of the same members. I wanted a demonstration of intent from them, not just talk. And I didn’t ask them to kill anyone, just be more up front about the contagion of non-white immigration.”
“What form of demonstration?”
He hesitates, considers the ramifications of his answer. “Are you a real white man? Is our conversation off the record?”
“Yes.”
“Finland was a white man’s paradise. Now good Finnish blood is soiled by poisonous nigger bacterial infection. We’re overrun by mud people. Zionist vampires. Jewish cancer. It’s time to take our country back. Sacrifices must be made. Blood spilled.”
He starts to ramble. I put on my practiced smile that shows agreement. At the moment, it’s good that I feel no emotion. If so, I might have given him the beating of a lifetime. I listen.
“Mud babies. Filthy white girls with no self-esteem desecrate themselves with filthier septic black men—tar people—and make mud babies. Certain parties sell the niggers heroin to sedate them. They should contaminate the heroin with strychnine to reduce the numbers of tar people and slow the contamination of pure Finnish blood. The whites that use it are flawed, of no use to society. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But these men who supposedly are ready to lay down their lives for the cause refuse to poison tar people because they’re afraid of prison, as if they would be common criminals rather than patriots and political prisoners. Cowardice. Pure cowardice. Yet, they come to me with their grubby hands out.”
I neglect to point out that his own daughter was a heroin addict, and now a methadone addict, or that, although I don’t know the statistics, Muslims aren’t inclined toward the use of narcotics. On the other hand, I’ve noticed that quite a few Muslims here have taken up drinking. Maybe a significant number use narcotics as well.
“Have you considered that the murder of Lisbet Soderlund may have been just the sort of demonstration you sought?” I say.
“I have considered it, and would reward it, if I knew who did it.”
I sip cognac I don’t want and force a sound of satisfaction. “Excellent.”
“Indeed.” He tosses his off, gets up, pours a triple, sits down again.
“I understand that you and your son Antti had a falling-out before his kidnapping.”
He smirks. “We had many falling-outs. He always came groveling back, and I rewarded his cringing monetarily.”
“What if this time he didn’t come groveling back? What if this time he teamed up with the extremists who felt betrayed by you—I understand they were all well acquainted—and together, they faked the kidnapping? It does appear, after all, that Jussi Kosonen was a patsy. Upon examining the man, it even seems ridiculous that he could have pulled off such a crime.”
“Then why,” Saukko asks, and pours another couple hundred euros down his throat in a gulp, “was Kaarina murdered? Antti wouldn’t have shot her.”
“But Kosonen was shot. Maybe Antti fucked his buddies, killed Kosonen, and disappeared with the money. They might have shot Kaarina as payback.”
“Antti,” Saukko says, “is a fucking pussy. He hasn’t got the balls to shoot anyone.”
I smoke, try not to choke on the cigar and damage my manly image that he seems to value so highly. I hate cigars. “On the contrary, I’m told he’s crazy for water sports—surfing, yachting—and also extreme sports like skydiving and bungee jumping. The impression is that he has plenty of balls and is reckless.”
“A facade, and far different from physical confrontation.”
“True. However, people will surprise you. I understand that the three paintings stolen from you were as yet uninsured. That would be difficult information to ascertain and to cull out from your vast holdings.”
He takes this in. “Somewhat difficult.”
“Who, may I ask, saw to the installation of the security system, which I understand is relatively new?”
He’s coming around and takes time to think before answering. “Antti.”
“How much of this information have you shared with the detective now in charge of your case, Saska Lindgren?”
He scoffs. “As little as fucking possible. That goddamned Gypsy comes here to the house and he steals, and I have to have the place sterilized after he leaves. That’s why Adrien is here. To sort this out, get my money back and kill my daughter’s killer.”
I never really believed all that crazy shit they said about Howard Hughes before now. His soul mate is sitting in front of me.
“Sir, would you have any objection to me exploring the possibility that Antti was involved in a bogus kidnapping, set up and killed Kosonen, and escaped with your ten million euros?”
“No. You may explore it.”
“I’ll have to call Saska Lindgren and ask for his go-ahead.”
“I’ll make the fucking call.” He disappears to another room. He comes back and hands me his cell phone. The prime minister is on the line. “I know you can’t talk in front of Saukko,” he says. “Yes, you can take the case, at least for now, and I’ll square it with Detective Sergeant Lindgren. And I’ll see that he gets credit if you solve it. He’s got a year invested in it after all. It’s only fair, because Saukko impeded his investigation.”
“OK,” I say. The PM rings off.
I sit down again. “You have your own dry dock here, correct?”
“Yes, I have a number of craft of different sizes and varieties, including my smallest yacht. I also collect vehicles and have a large garage for them. And I employ a full-time skipper, crew and mechanics to maintain them all.”
“Would you notice if a small craft was missing?”
“Not necessarily. As the whole family has access to the vehicles and watercraft, only the skipper would know by checking the manifest. The kids sign them out when they take them.”
I finish the cognac, stub out the cigar. “Kosonen was killed on the riverbank. Antti would have needed a small craft to get away. Could we go now and check the manifest to see if a suitable craft has been missing since the kidnapping?”
“Sure.”
The three of us ride across the estate in a golf cart and pull up at the dry dock. We go inside. It’s massive for a personal dock, has about fifteen vessels in it. Most are small, but one is a thirty-one-foot yacht. But, I reflect, he is the richest man in Finland. I suppose this is to be expected. The skipper, who must have the easiest job in the world when Saukko isn’t about, compares the vessels to the paperwork. Two vessels are missing and haven’t been recorded as taken out for over a year. One is a normal boat meant for fishing, but with powerful twin engines. The other is an underwater Jet Ski.
I ask him to check the specs on the Jet Ski, its possible speed and range. It can travel seven and a half miles an hour underwater, faster on the surface, and the battery holds a charge that lasts about an hour.
This is perfect for following the Aurajoki undetected out to sea. But he had to pull not only himself but two heavy bags of money.
The skipper says they own three batteries. All are gone. So, Antti had the ability to bear a load and an extended range.
Saukko fires the skipper on the spot. The skipper stammers, shocked, “I’ve… I’ve worked for you for eighteen years.”
“You have ten minutes to gather your things, and then security will escort you off the property.”
I meet some of the nicest people in my profession. I ignore all this and say to Saukko, “Let’s picture this scenario. Kosonen was to meet Antti, who had come to pick him up in the boat that Kosonen purchased a few days earlier. But Antti kills Kosonen, ditches the boat, and leaves with the Jet Ski. Where would he go?”
I copy the makes and serial numbers of the Jet Ski and missing boat down in my notepad. Like Sweetness, the alcohol seems to leave Saukko unaffected. Practice makes perfect. “To Aland,” he says.
I suspect the same. Aland, an archipelago in the Baltic, between Finland and Sweden, comprises over six thousand five hundred islands and skerries, sixty-five of which are populated. Many of them are little more than flyspecks that stand only a few inches over the waterline. In the summer, Aland is bustling, infested with boats and tourists. However, most congregate on Fasta Aland, the main island, and the islands in the surrounding area.
