‘True,’ said Nyman and guessed eating so quickly must have dulled his senses. The fuller the stomach, the slower the mind. ‘Like I said, divorce and a change of job. Sometimes it’s good to let your hair down.’
‘A change of job?’
‘Yes. Didn’t I mention that?’
Didn’t I? he asked himself, and realised he’d not told Olivia, he’d told the local police. He’d said he was between jobs, because there was no job from which he could legitimately claim to be on holiday.
‘You just said you’re a maths teacher,’ said Olivia. Her eyes were so hidden in shadow that Nyman couldn’t read her expression. But her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
The nearest diners were one table away. A grey-haired man, a dark-haired woman, both wearing woollen jumpers and thick scarves to fend off the evening chill. Wise, thought Nyman, who, despite all the warnings, was wearing far too little.
‘That’s right,’ said Nyman, by now keen to steer the conversation away from himself. ‘At the moment I’m not teaching anywhere, temporarily or full-time. But I’m ready to teach again as soon as a job comes up.’
‘Addition? Division? Derivatives? I never liked those. Percentage calculations have come in handy. Everyday life is full of mathematics. We have to count everything. Time, money, calories. But why am I telling you this? You know all this already.’
Nyman watched Olivia. She was somehow…
‘Do you teach secondary or high school kids?’ she asked.
What did Nyman remember about high-school maths? All he could remember was that he’d done the minimum possible. And it hadn’t gone very well. The wisest thing would be to say he taught primary-school children. He couldn’t remember much about that either, but didn’t imagine it was very complicated. He didn’t have a chance to answer though.
‘Can I interest you in dessert?’ Nyman heard a voice beside him. He looked up. The waiter began clearing their plates and stood waiting for an answer. He was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. Nyman looked at Olivia.
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Nyman and glanced at the waiter.
The waiter nodded, walked off. There was only one dessert on the menu. Handy. Nyman couldn’t remember what it was, but it hardly mattered. As long as it’s sweet, he thought, he would like it. He poured the rest of his beer from the bottle into the glass, took a sip, and decided he’d had enough of the mathematics talk.
‘What about your day?’ he asked Olivia as he placed his glass on the table.
‘You should know,’ said Olivia. Her voice soft and friendly. Still.
Nyman didn’t want to ask What do you mean? a third time. Perhaps in the light of the lantern his expression was suitably bemused.
‘We met down at the beach, remember?’
‘Ah, that’s right,’ he said.
‘I was there all day, standing in for Chico. He called in sick.’
‘And who is Chico?’
‘The lifeguard. Looks like Patrick Swayze. He’ll tell you that himself in case you don’t notice.’
Kari Korhonen, thought Nyman. The man with his hand down his pants at every opportunity.
‘What’s he like?’
‘Chico? Why do you ask?’
Nyman was certain Olivia was smiling a little. Her hair covered her face now more than before.
‘Just curious,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen him down at the beach and…’
‘With me, perhaps?’
What did Olivia mean? Did she think Nyman might be jealous, was that it? He was jealous, but that was irrelevant. Well, maybe not entirely irrelevant. Relevant in that everything is linked to everything else. Nyman tried to muster an expression that said, Goodness, you’ve hit the nail on the head. Which was true, of course. And that seemed good enough for Olivia.
‘He’s … Well, to be perfectly honest, Chico is … Let’s say he doesn’t pose an imminent threat to the theory of relativity. But he’s a nice guy, I suppose. Friendly when he wants to be. Not the most hardworking of people, and he very often has a cold. Even in the summer. Especially in the summer.’
Nyman had heard this sentiment repeated twice in quick succession. The police might have suspected Korhonen if only the man had an iota of gumption. To Nyman, this particular character trait made him the perfect suspect. He always liked rooting for the underdog.
‘Does that answer your question?’ asked Olivia. ‘Are you happy with that?’
