“Morning, Jyrki. What’s new?”
“Well, we had a murder last night, and I want you to investigate. You can have Pihko and Koivu to help, and whoever else you need. I don’t want to give this to Ström because . . .” Taskinen spread his hands. Sergeant Pertti Ström was famous for his lack of tact and his coarse language.
“What kind of case is it?” I asked, hesitating slightly. My maternity leave was supposed to start in barely a month, so I was approaching each new case knowing that someone else would probably have to solve it in the end.
“You remember that ice skating show a couple of weeks ago . . . ?” Taskinen had to force each word out of his mouth. “Noora Nieminen was found beaten and dead in the trunk of a car yesterday.”
“Oh my God! Whose car was she found in?”
Taskinen glanced at his papers.
“A woman named Kati Järvenperä. She’s an instructional designer for the Helsinki Summer University and lives out by the bird refuge in Tiistilä. She says she left the trunk unlocked at about 7:40 p.m. while she was in the supermarket with her kids. When she got back, at one minute to eight according to her report, she found Noora’s body in the trunk.”
I tried to banish the image of Noora’s frightened, pleading eyes—Snow White’s eyes—as she begged the Huntsman to spare her life. Noora’s look of concentration before a jump, her exuberant smile after the program ended . . .
Heartburn rose in my throat, as it had started to do lately, and my pulse sped up. I forced myself to continue asking questions, the answers to which I didn’t want to hear.
“What had been done to her?”
“Beaten in the head and upper body with an object, still unidentified. But the ultimate cause of death was a blow that crushed the back of her skull. They found dirt, moss, and some chips of rock in her skull, so she may have fallen and hit her head on a sharp rock. The body was wet because it was raining yesterday. She was probably killed outside, on her way home from the ice rink. She left around seven, apparently intending to walk home. It’s right across from the marina, less than a mile and a half away.”
Taskinen’s voice trembled. I had only seen him cry once before, when an officer in our unit was killed by a shotgun blast from a man who had taken him hostage.
“What’s happened so far? Has the family been notified?”
Taskinen related that the patrol who initially responded to the call didn’t recognize Noora. Her face was scratched and stained with blood, and she didn’t have a purse or wallet with her. The doctor at the hospital who declared her dead was an avid figure-skating fan and realized who she was. By then Lähde from our department had arrived and had the sense to call Taskinen to verify the identification. Then Taskinen had to go tell Noora’s parents, who had already started to wonder where their eldest was.
“You’ve probably been up all night. Does Silja know?”
“I stopped by home an hour ago to tell her. She completely went to pieces. Terttu had a meeting she had to get to, so she couldn’t stay to calm her down either. She was at practice at the ice rink yesterday too, but she left earlier and was home by six thirty. Our neighbor, Mirjam, was just stopping by our place and saw Silja. Janne and Noora stayed behind with Rami and Elena to practice a new jump combination.”
There was relief in addition to the pain in Taskinen’s voice. Although Silja would hardly be at the top of the list of suspects for Noora’s murder, the investigation’s chain of command would be much simpler if the lieutenant’s daughter had a solid alibi for the time of the incident. But we would have to interview her. Taskinen’s position was tricky because a family member had been a friend of the victim.
I stood up and walked over to the map of Espoo hanging on the wall behind Taskinen’s desk. South of the ice arena in Matinkylä was a park that extended all way to Noora’s neighborhood. On a clear night the half-mile walk would have been pleasant, but why would Noora want to slog her way home in the pouring rain?
“Has the area between the ice rink and her house been searched already?”
“Forensics headed that way at six this morning, and Koivu and a couple of others are interviewing all the regular users of the parking garage. They’ll put up notices on the bulletin boards in the shopping center, and if that doesn’t help, we can use the radio and newspapers. We’re already having a look at the garage surveillance tape, but the camera only covers the entrance and exit. Of course we can check every car that went in or out between seven thirty and eight if we have to. That’s just a hell of a lot of work.”
