Cold Trail hh-4 Page 9

  The large editorial offices were crammed with desks and computers. Juvonen had managed to get a corner spot where her back was against the exterior wall, so none of the bosses could take her by surprise-unless they’d rent a crane and check her computer screen through the window behind her back.

  There was another good thing about her spot. It was as far as possible from the editorial office refrigerator, which had been nicknamed “the haz,” for hazardous waste disposal. One of the graphic artists had once wrapped crime scene tape across its door.

  Juvonen considered going for a smoke, but the broken ventilator in the smoking room drove her crazy. It crackled and popped nonstop. Generally speaking, the editorial offices were fetid. Up on the sixth floor, in Ad Sales and Accounting, things were completely different: tidy, clean, and spacious. Why do those brown-nosers in Ad Sales have it better than we do, Juvonen wondered as she clicked away at her computer.

  Her operating system didn’t include any built-in games, but Juvonen had plenty of online games in her bookmarks. The thirty-four-year-old reporter had originally worked for a small-town paper, but a summer internship had been her ticket to getting a permanent job at Iltalehti, one of Finland’s largest tabloids. She had started her career with a byline of “Marja Juvonen,” but after coming to Iltalehti, she had started using the more pompous, pseudo-international “Mary J. Juvonen.” Mary J. hated the crime reporting she had gotten stuck with. She would have preferred arts and entertainment, but one incident had blocked her career in the entertainment field.

  Mary J. didn’t try to hide it, though. Just last night she had told her life story again to someone at the nightclub, although she didn’t remember who. “So I fucking said to him, ‘Who do you think you are?’ And he said, ‘An artist.’ And I said, ‘My neighbor’s Great Dane drops five pounds of art hotter than yours on my doorstep every morning. So let’s try again: So, who do you think you are?’ And the asshole called the editor-in-chief and that was it for working in the arts, ever. So here I get to shovel shit at the crime desk while those MBA assholes sip rosé at record company parties.”

  “Mary Jane!” Her managing editor was shouting at her from the news desk, fifty feet away.

  Juvonen jumped slightly and reflexively clicked away her game, revealing her emails.

  “Yeah, whaddaya want?”

  “How’s your hangover? Still feel like someone dropped a jug on your head?” Managing editor Ragnar Johansson was bellowing loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Who do you think you are? My jugs are bigger than that ridiculous little peashooter you have,” Mary Jane retorted.

  “We need a front-page story.” This time, fifty-year-old Ruthless Ragnar shouted so loudly that the dozen or so reporters in the room lifted their heads. “We’re not going to sell any papers by reporting that the prime minister wants to raise pension contributions. I want some real news. That crap-rag is going to splash some scandal, and our papers’ll be left behind on the racks.”

  Juvonen registered the epithet Johansson used to refer to their primary competitor, Ilta-Sanomat. It was a good measure of his state of mind. If Ruthless Ragnar was in a good mood, the Ilta-Sanomat was a “neighbor” or “our dear adversary.” “Crap-rag” and “toilet paper” were neutral expressions. In bad moments-which were frequent-the epithets were truly malicious, and Ragnar was a verbally gifted man.

  Juvonen glanced at her email to see if she’d find a lifesaver there. She noticed a press release from Homicide lieutenant Takamäki and clicked it open. The headline read, “Helsinki Police Seek Information on Escaped Murderer.”

  “Hey, Ragnar,” Mary Jane called out. “Is an escaped murderer good enough?”

  Johansson chuckled theatrically. “Goddammit, is it good enough? You’re gonna save my day again. We’ll go with that if nothing better turns up. A murderer stalking a new victim. Front page and we’ll get a full spread out of it, if not more. Mary Jane, Välkki, and Karhunen, get over here, let’s take a look.”

  The editorial meeting began thirty seconds later. Ruthless Ragnar was in his element. He boasted an impressive record: of the ten highest-selling front pages of all time, six were his. None of the other managing editors had matched his achievement, but they all thought Ragnar had just been lucky in terms being on duty when big news broke.