Nyman didn’t get a chance to respond. The desserts arrived. Rhubarb pie and homemade ice cream. The spoon felt cold to the touch. Nyman didn’t know how to phrase his next question without bringing up the subject of jealousy again.
‘I noticed my neighbour from the resort was at the beach today,’ he said as though he was talking about a good friend. He didn’t have any of those. ‘I would have recommended the windsurfing course, but he’d left before I got the chance. And I haven’t seen him since. I would have told him to come down to the beach in the morning. It’s never too late to get started. He seems like a sporty guy. He might enjoy a spot of windsurfing.’
Olivia’s expression changed. Nyman was certain of it.
‘You should ask him,’ she said.
Olivia said no more on the subject. Nyman thought the rhubarb pie needed some coffee to wash it down. And he sensed there was something going on between Olivia and his neighbour. But what?
‘I guessed he must have had some questions about the beach,’ said Nyman. ‘But maybe not.’
‘He came to tell me about everything that’s wrong with society.’
‘And what is wrong with society?’
‘Drifters like you, apparently.’
‘That’s the biggest problem?’
‘It really seemed to bug him.’
They commented on how the pie melted in the mouth. Nyman suggested coffee, and they ordered.
‘Doesn’t it worry you, not having a job?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Though I remember you said you came into some money when your wife sold your apartment. So I guess you can spend all summer on holiday and surf to your heart’s content. But what about the future?’
‘I’ve been thinking of taking some time out.’
‘You mean taking even more time out?’
‘Maybe I want to do something else altogether.’
‘And maybe mathematics isn’t your field at all,’ said Olivia. ‘Maths teachers generally know how to count.’
Olivia continued eating her pie, slowly raising the spoon to her mouth, and looked as though she was savouring it, relishing the melting, creamy vanilla ice cream. Nyman wondered what she might say next. Olivia waited until her mouth was empty.
‘You can make one mistake,’ she said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. But surely a maths teacher doesn’t make mistakes all the time.’
‘I’m in holiday mode.’
‘That may be so. But you’re not a maths teacher.’
Nyman tried to make out what Olivia Koski was thinking, but it was futile. He could only see the waiter approaching with a pot of coffee and two cups, the dark evening, the adjacent couple, the lantern and the long shadows. He heard a phone ringing. Softly at first, but as Olivia Koski picked up her handbag, the sound grew louder. The waiter arrived and began pouring the coffee.
Olivia looked at her phone, excused herself and left the table.
Olivia recognised the number. The timing was strange. She stepped away from the six tables on the patio to a small knoll where she could see both the patio and the blackened sea. In the golden light of the lanterns, the waiter was pouring Jan Kaunisto’s coffee.
Jan looked as though he hadn’t noticed Olivia’s departure. Olivia didn’t know what to make of him: he seemed genuinely interested in her, but something wasn’t quite right. Olivia had tried to catch him off-guard and surprise him, but Jan always seemed perfectly calm and collected. And a moment ago, when Olivia had said out loud that she didn’t think he was a maths teacher, he’d simply said he was in holiday mode.
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Olivia recognised the caller’s voice too. Indeed, the voice was so recognisable that she could envisage the grey moustache above the man’s lip. The caller introduced himself all the same: Reijo Pitkänen, senior constable with the local police. Olivia listened and asked if something had happened.
‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ said the constable. ‘That’s what I’d like to ask you, Ms Koski.’
‘Ms Koski?’
‘May I call you Olivia?’
You called me Olivia when you thought I might be sleeping with a pyromaniac, she thought. Olivia was fine, she replied.
‘Good,’ the constable said in such a neutral voice that it could have meant anything at all. ‘And may I apologise if I seemed a little unfriendly the last time we met. It wasn’t my intention. Sometimes it’s part of the job. I’m calling because we stopped by your house this afternoon, thinking we would inspect the area around the sauna. When we arrived, there was a man wandering around your garden.’
‘Really?’
