Her Enemy

by Leena Lehtolainen

  I could hear how empty that cliché sounded. Things would never go back to the way they had been. Armi was dead, there would be no fall wedding, and soon the courts and the media would publicly be discussing the most intimate aspects of Kimmo’s personal life. Right now, I couldn’t do anything but let the guard take him back to his holding cell.

  Ström was still hanging around. Obviously, he wanted to continue Kimmo’s interrogation. I tried to adopt a friendlier posture as I walked over to talk to him.

  “I’ve heard Hänninen’s version of events now. Could you tell me your own? Why did you charge in like that?”

  “What right do you have to ask?”

  “Ström. We can make this whole thing very uncomfortable for each other. You can yell at me, and I can yell back and file complaints. But isn’t it in both of our interests to catch the real perpetrator as fast as we can?”

  “You don’t think Hänninen is guilty?”

  “How about instead you tell me why you think he is guilty.”

  “Well, first off, he was the last person who saw the victim alive. We’re interviewing the neighbors right now. Who knows, maybe someone saw Hänninen leave and then saw the girl alive afterward. That wouldn’t prevent Hänninen from having gone back, though. But if one of the neighbors did see someone else going there, and we find evidence on someone else that’s just as good as what we have compiled on Hänninen, then we’ll reconsider.”

  I stared Ström straight in the eye, even though I had to crane my neck to do so. With broad shoulders that rose toward slightly protruding ears, his heavy frame seemed tense. His washed-out brown eyes avoided my gaze as sweat began to emerge from the large pores in the skin of his face.

  “And second, you know just as well as I do that these sorts of homicides are usually the work of someone close to the victim. And who was closer to her than her fiancé? Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

  “Each man kills the thing he loves,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I didn’t think Ström would know a line from an Oscar Wilde poem or have seen Fassbinder’s Querelle. “But this is all circumstantial evidence.”

  “Whoever strangled Mäenpää was wearing rubber gloves. Hänninen was wearing rubber gloves when we showed up. They’re in the lab right now. The rubber suit had Mäenpää’s fingerprints on it. A piece ripped from it was under Mäenpää’s leg on the lawn. Mäenpää fought against her attacker, and she had pretty long nails. Maybe she was able to rip a piece off of the suit with them.”

  “Are there scratches on Hänninen’s thigh?”

  “There was some kind of scrape.”

  “Have a doctor look at it.”

  “We just have to wait for the lab results on the gloves. If the gloves are a match, then this case is closed.”

  “I don’t think rubber leaves a mark that easily,” I countered.

  “And besides, there was all the stuff Hänninen had in his room. Rubber clothing, chains, ropes. Handcuffs. A whip. And look at these magazines!” Ström slapped down a stack of English-and German-language magazines with names like Skin Two, «O», and Bondage. Each featured stylized pictures of beautiful women in rubber or leather clothing, with chains or without, bound or laid out for whipping. Looking at them with Ström so close was embarrassing, because for me many of the pictures were more than a little intriguing.

  “He’s clearly a pervert. This is the same as that Marquis de Sade stuff, and in those books, they hanged and strangled women all the time. The whole thing makes my stomach turn. Someone should put all these S&M freaks out of their misery. If you had seen what he was doing when we went in there, you would be just as convinced he’s guilty.”

  “Why did you storm into the house?”

  “Think about it. We’re going to find a dead woman’s partner, automatically a prime suspect. No one answers the door, but it’s open and there are noises coming from upstairs. Who wouldn’t think he might try to kill himself once he realized what he had done?”

  “OK. So what was he really doing when you went in?”

  “Well, he was covered head to toe in rubber, he’d put handcuffs on himself, he was looking at those magazines and…gratifying himself.”

  “Easy collar since he already had cuffs on,” I said, but for some reason Ström wasn’t amused.

  “So there are materials in the lab, Armi’s body is with the medical examiner, and your boys are interviewing the neighbors,” I continued. “Have you notified Armi’s parents?”

