He rings off without further chat. I guess I really hurt his feelings.
I’ve debated how to approach Winter War hero Arvid Lahtinen. The polite and respectful way would be to call, introduce myself and arrange an interview. This strikes me as a possible mistake. Whether he’s a war criminal or not, I want Arvid to tell me the truth about Ukki, and I don’t want to give him time to prepare fabrications. He lives in Porvoo, a town on the Porvoo River that dates from the fourteenth century. In this weather, it’s about an hour’s drive from Helsinki.
It’s still minus ten degrees, but snowing a little harder now. The trip is pleasant, much of it through wooded areas. But my migraine gets worse. It’s like a wolverine thrashing around in my head. I try to ignore it.
The old section of Porvoo is mostly made up of wooden houses. In the late eighteenth century, when Finland was a province of Sweden, the houses of the lower classes were painted red, and those of higher classes yellow, to impress the visiting Swedish king. Many of those houses still stand, and by tradition remain painted those colors.
I find Arvid’s house. It’s red and sits on the river among a group of similar buildings that were once warehouses. He has an old-fashioned door knocker. I bang it against its metal plate. He opens the door. He’s ninety years old. I expected someone decrepit, but he’s far from it. He’s short and thin, his white hair thick. If I didn’t know his age, I would think him a vigorous man in his seventies. I’ve broken a personal rule of police work. Never anticipate, it clouds judgment.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I introduce myself, show my police card and ask for a few minutes of his time. He ushers me in. I look around while I take off my boots. The downstairs is one large room. A settee and three armchairs surround a coffee table. Against the wall to the left of it, an antique bookcase with deep shelves and glass doors serves as a well-stocked liquor cabinet. To the right is a fireplace with a crackling blaze. Deeper into the room, a dark oak dining-room table seats eight. Behind it, a soapstone stove stands floor-to-ceiling. It breaks my view of the kitchen, but the part I see, a big stove and hanging pots and pans, tells me that the people who live here like to cook, and the smell wafting out confirms it.
Four cats lounge at various points around the room. The house carries the faint scent of cat piss. Somehow, it makes the place even more homey. I once had a cat, named Katt. He felt compelled to mark his territory on occasion, and my house smelled the same.
“Forgive me for coming unannounced,” I say.
He folds his arms and looks up at me. “I’ll consider forgiving you once you explain why you did it.”
His presence is commanding. It’s clear that he considers himself a man not to be fucked with. I start to make up a lie, but the headache roars, and I can’t speak for a moment.
“Well?” Arvid says.
I pull it together and half lie. “I was asked to speak to you about something and had other business in Porvoo. If I’m imposing, we can talk another time.”
“Asked by whom?”
I walk over to the fireplace and warm my hands. “Indirectly, by the interior minister.”
On the mantel above the fireplace, among mementos, war medals and photos, sits one of Ukki’s guns. I blink, think the headache has induced some kind of weird deja vu. It’s a little Sauer Model 1913, 7.65mm automatic pocket pistol. A low-power peashooter sometimes called a suicide gun.
I pick it up, turn it over in my hand. “Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Why? You want to see my license? I haven’t got one.”
“No, it’s not that.”
He cuts me off. “Put it back where you got it, or I’m going to take it away and shoot you with it.”
Our conversation is off to a bad start. My fault for touching his things. The headaches make me lose my manners and common sense. I lay it back on the mantel. “My grandpa had one just like it.”
“Boy,” he says, “you don’t look well.”