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

Forsman.
    ‘You are,’ said the man.
    ‘I see.’
    ‘I think your program is interesting. I really do,’ said the man.
    ‘Good,’ said Forsman.
    ‘It’s not . . . not polished, it lacks a certain finesse, but one could look at it the other way around and describe it as absolutely reliable. Your program gives the user a sense of always being on the safe side. Being in control. Do you see what I mean?’
    ‘I think so, yes,’ said Forsman. ‘Indeed, that’s the basic idea of our differential system.’
    ‘Exactly. Well put. After all, that’s what we all want. To be safe from danger. Even if it’s only the danger of shares losing their value.’
    ‘Which is not the least of life’s dangers,’ said Forsman.
    The man looked at him enquiringly, and smiled.
    ‘I mean . . . well, lives depend on that sort of thing,’ said Forsman.
    ‘Yes, indeed.’
    ‘No, with our system you can calculate the value of your fund at any time, literally in real time. You can access it within seconds.’
    ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the man.
    They were standing in the gentle wind; from time to time a dull thumping could be heard. Ocean-going steamers were probably being loaded up.
    Forsman wondered what to say next, and the man said, ‘There’s something wrong with the weather.’
    Forsman nodded, and followed the direction of his gaze out to sea.
    ‘I . . . of course I’m glad to hear that you are thinking of acquiring our software,’ he said, as the pause dragged on. His mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket.
    ‘Oh, yes, yes, we are,’ said the man. ‘You’re on our shortlist.’
    ‘Excuse me.’ Forsman took the mobile out of his pocket and looked at the number on the display. Jussilainen. Couldn’t wait patiently. Presumably wanted to ask how things were going.
    The man never stopped smiling.
    ‘Nothing important,’ said Forsman. ‘Well. When . . . when will the others be arriving?’
    He felt hungry; he would like a biscuit. One of the chocolate biscuits that a lady from catering had put on the conference table below.
    The man said nothing, and Forsman felt the smooth surface of the business card against his hand as he put the mobile away in his jacket pocket. He took the card out, with a feeling that it was something he could hold on to. Although the name was very unusual. Norwegian maybe, or Latvian, although the man spoke Finnish without any foreign accent.
    ‘Do you like it?’
    ‘Hmm? Yes, I do. Plain but attractive. We do a little in the way of design ourselves, especially my partner . . .’
    ‘You could almost call this a one-off,’ said the man, taking the card from his hand.
    Forsman looked at him with a question in his eyes, and the man looked over his shoulder as if there were something important there.
    ‘Do you remember Saara?’ asked the man.
    ‘Sorry?’ said Forsman.
    The man looked past him, with great concentration, and Forsman turned round. The hotel employees were sitting on chairs at the edge of the buffet area, laughing and deep in conversation, and on the conference table there were black and yellow bottles of drinks and plates of the kind of biscuits he liked and hadn’t eaten for a long time.
    ‘Saara. I asked you about Saara,’ said the man with the strange name, and just before Forsman was lifted above the balustrade and fell to the depths below there was an answer on the tip of his tongue.

17
    JOENTAA DROVE TO the hospital with Grönholm. The bed that the dead woman had occupied was empty and made up with clean sheets. The number of forensics officers around the place had been considerably reduced.
    Grönholm, deep in conversation with Rintanen, was drinking coffee, and Joentaa went to the cafeteria to look for the police officer who was coordinating interviews with the hospital staff. He couldn’t find him.
    Rice pies with egg butter under the plastic covers. Coloured pictures on the walls. Pictures that Sanna had mentioned a few days before her death, but he