Fatal Headwind

by Leena Lehtolainen

  Among the binders were bird books, English-language books on navigation, and one novel, Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick. I didn’t recognize the smiling woman in the decorative frame on one shelf, but based on the early 1950s hairdo, I deduced it was Fredrika Merivaara. I recognized something of Riikka in her grandmother’s features: dynamic jawline, long neck, determined eyebrows. Juha Merivaara hadn’t looked particularly like either of his parents.

  “Is there anything personal on the computer?” I asked Kantelinen.

  “No, but I haven’t looked at all the disks yet. What are you looking for, love notes from a mistress?”

  “Maybe. Anything personal that might shed some light on what kind of person Juha Merivaara was.”

  I remembered our brief meeting on Rödskär and how his use of “little mother” in regard to me had aroused my revulsion. Juha Merivaara had exuded masculinity and a sort of heedless forcefulness that was difficult to square with his environmentalism. But maybe he had seen nature as some sort of weak feminine character whose virginity had to be protected so people with pure intentions could enjoy its graces.

  A knock came at the door and Paula Saarnio walked in. She was probably five foot eleven, and her height was exaggerated by the three-inch heels she wore. Her dark hair was fluffed in a round hair helmet, and the masculine cut of her pinstripe suit emphasized her wide shoulders and narrow hips. Saarnio was in her early to midthirties. On her left ring finger she wore two thin diamond rings, and she had small diamond studs in her ears. Her lips were painted a deep brown, but the rest of her makeup was more subtle.

  “I have time to answer your questions now,” she said in a low-pitched voice that must have sounded extremely pleasant on the telephone.

  Walking back into Saarnio’s office, I sat down in one of the chairs and pulled my notepad out of my shoulder bag.

  “How long have you worked for Merivaara Nautical?”

  “About five years. The old secretary, who had been with the company since Juha’s father’s time, retired then.”

  “How have you gotten along?”

  “Very well.” Paula Saarnio sat down in her office chair, crossed one leg over the other, and then interlocked her hands around her knee. Her nails were painted the same color as her lips.

  “What kind of man was Juha Merivaara?”

  “Demanding but fair. He expressed clearly how he wanted things done and didn’t waffle about his decisions.”

  “So the two of you got along well? What was your relationship like?”

  “Our relationship?” A smile flitted across Paula Saarnio’s lips, and she looked straight at me with her dark-brown eyes. “I assume you mean to ask whether we had any relationship other than employer-employee. The answer is no. Yes, Juha tried in the beginning. He’s one of those men who seems to think it’s his duty to test his charisma on every woman who comes along. But he also believed me the first time I declined.”

  Nodding, I asked whether Merivaara had any other relationships.

  “I don’t think he had a permanent mistress. Professional female companionship did seem to be part of his way of entertaining some business partners, though. Now and then he would ask me to make reservations at some less-than-savory dinner clubs.” One corner of her mouth went up disdainfully.

  “Did Anne Merivaara know about that?”

  Saarnio’s expression hardened.

  “I don’t think it’s terribly appropriate to gossip about my employer’s marital affairs,” she said coldly.

  “I understand that, but we’re investigating your employer’s murder. I’m sure you want the offender brought to justice too.”

  After thinking for a moment, Saarnio said that she did think Anne knew about Juha’s occasional dalliances. In the past few years, the couple had seemed to be living in different worlds. Their professional teamwork was good, but they spent their free time and vacations mostly apart. Rödskär had been a place of great interest to Anne, but Harri’s death had cast a shadow over her love for the island.

  “Anne emphasized the ethical and spiritual dimensions of entrepreneurship, but for Juha this was just a business. And that was as it should be. Ideals alone don’t make profits,” Saarnio said. “There’s no denying that Juha’s death came at a bad time. Exports to Germany and Denmark have been growing, and the economy here is finally improving after the recession. But the business can’t run without a strong leader, and that’s not Anne. They’ll probably have to sell the company, but that won’t be hard. Two big paint factories and one Swedish boat company have made offers in the past.”