  “What kind of idiots do you take us for? We had to call a damn doctor to calm down her mother. Some of the neighbors left for their summer cottages for the weekend, so their interviews will have to wait until Monday. So yeah, the wheels are turning even without your supervision.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Do you still want to interview Hänninen? Because you’re not questioning him without me present.”

  “I’m going to eat now and then go back to the crime scene. Come back at eight, and we’ll continue then.”

  We talked for a minute more about practical matters: how long they were going to hold Kimmo, and what legal requirements had to be met. Ström was adamant that the evidence was sufficient to keep Kimmo in custody indefinitely. I disagreed. I decided to go to the Hänninens’ house to check in with them. I’d call my boss from there.

  As I walked along the familiar birch-lined lane, I considered why I didn’t believe Kimmo was the murderer. It wasn’t because I liked him—I had liked murderers before. Something just seemed off. And I intended to find out what.

  3

  A strange quiet hung over the Hänninen residence. The yard was spotless, as if a cleaning company had come with a giant vacuum to suck up all traces of the previous day’s festivities. Risto answered the door wearing an expression of exhaustion and grief. The others were sitting in the large living room. Annamari Hänninen was drinking cognac, with Marita’s arm wrapped around her. Antti stood next to the picture of Sanna on the mantle. He didn’t even say hello.

  Annamari lifted her eyes from her glass.

  “Oh, Maria, how is my Kimmo holding up? When will they release him? I’ve been trying to call Eki Henttonen to ask him to help too, but…”

  “Eki is out sailing and probably just isn’t answering his phone. Don’t worry; he’ll be back by tomorrow night. Kimmo is doing just fine given the circumstances, and they can’t hold him for more than forty-eight hours. Where are the kids?”

  Marita explained, “My parents took them to Inkoo. They left about half an hour ago and took Einstein too. We thought it would be best if they left for a while. Sanna’s death was such a terrible shock for the boys, and I don’t know how they’re going to take losing Armi now too.”

  Was wearing a long-sleeved black outfit on a hot summer day normal for her, or had she put it on out of respect for Armi? In her dress, Marita was a thin black line, drawn with a slightly trembling brush down the pale blue wall of the Hänninens’ living room. Like Antti, Marita was naturally thin, but what on Antti was muscle, on Marita was only tendons.

  I gave an abbreviated account of both my discovery of Armi’s body and Kimmo’s story. Talking about the rubber suit and S&M magazines was difficult, despite their essential role in the evidence the police had gathered so far. Apparently Annamari was not aware of her son’s sexual tendencies—what parents ever are?—because she began to shake uncontrollably.

  “Oh my God, what am I going to tell Henrik? I have to call Ecuador. What does this mean about Kimmo if he was doing that? Weren’t things good for him with Armi?”

  During my first year in high school, Annamari had been my French teacher. A frail, nervous type, she had never been able to control the class even by screaming. Usually I was the one to finally yell “Shut up!” for her and actually get results. I received an A in her class but was still relieved when she moved away a year later to follow her husband’s new job. Her successor was a total wet blanket, but at least I didn’t have to be em
barrassed for my teacher anymore.

  Now Annamari seemed to be losing all physical control. Her head bounced around restlessly; her body was in constant motion. Her brittle, shrieky voice rose.

  “How can the police think that Kimmo would murder someone? My child…At least his own mother should be able to see him! Can I come with you, Maria?”

  “Annamari, you should try to rest a little,” Risto said firmly. The use of her first name grated in my ears, feeling disrespectful even though I knew that Annamari was only Risto’s stepmother, not mother. “Let’s go to the boys’ room and you can lie down. It will be quiet in there.”

  His head bowed, Risto pressed almost affectionately against Annamari’s shoulders as he guided her from the room.

  “Hopefully Risto has the sense to give her a sedative,” Marita observed dryly. “Do we have anything left or should we call Dr. Hellström to ask for a prescription?”

