I washed up the dishes, got dressed, and was just about to go out when I heard someone coming up the stairs. The steps sounded familiar, but I was still surprised. I hadn’t heard a car arrive. I waited for a knock, then opened the door.
Markus Harmala didn’t look as if he had come about a work matter. He wasn’t in uniform, in any case. His demeanour was also not commensurate with official business. Maybe it was his 1990s playboy outfit – a white hoodie, light blue ‘distressed’ jeans, and bright white running shoes – or maybe it was his body language, trying to look self-confident but coming over as arrogant, striving for a position where he could look down on me, which, since we were the same height, came across like a teenage challenge. Or maybe it was the combination of all of these things.
I didn’t want a fight. I’d gone too far on the street that night. Acted without thinking. I couldn’t afford that.
‘We left some unfinished business in Eira, handyman,’ Harmala said.
I waved him inside. He walked to the middle of the room and looked around.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in here,’ he said. ‘Cute place. It suits you.’
‘I’m happy with it.’
He took his time turning around.
‘Are you,’ he said, not sounding as if he was asking a question. His eyes held mine, staring me down. ‘You like living here? Working as a caretaker?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you just happened to be driving around the other night? Is that right?’
He shoved his hands in his pockets and struck a more relaxed pose.
‘Yes,’ I said.
When we didn’t speak I could hear the wind in the trees outside, the hum of the refrigerator, my own breathing. Harmala pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He seemed to be waiting for me to do the same. I did. The brightening day was reflected in the woodgrain of the table, warm and flowing like waves on water.
‘I’ve been here since 1993,’ Harmala said. ‘When I was eighteen I was invited for an interview. Henrik interviewed me himself and hired me. Personally. I know these people, and this place.’
The light came into the room from the window beside us, illuminating only one side of his face. In this new light, he looked different, which was strange, since I’d spent so much time in his company when I was following Saarinen years ago. I’d never looked at him from this angle before, never noticed his slightly yellow complexion, his features, that hairline.
‘I’ve seen all kinds of things over the years,’ he said. ‘And all kinds of people. Working here, and other places. The rich attract all sorts.’
Another heavy silence. Harmala put his elbows on the table.
‘Especially rich, young, beautiful women.’
I looked him in the eye. I knew this was why he’d come.
‘I’m not here because of Amanda, if that’s what you mean.’
He looked as if he were thinking about what I’d said.
‘Still just a handyman?’
‘Still just a handyman.’
He leaned back in his chair. He seemed always to be searching for a better observation point, something to help him take control of the situation, control of the other person. He ended up looking at me with his head tilted towards the window.
‘That’s all?’
‘I could ask you whether you’re just here as a driver.’
He scratched his smooth cheek.
‘I’m going to be straight with you,’ he said, ignoring my question. ‘You might be able to bullshit Henrik, and even Amanda, but not me. You’re no more a caretaker than I’m a member of the yacht club.’
I looked at him. I was thinking about what he’d said. That he’d started working here the same year that my mother disappeared. He’d been eighteen years old. A young man, but a legal adult.
‘You can check up on me,’ I said. ‘I’m a carpenter, have been for ten years. I was hired to work here after several interviews. Elias Ahlberg must have told you that.’
‘I’m not interested in hearing about your past. I’m interested in you leaving here and … and leaving Amanda alone. Disappearing from her life, from all our lives.’
‘Let’s leave Amanda out of this –’
‘Let’s leave Amanda out of this,’ he said mockingly. ‘The fuck we will. You’re talking like a man in love. Either you leave or …’
He left the sentence unfinished, looked at me for a second, and stood up. He walked to the door, seemed about to say something, but didn’t. He slammed the door as he left.
I spent the morning hauling gravel in a wheelbarrow, tipping it out load by load next to the dock, close to the water’s edge, to widen and shore up the finger of land. The air was cool, the day bright. I worked in my T-shirt. I enjoyed using my muscles, sweating, feeling the sea wind on my skin, breathing deep lungfuls of air. I warmed up some of Enni’s leftover lasagne in the microwave, ate it, drank two cups of coffee, and walked back down to the shore, where the sky was already a little darker blue than it had been an hour or two earlier.
If I had to choose – or if anyone had ever asked me – I would have said that autumn is my favourite time of year. When the light is rich, nature is at its most delicate and fresh, the air is warm, but purified by nights of rain, the leaves madly glowing, the forest aromatic with the combination of wet and dry, and the blue canopy of cloudless sky is deep and intoxicating. In the city, too, life is lived fullest in September. The unhurried days of summer are over but the cold of winter hasn’t yet arrived to sweep them away. The sweltering heat is gone but the biting cold hasn’t yet come to subdue your spirit. I’ve always thought September was the most hopeful month, full of promise and unfolding possibility.
