“I want to. She was only seventy-six, but I’m ninety. I do my best, but I’m not strong enough anymore to take care of an invalid. The time came where she had to go to a hospital to die, and she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to die here with me. In our home, and in my arms. So today, we renewed our wedding vows, and I overdosed her with morphine. She fell asleep and passed without feeling any pain.”
He starts to cry a little. He needs privacy. “Let me go have a look at her,” I say, “just to make sure you didn’t leave any clues somebody might pick up on.”
He nods.
I go upstairs and find their bedroom. She’s covered with a sheet. Ritva’s eyes are closed and her arms are folded across her chest. Her hair is done up in a neat bun. I pull back the sheet. She’s wearing a long silk nightgown. I don’t see anything that might cause suspicion of anything but death due to cancer, no reason for an autopsy.
I go back downstairs. “Everything is fine,” I say. “You did everything just right. Do you want me to call the mortuary now?”
“Give me a few minutes with her first,” he says.
I sit by myself for a while. When he comes back, he tells me to make the call. I do, and sit with him while we wait.
“Tell me about your goings-on with the Filippov case,” Arvid says.
At this moment, he looks every day of his ninety years. He just lost his life partner of more than fifty years. His face is all grief and pain. I guess he wants to think about something else for a little while.
I bring him up to speed, tell him that it looks to me like Filippov-protected by the powers that be-will walk away from murdering his wife. If it is his wife and not her half sister. An innocent man may be made a scapegoat and have his life ruined. And I have a feeling I’m going to be hung out to dry and have my career destroyed. I say I have no idea what to say or do when I meet Filippov at Kamp at five, but come hell or high water, I’m determined to convict him.
“Kamp,” he says. “I used to love that place back in the war years. Great food. I miss that food.”
“My wife is the general manager of the hotel,” I say. “Come there sometime, I’ll ask her to comp us and we’ll have a nice meal together.”
“Sounds good,” he says. “But this Filippov case. It’s going south on you. One way or another, you’re going to be the one hurt by it, and the bad guys are all going to walk away like it never happened.”
I light a cigarette. He takes one, too. “I smoked like a train when I was young,” he says. “Always loved smoking. I’m going to take up the habit again.”
“Sometimes, Arvid,” I say, “I think these cigarettes are the only things keeping me alive.”
He stubs out a cigarette, lights another, finishes off his cognac. “You’re a good boy. This situation of yours. We’re going to have to do something about it.”
I have no idea what he means by “we.” Sometimes I wonder if he’s still whip-smart or mentally feeling the effect of his years. “You have your own problems at the moment.”
His smile is knowing. The old man has depths I don’t fathom. “Well,” he says, “I guess we better do something about them, too.”
He switches gears. “You know anything about the Arctic Sea case?” he asks.
“A little. Why?”
“The ship the Arctic Sea left Kaliningrad, in Russia, in July of last year and picked up a little less than two million euros’ worth of wood in Finland. Depending on who you listen to, the ship either was or wasn’t tested for radiation. If it was, the paperwork has disappeared. Shortly after departing Finland, it was hijacked by eight men, supposedly of various nationalities from former Eastern Bloc countries. But the hijackers spoke English to the Russian crew. In this day and age, despite current technology, the ship disappeared. When finally located, the Arctic Sea was three hundred miles off Cape Verde, thousands of miles from its original destination. Who the fuck commits piracy for timber?”
He seems fascinated by the event. “What’s your interest?” I ask.
“It’s clear that the ship was loaded with secretly sold nukes, their destination unknown. High-level cover-ups always interest me.”