Found Wanting (33 page)

‘Will they? I guess that depends how thorough they are. Even if they do, what evidence do you think they’ll find that Tolmar Aksden had anything to do with it?’

‘None,’ Eusden admitted.

‘Let me show you something.’ Tallgren rose stiffly to his feet and left the room, patting Eusden consolingly on the shoulder as he passed.

There was the sound of a filing-cabinet drawer being slid open and of papers being shuffled. Then Tallgren was back in the kitchen, carrying a bulging file. He placed it carefully on the table. On the cover was a single word written in felt-tip capitals: WANTING.

‘The fruit of my research. Not very sweet, I’m afraid.’

‘Wanting is . . . Vanting?’

‘Ah. The spelling. Yes. The name’s probably German originally. The W is pronounced like a V, of course. In English, it makes a sick kind of joke, doesn’t it? He wanted a lot. Revenge. Wealth. Success. He didn’t get any of it.’ Tallgren flicked the file open. ‘My notes are all in Finnish. There are some documents in Danish and Russian also. So, nothing for you to read. But something for you to see.’ He slid out an A5-sized photograph, glossily printed, though the picture itself was grainy and indistinct, a black-and-white shot of a crowd of people on some steps. In one of the margins was written
Helsingin Sanomat 11 Huhtikuu 1957
. ‘This shows some of the mourners leaving Helsinki Cathedral after Paavo Falenius’s funeral. Take a look at those three particularly.’

Tallgren pointed to a short, middle-aged man near the top of the steps, who seemed to be conversing with two other men, one older, one much younger. All three were dressed in dark overcoats. The youngest man was bare-headed, but the other two wore dark Homburgs, the brims pulled down so that only the lower halves of their faces could be seen.

‘Eino Falenius, Hakon Nydahl and Tolmar Aksden. There they are, Richard. Caught together, for once. They say Eino looked a lot like his father. He was in his forties then. Nydahl was in his seventies. And Aksden was . . . just eighteen.’

Eino Falenius was a sleek, elegantly tailored businessman running to fat, with a smudge of moustache and a confidential air. He had his hand on Hakon Nydahl’s shoulder. The elderly Dane was thin and straight as a pencil, a walking cane clutched in front of him, his gaze fixed inscrutably on Falenius. Tolmar Aksden, meanwhile, was barely recognizable as the bulky, assertive figure he was to appear in the pages of the very same newspaper forty years on. He was tall and slim, a boyish lock of hair falling over his unlined brow, his face clear and open, yet also watchful, studying Falenius with the faintest of frowns, concentrating on something that was being said – or something he had noticed.

‘What was a teenager from a farm in Jutland doing at an eminent Finnish banker’s funeral, eh? And not just in the congregation, but conversing afterwards with the banker’s son? This was long before he set up Mjollnir or did business with Saukko. The official version of Tolmar Aksden’s life has him pulling sheep out of ditches in 1957, not fraternizing with Helsinki money men. So, what’s it all about? I asked Arto Falenius that. I asked him how he explained it. Do you know what he said? “I don’t have to explain it to someone like you.” And he smiled when he said it. Such a smile. I wish now I’d punched him in his smiling face. Well, it couldn’t have gone any worse for me if I had, could it? Someone like me, Richard. Someone like you. They don’t have to account to us.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘What do you intend to do?’

It was a good question. And the answer was only just beginning to form in Eusden’s mind. Run away? Give up? Write it all off as Marty’s folly that he had no stake in? He could not do it. The rest of his life would diminish into an apologetic murmur if he did not at least try to bring Pernille’s murderers to justice. ‘Do you have a tape recorder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I borrow it?’

‘Sure, but—’

‘Do you know where Arto Falenius lives?’

‘Yes. He owns a villa near Kaivopuisto Park. The embassy district. Very smart. His father and grandfather lived there before him. The Villa Norsonluu, in Itäinen Puistotie. You’re thinking of going there?’

‘Tolmar Aksden’s out of town. So, it has to be Falenius. He’s probably the easier of the two to crack anyway.’

‘Crack?’

‘I’ll make him explain to someone like me. On tape.’

‘He’ll never agree to do that.’

‘I don’t propose to give him a choice in the matter. Do you know anything about firearms?’

