The Winter of the Lions Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Jan Costin Wagner

  Title Page

  24–26 December

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  27 December

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  28 December

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  29 December

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  30 December

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  31 December

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  1 January

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Copyright

  About the Book

  ‘In his own careful, nuanced language, Wagner brings the reader close not only to the psyche of his characters but also to the beauty of Finland.’Focus

  Every year since the tragic death of his wife Detective Kimmo Joentaa has prepared for the isolation of Christmas with a glass of milk and a bottle of vodka to arm him against the harsh Finnish winter. However, this year events take an unexpected turn when a young prostitute turns up on his doorstep.

  Not long afterwards one of Kimmo’s colleagues, a forensic pathologist, is found murdered and Finland’s most famous talk-show host is brutally attacked. When it becomes clear that the pathologist had recently been a guest on the star’s show, Kimmo is called upon to use all his powers of intuition and instinct to solve the case. Meanwhile the killer is lying in wait, ready to strike again …

  In Kimmo Joentaa, prize-winning author Jan Costin Wagner has created a lonely hero in the Philip Marlowe mould, who uses his unusual gifts for psychological insight to get deep inside the minds of the criminals he pursues.

  ‘Literature explores human abysses … Jan Costin Wagner is remarkably good at this.’ Andrea Maria Schenkel, author of The Murder Farm

  About the Author

  Jan Costin Wagner was born in 1972 in Langen/Hesse near Frankfurt. After studying German language, literature and history at Frankfurt University, he went on to work as a journalist and freelance writer. He divides his time between Germany and Finland (the home country of his wife). His previous crime novels featuring Detective Kimmo Joentaa are Ice Moon (2006) and Silence (2010). Silence won the 2008 German Crime Prize.

  Also by Jan Costin Wagner

  Ice Moon

  Silence

  Jan Costin Wagner

  The Winter of

  the Lions

  TRANSLATED

  FROM THE GERMAN

  BY

  Anthea Bell

  24–26 DECEMBER

  1

  KIMMO JOENTAA HAD been planning to spend the last hours of Christmas Eve on his own, but it didn’t turn out like that.

  He had applied early to be on duty on 24 December, as in previous years, and he spent the day in the quiet police building, which might have been deserted.

  Sundström was on a skiing holiday, Grönholm was in the Caribbean – a long-cherished dream – and Tuomas Heinonen went home early in the afternoon to decorate the Christmas tree and put on a Santa Claus costume for his family. He could be reached there if anything suddenly came up, but nothing did.

  Joentaa dealt with some paperwork that could have waited. The radio was playing Christmas music: violin, piano and the high, clear voices of a children’s choir. After that a philosopher who was also a theologian explained that Jesus Christ had in fact been born in summer. Joentaa stopped work for a moment and tried to concentrate on the voice on the radio, but the programme had already gone back to music, some kind of Christmas rap. He frowned and turned back to the sheet of paper in front of him.

  Early in the evening he strolled through the large hall to the cafeteria, which was in darkness. The only light came from the Christmas tree decorated in red and gold standing next to the drinks machine.

  It was snowing outside the window. Joentaa sat down at one of the tables. There was a plate of biscuits on it. Star-shaped biscuits. Joentaa took one, tasted maple syrup on his tongue, breathed in the aroma of pine needles, and saw a woman standing in the entrance area near the reception desk. He thought there was something odd about her. She stood there motionless. Joentaa waited for a while, but the woman didn’t move, and did not seem to be surprised to find no one at reception. None of the uniformed police officers who hurried past now and then thought of asking what she wanted, but that didn’t appear to bother her either.

  The woman was watching the snow falling on the other side of the glass. She was small and slim – in her mid-twenties, he thought. Her hair was long and blonde, and she was chewing gum. She remained as motionless as ever when Joentaa went towards her, even when he was right in front of her and trying to meet her eyes.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he said.

  The young woman turned away from the windows. Her cheeks were flushed and swollen.

  ‘Can I … are you all right?’ asked Joentaa.

  ‘Rape,’ said the woman.

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘I’ve been raped. I want to report it to the police, you idiot.’

  ‘Sorry. Can I … let’s go to my office for a start.’

  ‘Ari Pekka Sorajärvi,’ said the woman

  ‘Let’s …’

  ‘That’s the name of the man I want to report.’

  ‘Come along,’ said Joentaa, trying to lead the way, but the woman did not move.

