The volume of Heini’s voice had attracted the attention of the girls in the room. I raised my own voice and asked if any of them had known Sara, Aziza, or Ayan. A girl named Niina said she’d been in the same school as Sara, but in a different grade. Apparently, there were rumors at school that she’d been sent back to Bosnia because she had a Finnish boyfriend, someone named Tommi.
“He wasn’t from our school; he was from somewhere out in Siuntio or something. I never saw him. Someone just said on Facebook that Sara had been seen holding hands with a boy with long hair down at the Cello Mall a few days before she stopped coming to school. I’ll look and see if I can still find the message.”
I gave her my business card as well. It felt so old-fashioned, like I should be sending my contact information straight to her smartphone. The girl would probably throw the scrap of paper in the nearest trash can. If she just remembered my name, she could find me later using the Espoo Police Department address.
I was about to leave when Heini Korhonen’s voice stopped me. “One more thing about Sara’s family. I’ve met them a few times in other contexts. I speak Serbo-Croatian and work as a public service interpreter when I’m needed. They didn’t like that Sara came here. That’s probably why it was only a couple of times.”
When I asked Heini about the possibility of Sara having a boyfriend, she said she didn’t know. Then I had to leave to pick up Taneli. On the way back, I stopped by the grocery store, where I kept seeing Miina’s pale face in my mind as I tried to come up with something quick for dinner. Antti was going to a concert, so I was in charge of getting everyone fed. Local perch fillets cost two and a half times the Vietnamese catfish, but I still chose the perch. My first day at work had also been my birthday, and Antti had pampered me with a mutton-chanterelle meat loaf, Iida had made brownies, and Taneli had fixed a salad. At work I’d served a raspberry jelly roll, which was the absolute upper limit of my kitchen skills. Koivu had politely taken three pieces. He had remembered my birthday even though I wasn’t making a big deal about it because it wasn’t a major milestone year.
There were potatoes left over from the weekend, so back at home I fried them up as a hash to go with the perch. I thought of the three families that now had an empty place at the dinner table. Maybe they knew the whereabouts of the person who had once held that seat, or maybe only some of them knew and the others were settling for a lie they’d been told. I didn’t have any illusions about being able to tell if a person was lying just by looking at them. But in order to move this case forward, I would have to meet their families. I thought of them as Ayan’s, Sara’s, and Aziza’s families, because none of the families, except the Amirs, shared a common surname. I had agreed to giving Iida Antti’s last name, bowing to my husband’s argument that everyone knows who a child’s mother was, but you could never be completely sure of paternity. This cynical, Strindbergian view had seemed logical at the time, and later on we’d realized the wisdom of our children being Sarkelas, even though Kallio is a fairly common name. I could never perfectly insulate my family from the dangers of my job, but I could at least grant them this one protection.
Because our meal was delayed until a very Mediterranean nine o’clock in the evening, Taneli had to go to bed right afterward. Since Christmas he’d refused bedtime stories, which he now considered childish because he knew how to read to himself. Iida asked me to drill her on her Swedish vocabulary because there was a test the next day.
“I just got a text from Anni. She says you were at the Girls Club, but you didn’t notice her. What were you doing there?”
“Work stuff.”
I never talked about work with my children, and I tried to maintain confidentiality with Antti too, although occasionally I slipped. Sometimes I needed someone to bounce ideas off of. But I’d asked all the girls at the club to contact me if they had any information, and since Iida would hear about my visit from her friends anyway, I explained briefly what was going on. Maybe she could help.
Iida only remembered Ayan, and only because she was best friends with that “weird girl who always dresses in white.” Iida mostly spent time with girls her own age, but she looked up to some of the older ones. When she started to press me about what I thought had happened to Ayan, I had to cut the conversation off.
“I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. There isn’t any reason to think anything bad happened to her.”
I hoped Iida believed me, even though I doubted anything good had led to Ayan’s disappearance.