  The bravado of a moment ago had shifted into a businesslike enthusiasm. Mary was allowed to sit in the empty chair at the table in the middle of the room, while Välkki and Karhunen, both thirty-year-old men in cardigans, stood.

  “Mary, who is this escapee?”

  “I’m not really sure. Timo Repo, fifty years old. Killed his wife in the ’90s.”

  “He didn’t just kill her if he’s doing life, he murdered her.”

  “Yes,” Juvonen agreed. “Right you are.”

  “Okay, let’s start from the spread. Välkki will look into this Repo’s background. Who he is.”

  Bespectacled Välkki nodded and left. There wasn’t much time left in the day, and he had to find out which district or appeals court had sentenced Repo to life.

  Johansson turned to Karhunen and his receding hairline. “Karhunen, I want a piece on someone who knows this Repo. Let’s get a human angle on this. Välkki will probably pull up the verdict. If necessary, call every name on it. Also check all the media archives. Do we have photos of him? Of his wife’s relatives? Can we find anyone who was at the wife’s funeral? Who’s afraid of him?”

  Karhunen rubbed his forehead and went back to his computer.

  “And Mary Jane,” Ruthless Ragnar smiled crookedly. “From you I want a piece on the police search-no, make that a manhunt! Drama, pictures,” Johansson said, painting a spread-wide headline with his hands. “‘Police Hunt Dangerous Fugitive.’ Nah, that’s boring. Come up with something better. Action, danger, fear!”

  Mary J. quickly browsed through the eight-line press release she had printed. She’d milk a spread out of it no problem, but the photos looked like they might be a little trickier.

  * * *

  Takamäki was sitting at his desk. His phone rang as soon as he ended the previous call. The female crime reporter from Ilta-Sanomat had been the first to call, but Sanna Römpötti from Channel 3 TV News came in second. It had only been four minutes since the release had been sent out.

  “Hello,” he said in an official tone.

  “Hey there, Takamäki,” said Römpötti. She had been a crime reporter for about twenty years, and had made the leap to TV news from Helsingin Sanomat newspaper a few years ago. “Römpötti here.”

  “Hi,” Takamäki changing to a friendly tone.

  “Prison escape, huh?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not that fascinating. We’ve been looking for him for a couple of days, just can’t find him anywhere. That’s why we’re going to the media with it, see if the public can help us out,” Takamäki explained. He didn’t think an escapee no one had ever heard of would break the TV news threshold.

  “Okay,” Römpötti said. “I’ll check back.”

  “Sounds good,” the lieutenant replied, and the call ended.

  Takamäki’s phone rang again. “Hello.”

  “Juvonen from Iltalehti. It’s Takamäki, right?”

  “Good guess.”

  “Great,” Juvonen said. “About Repo. Who is he?”

  Takamäki thought for a second. Römpötti may have been recording the call, but Juvonen definitely was. Every word he said could and probably would appear in tomorrow’s paper, or probably on their website yet that evening. “Timo Repo is a prisoner serving life who has escaped. He was convicted of murdering his wife.”

  “So it’s a real escape, not some unauthorized leave?”

  “Yes. The incident has been recorded as prisoner escape, per Chapter 16 of the Penal Code. Penalties include a fine or at most a year’s prison sentence. The Prison Department requested the assistance of the police.”

  Juvonen paused for a moment, and Takamäki guessed she was taking notes
.

  “At most a year’s imprisonment, so it doesn’t meet the criteria for a wire-tap warrant?”

  “No, but we don’t have a phone number to listen in on either. Otherwise we’d give Repo a call and ask him to come on down to the station.”

  “How dangerous is he?” Juvonen asked.

  “We don’t consider him to be particularly dangerous.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Here we go, Takamäki thought. “He was convicted of murder, so in principle he can be considered dangerous. But we’re not aware of any factors that would make him particularly dangerous.”

  “Why did he flee?”

  Goddammit, Takamäki thought, trying to keep his voice steady. “We haven’t had the opportunity to question him, so we don’t know. Yet.”

  “Does this Repo belong to a criminal gang?”

