Free Light in a Dark House by Jan Costin Wagner

Seppo, nodding in the direction of the photograph.
    Westerberg looked at Kalevi Forsman’s face and thought the really odd thing about it was that Kalevi Forsman had no face. He was forty-three years old, had studied at university and got a good degree, built up a firm, employed twelve people, made a lot of money and finally, after years of presumably meteoric progress, lost a lot of money when several of his most important customers went elsewhere. He had spent the last few months writing a new program or improving the old one. Westerberg didn’t understand that in detail, but Samuli Jussilainen, Forsman’s partner, kept on mentioning that angle when the question of what Forsman had made of his life arose.
    He had written a program, he had acquired customers, he had travelled to various countries to sit in various banks negotiating with various other people. He had spent the working hours of the day saving his company, and before he did that he had spent the working hours of the day building it up.
    When Westerberg had asked Forsman’s partner whether he had any friends the answer had been: yes, me. His parents were long dead, he had a sister who lived in Hämeenlinna, and all that Forsman’s partner could tell them about her was that he didn’t know her and Forsman had lost touch with her.
    Westerberg looked at the photograph, at the smile on Forsman’s face, so obviously artificial as to be almost comic.
    ‘It would have been his birthday in a week’s time,’ he said, looking up to meet Seppo’s eyes, but Seppo wasn’t there.
    ‘Seppo?’ he called. No answer.
    He stood up, and found Seppo in the bedroom. He too was examining a photograph.
    ‘Look at this,’ he said.
    ‘Hmm?’
    Seppo handed him the picture. An old one, yellowed. It had been crumpled up, and then at some later date smoothed out again. A stain near the top right-hand corner, perhaps coffee. Westerberg wondered whether it was Kalevi Forsman who had crumpled up the picture and then smoothed it out. And why.
    ‘Is that Forsman?’ he asked.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Here, the boy on this side of the group,’ he said, pointing to a teenager who seemed to bear a distant resemblance to the software adviser.
    ‘How would I know?’ said Seppo.
    The smile was different, a reserved but genuine smile. The boy was looking ahead of him, straight at the camera.
    ‘I think it’s him,’ said Westerberg.
    Seppo nodded vaguely.
    The boy was in a group of people on a sandy beach in the sunlight, in front of a dark blue lake. A summer’s day straight out of a picture-book. Beside Forsman, if the boy was Forsman, stood another boy of about the same age, sideways on as if caught in the act of turning away. Beside the boys stood two men, smiling rather awkwardly, as if they didn’t like being photographed. They were all wearing outdated bathing trunks.
    In the background of the picture, a woman in a swimsuit lay in the sun. She wore sunglasses, her face was turned up to the sky, and at the same time she was half-glancing at the men and the camera.
    ‘Forsman’s father died when he was five,’ said Seppo.
    Westerberg nodded.
    ‘So neither of the two men can be his father.’
    Westerberg nodded, and wondered what it was that he didn’t like about the picture. Maybe that unnatural-looking summer.
    ‘1985,’ said Seppo.
    Westerberg looked enquiringly at him.
    ‘19 August 1985. It says so on the back.’
19 August 1985. We had a barbecue and a pasta bake. No one talked about what happened. She smiled at me. Everyone is the same as usual, and R. says I’m not to worry about it.
    ‘Aha,’ said Westerberg.
    ‘The picture was under his mattress,’ said Seppo.

24
19 August 1985
Dear diary,
I couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to go to school. But I did go, because I thought I might see her. However, she wasn’t there. The music lesson was cancelled.
The headmaster said she’s ill, but that’s wrong. They all think she’s ill, but I know she isn’t. And