  I would have to ask Kantelinen about the possible sale price of the company. A corporate acquisition would make Riikka and Jiri rich. Would Jiri donate his money to the Animal Revolution?

  That afternoon I could barely sit through the organizational-development meeting. Luckily Taskinen was there next to me, bored and nodding off just like me, so I started passing him inappropriate notes, which to my surprise he answered just as inappropriately.

  On my way back to my office, I knocked on Ström’s door. An incomprehensible growl came from inside, which I guessed was an invitation to enter. Ström was fumbling with his bottom desk drawer.

  “How is that armed robbery coming? Do you still need Puupponen?”

  Ström straightened up uncertainly in his chair, his expression suggesting that he didn’t immediately know what I was talking about.

  “I haven’t been able to catch the witness. I’ll probably have to send a patrol to pick him up at six in the morning, since he won’t answer his phone.”

  “How’s your back?”

  As I stepped closer, Ström turned his face away and started lighting a cigarette.

  “Still hurts. Sitting in this chair isn’t very fun.”

  Ström exhaled the first smoke. The stench of tobacco wafted to my nose, along with something else.

  His breath smelled of fresh alcohol.

  7

  I made it home just after five, ate a banana, and changed into my running clothes. There was no sign of Antti and Iida, but Einstein rubbed up against my legs, seemingly in need of company. Stretching for a minute, I tried to get the knots in my shoulders to relax. Then I set off toward Espoo Central Park. After a few hundred yards, the running started to flow, and the damp autumn air was easy to breathe. I tried not to think about work, but two things kept running through my mind.

  First, our visit to Merivaara Nautical hadn’t produced any results.

  And second, Ström had been drinking at work.

  I had asked him straight up, and he had denied drinking anything. When I requested that he open his bottom drawer, he replied by saying that its contents were none of my business. Because I needed to get to another meeting, I left the matter at that.

  But I would have to bring it up again soon. I was the unit commander, and I couldn’t ignore the responsibility that the position brought with it.

  One part of me thought that Ström was boozing at work to test whether I would have the nerve to intervene. Another part of me thought he really did have a problem not only with alcohol but with his whole life. Of course it would have been easy for him to believe that he had his act together if he had been chosen as unit commander instead of me, even though it still wouldn’t be true. As long as he was hostile toward me, I could understand him. But any random outbursts of friendliness completely threw me.

  I turned onto a jogging trail. The rain had turned all the low spots into mud puddles, and my shoes got soaked. Then my left heel started rubbing. The pain was almost a relief, since I had to think about it instead of work. After a little while I had to stop to adjust my sock, so the welcome distraction came to an end.

  When I had left work, Kantelinen had still been digging through the Merivaara files. Everyone on the staff had said that Juha Merivaara was a demanding but likeable boss, that the environment at the company was good, and that everyone was committed to their business philosophy. The chief financial officer, a man name
d Heikki Halonen, had told Puupponen that he had been with Merivaara a couple of times at drunken customer dinners where the coffee and cognac were accompanied by leggy girls from an escort service. According to the CFO, this was a normal part of doing business, and Puupponen, who was a regular at a local strip club, had been sympathetic.

  It felt strange that a company that emphasized values like environmental protection and sustainable development used escorts in their business negotiations. Even stranger was that Anne Merivaara allowed it to happen.

  That made me wonder what else wasn’t exactly the way it appeared in the way the business operated.

  Jogging helped me relax, but it didn’t completely clear my head. I returned home dripping with sweat, and Antti and Iida still weren’t back. When I turned on the TV for background while I stretched and did some core exercises, the news had just started. Boris Yeltsin had visited Bosnia, a hurricane was approaching the coast of Florida, and there had been another demonstration in London against cross-border EU meat shipments. When all this hubbub about animal welfare began more than a year ago, I really blew a fuse over the way the news talked about it. The newscaster’s expression grew several degrees more serious than when he had been reporting events in Bosnia and Rwanda and warned us that the images related to the animal issues might not be appropriate for children or sensitive viewers. Half-lame pigs had been packed into a semitrailer, sometimes even on top of each other, blood mingling with their excrement. The sight really was appalling, and I had no doubt some people would never eat pork again.