  “According to our information, no, he does not.”

  Juvonen quizzed Takamäki further about the escape. Takamäki told her about the funeral, the coffee and sandwiches afterwards, and Repo’s flight.

  “Huh. Doesn’t it annoy the police when the prison authorities let prisoners escape like that?”

  “Well,” Takamäki measured his words. “The prison authorities do their job and we do ours. It’s not any more complicated than that.”

  Juvonen laughed. “Okay, so the search is on, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not going to reveal that now.”

  “But raids are taking place?”

  “Of course we continuously conduct searches of residences in cases like these,” Takamäki said, a little tiredly.

  “The SWAT team is on the move?”

  “We haven’t called them.”

  “But you will if necessary?”

  Takamäki considered how he could answer this one. If he said no, he’d be lying, because of course the SWAT team would be used if a dangerous situation arose. If he answered yes, the following sentence would appear in the paper: “The police are ready to call in the SWAT units,” which was an overstatement. But Takamäki didn’t want to lie.

  “If necessary, of course, they’ll be called in.”

  “Could we come along and get some footage of a SWAT operation?” Juvonen tossed out.

  “No.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  “Was there anything else?” Takamäki asked.

  “Yes,” Juvonen answered. “A photo of this Repo? Just email it over.”

  “No can do,” Takamäki said. “We decided we’re not going to distribute it yet.”

  Juvonen was irritated. “What the hell? Why not?”

  Takamäki paused for a moment. “If I say no, it means no.”

  “Are you serious? You don’t want to catch him even just a little bit?”

  “This is the decision I made in this case. I don’t need to justify it to you.”

  “Who do you think you are?” Juvonen continued. She was upset that there would be a huge gap in the photos now. “We’d print it in the paper for free. Next time you guys can buy ad space when you want us to help you find someone.”

  Takamäki smiled. Mary J. Juvonen hadn’t changed a bit. “All right, talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.

  CHAPTER 9

  TUESDAY, 5:10 P.M.

  TOPELIUS STREET, TÖÖLÖ, HELSINKI

  Repo was standing at a bus stop on Topelius Street, watching the traffic headed toward the Women’s Hospital. He was still wearing the black suit and the gray coat he had stolen from the restaurant. He had taken an old-fashioned cap from Karppi’s house and pulled it down over his forehead.

  Darkness had already fallen. Half a dozen people were waiting at the bus stop. None of them appeared interested in him. His father’s documents were in a plastic bag, as was the Luger, now wrapped in newspaper.

  Bus number fourteen thundered up and everyone else boarded, but Repo just kept waiting. He wasn’t interested in buses. What he needed was a car.

  Karppi didn’t have one, so Repo was going to have to get one by other means. He had concluded that he didn’t have the know-how to steal any of the cars parked near Karppi’s place, so he needed not only a car but the key to it as well. Repo knew how to jack an old-fashioned Saab 99, because all you needed to do to start them was to yank off the lock mechanism and stick a screwdriver into the exposed screw. Saab 99s, popular in the ’70s, were extremely rare these days, though.

  Repo had left Karppi’s house an hour ago and travelled to Töölö by bus and tram. He had been standing at the stop for about ten minutes, but not a single suitable person had shown up yet.

  One of the cars headed in the direction of the Women’s Hospital braked, and the driver smoothly backed his Nissan into a parking spot. A man of about sixty in a blue peacoat stepped out and took a gym bag from the trunk. This guy might work, Repo thought, and started following him.

  The man in the peacoat walked across the street toward the Töölö swimming pool, which was located in the basement of the Occupational Health Institute. It was ten yards or so to the door. Repo noted the sticker indicating surveillance cameras and held his head down so the brim of his cap shaded his face. A dozen or so stairs led downwards.

  The man in the peacoat was about five yards ahead of him and was standing at the cashier by the time Repo made it through the lower-level door. He felt the pool’s warm, chlorine-laden air, but he kept his coat on, and didn’t even remove his cap.

  The entrance to the cashier was perched on a little balcony, and Repo could see the swimming pools down below him. The cashier gave the man in the peacoat some sort of card.

