Palm Beach, Finland

by Antti Tuomainen

  A grey-blue sheet of cloud, a few Optimist dinghies with small white sails that looked almost like optical illusions, a solitary swimmer in a woolly hat slowly progressing with a calm breaststroke. Nyman knew the beginning was always like this, that it felt like you couldn’t get the hang of anything. It happened every time he started a new case; the first few days always seemed futile, yet they were unavoidable. They often contained something that later turned out to be important, something that in a new light ended up explaining what simply hadn’t made sense before. And now, for the moment at least, it seemed as though Olivia Koski was pulling the strings behind the scenes, as Muurla would have put it. And that meant Nyman would have to get close to her again.

  He tugged his wet hair into some semblance of order.

  He wanted to be honest with himself.

  He would have tried to get close to Olivia Koski regardless.

  7

  Olivia Koski tried to stop her head exploding. She could feel the fuse slowing catching. She listened.

  ‘At the end of the day,’ came the woman’s voice, ‘it’s a matter of the length of your employment, your current income and collateral. And, to be honest, none of these meet our criteria. So for that reason we will be turning down your loan application today. It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘Whose income, whose employment and whose collateral are we talking about?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Olivia knew this was pointless, every bit as pointless as the conversation she’d just had with the insurance company: We won’t cover arson attacks of this kind until we receive final confirmation from the police regarding the cause of the fire, and that usually takes around six months.

  ‘You said it’s nothing personal, and yet you refuse me a loan on the grounds that I’ve only just started my crappy job, my income is a joke, and the house I could use as collateral – which I own – is falling apart at the seams and there’s no running water.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the woman, before asking gingerly: ‘No running water at all?’

  ‘I can still flush the toilet,’ said Olivia. ‘But I can only dream of having a shower.’

  ‘As long as the drain still works, there’s always hope.’

  Olivia stared outside. Was that a car pulling up in the yard? She took the phone from her ear, listened for a moment but couldn’t hear anything. She returned to her conversation.

  ‘Is that the bank’s official position? As long as the drain still works, there’s hope? What happens once the toilet stops working and the shit quite literally hits the fan? Should I jump out of the window?’

  Yes, there was a car outside, an expensive-looking one. Olivia walked from the hall into the living room in order to see better. Either the car was brand new or it had just been washed. Out of the car stepped a blond man whom Olivia didn’t recognise. She realised she was only wearing a T-shirt and her underwear.

  ‘Of course, the bank doesn’t have a…’

  ‘An official position when it comes to faeces,’ said Olivia. ‘As long as there’s hope.’

  ‘Well, how should I put it…?’

  The man was standing in the yard and looking at the house, turning his head from side to side, clearly eyeing up the yard too. Olivia turned and walked into the bathroom.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ she said into the telephone. ‘After my morning coffee I’ll try and produce something really hopeful and send it to you for assessment.’

  She threw on her dressing gown. It instantly felt wrong. She was half naked and defenceless. At the same time it felt like a pointless thing to worry about. Except, of course, for the fact that there was a strange man at the door – and what was her experience of strange men in recent weeks? She pulled her dressing gown tighter round her body.

  This dressing gown felt like one of the few things she could still trust. It was a large, sturdy, soft, warm friend that she had bought herself as a present when Kristian had forgotten about her birthday for what was to be the last time. God, she thought. It’s come to this. My dressing gown is a friend – in a house where I can’t even have a shower. She dropped her phone into the gown’s deep pocket and tied the belt. She wondered whether to get dressed instead, but ended up asking herself why she should do anything at all.

  She walked to the door and saw that the blond man was already making his way up the steps.

  Strange features, she quickly thought to herself, then a second later decided perhaps he didn’t have strange features after all – no, not strange at all, perfectly normal. Normal in an odd, cold way. Eventually her eyes fixed on his hair. His hairstyle might have been fashionable at some point. No, upon further reflection it had never been fashionable. It was only then that Olivia noticed the man’s beaming smile, which looked more like a muscle exercise than an expression of benign friendship.

  ‘Olivia Koski?’

  Olivia looked at the man. Not exactly a chainsaw murderer, at least not at first glance. A black suit, a gleaming white shirt, no tie, shiny leather brogues.

  ‘That’s me,’ she said.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the man. ‘My name’s Wilenius and I’m a solicitor representing the family of the man who met a tragic fate on this property.’

  Olivia stood firmly in the doorway. ‘Are you taking me to court?’

  The man, the solicitor, seemed to ponder this for a moment. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Olivia. ‘It would fit the pattern of events today.’

  The man placed his right foot on the next step. ‘I don’t want to take anyone to court. In fact I’m sure the matter can be resolved without getting the courts involved at all.’

  ‘What matter?’ Olivia caught herself asking, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to continue this or any other conversation with the man.

  ‘The matter of this unfortunate event. Getting to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  The man looked at her. Olivia didn’t know what to make of his gaze. It was hard to respond, not so much because it was aimed right at her but because it seemed to be missing something. The man’s a lawyer, Olivia told herself, of course there’s something missing.