When evening came and I’d finished my day’s work, I remembered what Enni had said when I went for some food the day before. When everyone who needed her services had gone she would be leaving Kalmela for a couple of days and I would be left alone there. She’d asked if I had any questions about the estate, and I almost said something clever, but I didn’t want to be cheeky any more. I thanked her for the food and said with all honesty that I didn’t have any questions and that everything was clear to me. She looked at me, waiting for me to make a mistake, to blurt out something I thought was funny so she could sniff and disapprove. But I didn’t. Maybe I made an impression on her. There was a new interest, a sharper look in her eyes.
‘How are things otherwise?’ she asked.
It was the first time I’d heard anything other than defensiveness and disappointment in her voice. I said things were great. She looked at me a moment longer and I could see the friendliness disappear again. As if she’d noticed something in me that she had disregarded before.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she said, but she didn’t sound glad at all. I could see that she wanted to ask me something else, something completely different, but the moment had passed and we went our separate ways.
I sat by the window and watched the sunset, the lights coming on in front of the main house. The yellow glow was like a seam of gold. In the dark the place looked bigger than it really was. Against the fading violet horizon it reminded me of a little castle that history had cast aside, like everything else.
The sun went down. A fat, glowing full moon settled over the forest.
I didn’t see or hear Enni’s car leave, but at some point it had disappeared from its place in the parking area in front of the house. I waited another half hour, then left my apartment and went down the stairs to the edge of the yard. I stopped and looked around. I didn’t see any people or cars. Enni had been right. I was alone. At last.
I opened the door of the main house with my key, ready to feed the code into the alarm system, and I was surprised. Enni must have forgotten to turn it on.
I walked through the foyer with its stairs leading to the first floor on one side and the broad doorway on the right that led into the room they called the hall. I listened. I’d studied the sounds of the house all the time I’d
spent there. Every time I had some reason to be there I’d watched and listened, trying to learn all its sounds, smells, moods, dimensions. I was sure that the house could tell me something about what had happened twenty years before, but it was silent now.
I was about to turn on the light, but thought better of it. I had brought a powerful torch with me, there was a full moon outside, and I had done my homework. I wouldn’t stumble on a threshold or trip over the furniture – I had the blueprint of the place clearly in my mind. And if someone pulled into the driveway and saw the lights on, I would have to explain myself. Again. No thanks. I intended to explore places I had no permission to be in.
So I let my eyes adjust to the gloom. I’d seen the place in daylight, now I wanted to know what it could tell me in the dark. I climbed the stairs to the first floor, avoiding the centre of the steps, which I knew would creak. My moonlit walk was careful and quiet. I could see the pictures on the walls, the shapes of chairs and cabinets, could feel the rugs and wood floors under my feet. Why was I moving silently if I knew I was alone in the house? The fact that the alarm was off was still bothering me. I took a deep breath and assured myself there was no one else there.
The first floor was like a museum in the moonlight. The antique and faux antique furniture looked as if it was on display. I chose a route close to the wall again, because the centre of the floor wheezed and creaked in complaint as if I was stepping on a living thing. The first room I passed was a guest room. I would come back to it later.
At the door to Saarinen’s bedroom I stopped.
The room had been turned upside down. The closets and dressers were open, their contents dumped in piles in front of them, then kicked and hurled across the room. The bed was stripped of its bedding and the mattresses thrown against the wall. The bare antique bed frame looked like the foundation of a small house. Not a single object was left on the tables, they had all been thrown on the floor, the tables pulled away from the walls, their backs turned to the front. Some of the drawers were pulled from their cabinets entirely. The bookshelves were empty, the books lying on the floor in front of them. The shelves themselves were pulled away from the wall, too. The pictures left on the walls hung at crazy angles so extreme that they looked as if they were purposely placed that way. The entire contents of the bedside table had been emptied onto the floor, down to the last bottle of sleeping pills. The pills gleamed in the moonlight like tiny stones.
It must have been about an hour since Enni left. I’d come into the house about ten minutes ago. This had happened sometime in between.
When I was completely sure that I could still move with the same soft soundlessness as before, I slowly turned around. I let my gaze sweep over the landing. I didn’t see anyone hiding, no bulge under the curtains, no one crouching behind the sofa or sitting calmly in an easy chair. I didn’t see or hear anyone. I didn’t feel the presence of anyone.
The rest of the house was still in good order, perfectly clean, only Henrik Saarinen’s room looked as if it had been struck by a tornado.
I turned to look at the ransacked room again. I listened again, as hard as I could. Since I could no more tell Saarinen about the mess than I could the police, I might as well leave. But not yet.
The room told me at least two things. Henrik Saarinen had something that somebody wanted, and that somebody must not have found what they were looking for. If they had, they would have stopped tearing the place apart. The room was turned upside down from one end to the other, so the search must have been unsuccessful.
I closed the blinds on the windows. I turned on my torch and began with the contents of the bedside table. I’d noticed the sleeping pills, but there were other things from the drawer on the floor. Most of them were what you would expect to find in a bedside table – old art reprint postcards with nothing written on them, two gold wristwatches, an assortment of notebooks and calendars, handkerchiefs, eyedrops, two kinds of lotion.
