‘Look, Juhani promised to produce my album, if I beat my sales record. And I smashed it. But he didn’t produce my album. So I thought I’d smash something else too…’
It takes me a moment to work out quite what Venla is talking about. I think of my brother again. Oh, Juhani. What else was I expecting? What else have you left behind for me to clean up? What kind of secrets is the adventure park still hiding? I haven’t got the strength to be angry. This is the least of my worries. We’ve experienced worse in recent weeks.
‘Juhani wasn’t a record producer,’ I say.
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
‘I mean, I’m sorry if he promised you something like that. He promised people all kinds of things. But he also paid you a monthly wage.’
Venla glances to her left, towards the wall. The wire cable shines in the red glow of the truck’s rear lights.
‘Are you going to call the cops?’
Calling the police would only bring Osmala out here again, and how many times will he be prepared to visit the park without turning everything upside down? Besides, I don’t need any more problems right now. I don’t want to prolong the problems we already have. I want solutions, clarity, I need people who keep their word.
‘Will you come to work tomorrow at the agreed time and will you undertake to do the work for which you are paid?’
Venla doesn’t think about this for long. ‘Yes.’
‘Nine o’clock?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Good.’
Venla scrutinises me.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘I can just jump in the car and drive away?’
‘I’d untie that cable first.’
‘Right, yeah,’ she remembers. She walks towards the towbar, unties the cable and shows me the loose end before letting it drop to the ground. She steps past me and gets into the truck. She is about to pull the door shut when she suddenly stops.
‘About my sales record…’
‘About my flagpole,’ I reply.
‘See you in the morning.’
Venla steers her father Tero’s Hyundai across the car park, then down to the road, and speeds off until the truck eventually disappears from sight.
34
I do the final check before opening the park’s doors. I notice I am thinking about the future as something more than just a matter of survival. I haven’t done that for a long time. A moment later I seriously consider commissioning a full overhaul of the Big Dipper. It will be a large investment and, as such, carries a certain risk. Children’s slides are no laughing matter. And still the thought feels … good.
I complete my checklist, make the final notes in my papers and close the folder. I look around, and my eyes are drawn towards the Curly Cake Café. I haven’t spoken to Johanna about the padlocks on the freezers or asked her why they appeared one moment, then were gone the next. I don’t want to say anything that might make her think that the body that rested at the bottom of the freezer – assuming she even noticed it – was brought there by yours truly. There is nothing tying me to the man. I am happy to let Johanna think I was puzzled by the police’s visit as the concerned manager of an adventure park, and that’s all.
And it really is all, I think, and immediately feel another burden lift. I can even look at Laura’s murals again. The thought of her still mauls my guts and clouds my eyes, but in a strange, nostalgic way I am glad I told her what I think of her: that she is extraordinary, that she has awoken something within me that was previously unknown, almost non-existent. I have come to understand that it is in precisely these kinds of situations that people talk about love. I don’t know what else might feel quite like this – happy and sad and bright and very, very unclear, all at once.
And I can look at the whole park and confirm that Laura was right in this respect too. It seems that, despite everything, I have succeeded. At least, I’m pretty close.
I feel a variety of emotions, but foremost among them is a sense of victorious relief as I walk into the foyer to open up the doors to the adventure park. Outside, the piercing early October sun lies low on the horizon. It is dappled and cut into the shapes of the windows, refracted into the foyer in squares and rectangles. Beyond the doors, I can see the outlines of today’s customers: this too is a new phenomenon – a queue has formed even before we open the doors.
I use the manual opener on the wall and the doors slide open, I bid everyone good morning and usher them inside. A stocky customer appears, steps out of the silhouettes and into the light. I recognise him, and my relief is suddenly gone.
Osmala is alone. I automatically make a mental note of this and only then understand why. If he was here to arrest me, he would have brought back-up. This must be about something else.
‘Not disturbing, am I?’ he asks. It’s an odd question. I can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t be disturbed at an inspector from the Helsinki constabulary regularly visiting them and asking all kinds of awkward questions.
‘Not at all,’ I reply. I catch the familiar scent of medium roast coming from the Curly Cake. ‘Coffee?’
‘That would be … You’re sure I’m not taking up your time?’
‘Let’s call it my coffee break,’ I say. ‘I own this park, after all.’
I hear a note of pride in my voice and I see that Osmala notices it too. The inspector and I walk through to the hall, then he stops. I notice this a step and a half later and turn.
‘Is it alright if we don’t go to the café?’ he asks. ‘Let’s look at these walls instead. My wife was reading about them in the paper.’
‘By all means,’ I say.
‘But allow me to show you a picture first,’ he says, and opens the large folder in his hand. He takes out a sheet of A4 with a colour photograph of the big man. ‘Has this man ever visited the park?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ I say. ‘I think I’d remember if a man like that visited the adventure park. He looks like quite a dangerous character.’
Osmala nods, takes the image and returns it to the folder.
‘Extremely dangerous. And you’re absolutely sure you haven’t seen him, perhaps in your brother’s company?’
‘I’m absolutely sure. What’s his name?’
My question is sincere. I know almost nothing about this man, not even his name. Osmala’s light-blue eyes open and close.
‘Pekka Koponen,’ he says.
‘Doesn’t ring any bells, I’m afraid.’
Perhaps for the first time in my company, Osmala smiles. Almost. Then he nods. ‘I thought as much.’
‘Has he, this Koponen, said something regarding the park?’
It’s a natural question, it’s only to be expected. After all, I am the owner and general manager of the adventure park, so I need to know. However, Osmala seems somewhat surprised at my question.
‘Has he said something? No. He hasn’t said anything. It’s no secret that these people prefer not to talk to the police.’
I wait. Osmala has turned slightly and seems to be looking at something behind me.
‘How many slides do you have over there?’
‘Thirteen,’ I say and turn to look at the Big Dipper. Children squeal; gravity is a joyful thing.
‘I take it you know that one of your employees has a past conviction for embezzlement?’ he asks, then waits.
I remember this tactic. Osmala chats jovially, but it’s a diversionary tactic; he bluffs like a striker approaching the six-yard box.
‘The matter has come to my attention,’ I reply honestly, and realise that I can easily ask the kind of questions that the owner of an adventure park might ask in a situation like this and in which I have an acute interest, for a number of reasons. ‘Do the police suspect her of something too?’