It was five-thirty in the morning. I had slept poorly since my middle-of-the-night insight, and it took a minute before I was fully awake. To top of it all off, I had been dreaming about playing ping-pong with a beautiful female Israeli soldier whose shirt was unbuttoned to her navel. I had been winning 7 – 3 when my phone rang. “Lieutenant Toivola here from the Järvenpää police department, morgen.” I was not happy to hear from my commuter-town colleague, despite the impressive level of his linguistic skills. “You folks have a search out on a green Citroën C5 hatchback. Might be that it’s turned up.” “Where?” “Kerava, a sandpit in the middle of the woods. Burnt to a crisp. I’m on the scene. The wreck’s still giving off so much heat you could grill sausages on it.” “What makes you think it’s the car we’re looking for? The plates?” “No, the plates were stolen in Kerava, but doesn’t that say something too? This one’s metallic green like yours, or at least it was.
