleasant patio, even if its prices had been a little steep for Repo’s budget. He remembered having been there once, on a warm summer evening. The bar’s windows and doors had been pulled open, letting in a refreshing sea breeze. If he wasn’t totally off the mark, he had even succeeded in picking up some female company that night.

  What the hell? Repo thought. A tall brick-and-stone building now stood where the old restaurant had been. When he got closer, he noticed that the name was still the same: this granite monstrosity was the new annex to the Parliament building across the street. What a waste. Apparently the big boys had money to burn on such vanities.

  * * *

  “So your prisoner got away, huh?” the sergeant on duty said sarcastically. “Now how’d that happen?”

  “What difference does it make?” Eskola shouted into his cell phone. He was walking northward up Mechelin Street. Arkadia High School was on his right. Its stucco facade had suffered badly from graffiti tag removal . “We have to find him!”

  The sergeant, who had put in his time in the field, grunted. “Take it easy. Why don’t we start with who needs to be found and where?”

  Eskola took a deep breath. “Timo Repo. Fled from Restaurant Perho. From a funeral.”

  “A funeral at a restaurant? Sounds pretty strange to me. So when did this happen?”

  “Less than ten minutes ago.”

  “He can’t be far, then. Which direction did he go? And on what?”

  Eskola turned onto Arkadia Street. He thought that Repo must have come this way. The only thing on the other side of the cemetery was the Hietaniemi cul-de-sac, where the road dead-ended into the Gulf of Finland. “I don’t know which direction he went, and I’m pretty sure he’s on foot.”

  “And who is this…Repo? Shoplifter or something? The name doesn’t say anything.”

  “Timo Repo. He’s hard-core, at least going by his sentence. Life.”

  The sergeant’s voice grew sharper. “Life? Holy shit.”

  Eskola could hear the police officer tapping away at his computer. He assumed Repo’s name was being queried from the database. Soon the police would have a photograph.

  “What was he wearing?”

  “We were at a funeral. One of those black prison loaner suits,” Eskola reported, pleased that the sergeant was taking him more seriously now.

  “Right. The computer describes him as age 52, height 5’8”, average build, crew cut, and I’ll add wearing a dark suit. That about right?”

  “Everything except his hair is da
rk and medium length. Not a crew cut anymore.”

  “Thanks. I’ll put your phone number here. If you see something, call right away.”

  Eskola tried to imagine where Repo might be headed, and why he’d break for it after serving eight years with good behavior.

  * * *

  The sergeant gestured for Helmikoski, the lieutenant on duty, to come over. A dozen or so officers were milling around the new command center at Helsinki police headquarters in Pasila. The desk officers’ workspaces were filled by computer monitors, and images from downtown surveillance cameras were projected onto one of the walls of the large room.

  “Yeah?” asked the burly lieutenant.

  “Prisoner Timo Repo, serving life, skipped out on his escort about ten minutes ago on Mechelin Street,” said the desk sergeant, showing the photo of Repo he had pulled up on his screen. The image was almost ten years old; in it, the fortyish Repo still had a crew cut.

  “Who is he?”

  “Not in my bowling league, and none of those guys have heard of him either, even though they’re all cops.”

  “Serving life, though?”

  The sergeant nodded. “Missing somewhere downtown. No report of accomplices. Got the description of clothing and hair from the guard. Unlike most fifty-year-olds, his hair’s longer now. Dark, medium length.”

  Helmikoski found his colleague’s rambling style irritating.

  He glanced at the map of downtown Helsinki projected onto the wall. All active police vehicles were marked on it by ID number, with their location status updated in real time via GPS. About ten units were patrolling downtown Helsinki.

  “Let’s try to pin this guy down pronto. Put out an APB,” Helmikoski ordered the sergeant. “Give the description to all units and send the photo to those with the new computer system. Drop everything else; it’ll be easiest to find him now, before the trail goes cold.”

  The sergeant started tapping away at his computer. He wasn’t so sure about it being easiest now, because the streets were full of people and cars due to the afternoon rush hour. But of course it was worth trying. He took another glance at the surveillance cameras, which showed a central Helsinki that was exceptionally gloomy and gray. Raindrops had almost completely blurred out some of the images.