The restroom, with two urinals and two stalls, was empty. There was no window. That would have been too easy, Repo thought. He’d have to go with plan B.
He bent over the sink and examined his thatch of hair. He drew an old plastic tortoise-shell comb from his breast pocket and tidied his mane. The front door was his only alternative. Eskola had a direct view of it from his seat and would definitely be keeping an eye on it. Repo needed a head start of a few minutes; prison life hadn’t exactly improved his endurance. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the young guard in a flat-out race.
Repo decided to wait a minute or two, until Eskola would be distracted by his sandwich.
The situation made Repo nervous enough to take a leak, wash his hands, and comb his hair again. He put on the gray coat and tried to get a rear-view glance of himself in the mirror. It just might work, he thought. Eskola wouldn’t get more than a few-seconds-long look at him. And if he changed his gait into more of a shuffle, that might help, too.
The prisoner tightened his shoelaces. His black ankle-boots were a size too large, but he couldn’t let that get in his way now.
Repo gave himself a final once-over and stepped out of the restroom.
There was no one at the coat rack. That’s all he would have needed, the coat’s owner standing there, wondering where his missing trench coat was. Repo tried to take small, tight steps. He had an impulse to look over in Eskola and Karppi’s direction, but that would have been a huge mistake. Repo could feel the back of his shirt dampening with sweat.
He walked over to the door, expecting the whole time to hear a loud “Stop!”. But it never came. Maybe Karppi was lecturing Eskola on the history of cremation while the latter munched on his sandwich. How did Karppi know so much about it anyway? Repo thought, pushing open the door to the vestibule. Two more steps and he’d be outside. The urge to look backwards was overwhelming, and Repo almost bumped into a middle-aged couple entering the restaurant.
“Excuse me,” he said, rudely shoving his way out between them. Now was not the time for politeness.
A tram was clattering down Mechelin Street, and a bleak wind was blowing. The rain on his face felt cold but good. Repo turned right so he wouldn’t have to walk past the restaurant’s windows. After a couple of shuffling steps, he broke into a run, headed north. Now he needed to put some distance between himself and Eskola.
* * *
Eskola had finished his sandwich and was starting to get antsy. Maybe he shouldn’t have let the prisoner go to the bathroom by himself after all. But as they had been driving out of Helsinki Prison, Repo had promised to be on his best behavior. Nothing in the inmate database indicated that Repo was a flight risk. He had already done eight years of his life sentence without chalking up any incidents. He would be allowed to start taking unescorted leaves in a year’s time. Besides, Eskola had been hungry, and the sandwich had looked tasty.
He had kept an eye on the door, and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. There had been a little activity, but no one who looked or moved like Repo. Still, he was uneasy. Eskola glanced at his watch: 4:14 p.m. There was still a minute to go of the allowed ten-minute bathroom break. Eskola decided to go check on things anyway .
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, too.”
“What’s wrong with you young men?” Karppi said.
Eskola marched into the bathroom, checked the stalls, and swore a blue streak. He rushed back out into the entryway and scanned the restaurant. Then he flew out the front door, but Repo was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
Repo had slowed to a brisk walk. He had two reasons for doing so: he was out of breath, and a man running in a dark suit and trench coat always attracted attention. He tried to remember when he had last walked down Arkadia Street toward the railway station in the rain. He couldn’t even remember doing it on a sunny day.
The past eight years had gone by in various prisons. Before that he had lived in Riihimäki, forty miles due north from Helsinki. He had rarely visited the city-except maybe his father’s place in the northern part of town. But even there pretty infrequently, and that had all been before his life sentence. Some kid in a hoodie rode past on a dirt bike, and Repo was reminded of his own bicycle from the ʼ60s, with its banana seat, chopper-style handlebars, and frame decorated with old bottle caps.
Repo quickly shook off the vision and concentrated on his surroundings. By this time, Eskola would have noticed his disappearance and reported him to the police. Should he ditch the gray overcoat? Would it be mentioned in the description? Or would they say he was wearing a black suit? Repo wasn’t sure and decided to hang on to the coat, partly because of the rain. He might arouse more suspicion in the chilly weather in just a suit.
When Repo reached the Museum of Natural History, he picked up the pace again. He wondered what new building had risen where old Little Parliament restaurant used to be.
Little Parliament had had a pleasant patio, even if its prices had been a little steep for Repo’s budget. He remembered having been there once, on a warm summer evening. The bar’s windows and doors had been pulled open, letting in a refreshing sea breeze. If he wasn’t totally off the mark, he had even succeeded in picking up some female company that night.
What the hell? Repo thought. A tall brick-and-stone building now stood where the old restaurant had been. When he got closer, he noticed that the name was still the same: this granite monstrosity was the new annex to the Parliament building across the street. What a waste. Apparently the big boys had money to burn on such vanities.
* * *
“So your prisoner got away, huh?” the sergeant on duty said sarcastically. “Now how’d that happen?”
“What difference does it make?” Eskola shouted into his cell phone. He was walking northward up Mechelin Street. Arkadia High School was on his right. Its stucco facade had suffered badly from graffiti tag removal . “We have to find him!”
The sergeant, who had put in his time in the field, grunted. “Take it easy. Why don’t we start with who needs to be found and where?”
Eskola took a deep breath. “Timo Repo. Fled from Restaurant Perho. From a funeral.”
“A funeral at a restaurant? Sounds pretty strange to me. So when did this happen?”
“Less than ten minutes ago.”
“He can’t be far, then. Which direction did he go? And on what?”
Eskola turned onto Arkadia Street. He thought that Repo must have come this way. The only thing on the other side of the cemetery was the Hietaniemi cul-de-sac, where the road dead-ended into the Gulf of Finland. “I don’t know which direction he went, and I’m pretty sure he’s on foot.”
“And who is this…Repo? Shoplifter or something? The name doesn’t say anything.”
“Timo Repo. He’s hard-core, at least going by his sentence. Life.”
The sergeant’s voice grew sharper. “Life? Holy shit.”
Eskola could hear the police officer tapping away at his computer. He assumed Repo’s name was being queried from the database. Soon the police would have a photograph.
“What was he wearing?”
“We were at a funeral. One of those black prison loaner suits,” Eskola reported, pleased that the sergeant was taking him more seriously now.
“Right. The computer describes him as age 52, height 5’8”, average build, crew cut, and I’ll add wearing a dark suit. That about right?”
“Everything except his hair is dark and medium length. Not a crew cut anymore.”
“Thanks. I’ll put your phone number here. If you see something, call right away.”