What?”
Kohonen wondered if the woman had been a journalist in her younger days. “I’m not at liberty to say. Sorry.”
“Well, I haven’t seen anything either. So the score’s tied: zip-zip,” the woman grinned.
“Are you sure?”
She started to close the door. “Yes.”
“What about your husband?”
“Oh,” she chuckled, still closing the door. “He hasn’t seen anything either. He died a year ago.”
“Thank you,” Kohonen said to the door. Well, she thought, shaking her head, when it came to dead bodies they were also tied: one-one. This neighborhood was too quiet.
* * *
The maintenance man opened the door cautiously. A pile of junk mail lay on the floor.
“Okay,” Mikko Kulta said, waving the guy off. “You can go now.”
The man turned to leave, but paused on the landing. A dirty look from Kulta was all it took to get him moving again. The man muttered something that Kulta didn’t catch. He sifted through the junk mail, looking for a newspaper, but didn’t find one. From the detective’s standpoint, a newspaper would have been helpful. It made it easy to figure out the last time someone had been in the apartment. Unfortunately for the police, too many people were dropping their subscriptions.
Kulta stepped inside quietly, his gun holstered but ready. It was dark in the apartment, and the curtains were closed. He flicked on the hallway lights. On his right was a coat rack and on his left, the door to a bathroom. Five or six jackets hung from the hooks.
Kulta had been in dozens of drug flats, and this didn’t seem like one. More like the opposite: an oriental rug in the foyer and furniture that looked middle-class.
He closed the door behind him and glanced into the bathroom. Seemed pretty standard: a bathtub, sink, toilet, and wastebasket. Everything was spotless. This was definitely not a drug hole.
There were two toothbrushes, but no makeup arsenal. A bachelor pad then.
At the end of the hallway, the apartment opened up to the left, revealing a spacious studio. A large window reached to the floor, leading out to a small balcony. The kitchenette was situated behind the bathroom. Kulta checked around: nobody here, breathing or not.
He noted that the room was quite stylish, especially compared to his own flat. A queen-sized bed, sofa, table and flat-screen television were arranged thoughtfully.
Kulta glanced briefly at the entertainment system: Xbox, stereo, games, DVDs, and CDs. Apparently, Eriksson had liked rock from the sixties and seventies; the music included Led Zeppelin, The Who, Rolling Stones, and others in the same vein. Kulta almost felt a fondness for the guy—at least there was no “gangsta” rap.
A closed laptop computer rested on the coffee table, just in front of the couch. Kulta didn’t touch it.
Forensics could go over it with a fine-tooth comb and check for prints. The drug-sniffing dogs would come later. His job was to perform a superficial examination to see if there was anything that could speed up the investigation.
It suddenly occurred to him that this might be the wrong address. This seemed more like an apartment of some jet-setting Nokia engineer.
No envelopes or bills were around to reveal the resident’s name.
Kulta opened the closet and immediately noticed a photograph on the inside of the door. He knew the spot: the bottom of the Särkänniemi Log Chute. It was one of those automatic photos that you could buy after the ride. Kulta recognized Eriksson. In front of him sat a young, blond woman, leaning back in his arms. Now who could that be? The photo was dated August of the previous year. At any rate, it seemed likely that this was, in fact, Eriksson’s apartment.
Kulta slipped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully removed the photo. He’d have to explore some more before Forensics arrived. Otherwise, the techies would claim, once again, that homicide detectives just sat behind their desks, waiting for others to do the dirty
Kohonen wondered if the woman had been a journalist in her younger days. “I’m not at liberty to say. Sorry.”
“Well, I haven’t seen anything either. So the score’s tied: zip-zip,” the woman grinned.
“Are you sure?”
She started to close the door. “Yes.”
“What about your husband?”
“Oh,” she chuckled, still closing the door. “He hasn’t seen anything either. He died a year ago.”
“Thank you,” Kohonen said to the door. Well, she thought, shaking her head, when it came to dead bodies they were also tied: one-one. This neighborhood was too quiet.
* * *
The maintenance man opened the door cautiously. A pile of junk mail lay on the floor.
“Okay,” Mikko Kulta said, waving the guy off. “You can go now.”
The man turned to leave, but paused on the landing. A dirty look from Kulta was all it took to get him moving again. The man muttered something that Kulta didn’t catch. He sifted through the junk mail, looking for a newspaper, but didn’t find one. From the detective’s standpoint, a newspaper would have been helpful. It made it easy to figure out the last time someone had been in the apartment. Unfortunately for the police, too many people were dropping their subscriptions.
Kulta stepped inside quietly, his gun holstered but ready. It was dark in the apartment, and the curtains were closed. He flicked on the hallway lights. On his right was a coat rack and on his left, the door to a bathroom. Five or six jackets hung from the hooks.
Kulta had been in dozens of drug flats, and this didn’t seem like one. More like the opposite: an oriental rug in the foyer and furniture that looked middle-class.
He closed the door behind him and glanced into the bathroom. Seemed pretty standard: a bathtub, sink, toilet, and wastebasket. Everything was spotless. This was definitely not a drug hole.
There were two toothbrushes, but no makeup arsenal. A bachelor pad then.
At the end of the hallway, the apartment opened up to the left, revealing a spacious studio. A large window reached to the floor, leading out to a small balcony. The kitchenette was situated behind the bathroom. Kulta checked around: nobody here, breathing or not.
He noted that the room was quite stylish, especially compared to his own flat. A queen-sized bed, sofa, table and flat-screen television were arranged thoughtfully.
Kulta glanced briefly at the entertainment system: Xbox, stereo, games, DVDs, and CDs. Apparently, Eriksson had liked rock from the sixties and seventies; the music included Led Zeppelin, The Who, Rolling Stones, and others in the same vein. Kulta almost felt a fondness for the guy—at least there was no “gangsta” rap.
A closed laptop computer rested on the coffee table, just in front of the couch. Kulta didn’t touch it.
Forensics could go over it with a fine-tooth comb and check for prints. The drug-sniffing dogs would come later. His job was to perform a superficial examination to see if there was anything that could speed up the investigation.
It suddenly occurred to him that this might be the wrong address. This seemed more like an apartment of some jet-setting Nokia engineer.
No envelopes or bills were around to reveal the resident’s name.
Kulta opened the closet and immediately noticed a photograph on the inside of the door. He knew the spot: the bottom of the Särkänniemi Log Chute. It was one of those automatic photos that you could buy after the ride. Kulta recognized Eriksson. In front of him sat a young, blond woman, leaning back in his arms. Now who could that be? The photo was dated August of the previous year. At any rate, it seemed likely that this was, in fact, Eriksson’s apartment.
Kulta slipped on a pair of latex gloves and carefully removed the photo. He’d have to explore some more before Forensics arrived. Otherwise, the techies would claim, once again, that homicide detectives just sat behind their desks, waiting for others to do the dirty
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