Tõnu took several shots, from various angles, starting close to the body, then moving further back. But changing the flash bulb after every shot slowed him down, and soon they heard the rasp of a two-stroke engine, and saw among the trees a motorcycle and sidecar, heading towards them from the direction of the railway station.
“Shit,” said Artur to himself. He hadn’t expected that. He’d thought a couple of plods would walk over from police headquarters down on Pikk Street. “Tõnu,” he hissed, “Get out of here now, and over to the paper. Tell them what you saw. I’ll see what happens here, then come over and work up a report. We’ll have it ready for the lunchtime edition. If not before. Quick!”
Tõnu dashed off, still clutching his camera, the case swinging wildly from the strap around his neck. He was gone by the time the bike emerged from the trees, roared across the empty ground in front of the path, and slithered to a halt by the kiosk. The patrolmen came over to stare at the dead man.
“Holy Spirit help us!” one of them gasped. “It’s Vaher!”
“Is he dead?” said the other.
“Looks that way, but we better check. Come on, Mati, give me a hand up.” With some help from his colleague, the patrolman managed to get a foot on the lip of the counter, which protruded beyond the closed shutters at the front of the kiosk and grabbed the edge of the roof. With his own face inches from the dead man’s, it was obvious that he was dead. Nevertheless he checked for a pulse in the neck. Nothing.
Now they turned to the two men watching them, the older one middle-aged, short, balding, worried, the other slim with sandy hair and a toothbrush moustache beneath his pointed nose, smirking.
“You!” said the patrolman on the ground to the younger man, “Did you find the body?”
“No,” replied Artur, it was him, indicating Kaarel, “I just came by later.”
“OK,” said the patrolman, “We don’t need to talk to you. You get back over there by the trees.” He laid a hand on Kaarel’s arm. “You, Sir, just wait with us here. CID’ll be along in just a minute.”
No sooner had Artur positioned himself discreetly among the trees than a square black Fiat 522C saloon swung off the road and parked on the waste ground by the path. A large man in a black suit clambered out of the passenger seat and walked heavily over to the kiosk. His black hair and his drooping moustache were both in need of a good trim. He looked at the dead man, for several seconds. “Shit!” he said, “What the hell was he doing?”
“It’s Chief Inspector Vaher, isn’t it, Sir?” said the first patrolman.
“Who the hell are you two?” snarled the big man.
“Liiv and Kask, Sir, motorcycle patrol. Number 17.”
“Then don’t just hang around. Establish a cordon round the scene. Keep the people back, as far as the trees. We’ll have to get the doctor, and the technicians.” He went over to the car and spoke into the driver’s window. Then the car reversed sharply, swerved onto the road again and rushed off.
By this time it was properly light, though the sun was masked by a blanket of cloud, and the man on the roof was attracting a certain amount of attention from passers-by. Liiv and Kask found it difficult to keep them at a distance.
The big man looked closely at the body, without touching it. “Killed by the fall, there’s no doubt about that,” he muttered, “Must have come from the viewpoint up there. Jumped, or fell.”
“Could he have been pushed?” said Patrolman Liiv.
“Don’t be stupid! It’s Vaher. No-one would dare. Surely. Must have been suicide. Police work is stressful, all right. But him?” He looked up at the dark bulk of Toompea Hill, looming over them. Was he aiming for the flagpole, he asked himself. He leaned against the kiosk, put his forehead to the cold wood, shut his eyes. He sensed a gnawing emptiness inside. Surely not Vaher. Vaher was the best.
“Are you all right, Sir?” asked Liiv.
He pulled himself together. “Yes, of course. Who found the Chief Inspector – was it him?” He nodded at Kaarel, who was standing awkwardly by the motor bike.
Kask responded: “Yes. Kiosk-owner, Kaarel Rebane. Came at six to open up, saw the body right away.”
The big man beckoned Kaarel over. He looked apprehensive.
“Kaarel Rebane?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Inspector Sõnn, CID. You found the body?”
“Yes.”
Sõnn scowled. “You came to open up your kiosk?”
“Yes.”
“What time was this?”
“About six.”
“Do you open at that time every day?”
“Yes, more or less.”
“You didn’t see the man land on the kiosk?”
“No, he was…”
“And he hasn’t moved since?”
“No. He’s dead, I think.”
“You can let us decide that. Did you touch or move him?”
“No. Not at all. I ran and told Artur. He lives just round the corner. In Nunne Street.”
“Why did you contact him, rather than the police?”
“He has a phone. He said he’d call the police. Then he came round here.”
“To gawp at the corpse? Did he recognise him?”
“No, it was the photographer who did that.”
“What! What was a bloody photographer doing here? Did you call him?”
“No, no, it was Artur. He’s a reporter.”
Inspector Sõnn groaned. “So a reporter and a photographer were here before the police?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they now?”
“The photographer ran off just before the patrolmen arrived. I don’t know where Artur’s gone. He was here a minute ago.”
Inspector Sõnn waved Kaarel away. “Wait over by the trees. We’ll need a statement.” He looked up again at Vaher. What the hell was going on? He felt for the hip flask in his pocket.
Artur Simm arrived at the office of Pealinna Uudised, on Narva Street, tingling with excitement. Ever since he’d been promoted from junior reporter to reporter four years ago, he’d been covering agriculture and folklore. Now here was the opening he needed. The death of a top policeman! Policemen don’t kill themselves every day; there must be a reason. A scandal? Corruption in the force? Or a personal matter, an affair of the heart. He did look like Clark Gable. Who could forget that steamy love scene in Red Dust? He’d begun to write the report in his head as he hurried across town. This could be a breakthrough, maybe even get him a move to the crime desk.
As soon as he arrived, Kristiina at the reception desk said, “The boss wants to see you, Artur. Right away.”
This sounded positive. Artur took the steps two at a time, up to the second floor, and knocked on the door marked ‘Toimetaja.’ The editor’s lair.
“Come in,” called a deep voice. Eirik Hunt, veteran editor, fearless critic of the government, and anyone else who crossed his path. “Sit down. How did you get this, Simm?”
“Er, tip-off from an informant, Sir.”
“Hmm, good work. This is going to be big. Smart thinking to call us right away. Tõnu got some good shots. We can get a picture on the front page for the mid-morning. Kallas will write it up as soon as he gets in.” Jaan Kallas was the paper’s crime reporter.
“But…”
Artur’s protest dried up in the face of Hunt’s fearsome stare. “Don’t push your luck, laddie! You used your brain here. I won’t forget that. Talk to Jaan as soon as he’s here, give him anything you’ve got. See how he deals with it. Learn from him. This informant, can you get more out of him? Did he see Vaher jump?”
Artur forced himself to hold back his response, and rewrote it before speaking: “Hmm,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure about that, Sir, I’ll need to talk to him again. He may know more than he’s told me.”