  ‘In the right company and after asking the right questions, we often find that we suddenly have the right answers. I have lots of experience of this. Good experience. Fantastic, even. So what do you say?’

  Olivia leaned against the doorframe. ‘About what?’ she asked, genuinely perplexed.

  The man smiled. Again it looked more like an athletic feat than an expression of a deep-felt sense of joy. ‘About what I’ve suggested.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’ve suggested.’

  ‘That we should talk.’

  ‘It’s not worth it. I already said so.’

  ‘It might be worth it,’ said the man and glanced back at his car. His gaze and smile returned with renewed vigour. ‘We are prepared to pay ten thousand euros for information that leads us to the guilty party.’

  Olivia felt the morning breeze against her face and hair, and looked at the man who was standing beneath her but who clearly wanted to take a few steps closer.

  ‘Do you have a business card or something like that?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the man, raised his right hand to his jacket pocket and pulled out a small metallic case. He opened the case, took out one of the cards and handed it to Olivia. The card was made of quality material, the numbers and letters embossed on the front. The surname the man had given was one of three printed on the card, and in the lower left-hand corner was a golden company logo.

  ‘I was just making some coffee,’ said Olivia. ‘Would you like some?’

  The coffee machine was spluttering in the kitchen: hissing, bubbling, wheezing as the water ran out and the machine could only gasp for air. The solicitor was sitting at the kitchen table, his back startlingly straight, his right hand on the table, his left somewhere out of sight. He looked around, his head m
oving slowly.

  Through the window behind him the grey day was beginning to take on different shades, a hint of blue and something lighter, perhaps a cloud penetrated here and there by the sun.

  Olivia took two mugs from the cupboard and brought them to the table. She returned to the coffee machine, turned and looked at the man. His gaze shifted from somewhere near the cooker and fixed on Olivia.

  ‘So you came home and found him dead?’

  ‘Right there,’ Olivia said as she pointed to the section of porch in front of the door and felt a shudder: a mixture of disgust, fear, confusion, annoyance. ‘Of course, I didn’t know he was dead.’

  The man looked at the spot Olivia’s finger had indicated.

  ‘Tragic,’ he said.

  Olivia waited for the solicitor to add something, but he remained silent. She picked up the pot, poured coffee into the mugs. She hesitated, feeling uncomfortable dressed only in her dressing gown – after all, the man sitting across the table was in a suit – then thought how much more comfortable this was than sitting in front of Jorma Leivo in a swimming costume.

  When exactly had her life become such that these were her only options: a swimming costume or a dressing gown? Because that’s what had happened. That’s the way it was. And at that Olivia came to another realisation and understood with the utmost, unshakeable certainty that she was desperate. That she had to come up with something. Anything at all.

  Olivia sat down at the other side of the table and listened to the man’s questions, which she answered as she had done many times before. She paid attention to the way the solicitor spoke. He sounded almost like the police. It was natural. She thought for a moment. The clarity she’d found only a moment ago was still there. Somehow it seemed to have combined with the morning breeze – cool and direct as it caressed her face. It hadn’t disappeared.

  Anything at all.

  That’s what she’d thought a moment ago.

  Once the man had all the answers he required, Olivia spoke.

  ‘The information that leads to finding the guilty party. How do you define that? You want the actual person? His name?’

  ‘Preferably.’

  ‘What about the money?’

  The man looked at her and smiled. Olivia wasn’t sure a smile suited lawyers. The smile seemed out of place given the rest of the man.

  ‘Ten thousand euros.’

  ‘You’ve already said that. But how do you deliver it? Cash, bank transfer, before or after?’

  The solicitor paused for a moment.

  ‘Does this mean you know who killed Ant— the victim, after all?’

  Olivia shook her head.

  ‘I was just thinking that if I were to find out and tell you, seeing as you represent the family, then there’s no guarantee you would actually pay me. You would have the guilty party and that would be the end of the matter. Why would you pay me anything?’

  ‘We are … The family I represent is very honourable.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Olivia. ‘But I still don’t have enough money to sort out my plumbing. No matter how noble and honourable I am, I’ve still got no running water.’ Olivia nodded towards the sink. A litre-and-a-half bottle of mineral water was standing on the counter. ‘I even have to make coffee with Evian.’

  The man looked at her.

  ‘What I mean is,’ Olivia continued, ‘your word isn’t really good enough.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he said, and Olivia could see that he meant it.

  Olivia leaned her elbows on the table. She was wrapped tightly inside her dressing gown. She could behave like this, operate like this: the clarity of a moment ago had reminded her of every euro she had spent on men – all that money, and now she had precisely nothing to show for it. Men had always taken her to the cleaners in the past. What if her luck was about to change, or if she could take destiny into her own hands and make her luck change?

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Olivia. ‘I spent my entire childhood and youth in this small town. I came back a few months ago. Nothing has changed, except for the fact that nowadays it’s called Palm Beach Finland. I’ve found a dead man in my kitchen, and my shed has exploded. Apart from that everything is as it always was. I know everyone. If I put time and energy into this, I’m sure I’ll unearth something. And once I find something, I’ll find out the rest. You can trust me,’ she said and nodded again at the bottle of mineral water. ‘If I don’t find out what happened, there’ll be no running water.’

