Aside from a few early risers out walking their dogs, nobody else was around. Three dogs went huffing past with a man in tow. Either he was deeply in love or under his wife’s thumb-nobody else would spend their Sunday morning out in the cold juggling three unruly dogs.
The towing operation had been carried out at about six in the morning, and Suhonen had since downed a few cups of coffee. He’d been forced to relieve himself behind a nearby building, but it had still been dark out then.
Now that the Kaarela surveillance operation was over, Narcotics had taken the overnight shift here, which had ended at six. In Kaarela, the police had had to remain out of sight, but here it didn’t matter. To the contrary, they wanted to be seen. The cruiser that had been waiting outside the building the previous day had been removed so as not to irritate Mari Lehtonen.
The Lehtonens were inside-that much they knew. Or at least the police hadn’t seen them leave. After the show, Joutsamo had escorted them home. They had wanted to walk, so the sergeant had followed them in the car at a distance of no closer than thirty feet. Mari hadn’t wanted to talk.
A man with a black knit hat pulled low over his eyes and his hands in his jacket pockets walked past the parked cars in front of the building. Suhonen followed him idly with his eyes. The man’s step was somehow plodding, perhaps from a hangover. A couple of cars drove past. Someone scraped the windows of a Saab, then pulled out of the parking space in front of the building.
Suhonen had time to ponder again. With as much time as he spent alone with his thoughts, he could have been a famed philosopher by now. He shook off thoughts of his personal life-he didn’t care to think about those now. Things were muddled enough without them. The inside of the windshield began to fog up again and Suhonen started the engine. The fan breathed cold air at first, but soon enough it began to warm up.
An old rusty Ford Escort was approaching from the oncoming lane, and Suhonen snapped to attention. That same car had driven past the building only a few minutes earlier. It was an early eighties model, with a boxy-looking body, maybe an ’82, he thought. At the most-at the very most-it was worth five hundred euros.
Suhonen couldn’t make out the driver, but the car slowed up and parked in the same spot the Saab had vacated a few minutes earlier. Despite the abundant space near the crosswalk, the driver had to crank the wheel a few times to get in.
A man in an army jacket got out of the car. From some fifty yards off, Suhonen put the man’s age at about twenty. He wore black jeans and his hair hung down from beneath his knit hat. The man closed the car door, and with quick strides, headed back in the same direction he had come from. Clearly a speedier fellow than the hung-over bum from earlier. Something was bothering Suhonen and he lost twenty seconds figuring it out: the man hadn’t locked his door. An Escort that old certainly wouldn’t have remote locks. Nobody left their door unlocked in this neighborhood.
The guy was already twenty yards from the Ford and about seventy from the Peugeot when Suhonen swung swiftly out of his car. He took his key ring and reflexively locked the doors with the remote as he hurried off toward the Escort. As he drew nearer, he memorized the plate number. The car looked rough-five hundred would be asking a lot. Nearly every seam was engulfed in rust. A long crack stretched across the passenger side of the windshield.
Suhonen peered in the window. The seats looked filthy and worn. The floor was littered with garbage. He worked his way around the car and noticed a bag in the footwell of the back seat. Too many things were adding up.
Suhonen’s first impulse had been to run after the driver, but the car was clearly a higher priority. He took a couple of steps back and called dispatch. Thirty seconds later, another unsettling fact was added to the list: according to the plate number, the car should have been a black BMW. Suhonen backed away from the car and ducked behind the corner of a building. He notified dispatch of a possible bomb and gave a description of the driver to be forwarded to patrol cars in the area.
Suhonen looked around. Nobody in sight. He speculated about the potential bomb’s detonating device: probably on a timer, and unlikely a matter of minutes, since the driver hadn’t run from the car, thought Suhonen. From further off came the wail of the first siren, and then another. For chrissakes, he thought and dialed Takamäki’s number.
* * *
Within twenty minutes, several blocks surrounding the plaza on Porvoo Street were cordoned off. More than a dozen police cars were on site with roof lights flashing. An ambulance and a few fire trucks were parked on the side streets. A crowd had gathered, but the police weren’t answering questions.
A bomb-sniffing dog approached the car and began barking-it had detected the scent of explosives. The fact that the temperature had dipped to twenty degrees Fahrenheit made the situation especially problematic. Most explosives became very unstable below twenty-five degrees.
Police began evacuating residents living in the cordoned area. The first to be evacuated was the nearest building: the Lehtonens’. Needless to say, the tenants were alarmed as police filed through the apartments one by one, ordering people to exit through the back door as soon as possible. They were allowed only enough time to put on warm clothes.
The evacuation was unusually extensive: there were nearly ten large apartment buildings in the area. The streetcar line had been brought to a standstill.
Mari and Laura were ushered out with the others with no special treatment, since the patrol officer didn’t know who they were. Mari pressed him for a reason, but all he could say was that a police operation in front of the building required that all residents leave the area.
Now Mari and Laura were sitting in a small coffee shop on Western Brahe Street, each nursing a cup of tea and a roll. From the window, she could see the police barricade at the corner of Sture and Porvoo Streets, about a hundred and fifty feet off. All four tables at the coffee shop were full.
Mari brooded as she gazed out the window. A number of police officers were about and she noticed a TV reporter. Despite the turmoil, Mari had had the good sense to take her wallet and phone along. Her purse was on the floor, along with the “Christmas present” Anton had given her.
“What’s this all about, Mom?” asked Laura.
Mari shrugged.
“Is this about us?”
“Sweetie, I don’t know.”
“But what if it is?”
“Just eat your roll,” she snapped. She, too, felt unsettled.
The door to the coffee shop opened, and in came Sanna Römpötti. The owner of the coffee shop was an older woman with her hair in a bun, and she recognized the reporter. “Hello,” she said from behind the counter.
“Hi,” said Römpötti as she scanned the patrons at the tables. She recognized Mari Lehtonen.
“So what’s going on out there?” asked the shop owner. A hush came over the room.
Römpötti turned back to the counter and answered loudly enough that everyone could hear. “We’re still not sure, but apparently some kind of bomb threat. For now that’s all we know.” She turned back toward the tables. “Are there any evacuees in here? I’m looking for somebody to interview.”
Römpötti’s gaze fell on Mari, who gave a nod of consent and Römpötti came over to the table.
“Have a seat,” said Mari, and the reporter sat down and unzipped her coat.
“We’ve met before,” said Römpötti. “Not formally, but I was there in court when you testified. I’m Sanna Römpötti, crime reporter for Channel 3 news.”
“Yes, I know,” said Mari. She was sizing up the situation.