‘Well, I did my eight months in the army. They made me fire a rifle. Plus take it apart and put it back together again.’

‘That’s more than I’ve ever done. I’ve got a gun, you see. An automatic pistol. In my coat. I’ve no intention of using it. But I need to look as if I know how to. And I don’t want any accidents.’

‘You’re going to force a confession out of Falenius at gunpoint?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘Probably.’

‘Even if you could, it wouldn’t . . . prove anything legally.’

‘I don’t care about that. I’ll have it. And I’ll make what use of it I can.’

‘You
are
crazy.’

‘I’m not asking you to go with me, Pekka. Just give me the tape recorder and show me how the gun works. Then wish me luck.’

Eusden slept for a few hours on the sofa in Tallgren’s lounge, his sleep the dreamless unconsciousness of utter exhaustion. He woke before dawn, reluctantly ate some porridge and less reluctantly drank a mug of strong black coffee. Then Tallgren drove him over the bridges of Suomenlinna through the frozen twilight to the quay in time for the first ferry of the day. Tallgren had done his best to explain the mechanics of the gun and the intricacies of his tape recorder. Beyond that he only ventured the opinion that what Eusden was doing was madness. An admirable kind of madness, perhaps, but madness nonetheless.

‘I fear you’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life, Richard,’ he said as Eusden climbed out of the car.

‘I don’t think so,’ Eusden replied with a wry smile. ‘A bigger mistake would be to do nothing.’

FORTY-SEVEN

The cream gables of the Villa Norsonluu would have glowed warmly in summer sunshine, bowered in greenery, doves cooing peacefully. Late winter dawn revealed a different place. Snow obscured most of the roof, coated the branches of the leafless trees and blanketed the garden in white. There was no sound or movement from the dovecot that Eusden had seen through the boundary hedge, nor from the house behind it.

Now that he was standing there, alone, surrounded by silence, Eusden began to wonder if what he had embarked on was indeed an act of madness. He looked down the road and saw in the distance the Tricolour and the Union Jack flying over the French and British Embassies. Of all the places in all the world for him to do what he was about to do, this had to be potentially one of the most scandalous, the most ruinous, most irresponsible of all.

And what, when it came down to it,
was
he going to do? He had forgotten to ask Tallgren if Falenius lived alone. The size of the house suggested not. Was he married? Did he have children? Did Eusden seriously intend to force his way into some scene of domestic normality, brandishing a gun, issuing demands, crossing a line he could never step back over?

The entrance to the villa was sealed by a high locked gate. There was no camera in sight, though there might of course be one on the house, ready to record any incursion he made. He stood in the lee of the hedge, willing himself to act, facing down the doubts and fears that swarmed in his brain. The railing-topped wall behind him was scaleable, the hedge penetrable. It was the only way to get in. He had to attempt it. And soon. The longer he delayed, the likelier he was to be spotted.

Suddenly, there was a sound, breaking the silence. A door was opening, electronically operated. Eusden peered through the hedge, but could see nothing. Then a car engine started in a throaty growl. And in the same instant the gates at the entrance whirred into operation, swinging back on their expensively automated hinges. There was a rumble of fat tyre on gritted snow. A shape, low, pale and metallic, moved somewhere beyond the hedge.

Falenius was leaving. And Eusden had to stop him. He ran to the gate and reached into his pocket for the gun. The driveway curved out of sight towards the house. He stood waiting for the car to come into view, waiting and wondering what he should do. Then it appeared: a Bentley, silver-grey and sleekly profiled, nosing round the corner. A glimpse of the driver was enough. It was Arto Falenius.

If Eusden drew the gun, what, he asked himself, would Falenius do? Stop? Or accelerate towards him? Could that raked and tinted windscreen possibly be bullet-proof? There had to be another way, one that was safer for both of them. He dropped to his knees and sprawled across the pavement, blocking the entrance.

The Bentley came to a halt in the gateway. Falenius gave the horn two short blasts. Eusden did not move. All he could see of the car from where he lay was the headlamp array, the number plate and the radiator grille, with the distinctive Bentley B above it. He heard the engine cooler roar, then the driver’s door slam. Arto Falenius, pinstripe-suited as in his newspaper photograph, strode towards him, gleaming brogues crunching on grit and ice. He said something in Finnish that sounded impatient. Eusden made a show of struggling to his feet.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I must’ve slipped.’