The next day was typical for March, cloudy with temperatures close to freezing. Enormous piles of dirty snow were heaped alongside every street and driveway. Ayan’s family lived in a public housing project, the address of which was regrettably all too familiar to the police. The Amirs lived in the next building over, but we hadn’t managed to contact them yet. Ayan’s father, Ali Jussuf Hassan, would soon be on his way to his evening shift as a bus driver. We assumed the mother would be home as well, since she didn’t work as far as Koivu knew.
“I tried to ask my neighbors, the Keiras, if they knew Ayan’s family; they’re from Sudan too. They knew who I was talking about, but the families see each other only sporadically at the mosque. The Keiras are going there less and less these days,” Koivu had explained in the car. “Mehdi Keira went to a soccer match with us once and commented on how little spirit Finnish fans have in supporting their teams.”
There was an elevator in Ayan’s family’s building, but it had a sign that said “Out of Order. Repairman Has Been Called” posted on it in Finnish, plus writing in two other languages whose characters I didn’t know how to read. Maybe they were Somali and Persian.
We climbed the stairs to the third floor. Two-thirds of the names on the mail slots were written in something other than Finnish. On a couple of doors, there were pieces of paper with more handwritten names next to the white plastic letters. One mail slot even had four Finnish names. During my childhood in Arpikylä, divorce and kids without fathers were uncommon. The fatherless boy in my elementary school class had made a Father’s Day card for his granddad, and I remember the teacher getting irritated because a girl named Minna didn’t even have a grandfather to send a card to. The teacher just told her to draw whatever she wanted while the rest of us scribbled flowers and cars on our cards. Were Father’s Day and Mother’s Day culturally neutral enough for immigrants to feel comfortable adopting them, regardless of their religion? Did Muslims celebrate Women’s Day? Iida would probably know better than me. The only immigrants in her class were a Russian and an Estonian, but more than a dozen cultures were represented by members of the Girls Club.
On Ayan’s family’s apartment door it said “Hassan.” The man who greeted us looked familiar, and I realized that he often drove the regional bus that went from our house into Helsinki. He spoke Finnish with a strong accent but fluently. We’d left our overcoats in the car, and we wiped our shoes carefully on the mat in the entryway before Mr. Hassan led us to a room where IKEA met East Africa: the sofa with light-colored upholstery and wooden legs and the birch-veneer television stand could have been from any Finnish living room, but the colorful textiles and other decorations would have been more common in the family’s land of origin. When Finns were in far-off countries, they claimed to miss salmiakki licorice and rye bread. What homeland flavors did the Sudanese miss? Were they content as long as they could get rice, and live in a country where peace prevailed?
Ali Jussuf Hassan motioned for us to sit. He did not look at me, and no one shook hands. Koivu began by asking if they had heard from Ayan and if her mother was home.
“Not a word. Two weeks she’s been gone, and not a word. We don’t know what to tell you. No one knows anything—not the neighbors, not the relatives. My wife is in the kitchen. She doesn’t know anything either.”
Ayan had left for the Girls Club Valentine’s Day party, but she never arrived, and no one saw her get on the bus. Ali Jussuf Hassan had asked his coworkers who’d been
driving that night, but the driver on shift didn’t remember seeing his daughter.
“I didn’t know this could happen in Finland. In Sudan, life is cheap, but here we were supposed to be safe,” he said seriously. He had on straight-leg black pants, which he could wear while driving, and his white dress shirt was pressed and spotless. I heard a clatter in the kitchen, so I stood up and moved toward the sound. The door to the kitchen was closed, but I could hear water gurgling, like the sound of dishes being washed. When I opened the door, a woman turned toward me and cried out in surprise. I don’t know what or who I looked like to her. I didn’t have on a police uniform, but I had purposefully worn a black skirt that would cover my knees, violet boots, and a loose wool jacket, so that I would look more approachable in Aisha Muhammed Ali’s eyes. According to our information, she was the same age as I was, but she was much thinner. The skin was stretched tight over the bones of her face, though the areas around her eyes and mouth were full of wrinkles. She had round eyeglasses and a long, multicolored dress, the sleeves of which were rolled up for dish washing. She quickly rolled them down when I stepped into the room and pulled the white scarf covering her hair farther forward on her head.
