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more work had been done on them after they were first formed.
Not a trace in his eyes of what I remember there – the sudden avidity, the way he froze at the end.

13
    THAT AFTERNOON, THE idea had struck him as far-fetched and ridiculous, but in the evening Kimmo Joentaa did indeed begin to write.
    He sat at the low table in the living room with a cup of camomile tea, in front of a sheet of white paper, and had the impression that both of them calmed him down a little.
    Larissa had not come back. The giraffe was still lying under the apple tree.
    The sheet of paper gradually filled up with words. Larissa: likes playing ice hockey; eats a lot of chocolate; enjoys films with shootouts in them; bought a moped in the summer, she goes to work on it, and she’s probably out and about on it at the moment. She used to go on the bus, or she was picked up by her colleague Jennifer – where does she work? She said things about herself now and then, but then she always added that whatever she says is a lie – must think about what could have been true. Find Jennifer .
    He stared at the paper. The letters written in a hand that wasn’t really his own, so tidy, so neat, so clearly formed.
    Suddenly he sat up straight and turned on the TV set. The late news bulletin was on. The presenter looked grave and composed. The unknown dead woman was one of the headline items. A TV correspondent outside the hospital, frowning. Carefully phrasing his remarks to hide the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea about any of it. How would he? Then the police chief suddenly appeared, Nurmela, facing forward, very upright in the sunlight, in front of those countless windows. August, thought Joentaa, and he thought that he must talk to Nurmela. If you judged the case by what Nurmela was saying, the criminal investigation team had everything under control.
    The photo of the unknown woman came on-screen. The one that had already been published soon after she was found, in the hope of tracing family members. Now that the woman was dead, it might arouse a little more attention. Joentaa looked at the picture and tried to memorise it as the news presenter turned to other subjects. A beautiful woman, he thought. But a woman . . . a woman who somehow seemed faceless. A clear, pure, unrecognisable face.
    He went on staring at the TV set for a while, neither seeing the pictures nor taking in the words, then stood up and, without stopping to think, called Tuomas Heinonen’s mobile number. Heinonen answered after a few seconds.
    ‘Hello, Tuomas, Kimmo here,’ said Joentaa.
    ‘Kimmo,’ said Heinonen. As if he hadn’t linked the name to a face yet.
    ‘I just wanted to . . .’
    ‘Nice of you to call,’ murmured Heinonen.
    ‘. . . wanted to call again,’ said Joentaa. ‘How are you doing?’
    ‘I’m in hospital,’ said Heinonen.
    ‘Yes, I know. I could come and see you again.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How are you doing, then?’ Joentaa repeated.
    ‘Hm?’
    ‘Tuomas?’
    ‘Sorry . . . I was just . . .’
    ‘What is it?’ asked Joentaa.
    ‘Nothing, I was only . . . sorry. How’s things with you? Say hi to the others for me.’
    ‘Yes, I will. We had . . . I had a funny sort of day today. Do you remember Larissa?’
    ‘The woman standing naked in your bedroom doorway last Christmas when I told you about the stuff I’d lost gambling?’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Joentaa.
    ‘How could I forget her?’
    ‘Exactly,’ said Joentaa.
    ‘That was kind of a nice Christmas Eve,’ said Heinonen. ‘In spite of everything.’
    Joentaa nodded, and a smile instinctively spread over his face as he thought of that crazy Christmas Eve. First Larissa or whatever she was really called had appeared on his doorstep, then a totally confused, deeply upset Heinonen had arrived in a Santa Claus costume – Heinonen who was always self-controlled, sober, reserved – telling him about the disastrous present-giving at home, and how he was busy gambling his