Taskinen already had the investigation off to a good start. And it didn’t take much thought to realize the only reason he hadn’t called me to come in during the night was because I was so pregnant. It was both touching and annoying. Once my pregnancy became common knowledge, I constantly had to assure relatives and colleagues that I could continue working at my previous pace. Mostly I sat behind a desk anyway, interviewing people and doing paperwork. During my entire career as a police officer, I’d only ended up in a few tight spots.
“Maybe it’s best to leave Noora’s parents alone for the morning. I’ll probably start with the three who were at the rink when Noora left,” I said.
“Actually, there were other people there besides Janne and the coaches, at least when Silja left. Elena Grigorieva’s husband, Tomi Liikanen, was still there, and Ulrika Weissenberg from the Espoo Figure-Skating Association was there too. And we can’t rule out Vesku Teräsvuori either. Noora’s parents are already blaming him.”
“I’ll probably need to ask for the file on the stalking case, then. Teräsvuori is definitely suspect number one. But one thing at a time.”
“Ström suggested it could also be the same guy that’s been molesting little girls around that neighborhood for the last couple of months.”
“Those girls were all younger than Noora, though, more like ten years old. Ström is handling that case, isn’t he?” It was more a statement than a question. Maybe Ström could finagle Noora’s murder investigation for himself if he could convince everyone the perpetrator was the same prowler he’d been hunting. The professional competition between Ström and me was already bad enough, and I didn’t want to get into some sort of pissing contest about what case was whose.
“Ström’s case has been stalled for a while now. And I don’t think the connection is very credible, but of course we have to consider the possibility.” Taskinen’s voice was half an octave lower than normal from the exhaustion. He yawned.
“Of course. Jyrki, shouldn’t you go get some sleep? Silja needs you at home.”
“No good. I have that interview with the county police commission today.”
Now that the chief of police was retiring, a major hole was opening up in the career ladder. Taskinen was one of the strongest candidates to head up the Criminal Division, but unfortunately he wasn’t a card-carrying member of any political party. Some of the police commissioners seemed to think that was more important than his impeccable service record. If Taskinen was chosen, our unit would be in an interesting position because two people with basically identical credentials would be competing for the job: Ström and me. We both had law degrees, and while I had better grades, Ström had wider experience as a cop. The biggest obstacle to my selection would be that I would have to start my new job while on maternity leave.
I didn’t know whether I should wish Taskinen good luck with his interview or not. He would definitely be a good captain, but I couldn’t stand to have Ström as a boss.
“Is the interview report from the woman who found the body ready yet?” I asked, my hand on the doorknob.
“No. She hasn’t even been questioned properly. When the first patrol arrived on scene, Järvenperä was completely calm, told them what had happened, organized her groceries, and started calling a taxi. The patrol offered to take her and the kids home. When they finally got her there and she passed off the children to her husband, the shock hit. They ended up having to call an ambulance.�
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I nodded. I had found a body once too. Even though I’d seen several bodies in the course of my work, the experience was still awful. And apparently Noora had been badly beaten. I would need to head over to the Institute of Forensic Medicine to have a look. But by then the blood would have been washed away, her limbs placed in a resting position, and the fear of death gone from her eyes.
The realization started to set in that someone had killed Noora Nieminen, one of our country’s most promising young athletes. I would have preferred not to think about the implications, to simply be able to operate on routine. Although that rarely worked for me in a murder investigation, no matter who the victim was. The irreversibility of death always affected the investigation whether I wanted it to or not.
“Maybe I’ll start with Elena Grigorieva,” I said to Taskinen, and got to work.
I knocked on the door to Koivu and Pihko’s office, which I had dubbed the Little Boys’ Room. Fortunately Pihko was around and available to go with me to conduct interviews. We would take official statements later. I glanced at my canvas shoes, which looked far too thin for the chilly weather, but I didn’t want to wear running shoes to visit people in mourning.
