and white like a chessboard, and he sees his reflection in the black tiles: pale, frosty face, serious expression, blond, tousled hair. He takes out his mobile and calls Ronny again, jabbing at the button for the lift. No reply. Perhaps they gave it one last try, and Sorab let them in. Joona heads up to the sixth floor, waits for a mother with a buggy to take the lift down, then rings Sorab’s doorbell.
He waits for a while, knocks, waits for a few more seconds, then pushes the letter box open. “Sorab? My name is Joona Linna. I’m a detective. I need to talk to you.”
He hears a sound from inside, as if someone has been leaning heavily against the door but is now quickly moving away.
“You’re the only one who knew where Evelyn was.”
“I haven’t done anything,” says a deep voice from inside the apartment.
“But you said—”
“I don’t know anything!” the man yells.
“All right,” says Joona. “But I want you to open the door, look me in the eye, and say that to me.”
“Go away.”
“Open the door.”
“What the fuck. Can’t you just leave me alone? This has nothing to do with me. I don’t want to get involved.”
His voice is full of fear. He falls silent, breathing heavily, and slams his hand against something inside.
“Evelyn’s fine,” says Joona.
The letter box rattles slightly. “I thought—” He breaks off.
“We need to talk to you.”
“Is Evelyn really fine? Nothing’s happened to her?”
“Open the door.”
“I don’t want to.”
“It would be helpful if you could come to the station.”
There is a brief silence.
“Has he been here more than once?” Joona asks, all of a sudden.
“Who?”
“Josef.”
“Who’s Josef?”
“Evelyn’s brother.”
“He’s never been here,” says Sorab.
“So who did come here?”
“Why can’t you understand? I’m not going to talk to you!”
“Who came here?”
“I didn’t say anyone came here, did I? You’re just trying to trap me.”
“No, I’m not.”
Silence once again. Then Joona hears the sound of a tearing sob behind the door.
“Is she dead?” asks Sorab. “Is Evelyn dead?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
Joona hears footsteps moving away, down the hallway, then the sound of a door closing. Loud music starts up. As Joona is walking down the stairs, he thinks someone must have frightened Sorab into telling him where Evelyn was hiding.
Joona emerges into the chilly air and sees two men wearing Pro Gym jackets waiting by his car. When they hear him coming, they turn round. One sits on the hood, his mobile to his ear. Joona assesses them rapidly. They’re both in their thirties; the one sitting on the hood has a shaved head, while the other has a schoolboy haircut. Joona guesses that the man with the boyish hair weighs over 220 pounds. Perhaps he practises aikido, karate, or kick-boxing. Probably on steroids, thinks Joona. The other one might be carrying a knife, but probably not a firearm.
There is a thin layer of snow on the grass.
Joona turns away, as if he hasn’t noticed the men, and heads for the well-lit path.
“Hey, you!” shouts one of them.
Joona ignores them and heads towards the steps by a streetlamp with a green waste bin.
“Aren’t you taking your car?”
Joona stops and glances quickly up at the building. He realises that the man sitting on the hood is talking to Sorab on his mobile, and that Sorab is watching them from his window.
The man with the boyish haircut is approaching cautiously, and Joona turns and walks back towards him.
“I’m a police officer,” he says.
“And I’m a fucking monkey,” says the man.
Joona takes out his mobile and calls Ronny again. ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ begins to play in the pocket of the man with the boyish hair; he smiles, takes out Ronny’s phone, and answers.
“Officer Pig here.”
“What’s this all about?” says Joona.
“You need to leave Sorab alone. He don’t want to talk.”
“Do you really think you’re helping him by—”
“This is a warning. I don’t give a fuck who you are, you just keep away from Sorab.”
Joona realises the situation could become dangerous, remembers that he locked his pistol away in the gun cupboard back at the station, and looks around for something he can use as a weapon.
“Where are my colleagues?” he asks in a calm voice.
“You hear me? Leave Sorab alone.”
The man with the boyish hair runs one hand rapidly through it, begins to breathe more quickly, turns sideways, moves a little closer, and lifts the heel of his back foot an inch or two from the ground.
“I used to train when I was younger,” says Joona. “If you attack me I will defend myself and I will take you.”
“We’re shitting our pants,” says the one leaning against the car.
Joona doesn’t take his eyes off the man facing him. “You’re intending to kick my legs,” he says. “Since you know you can’t manage high kicks.”
“Asshole,” mumbles the man.
Joona moves to the right to open up the line.
“If you decide to kick,” Joona continues, “I will not move back, which is what you are used to; instead, I will move in, against the back of your other knee, and when you fall backwards, this elbow will be waiting for the back of your neck.”
“Fuck me, he talks bullshit,” says the