  “Do gynecologists write prescriptions for tranquilizers?” I asked.

  “He also does some family practice,” Marita explained. “Not everyone likes him, of course. I guess mom got angry with him over something and changed doctors. He is a bit of a gossip, but when you need help, he just asks when and where.” Marita swept back her hair in a familiar gesture; I realized that Antti did the same thing when he was nervous or upset. Under her hair, I caught a glimpse of a large, fresh-looking bruise on her neck.

  “If Hellström is such a talker, I guess I should interview him too. I have to find grounds for Kimmo’s release.”

  “So you still don’t believe Kimmo did it?” Antti asked, uttering his first words since I arrived.

  “No. I admit I’m basing that more on a feeling than anything I know for sure, but no, I don’t believe it. Convincing the police of that is going to require facts. What did you know about Armi? What kind of person was she?”

  Neither seemed interested in answering. As I waited, I mentally tallied what I knew about her: she was sweet, talkative, meddlesome, curious, determined.

  “Armi was like an angel from heaven for Kimmo, even if Annamari didn’t much care for her,” Marita finally said. “And Armi was a bit…common, although of course in Annamari’s mind no one was good enough for her children. Makke certainly got a taste of that medicine, as all of Sanna’s boyfriends did.”

  “Are you trying to suggest that Annamari killed Armi?” Maria asked.

  “No, oh God no! Armi just said what she thought, and that isn’t the Hänninen way. At last Christmas dinner, for example, she asked why Henrik and Annamari don’t get divorced, since for all intents and purposes Henrik doesn’t have anything to do with his family. You don’t ask questions like that if you want to be a Hänninen.”

  Outwardly immaculate, Marita had always seemed like just another Hänninen trying to maintain the façade, and finding out there was something more under the surface was comforting. Getting to know Antti’s family had been exhausting, and the social scene that came along with our move to Espoo was oppressive. Now I was just becoming more and more tangled in the strange knots of their lives.

  Sounds started coming from my stomach. I realized that it was almost seven o’clock, and all I’d had since vomiting into that ditch was a slice of bread and some salami.

  “Is there anything around here I could eat?” I asked, feeling rude, though I knew I should try to feel more at home. “I need to get back to the police station, and my brain doesn’t work well without food. I can make it myself if Antti shows me where everything is.”

  I wanted to be alone with Antti, even though he didn’t seem in a terribly sociable mood.

  In the kitchen, some of the chaos of the previous evening still showed. The dishwasher hung open, and the refrigerator was full of leftovers from the buffet table. Without a twinge of guilt, I finished off the shrimp salad and the last piece of caviar smörgåstårta cake, and then, with my coffee, had a cream puff that tasted like refrigerator.

  Antti’s silence irritated me. Sure, he knew Armi and Kimmo much better than I did, but this wasn’t exactly a personal tragedy for him.

  “Have a cognac, Antti. It will help. Have a double if you need to.”

  “How will that help? Why should I drown my emotions? Do you have to be so damn professional all the time? Is that how you stifle your feelings, or do you just not have any?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, what fucking feelings? You know me—not a day goes by without a murder and a look at a nice dead body! Asshole. Listen, right now I don’t have time for feelings. Getting Kimmo out of that cell and finding out who killed Armi is going to take more than feelings.”

  Who knows how much worse that conversation would have ended up had Risto not entered the kitchen?

  “Marita said there was coffee in here. I gave Annamari the last Valium in the house, and that put her out,” Risto explained, turning to the coffeemaker and pouring himself a cup.

  “Hey, would it be too much to ask for you to give me a ride to the police station?” I asked in a cautious tone. I knew Risto liked driving. I didn’t even touch Antti as I left.

  “What should we tell my dad?” Risto asked once we were in the car and on our way.

  “Where is he now? Ecuador? Do you have to tell him right away?”

  “Annamari is demanding it, and yes, it’s important information. She wants him to come back and act like a father.” Risto’s voice was impassive.

