Read Online TH02 - The Priest of Evil by Matti Joensuu - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matti Joensuu
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after all, perhaps he just stumbled.’
‘That’s what we’ve all been wondering.’
Harjunpää brought his hand up to his forehead and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He would have to interview the driver himself and arrange a time for her to come down to the station, but his real hope lay with the security tapes: he guessed that all in all there must have been several hundred cameras dotted around the station. No doubt they would have to put a notice in the paper asking for witnesses to come forward. Identifying the victim was another priority, though he most likely had a wallet in his pocket containing the relevant papers. Next of kin, if there were any, might be able to shed some light on this.
Harjunpää trudged over to Kivinen and the body bag. Kivinen was focussing his camera on something at the bottom of the bag and Harjunpää bent down to see what it was. Before him lay a human face ripped from the skull, like a limp, rubber mask; through the mouth and eye sockets all that could be seen was the black at the bottom of the bag. It was clearly the face of a man – a young man at that. He was cleanly shaven, and through everything else Harjunpää thought he could make out the faint smell of a familiar aftershave.
In addition to the face, the bag also contained a hand, sticky with blood. It was the left hand, severed at the wrist, and on the fourth finger gleamed a flat, golden ring. Harjunpää sighed and reached into his bag for a pair of disposable gloves – they were the new kind that could even withstand needles, to a certain degree – then he crouched down, took thesevered hand into his own and gently began wiggling the ring loose. It came off surprisingly easily, perhaps because the hand had already bled dry. He wiped the ring on his other glove and peered at the inside.
Jaana , read the inscription. In the dim light he couldn’t make out the date.
8. Maestro
He liked calling it composing, and when he was at home by himself and could put the music on full volume it was like flying. In some ways they were one and the same thing, they gave him a chance to forget all the crap things in life – like Roo, or the fact that his mum must have been a bit mad to break them all up like that. And then there was the fact that his dad didn’t seem to give a fuck about him.
He gave a start and quickly looked around to the left and the right; he didn’t have to look behind him, because all that was there was the cafeteria wall. He couldn’t see them yet. He gave a soft sigh: he couldn’t see them because it was only the first break. It usually started after lunch, then continued all afternoon and on the way home too, if he forgot to wait behind the coat rack until they had gone. Janne was the biggest bastard of the lot.
But even this he could forget about when he was composing. He would start by staring at an object, like the sand in the playground, and gradually he would notice that it wasn’t just sand, it was a whole collection of tiny, individual crystals. Each one of them had a shape and colour of its own, and light reflected off them in different ways. And even though they appeared to be in random positions, by the laws of nature they were exactly as they should be. It was truly magnificent!
Then all of a sudden it was as though he no longer simply saw these crystals, he could hear them – they were like sublime music, the swell of a great orchestra. At times like this his hands rose up of their own accord and began conducting the orchestra. This had even happened in school once or twice, and that’s why everyone thought he was a fucking nutcase. That’s where it had all started.
Even his mum said he must not be right in the head, and she hated him for it. So did Roo – but he hated Roo back. He didn’t know whether it was a mental illness or not, but he was afraid it might be and the thought that he was different from everyone else frightened him. He’d never belonged to
‘That’s what we’ve all been wondering.’
Harjunpää brought his hand up to his forehead and rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. He would have to interview the driver himself and arrange a time for her to come down to the station, but his real hope lay with the security tapes: he guessed that all in all there must have been several hundred cameras dotted around the station. No doubt they would have to put a notice in the paper asking for witnesses to come forward. Identifying the victim was another priority, though he most likely had a wallet in his pocket containing the relevant papers. Next of kin, if there were any, might be able to shed some light on this.
Harjunpää trudged over to Kivinen and the body bag. Kivinen was focussing his camera on something at the bottom of the bag and Harjunpää bent down to see what it was. Before him lay a human face ripped from the skull, like a limp, rubber mask; through the mouth and eye sockets all that could be seen was the black at the bottom of the bag. It was clearly the face of a man – a young man at that. He was cleanly shaven, and through everything else Harjunpää thought he could make out the faint smell of a familiar aftershave.
In addition to the face, the bag also contained a hand, sticky with blood. It was the left hand, severed at the wrist, and on the fourth finger gleamed a flat, golden ring. Harjunpää sighed and reached into his bag for a pair of disposable gloves – they were the new kind that could even withstand needles, to a certain degree – then he crouched down, took thesevered hand into his own and gently began wiggling the ring loose. It came off surprisingly easily, perhaps because the hand had already bled dry. He wiped the ring on his other glove and peered at the inside.
Jaana , read the inscription. In the dim light he couldn’t make out the date.
8. Maestro
He liked calling it composing, and when he was at home by himself and could put the music on full volume it was like flying. In some ways they were one and the same thing, they gave him a chance to forget all the crap things in life – like Roo, or the fact that his mum must have been a bit mad to break them all up like that. And then there was the fact that his dad didn’t seem to give a fuck about him.
He gave a start and quickly looked around to the left and the right; he didn’t have to look behind him, because all that was there was the cafeteria wall. He couldn’t see them yet. He gave a soft sigh: he couldn’t see them because it was only the first break. It usually started after lunch, then continued all afternoon and on the way home too, if he forgot to wait behind the coat rack until they had gone. Janne was the biggest bastard of the lot.
But even this he could forget about when he was composing. He would start by staring at an object, like the sand in the playground, and gradually he would notice that it wasn’t just sand, it was a whole collection of tiny, individual crystals. Each one of them had a shape and colour of its own, and light reflected off them in different ways. And even though they appeared to be in random positions, by the laws of nature they were exactly as they should be. It was truly magnificent!
Then all of a sudden it was as though he no longer simply saw these crystals, he could hear them – they were like sublime music, the swell of a great orchestra. At times like this his hands rose up of their own accord and began conducting the orchestra. This had even happened in school once or twice, and that’s why everyone thought he was a fucking nutcase. That’s where it had all started.
Even his mum said he must not be right in the head, and she hated him for it. So did Roo – but he hated Roo back. He didn’t know whether it was a mental illness or not, but he was afraid it might be and the thought that he was different from everyone else frightened him. He’d never belonged to
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