Read Online Against the Wall by Jarkko Sipila - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jarkko Sipila
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work.
* * *
Lieutenant Takamäki sat at the wheel of his unmarked Volkswagen Golf on Mannerheim Street. He was waiting at a red light at the corner of the National Museum, yawning. In the eighties, the Museum had posed as Moscow’s Kremlin in the American movie Gorky Park . A crane had hoisted a red star to the top of the tower.
Helsinki’s main drag, named after Marshal Mannerheim, ran north from downtown. An equestrian statue of the revered military and political leader stood a few hundred yards ahead, roughly opposite the stone Parliament House.
Suhonen had called at three in the morning to tell him about the body, and the investigation had started without regard for the time of day. The VCU tackled their cases with dogged efficiency. There was no need to make an art of it. But this murder was clearly trickier than the typical drunken stabbing. The killer was still on the lam and was enjoying a generous head start.
The trip to the Board of Customs on Erottaja was only about a half mile, but in this traffic it would probably take twenty minutes.
Takamäki’s thoughts were swimming. The manner and location of Jerry Eriksson’s murder seemed to indicate a dispute between professional criminals: a shot to the head in an abandoned garage. His team would probably have to work overtime to solve the case. That didn’t matter, although a break from the hustle and bustle of homicide investigations every now and then was nice.
The problem with working in the Violent Crimes Unit was that, no matter how much the team accomplished or how hard they worked, more cases kept pouring in. They never stopped. Every night in Helsinki, someone was arrested for assault and battery or worse. And every morning, Takamäki’s team got to clean up the mess.
Takamäki was confident that this case would be solved. He had to think that. In some cases that had dragged on much longer, the press had eventually asked, “Will the perpetrator ever be caught?” In those situations, he had no choice but to answer, “Yes, of course.” But still, the cases weren’t always solved.
The line of cars lurched forward another twenty yards before brake lights brought everything to a halt again. A giant 140-million-euro music center was under construction, and the trucks were blocking traffic.
Takamäki’s phone rang, and he dug it out of the breast pocket of his blazer. The call was from home. His younger son wanted to know if Dad would be able to take him to hockey practice tonight. Takamäki said he couldn’t promise anything and told him to ask Mom just in case. Had the detective lieutenant’s pay been better, he’d have spent the twelve grand to buy a microcar for the kid. Though the legal driving age in Finland was eighteen, fifteen-year-olds were allowed to drive these 5.5 horse two-seaters.
The trip to Erottaja took twenty minutes, as he had guessed. Surprisingly, he found a parking spot and made it just in time for his noon meeting.
The security guard in the lobby told him to wait while somebody came down to meet him. Takamäki had only one question, and Assistant Director Leif Snellman was the one to answer it: what did Customs know about Jerry Eriksson?
An assistant escorted him through a maze of hallways to Snellman’s office. When they arrived, Snellman rose from behind his desk and approached Takamäki. The office was spacious enough for a large walnut bookshelf with glass doors and a hardwood conference table with space for six.
“Hello,” Snellman said, extending his hand. His handshake was limp.
“Hello,” the lieutenant answered. He had run into Snellman several times at various seminars, but never actually had the chance to get to know him.
“I’m glad we’re able to cooperate with other agencies like this,” Snellman remarked, and gestured for Takamäki to sit at the conference table. A thermos of hot coffee and a couple of cups were waiting. “With drug cases it’s just not very common, and we don’t
* * *
Lieutenant Takamäki sat at the wheel of his unmarked Volkswagen Golf on Mannerheim Street. He was waiting at a red light at the corner of the National Museum, yawning. In the eighties, the Museum had posed as Moscow’s Kremlin in the American movie Gorky Park . A crane had hoisted a red star to the top of the tower.
Helsinki’s main drag, named after Marshal Mannerheim, ran north from downtown. An equestrian statue of the revered military and political leader stood a few hundred yards ahead, roughly opposite the stone Parliament House.
Suhonen had called at three in the morning to tell him about the body, and the investigation had started without regard for the time of day. The VCU tackled their cases with dogged efficiency. There was no need to make an art of it. But this murder was clearly trickier than the typical drunken stabbing. The killer was still on the lam and was enjoying a generous head start.
The trip to the Board of Customs on Erottaja was only about a half mile, but in this traffic it would probably take twenty minutes.
Takamäki’s thoughts were swimming. The manner and location of Jerry Eriksson’s murder seemed to indicate a dispute between professional criminals: a shot to the head in an abandoned garage. His team would probably have to work overtime to solve the case. That didn’t matter, although a break from the hustle and bustle of homicide investigations every now and then was nice.
The problem with working in the Violent Crimes Unit was that, no matter how much the team accomplished or how hard they worked, more cases kept pouring in. They never stopped. Every night in Helsinki, someone was arrested for assault and battery or worse. And every morning, Takamäki’s team got to clean up the mess.
Takamäki was confident that this case would be solved. He had to think that. In some cases that had dragged on much longer, the press had eventually asked, “Will the perpetrator ever be caught?” In those situations, he had no choice but to answer, “Yes, of course.” But still, the cases weren’t always solved.
The line of cars lurched forward another twenty yards before brake lights brought everything to a halt again. A giant 140-million-euro music center was under construction, and the trucks were blocking traffic.
Takamäki’s phone rang, and he dug it out of the breast pocket of his blazer. The call was from home. His younger son wanted to know if Dad would be able to take him to hockey practice tonight. Takamäki said he couldn’t promise anything and told him to ask Mom just in case. Had the detective lieutenant’s pay been better, he’d have spent the twelve grand to buy a microcar for the kid. Though the legal driving age in Finland was eighteen, fifteen-year-olds were allowed to drive these 5.5 horse two-seaters.
The trip to Erottaja took twenty minutes, as he had guessed. Surprisingly, he found a parking spot and made it just in time for his noon meeting.
The security guard in the lobby told him to wait while somebody came down to meet him. Takamäki had only one question, and Assistant Director Leif Snellman was the one to answer it: what did Customs know about Jerry Eriksson?
An assistant escorted him through a maze of hallways to Snellman’s office. When they arrived, Snellman rose from behind his desk and approached Takamäki. The office was spacious enough for a large walnut bookshelf with glass doors and a hardwood conference table with space for six.
“Hello,” Snellman said, extending his hand. His handshake was limp.
“Hello,” the lieutenant answered. He had run into Snellman several times at various seminars, but never actually had the chance to get to know him.
“I’m glad we’re able to cooperate with other agencies like this,” Snellman remarked, and gestured for Takamäki to sit at the conference table. A thermos of hot coffee and a couple of cups were waiting. “With drug cases it’s just not very common, and we don’t
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