still drunk. Thank God.’ He points at a cabinet. ‘There’s a whiskey bottle in there. Can I have it?’
His hangover will kick in soon and it might make it harder to interview him. Besides, some truth serum might not hurt. I nod to Milo. He gives Saar the bottle and a glass. Saar pours a healthy drink and slurps. A pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights is on the table in front of him. He lights one. I note that there’s a carton of them in the cabinet where Saar keeps his whiskey. The killer had to go through at least a few cigarettes to inflict that many burns. I get up and check the kitchen and bathroom trash cans. No cigarette butts. The killer took them with him.
I sit down again. ‘And the purpose of meeting Iisa Filippov was what?’ I ask.
He lifts his face from his hands. He folds them in front of him on the table, looks into my eyes and sighs.
‘You may think it’s a stupid question,’ I say, ‘but all information pertinent to this case must be directly stated.’
‘We were meeting for the purpose of engaging in sex,’ he says.
The Finnish and Estonian languages are closely related. So much so that even if he spoke Estonian, I could understand some of what he said. His Finnish is good, but his Estonian accent makes him sound silly, like a child in the process of learning how to speak.
‘Tell me about your relationship.’
‘I met Iisa about two years ago at the Equestrian Academy. I was her teacher. She is – was – married. We started an affair almost right away. You should be questioning her husband, not me. He’s the only one who would want to do something like this.’
‘Trust me, I’ll speak with him, but that’s not your concern. Right now, I want to give you my undivided attention. You should know that it looks bad. She’s dead, in your bed, and she was beaten with a riding crop I found in your closet.’
According to the nonexistent police handbook, I shouldn’t have related this nugget of information, but I wanted to see the look on his face when I said it.
He’s on the verge of panic, starts to twitch. ‘With my riding crop?’
‘Yep.’
‘Somebody broke in and attacked us both. I can’t help it if the person used something that belonged to me.’
‘Who has keys to your apartment?’ I ask.
‘Just me and Iisa.’
I tell Milo to check the front door for signs of forced entry. He leaves the room. We still haven’t found the blunt instrument used in the murder. I stand up and look around the kitchen. It’s immaculate. Saar is a good housekeeper. An iron skillet is on the stove. It’s weighty, a good weapon of opportunity. I try to pick it up, it’s stuck to the burner it rests on. I tug, it comes free. I feel its heft, then turn it over and look at the bottom. It’s smeared with blood that has hair stuck in it. I show it to Saar. ‘Looks like this is what you and Iisa got whacked with.’
Milo comes back in. ‘No forced entry,’ he says.
I show the pan to Milo and sit down with Saar again. ‘Your story doesn’t hold water. It looks to me like you two fought, she hit you on the head with a frying pan, then you lost it and killed her – with gusto,’ I add.
He shakes his head hard, his eyes turn wild. ‘That’s not what happened. Iisa and I got along great. We never fought. I had no reason to hurt her.’
‘A married woman and her riding instructor. This reads like a romance novel. I can picture about fifty scenarios that would cause you to fight, maybe even get angry enough to murder her. Make me believe you.’
‘We had no differences. Our relationship was open and simple. We met a couple times a week and had sex. And we weren’t in love, we never used the word. It was just sex. We had fun together.’
I admit, as bad as it looks for him, it’s convincing, as explanations go. ‘Who was her husband?’ I ask.
‘Ivan Filippov. He’s originally from Russian Karelia. He owns a construction business that specializes in asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal.’
When the borders were redrawn at the end of the war, Russia annexed a part of Karelia that was previously Finnish territory. Stalag 309, where my grandpa supposedly collaborated with the Nazis and participated in the Holocaust, is also in that region.
‘Was Iisa born Finnish or Russian?’ I ask.
‘She was a Finn, from Helsinki. She took her husband’s name when they got married.’
‘Did Filippov know about you and Iisa?’
‘I didn’t think so, until today. She said he didn’t.’
‘If your version of events is true and Filippov is the killer, why are you alive? Why didn’t he murder you along with Iisa? Killing you as well would have been more expedient.’
He chugs whiskey, frightened. ‘Obviously, he wanted to frame me. If I go to jail for the murder, he gets off scot-free.’
A member of the forensics team comes in. ‘We turned the body over. Want to take a look?’
I thank Saar for his cooperation and tell the uniforms to take him first to the Pasila station for processing, then to the hospital for examination.
Milo and I go back to the bedroom. A digital Nikon D200 and a Sony video camera are on tripods. Fingerprint dust covers surfaces. Scales and tape measures are scattered about. I check Iisa’s phone and find a text message Saar sent her yesterday morning, asking her to meet him here at seven thirty a.m. this morning. Her sent messages confirm the tryst. I’ll reserve judgment about Saar’s guilt or innocence. So far, I’ve found no evidence that he’s been less than forthright.
The victim is on her stomach. Her reverse shows no signs of violence. I ask Milo, ‘See anything noteworthy?’
He shakes his head. ‘No. We’re done here.’
‘Then let’s go talk to Ivan Filippov,’ I say.
Chapter 6
A Lutheran past or, Henri Oksanen, often accompanies police to give the bad news to family members of the departed. I give him a call, he agrees to join us. Milo and I pick him up. We start out at just after noon and drive through heavy snow to Filippov Construction, in an industrial park in the Helsinki suburb of Vantaa.
The business is in a large, corrugated-metal building. We walk in. Construction tools and materials line shelves and lie on the floor: everything from jackhammers to face masks and other protective clothing necessary for asbestos removal and industrial waste disposal. A gorgeous secretary greets us from behind a battered metal desk. She’s a dead ringer for the 1950s soft-porn and pinup star Bettie Page. Tanned. Longish black hair cut in bangs. Black eyes. Curvy figure. Girl-next-door smile. A dark angel. She reminds me of someone else, too, but I can’t put my finger on who it is. Sleep deprivation is screwing with my memory.
We ask to speak to Ivan Filippov. She buzzes an intercom and announces our arrival. He tells her to send us in.
The office is nothing fancy. Concrete floors.
