The Winter of the Lions by Jan Costin Wagner Read Free Book Online Page A

up and went over to the TV set, picked up the remote control and turned the TV on. While the picture was coming into focus he tried to remember what Tuomas had said. Manchester. To win away.
    He went into teletext, and felt a tingling as he tapped the code for the sports pages. The second headline gave the results for the top match in the English league. Three-all. Arsenal had scored an equaliser in the fifth minute of extra time.
    Joentaa sat down cross-legged in front of the TV and read the text, which waxed enthusiastic about one of the most spectacular games of the season. He thought of Heinonen’s veiled, harried expression.
    It was probably just as well. Tuomas had to lose if he was ever going to come to his senses. Joentaa didn’t know much about the psychology of gambling, but enough to be aware that the effect of winning was to lure a gambler into real disaster. When he and Sanna had been in France a few yearsago, he had found a roulette table in a discotheque, and it took him only a few hours first to treble their holiday cash and then to gamble it all away.
    He remembered that devastating feeling. Sanna’s enquiring, disappointed glances. The anger she had suppressed because she felt sorry for him, and she had enough of a sense of humour to appreciate the funny side of the story.
    He suspected that only such setbacks would help Tuomas, and at the same time wondered what price he was paying. He’d have to ask Tuomas how much he was betting.
    When his mobile rang he felt sure it would be Tuomas. As he dug around in his pocket, he was trying to think of ways to stop him gambling.
    It was Sundström. ‘Things are moving fast,’ he said.
    Joentaa waited.
    ‘Harri Mäkelä,’ said Sundström.
    ‘Who?’ asked Joentaa.
    ‘Harri Mäkelä, puppet-maker,’ said Sundström.
    Then Sundström fell silent as if that said it all, and Kimmo Joentaa felt dizzy.
    ‘Found murdered. Around midnight. In Helsinki, where he lives. Lived,’ said Sundström.
    ‘The guy who was on Hämäläinen’s chat show with Patrik?’ said Joentaa.
    ‘He went to buy cigarettes. After a while his housemate or boyfriend or whatever started wondering where he was, and a little later still he got the idea of going out to look for him, and he didn’t have to go far, because there was Mäkelä lying right outside the window. By the side of the road. Bled to death. Multiple stab wounds inflicted by a knife, that’s the way it looks.’
    Joentaa closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on Sundström’s voice. In a corner of his mind he was listening to Larissa talking about the chat show.
    ‘Our colleagues in Helsinki think he didn’t even make it to the cigarette vending machine. At least, he had no cigarettes on him, and he lay there as if he’d only just walked out of the house.’
    ‘That means …’
    ‘That means the murderer must have been waiting for him, and it means he’s not inclined to waste time. We have a first scenario pointing to an unusual murder procedure. Most of the stab wounds were in the region of Mäkelä’s throat and head.’
    ‘What?’ said Joentaa.
    ‘It’s possible, and would fit what clues they have, that Mäkelä went over to a car, bent down to the window and was stabbed by the driver. They expect to lift a tyre tread.’
    ‘Good,’ said Joentaa.
    ‘Investigation on the basis of a tyre tread doesn’t hold out many prospects,’ said Sundström.
    ‘All the same …’
    ‘Our colleagues were quick off the mark in connecting Mäkelä with Laukkanen. They take notice of a fellow officer’s murder right away, even if it happens in Turku, and it seems like everyone except me watches that TV show. I’ve already called Salomon Hietalahti. The two forensic departments are comparing results to see if it was the same murder weapon both times. In any case, the method was similar.’
    Joentaa said nothing.
    ‘Their head investigator is Marko Westerberg. Do you know him?’ asked Sundström.
    ‘Hm?’