Jarkko Sipila
Cold Trail
MONDAY, OCTOBER 8, 2007
CHAPTER 1
MONDAY, 2:45 P.M.
HIETANIEMI CREMATORIUM, HELSINKI
The coffin was the cheapest model available. Behind it, the pastor once again shifted uneasily from foot to foot and tentatively recited, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”
Aside from the clergyman and his customer, three men in dark suits were the only other people in the large, lofty chapel. The pastor read the Twenty-third Psalm from his book:
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no eviclass="underline" for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”
The final phrase prompted Timo Repo, who was sitting in the tenth row, to raise his head. Thy rod, exactly, he thought. His father, who was lying in the coffin, hadn’t been one to spare it. It felt like an eternity has passed since those days-or at least decades. Timo Repo was now fifty-two years old, and Erik Repo had lived more or less the average age for a Finnish male, seventy-six years.
Timo hadn’t seen his father in six years and hadn’t even learned about the cancer that brought his death until after the fact, from his medical records at the hospital.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Repo wondered if this was the young pastor’s first funeral. Repo wasn’t a big man, clearly under six feet. His face was angular and his dark hair slightly disheveled, as if it had been combed with nothing but his fingers.
The pastor urged those present to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
The younger man with a shaved head sitting next to Repo crossed his hands. Repo knew the prison guard by last name only: Eskola.
Repo kept his heavily veined hands apart. The funeral’s third attendee sat a couple of rows in front of them, his gray head lowered. Repo knew it was his father’s neighbor.
In a way, Timo Repo was pleased that there weren’t more mourners. More than anything, he felt uncomfortable. Grief was beyond his reach.
Luckily, Mom had died back in the early ʼ90s and hadn’t had to suffer through later events. Timo did wonder why his older brother, Martti, wasn’t there. Maybe he was off in Thailand again. Rumors of these jaunts had reached Timo. But his big brother hadn’t even visited him in the joint. Not once.
The prayer droned on, but Timo wasn’t listening. He had lost his faith in God eight years ago, after he had been sentenced to life in prison for murdering his wife. Timo’s God wasn’t merciful; he was an avenger.
The interment continued for another twenty minutes. Afterwards, the coffin slid slowly out of the chapel toward the oven, to a recording of “The Lord is My Shepherd.”
The guard was the first to stand. Eskola was about six inches taller than Repo.
“Well, that was that.”
“Yeah,” Repo answered. They stepped into the aisle.
“Ready to head back?”
“I need to hit the…,” Repo began.
The gray-haired man, who moved with difficulty, interrupted. Extending both hands, he squeezed first Repo’s hand and then Eskola’s.
“Thank you for coming. Erik deserved a bigger send-off, but what can you do.” The old man focused his gaze on Timo. “You’re the younger son.”
Timo nodded.
“My deepest condolences.”
“Thank you,” Timo replied politely. The old man looked like he was on his last legs. He might well be the crematorium’s next customer. “And thanks for taking care of the arrangements… I heard you…”
“I carried out Erik’s wishes. He knew death was approaching.”
And still didn’t bother to get in touch, Timo thought. That ate at him, but it was typical of his father. Timo wished he could have asked him a few questions.
“Nice service.”
“Yes, I apologize for not introducing myself. I’m Otto Karppi, your father’s neighbor. You’ll come to the reception, won’t you?” asked the old man. “The pastor can’t make it.”
Repo glanced at his escort, who nodded. Prison rules stated that prisoners attending an interment under escort were also allowed to attend memorial services.
“We can take the prison car,” said the guard. “Did you drive?”
Karppi grunted. “Doc took my license away three years ago.”
“Well, the state will give you a ride. The weather’s so bad there’s no point walking,” Eskola said, turning to Repo. “Didn’t you need to use the bathroom?”
“I can wait till we get to the restaurant,” Repo answered.
* * *
The three men in dark suits were sitting at a six-person corner table at Restaurant Perho. There were only a handful of other customers in the beautiful, wood — paneled establishment. A young woman in a traditional black-and-white wait-staff uniform poured them coffee from a gleaming pot.
Karppi had placed a photograph of Erik Repo on the table and lit a candle in front of it. The elder Repo had a hook nose and vaguely pronounced cheekbones; his hair was gray and short. Timo felt like his father was staring at him and him alone with his grim, almost angry eyes.
No one seemed to have much to say. Eskola’s and Repo’s dark suits were both from the prison’s limited selection of loaners, from which both prisoners and guards could borrow for such occasions. Eskola’s suit was a little too small and Repo’s a little too big.
Eskola broke the silence. “So how does cremation actually work?”
Repo glared at the guard. “They burn the body.”
“As a matter of fact, it’s not quite that simple,” Karppi interjected. “They heat the oven with natural gas until it’s hot, and then they push in the coffin. It self-ignites and burns for a solid hour, as long as they keep on blowing air. It’s more cremation than burning.”
“So what’s left over?” Eskola asked.
“All organic material burns away. The only thing left behind are the inorganic elements from the bones.”
“So pretty hygienic then,” Eskola reflected.
“That was the original idea behind cremation. The custom began to spread through Europe during the nineteenth century because of the poor conditions at cemeteries.”
Repo sipped his coffee.
“Well, there are still a few practical issues to deal with regarding Erik,” Karppi said. “The urn will be ready in about a week, and I can take it to the vault in accordance with Erik’s wishes. If that’s all right.”
Timo nodded.
“Then there’s the matter of the estate. There’s an inheritance of sorts to be divided up. The assets consist primarily of your father’s house. And, as far as I’m aware, the heirs are yourself and your brother.”
“Don’t our kids get anything?”
“Do you have children?” Karppi asked.
“I have one, and I’m assuming my brother does too, although I don’t know how many.”
“According to the estate law, grandchildren don’t get anything if the children are alive.”
Repo noticed the pretty waitress approaching with a plate of sandwiches.
“Uh, listen, I need to hit the john now. My stomach’s acting up.”
The woman placed the sandwiches on the table.
“You guys go ahead and start. I’ll be right back,” Repo said, standing.
“No funny business?” Eskola asked.
“’Course not. I’m just going to the bathroom.”
“Okay,” Eskola said, giving Repo a stern look. He checked his watch: 4:05 p.m.
The bathroom was near the front door. Repo walked there with rapid steps. He knew Eskola’s eyes were on him. There was a line of sight from the table to the front door, but not to the bathroom area, which was tucked into a small niche near the coat racks.
Repo made it around the corner and paused for a moment at the coat rack. The parties at the other tables seemed to be in the middle of their meals or just getting started. No one was paying attention to him. Repo pulled a gray trench coat that looked about the right size from a hanger. No one started shouting, at least not immediately.