Keeping Ström from losing his temper was almost harder than figuring out the sequence of events leading up to the attack. When we finally managed to get all of them out of the station around three, we found the rest of our unit besides Taskinen gathered in the break room. The mood was dejected. Pihko was collecting money for a wreath for Palo’s funeral. He asked me to write the card.
“Ask the boss,” I said. “I’m no good at that kind of thing. By the way, can anyone pull some overtime tonight? It’ll be after eight.”
Instantly everyone looked mutinous. The Espoo Blues were playing the Jokers that night, and the match would be televised. Ice hockey was always a point of contention here at the station. In addition to fans of those teams, our unit had followers of HIFK, the Tampere Axes, and even KalPa from up north. When asked, I always said I just cheered for the best-looking team but that watching hockey was boring because the men wore too many clothes.
“What’s the job?” asked Puupponen, a KalPa fan from Kuopio.
“I need a couple of guys to go with me to Fanny Hill. It’s a strip club in Kallio. We need to interview one of the dancers.”
In an instant a shouting match replaced the funereal mood, and suddenly I had my pick of volunteers. Eventually they were winnowed down to Ström and Puupponen, the latter because he was nowhere near his overtime limit and the former because even though I didn’t really want to take Ström along, he was less likely than the younger guys to go gaga at the sight of bare breasts.
I had completely neglected exercise for the past few weeks, so after work I headed to the rec center in Tapiola. My abs and back muscles would be stressed by pregnancy over the next several months, and lifting weights or running usually helped clear my head. Sometimes exercising even seemed to allow questions to answer themselves. But even though I did a double dose of crunches, worked my biceps and triceps, and spent ten minutes on the abductor machine, this time it didn’t work. My head was empty of ideas. My certainty that Elina’s death was murder was fading. Maybe the person who hit Aira was just a thief who thought Rosberga was empty? Or maybe Aira staged it. Wasn’t there a novel with a plot along those lines?
“Hey, Maria.” Just as I was thinking this, my old friend Makke showed up on the machine next to me and tried to convince me to go out for a beer after the gym. I managed to sidestep the invitation by saying I had to work. This wasn’t really a lie, but it made me realize that I wasn’t going to be able to conceal my pregnancy for long. No one was going to believe I had made a New Year’s resolution to give up drinking, and my first trip to the OB/GYN was next week. This was really happening.
But at least pumping iron did put me in a better mood. When I arrived home from the gym and found Antti not there, I suddenly remembered the antifreeway meeting. I would have had time to go after all. I shook my head as I thought of him. Was there any windmill one of us wasn’t willing to take a tilt at? Give it a year and I would probably be protesting about day-care subsidies with my baby strapped to my chest.
For the evening I dressed as unattractively as possible in black jeans and a nondescript gray blouse. I left my hair down and only wore a little makeup, some mascara and powder to conceal the paleness of my face. Looking in the mirror, I was hoping to see a tough police officer staring back, but as usual there was just the same nervous girl. I never understood why people wanted to look younger than they were. In my profession, girlishness was just about the worst thing for your credibility.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled about going to a strip club, especially not with Ström and Puupponen. Puupponen was nice enough, a redheaded, freckled kid from Savo, like me. He got along with Ström even worse than I did. The fact that he had volunteered to go out on a job with Ström was a little surprising. Maybe the draw of Fanny Hill was too overpowering.
When Ström picked me up at a bus stop near my house, I saw that Puupponen was already sitting in the backseat. As we drove, I gave them more details about what we were going to do: ask Milla Marttila about her movements the night before last and confirm her alibi, if she had one. We’d probably have to get permission from the manager to interview his employees during work hours, but I wasn’t particularly worried about that. Usually the owners of strip clubs wanted to stay in good with the cops.
“Now don’t go lecturing the customers about feminism in the middle of their night out,” Ström warned me once I’d finished outlining my plan of attack.
“Crap. I forgot my crochet hooks. I’ll have to remember next time,” I replied, my voice dripping acid. Ström snorted as he pulled our Saab cruiser onto the sidewalk in front of the club, muttering something about how he wasn’t going to go scavenging for a parking spot. The bouncer at the door stared at us, especially me, but let us in when Ström showed his badge and asked for the manager. The bouncer told us to wait at the bar for a minute.
I had been to a strip show at a bar in my home town once, also on duty, but that had mostly been comical. What I was seeing now was bewildering. It was early, but there were already numerous groups of men apparently unwinding after business meetings. Most of them wore suits while the cocktail waitresses serving them were topless. The only women who were fully dressed besides me were the shift manager and a woman sitting with a group of men speaking Russian and looking very lost. I tried to spot Milla in the gaggle of topless girls wearing fishnet stockings but couldn’t find her. Maybe she was stripping for someone.
The bouncer returned and motioned us to follow him up a stairwell hung with red velvet and large mirrors. Our images were reflected dozens of times as we passed. The same decor continued in the hallway upstairs, with doors punctuating the red velvet walls. It looked like a hallway in a brothel, but the doors probably just led to the private strip show rooms. Music came from a couple of them.
