Light in a Dark House by Jan Costin Wagner Read Free Book Online

night, part of which he had spent lying awake, in a drowsy state between dream and reality.
    ‘We’ll find her,’ said Sundström.
    Find a dead woman, thought Joentaa.
    Then they went along the corridor to the conference room, from which came the sound of the other officers’ conversation as they waited for them. Murmurs, suppressed laughter, some voices loud and clearly articulated, others softer, hesitant. They all fell silent when Sundström pushed open the door and entered the room, which was flooded with autumnal light.
    ‘Morning, men,’ he said, and Joentaa thought that he had the gift of injecting force and confidence into his voice, casually and without effort. They all sat down at the snow-white table, and Sundström had the spreadsheet handed round until they all had a copy in front of them.
    Grönholm reported on what they knew, which was practically nothing. A dead woman. Name unknown. Origin unknown. Age unknown, estimated at between fifty and sixty. There had been nothing on her except the clothes she was wearing. No one had asked after her. No one had visited her in hospital. Reports of missing persons over the last few months had not uncovered any trail so far.
    ‘This is still work in progress, of course,’ said Grönholm. ‘We’ll start from the day when she was found and keep working our way forward and back. Chronologically, I mean. It could take us some time.’
    Chronologically, thought Joentaa.
    Sundström nodded, and Nurmela came into the room. With a spring in his step, as usual. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then carefully closed the door, turned to those present and asked Sundström not to let him disturb them. ‘Just carry on,’ he said, staying at the side of the room.
    August, thought Joentaa.
    And he thought that he must soon speak to August.
    ‘Well . . .’ said Grönholm.
    ‘The picture in the newspaper,’ said one of the uniformed officers.
    ‘Yes?’ asked Sundström.
    ‘Well . . . I think maybe we ought to publish a better one.’
    ‘A better one?’
    ‘No one’s recognised her. She looks like everyone and no one.’
    Several officers nodded, and it occurred to Joentaa that his had been the same impression. A woman with a face from which all expression had been lost.
    ‘Er . . . suppose we publish one with her eyes open?’ asked the young officer. Sundström looked at him for a long time, and seemed to be waiting for the young man to look away.
    In the end it was Sundström who looked away. ‘The fact is, we don’t have a picture of the woman with her eyes open,’ he said.
    ‘Oh,’ said the young officer.
    ‘That’s right,’ said Sundström.
    ‘But I thought patients in a waking coma . . . I mean, usually their eyes are open.’
    ‘I didn’t say the woman kept her eyes closed all the time, I only said we don’t have a photo of her with her eyes open.’
    ‘Ah. I get it.’
    ‘The photo we do have was taken on the day she was found in the ditch at the side of the road. At that point she was unconscious.’
    ‘Okay,’ said the young officer.
    ‘Although that’s definitely a relevant aspect,’ said Grönholm. ‘Kimmo talked to Rintanen, the doctor treating her at the university hospital. About the medical details, so to speak.’
    Silence filled the room, and when Joentaa finally began to speak his tongue felt coated. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he agreed.
    The phone call to Rintanen, the doctor, at the end of a sleepless night that had felt like the night, years ago, when Sanna died. Rintanen, who had stroked Sanna’s shoulder and asked him if he would like to be alone with her for a little while. It had been hard for him to concentrate on what Rintanen was saying on the phone.
    He had made the phone call from home before leaving. Had looked out at the lake where Larissa had played ice hockey and where Sanna used to swim. Had listened to Rintanen patiently and gently explaining the difference between a coma and a waking coma, and why