  Her voice was soft as she said, ‘I’d like to go home soon. Can’t you take it all down here?’

 
‘Sorry, no. Some colleagues of mine ought really to be doing this anyway. I could take your statement and then pass it on, but I have to get it on the computer in any case.’

  She seemed to hesitate briefly, then followed him over to the lift.

  Dim neon lighting illuminated the third floor. A bleat of laughter came from one of the offices.

  ‘It’s creepy up here,’ she said.

  ‘Some of the neon tubes have gone. It’s usually brighter,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘I see,’ said the woman, and seemed to smile, although Joentaa wasn’t sure.

  ‘Have you been to the hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘The hospital?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ she said.

  ‘I … I could drive you there later,’ said Joentaa. ‘It’s possible … well, traces might still be found, and they could be important if the case comes to trial.’

  ‘Just type this shit into the computer and then I’m going home.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to keep saying sorry for anything and everything.’

  Joentaa nodded, and led her into his office. The computer monitor was flickering. The screen saver showed the red church at Lenganiemi. Sanna was buried in the graveyard behind it.

  The world outside the windows was dark and white. The woman looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Sorry. Do sit down,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Could you please stop saying sorry for everything?’

  Joentaa tried to concentrate on the screen and the keyboard. He searched about for a while and finally found the program with the requisite form. Name, address, date of birth.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your name. I need it for the …’

  ‘What does my name matter? I’ve been raped by Ari Pekka Sorajärvi and I want to report it.’

  ‘But …’

  The woman uttered a long, high-pitched scream. Joentaa looked at her. She sat there apparently motionless and relaxed, and apart from her slightly opened mouth there was nothing to suggest that she was the person emitting this scream. A shrill, numb kind of scream.

  The scream went on and on, and a colleague hurried into the room. ‘Everything all right here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, no problem,’ said Kimmo Joentaa.

  ‘Okay,’ said his colleague. He hesitated for a moment, then wished Joentaa good luck and closed the door.

  Joentaa looked at the woman sitting opposite him and smiling. He could still hear her scream ringing in his ears.

  ‘Henrikinkatu 28,’ said the woman in a matter-of-fact voice.

  ‘That’s …’

  ‘That’s Ari Pekka Sorajärvi’s address.’

  ‘Is he …’

  ‘Ari Pekka Sorajärvi.’

  ‘Yes, is he or was he your boyfriend?’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Are you … er, living with or married to Ari Pekka Sorajärvi?’

  The woman stared at him. ‘No, I’m not,’ she said at last.

  ‘Then how …’

  ‘Ari Pekka Sorajärvi is a client,’ she said.

  Joentaa did not reply.

  ‘A punter. Sex for money. Ever heard of it?’

  ‘So he is …’

  ‘My best client, if you really want to know. Always wanting a bit more than the others, but he paid a proper price for it.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Joentaa.

  ‘Well, that’s nice,’ she said.

  ‘But … how do you know his name? Isn’t it usual for people to stay anonymous in, well … in such circles …’

  The woman laughed. Laughed at him. Laughed so loud that his worried colleague would be back in the doorway again any moment now.

  ‘You’re so inhibited,’ she said, with a new tone in her voice and a different vocabulary. ‘You have to learn to recognise and express your own sexuality. You’d better begin with a film. A porn film. They can be a real help, believe me. Or maybe that’s not your problem, and you have to work on a drastic reduction in your consumption of porn films instead.’ She stopped, focused on him, her eyes slightly narrowed, and seemed to be thinking. ‘Anyway, it’s one or the other. A case of either–or,’ she concluded.

  Several seconds passed.

  ‘There could be something in that,’ said Kimmo Joentaa.

  Now the woman was smiling suddenly, and for the first time it was a friendly smile. Joentaa returned it.

  They sat smiling at each other, or maybe past each other.

  Joentaa didn’t know which.

  ‘And in case you’re surprised that I know Ari Pekka Sorajärvi’s name and address,’ she said, throwing something down on the snow-white table between them, ‘it’s because I nabbed his driving licence just now while he was seeing to his broken nose.’

  2

  IT’S ONLY A picture. A picture that can’t be covered up. Cover the picture with a white cloth. A cloth of impenetrable whiteness.

  She knows it won’t work any more. Belief in whiteness covering everything up used to be important to her, but now she’s lost her faith in it.

  She lays a white cloth over her thoughts, and watches it fall into its component parts in a soundless process of dissolution, revealing the view of another cloth, a blue one.

