Rami had moved out onto the ice and was helping one of the girls find the right closed position for her jump rotation. I remembered myself as a prepubescent, how uncomfortable I had been to have anyone touch me, but of course skaters would be used to smelling their partners’ sweat and the garlic on their breaths, and feeling their coaches’ cold hands on their waists.
Then Rami started guiding the group through their cool-down routine. I wished I could join them—my back was stiff from sitting and driving and could have used some limbering up. Just then Ulrika noticed me and started walking over. Her heels clicked sharply against the concrete floor.
There was acid in her eyes, and I steeled myself for yet another scolding, but the first words out of her mouth floored me.
“Thank you for saving Janne from those impertinent police officers.”
Apparently Janne had called Ulrika immediately after getting out of the police station and asked her for legal advice in case he had to go to court. Chairwoman of the Espoo Figure-Skating Association seemed to be a full-time job, or at least Ulrika Weissenberg had turned it into one.
“Noora’s funeral will be next Tuesday,” Ulrika continued. “It will do Hanna good to get past at least one of the stages of grieving. But what exactly did you say to her about Teräsvuori? She seems to be convinced he’s guilty now.”
“There aren’t any grounds for that,” I replied evasively, because Elena Grigorieva was also approaching now. She didn’t have anything for me, though, and just walked past with nothing more than a brusque nod of her head.
To Ulrika she said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to make Irina skate Snow White. She doesn’t know the role properly yet. And . . . I’m afraid it will bring bad luck.”
Elena Grigorieva’s features looked sharper today than before; the depressions below her high cheekbones were like small graves, the skin of her large nose stretched tight as if by a facelift.
“I think doing Snow White would be a little tasteless too. Perhaps we should settle for the group dance after all,” said Ulrika.
What on earth was Ulrika Weissenberg planning? I didn’t have time to ask, though, because the music stopped and Rami Luoto announced that practice was over. Glancing around, he noticed me and then quickly skated over to us. He moved so differently than the blocky hockey players now barging onto the ice. He was almost catlike.
The trip to Rami’s took only a few minutes, so I understood why Rami usually walked. I guessed he also usually climbed the stairs up to the fourth floor. Now he politely opened the narrow door of the three-person elevator, probably thinking that I wouldn’t be up to hauling my mass that far. At the last second a third person stepped in with us, a middle-aged woman wet from the rain and carrying a shopping bag. Her presence forced Rami to lean against my belly. A strange emotion, which he obviously tried to suppress, flashed across his face. Like disgust. Rami could barely restrain his sigh of relief when the woman got out on the third floor.
Two of the doors on the fourth floor said Luoto.
“My sister lives next door,” Rami said without me asking. Inside he offered me a glass of mineral water, and then said he was going to shower and change. Because I knew he had skated on the North American ice-dancing circuit for more than a decade, I had expected his home to be somehow gaudy, but I was wrong. His neutrally painted one-bedroom apartment was completely different than I had imagined. It didn’t reveal anything about its owner’s profession. The only object that suggested figure skating was an International Skating Union rulebook lying open cover side up on the corner of the coffee table.
I guess our house didn’t reveal much about Antti’s or my professions either. Someone might expect to find a gun collection or shelves full of true crime books in a cop’s house. You wouldn’t be able to tell Antti was a mathematician unless you peeked in his little office next to the kitchen, which was dominated by two computers, shelves full of math books, and colorful fractal prints on the walls. Based on the mass of books in the living room and bedroom, you probably would have guessed the residents were more literary people. The French poetry and other more abstruse things were Antti’s, while I contributed a nice pile of mystery novels and my girlhood books. My idol, Pippi Longstocking, graced the wall of the downstairs bathroom, and the lined face of Antti’s hero, Samuel Beckett, stared from the wall of the front hall into the eyes of everyone who entered from the wall of the front hall. Our house also probably communicated that neither of us had much time for interior decorating or cleaning. The comfortable burgundy flea market armchairs and functional sofa were constantly covered with cat hair, and more than once a book had turned up in the refrigerator. Although Antti hadn’t received his mathematics assistant professorship, he showed serious symptoms of absentmindedness.
In a spirit of conciliation, my old electric bass leaned against Antti’s piano, which, according to the tuner, was just a few steps away from being firewood. The area around the stereo receiver and amplifiers was piled with records. After we moved, Antti had organized our vinyl, classical according to composer, rock according to performer, although sometimes Alanis Morissette and Mozart’s “Requiem” ended up lying next to one another.
So far the upstairs bedroom had served as a storage closet and occasional guest room. My first project for maternity leave would be decorating it as a nursery, which meant setting up the bassinette and changing table we’d inherited from Antti’s sister and the big red rocking horse that had been Antti’s dad’s.
