Muurla was still staring at the item on the desk. ‘What about the woman?’
Nyman nodded, though Muurla didn’t so much as look up at him.
‘Olivia Koski. She has nothing to do with Väänänen’s death.’
‘Are you sure? You got close to her?’
Nyman thought for a moment.
‘She has nothing to do with this.’
Muurla looked up, his eyes staring straight ahead. They sat for a moment in silence.
‘You said these two guys were recruited. If this woman didn’t hire them, then who did?’
‘My guess is Jorma Leivo, the proprietor of Palm Beach Finland. I’ve got no proof. And I doubt he’ll ever come clean. He’s a hard-headed man. In one sense, I take my hat off to him. I encountered him under circumstances in which a lesser man would have confessed to absolutely anything. He was buried up to his neck in sand. But when I went back to the spot to find him, he wasn’t there. Maybe it really was all a big joke, as he told me. There’s a determination about him. But, as I said, I don’t have any proof of his role in events. As you know, I asked the fraud department to look into Leivo’s financial dealings. You and I both know that was illegal, and that if something had turned up it would have been inadmissible in court. But I did hear that there was nothing untoward in his accounts. Leivo came into an inheritance some time ago and invested all the money in his Palm Beach Finland project. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to link Jorma Leivo to any of this. Maybe it’s not the end of the world. The most important thing is that we know the identity of the people who killed Väänänen, either accidentally or on purpose.’
Muurla seemed to accept Nyman’s explanation. All of it. Muurla’s eyes returned to the pronged wooden implement on the table.
‘Toys can really spice things up, you know,’ he said eventually. ‘It was a dreary time for me before I met Leena, but when she finally opened that suitcase she kept beneath the bed—’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Nyman. ‘But there’s something else.’
Muurla looked at him. His expression revealed that his mind was elsewhere, engaged in activities of a wholly different variety. Nyman waited for him to return to the here and now. You could see it in his eyes as they focussed again.
‘I want a holiday,’ said Nyman. ‘Well, not so much a holiday. I need some time off.’
‘How long?’
‘Until the sea freezes over.’
Muurla stared at him. Nyman remembered what he’d said to Olivia. The same things he had said to his ex-wife. He’d said he didn’t have any dreams.
He’d thought about this on the journey back to Helsinki, the only passenger on the bus as the empty landscapes flashed past in the opposite direction. The fact that he didn’t have dreams didn’t mean he didn’t desire things. And for the first time in his life, the object of his desire was clear. For all its simplicity, the feeling was baffling. This is what it must feel like when people decided to work to make their dreams come true. At that moment, he thought, that blink of an eye, the moment when a dream turned into a concrete endeavour, there was something so primitive and clear, so powerful that it didn’t stop at turning dreams into action. It changed a person, and it did so well before the dream was near to becoming a reality. After all, wasn’t that what dreams were for – to change us? Because surely our lives will never change if we don’t change ourselves first.
And there was no time to lose.
‘On what grounds?’ asked Muurla.
‘I want to learn to windsurf,’ said Nyman. It was true. It wasn’t the whole truth, but in and of itself, it was the truth and nothing but.
‘I thought you didn’t like windsurfing.’
‘So did I,’ said Nyman, then, after a short pause, he added: ‘I couldn’t have been more wrong.’
FIVE WEEKS LATER
Jorma Leivo held the drawing in front of his face. He held it at the end of his outstretched arm, brought it up to eye height and tried to fit it into the landscape. Yes, he said to himself.
He was standing on a boulder in the stretch of pine forest between the shore and the conservation area at Palm Beach Finland and gazing out towards the furthest edge of the beach. He lowered the drawing a little, saw the old quayside, the handful of boats and the clubhouse at the small sailing club. He raised the drawing again and saw something altogether better.
The drawing depicted a pink flamingo which, once it was completed, would stand almost thirty metres tall. The flamingo’s head would house a deck with panoramic views opening up to Helsinki and, on a clear day, all the way to Estonia. The deck would also be the starting point for the longest, highest and best water slide in Finland, which would twist and turn through the bird’s body and wind its way round the flamingo’s legs. There could even be two water slides – one for the smallest in the family, and one for real daredevils. The flamingo’s body would provide more opportunities to take in the view and let your hair down. Right in the middle, Jorma Leivo had drawn a cocktail bar in true Miami Vice style. The décor would be colourful: Florida-chic, white leather sofas, cocktails with sunhats, straws and sparkling fans. The drinks would have appropriate names, such as Sonny’s Special, Rico’s Arrest, Castillo Cool. Leivo had already drawn up the preliminary recipes: for Sonny, a stubbly, smoky whisky; for Rico, a heartening rum; for Castillo, a pure, ice-cool vodka. Customers could drink as much as they wanted, as a lift would run up and down the bird’s straight leg. Its raised leg and outstretched webbed foot would be the perfect place for a diving board. There would be no direct access from the cocktail bar, but the diving area could feature a bar selling energy drinks too.
