Palm Beach, Finland

  Nyman pedalled hard. He could already see the SUV parked outside the chalet in the distance. Good, he thought. Leivo was at home. Nyman jumped from his bike and glanced at the vehicle. The windows had been smashed, the paintwork scraped, and the small white fence had been kicked over. The chalet was dark. Nyman saw a pile of sand behind the car. In the sand were two sets of footprints, and between them a series of drag marks. Nyman had seen things like this in Afghanistan. Back then it had meant only one thing. Someone was being moved, either wounded or against his will. Nyman followed the marks.

  At times he lost the tracks in the woodland, the undergrowth barely visible in the faint light, but he quickly picked them up again as the terrain became sandy. He walked through the small woodland and came out at a stretch of beach he hadn’t known existed. He saw a ball by the water’s edge.

  The ball was whistling.

  Nyman had nothing to drink. He hadn’t expected to find a thirsty head whose speech he could barely make out – presumably because its mouth was so dry. In the moonlight Nyman ascertained that Leivo had been struck over the head at least once. He came to a number of other conclusions too; primarily – and this Nyman was able to say with some degree of certainty – that Leivo had not buried himself in the sand. And it was this that made his behaviour all the more curious. At first Leivo was snapping and growling, but when Nyman explained that he was in fact a police officer and that everything would be fine, Leivo’s demeanour completely changed. He even smiled, let out noises that sounded almost like little laughs.

  Nyman was standing right by the water’s edge. He placed his feet where the sand was still firm and crouched down. Standing so close to the buried head made him feel awkward, queasy. The difference in height was too much. Leivo seemed like the shortest person Nyman had ever met. He crouched down further. Now he could make out the words. Nyman asked who had buried him in the sand.

  ‘A couple of mates,’ Leivo whispered. ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘You call this a joke?’

  ‘A practical joke. It’s not the first time.’

  ‘Where are your mates now?’

  ‘Bring a spade.’

  Nyman looked around. The empty beach, the silver sea, the woods – now darker than ever. Leivo was obviously lying. Nyman looked at him. He didn’t appear to be in any imminent danger. His hair fluttered in the soft night-time breeze.

  ‘I’ll find one soon,’ he said. ‘If you tell me who left you here. And why.’

  Leivo stared at the water and remained silent.

  ‘You’re up to your ears in sand,’ Nyman said, stating the obvious. ‘I’m the only person on this beach.’

  Leivo said nothing. Nyman allowed a few waves to wash against the shore.

  ‘This is madness,’ he said. ‘And you know it. Who? Why? Tell me and I’ll dig you out.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Leivo whispered. ‘I’ll wait for my friends.’

  ‘There’s nobody here. Nobody ever comes down this way. I didn’t even know there was a beach here. This must be part of the conservation area. I saw a sign further up the road. If the worst comes to the worst, it might be days before someone ventures out this way.’

  Leivo glanced up at Nyman. Waves gently rippled against the shore. Leivo was clearly thinking things over. Nyman shifted his body weight from his left leg to his right. Crouching was taking its toll on his legs. It was in his heart and knees that he most felt the onset of his fortieth birthday, he thought.

  ‘I suspect that neighbour of yours,’ said Leivo.

  So much for his mates. So much for a practical joke. Nyman thought of the man with the BMW.

  ‘Why did he bury you here?’

  ‘Wants to get his hands on this place.’

  ‘This place?’

  ‘Palm Beach Finland.’

  ‘Why would he be after Palm Beach Finland?’

  ‘This place is the future.’

  Very well, thought Nyman. This wasn’t a subject he cared to pursue any further.

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything.’

  ‘What makes you think it was him?’

  ‘He offered me money. I didn’t take it.’

  Nyman thought of the twenty-five thousand euros he’d seen in the microwave. He might be on to something.

  ‘Then what?’

  Leivo glared at Nyman. He looked angry now.

  ‘Then the friendly policeman finds a spade and digs me out of here.’