“Hello. I’m Detective Maria Kallio from the Espoo police. We’re investigating the disappearance of your daughter, Ayan.”
I’d told Koivu and Puupponen to press Ayan’s father about the rumors that Ayan’s brothers had killed her. Puupponen had been in contact with the Internet message board the rumors had appeared on, and the administrators had sent him documentation of the accusations. They were currently looking into who had posted them. When our cell was first being set up, we’d been given authority to subpoena the identity of anonymous Internet users when technically possible and when the crime in question was one that could bring at least two years in prison.
Ayan’s mother didn’t answer me. She dried her hands on a cloth that was as unwrinkled and gleaming white as her husband’s shirt. There were teacups and a salad bowl in the sink. The kitchen didn’t have a dishwasher.
“Do you speak Finnish?” I asked. Then I closed the door, which startled her.
“Not well. Ayan . . . found?” There was hope in the woman’s eyes, which told me more than a verbal reply could. Aisha Muhammed Ali had no reason to believe that her daughter was dead.
“No. We’re trying to find her. Do you know where she is?”
She shook her head. “She go Girl Club, never come back. Not know what happen. Husband and sons look for her all time—ask everyone.” Though she spoke slowly and deliberately, there was a fierceness in her voice.
“Did Ayan have a boyfriend?”
“No. She was good girl. Went work, come home, give all money father. Sometimes Girl Club, but not too much. Someone take her, said, ‘You beautiful girl, I take picture, you get money.’ Ayan believe. Then . . .” She shrugged and spread her hands. “I hope come back. Someone find. Maybe Finland police good.”
“What sort of relationship did Ayan have with her brothers?”
Aisha stared at the floor and then asked, “Relationship, what does mean?”
“Were they friends? What did Ayan’s brothers think about her going to the Girls Club?”
She thought for a long time before answering. Perhaps she just had to search for the words. It would have been easier with an interpreter, but we hadn’t been able to get one on such short notice.
“No fights. Ayan good. Boys not like she walk alone. Finnish boys not know respect girls. My boys get Ayan from club. Safe. Good boys, work much. Bring money home.”
I knew not to place too much weight on Internet rumors. The people who had commented about Ayan’s fate were probably professional xenophobes who didn’t have any real information about Ayan. It felt cruel to ask a mother if one of her children could have killed another, but if we wanted to find out what had happened to Ayan, we couldn’t shy away from even the most painful subjects.
“There are rumors that your sons killed their sister. Do you have any information about that?”
Aisha’s breath caught, and then she said she didn’t understand my question, but I could see from her eyes that she did. It was like she shrank, like she pulled back into herself, to protect herself from the harshness of the world. I could see that she didn’t know what had happened to Ayan, but also that she didn’t consider the theory I’d presented impossible. I felt chills.
4
After my question, Aisha closed up completely. All she would tell me was that Ayan had slept in the living room. The apartment had a common layout with three rooms, not including the kitchen. The bedroom that the parents shared was a reasonable size. Beside the bed was a wardrobe. The other room barely fit two beds and, between them under the window, a narrow table with a computer on it. The only thing on the walls was a Sudanese flag.
The men were sitting in the living room. It was clear from everyone’s body language that my colleagues had presented the message board murder allegation to Ali Jussuf Hassan as well. He was staring at the floor, his fists clenched, and shaking his head in fury.
“We need some of Ayan’s things, like a hairbrush or a toothbrush. Where did she keep her clothes?” I asked Aisha. “And did she sleep here on the sofa or somewhere else?”
Aisha pointed at a rug in the corner behind the couch. The sofa was arranged so the corner formed its own little nook, and on the other side a wooden chest served as a privacy screen.
“There. On mattress on rug. No bigger apartment. Sleep ground with sisters in Sudan. Not in bed.”
“Sisters? Do you have other daughters besides Ayan?” Koivu had only mentioned the two older brothers.
