Cold Trail (2 page)

“I can
wait till we get to the restaurant,” Repo answered.

* * *

The three men in dark suits were sitting at a six-person corner table at Restaurant Perho. There were only a handful of other customers in the beautiful, wood
-
paneled establishment. A young woman in a traditional black-and-white wait-staff uniform poured them coffee from a gleaming pot.

Karppi
had placed a photograph of Erik Repo on the table and lit a candle in front of it. The elder Repo had a hook nose and vaguely pronounced cheekbones; his hair was gray and short. Timo felt like his father was staring at him and him alone with his grim, almost angry eyes.

No one see
med to have much to say. Eskola’s and Repo’s dark suits were both from the prison’s limited selection of loaners, from which both prisoners and guards could borrow for such occasions. Eskola’s suit was a little too small and Repo’s a little too big.

Eskola
broke the silence. “So how does cremation actually work?”

Repo
glared at the guard. “They burn the body.”

“
As a matter of fact, it’s not quite that simple,” Karppi interjected. “They heat the oven with natural gas until it’s hot, and then they push in the coffin. It self-ignites and burns for a solid hour, as long as they keep on blowing air. It’s more cremation than burning.”

“S
o what’s left over?” Eskola asked.

“
All organic material burns away. The only thing left behind are the inorganic elements from the bones.”

“
So pretty hygienic then,” Eskola reflected.

“That was the original idea behind
cremation. The custom began to spread through Europe during the nineteenth century because of the poor conditions at cemeteries.”

Repo
sipped his coffee.

“
Well, there are still a few practical issues to deal with regarding Erik,” Karppi said. “The urn will be ready in about a week, and I can take it to the vault in accordance with Erik’s wishes. If that’s all right.”

Tim
o nodded.

“Then there’s the matter of the
estate. There’s an inheritance of sorts to be divided up. The assets consist primarily of your father’s house. And, as far as I’m aware, the heirs are yourself and your brother.”

“Don’t
our kids get anything?”

“Do you have children?”
Karppi asked.

“I have one
, and I’m assuming my brother does too, although I don’t know how many.”

“
According to the estate law, grandchildren don’t get anything if the children are alive.”

Repo
noticed the pretty waitress approaching with a plate of sandwiches.

“U
h, listen, I need to hit the john now. My stomach’s acting up.”

The woman
placed the sandwiches on the table.

“Y
ou guys go ahead and start. I’ll be right back,” Repo said, standing.

“N
o funny business?” Eskola asked.

“’
Course not. I’m just going to the bathroom.”

“O
kay,” Eskola said, giving Repo a stern look. He checked his watch: 4:05 p.m.

The bathroom was near the front door.
Repo walked there with rapid steps. He knew Eskola’s eyes were on him. There was a line of sight from the table to the front door, but not to the bathroom area, which was tucked into a small niche near the coat racks.

Repo
made it around the corner and paused for a moment at the coat rack. The parties at the other tables seemed to be in the middle of their meals or just getting started. No one was paying attention to him. Repo pulled a gray trench coat that looked about the right size from a hanger. No one started shouting, at least not immediately.

The
restroom, with two urinals and two stalls, was empty. There was no window. That would have been too easy, Repo thought. He’d have to go with plan B.

He bent over the sin
k and examined his thatch of hair. He drew an old plastic tortoise-shell comb from his breast pocket and tidied his mane. The front door was his only alternative. Eskola had a direct view of it from his seat and would definitely be keeping an eye on it. Repo needed a head start of a few minutes; prison life hadn’t exactly improved his endurance. He wouldn’t stand a chance against the young guard in a flat-out race.

Repo
decided to wait a minute or two, until Eskola would be distracted by his sandwich.

T
he situation made Repo nervous enough to take a leak, wash his hands, and comb his hair again. He put on the gray coat and tried to get a rear-view glance of himself in the mirror. It just might work, he thought. Eskola wouldn’t get more than a few-seconds-long look at him. And if he changed his gait into more of a shuffle, that might help, too.

The pr
isoner tightened his shoelaces. His black ankle-boots were a size too large, but he couldn’t let that get in his way now.

Repo
gave himself a final once-over and stepped out of the restroom.

Th
ere was no one at the coat rack. That’s all he would have needed, the coat’s owner standing there, wondering where his missing trench coat was. Repo tried to take small, tight steps. He had an impulse to look over in Eskola and Karppi’s direction, but that would have been a huge mistake. Repo could feel the back of his shirt dampening with sweat.

He
walked over to the door, expecting the whole time to hear a loud “Stop!”. But it never came. Maybe Karppi was lecturing Eskola on the history of cremation while the latter munched on his sandwich. How did Karppi know so much about it anyway? Repo thought, pushing open the door to the
vestibule. Two more steps and he’d be outside. The urge to look backwards was overwhelming, and Repo almost bumped into a middle-aged couple entering the restaurant.

“E
xcuse me,” he said, rudely shoving his way out between them. Now was not the time for politeness.

A tram was
clattering down Mechelin Street, and a bleak wind was blowing. The rain on his face felt cold but good. Repo turned right so he wouldn’t have to walk past the restaurant’s windows. After a couple of shuffling steps, he broke into a run, headed north. Now he needed to put some distance between himself and Eskola.