  Nyman turned. It was a beautiful night. The breeze was nothing but a barely perceptible caress; the moonlight cast its silver beams over all the shapes and forms he could see: the flat beach, the twinkling sea, the trees standing perfectly still, Jorma Leivo’s head – especially his head. It was like a peculiar, living work of art. Nyman thought of the man Leivo claimed had done this. The man with all that cash.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.

  ‘Hard to say. Can’t see my watch at the moment.’

  Good point.

  ‘Not for long,’ Leivo whispered. ‘It was after ten when I got home.’

  Nyman went through the meetings and conversations he’d had with the BMW man. If he was prepared to do this, he was prepared to…

  Nyman thought of Olivia. Then he stood up. He was in a hurry.

  ‘Are you going to fetch a spade?’ Leivo whispered.

  Nyman glanced down at Leivo. There are no tides in Finland. It was a calm night, relatively warm. Nyman ran back towards his bike. He wasn’t certain, but it was perfectly possible that behind him Jorma Leivo had started growling again.

  Robin tried to shake the sand from his shirt, but it was hopeless. Perhaps it wasn’t even necessary. He had the news they had been waiting for. He had done what he’d been asked to and, as far as he understood it, what she desired. Robin breathed deeply – in, out, inhaling the stale air in the darkened stairwell – and rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. He could see the lights, so Nea must be at home. Robin was about to ring for a second time when he heard the inside door opening. A moment passed. Robin realised someone was looking at him through the peephole. Then the door opened.

  The little boats inside Robin’s head were still slowly puttering towards the harbour. And now their volume increased. Nea was wearing tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie and looked … as though she’d been working out.

  In the small entrance hall, the light was behind her, but Robin could still see the woman standing in front of him. Her face was gleaming, her hair was tousled, her lipstick patchy, the make-up on her face smudged. Then he heard the shower.

  The bathroom door was behind Nea. Robin didn’t understand what was going on. He had so much to say, and in his imagination this situation was completely different. For some reason he had assumed he’d be given a hero’s welcome and that he would be able to tell his story in his own time, as though they were sitting round a bonfire, Nea hanging on his every word. But now … this was difficult, complicated. His brain refused to cooperate.

  ‘All that’s left of Leivo is his head,’ said Robin and realised he was gasping for air. ‘The money is ours.’

  Nea looked at Robin as though he was from outer space. Robin could do nothing but step inside, close the door behind him and carry on explaining the situation.

  ‘Chico’s got a job now,’ he said. ‘And getting hit with a spade never killed anybody.’

  This was all going horribly wrong. Nea looked like she was about to burst into tears.

  Robin didn’t know what to do. Just then he heard the sounds of showering. That’s right. Splashing, movements beneath the showerhead. He peered into the living room and saw a black blazer hanging over one of the dining chairs. If things had been popping in Robin’s head before, now there were full-on explosions. Huge, dizzying explosions. The pink room became the molten heart of a volcanic eruption.

  ‘You bitch,’ he gasped.

  The words startled Robin too. Nea shouted something, slapped him on the face. Robin staggered
backwards and his body, exhausted from the digging, was too tired to keep him upright. He fell. The hallway was narrow. Robin fumbled for something to hold on to, but what he found was a tall, full-length mirror, which came tumbling down with him. The mirror shattered as it struck the floor, though Robin held on to its crumbling frame.

  At that moment the bathroom door opened.

  A man. A man wearing a white helmet. No. Shampoo. A thick lather of shampoo.

  His furious face, furious voice.

  The man lunged at Robin.

  He took a step forwards but seemed to slip. Robin held on to the broad frame and lifted the mirror, which, with its jagged edges, now looked like a sheet of sheer ice. The man dived towards Robin as he lay on the floor. Robin realised he needed to remove the mirror from between them.

  Everything moved. The mirror glinted, the mound of shampoo approached.