“Two other girls. Left there. No food for everyone in camp.” Aisha’s voice was faint. “Many have all children die.”
What could I say to that? Did the fact that the same thing had happened to others make losing children easier? Or that at least some had survived? Was it easier to stomach the agony if you had already experienced the loss once before? Would Ayan’s parents have voluntarily sent her back to the hell where their other daughters had perished? Suddenly I wanted to be with Iida and Taneli, protecting them, making sure that nothing could threaten them.
“Ayan things there.” Aisha pointed at the chest, on top of which was a colorful sitting cushion. It looked like it could have come with them all the way from Sudan.
I didn’t ask permission to open the chest; I just got to work. Koivu got up from the couch and came behind me to see what was in it. I heard Ayan’s father protest. It was inappropriate for a man, even a policeman, to see his daughter’s undergarments. That was most of what was in the chest, along with a pair of loose, dark-red pants, three colorful tunics, and a black headscarf. Unfinished embroidery depicted roses and cornflowers. I wondered if those grew in Sudan too. Lipstick and a tube of mascara were hidden at the bottom of the chest. There was no lock on it, making it a poor hiding place. Ayan had slept night after night with only the chest and the sofa to give her privacy.
I stood and looked around the room, trying to focus all of my senses, sniffing like a bloodhound. But I wasn’t a TV sleuth who only had to concentrate hard to know what had happened in a place. Of course I sensed the fear and stress; they’d taught us that in our first interrogation courses at the police academy. We’d had one lesson about the Roma, to help us understand the unique aspects of their culture, but basic training had focused overwhelmingly on interactions within mainstream Finnish culture. Antti occasionally listened to an avant-garde comedy album from M. A. Numminen, which included a passage of Wittgenstein delivered in German in a bizarre, crowing voice: “What we cannot speak about we must consign to silence.” Finland wasn’t the only place with a culture of silence. No matter how much lip service people gave to the idea of talking openly about problems, that alone wasn’t going to change generations of habit, and it was just as easy to use words to conceal the truth as it was to illuminate it. White-collar criminals seemed to have a special gift for drowning
our investigators in floods of meaningless words. Most suspects didn’t use words, though—they just clammed up.
When I was teaching at the Police University College, I encouraged our interrogators to be gentle with immigrants who had spent time in refugee camps. Most native-born Finns trusted the police for good reason, but the situation in these newcomers’ countries of origin was often quite different than ours, and threatening a person who had suffered extended periods of torture could trigger serious psychological problems. Now, however, I couldn’t sit around wondering whether I’d made a mistake by suggesting to Aisha that the male members of her family might be behind Ayan’s disappearance. I had to keep working to uncover the truth.
Aisha said Ayan’s hairbrush was in the bag she always carried with her. Aisha had thrown out the toothbrush, and all of Ayan’s clothing in the trunk was clean. Finding a DNA sample wouldn’t be easy, but for the time being we didn’t really need it anyway. We took the bag from the vacuum at any rate, which made Ali Jussuf Hassan look at us, perplexed.
It felt like we were leaving the apartment empty-handed. Koivu and Puupponen hadn’t gotten anything out of Ali Jussuf Hassan, other than a fervent assurance that none of the family members knew where Ayan was. He looked for her every day, asking his bus driver coworkers if they’d seen her. He chalked up the rumors about his sons to Finnish racism.
“He said the boys had already lost their other sisters. Ayan is important to them, and they’ve been looking everywhere for her too, in the other neighborhoods around and along their route to work, at every bus stop and in the surrounding areas,” Koivu said. “The police can’t go around accusing people of crimes based on what anonymous Internet trolls say. But Ville and I will talk to the boys tomorrow anyway, OK?” Koivu’s voice echoed in the stairwell like in a church. If there’d been violence in Ayan’s family, the neighbors most likely would have heard, due to the poor soundproofing in the building. We could hear music and the crying of babies through some of the doors as we walked down toward the main entrance. We’d wait to start ringing doorbells.
Where Have All the Young Girls Gone Page 5