‘Are you OK?’ Falenius asked, with little obvious concern.

‘Yes. Fine, thanks. But you aren’t.’ Eusden pulled the gun from his pocket and pointed it at Falenius’s midriff. ‘Do exactly as I say.’

‘What is this?’ Falenius looked shocked and angry and alarmed in equal measure.

‘What do you think?’

‘You want . . . money?’

‘No. I want a ride. And a talk.’ Eusden kept the gun trained on Falenius as he walked to the passenger door of the Bentley and opened it. ‘Get in. We’re leaving.’

‘You can’t do this.’

‘But I
am
doing it. Get in.
Now
.’

Falenius was breathing rapidly as he moved to the car. Eusden lowered himself carefully into the passenger seat as Falenius settled behind the wheel. The doors clunked shut, sealing off the chill of the morning.

‘Drive to the seafront.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Richard Eusden.’

‘I’ve . . . never heard of you.’

‘Really? Well, your good friend Tolmar Aksden
has
heard of me. And it’s him we’re going to talk about. Start moving.’

Traffic on the seafront road was light and none of it was stopping to admire the view of the frozen harbour, covered with snow and differing in appearance from Kaivopuisto Park on the other side of the road only by being flatter. When Falenius turned off the engine of the Bentley, his shallow breathing became audible in the muffled interior of the car. He did not look directly at Eusden, staring out instead through the windscreen at the grey hummocks of islands scattered across the white-carpeted sea. He moistened his lips and asked hoarsely, ‘What do you want to know?’

‘The truth.’ Eusden propped the recorder on the dashboard between them and switched it on. ‘In your very own words.’

‘The truth . . . about what?’

‘Your relationship with Tolmar Aksden.’

‘He’s the new owner of Saukko Bank. We’re business associates. And friends. That’s it.’

‘Listen to me, Arto. I already know what you’re going to tell me. But I need to hear you say it. On the record. So, don’t lie to me. The consequences could be fatal. You understand?’

Falenius swallowed hard. ‘I understand.’

‘Good. Now, I’ll ask you some questions. All you have to do is give me honest answers. Are we clear?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re Arto Falenius, son of Eino Falenius, grandson of Paavo Falenius, the founder of Saukko Bank. Correct?’

‘Correct.’

‘Where did Paavo get all his money from – the huge influx of cash in the early nineteen twenties that no one seems able to account for?’

‘He . . . attracted some big investors.’

‘Was one of them Sir Peter Bark, investing on behalf of Tsar Nicholas the Second?’

Falenius sighed and bowed his head, as if oppressed by the fulfilment of his worst fears. ‘
Kristus!
Not this. Please not this.’

‘Did Bark pump the Tsar’s money into Saukko Bank?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘
You don’t know?
’

‘It’s true. My father never trusted me enough to tell me the whole story. And Tolmar always says I’m better off not knowing. The Tsar’s money? That could be it. If you say it was, then, OK, it was. Is that good enough for you?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think it would be. So, go ahead. Ask about my grandfather, this man Bark, Hakon Nydahl, Karl Wanting. Ask me and tell me what I’m supposed to say. Then I’ll say it. I’m too young to have met any of them. But apparently I have to live with their ghosts.’

‘You must know your grandfather channelled money to the Aksden family through Nydahl.’

‘Yes. I know that. But not why. Not really. You don’t keep Tolmar as a friend by poking your nose into his affairs. Or as a boss. He owns Saukko now. I’m just one of his employees.’

‘Why did you sell?’

‘The sale was planned years ago. Tolmar’s basically owned us ever since I became chairman. He struck a deal with my father. I was part of it.’

‘And what did the deal require you to do?’

‘Build up stakes in a range of key Russian businesses so that Tolmar could move into the Russian market without anyone noticing.’

‘They’ve noticed now.’

‘They were bound to eventually. Anyway, that’s Tolmar’s problem. I just do what he tells me.’

‘Why do I keep hearing that phrase?’

Falenius managed a wintry smile. ‘Because he’s good at persuading people to obey him.’