trouble with their remote controls too.”
“Is that so?” Koskinen rubbed his jaw as he thought. It seemed there were more keys in circulation than Kalenius had told him that morning.
Laine glanced at his watch and then jumped out of his chair. “I’m already an hour late. You can’t force me to stay.”
“No, I can’t,” Koskinen said and stood himself. “I’ll see you out.”
“I can find my way.”
“It’s just what we do,” Koskinen said and then noticed, to his irritation, that he had forgotten to turn the recorder back on after Tomi’ s phone call.
Laine was muttering to himself the whole way down in the elevator, “At this rate I’m not going to have any clients left. Half of them are dying and the other half are going to other drivers. They’re real sticklers about time. I’ll be hearing her bitch about it for at least a week. As if she really had anywhere important to be.”
To Koskinen, Laine’s words sounded strange for a man who made his living in disability services. He seemed to be downright antagonistic. Suddenly he remembered Pekki’s mercy killer theory.
“Have you done any driving out around Ikuri lately?” he asked casually.
Laine didn’t show the slightest sign of being put off balance. He just answered calmly, as if it was the type of question he got all the time.
“I have customers all over town, and some even a little farther out.”
Koskinen escorted Laine all the way to the street and saw that he had left his vehicle in a no parking zone— apparently he trusted in handicap taxis not getting ticketed.
Laine dug his car keys out of his pocket and then turned to Koskinen one last time. “How was Timonen killed?”
Koskinen shook his head and hustled Laine along. “Get going already! Your customers are waiting!”
“Let the bastards wait!” Laine hissed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and jerked the door shut a bit too hard. His Ford Transit van had seen better days. The handicap taxi roof light looked like someone had thrown a rock at it. The side was covered in dried mud, and it was hard to make out the cursive text painted under it: ILMARI LAINE – 24-HOUR TAXI SERVICE WITH A PERSONAL TOUCH.
The car slipped down Sorin Street and crossed the Tampere Highway, turning left. Laine ignored the traffic sign that prohibited left turns, except for emergency vehicles. Who knew? Maybe he thought his van was one. His route was the most direct to the Hatanpää hospital.
Koskinen turned and started walking back to his office with his hands in his pockets. He sat down behind his desk, lost in thought. It took a long time before he noticed the yellow sticky note that had been left on his desk. It had a phone number and a request to call immediately.
Koskinen dialed the number. After six rings he was about to hang up, before an out-of-breath female voice answered.
“Katajisto.”
Koskinen’s brain drew a blank.
“Lieutenant Koskinen here,” he grunted into the mouthpiece.
“Oh, hi! I was already starting to think I’d gotten the wrong number from Ulla when this young girl answered.”
“That was Milla, my temporary secretary.” Koskinen faltered for a moment more and then finally realized with whom he was speaking. The person on the other end of the line was Ursula Katajisto , the occupational psychiatrist.
“I’m glad you called right back,” she said. “Ulla told me yesterday that you’d like to go out and eat some time.”
Damn it, Ulla, come on! Koskinen swore to himself, not remembering having agreed to a date. But now he couldn’t come up with anything more sensible to say than, “Yeah, that would be really nice.”
“Would Friday night work for you?”
“Wait a sec while I look at my calendar,” Koskinen replied, even though he knew perfectly well without looking—every evening was just as empty.
“Yeah,” he said, stretching it out. “Yes, that works.”
“Where should we meet?”
My place or yours, Koskinen thought, but
“Is that so?” Koskinen rubbed his jaw as he thought. It seemed there were more keys in circulation than Kalenius had told him that morning.
Laine glanced at his watch and then jumped out of his chair. “I’m already an hour late. You can’t force me to stay.”
“No, I can’t,” Koskinen said and stood himself. “I’ll see you out.”
“I can find my way.”
“It’s just what we do,” Koskinen said and then noticed, to his irritation, that he had forgotten to turn the recorder back on after Tomi’ s phone call.
Laine was muttering to himself the whole way down in the elevator, “At this rate I’m not going to have any clients left. Half of them are dying and the other half are going to other drivers. They’re real sticklers about time. I’ll be hearing her bitch about it for at least a week. As if she really had anywhere important to be.”
To Koskinen, Laine’s words sounded strange for a man who made his living in disability services. He seemed to be downright antagonistic. Suddenly he remembered Pekki’s mercy killer theory.
“Have you done any driving out around Ikuri lately?” he asked casually.
Laine didn’t show the slightest sign of being put off balance. He just answered calmly, as if it was the type of question he got all the time.
“I have customers all over town, and some even a little farther out.”
Koskinen escorted Laine all the way to the street and saw that he had left his vehicle in a no parking zone— apparently he trusted in handicap taxis not getting ticketed.
Laine dug his car keys out of his pocket and then turned to Koskinen one last time. “How was Timonen killed?”
Koskinen shook his head and hustled Laine along. “Get going already! Your customers are waiting!”
“Let the bastards wait!” Laine hissed. He climbed into the driver’s seat and jerked the door shut a bit too hard. His Ford Transit van had seen better days. The handicap taxi roof light looked like someone had thrown a rock at it. The side was covered in dried mud, and it was hard to make out the cursive text painted under it: ILMARI LAINE – 24-HOUR TAXI SERVICE WITH A PERSONAL TOUCH.
The car slipped down Sorin Street and crossed the Tampere Highway, turning left. Laine ignored the traffic sign that prohibited left turns, except for emergency vehicles. Who knew? Maybe he thought his van was one. His route was the most direct to the Hatanpää hospital.
Koskinen turned and started walking back to his office with his hands in his pockets. He sat down behind his desk, lost in thought. It took a long time before he noticed the yellow sticky note that had been left on his desk. It had a phone number and a request to call immediately.
Koskinen dialed the number. After six rings he was about to hang up, before an out-of-breath female voice answered.
“Katajisto.”
Koskinen’s brain drew a blank.
“Lieutenant Koskinen here,” he grunted into the mouthpiece.
“Oh, hi! I was already starting to think I’d gotten the wrong number from Ulla when this young girl answered.”
“That was Milla, my temporary secretary.” Koskinen faltered for a moment more and then finally realized with whom he was speaking. The person on the other end of the line was Ursula Katajisto , the occupational psychiatrist.
“I’m glad you called right back,” she said. “Ulla told me yesterday that you’d like to go out and eat some time.”
Damn it, Ulla, come on! Koskinen swore to himself, not remembering having agreed to a date. But now he couldn’t come up with anything more sensible to say than, “Yeah, that would be really nice.”
“Would Friday night work for you?”
“Wait a sec while I look at my calendar,” Koskinen replied, even though he knew perfectly well without looking—every evening was just as empty.
“Yeah,” he said, stretching it out. “Yes, that works.”
“Where should we meet?”
My place or yours, Koskinen thought, but
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