  But that wasn’t what upset me. What upset me was that yesterday the same news broadcast had shown an overcrowded refugee ship sailing from Albania to Italy with people falling overboard. The newscaster hadn’t bothered to warn anyone about that sight.

  “A protest also occurred here at home in Finland today,” the anchor continued in his calm voice. “The Helsinki Police were forced to break up a gathering of bicyclists and pedestrians blocking Mannerheim Street to protest automobiles taking over downtown. The now-monthly demonstration occurred at rush hour and irritated many drivers who were delayed. A verbal argument led to a physical confrontation and cobblestones being thrown from both sides. Two demonstrators had minor injuries and five were taken in for questioning.”

  Iida, I thought in horror. What the hell was Antti thinking taking a one-year-old to a demonstration where people were throwing rocks! The news showed a line of police officers, and off to the side I caught a familiar glimpse of green hair. His father’s death hadn’t prevented Jiri Merivaara from participating in the fracas. The camera focused on the bleeding cheek of a young woman with a nose ring and black hair, and a very young girl in a long dress and wool poncho who had taken a rock in the back from a furious motorist.

  “Things are already hard enough for drivers in this country,” said a good-looking man about my age being interviewed. “Every time you turn around there’s some new tax. We pay a fortune for gas, you need a pack of bloodhounds to find a parking place in the city, and even if you do you’ll have to sell your right arm to pay for it. And then the cops just stand around watching while honest taxpayers can’t even get home from work!”

  I stretched my quadriceps while the news moved on to the rally-racing results. Just as I switched the TV off, I heard the front door. Einstein bounded off the couch and headed to the entryway. He assumed that Antti was bringing him a treat. I could hear Iida babbling. Going to meet them, I picked my baby up as she repeated, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” Iida had inherited my snub nose and coarse, unruly hair, but her dark eyes and the shape of her eyebrows were Antti’s. She smelled like bananas, and I squeezed her tight, sniffing and kissing her. Antti joined in, and we sandwiched our daughter in a hug, which made her giggle happily.

  “The news said there was quite the brawl.”

  “Some damn idiot started throwing rocks! We were just walking and biking perfectly peacefully. No one was making any trouble.”

  “Maybe next time you should leave Iida home. Did you see Jiri Merivaara?”

  Antti nodded and said he’d expressed his condolences to Jiri. The boy hadn’t responded and just walked to the other side of the group of demonstrators. Since he had Iida with him, Antti didn’t bother to follow. Antti couldn’t understand why none of the motorists had been arrested, even though they had been throwing rocks too.

  After a quick shower, I cooked dinner—spinach pasta with avocado-cashew sauce, which Iida liked. Nowadays feeding her meant using two spoons, one in the adult’s hand and one in hers. The result was a sloppy mess under the chair and a little girl who was covered in food but also very satisfied with her independence. Einstein waited expectantly next to the chair and looked irritated when all he got was vegetables instead of pieces of meat or fish.

  My mood in the morning was surreal. Instead of dreaming about work, I had had visions of a glassy sea across which our sailboat glided faster than any motorboat. I didn’t want to remember who exactly I had been sailing with, or who it was making me laugh in my dream.

  Dressing in my most stylish pantsuit, I pulled my hair back in a low bun and put on a trendy pair of high-heel ankle boots I had bought on a whim. Walking in them wasn’t particularly comfortable, but the extra couple of inches from the heels were welcome. In our morning meeting, I felt downright energetic. Ström sat off to the side wearing sunglasses, desperately chomping his nicotine gum. Even though I wanted to, I didn’t go smell his breath; I focused instead on making the day’s assignments.