It seemed as if Rami Luoto had done everything he could to remove any sign of his personality from his apartment. The milky-white leather furniture was stylish enough but boring. On the blond birch shelves were the standard television, VCR, and stereo, but all the media was hidden somewhere. There were hardly any books—maybe they were in the bedroom—and there weren’t any skating trophies. My water glass was a green Iittala tumbler like most Finnish homes had, probably purchased on sale at a local supermarket. Actually the only personal object was a black-and-white photograph of a ballerina hanging above the couch. Judging from her outfit, she was dancing Odette in Swan Lake. Who was she? An old lover? That would refute Ström’s notion of Luoto being gay.
“Well, what can I tell you about Noora?” It was hard to believe Luoto had just gotten out of shower. His silver-streaked hair was perfectly combed, and his gray sweater and slacks looked as if they had been ironed. But his apparent relaxation was like that of a resting cat. He was carrying a second glass, ice, and a half-liter bottle of lemon mineral water.
“I actually wasn’t thinking of talking about Noora but about the Grigorievs. You met them in the early seventies, didn’t you, Mr. Luoto?”
I usually tried to address clients who were older than me a little formally. Calling him Mr. Luoto emphasized my official position, creating distance and authority. I used first names when I wanted to play the part of the woman you could confide in. Rami and I had used first names since we met, which may have been a carryover from his years in Canada.
“The Grigorievs?” Rami asked, creases dancing around his mouth. “What about them? Anton died years ago.”
“Under more than slightly suspicious circumstances. What was he like? Did their marriage seem happy?”
Rami poured himself a glass of water, emptied half, and then turned it in his hand.
“Happy . . . how do you measure that? A lot of Russian skating pairs got married back in those days. Elena and Anton were just kids when they started skating together, and they got married young too, in their early twenties. Elena had dreams of a career in the ballet, and Anton was supposed to be a hockey player, but you remember the Soviet system—not everyone had a choice. They produced top figure skaters like widgets in a factory, and one of the coaches must have realized what a perfect match they were. Of course it was a big opportunity for them. They got to travel and represent their country, and they had enough money to buy things the average person in Moscow couldn’t dream of . . . But they lacked that certain som
ething that would have taken them to the very pinnacle of the sport.”
“What was that?”
“A sort of final emotional kick. Technically, they were nearly perfect. But Elena—how can I put this gently—lacked expression, and Anton only really fit comic routines. Back then the Russian style was very classical and tragic.”
“What happened when they ended their amateur careers?”
“Actually we skated in the same ice show for a while, ‘The Magic Skate.’ It wasn’t nearly as well known as ‘Holiday on Ice,’ but we still got to travel and make some money. But then Elena got pregnant and they went back to Moscow.”
“You mean pregnant with Irina?”
“No, this was earlier. That was when I landed my first big role in the program. I’d never quite mastered a triple Lutz but was good at making the audience laugh, so I became an entertainer . . .” Melancholy crept over Luoto’s face. Maybe the tepid success of his competition career still ate at him, even twenty years later. “But we weren’t supposed to be talking about me. Elena had a miscarriage and then a serious infection. Hospital hygiene was never one of the Soviets’ strong suits. That was the end of their skating. Luckily, Anton was able to get a job in the Sports Ministry.”
“And a few years later Elena got pregnant again?”
“Exactly. And as I understand it, having a baby completely revitalized her. Elena had never studied anything because she’d been skating professionally since she was ten. What else could she do than start coaching? And they started Irina skating before she could walk properly. And that girl is going to be the first Finnish world champion in more than sixty years now that . . . now that Noora and Janne won’t.”
Rami stood and walked to the window, which rain covered like drops of tears. A couple of minutes passed before he could talk again.
“That was a possibility, you know. Noora had all the right psychological traits. She was brave, open, evocative, musical, creative. Everything! Her low center of gravity wouldn’t have ruined the overall package. All Janne had to do was land his jumps and follow her lead.”
Had Rami felt that Noora and Janne’s success would make up for his own disappointment? That probably wasn’t a terribly good basis for coaching.
“Which one of you lured Elena to Finland, you or Tomi Liikanen?”
“Tomi started it, but I finished the job.” Stepping away from the window, Rami put on some music. The strains of a harpsichord trickled through the room. The music was distantly familiar, maybe Vivaldi.
“I met Elena again years later at a juniors world championship in Bulgaria. We had a very promising boy in the club at the time. He unfortunately quit later because he was getting teased too much. But that doesn’t have anything to do with this. Back then most top coaches stayed in the Soviet Union. When we met, Elena had the feeling she wasn’t going to make it any higher in her coaching career than she had as a skater, always coming in third behind Moskvin, Tarasov, and the like. But here in Finland, we lack international-level coaches. I suggested she move here back then, but it wouldn’t have been very easy. Anton had a good job in the Ministry, and he had even voluntarily joined the Communist Party. Elena didn’t talk about their personal business, but I had the impression their marriage was fairly broken.”
“Have you ever been married?” I asked.
“Me? No! Do you mean I’m not the right person to evaluate other people’s marriages? I’m probably not. But anyone could have seen it: Elena and Anton were married almost out of necessity, far too young.”
“And then Anton died . . .”