I almost burst out laughing when I saw the owner of the club, Rami Salovaara. For once someone fit the stereotype in my head. He was short, obese, and very red-faced. He was bald on top, and his long comb-over wasn’t quite able to cover the shine. His mustache, on the other hand, was in full bloom. Under a wide nose, it bristled across his entire lip.
“So what do the Espoo Police want at my club?” Salovaara asked, making no move to stand up to shake our hands. Not that it bothered me. I didn’t really want his grubby mitts touching me.
“We’re here about one of your employees, Milla Marttila. We need to verify her whereabouts a couple of days ago,” I replied.
“So it’s Milla, is it? What kind of trouble takes three cops to come pick her up?” Salovaara glanced at a monitor sitting on his desk, which showed what was going on downstairs. Were there cameras in the strip booths that Salovaara used to monitor his employees’ activities?
“We just want to confirm that she was here working and not out trying to commit a homicide,” I said. “We’d like your permission to interview some of your employees during the evening. Do you have shift logs for the night before last?”
“The club manager’ll have them. She’s the slightly more dressed, wrinkly woman downstairs. Do you really suspect Milla of murder?”
“That actually isn’t any of your business,” I said coldly, remembering how this man had treated Milla when she was raped. “Puupponen, will you check those rosters and make sure Milla was at work?”
“I’m not obligated to allow you to harass my staff during working hours,” said Salovaara. “If the police need to interview my employees, they should do it when they’re off the clock.”
“For that we’d need a list of your employees, their addresses, and their telephone numbers,” I shot back.
I didn’t know exactly how the private stripping side of Fanny Hill worked, but more than once I’d heard rumors about other strip clubs skirting the pimping laws by setting the girls up on what they called intermittent work schedules. Because selling themselves wasn’t a crime, the girls’ official work ended when a customer watching a perfectly legal p
rivate stripping session decided to pay for more. What the girls did in their free time outside of the club wasn’t the owner’s business. After tending to her client, usually in an employer-provided apartment nearby, the girl returned to the club to continue her official work day. The only way anyone could intervene would be by appealing to the Working Hours Restriction Act, but so far there wasn’t any precedent for that. But a bunch of the girls living in the same apartment owned by the club would be an obvious sign of a brothel operation. I also had serious doubts that all of the Russian dancers at Fanny Hill had their papers in order.
Puupponen returned with the shift roster before Salovaara could even respond. According to the list, Milla had been at work on Tuesday night, although given how close she lived to the club, she could easily have said she was taking a client back to her apartment and then slipped away to Rosberga.
“So what’s it going to be? Should we interview the staff who worked Tuesday night now, or are you going to give us those addresses?” I said, turning the screws.
Salovaara weighed his options carefully.
“If you give us permission, we’ll get all the interviews done tonight,” Ström said. Up to this point he had been strangely quiet. “It’ll be painless. We won’t even need everyone’s full contact information.”
I knew Ström was negotiating, but his willingness to side with Salovaara’s circumvention of the law infuriated me.
“If Marttila is guilty—let’s say of attempted murder—aiding and abetting could lead to jail time, especially if the person in question has a police record already,” I snapped.
I hadn’t checked Salovaara’s record, so I was taking a risk, but it worked. He grunted something I couldn’t quite make out, but then he gave us permission to question the staff just so long as we didn’t mess with his business. As we headed to the door, Salovaara suddenly addressed me.
“By the way, Sergeant Kallio, if you ever get tired of police work, come see me about a job. We have a shortage of curvy redheads. Your breasts are about the right size too and probably don’t sag much yet. Our customers like a woman who knows how to take charge. A black leather corset and a whip would be just the thing for you.”
Ström caught his breath and started moving toward the club owner, but I managed to reply before he got his hands on him. “Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to choose who sees me naked. Let’s take you for example: Bald is beautiful, tubby, so what exactly are you trying to hide with that comb-over? And that mustache. Is it compensating for something else you lack? Are you having trouble getting it up even with a pro now? Sorry, pal, but it shows just looking at you. Thanks for the help though!” I closed the door after us with exaggerated care, catching one last glimpse of the man’s face, which looked something like a tomato now.
“You’re just making friends left and right these days,” Ström said to me in the hall. “You might want to watch it with that one though.”
“What do you mean?”
“The chief spends a fair amount of time here. We came here after the Christmas party, and he knew all the waitresses by name. And I’m sure you noticed they don’t have shirts to wear name tags on.”
I shrugged. “The chief and I are on a collision course anyway. I really don’t have the energy to care. I’m going to look for Milla. You two find the women who were working with her that night!”
I was irritated that I’d lost my cool but couldn’t help chuckling at how well I’d given it back to the club owner. As I was starting down the stairs, a door behind me opened and a man stepped out zipping up his fly. Glancing at me with a look of alarm, he hurried past. I turned back and peeked into the room he had just exited. It was dim inside, but I recognized the woman who was pulling on her panties. Milla Marttila was easy to find after all.
“Hi, Milla. Could I have a word?” I asked.