* * *

Eskola had finished his sandwich and was starting to get antsy. Maybe he shouldn’t have let the prisoner go to the bathroom by himself after all. But as they had been driving out of Helsinki Prison, Repo had promised to be on his best behavior. Nothing in the inmate database indicated that Repo was a flight risk. He had already done eight years of his life sentence without chalking up any incidents. He would be allowed to start taking unescorted leaves in a year’s time. Besides, Eskola had been hungry, and the sandwich had looked tasty.

H
e had kept an eye on the door, and hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. There had been a little activity, but no one who looked or moved like Repo. Still, he was uneasy. Eskola glanced at his watch: 4:14 p.m. There was still a minute to go of the allowed ten-minute bathroom break. Eskola decided to go check on things anyway
.

“I
’m gonna go to the bathroom, too.”

“W
hat’s wrong with you young men?” Karppi said.

Eskola
marched into the bathroom, checked the stalls, and swore a blue streak. He rushed back out into the entryway and scanned the restaurant. Then he flew out the front door, but Repo was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Repo had slowed to a brisk walk. He had two reasons for doing so: he was out of breath, and a man running in a dark suit and trench coat always attracted attention. He tried to remember when he had last walked down Arkadia Street
toward the railway station in the rain. He couldn’t even remember doing it on a sunny day.

The past eight years
had gone by in various prisons. Before that he had lived in Riihimäki, forty miles due north from Helsinki. He had
rarely visited the city—except maybe his father’s place in the northern part of town. But even there pretty infrequently, and that had all been before his life sentence. Some kid in a hoodie rode past on a dirt bike, and Repo was reminded of his own bicycle from the ʼ60s, with its banana seat, chopper-style handlebars, and frame decorated with old bottle caps.

Repo
quickly shook off the vision and concentrated on his surroundings. By this time, Eskola would have noticed his disappearance and reported him to the police. Should he ditch the gray overcoat? Would it be mentioned in the description? Or would they say he was wearing a black suit? Repo wasn’t sure and decided to hang on to the coat, partly because of the rain. He might arouse more suspicion in the chilly weather in just a suit.

When
Repo reached the Museum of Natural History, he picked up the pace again. He wondered what new building had risen where old Little Parliament restaurant used to be.

Little Parliament h
ad had a pleasant patio, even if its prices had been a little steep for Repo’s budget. He remembered having been there once, on a warm summer evening. The bar’s windows and doors had been pulled open, letting in a refreshing sea breeze. If he wasn’t totally off the mark, he had even succeeded in picking up some female company that night.

What the hell?
Repo thought. A tall brick-and-stone building now stood where the old restaurant had been. When he got closer, he noticed that the name was still the same: this granite monstrosity was the new annex to the Parliament building across the street. What a waste. Apparently the big boys had money to burn on such vanities.

* * *

“So your prisoner got away, huh?” the sergeant on duty said sarcastically. “Now how’d that happen?”

“W
hat difference does it make?” Eskola shouted into his cell phone. He was walking northward up Mechelin Street. Arkadia High School was on his right. Its stucco facade had suffered badly from graffiti tag removal
.
“We have to find him!”

The
sergeant, who had put in his time in the field, grunted. “Take it easy. Why don’t we start with who needs to be found and where?”

Eskola
took a deep breath. “Timo Repo. Fled from Restaurant Perho. From a funeral.”

“A
funeral at a restaurant? Sounds pretty strange to me. So when did this happen?”

“L
ess than ten minutes ago.”

“H
e can’t be far, then. Which direction did he go? And on what?”

Eskola
turned onto Arkadia Street. He thought that Repo must have come this way. The only thing on the other side of the cemetery was the Hietaniemi cul-de-sac, where the road dead-ended into the Gulf of Finland. “I don’t know which direction he went, and I’m pretty sure he’s on foot.”

“A
nd who is this...Repo? Shoplifter or something? The name doesn’t say anything.”

“T
imo Repo. He’s hard-core, at least going by his sentence. Life.”

The
sergeant’s voice grew sharper. “Life? Holy shit.”

Eskola
could hear the police officer tapping away at his computer. He assumed Repo’s name was being queried from the database. Soon the police would have a photograph.

“W
hat was he wearing?”

“W
e were at a funeral. One of those black prison loaner suits,” Eskola reported, pleased that the sergeant was taking him more seriously now.

“R
ight. The computer describes him as age 52, height 5’8”, average build, crew cut, and I’ll add wearing a dark suit. That about right?”

“E
verything except his hair is dark and medium length. Not a crew cut anymore.”

“T
hanks. I’ll put your phone number here. If you see something, call right away.”

Eskola
tried to imagine where Repo might be headed, and why he’d break for it after serving eight years with good behavior.

* * *

The sergeant gestured for Helmikoski, the lieutenant on duty, to come over. A dozen or so
officers were milling around
the new command center at Helsinki police headquarters in Pasila. The desk officers’ workspaces were filled by computer monitors, and images from downtown surveillance cameras were projected onto one of the walls of the large room.

“Y
eah?” asked the burly lieutenant.

“
Prisoner Timo Repo, serving life, skipped out on his escort about ten minutes ago on Mechelin Street,” said the desk sergeant, showing the photo of Repo he had pulled up on his screen. The image was almost ten years old; in it, the fortyish Repo still had a crew cut.