  “This domestic assault from last night . . . Sirpa and Ari Väätäinen. I see this Ari character has a prior record. Who wants to handle the interviews?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Ström groaned. “He’s beating her again? Why can’t they get that bastard thrown in jail! I’ll take it, and Puupponen can be my backup.”

  “Call the prosecutor before you go and have him meet you at the hospital to see the wife.” I had glanced at the Väätäinens’ file before the meeting, and it was a real horror show. Ari Väätäinen had already sent his wife to the hospital three times. The wife had never filed a criminal complaint herself, so the hospital staff always did. The couple had three children younger than ten. In the latest beating, the wife had received two broken ribs and a broken jaw. The children were in a shelter.

  “Ström, have a chat with the prosecutor. I think we should be able to get an arrest warrant this time. Koivu, you come with me to question Jiri Merivaara and Mikke Sjöberg.”

  No one answered at the Merivaara residence. Jiri’s high school was nearby, so we would pick him up there. First we tried Mikke Sjöberg’s apartment, though. His mother Katrina answered.

  “Mikke is at the harbor working on his boat. I’ve been waiting for word from the police that I can go home to Åland. I have a ferry ticket for tomorrow night. Is that OK?”

  “Do you have anything to add to the statement you gave on Sunday?”

  “No. And I’ll be coming back for Juha’s funeral.”

  “What time did you say Mikke would be coming home?”

  “I imagine for lunch, around one o’clock.”

  I left my cell number for Mikke. Then we started driving to Espoo Bay High School.

  “Ugh,” Koivu said as we parked the car in front of the enormous red brick building. “Schools always depress me. I feel like gagging whenever I drive by my old middle school at home in Kajaani. Should we go talk to the principal?”

  I laughed. The secretary in the main office was more likely to know what class Jiri Merivaara was in. As we entered the echoing corridors, I smelled chicken fricassee. I asked a boy in a toque and pants with legs wide enough to be a skirt where the main office was. He grunted and vaguely waved his hand in reply, but after a couple of wrong turns we did manage to find the office. The principal wasn’t in, and the rotund secretary who looked about retirement age stared at us in surprise. Her expression changed quickly when I said we were looking for Jiri Merivaara.

  “Jiri . . . Jus
t a moment. I’m not sure he’s in school. His father died last weekend.” The secretary fell silent for a second, and I could almost see the light of understanding turn on over her head. “Are you here because of Juha Merivaara’s death? Are the police investigating it?”

  So far we had succeeded in making the media think the death had been an accident, even though our spokesperson had had to talk long and hard to get the more tenacious journalists to believe her. Someone from one of the tabloids had accosted me too. Their crime reporter had remembered Harri’s death and made the connection between the dates. I calmly asserted that the only similarity between the incidents was that the rocks were wet from the autumn rain.

  “We’re just checking on a few details. Where would we find Jiri if he is at school?”

  “Jiri is in track 2B. They have PE right now. Let’s go have a look in the gymnasium. I can show you the way.”

  The gym was empty, but the permanent smell of sweat beckoned me. If only I could ditch work for a game of volleyball.

  “Maybe they’re outside, or . . . wait . . . Let’s take a look in the library.”

  The secretary motioned for us to follow, and we trailed her down the hall and passed one door that did nothing to muffle the noise of the teenagers inside. The secretary shook her head.

  “Hartikainen can’t ever seem to keep his kids under control. Here!”

  The secretary opened the library door. Inside was dark. A girl in a long skirt and hijab sat reading in the narrow shaft of light that shone through a window.

  “Hi, Fatima. We’re looking for Jiri Merivaara. Are the others at the pool?”

  The girl nodded, and I caught a glimpse of her dark skin and delicate features.

  “Is Jiri at school today?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if he went swimming or not. He says that swimming pools waste an immoral amount of electricity,” Fatima said in slightly accented Finnish, carefully avoiding glancing at Koivu. What did she do in class if she had to answer a question from a male teacher?