We have minority populations in Finland-Lapps, Gypsies and Swedish-speaking Finns-but they’re all of a long-standing and homegrown kind. Between five and six thousand Somali refugees poured into the country in the early 1990s, our first major experience with foreigners. A lot of us had never seen a black person before the Somalis arrived.
At first, popular feeling was benevolent. Most Finns were pleased to have an opportunity to help the downtrodden. Then we realized the refugees had to be supported by our rather generous welfare system. They got apartments, televisions, an income, all on the public dole. They often wear more expensive clothes than our working class can afford, because most Muslims don’t drink up their money like we do and can use it for other things. Public resentment grew and has never abated.
I remember what I’ve read about the Somali civil war. The Somalis who took flight during that time were mainly Daarood clan members, escaping violence at the hands of the Hawiye clan. As Somalia disintegrated, the Daarood residents of Mogadishu became the objects of revenge killings. In Somalia there was chaos, clan warfare, genocide, a mass exodus. Few people had passports. It would have been easy to steal an identity and go undiscovered in the flood of refugees. If Abdi had never been a doctor in the first place, it would explain his inability to practice medicine here.
The problem is how to investigate him. Somalia has had no government worthy of the name for the better part of twenty years. The country is ruled by regional warlords, has no infrastructure. There’s no one I can call to request a background check or crime sheet. Then it comes to me. Abdi said he studied at the Sorbonne. They should have a yearbook or at least some kind of student photo. Maybe they even keep up with alumni, can tell me something about what happened to Abdi after he graduated. All this is contingent upon whether the man who calls himself Abdi Barre committed identity theft. Maybe he really is Dr. Abdi Barre. Maybe there never was a doctor with a practice in Mogadishu by that name.
I call Interpol and get lucky. I talk to a cop who tells me he’s seen what a beating I’m taking from the world press. He’s sympathetic and anxious to play a part in a glitzy homicide investigation. I explain what I need, tell him I’m in a hurry. He promises to help me out. Then I call Finnish passport control, ask them to e-mail me a photo of Abdi. It occurs to me that maybe I should even just question Abdi about his past myself. I call him and ask him if he would allow me the privilege of attending his daughter’s funeral. I say I’d like to pay my final respects. This is true.
“Are you a Man of the Book Inspector?” he asks.
“What do you mean by Man of the Book?”
His tone suggests I’m an uneducated moron. “According to the Koran, the term describes non-Muslim peoples who received religious scriptures before the time of Muhammad. The Koran completes these scriptures and is God’s true and final message to the faithful. However, because People of the Book recognize the supreme Abrahamic God, as do Muslims, they practice revealed faiths based on Divine ordinances. As such, a certain level of tolerance is accorded them under Islamic law. If you are a Man of the Book, I will allow you to attend Sufia’s funeral. If you are not, I must regard you as unclean and will not permit you to defile her last rites.”
At first I excused it because of his grief, but with every interaction I’ve had with him, Abdi’s arrogance and superior attitude have grown more tiresome. “You may consider me a Man of the Book,” I say. “I’m a baptized Lutheran and I’ve read the Bible.”
“Very good then, you may attend.” He gives me the time and place and hangs up without saying thank you, fuck you or good-bye.
31
I GO OUT TO the common room. Valtteri is still sitting at his desk, still staring at nothing. “How did it go with Seppo?” he asks.
“Not well.”
Abdi is a possibility but a long shot, so I don’t mention it. Most likely, this will end with Seppo or Peter or both tried and convicted. “Did search and arrest warrants come for Eklund?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I wish Valtteri would go home. “Then let’s pick him up,” I say. We take a squad car and I drive. It’s snowing hard-wind drives it toward us in blinding sheets. My head hurts from the whiskey, my mouth is still sour. My hangover magnifies everything: the hiss of tires slicing through snowdrifts on the road, the drumming of the windshield wipers. The headlights penetrate the dark, light up the falling snow and the glare burns my eyes. Even the silence between Valtteri and me seems amplified.
In the passenger seat beside me, he drums on the dashboard with chewed fingernails. He grinds his teeth and bites his lip. I doubt if he knows he’s doing any of it. I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and barely recognize myself. I can’t help but think that in our current conditions, we’re not fit to be dog catchers, let alone law enforcement officers. But I’ve investigated enough crimes to know this is almost over. Soon, Valtteri and I can rest, maybe in time for Christmas. When Kate’s cast comes off, I’ll take her somewhere warm on vacation, maybe the Canary Islands. I can make this up to her. We’ll put all this behind us.
The recurring image of Heli’s burned body resonates through me, makes me shiver. The significance of my sister and ex-wife dying within a few yards of each other seems too great to ignore. I ask myself who might remember Suvi’s death thirty years ago, and who might also have hated Heli enough to not only kill her but to destroy her with fire. Only a few old men who helped recover Suvi’s body might even remember where she died. And Dad. He was at that very spot on the lake just a few days ago. He has emotional problems and a violent streak, but I never thought he gave a damn that Heli left me. He never had room for the pain of other people.
I remember Valtteri’s reticence when I told him to find out where Dad was when Sufia was murdered. It hurts me to think of it, but maybe pursuing Seppo and Peter is the wrong track. I have to ask. “Do you know anything about my father you haven’t told me?”
He looks at me, emotionless. I can’t read anything in his face. “I’ve lived in this town my whole life and I’m a policeman. I know lots of things about people.”
“Is there anything I should know?”
He sighs. “Some things are best forgotten, sometimes hurtful things best never known.”
I’m scared, but I press it. “Is there something about my father I don’t know that has a bearing on these murder cases?”
He shakes his head, indulgent, as if he suffers a fool. “No.”
“At the beginning of this, you said we shouldn’t look at family, like you were trying to protect me.”
“I said we shouldn’t waste time investigating family when we know they’re innocent.”
I don’t point out that Heikki wasn’t innocent. “Would you tell me if there was something?”
He stares straight ahead. “I’m not sure.”
Time passes. “Do you believe in God?” he asks.
We’ve never discussed religion before. “Yes.”
“My faith teaches that what my son Heikki did, committing murder and suicide, condemns him to hell without hope of redemption. Do you believe that?”
I wish I could find words to console him, but I don’t have them. I answer his question as best I can. “I think our God is one of forgiveness, and that there’s always hope for redemption. If Heikki asked for forgiveness in his last thoughts, I believe he received it.”
“I wish I could believe that too,” he says. “Heikki always loved hunting more than anything. I thought he was a born outdoors-man. Now I think he just liked killing things.”
We ride on in silence. From the foot of the mountain, even through the snowstorm, I can see the multicolored lights of Christmas decorations in the glass front of the Eklund winter cottage. When we pull up the drive, I realize Peter must have had it professionally done. They’re as elaborate as those of any department store. We get out of the car, and I look down the mountain into the dark. Below us, Kittilä is almost hidden from view, the lights of the town blurred, nearly obliterated by the pouring snow.