‘The same man you were with the night the sauna caught fire. Or when it was deliberately torched.’
Olivia looked back towards the restaurant. Jan Kaunisto was sipping his coffee and slowly but surely working his way through his rhubarb pie.
‘He said he’d come to visit you,’ the constable continued. ‘Naturally, we asked him why, and he said that was between you and him. Which it is, of course – if, indeed, he is telling the truth.’
Olivia continued staring at the patio. Jan had turned and was now looking in her direction. He pointed a spoon at his plate and nodded in approval. Olivia was sure she could see him smiling. When he smiled he was even more handsome than usual.
‘I’d like to ask,’ the constable continued, ‘is that the case? And if it’s not the case, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary around the house?’
Jan poured himself more coffee and glanced again in Olivia’s direction. With the forefinger of her left hand, Olivia indicated she would only be a minute. She thought of the ten thousand euros. Damn it. Why was it that every time she was about to achieve something in her life, there was always an insurmountable moral obstacle in her way? All she wanted was a bathroom with running water, to go some way towards correcting generations of neglect. Now Olivia was convinced that Jan Kaunisto was the man the solicitor was looking for. That’s why she’d suggested they take the scenic route; there were more people out and about.
Jan Kaunisto fitted the timeline of recent events: he had arrived in town just before the fire, which had exploded as though a bomb had gone off. That’s what the fire chief had said. Olivia didn’t know much about fuses or timer devices, but she imagined putting one together couldn’t be all that difficult. Then there was the way in which Jan had got to know her, instantly making her acquaintance and sticking to her ever since. And now he was asking about other people in her circle. And he most definitely wasn’t a maths teacher. Of that she was absolutely certain.
The only thing Olivia didn’t understand was why Jan would return to the town after killing a man in her house. There might be an explanation for that too: if you’re twisted enough to murder someone, then you’re twisted enough for anything, right?
Olivia had to do what had to be done. Jan had made his own bed, and now he’d have to lie in it. Besides, the solicitor had already given her the ten thousand euros in order to establish the identity of the killer. Olivia had given her word. Before that she’d promised herself that she would do everything in her power, anything at all, to raise enough money for her renovations. Nothing about this felt right or good, but that didn’t mean that her decision couldn’t be either of those things. She had learned this the hard way; sometimes you have to make a decision that feels bad in order to bring about something good.
But back to the matter at hand: anything out of the ordinary?
If you thought the events of the last three weeks were the new normal, that this was what her everyday life had now become, then in that respect nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
‘Everything at the house seemed fine,’ she said. ‘If you don’t count the massive renovations.’
‘That’s right,’ said the constable. ‘I mean, a little touching up will do the place good. One more thing. If you hear or see anything, you’ll let us know?’
Olivia turned, stared into the dark woods.
‘I can’t see anything.’
They bade each other a pleasant evening and ended the call. Olivia took the solicitor’s card out of her pocket, dialled the number and waited. The call went straight to voicemail. Olivia left a message and began walking back towards the dessert, the coffee and Jan Kaunisto.
4
The moving operation was infernal. Leivo must have weighed about 220 pounds, and dragging him through the undergrowth was hard work. Chico and Robin pulled him by the arms, which they had hastily tied together. It was hard going, and every time they stopped to take a breath, the wind whipped around them making them feel ill.
They had two options: either pull or deal with the nausea.
In fact, now that Chico thought about it, this part had been curiously absent from Robin’s plan. Chico hadn’t given it a second thought either. He had concentrated on one location, one task at a time, and completely forgotten about the transitions from one place to the next. As he slogged through the woodland, he realised that this same problem had been an issue with all of his previous plans too. He had never appreciated that between all the really important events, there was the dirty work, and the majority of his life was precisely that.
The thing he had always dreamed of – standing in the spotlights with a guitar over his shoulder – was nothing but the blink of an eye, a fleeting image that, once it faded, left him there in the pine grove dragging a heavy load. If that was what had to be done at all. The thought made him feel both grateful and restless. The feelings joined, causing him considerable confusion. Perhaps he should thank Robin for all this. He didn’t know.