Leivo squinted, sharpened his focus.
The flamingo would be a landmark too. The kind of landmark that this age, this country needed. Courage, innovation, open-mindedness. It would be visible from afar, even from planes cruising above the Baltic Sea. Leivo had never understood the Finlandia Hall and other supposed national monuments. Where was the originality, the ingenuity, the ability to think outside the box? Where was the life, the joy, the colour? Jorma Leivo only had to lower his hand and turn his head slightly, and he got his answer.
It was only eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning, and every single one of the hundred and twenty deckchairs was occupied. A game of beach volleyball was in full swing. And further in the distance, new chalets were being constructed, eight in total. A queue of the smallest customers wiggled in front of the ice-cream stand. Jorma Leivo had been right. Word about Palm Beach Finland was getting around.
It was almost 16°C, the breeze cooled the air and the weather forecast said it was getting colder. Maybe even hail by the end of the week. Excellent, he thought.
He gazed again at the thronging beach. Then he turned and raised his drawing again. He thought for a moment, then slowly lowered it. The masts of the sailboats appeared first, then the clubhouse gleaming with a fresh coat of white paint, the white hulls of the boats, and finally the jetties along the quayside standing in the path of progress. A dozen or so boats were moored along the quay. Three or four members of the boating club were refusing to sell their waterfront properties. They weren’t many in number, but their resistance was all the more adamant.
Leivo raised the drawing again. He looked at it. Three or four boaters apparently believed he shouldn’t be allowed to realise his dream and lift the country out of the doldrums. It was wholly unacceptable. Those three or four boaters would change their minds. At the very latest by the time…
Leivo took his phone from his pocket. He looked at his drawing one more time and selected the right number.
Chico was restringing his guitar, and he was doing it with care. After last night’s performance, the guitar was like a wheezing flu patient: it had lost its voice and seemed exhausted. Chico had played hard. He had given his all.
Playing hadn’t felt this good for a long time. While he was playing, he no longer wished he was somewhere else, no longer dreamed of bigger and better venues, let
alone absurd things like the famed tattooed English woman with the gleaming breasts who had plagued him for years – not because Chico really desired her, but because she had never really existed. Like most other things that had commanded his thoughts over the years. It was as though he had forgotten all about what he held in his hands: a guitar.
And if he had a guitar in his hands, all he could do was play, not think about what playing might or might not bring him.
Last night, after finishing his thunderous, rollicking encore, he received the kind of applause he’d always wanted. Strong pairs of hands clapped vigorously in a genuine wave of exhilaration.
Chico was tightening the upper strings as Robin’s head appeared in the doorway.
‘I talked to Nea.’
Chico looked at his friend, a friend who in recent weeks had surprised him on more than one occasion. Robin seemed to have a grip on more new things all the time. Chico had no idea what had made such an impression on Nea that she wanted to marry Robin as soon as possible. He guessed it might have something to do with the body laid to rest in the old beach, but he didn’t know the details, and Robin didn’t provide them. It didn’t bother Chico. There was so much else to talk about. Like the fact that Robin was now Chico’s manager.
‘She’s spoken to Leivo,’ said Robin, and sat on the bed.
Chico took his left hand from the guitar’s neck. ‘And?’
‘He’s going to get us out of it. We’ll get the best lawyer money can buy. The lawyer said there’s every chance we’ll get off with involuntary manslaughter or even just a public-order offence. Because we’re first-timers, it means we’ll be out by next summer or the one after that at the latest. Apparently it’s the same lawyer who got that back-passage rapist out in three weeks.’
‘What did Leivo say?’ asked Chico.
‘He said there are a few boaters that need the wind taken out of their sails.’
Chico thought for a moment. ‘That probably means something else too.’
‘I told him we like working.’
‘True,’ said Chico. ‘Especially together.’
‘Bro,’ said Robin.
They high-fived, clasped their hands in an arm-wrestling grip and finished off with a fist bump.
For a moment they were silent.
‘You’ve got a gig tomorrow at the open prison,’ said Robin. ‘There’ll be a captive audience. It’s a fresh crowd. Drink drivers, junkies. They like a good party.’
Chico looked at Robin. ‘How did you organise that so quickly?’
‘I told them we’d have a barbeque too.’
‘What are you going to cook?’
‘Anything. I’ll spread everything with my special marinade. It’s so good you could grill a toilet roll in it.’
‘True.’
‘It’s called the Bruce Springsteen Barbeque.’
‘Again?’
