mesh with the practical atmosphere of his business and speaks of vanity. ‘How can I help you?’ he asks.
We introduce ourselves. Pastor Oksanen takes the lead. He practices this on a regular basis and is better at it than we are. ‘Mr Filippov, perhaps you should sit down. We have sad news.’
Filippov’s expression turns quizzical and concerned. He regains his seat behind the desk, motions for us to sit. There are only two chairs on the other side of his desk. Pastor Oksanen gestures for Milo and me to take them.
‘It’s about Iisa, your wife,’ Oksanen says.
Two detectives and a pastor have come to bring bad news. Filippov must suspect the worst, but his voice is controlled. ‘What about Iisa?’
‘I regret to inform you that she is no longer with us.’
He cocks his head to the side. ‘Then, pray tell, who is she with? I’m not a child, spell it out.’
‘She has passed on. Her body was discovered earlier today.’
Filippov makes eye contact with Oksanen. His face registers nothing. ‘How did she die?’
The pastor goes around the desk and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. ‘She was murdered. She’s with God now.’
Filippov ignores the hand. ‘I’m an atheist.’
Odd first words to utter upon being informed that his wife was slain. He looks at Milo and me. ‘Who killed my wife?’
It’s always difficult to inform someone about the murder of a family member, but because she was planning to commit adultery when she died, this is even harder than usual. ‘Brace yourself,’ I say. ‘This is unpleasant.’
‘You come in here and tell me that Iisa was murdered, then warn me about unpleasantness. Quit fucking around and get on with it.’
His abrasiveness takes me aback. I give him his way and tell it straight. ‘She was having a long-standing affair with her riding instructor, a man named Rein Saar. They planned a tryst. She was found dead in his bed, beaten with an iron skillet and a riding crop, and burned with cigarettes.’
‘Did this Rein Saar kill her?’ His accent betrays his youth spent in Russian Karelia. It sounds like Donald Duck speaking Finnish.
‘We don’t know yet. Saar claims she had a key to the apartment and was waiting for him to arrive. He maintains that he came home, was struck from behind and rendered unconscious. When he came to, he was in bed beside her and she was already dead. He says he never saw the assailant.’
Filippov has yet to demonstrate sorrow, only impatience. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘Certain facts contradict his story, others support it.’
Filippov leans back in his chair and folds his arms. ‘I want Iisa’s killer found and punished.’
‘I realize this is a shock and painful for you. Are you able to answer a few questions?’
‘Of course.’
‘Were you aware of your wife’s affair?’
‘No.’
‘It had been going on for two years. You had no clue?’
He shakes his head. ‘None.’
‘They met a couple times a week. You never inquired about her comings and goings?’
‘Iisa maintained an active schedule. She participated in various organizations and had many hobbies, riding among them. She was – or at least I thought she was – a good and faithful wife. I had no reason to invade her privacy or interrogate her.’
‘Did she work?’
‘She had no need. I earn a comfortable living.’
Filippov is a cold fish, but businesslike and seems candid. ‘Forgive me,’ I say, ‘but I need to ask you about your whereabouts last night and today. Please understand that this is in no way an accusation, but a part of standard procedure.’
He waves his hand, gestures for me to get on with it. I’m senior officer here, but Milo is a new detective and needs experience. I don’t want to disregard him. Also, there’s something to be said for the good cop/bad cop routine. I nod, signal for him to take over.
‘Where were you last night?’ Milo asks.
‘At a party. In fact, the national chief of police, Jyri Ivalo, was in attendance. He can serve as my alibi.’
Filippov was drinking with Jyri while he and the interior minister discussed me, and here I sit. Interesting.
‘And you left the party and arrived home when?’ Milo asks.
‘I left at around one and was home in bed asleep by two a.m.’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘No. I’m not given to excess.’
‘Tell me about your morning,’ Milo says.
‘It was like every other workday. I arrived here at nine and haven’t left since.’
‘Not even for lunch?’
He takes a receipt from a file on the tabletop and hands it to Milo. ‘Lunch was delivered pizza.’
Milo pauses, looks thoughtful. ‘What time did your secretary arrive?’
‘Also at nine.’
‘Can you verify your times of arrival?’
Filippov sighs. ‘What sort of verification are you looking for?’
‘Do you have a security camera and video record?’
Filippov offers a wry grin. ‘Detective, you’re playing games. A camera is mounted over the entrance and you saw it when you came in. You doubtless also saw the video recorder in the outer office.’ He pushes a button on his intercom. ‘Linda, would you please eject today’s video surveillance tape and bring it in here.’
We wait. Linda enters. My memory kicks in. She reminds me of Filippov’s dead wife. She looks much as I picture Iisa Filippov did before the cigarette burns and riding crop disfigured her face. Ivan Filippov has precise taste in women. He asks her to give the tape to Milo. She hands it over and departs.
‘Inspector Vaara was being euphemistic when he said your wife was beaten with a riding crop,’ Milo says. ‘It would be more accurate to say that first, the killer used her for a human ashtray, then whipped her, focusing on her face, until she was nearly unrecognizable. She was systematically tortured, and for the coup de grâce, we suspect smothered to death.’
That was way too harsh. I feel an inward cringe, but Filippov doesn’t flinch. ‘I see,’ he says.
The dark circles around Milo’s eyes take on the dull gleam that says he’s enjoying himself. ‘Who might