But here they were that summer’s night, in the shelter of the pines, by the sea – and soon in the second phase of their plan.
They each pulled with one hand, carrying a spade in the other. Leivo’s eyes had been bound in case he regained consciousness. They had tied a rag across his mouth too so he couldn’t shout out. But Leivo tried neither of these. When they slowed enough and the scratching of the dry undergrowth ceased, Chico heard the sound of Leivo snoring. It had a calming effect. Peculiarly enough.
They pulled Leivo over a flat stretch of rock and made their way down to the sand. They hauled their load towards the water’s edge and started digging. It was extraordinarily hard work. Slow and arduous. Using their spades, they measured Leivo as he lay outstretched, and each time had to accept that the hole still wasn’t deep enough. Chico had to stop every few minutes to catch his breath. His arms were aching, burning, his palms were chafed and bleeding, and he couldn’t straighten his back. To Robin’s credit, though, he worked with hitherto unprecedented vigour – and without taking a break. From one moment to the next his spade struck the ground and raised up again, as precise and effective as a piston.
Finally the spade measurements showed they had reached the required depth. Chico helped Robin up to shore level. There in the moonlight they stood next to their pit. Leivo was still snoring on the other side. The sea was tickling the edge of the pit. Chico looked at both ends of the beach. Empty, deserted. This area of Palm Beach Finland was a conservation area, and even in the daytime it wasn’t very popular. The strip of sand along the shoreline was closed off on both sides by woodland.
Once again they gripped Leivo by the arms and hauled him to the edge of the pit. They turned him over, carefully pulled his legs to the edge and slid him in. First his feet disappeared, then his shins; his knees buckled … and it was then that Chico realised they had a problem. He stopped Robin and explained. If they simply threw him into the pit, Leivo would slump to the bottom like jelly.
Robin ha
d an idea. They tied the rope beneath his armpits, and Robin took the role of brakeman: he slid Leivo into the pit and held him in an upright position. Perhaps upright was a rather optimistic term. Leivo’s heavy head slumped against his chest and his body looked limp.
Once Leivo’s shoes reached the bottom of the pit, Chico took hold of the rope and Robin started shovelling. Filling the pit around Leivo went quickly; with every spadeful Chico had less to hold in place. It was a relief because his arm and back muscles were screaming in agony.
It wasn’t their intention to bury Leivo entirely. Oh no – because this plan was a stroke of genius. Chico was prepared to admit it now that the job was almost done. All they were going to do was dig a pit that would solve all their problems.
Robin filled the pit until the sand was up to Leivo’s shoulders. It was time for the finishing touch. This needed a degree of precision. Robin dropped to his knees and started using his hands. He told Chico to do the same. Chico hesitated. He didn’t want to go anywhere near Leivo. It didn’t feel right. But Robin insisted and Chico relented. He picked up handfuls of wet sand and packed it round Leivo’s shoulders and pressed it against his neck. Not too tightly – this was a precision operation. This had to work. It absolutely had to…
Chico was on Leivo’s right-hand side when Robin said he wanted Leivo to see the rising tide. Robin grabbed the rag tied round Leivo’s eyes and pulled it off.
Leivo’s steady breathing stopped. His eyes opened.
They opened and widened. He looked to the sides. Chico looked at Leivo. Leivo looked at him. The distance between their eyes was less than a metre. Chico realised he had taken off his balaclava because digging had been such hard, sweaty work. At that same moment, Leivo realised enough about what was going on that he started bellowing wildly.
Thank god there was a rag in his mouth too.
Chico could have fainted with shock. He imagined Leivo leaping out of the sand. It didn’t happen. He remained where he was. As did Chico. He and Leivo looked one another in the eye until Chico finally managed to tear his eyes away and stand up.
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