* * *
Repo parked his newly-acquired car at a soccer field parking lot in Hakunila, a neighborhood in the suburb of Vantaa. There was a grass field next to the lot, but the junior team was training farther away on the gravel field, near a dome scrawled with graffiti. It was already dark outside, and the field’s lights created a yellow glow.
Repo stepped out of the car, closed the door, and clicked on the lock. His driving skills had quickly come back to him.
Wearing his gray coat and black suit, the escaped convict walked toward the soccer field. At the end of the parking lot there was an old wooden cabin that functioned as the locker room. The weather was the best possible for soccer practice-about forty degrees, no rain. The forecast on the radio had promised that the temperature would drop and tomorrow it would sleet or snow.
There were about fifteen boys on the field, half of whom were wearing yellow vests over their sweat jackets. The team was evidently having a scrimmage.
“No, no. Remember distances,” shouted a wavy-haired man in a parka. Repo guessed he was about forty. He was wearing a black beanie, like all the players.
The vests appeared to have the upper hand, and they drove the ball inexorably toward the sweatjackets’ goal. A few parents were standing on the sidelines chatting, but from ten yards away Repo could only make out a word here and there.
He searched the field for a familiar face, but couldn’t find it. In their matching soccer sweatsuits and beanies, the boys all looked the same.
Those parents are probably talking about hockey, Repo wondered. At least that’s what the words he heard-lines, checking, hitting-sounded like. On the other hand, they could have also been talking about prison.
No one paid any attention to Repo.
The vests-more prison slang-were outplaying their opponents, and scored again. One of the boys faked out a defender near the sideline and centered the ball in front of the goal, from where another player headed it into the back of the net.
A dull clapping echoed from the coach’s leather gloves. He called out to the winger, “Great fake and center, Joel!”
Repo startled. Joel. He took a closer look at the boy and recognized the features from the photo Karppi had given him. The face wasn’t as round as it used to be, but it was his Joel, no doubt about it.
The coach continued shouting out the pitch: “Markku, that header was just like Ronaldo! Nice goal! Okay, kick off from midfield.”
The goalie angrily kicked the ball into center field, where one of the vests snagged it out of the air.
Repo heard one of the sweatjackets complaining to the coach about the teams: “All the best kids on the same team. This is totally unfair.”
Joel jogged up to the middle of the field. Repo watched every step.
“Fair and fair. Stop complaining, Leevi,” the coach said, blowing his whistle. The game continued.
Repo watched Joel’s every move. In his day, he had played Division II soccer himself and knew a lot about the game. But that didn’t make any difference now. He didn’t look where Joel was positioned or whether his touches were clean. He wasn’t interested in whether Joel knew how to tackle properly, or whether he led too much with the soles of his feet.
Repo simply watched his son, mesmerized. He felt like running out onto the pitch and hugging him. Telling him how proud he was of him. Tears rose to his eyes as he understood what he had lost.
Repo clearly heard the words when one of the parents standing next to him said to a man in a green ski cap, “That Joel of yours is definitely the best player we’ve got. He’s not going to be hanging around here too long before they move him up.”
The words cut Repo to the quick. That Joel of yours. Of yours.
The boy was his Joel, not anyone else’s. He wasn’t that green-capped guy’s Joel. Repo felt like shouting, but he knew he couldn’t.
Eight years earlier, Joel was a tow-headed toddler he had taken to the soccer fields dozens of times to kick the ball around. Where had the years gone? Repo knew the answer all too welclass="underline" prison. And for no reason. His wife was dead. His mother was dead. His father was dead, and his son was gone. What did he have left? Nothing.
Repo wondered how Joel would react if he walked out into the field and told him he was his real father. Could they still have a life together?
What would his life be like if his wife were still alive? Once again, thinking hurt too much.
Repo saw now that coming here to stand at the sidelines had been pointless. His son wouldn’t recognize him. What had he been thinking? That Joel would run up to him, stop, and say, “Dad?” That they’d hug and walk off into a new life together? Repo chuckled to himself. The boy wouldn’t remember him, and probably wouldn’t even know his name. The guy in the green beanie was his dad now. Not him.
Repo took a final look at the man in the green cap. Take good care of my son, Repo silently told him, and headed toward the car he had stolen. Where had his life gone?
CHAPTER 10
TUESDAY, 8:30 P.M.
HELSINKI POLICE HEADQUARTERS, PASILA
“What are you going to do about Juvonen?” Joutsamo asked. Takamäki, Suhonen, and Kulta were also sitting in the austere conference room at police headquarters in Pasila. Someone had drawn a big question mark on the flipchart.
“What do you think I should do?” Takamäki asked.
Joutsamo was incensed. “Nail her to the wall. That was a really dirty trick.”
“What’s the crime?”
“I don’t know, but you can’t mislead the police like that.”
Takamäki was silent for a moment. “Resisting police authority. It includes false reports. As I recall, the maximum is three months in jail.”
“That’s not going to get you a search warrant for her phone,” Joutsamo noted.
“Don’t need it. Let’s call her in for questioning and confiscate it. That’ll let us check the numbers called,” Takamäki said. “But we also have to think about costs and benefits here. It’s not in our best interest to create a rift with the media.”
“That’s not what we’re talking about, hopefully,” Joutsamo said. “No one else in the media behaves that way. They always want photos, but we’re going to be screwed if this is how they’re going to start acquiring.”
“Or was it just a one-off overstepping of bounds?” Takamäki wondered out loud. “Happens to police, too.”
“Were you guys planning to continue this conversation on media ethics much longer?” Suhonen yawned. “If we can get back to the case… I think the key is figuring out why Repo took off.”
“You have any ideas?” Joutsamo asked.
“Some ideas, but not too many facts.”
“Maybe he’s offed himself?” Kulta suggested. “Was so shocked by his old man’s death that he flew the coop and ran into Töölö Bay. At least that would explain why we can’t find him.”
“If he wanted to, he could’ve killed himself in prison,” Joutsamo said.
“But if it was the funeral. Temporary insanity.”
“Give me a break,” Joutsamo replied. “When we went to the old man’s house, there was a photo where Timo Repo’s face had been blacked out. They weren’t close. But I bet you’re on the right track, that the dad’s death has something to do with the motive for the escape.”
“Okay, theoretically it’s possible that he had been planning to split for a while, but this was his first chance,” Kulta said.
“He could’ve got himself sent to a hospital, if he faked it well enough,” Joutsamo noted.
Kulta wouldn’t give up. “Revenge? Bitterness?”
“Toward whom?” Suhonen continued. “He stopped filing appeals. Guys like that are psychologically wired so that if they’re bitter about something, it snowballs and they start seeing conspiracies everywhere. If Repo was spinning out of control, the guards would have noticed something. It would’ve showed somehow in the pen, overall edginess or continuous bitching. But he’s been a total sheep ever since he gave up appeals,” Suhonen said. “He wasn’t cracking. We’re missing something here.”