  The blue cloth is lifted. A man is lying under the blue cloth. The man has one leg. The leg is a stump. Half of it is missing. The other leg isn’t there at all.

  The man lies on the stretcher in an unnaturally cramped position, his skin has a dark tinge. Beside the man is the blue cloth, above him a laughing face. And another. And another.

  An arm reaches for the man’s head and straightens it. Now she can see the face. The look of the closed eyes.

  Somewhere outside her field of vision people are laughing. They are there with her, beside her, over her, under her, but she can’t see them. She only hears their laughter. She tries to laugh with them.

  She feels herself laughing, looks into the face of the man with only half a leg, and is relieved that he doesn’t seem to hear her. In the moment when her laughter dies away something else also comes to an end, she doesn’t know what it is, all she senses is the end.

  The people around her go on laughing, and it sounds as if they will never stop.

  She closes her eyes and opens them again.

  The screen is flickering.

  She winds back to the place where it ends, and in her mind she goes back to the day when it began.

  3

  ARI PEKKA SORAJÄRVI was spared a charge of rape. When Kimmo Joentaa made another attempt to explain the formal course of events, the woman stood up, not in any hurry, more as if she were lost in thought, and said goodbye. She walked out, slowly but with firm footsteps, and closed the door almost without a sound.

  Joentaa sat where he was for a while, looking at the empty form flickering on the screen. Name, address, date of birth.

  Then he got to his feet, walked down the dimly lit corridor and through the driving snow to his car.

  He drove to Lenganiemi. As the ferry made the crossing, he stood by the rail in the icy wind. He felt a vague sense of relief because the ferryman was sitting morosely in his little cabin as usual, in spite of the chain of fairy lights sticking to the window.

  He went down the apparently endless woodland path until suddenly the church towered up to the sky, as if out of nowhere. The sound of the sea was a soft roar, and shadowy figures passed by as he entered the graveyard. Joentaa heard them talking to each other in muted tones. Heads bent, concentrating on the graves of their loved ones lying in the dark, but everyone knew where to look. Two of the shadows murmured a greeting, and Joentaa returned it as their paths crossed.

  For a while he stood beside Sanna’s grave without thinking of anything in particular. Then he took the candle out of his rucksack, lit it, and carefully placed it on the centre of the grave. He stared at the light until it began to blur before his eyes
; then he tore himself away and left. Singing and the monotonous, long-drawn-out chords of the organ came from the church.

  The ferryman’s expression remained just the same on the return crossing; then Kimmo Joentaa drove home.

  4

  IN THE EVENING she writes Christmas cards. She has printed out a photo that she likes. It shows Ilmari and Veikko in front of a wintry scene in Stockholm. They spent Christmas there with Ilmari’s sister last year. She has printed out the photo twelve times. On the back she writes, twelve times: All good wishes for the festive season.

  Then she opens the door and goes out into the stairwell. She goes from door to door, putting a card through each letterbox.

  She goes back into her apartment, lights the candles on the tree and looks at the still picture on the TV screen. A man smiling. Not an unpleasant or alarming smile, a happy, likeable smile. She doesn’t understand that smile. After she has seen it, she sees a series of pictures that are in sequence but don’t make sense, and while the pictures are running life stands still.

  She hears a sound and looks away from the screen. There is a white envelope on the floor under the door. A neighbour replying to her Christmas greeting. She goes to the door, picks up the envelope and opens it. The card shows an angel. Marlies and Tuomo, the young couple on the first floor. They write: Happy Christmas and New Year to you too. Warm regards. She stands in the corridor smiling, and thinks about words. How they can change, yet do the same thing. Two names missing from the salutation, two words extra at the end of the sentence. Warm regards. Her eyes rest on the words.

  Later she goes back into the living room. She crushes the angel in her hand and looks at the face on the screen, the smile that she must get rid of before she can feel anything.

  5

  PASI AND LIISA Laaksonen, his neighbours, waved to Kimmo Joentaa and called ‘Happy Christmas’ as he got out of the car. Each was holding one of their granddaughter Marja’s hands, and she was laughing because Pasi and Liisa were swinging her up in the air.

  Kimmo Joentaa returned their greeting and hurried indoors. He stood in the corridor for a while in silence, waiting for the snow to melt and run down the back of his neck. Then he took off his jacket, cap and scarf, and went from room to room switching on all the lights.