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 grace, 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 have a reason to do such a thing to her?” Milo asks.
“No one,” Filippov says. “Iisa was a gregarious and pleasant person. She enjoyed other people and they enjoyed her. I would say her priority in this world was simple. She liked to have fun.”
Simple and fun. This fits in with Rein Saar’s assessment of their relationship.
“I would consider a two-year sexual relationship with her riding instructor having fun at your expense,” Milo says.
We have to ask questions, but we just informed Filippov of his wife’s death. His detached demeanor makes me dislike him more with every passing moment, but still, Milo is pushing too hard. He doesn’t relent.
“So you have no alibi to account for your whereabouts between the hours of one and nine this morning.”
“No,” Filippov says, “most people don’t.”
“When did you last see your wife?”
“Yesterday morning at about eight thirty, before I came to work.”
Milo smiles and raises his eyebrows. “Iisa wasn’t home when you got back from the party?”
“No.”
“And you found nothing unusual about that?”
“I repeat. Iisa liked to have fun. And I might add that, unlike myself, she was somewhat given toward excess. So no, I found nothing unusual about it.”
Milo and Filippov stare at each other, adversaries, for a long moment.
“I’ve heard about both of you,” Filippov says, “and I’m honored to have two such distinguished detectives investigating my wife’s death. Your reputations precede you.” He looks at me. “You for your tenacity and bravery,” and then at Milo, “and you for your intellectual investigative achievements.”
He looks at me again. “In fact, your name was mentioned at the dinner party last night.”
And then Arto hands me the high-profile murder of Filippov’s wife, which I thought he would be reticent to do, only hours later. This strikes me as less than coincidental.
“No doubt my wife’s murder will be swiftly solved,” Filippov says. “I assume you want me to identify Iisa’s body. Isn’t that the procedure? I can do it this afternoon.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say. “Your wife’s identity has been established. However, I would like to come to your house and examine her belongings. Something among them might provide evidence of who killed Iisa and why.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “I won’t dishonor her memory by having her intimate possessions pawed at.”
“I can get a subpoena if necessary.”
“You can try. I’ll have it quashed. That’s within my power. Let’s compromise. I’ll go through Iisa’s belongings. If I find something I believe helpful to you, I’ll deliver it to you myself.”
What an arrogant prick. “You’re not a detective. You might overlook something crucial.”
“You’ll find that thoroughness is among my better attributes.”
He smiles at me. Given the circumstances, it’s disconcerting. “I read in the newspaper,” he says, “that your wife is the general manager of Hotel Kamp. Their restaurant is my favorite.”
This bewilders me. I say too much. “We just informed you that your wife was murdered, and you’re thinking about food?”
“I mourn the loss of my wife, but we must all grieve in our own way. Mine is to carry on with life as usual.”