‘You’re at your best when you sing Bruce. You really know how to channel The Boss. It must be because you’ve met him.’
Chico shook his head.
‘But I—’
Robin raised a finger to his lips and gave a shush. ‘I’ve already told everyone. Your first number is ‘Working on a Dream’.’
Jan Nyman put down his bucket, sat down in the two-seater garden chair and looked towards the house. The old place looked as though it was being pulled in all directions at once: up, down and to the sides. The pit at the side of the house was large and gaping, sections were missing from the side of the building, and, inside, the bathroom was nothing but an empty space with an enormous hole in its freshly laid concrete floor. The renovations were still on schedule. Nyman knew exactly why that was. He looked away.
It had been another comfortingly chilly day. Bright, but chilly. When the sun and its beams were reflected at this angle, the sea looked like it was sloping away, becoming steeper. And if you squinted your eyes and allowed your imagination to run wild, you could imagine the whole world slowly turning upside down. He knew a few things about that too.
Nyman had been working since seven that morning. It had just gone five o’clock in the evening. The remains of the burned sauna had been removed and taken away to make room for new foundations. That was Nyman’s first job. He couldn’t remember everything he’d done since. The days and tasks all seemed to merge into one.
‘Having a break?’
Nyman turned. Olivia was standing behind him holding a large hammer.
‘Does that thing mean I’m not allowed?’ he asked, nodding at the tool in her hand.
Olivia pointed with the hammer. ‘Those planks need to be carried behind the new foundations and covered with tarpaulin.’
‘In a minute,’ said Nyman and looked out to sea.
Nyman could sense Olivia behind him, both physically and mentally. It had been like that since the beginning. He’d noticed it as soon as he returned. Now he could almost feel the cool steel of the hammer behind him, swinging in Olivia’s hand like a metronome. He knew without looking.
‘How about,’ he began. ‘How about I don’t get up or carry anything ever again?’
Olivia was silent.
‘What if I just sit here and watch you at work, enjoy the summer, learn to windsurf? What do you say to that?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I bought that board you recommended,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, but it seems to obey me now. Either that or it’s called a truce. I noticed it yesterday. It wasn’t pulling me in different directions anymore.’
A few seconds, then Nyman felt it on the top of his head.
Olivia’s lips.
She walked round the chair and sat down next to him. Nyman looked to the side. That profile: the long, regal nose, the sharp, thin lips, the brown eyes, raised cheekbones and dark hair. Nyman could have looked at Olivia for hours, or at least until the end of the dwindling light on this wistful summer’s evening.
‘Perhaps that’s enough for today,’ said Olivia.
‘What about Esa?’
Nyman could hear Esa drilling and banging something at the other side of the house.
‘Esa will finish once the job is done.’
Nyman looked at Olivia. Her expression gave nothing away.
‘Besides,’ she said. ‘He’s being paid as the job progresses.’
‘Right,’ said Nyman.
He hadn’t asked. He had never asked Olivia how she suddenly had enough money to pay for the renovation. He didn’t ask whether she was aware that a man who had visited the beach resort and suddenly disappeared had been keeping a wad of cash in his microwave, a sum of money almost exactly the same as the amount for which Esa Kuurainen had agreed to complete the plumbing renovation. Nyman had his suspicions, but he allowed them to fade and disperse, just as he had the thought of how he had first met Olivia Koski. In fact, the latter was far more painful to process. Yes, he had been doing his job, but still. Again he allowed the thought to drift further off, let it float up to the fluttering boughs of the trees to be carried somewhere across the sea by a greater wind.
‘Leivo has been very friendly these past few weeks,’ said Olivia.
Nyman said nothing.
‘After he made me lifeguard supervisor and gave me a pay rise, he’s even started asking for my advice. He did so again yesterday.’
‘Really?’
‘I was about to go home when he turned up on the beach and asked what the president of the boating club – who’s a good friend of Miss Simola – likes to do. He said he was thinking of what to get her as a birthday present.’
‘Really?’ he said again. He listened closely.
‘Yes. And before you warn me or patronise me, I know how to look after myself.’
‘I know that.’
Nyman was more concerned about the implications this might have for himself. He hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it might. He’d been serious about what he said to Muurla. He wanted some time off. Which meant toiling round this house from morni
ng till evening, which felt better than anything had for a long time. Better than almost anything.
‘I’m on morning shift tomorrow,’ said Olivia.
Nyman turned and placed a hand on Olivia’s tanned, muscular shoulder. He ran his fingers across her bare skin. The warmth of her skin travelled from his fingertips to the bottom of his stomach.
‘Then we should get to bed early,’ he said.
Olivia smiled, brushed the hair from her eyes and let it fall, casting a shadow across her face. It was an impressive gesture that Nyman was only too pleased to watch.
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