  Repo stepped up to the counter. “Hi. I’d like to go for a swim.”

  “Well, you came to the right place. Four-sixty, please,” said the cashier, a brunette with a long face.

  Repo handed the woman a five-euro bill from the money Karppi had given him, and she gave him the change and a piece of plastic the size of a credit card.

  “I’m sorry. Is this a key, or?” Repo asked. The last time he had been to a public swimming pool, the cashier had given him an old-fashioned metal key for his locker.

  “Never been here before? No worries,” the brunette explained. “Use that card to get through the turnstile. Just swipe it across the reader and the turnstile will let you through. You need a fifty-cent coin for the locker. Drop it into the slot inside the door and that’ll release the key. You’ll get your money back when you leave.”

  The system sounded complicated to Repo, but everything seemed to have moved in that direction in the last eight years. Just like the card system in the buses, but luckily he had still been able to pay the driver with cash.

  “Got it, I guess,” Repo said. He went to the turnstile but couldn’t see the man in the peacoat anymore. He was probably already in the locker room.

  Repo swiped the card across the reader and was allowed to pass. The first door led to the women’s locker room, the next two to the men’s. Repo took the middle door. The locker room smelled like a strong cleaning agent and was relatively empty. It contained four or five rows of lockers about thirty or so feet long. There was no one in the first row.

  In the second row, there were two older men getting dressed. They were discussing the politics of the ’70s. Repo heard the names Sorsa and Sinisalo, the social democratic and communist bigwigs of the era.

  Repo continued down past the rows of lockers. He didn’t find the man in the peacoat until the last row. He had already hung his coat in his locker and was taking off his sweater. Repo walked past him and made a mental note of the locker number: 78. Repo rounded the corner, opened a locker and hung his coat inside. He stood there, as if absent-mindedly waiting for something.

  Five minutes later, Peacoat Man sailed past Repo naked. He was carrying his swim trunks and towel in his hand.

  Repo waited another minute before putting his coat back on. He walked back to the rearmost row and up to locker 78. He quickly scanned the area
. There was no one around. He drew a spike from his pocket and pulled the door back with his fingers as far as the lock would give. Repo slid the screwdriver-like tool in through the crack and forcefully pressed the tongue of the lock inwards. The lock struggled for five seconds, and then gave with a snap.

  Repo pulled the locker door open.

  The man in the peacoat had tidily hung his clothes on the hooks, and Repo hastily searched the coat pockets for his keys. He removed the car key from the ring and pressed the locker door shut. He also tried to twist the tongue of the lock back far enough that the door wouldn’t open by its own weight, otherwise someone could steal the guy’s clothes, too.

  You couldn’t tell from the outside that the lock had been forced open. The entire process had taken about thirty seconds.

  Repo put the car key in his pocket and calmly walked out of the locker room. The brunette at the register gave him a vaguely surprised look, but he mumbled something about a meeting that had slipped his mind.

  Once outside the building, Repo made a beeline for the car. It took him a second to figure out that he needed to open the doors remotely. He sat in the driver’s seat and thought for a moment before starting up the engine. He hadn’t driven in eight years. He checked the emergency brake. It was off. Gas, clutch, brake, turn signals. Repo pressed the clutch to the floor and tested the gear box by shifting from gear to gear. It all started coming back to him.

  He turned on the ignition and nosed out into the traffic. The clock on the dash read 5:20 p.m.

  * * *

  Pulling the first shift on the tip line, Joutsamo had forwarded the incoming calls to her desk phone. She was browsing through media websites, and, based on what she saw, most had quickly picked up Takamäki’s release. The majority had used the headline “Murderer Escapes.” The articles were pretty sparse in terms of content. So far, none of the newsrooms had found Repo’s photo in their archives. It was unlikely that they would have sent photographers to cover the original court case anyway.

  The two first calls had come from known troublemakers, who always called the police with their so-called “info.” The phone rang a third time. Joutsamo’s phone had a display that should’ve revealed the number of the caller, but now it read “Blocked.” She turned on the recorder.