“Are you racists, selling to neo-Nazis for political reasons, or is it simply an economic issue?”
“I admit we are racists,” Thierry says, “and we are active in the racist community, but we are not rabid racists who commit our lives to the cause of hate.” He chuckles. “We are excellent haters, but we are smart haters. Hate is like a drug. It will consume a person if excessive. I wasn’t a racist until I served in Africa and lived amongst niggers, by the way, and discovered what vile creatures they are.” He gives a disgusted shiver.
“Because we have killed many people of color, we are well liked by the racist community—hero figures, if you will. And so we have been shown off and introduced to many people.”
“I’m investigating the murder of Lisbet S?derlund. Who do you know that might have been involved?”
“Well, the Nazis, of course, and possibly Real Finns or members of Finnish Pride, or a person acting alone.”
“Do you know Antti Saukko?”
“Oh yes, and his father. It went like this. We already knew Antti. We were talking to Roope Malinen and he discussed the failure of the Finnish authorities to bring the persons who kidnapped and murdered his children to justice. We told him we knew one of the best policemen in the world, Adrien. Malinen told Real Finn party leader Topi Ruutio about Adrien, thinking that if Adrien found the criminals who violated the Saukko family, Veikko Saukko would show his appreciation in the form of a generous campaign contribution. Veikko asked to meet us, and our recommendation led to Adrien’s presence here today.”
He clasps Moreau’s shoulder. “It’s so good to see you, old friend.”
“I have a theory,” I say, “that the knowledge of who killed Lisbet S?derlund is an open secret. A sign of prestige. Tell the truth. Do you know who murdered her?”
“No, I do not. And neither does Marcel.”
“I have no interest in your drug dealing at present, and will give you a permanent free pass to sell limited quantities of dope if you tell me who killed her. If I find out that you lied to me and you know the identity of her murderer, I will heap suffering on you far beyond your legal punishment. Do we understand one another?”
“Yes, Inspector, we do. But we do not know and cannot help you.”
The prim racist dope dealers make delicacy samplers to take with us, give us the address of neo-Nazi HQ in Turku, and send us on our way.
33
An excellent basic rule of thumb for a policeman, or anyone for that matter, is never to anticipate. The reality of what we imagine seldom meets our expectations. I expect the neo-Nazi headquarters of Turku to be a run-down house with an unkempt yard with a couple of junk vehicles resting on concrete blocks rusting away in it. I anticipate a dwelling littered with empty beer cans and the air thick with marijuana smoke. Thugs passed out. Love pulp magazines with the pages stuck together.
The address Marcel gave us is an upscale and expensive apartment building. I was given no name, but don’t need one because on the resident list alongside the door buzzers, instead of a name, is a swastika on a red field. I ring it, and when asked my name, say “Hans Frank.” The front door opens. In the elevator, we all attach silencers to our Colts and pocket them.
I ring and the door opens. A young, well-dressed man with round wire-rim glasses answers. “May I help you?” he asks.
I show my police card. “I hope so.”
“Do you have a warrant, Officer?”
“No.”
“Please return when you have one.”
He tries to shut the door. I jam it open with my foot. “Warrant or not, you and I are going to have a conversation. What’s your name?”