“Anton was hit by a car. The whole thing was strange, and they never found the driver. You already know all that. I was at the funeral as part of the delegation from the Finnish Figure-Skating Federation.”
According to Rami, the mood at the funeral had been strange. No one had cried. Elena had been the only next-of-kin because Anton’s parents had died the previous spring and his only sister was on assignment somewhere in Uzbekistan. Irina wasn’t there. The memorial was held in a building in the center of a construction site and the speeches were barely audible over the sound of drilling outside.
“Tomi was there too, which was the first time I met him. I immediately thought he was interested in Elena.”
“Tomi Liikanen was in love?”
Rami looked uncomfortable. “Not in love. Interested.”
“Sexually?”
“I can’t explain it! Interested in having Elena for himself, I guess. Tomi was the one who really started the idea of Elena coming to Finland. I just coaxed it along.”
I thought for a second. What benefit could Elena Grigorieva’s move to Finland have been for Tomi Liikanen? Or had he thought Elena was in danger too if she stayed in Moscow? I would probably have to ask him. According to Rami, it took almost no convincing for Ulrika to hire Elena, and once she was involved, arranging a work permit and visa was easy. Elena and Tomi married the same week Elena started working in Finland. Now both mother and daughter were waiting for Finnish citizenship so Irina could represent Finland at the Olympics.
“They’re shooting for 2002 in Salt Lake City when Irina will be seventeen, which is the perfect age. Next year she’ll go to the World Juniors.”
I wanted to move away from the Russian angle for a while, so I turned the conversation to Janne’s adventures.
“You and Janne seem to be good friends. Why do you think he’s acting the way he is?” I asked as Rami poured me another glass of mineral water.
“What do you mean?”
I told him about that morning’s high-speed chase. The laugh lines around Rami’s eyes deepened in concern, and his slender fingers ran through his hair.
“It’s normal he’s messed up. And he’s done that before when something was hard to deal with. Jumping in his car and speeding off, I mean.”
“Athletes at this level usually have access to a sports psychologist. Does your team? Would that help Janne?”
Rami nodded, seeming to file this away to think about later.
“I think Janne’s behavior is an expression of guilt,” I continued, and when Rami’s face tensed even more, I hurried to add, “I don’t mean he’s necessarily guilty of Noora’s murder. He might just be blaming himself for fighting with her before she died. He could be thinking that if he hadn’t been angry and let Noora walk home alone instead of driving her, she would still be alive.”
The melancholy bowing of a viola da gamba had replaced the tinkling of the harpsichord. Rami looked out the window at the sky, which was the color of a wool sock and barely visible through the downpour. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it again.
“I’ve read Noora’s diaries,” I said. “According to them, she was head over heels for Janne, but he didn’t return her feelings. Why was that? Is Janne more interested in men than women?”
To my surprise, Rami burst out laughing.
“How did you get that in your head? Yes, I know male figure skaters are generally assumed to be gay, but Janne is a perfectly normal, boring hetero.” Rami’s laughing ended in a sigh.
That was all he needed to say. Apparently Janne Kivi had broken the heart of a third member of the Espoo Figure-Skating team. So I continued on that theme.
“Janne seems to be Ulrika Weissenberg’s special favorite. Do you think Ulrika could have been jealous of Noora?”
“About Janne? Hardly. Janne wasn’t interested in Noora, and to tell the truth it was better that way. Skating together is easier if there aren’t any serious personal involvements. Noora would have got over her teenage infatuation once she grew up a little. In a lot of ways Noora was mature for her age, but not when it came to Janne.”
“Did she have any boyfriends?” I asked, remembering the pathologist’s statement that Noora probably wasn’t a virgin. That could have just been the result of a one-night stand, though. Strange that in the diaries I’d read so far, she hadn’t written about losing her virginity.
“Not
to my knowledge. But Noora didn’t tell me everything about her life, even though I always tried to be a friend as well as a coach.”
Ultimately it was hard for a coach to be a friend, though, especially when their gender and almost thirty years separated them. I seemed to be wasting my time with Rami Luoto, who hadn’t been able to tell me anything decisive about the Grigorievs. I still tried asking about Teräsvuori. Rami’s reaction to my claim that Vesku and Tomi knew each other was shock.
“That can’t be right! Teräsvuori has been like a biblical plague. I’m sure that if Tomi knew him, he would have tried to straighten Teräsvuori out.” Luoto clapped shut the rulebook, which was quite like a bible in thickness and appearance.
I didn’t bother explaining that Liikanen and Teräsvuori had been seen together several times. Rami seemed genuinely anxious to help solve Noora’s murder but a touch naive. Maybe he thought people were really what they seemed on the surface. It was hard to believe he could have survived years as a competitive athlete and entertainer with that kind of credulity. Maybe it was just an act.
Thinking about Teräsvuori, I realized I hadn’t heard from Koivu since before lunch. Was he still on the stakeout? He might have followed Teräsvuori somewhere without cell service. I was just about to get up to leave when Rami asked, “You mentioned you’d read Noora’s diaries. Have they been any help solving the case?”
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