Elena Grigorieva lived in a high-rise apartment building. It would have made sense to call ahead to make sure she was home, but I didn’t know whether she had heard about Noora’s death yet or not. That wasn’t news I wanted to break over the phone.
I let Pihko drive while I tried to assemble the puzzle that was Elena Grigorieva. She had to be about forty; more than two decades had passed since her own days as a figure skater. Grigorieva and her husband Anton had belonged to the Soviet skating team around the same time as Irina Rodnina and Alexander Zaitsev. The Grigorievs had been very good technically, but their performances had lacked the personal sparkle of their more successful teammates. Still, they had won medals in the European and World Championships. Anton Grigoriev had died in some sort of accident about eight years ago. The couple had a daughter, Irina, who was about eleven now, and from everything I had heard, she had huge promise as a figure skater.
I didn’t know where Elena had met her second husband, a fitness center entrepreneur named Tomi Liikanen. They had married a few years earlier, and Elena and her daughter had moved to Finland. The Espoo Figure-Skating Association had hired her as a coach, and the results were already starting to show. Silja Taskinen would probably be able to tell me a lot about Grigorieva. My own impression was of a purposeful and intense, perhaps even slightly intimidating, skater who rarely smiled. She had retained her old name and its Anglicized spelling even after moving to Finland.
I had met Tomi Liikanen a few times. Even though the police station had its own gym, and we had permission to use it once a week during work hours, I preferred to train somewhere I wasn’t surrounded by coworkers. Working out gave me a break from thinking about my job. Sometimes I trained at the public gyms in Tapiola or Kamppi and sometimes at Tommy’s Gym. You could get in any time you wanted with a key card, and at times I was only the person there. Tomi was a bit of a meathead and took pleasure in showing off his muscles to the women who visited the gym.
“Here we are.” Pihko parked the car next to a soccer field. Some junior high–aged boys were playing a leisurely game while their teacher tried to enforce some semblance of the rules. I remembered my own time playing when I was in school and how it felt to be the only girl in a group of boys. I had done alright, but it felt good to think that if the child growing inside me was a girl and wanted to play soccer, we had girls’ teams now. Soccer was still mostly considered a guy thing, while figure skating and gymnastics were probably the only sports where the athletes and audience were mostly female.
We took the elevator to the eighth floor. Pihko kept as far away as he could from my belly, which stuck out noticeably. I had managed to conceal my pregnancy around the station until early April, although Ström had guessed all the way back in January. I was shocked he kept his mouth shut despite constantly ribbing me about it when we were alone. I’d told Taskinen in April, if only so he could start finding someone to fill in for me while I was gone. By that point I was round enough that hiding it wouldn’t have been possible much longer anyway.
The door that said “Grigorieva and Liikanen” looked thrashed, almost as if someone had tried to break in. Pihko rang the doorbell, and it opened instantly, as if Elena Grigorieva had been waiting for us on the other side.
“Hello. I’m Sergeant Kallio and this is Officer Pihko from the Espoo Police. Are you Elena Grigorieva?”
Grigorieva’s expression turned from confused to furious, a dangerous flame flaring in her dark-brown eyes.
“Are you really coming to check my visa again? How many times do I have to show you that everything is in order? I can’t believe that even in this country people aren’t allowed to live and work in peace!” Grigorieva tried to close the door, but I pushed my body in the way.
“We aren’t here about your visa. We should probably come inside. This is about Noora Nieminen.”
“Noora? What about her? That lunatic hasn’t done something to her, has he?” Grigorieva’s rage turned to fear, and quickly she motioned us into her cramped living room, which was filled with small tables with lace doilies and knickknacks.
“So you haven’t heard yet. I’m sorry, but Noora is dead.”
Pihko and I both jumped at Grigorieva’s shriek.
“Nyet! Nyet! It can’t be true! I was going to make Noora my world champion!”
