Free Against the Wall by Jarkko Sipila

an inspector. Do you know him?”
    Takamäki shook his head.
    “Well, at any rate, he’s a competent man. Knows almost everything about our intelligence operations. I can tell him to ask some of our key agents about this Eriksson. Discreetly, of course.”
    “Good.”
    They waited for Nyholm for a minute, during which Takamäki got a chance to admire the cushy surroundings that Customs enjoyed. Snellman took notice, and said that it paid to be part of the Finance Ministry. Customs brought money to the state, the opposite of the impoverished Ministry of Interior, which oversaw law enforcement. In Snellman’s view, being profitable should count for something.
    Nyholm knocked on the door and stepped inside.
    Takamäki took note of his shabby appearance. The man stood hunched over, as if apologizing in advance.
    “Nyholm, this is Detective Lieutenant Takamäki from Homicide,” Snellman said, and continued on without bothering with handshakes. “They’re working on a case that may involve us.”
    Nyholm fished a pen and notepad out of the breast pocket of his blazer.
    “That’s smart. It’s good that you take notes,” the boss sneered.
    Nyholm still didn’t say anything, just stood waiting for instructions. Takamäki was amazed by this attitude, even if Snellman wasn’t the easiest of bosses.
    “According to their intel, an individual by the name of Jerry Eriksson could be connected to the case.”
    Takamäki detected a slight tick when Snellman mentioned the name.
    “Jerry Eriksson?” Nyholm repeated calmly.
    “You heard me,” Snellman barked, then rattled off Eriksson’s social security number. Nyholm confirmed it before Snellman continued, “Find out if any of our undercover agents have heard of this guy.”

 
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 9
    HELSINKI PRISON
    WEDNESDAY, 1:20 P.M.
     
     
    Eero Salmela knew of him, but didn’t know him. Tattooed flames wrapped around the man’s neck and his left ear was studded with four earrings, linked by a jeweled chain.
    Tapani Larsson usually wore a black, skin-tight T-shirt and black Adidas sweatpants. Now, with the autumn wind howling over the perimeter wall and through the yard, his muscular build was hidden beneath a hooded sweatshirt. His clothes were plain—gang symbols were banned in prison.
    Clouds raced across the sky toward the east.
    About twenty inmates were circling the yard. For the past four laps, Larsson and two of his cronies had been closely following Salmela, who was walking alone. In the middle of the yard, a single bench press sat unoccupied.
    Three days of rain had turned the track into mud, and Salmela’s cheap prison-issue shoes were heavy with it.
    Salmela knew that Larsson had been doing time since last summer for extortion. He’d probably be in for a few years. It was wise to stay away from gang leaders like him.
    Though walking around in a circle wasn’t exactly fun, it was one of the only permitted outdoor activities. Salmela had been counting his steps, but had lost track a while back. Counting the days left in your sentence was futile. Numbers had no place in prison.
    “You’re Salmela, right?”
    Salmela was startled by the voice behind him, and he stopped. Larsson and the two goons had caught up to him.
    Salmela could see from Larsson’s body language that he meant no harm, at least for now. If they were intending to cut him down, they wouldn’t do it here in front of the guards and the surveillance cameras. He would have been more nervous if Larsson wasn’t present. Gang leaders never got their hands dirty for that sort of thing.
    “Yeah.”
    “Larsson,” he introduced himself. He kept his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt.
    “I know.”
    “Let’s take a walk,” he ordered.
    Salmela got a closer look at his ink: the base of his neck was ringed by a snake, an eagle, and a naked woman. The flames rose from there.
    “How’d you like your lunch?” Larsson asked with a wry smile.
    “You organizing a riot against cabbage