“Well, well, look who we have here. Did you come for a show? I thought you were more into guys. Aren’t you married?”
“Come off it, Milla,” I said. “Your boss gave me permission to interview you about Tuesday night.”
“What’s to talk about? I was at work from eight to four.” Milla refastened her bra, which still exposed her nipples. Goose bumps covered her pale skin. “Wait here while I grab some more clothes,” she said and disappeared through the door.
I sat down in the only chair in the room, a black leather recliner. Next to it was a small table with a box of Kleenex and a package of extra strength condoms. In front of the armchair was a stage about six feet by six feet. It was just the right height so that someone sitting in the armchair could stare right at the dancer’s labia. The red lights emphasized the cavelike effect of the black-walled room. Next to the door were buttons that I assumed controlled the lighting and music. I wondered how it felt to dance on that stage and to be the man watching but not touching.
Milla reappeared in “more clothes”: a satin kimono embroidered with flowers. It was almost the same kind I had at home. I had never thought of it as sexy before. Milla sat on the edge of the stage across from me and lit a cigarette.
“You say you were here all night, but the problem is we don’t have much reason to trust you yet. You and Officer Haikala were never able to find the guy you said you slept with the night Elina died. What time did you take your lunch break Tuesday night?”
“My what?” Milla snorted. “Nobody here eats during work. It makes your tummy bulge. Mine is already round enough as it is. A lot of men prefer the bony type.”
Milla’s eyes were painted with thick black eyeliner, and her lips and nails were black as well. Maybe it was her version of mourning.
“Two of my colleagues are interviewing your coworkers right now. Then we’ll know,” I said.
“What actually happened to Aira? I was so groggy when you called.”
As I told Milla what happened, I saw the surprise in her eyes.
“Who would want to attack Aira? She’s such a sweet person!” Milla said the word “sweet” perfectly seriously. “You think Aira knew too much about Elina’s death or something?”
“Maybe. I’d also like to know who’s mentioned in Aira’s will.”
“Not me!” said Milla. “I’m sure you’d be happy if I was behind all this, because the media wouldn’t care. I’m not famous like Elina’s poet boy or that fucking reporter, and I’m not from a rich family like Niina.”
“What kind of family are you from then? You mentioned incest at the course where I met you.”
Milla took a last puff of her cigarette and then stubbed it out absentmindedly on the edge of the stage and let the butt fall onto the dark-red carpeted floor. With the heel of my boot I put it out properly. Milla looked at her black toenails in their red sandals and didn’t say anything for a minute.
How was Milla’s previous life any of my business? But I was curious in the same way I’d been curious about Johanna’s life. When I met Milla the first time, I thought she wanted out of being a stripper—and apparently a prostitute. Maybe I thought I could save her.
“My family. Ha!” she finally said. “They’re still living out in Kerava. My parents had bad luck. They couldn’t have kids no matter what they tried, so they finally adopted me. I think I’d been with them two months when Ritva, my adoptive mother, realized she was pregnant. They ended up with three sons of their own. Ritva spent so much time taking care of her little treasures that she forgot all about her husband’s needs. Luckily he had me. I started wearing a bra at ten, and that’s when he figured I was a woman.”
“You mean he started taking advantage of you sexually when you were ten years old?” I asked.
“Well, that’s a pretty fancy way of putting it. ‘Taking advantage sexually.’ He didn’t actually screw me since I have such a pretty mouth and quick hands. On my graduation day I finally told Ritva and the rest of my family what a fucking awesome dad I had. I haven’t been home since.
”
Nausea and anger struggled within me. But I’d wanted to hear about Milla’s life, so I deserved it. How did therapists handle hearing this kind of thing? What did Elina say to Milla when she revealed this? Or Johanna? I never knew what to say.
“The sad thing is, the shitheads kept dragging me down. I did well in school, even when I had a hard time paying attention because my dad had me up the whole night before. I got into the literature program at the university on my first try. Awesome, except the people in the financial aid office had the idea that all parents still support students under the age of twenty. So I started looking for a way to make money the only way I knew how.”
Milla’s round toes with their black nails looked like frozen potatoes. Was there any point suggesting that she press charges against her adoptive father? The abuse had ended several years before, but I didn’t think it had exceeded the statute of limitations. But how would she prove he’d done it? Milla’s parents must have had a respectable façade or else they never would have been able to adopt in the first place.
An adoption . . . Milla was in her early twenties. Just around the time Elina was dating Kari Hanninen. What if . . . No, the idea was too far-fetched. Still, I couldn’t help asking.
“Have you ever found out who your real parents were?”
“What the hell for? Why would I want to know about them? They didn’t want me. These men do though, and that’s enough for me.”
I remembered Tarja Kivimäki’s sarcastic comment about the homeless cats Elina collected. Milla was a very lost kitten, one who always kept her claws out just in case. Elina’s death had happened at the worst possible time for Milla, given her rape experience. I would definitely check on Milla’s real parents though, even if the adoption papers would likely only list the mother. Could that be Elina Rosberg?
There was a knock at the door and I jumped. Was it a new customer for Milla?
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