We could even lose our jobs.”
“That’s right.”
“But we could solve all this today,” he says, “put all this behind us forever.”
“Exactly,” I say.
For the first time since the death of his son, I see Valtteri smile. “I like it,” he says.
AT ELEVEN, I go to the cemetery. I find Sufia’s mother, Hudow, in a far corner by herself. She’s shivering in the cold and dark, next to an open grave with a modest tombstone at its head. I grew up here and even for me this weather is punishing. I can’t imagine how painful it must be for her. I express my sympathy for the loss of her daughter.
“I glad you come,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Where is everyone else?” I ask.
She stifles a sob. “Abdi come. He explain.”
It’s too cold for life, human or otherwise. Besides the sounds of wind and snow crunching under our feet, the graveyard is silent. No birds sing, no animals stir. My eyes run and the tears freeze before they can roll down my cheeks. I brush the ice off with gloved fingers. The wind cuts into us, hurts us. My face aches, then goes numb. Wind in this part of the country is seldom this fierce. It feels like a bad omen. A frozen tree branch breaks. The noise makes me start.
The hearse pulls up. Abdi steps out, motions me over. He doesn’t offer his hand but gives me a slight bow. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Whoever attends a janazah, a Muslim funeral, until it is finished will earn a
“Thank you for allowing me to attend,” I say. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“No one dies unless Allah permits,” Abdi says. “We must pray for God’s mercy on the departed in the hope that they may find peace and happiness in the afterlife. We must strive to be patient, and remember that Allah gives life and takes it away, at a time appointed by Him. It is not for us to question His wisdom.”
Jorma gets out of the driver’s side, opens the rear of the hearse. I’m taken aback, because there isn’t a coffin. Sufia’s body is wrapped, with obvious precision, in cloth as white as the snow that blankets the graveyard.
“There were many difficulties in preparing for Sufia’s parting,” Abdi says. “As a Muslim, she may not share a burial ground with infidels. I purchased a plot in the corner of the cemetery, and those plots surrounding it, so that her resting place may remain separate and undefiled. The grave must be aligned on a northeast-to-southwest axis, facing Mecca. It was most difficult to communicate the importance of this to the grave diggers.”
“Jorma told me there were complications,” I say.
He sighs. “More than I would have imagined. Proper burial garments and bindings were difficult to obtain. Her body should not be embalmed or placed in a coffin, but this is not in accordance with Finnish law. I had to obtain special permission to forgo the casket and instead place her in a grave with a concrete liner. Women may not accompany the departed to the site of burial. As such, my poor wife has had to wait here and suffer in this frozen graveyard.”
I’m surprised and touched by his candor. I would never have expected it of him. “Are there no other mourners or clergy?” I ask.
“There is no mosque in this town, no Muslim community. We have no friends here. As her father, it is permitted that I serve as imam and offer the spoken prayers. It will not be difficult for you. They are similar to the five daily prayers, but most are silent. No bowing or prostration is required. Would you assist me in taking her to rest?”
He means will I help him carry her body. With care, we take her from the hearse.
“We must place her in the ground on her right side,” he says. “It should be so that I remove the veil from her face, but because of her condition, I choose to leave it covered. I do not believe this will be displeasing to Allah.”
We carry Sufia through the snow on our shoulders. It’s not easy and we move with slow care. Hudow looks on as we place Sufia in the concrete liner. Abdi adjusts the arrangement of Sufia’s body in minute ways and looks up at Hudow. She nods, saying without speaking that Sufia’s final resting place is to her satisfaction.
The grave was dug with a backhoe, the earth piled up in a neat mound. Abdi takes three clods of earth, which he must have broken up beforehand, because the dirt is frozen rock-hard and there’s no way he could have done it otherwise, and drops them in the grave. Hudow does likewise. He offers three clods to me and I toss them onto Sufia’s shrouded body. He says a short prayer in Arabic. He translates for me and asks me to recite it. “We created you from the earth, and return you into it, and from it we will raise you a second time.”
I say the prayer and he offers some others. It doesn’t take long. “Now we must pray for the forgiveness of the dead,” he says.
We do it in silence. I’m so moved by the service that I’m tempted to abandon my plan to lure him into a confession. I remind myself that no matter the cause, Heli’s murder was a monstrous act that must be punished.
When it’s over, he takes me aside. “We must not linger long,” he says, “because Hudow suffers greatly. The Prophet said that three things continue to benefit a person after death. Charity given during life, knowledge imparted unto others, and a righteous child who prays for a departed parent. Now, after our own deaths, Hudow and I will not benefit from the prayers of a righteous child. You cannot know, but my daughter was a warm and delightful person. She brought us great joy and did not deserve what befell her in this evil place. I believe Allah will receive her with open arms. In this world though, there must be an accounting. How do you progress?”
“I’ve failed,” I say. “Seppo Niemi murdered your daughter, but I can’t prove it and he’ll go free. I’m sorry.”
He rocks on his heels like I slapped him. “This cannot be, I will not allow it.”
“There’s another option.”
I see rage in his face. “Which is?”
“I’ll create an opportunity for you to take your vengeance.”
Rage is replaced by curiosity. “Why would you do this?”
“Have you read the papers? Do you know what Seppo did to me, how my ex-wife betrayed me and Seppo made me a cuckold?”
He nods.
“You could take vengeance for both of us, redress all the wrongs done to us.”
He studies me. “I see.”
“I know certain things,” I say. “You aren’t Dr. Abdi Barre. He was killed with a tire necklace outside Karaan Hospital in 1990. I think you killed him, stole his passport and used it to escape Somalia with your wife and daughter. I further believe that you murdered my ex-wife to punish Seppo. As you put it, ‘eye for eye.’ I’m not judging you for this, I’m glad she’s dead.”
His face betrays nothing. “You must believe yourself quite clever,” he says.
“I’ll take Seppo to Heli’s funeral this afternoon. Afterward, I’ll bring him to the lake, to the same spot where you killed Heli. I’ll leave him there with you. Give me some time to get back to town and establish an alibi, then kill him. Make it look like a suicide. It’s the only way we can make things right.”
He lifts a gloved hand and presses a long finger to pursed lips as he contemplates. “Why have you investigated me?”
I shrug. “It’s my nature. Meet me at six P.M.”
“You must think me foolish,” he says. “Forgive me for saying that you do not have my full trust in this matter. I must decline.”
“I don’t think you have much choice. If you refuse, I’ll arrest you for Heli’s murder. You’ll serve a lengthy prison term, and afterward you’ll be deported back to Somalia.”
“I see.”
“Are we agreed?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “Do as you will.” I start to walk away.
He calls after me. “Inspector, it is unfortunate that you were not as assiduous in the investigation of my