  The solicitor looked at her. Then he smiled again. No, it really didn’t suit him. Olivia waited.

  ‘You want to see the money?’ he said.

  Olivia shook her head, keeping her gaze fixed on the man’s eyes.

  ‘You don’t want to see the money?’ he asked.

  It’s as though inside this man there were two different men, thought Olivia. One came in the door in a stylish black suit with gold-embossed business cards and eager to negotiate with her, while the other was frightened of negotiations, almost as though he wanted the situation to run aground, wanted to take it all back. On the other hand, this pattern of behaviour suited about ninety-eight percent of all men. All the men she had encountered in the last thirty-nine years, that was.

  ‘Let me make a suggestion,’ said Olivia. ‘You can take it or leave it. I’ve explained my situation. I need some money. As you can see.’

  The solicitor’s eyes moved towards the water bottle on the counter. Excellent, thought Olivia.

  ‘I live here. I’m not going anywhere. You can always find me here.’

  The man turned to look at her again.

  ‘Ten thousand euros, up front, and I’ll find you the guilty party.’

  ‘You want the money,’ he said.

  ‘In cash.’

  I’m dealing with building contractors here. Olivia decided not to say that out loud. It was none of the honourable family’s business how she used their money.

  ‘It’s a large sum of money,’ he said.

  ‘By tomorrow,’ said Olivia and stressed her words. ‘I guarantee you nobody knows this town as well as I do.’

  It was true enough. The solicitor knew nobody, but Olivia knew … lots of people. The man had placed both his hands on the kitchen table and relaxed his clenched fists. Olivia tried to read what was happening to his expression, but again his facial features seemed to blend into the background and the cautiously blue morning dawning outside.

  ‘And what happens if you don’t find the culprit?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘I’ll sell the house,’ she said. ‘I’ve already had an offer. Then I’ll repay the money. See you tomorrow then?’

  8

  Falling in love, thought Jan Nyman as he gingerly sat on the bicycle saddle, is strictly out of the question. But taking a shine to someone, that’s … negotiable. It’s negotiable because, with regard to the successful completion of his brief, it was decidedly advantageous. And if it happens naturally, so much the better. Nyman tried not to think about what would happen afterwards. The truth, the deceit, being found out, the emptiness, the loneliness, the next assignment. All at once, with all the trimmings.

  If Nyman felt battered and bruised and worn out for other reasons, he could say the same about his rented bicycle. The bike, with five gears, drop handlebars that looked like a set of antlers, and a scratched grey-steel body, had been excellently repaired, but its cogs and proportions were oddly cumbersome, as though they were actively preventing him from pedalling and moving forwards. Which in turn…

  You’re talking about something else entirely.

  Tuula’s words.

  Nyman reached his destination, jumped off, flicked the kickstand into place and left the bike standing. The petrol station building was a long low-rise building painted a light shade of green. Built in the 1970s, the proprietors seemed to have put a lot of effort into maintaining it. The paintwork was impeccable and floral curtains dotted with violets ran along the lower edges of the café windows. Nyman stepped
inside, saw the person he had come to meet, and for a moment forgot all about Olivia Koski.

  Muurla was in light summer attire, sitting at a table by the window and facing the room. Through the window was a view of the door of the carwash and behind that a hedge fluttering in the breeze. Nyman cracked open his can of lemonade, poured the fizzing drink into a glass and assumed a more comfortable position in his chair. The chair was hard. After the bike ride all chairs felt hard. Muurla looked like he was dressed for a fishing trip, right down to the lure hooked to his shirt pocket.

  Nyman glanced around him. ‘I’ve cycled eight kilometres.’

  ‘No phones, you know how it is.’

  Nyman decided not to point out that they shouldn’t be meeting in public either. He took a sip of lemonade and realised quite how thirsty he was. Eight kilometres of bone-dry, grey country lanes – and it felt like it in his mouth and throat too. From the chair next to him Muurla picked up a plastic folder containing a pile of papers and photographs. He slid the folder across the table to Nyman.

  ‘The guy in the kitchen. He’s been identified.’

  The rap sheet read like a tabloid newspaper: just as long, just as full of bizarre occurrences and events. It was hard to believe that one and the same man was behind it all. The thing the crimes all had in common was their pettiness – small enough to warrant a criminal record but not a stretch in prison. Just as noteworthy was how often the man had been caught. Judging by the list this must have happened in almost every instance. It looked like the man hadn’t managed to pull off any of his stunts, not even a simple kiosk robbery, let alone any bigger crimes.

  The man had been in prison only once. He had undertaken a money-printing scam by paying for a high-end laser printer with a forged credit card. His newly printed bank notes were tens on one side and twenties on the other. These he used to pay for a holiday for one in the sun, which he booked using his then-girlfriend’s passport. Fair play, she was similarly dark-haired, gaunt and wore glasses, but still.