“This is the interior minister.”
I’m feeling a bit flip. “How ya doin’?”
“I’m fucking pissed off is how I’m doing. You were supposed to bury the Arvid Lahtinen matter. I’m told you now claim he’s a war criminal. That wasn’t what you were instructed to do.”
What a fucking asshole. “I only repeated what Arvid told me.”
He screams in my ear. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what that old man says! There are no fucking Finnish war criminals!”
“In fact,” I say, “that’s not true. Several thousand Finns were accused of war crimes-usually killings of or violence toward POWs, according to the standards of the Nuremberg principles-and hundreds were eventually convicted.”
He keeps yelling. Louder now. “Listen, fuckwit, I repeat, there are no Finnish war criminals! Get that through your thick head!” He calms down, lowers his voice. “Write the report the way you were told, or I’ll have you fired. You’ll never work as a cop again. We clear?” He rings off.
I’m not concerned. If he hadn’t hung up on me, I would have told him to fuck himself. His ire doesn’t surprise me. One of the anomalies of Finnish self-understanding, regarding the war, is that these trials have failed to make any impact on the national consciousness whatsoever, and most people would say there are no Finnish war criminals. I suspect most Finns of our generation would be shocked to learn otherwise.
I’m looking forward to lunch with Arvid and Ritva. I haven’t enjoyed the company of others besides Kate so much in a long time. Arvid opens the door before I knock. He’s been waiting for me.
“You’re late,” he says.
Arvid looks tired, seems nervous. Maybe the war-crimes accusations have gotten to him. For the first time since we met, he seems old to me. “I got hung up with a case. Is it a bad time?”
He points at a snow shovel in the corner of the porch. “Ritva isn’t feeling well. I have to tend to her for a little bit. The boy that shovels snow for us didn’t come today. Could you do it for me?”
I suppress a smile. He’s treating me like I’m twelve years old. “Sure, I can do it.”
“Come in and make yourself at home when you’re done.”
He closes the door.
It’s minus eighteen, but shoveling his porch and walk only takes about twenty minutes, and I don’t mind doing it for him.
Afterward, I go inside and take off my boots and coat. He’s got a good blaze going, and I warm up in front of the fireplace. He comes downstairs and sits at the table, tells me to join him. I sit across from him.
“Got any cigarettes?” he asks.
I lay a pack and a lighter on the table in between us. “I didn’t know you smoke.”
“I don’t much, but once in a while, I get the yen.”
He goes to the kitchen, comes back with two cups of coffee and an ashtray. “Son,” he says, “I’m not up to making lunch today. If you’re hungry, I’ll make sandwiches for you.”
“That’s okay, I don’t much feel like eating.”
He gives me his appraising look. “How’s your head?”
“Hurts.”
“They know what’s causing it yet?”
“No. I’ll have some tests run soon. What’s wrong with Ritva?” I ask.
“We suffer from old people’s maladies. She’ll get past it.”
We share an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. I get the idea he has a lot on his mind and would rather be alone to sort it out. We smoke and drink coffee in silence for a while.
“Got any interesting cases?” he asks. “I mean, besides mine.”
I nod. “Some real interesting stuff. I shouldn’t talk about them, though.”