Behind God's Back

4

Investigating murders is usually simple, which is why the percentage of cases solved is high. The killer often leaves behind traces, or else traces of the victim are left behind on the killer. Also, the murderer is usually found among those close to the victim, and the motive is almost always easy to deduce. In Finnish murders, it is jealousy, money, a grudge, booze.

If the motive remains unclear, the investigation is immediately trickier. If, in addition, the perpetrator and the victim aren’t acquainted, the investigation grows even more complicated. And there’s a third factor that can hamper an investigation: if the perpetrator is a professional, or at least intelligent and careful.

Jacobson’s murder fit all of the criteria of a difficult case. Talking to the neighbours hadn’t produced any results. No one had seen the Golf, or anything else that would have furthered the investigation. The murderer’s getaway route also remained unclear. A car coming from the scene of the crime could only access the more open waters of Tammisalo by one of two routes: down Tammisalontie and past the manor towards Herttoniemi, or down Ruonasalmentie towards Roihuvuori. There were no surveillance cameras along there, either. After that, the number of alternatives increased dramatically.

The make of the getaway car had been released to the radio stations, television channels and papers that afternoon, but it hadn’t made any difference. Not a single clue had come in, even though the murder made the prime-time broadcast. A car as common as a Golf didn’t attract any attention. No one had seen a driver dressed like a police officer, either. Presumably the murderer had changed clothes, or at least covered his police uniform with a coat.

I ordered Stenman to review the footage, and Simolin to call through all of the car rental agencies in town; the call data from Jacobson’s landline and his cell phone had already been requested. The Golf was not a phantom car, after all; it was steel, aluminium and plastic. An owner would turn up if we just looked long enough. Dejected, I dropped by Huovinen’s office to report the latest on the investigation and went downstairs to eat. I had just started eating my soup when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Auvinen here. I’m the driver, and I was just out taking care of some deliveries when you dropped by the company. I heard you were looking for information, all kinds of information about the boss. I have something to tell you…”

I found a pen but no paper. I grabbed the tabloid from the neighbouring table; it would have to serve as an impromptu notebook.

“Yeah?”

“This happened about three weeks ago. The boss’s car was in the shop and he asked for a ride to a client meeting in Vantaa. Someone called him during the drive. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but he sounded afraid, so my ears just sort of pricked up.”

“What was he talking about?”

“I was just coming to that. At first he said that he didn’t want to be, or couldn’t, get involved in anything… He didn’t say anything in greater detail about what. The caller talked for a long time, and then the boss started almost shouting that he wasn’t going to cooperate in any way, shape or form. The caller talked some more, and when it was the boss’s turn to speak, he said that no company is that important and that he — the caller, I mean — could do whatever he wanted but that he was not going to be involved. Then he hung up.”

“Did he explain the call in any way?”

“Not a word. He was quiet for the rest of the trip; he was clearly thinking about something.”

“Do you remember the exact date?”

“Tuesday. It was the third. Check the phone data and you’ll find out who it was who called. I have a hunch it could be the killer. The boss was afraid of him, at least.”

“Does anything else come to mind?”

“Nope, that’s it.”

“What was your opinion of Jacobson?”

“In what sense?”

“Overall impression. What was he like?”

“A stubborn old bird, but otherwise a nice guy. On a pretty different wavelength from Jacobson junior.”

“Are you saying they fought a lot?”

“Not a lot, but sometimes. The son wanted to establish a subsidiary in Tallinn, but the boss thought it was too risky.”

“What about others? Did Jacobson have disagreements with anyone else?”

“No.”

“Not even Hulkko?”

“Nah, Hulkko is an even-keeled guy.”

“Could Jacobson have been involved with a woman?”

Auvinen laughed. “Not a chance. He was terrified of women.”

“What do you think about the threat that turned up this morning? Did you hear about that?”

“Yeah. There are all kinds of nut jobs on the loose, but it didn’t seem like much.”

I thanked Auvinen and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. I never finished my soup. I headed right up to Stenman’s office, where she was watching the security tape fast-forwarded many times the normal speed.

“How’s it going?”