  Then everything stopped. The upper corner of the mirror had disappeared and the sharpest shard of glass awaited the man’s throat. At the same time, the lower edge of the frame made sure the mirror’s position was stable.

  The shard sunk deeper into the man’s throat. The man made a noise that sounded like the mating call of a large water bird. Eventually the shard came to a halt as the corner of the frame began to split apart. He stopped and knelt above Robin. Robin could see the man’s head twice, reflected upside down in the glass. His frozen blue eyes betrayed a look of confusion.

  Dark blood began to flow across the glass of the mirror. It moved slowly, like maple syrup across a slanted waffle.

  Nyman approached the row of darkened chalets. The black BMW was gone, but Nyman was taking no risks. He stood in the shadows, listening. He heard the same as he had heard at the deserted beach a moment ago. A humming, a combination of wind, sea, trees, distant sounds carrying in from the village. He was about to take a step forwards when he heard something. It was a faint sound, and disappeared almost at once. He couldn’t say what it was. The crunch of gravel beneath tyres maybe, but there hadn’t been the noise of an engine. Nyman waited for a moment, but the sound didn’t return. He walked to his own chalet.

  There was nobody waiting for him with a gun. Why he had even imagined such a thing, he didn’t know. But instinct told him it was possible. He took the steps up to the porch and tried the door. It was as he had left it.

  He stepped down again, looked around and walked towards his neighbour’s chalet. As he approached the porch he noticed the front door. On the side with the handle it was fractionally loose from the doorframe.

  Nyman walked up the right side of the steps to avoid making them creak. He looked for a section of the porch where the boards were firmly nailed to the structure beneath. The wood didn’t make a sound. He approached the door, pressed his back against the wall and tried the door. It was open. Nyman glanced at the lock: no signs of forced entry.

  Nyman allowed the door to swing fully open. Inside, all he could hear was the low electrical hum of the mini fridge. He waited a moment longer and peered inside. Nobody burst through the door, nobody lunged at him. He cast his eyes across the interior of the chalet. Nobody.

  He stepped inside. His eyes quickly became accustomed to the dimness. The moonlight outside was powerful, forcing its way through the smallest chinks in the woodwork. Again Nyman looked around. With the exception of one T-shirt, everything was as it had been previously. The T-shirt was over the back of a chair, drying perhaps. Other than that nothing had changed. Nyman thought for a moment.

  He walked to the small kitchen, took the dishcloth from across the tap and, using it to cover his fingers, pressed the button to open the microwave.

  It was empty.

  8

  Robin was afraid. More afraid than he’d ever been before.

  He revved the engine and accelerated. He drove well over the speed limit through the nocturnal black-and-white world, his heart and mind throbbing, and wished for one thing only: that he would get there in time. He ran the rest of the way, darting between the pines, jumping over rocks, at times almost flying. Finally he arrived.

  Chico was lying on the ground among the trees, curled in a foetal position, his hands between his knees. He looked like a little boy. Perhaps exactly the same age as when they had first met and become friends, when they had founded their secret club that didn’t accept any other members. Not then, and not now.

  Robin fell to his knees beside his friend. He felt tears running down his cheeks. This was worse than anything that had happened before. The uncertainty. The fact of what he had done. The thought of what he might have broken.

  ‘What happened?’ Chico mumbled as he turned to face Robin.

  Chico squinted his eyes as though he was trying to focus. ‘Robin,’ he said.

  Robin could feel his chin trembling. He tried to stop it, but it wouldn’t obey his will. He said nothing, he was choking so much it felt as though there was an apple lodged in his throat. He felt his chin moving, felt the tears streaming from his eyes as though someone were wringing out a cloth.

  Chico sat up. He raised his left hand and gingerly touched his temple. ‘You hit me with a spade.’

  ‘I lost it,’ Robin stammered.

  ‘Let me guess. Nea.’

  ‘I just … lost it.’

  Chico lowered his hand. He propped himself up, shuffled towards a tree and rested against the trunk. Robin watched him. Chico avoided eye contact and remained quiet.

