Behind God's Back

5

I was forced to admit that Jacobson’s killer was not your average criminal. He had left the car only a hundred yards from the scene of the murder. It was discovered in the garage of the house that was across the street and up from the Jacobsons’, the beautiful old run-down house that Jacobson’s neighbour had mentioned. The trees and bushes had blocked him from seeing that the car had been driven there.

From up close, the house was in even worse shape than I had imagined. It was a two-storey villa, with a glassed-in porch and steep-pitched roofs. The paint was flaking and the roof tiles were green with moss, but even the ravages of time couldn’t mask its beauty. That beauty wasn’t likely to keep the heirs from tearing it down, however. Money steamrolled over sentiment, too. Still, at least three generations had lived in the house, and even those who remained had started life there.

The garden was overgrown, as if no one mowed or pruned it any more. Saplings and grass, almost waist high, thrust up through the gravel drive. The ground under the fruit trees was blanketed with rotting apples of all varieties that would never find their way into a jam jar or juice bottle in anyone’s cellar. The air was laden with end-of-summer abundance.

The gravel crunched under our feet as we walked up the slope towards the house. Two patrol cars stood in the drive.

The yard had been searched and all the footprints pulled before our arrival. The car was waiting to be towed to the technical facility for a detailed forensic investigation.

“It’s gorgeous here,” Stenman sighed.

“It sure is.”

The Golf had been driven into a weatherboard garage that stood between the house and the upper yard. Its double doors were open, and I could see the rear of the vehicle.

“How did the killer know about the garage?” Simolin wondered. “What if he’s a local?”

“Maybe he just came and checked out the area beforehand.”

“The garage lock is smashed,” Stenman said, peering in through the car windows.

The car had been found by some neighbourhood boys who had been in the yard stealing plums. They had carried out these raids before, and had always been able to go about their business without anyone bothering them. This time, the car in the garage had scared them. Luckily for us, one of the boys heard at home that there had been a murder across the street and that the police were looking for a blue Volkswagen Golf. The boy’s mother called it in, and a patrol drove out to make sure that the car was the one we were looking for.

I hung back to speak with one of the forensic specialists.

“The plates are from a demolished vehicle,” she said.

“Anything else?”

“There’s a policeman’s jacket and hat in the back seat. We’ll conduct a more detailed investigation at the impound facility in Pasila.”

Stenman circled the car. “Can I take a look inside?”

“As long as you don’t mess up the prints.”

“I won’t,” she promised, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. I watched as she bent into the car from the passenger door. She had a nice butt, and my eyes automatically honed in on it. But I was forced to break the spell and focus on the situation at hand.

“Did you find any footprints or anything else in the yard?” I asked the investigators.

“Nothing. The ground’s hard and didn’t take any prints.”

Stenman rose from the car and said: “It looks like the car was brought over from Estonia.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Come and have a look.”

Stenman opened the glove box. A sticker from a Tallinn car dealership was pasted to the inside of the hatch.

“That’s no good. Might be hard to find out who the owner is.”

Simolin, who had circled the house, walked over carrying an apple.

“These are good,” he said, juice spurting as he bit.

“You were right — the car was probably brought from Estonia.”

“That might still turn to our advantage,” Simolin said, opening the hood. He wrote down the engine number and stepped off to the side. I saw him make a call.

I took a closer look at the car. There was a police officer’s coat and hat in the back seat, along with a removable blue light for the roof.

“At least there’s no doubt that we have the right car,” I said to Stenman. “I’m having a hard time deciding whether it was smart or stupid to leave the car this close to the scene.”

“Smart,” Stenman said. “A path leads from the top of the hill down to a bigger road. The killer probably had a second car waiting there. He must have assumed that it wouldn’t take long before someone noticed the murder and an APB would be put out on the Golf. With the second car, he could drive around without having to worry, since everyone was looking for the wrong make.”

Simolin walked over, looking satisfied with himself. Normally he was modesty personified.

“I called a detective I know in Tallinn. He promised to try and see if there was anything he could find out about the vehicle.”

“How do you know him?” Stenman asked.

Simolin looked embarrassed. “We share some common interests.”

“Is he into Indians, too?”

“Something like that.”

“Maybe I should start getting into them, too,” Stenman said. She looked like she was serious. I had never heard her make fun at the expense of Simolin’s pastime. On the contrary, she had praised him to me on numerous occasions.

“In any case, everything points to the theory that the killer is a professional,” I said. “It was all carefully planned, down to the acquisition of the vehicle. It looks like the threat letter that Jacobson received doesn’t have anything to do with the murder. It’s not likely that the killer would have used two cars on the same day. If he wanted us to connect the threat and the murder, he would have only used the Golf.”

Stenman was satisfied. “At least that’s one less alternative.”

I climbed the path that started behind the house and rose to the top of the hill. I looked around. The trail dropped through a small stand of trees and plunged down to the narrow, spruce-lined road. I returned to the yard just as the tow truck was grinding its way up the drive. The forensic investigators were pushing the car out of the garage with the help of a couple of patrolmen. Once they got it out, they turned it around so it could be winched onto the bed of the truck.

“If we’re lucky, we’ll find something in the car that will help us with the investigation,” Simolin said.

I didn’t believe in luck. It wasn’t likely that the killer would have made such an elementary mistake.

“We need to talk to the people who live on the road that starts on the far side of that hill. They might have noticed the killer’s other car. It was probably parked there overnight.”

“I’m on it,” Simolin said. Stenman nodded, too.

Simolin’s phone rang. He glanced at it and said: “It’s Estonia.” Stenman and I stopped to listen.

“Wait, let me write that down.”

I handed Simolin a pen and a notebook.

“All right, go for it,” he said, jotting down the information he was getting. “Thanks a lot; I owe you one.”

Simolin frowned at the notebook. “The car was sold by a legitimate importer a little over a year ago. It’s owned by an Estonian finance company, which is also the registered user. It was stolen from the company’s parking garage two weeks ago.”

I had a sinking feeling. “What’s the name of the company?” I asked. Simolin took another glance at his notebook.

“Baltic Invest.”