  I hadn’t seen Henrik Hänninen in ten years. Once during that winter when the Hänninens lived in my hometown, my parents, who were also teachers, had invited their new colleague and her husband over for dinner. Horrible menstrual cramps had kept me home that night.

  Annamari Hänninen had seemed a little scattered, but Henrik might as well not even have been present. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in what was happening around him. Over the years, he became distant physically as well, taking one foreign posting after another for his company. Soon after Sanna’s death, he left for Ecuador and wasn’t due to come back from that assignment until the end of the year. His habit of interacting with his grandchildren, Matti and Mikko, only by sending them expensive gifts left Antti’s parents—the boys’ other grandparents—indignant.

  “I don’t think it’s worth calling your father back yet. What could he do here? Getting in contact with Eki Henttonen is much more important—try the number for his boat a few more times. And keep Annamari away from the police station.” I realized I was issuing orders again to people I had no authority over, but Risto didn’t seem to mind.

  “Listen, Risto, I wasn’t at my most focused last night when Antti and I left the house. Do you remember who was still there? Most of the group had already left.”

  Risto didn’t inquire why I was asking; he simply thought for a moment and then answered.

  “I wasn’t the most sober either. I’d knocked back a few too many glasses of cognac with Eki. So who was still here? Eki at least, and of course Kimmo and Armi and Mallu, Armi’s sister. Makke was still around, over in the lawn swing, talking with Annamari. Which surprised me a little, since I had thought they weren’t even on speaking terms. You know that Makke—”

  “Yeah, I know. I thought it was nice of you to invite him to the party.”

  “Well, if we’re being honest, Sanna was the instigator in their drinking, not Makke,” Risto said darkly as he turned into the police station parking lot. “Sanna had been working on dying one way or another for so long that there’s no one else we can blame.”

  I didn’t know Risto very well, and this was the first personal conversation he had ever shared with me. The severity of his tone surprised me. For the first time, I saw a break in the façade of efficiency and congeniality he usually maintained. What had the relationship between the Hänninen siblings been like? I would have liked to continue what had become an interesting discussion, but my meeting time was quickly approaching, and being present to defend Kimmo was the best thing I could do now.

  “If Antti is still at the house, t
ell him I might be home late. Really late.” When the guard finally ushered me into the interrogation room, Kimmo looked somehow shrunken. I told him that his family sent love and support, but nothing I said seemed to register with him. Detective Sergeant Ström was getting nowhere either—as the interview began, it was as though Kimmo were in a trance.

  “Wouldn’t it be best to call a doctor?” I finally asked as Ström became increasingly agitated. “You can see yourself that he’s in no shape for questioning.”

  “He’s just playacting. He finally realized what deep shit he’s in.”

  I didn’t doubt that in the slightest. Kimmo wasn’t stupid. And, of course, if he had killed Armi…

  Ström told us that none of the neighbors the police had reached remembered noticing anything out of the ordinary the morning of the murder. The next-door neighbor had not been at home, and the only thing the neighbor two doors down saw was me riding up on my bicycle. I wondered why Ström was giving us so much information. Was it a strategy, trying to convince me that all the evidence pointed to Kimmo being the murderer?

  After drinking a cup of coffee, Kimmo perked up enough to be able to go over the events of the morning again. He assured us that the disagreement they’d had over the rubber clothing hadn’t prevented Armi from wanting to marry him in October.

  “Why October? If you had decided to get married, why not do it earlier?” Ström asked.

  “We bought an apartment in a new building in North Tapiola, and it won’t be ready until early October.”

  “Where did you get enough money to buy an apartment? Aren’t you a student?”

  “Armi was stashing money away for a house for years; she had one of those government-subsidized down-payment savings accounts. And my dad is paying my part. I am working, by the way: I’m on full salary while I write my thesis.”

  To my great joy, I could see that Kimmo was starting to rise to his own defense.