Light in a Dark House Read Online Free Page B

during the last days of her life. The doctor who made it possible for him to be with her day and night, although the hospital regulations didn’t really allow for that. One of the nurses had told him at the time that it wasn’t usual, and he would only make himself ill if he didn’t sleep and eat. Joentaa had nodded, and said nothing, and wondered why someone who didn’t understand anything about death was working in a hospital.
    He went over to Sundström and to Rintanen, who stood very upright but not tense, with his head slightly bent. He used to stand like that before. Joentaa passed the room where Sanna had been lying; he remembered the number, the snow-white paint. The door was closed. His legs began to tremble, and he had to go on a little further before uttering a greeting that came out of his mouth as a croak.
    ‘Kimmo, my old mate,’ said Sundström, imperturbably humorous. ‘And Mr Grönholm in person. Good work.’
    Joentaa nodded to Sundström and offered Rintanen his hand. ‘Hello. We’ve . . . we’ve met before.’
    Rintanen looked at him for a few seconds, and then memory kicked in. ‘Oh, yes . . . that’s to say . . . yes, your wife, a few years ago.’
    ‘I’m glad to see you,’ said Joentaa, on impulse.
    ‘How are you?’ asked Rintanen.
    Joentaa gave him a nod. Sundström cleared his throat.
    ‘I’m all right,’ said Joentaa.
    Kari Niemi, head of Forensics, passed them, his eyes fixed on something wrapped in transparent film. Niemi, who had given him a hug in the days after Sanna’s death. He wondered if he was just imagining it, whether it was a product of his imagination, inspired by these surroundings, or if he really did still feel Niemi’s hug.
    Sundström, Rintanen and Grönholm were discussing the question of how to keep the normal business of the hospital going while a murder investigation was conducted at the same time.
    Joentaa moved away from them and went over to the room where most of the scene-of-crime officers were working. One of them gave him gloves and an overall. A large room with only one bed in it. Because people on their way to meet death had the privilege of privacy.
    He went into the room, trying to control the unsteadiness of his legs. The woman was lying on her back on the bed. Salomon Hietalahti, the forensic pathologist, was sitting at the window on a visitor’s chair, making notes.
    ‘Murdering a dead woman,’ said Sundström behind him.
    Joentaa turned round.
    ‘She was in a coma, from time to time a waking coma. Persistent vegetative state, or apallic syndrome as our medical friend Rintanen out there calls it. In his opinion she had no prospect of recovery.’
    Joentaa nodded.
    No prospect of recovery, he thought.
    ‘But here’s the best of it – we don’t know who she is. We don’t even know her name.’
    ‘How on earth . . . ?’ said Grönholm.
    Don’t even know her name, thought Joentaa.
    ‘Because the poor soul was found lying at the side of the road with traumatic brain injury. And without any personal details on her.’
    Call Larissa.
    ‘I think I remember that case. It was in the papers for quite a while, wasn’t it?’
    On the occasional table next to the telephone. Was he imagining it? He must go home, he must check.
    ‘No idea,’ said Sundström.
    ‘Yes, it was. The unknown woman, unconscious and without any memory. Didn’t you read about her?’
    He must check up on it. He must go home. Grönholm and Sundström were talking about the woman lying a few feet away on a bed like the one where Sanna had lain. In a room that looked like the room where she had died.
    ‘Though if she was unconscious, how would she have any memory anyway?’ said Grönholm, and Joentaa wondered whether it was the residual alcohol still in his bloodstream that made him sound so stupid. He thought of Sanna. And of what was on the occasional table next to the telephone. His glance had fallen on it . . . but he wasn’t sure. He must leave, he