I barely managed to dodge the crystal vase that flew past my head and exploded into a hail of shards against the balcony door. Pihko grabbed Grigorieva and shoved her down onto the couch. Shaking the worst of the pieces of glass out of my hair, I picked through the dangerous mess on the floor over to her side. Grigorieva had burst into tears. Looking unhappy, Pihko brought a paper towel and a glass of water from the kitchen, but she waved them away. After a few minutes of wailing, she put her head between her hands and took a few deep breaths. Then she held her breath, let it out, raised her head, and dried her tears.
“You probably came to question me, not to watch me cry. Go ahead. Ask you questions.”
I thought it was strange that Grigorieva didn’t ask how Noora had died. Still it was premature to suspect that meant anything. Despite the calm of her voice, she was anything but OK. I knew we had to take the opportunity while we had it; Grigorieva could lose it again at any moment.
“You were at a training session last night at the Matinkylä Arena with Noora. What time did practice end and when did Noora leave?”
“Well . . . we stopped at about seven. Noora probably took a shower and changed her clothes. We were at the doors around ten after.”
“‘We’ who?”
“Noora, Janne Kivi, my husband, Tomi, and I. Rami Luoto, the other coach, must have left earlier. Wait—you’re from the Espoo Police? Do you know Lieutenant Jyrki Taskinen?”
“He’s our immediate superior,” Pihko replied.
“Why didn’t he come to tell me about Noora?” The rage glinted in her small brown eyes again.
“I’m sure you’ll talk to him too. We’re just conducting a preliminary interview,” I said to calm her down.
“Interview? What do you need to interview anyone for? Don’t you know who ran her down?”
Now it was my turn to be surprised.
“Um . . . she didn’t die in a traffic accident. Why did you think that?”
Grigorieva shook her head and stared vacantly past me. She was clearly battling to keep control of herself. Fortunately there weren’t any vases on the coffee table, just an empty wooden fruit bowl.
“I’m sorry. I’m confusing things. Anton, my first husband, was run down by a car. But not Noora. How did she die, then?”
“The precise cause of death is still unknown,” I replied evasively. Was there really any sense in interviewing Grigorieva right now? She was obviously extremely upset. I decided to continue the conversation anyway. “
Was there anything strange last night, or was your practice normal? What state of mind was Noora in?”
“Normal!” Grigorieva exclaimed. “The situation was anything but normal. That damn Weissenberg. Stupid bitch . . . excuse me.” Grigorieva took a deep breath as if she were counting to ten to regain her composure. “Ulrika Weissenberg and Noora were fighting about sponsorship money again. I don’t know exactly what it was about. Rami must have been talking to Janne and Noora about it with Ulrika. But Noora wasn’t satisfied with the contract.”
“Did Noora make her own contracts? Wasn’t she only sixteen?”
“Noora isn’t a normal sixteen-year-old. She is very talented but also horribly stubborn. I mean she was . . . She even participated in her own choreography. And you should have heard the way she would yell at Janne if he made a mistake.” Grigorieva buried her face in her hands, but the weeping this time was calmer, almost healing. Pihko shot me a questioning glance, and I shrugged. Let her cry. Maybe she would be able to talk again soon.
For something to do, I stood up and started making a pile of the biggest chunks of crystal. I was lucky she’d missed my head. And it was good I had someone calm and discreet like Pihko with me. Ström would have demanded we arrest Grigorieva for assaulting an officer. Now where did Grigorieva keep her broom and dustpan? Actually a vacuum would be best for getting the tiny pieces of glass out of the rug.
Grigorieva lifted her head when she realized what I was doing, irritation in her tear-blurred eyes.
“For God’s sake, don’t start cleaning! Don’t the police usually make messes, not clean them up? At least that was how it worked at home in Moscow. Do you still have anything left to ask?”
“If you feel up to talking, then tell us a little about yesterday’s practice. So Janne, Noora, and Silja were all on the ice?” I said.
Death Spiral Page 2