Ballpoint pens with restaurant logos. One of them seemed familiar. The South Pier Restaurant. A waterfront establishment. I put the pen in my coat pocket.
I found a pillowcase torn from its pillow on the floor and used it to cover my hands while I leafed through the calendars and notebooks. They were all empty. Every single page. I threw down the pillowcase. I swept the beam of the torch over the bed, looked behind the shelves and tables that had been pulled from the walls and at the bookshelves’ contents scattered on the floor. Nothing caught my attention like the pen had.
It was time to leave.
I turned off the torch, adjusted to the dark again for a moment, and opened the blinds. The light of the moon flooded the room. It looked the same as it had when I came in. My steps were still soft and soundless as I went out to the landing and walked close to the wall past the guest room. One glance inside was enough. Everything was in its place, nothing touched. Light poured through the large windows onto the landing; the space was almost as bright as day. Everything was immaculately clean. And immaculately silent. I placed my steps carefully on the rug.
Then I felt something on my skin. A draught. There must be a door or a window open somewhere. I made a quick, silent circuit of the first floor. No one, no open doors or windows. I listened again, but all I could hear was myself and the sounds of the house, all of them in their expected places, every creak and click that an old house makes.
I went back to the top of the stairs, turned the torch in my hand to get a better grip for what might be waiting downstairs – a broken window, an open door, an intruder.
I took a breath, lifted my right foot, ready to lower it onto the first step, when the step disappeared. I felt two side blows to my back, and instead of my foot landing on a broad step, I went sideways into emptiness, groping the air, and my torch fell out of my hand.
SEPTEMBER 2013
‘DO YOU NEED a doctor?’
The world didn’t want to stay still. When I turned my head to the right everything careened in the opposite direction, but if I held my head straight it lurched top over bottom. The left side of my face was numb. Touching it with my fingertips I could feel that the rough carpet I was lying on had left deep grooves in my skin. The shy light of a new morning crept through the windows as if it were feeling for an angle of approach.
I struggled into a sitting position. I remembered the two blows to my back.
‘Are you all right?’
Another question I couldn’t answer. I managed to make the carousel slow down. Even at high speed, though, I would have recognised Mansikka-aho’s red eyes.
‘How did you get here?’ I asked. My mouth was dry as a sunburned leaf. It tasted like one, too.
‘Through the door,’ he said.
‘What door?’
‘The front door. It was open. I came inside. I saw you.’
I scrambled to my feet, holding on to the bannister.
‘Have you been here all night?’ Mansikka-aho asked. ‘Did you sleep here?’
I didn’t answer. His presence couldn’t mean anything good. And I didn’t have any clever Marloweisms to toss off in any case.
‘Are you alone in the house?’
He was full of questions. I couldn’t look him in the eye for more than a second or two before the carousel started to spin again and I had to concentrate on balancing and breathing. I needed a glass of water. I started down the stairs, arrived at the bottom, and decided to go to the kitchen. I glanced behind me as I crossed the wide obstacle of the hall. Mansikka-aho followed with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. Had he really just arrived? It was hard to read anything from his face or demeanour. It was as if he were permanently hidden beneath his stubble and bloodshot eyes.
I made it to the kitchen, turned on the tap, and searched for the largest possible glass from the cupboard. My thirst had grown from severe to prodigious. I drank and Mansikka-aho watched me. If the previous few days hadn’t been so full of unexpected events I would have thought the situation peculiar, perhaps even employed t
he overused term surreal, but now it was just one more event in my life – a police detective watching me drink water from a millionaire’s glass. The clock on the wall showed half past seven.
‘You’re up early,’ I said.
Mansikka-aho stood squarely facing me, his hands still in his pockets and his eyes fixed on mine. He looked as if he wouldn’t give an inch under any circumstances.
‘And you work here. You didn’t tell me that when we met. What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘Right. You always sleep on the upstairs landing. The door was open and there was no one here. What happened?’
Hadn’t he seen the upstairs?
‘Nothing. I felt weak this morning. I must have fainted.’
‘When?’
‘Just now,’ I said. ‘I left the door open when I came in.’
I couldn’t tell from his face whether he believed me. He was thinking about it.
‘What about Ketomaa? Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘But he knows you’re working here?’
‘Yes. Is it all right to ask a cop what he’s doing somewhere?’
‘Of course.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m looking for Ketomaa. Like I said.’
‘Don’t you people usually come in pairs? You’re out alone.’
‘Why wouldn’t I be? This doesn’t seem to be a dangerous place.’
Walking to the kitchen I’d been thinking that my time was up, that now Saarinen was going to find out who I was and why I was here. But Mansikka-aho wasn’t behaving like a snitch. Maybe it was true that he was here looking for Ketomaa.
‘What makes you think Ketomaa might be here?’
‘What do you think? Henrik Saarinen, of course. Does Saarinen know who you are?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
He looked at me with his red eyes. Somebody must have already suggested eyedrops, so I wasn’t going to start. Was I sure? Of course not, but this was no time for speculation.
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