  ‘I think I lost it too,’ he said.

  Robin didn’t know what he meant.

  ‘I thought I could be like Bruce Springsteen,’ said Chico. ‘But I can’t, Robin. There’s no way. It wasn’t meant to be. And I never met Bruce.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘No, I was hallucinating. That’s why I never told you where and when I met him. I just said, Sure, I’ve met him. And you believed me.’

  ‘Because you said so. Because you’re my best friend. And because I trust you.’

  The woods were perfectly still. The wind had died down, its hush quietened. Robin was sitting on the ground opposite Chico.

  Chico looked up. ‘Your best friend?’

  ‘By a mile,’ Robin nodded. ‘I’ve never had a better friend than you.’

  ‘How many friends have you had?’

  Robin stared at the shrubs, the darkened woods. Again tears came to his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robin. I didn’t mean to be cruel. But you hit me with a spade. I’m a bit pissed off.’

  Robin looked up. He saw Chico smiling.

  ‘You’re my best friend, Robin.’

  Robin wiped his eyes and nose. He chuckled. The thing he had feared most looked like it wouldn’t happen after all. Chico laughed too. Robin leaned forwards and hugged him. That opened the waterworks once and for all. He felt Chico patting him on the back. It felt good. After a moment they let go of one another and stood up. Their heads turned towards the beach.

  ‘We can’t leave him there,’ they said together.

  They picked up their spades and started walking.

  ‘Come closer,’ Jorma Leivo whispered.

  Chico tried to hear what Leivo was saying. It was hard because his voice didn’t carry very far. Chico didn’t dare get too close. His palm still ached, and Leivo’s teeth marks were imprinted across the back of his hand.

  ‘You won’t bite?’ said Chico.

  Leivo shook his head. Chico and Robin looked at each other and knelt down in front of him.

  Leivo looked first at Chico then at Robin. ‘Good work,’ he said.

  Chico wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

  ‘Full marks for initiative, innovation, willpower and speed,’ Leivo continued in a whisper.

  Chico glanced at Robin. He nodded at Leivo’s words.

  ‘This final act was the only drawback,’ he continued. ‘But I’m happy to see you.’

  Chico gave Robin another glance. Robin shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘You’re not angry?’ asked Chico.

 
‘On the contrary. I’m impressed.’

  ‘If we dig you out of here…’

  ‘I’ll hire you. I’ve been thinking about this. Together the three of us could do things we can’t do by ourselves.’

  Chico said nothing. Jorma Leivo looked at each of them in turn. Chico gripped Robin’s arm, pulled him to his feet and led him to one side. Chico turned towards the sea. Robin realised he should do the same. The view was at once dark and glistening.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ asked Chico.

  ‘I think I’m going to need a new job.’

  The answer took Chico by surprise. Not because of what Robin said or thought, but because of how the words affected him. Only a moment ago he had realised – inevitably and decisively – that as far as he was concerned the Bruce Springsteen train had already gone. It had left the station so long ago, there was grass growing between the tracks. He just hadn’t seen it. Chico didn’t know whether it was the result of recent events, the spade blow, or what he’d just confessed to Robin, but in all respects he felt lighter. Sometimes dreams were so heavy that they became too much to handle, like a stupid, unopened hundred-kilo rucksack, its straps chafing and throttling him. And he realised that letting go of your dreams was almost like getting out of prison. Which naturally brought him back to the here and now.

  ‘I think I’m going to need one too.’

  They dug and Jorma Leivo talked.

  To be fair, Leivo only whispered and spluttered. Chico and Robin dug and kept their guard. Chico listened carefully to Leivo, trying to hear whether his tone of voice changed or whether he stopped talking and his expression altered, but such a moment never came. And when Leivo’s arms were finally free, they shook hands to seal their new partnership. Freeing up his hips and legs seemed to move more quickly, as the atmosphere was so very optimistic.