“I’m already at 6 a.m. I’ve noted the times of any vehicles that have driven past, plus the make if I recognize it. No Golfs so far. I can’t make out the licence plates because the camera is filming straight from the side. It was a quiet night. Only a few cars drove past, and some of those were patrol cars or security company vehicles.”

“Well, if we don’t get anything else, maybe at least we’ll get the time… Can you stay late tonight?”

“I’m in no rush. The boys will be fine by themselves.”

Both of Stenman’s sons were over ten years old, and she had a mother in good health who lived nearby and was willing to watch them.

I told her about the call I had just received from Auvinen. “It sounds like Jacobson was hiding from whoever it was. I’ll ask Simolin to trace the call.”

Stenman was doubtful. “It’s probably one of those prepaid numbers.”

Simolin walked in, carrying a notebook. “I’ve checked with all of the rental agencies in the Helsinki area. It’s not a rental.”

“No cars have been reported stolen, it hasn’t been rented, and chances are it’s not the killer’s own car. What alternatives do we have left?” I pondered.

“Borrowed,” Simolin suggested.

“Professionals don’t borrow cars. Too big a risk,” Stenman said.

“Borrowed without permission, from some company or by blackmailing the owner.”

“Possible, but that’s also risky, unless the killer has the owner of the car in a serious vice. What if the car was stolen from someone who couldn’t report it, like long-term airport parking? The owner might be abroad.”

“The new Golfs are equipped with immobilizers, and there are surveillance cameras at the parking lots. I just had an idea. What if the car is foreign, say Estonian? You can buy cars there without ID; you can make up any name you want. There’s no way to connect the buyer to the car.”

“It’s possible,” I said. “The important thing now is to find that car. It was already on the news, but we’ve got to get it into the papers, too. Find a photo of a similar Golf somewhere and ask the papers to print it. Not everyone knows what a Golf looks like — at least, not all women do.”

“Come and take a look at this,” Stenman said.

She rewound the recording and pressed Play. The footage showed a car, irritatingly at the far right of the screen, pulling up in front of Jacobson’s company. A man who appeared drunk climbed out. He looked around nervously, hurried over to the mail box, and slipped in an object that looked like a letter. The time on the screen read 6:32 a.m.

Even in still mode the image was so grainy and blurry that there was no way of identifying the guy. Stenman wound it back and forth a few times, but it didn’t do any good. The clothes were normal; they didn’t have any logos. Then Stenman fast-forwarded.

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes,” Stenman said. The car backed away and disappeared for good.

Simolin provided the play-by-play: “Turned around by backing up in the drive.”

“We’re not going to get the car or the guy from that,” I said, exasperated. You could only see a foot of the car’s nose, and even that was caught in an annoying shadow that fell across the front grille. You couldn’t even tell what colour it was, just that it was dark.

“Shitty luck, nothing we can do,” Stenman said.

“What about Oksanen?” Simolin suggested.

“What about him?”

“He came in second in the Tech World car identification competition a couple of years back. I just saw him in his office, even though he’s supposed to be on vacation.”

“Ask him to come in here,” I said.

As we waited on Oksanen’s expertise, Stenman rewound and fast-forwarded through the footage a few more times and fine-tuned it. Then Simolin walked in with Oksanen.

“What’s the trouble?” Oksanen asked confidently. Simolin must have given him the low-down.

“Do you recognize that car?” Stenman asked.

Oksanen bent towards the screen and, without a moment’s hesitation, said: “Late ’90s Ford Mondeo. The last year they made them was ’97, if I remember right. Piece of cake.”

I was blown away. “Are you sure?”

“This is one of the easiest models to identify. The newer ones would be a lot tougher. See how the headlight curves in from the edges in that weird way?”

“Great,” I said, instinctively slapping Oksanen on the shoulder. He took it as praise, and exited with a smile on his face.

Simolin’s phone rang. I continued talking to Stenman: “Let’s ask Hulkko and the other employees about the car…”

The eagerness in Simolin’s voice caught my attention. I looked over and saw him lift up a thumb.

“No, tell me… where is it…?” Simolin wrote something down. “Good, I’ll go over right now and have a look. Call in forensics and a tow truck, too.”

I guessed what had happened. Simolin ended the call and confirmed my suspicions.

“We have our Golf.”