Deep as Death

by Katja Ivar

  praise for

  EVIL THINGS

  The first in the Hella Mauzer Series

  “This is a remarkable debut—the best novel I’ve read this year. A historical thriller with a heart that keeps you enthralled to the final page.”

  David Young, author of A Darker State and STASI Child

  “Ivar’s stellar first novel revolves around two crucial struggles for emancipation—that of the nation of Finland after centuries of foreign rule, and that of Finnish women.”

  Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

  “In the strange, enclosed world of 1950s Lapland, when detective Mauzer arrives to investigate the case of a missing grandfather… it will take all her nascent feminist courage to right the wrongs she uncovers.”

  Sunday Times, Crime Club pick

  “A captivating first novel… ‘My dear girl,’ her patronizing boss instructs, ‘justice in a cold climate is not a natural phenomenon.’ But the stubborn and resourceful Sgt. Hella Mauzer seems just the police officer to deliver it.”

  Wall Street Journal

  “Welcome to the most stubborn of cops, righting wrongs in cold Lapland, a memorable character with just the right disdain for authority and its amoral attitudes to justice and women.”

  Maxim Jakubowski, author of The Louisiana Republic

  “One of the finest books to be released this season. The true joy is Ivar’s ability to blend Cold War politics, sexual politics, geopolitics, and personal tragedy in Hella’s pursuit for justice.”

  Mystery Scene Magazine

  “Cold-war Lapland is a glitteringly fresh setting and the protagonist is an unexpected character who I’d love to meet again.”

  Morning Star

  DEEP AS DEATH

  Katja Ivar

  BITTER LEMON PRESS

  LONDON

  To my grandmother, Klaudia, born in 1929

  A medic, a wife, a mother

  Her stories illuminated my childhood.

  And to my tiny angel Marguerite, as always.

  Between the idea

  And the reality

  Between the motion

  And the act

  Falls the shadow.

  T. S. Eliot

  “The Hollow Men”

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I: Beware

  1 Hella

  2 Hella

  3 Hella

  4 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  5 Hella

  6 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  7 Hella

  8 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  9 Hella

  10 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  11 Hella

  12 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  13 Hella

  14 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  15 Hella

  16 Hella

  17 Hella

  18 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  19 Hella

  20 Hella

  21 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  22 Hella

  23 Hella

  24 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  25 Hella

  26 Hella

  27 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  28 Hella

  29 Hella

  30 Hella

  31 Hella

  Part II: Fighting Monsters

  32 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  33 Hella

  34 Hella

  35 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  36 Hella

  37 Hella

  38 Hella

  39 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  40 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  41 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  42 Hella

  43 Inspector Mustonen

  44 Hella

  45 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  46 Hella

  47 Inspector Mustonen

  48 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  49 Hella

  50 Hella

  51 Hella

  52 Hella

  53 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  54 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  55 Hella

  56 Hella

  Part III: The Abyss

  57 Inspector Mustonen

  58 Hella

  59 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  60 Hella

  61 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  62 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  63 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  64 Chief Inspector Mustonen

  65 Hella

  Epilogue: Chief Inspector Jokela

  Hella

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  1935

  She didn’t know what scared her the most: the man, or the lake.

  Both looked dull and familiar, but she knew dark shadows lurked underneath. She had known it all along, without ever admitting it to herself; she had just gone about her day, steering clear of both. She had thought that would be enough, but she was wrong. When the man threw open the door of the barn, where she sat huddled with the boy, she took a sharp breath as a cold wave of panic washed over her body.

  “Temptress,” he called her, spitting out the word as if it tasted bitter. “Whore.” He said it like he meant it, and then he took a step towards her, a cattle whip in his hand, his eyes narrowed. She pushed the boy aside and lunged for a corner of the barn, squeezing her body through the opening she had used to get inside. Black windowless walls surrounded her; the only way out was over the lake. If the man stayed where he was, she could slip past the house, keeping close to the shore, and get away.

  She stifled a sob. Maybe he wouldn’t come after her. Maybe he’d just whip the boy, who wouldn’t mind so much – he was used to it. Her mind was wiped blank by fear. Not even for a fleeting moment did she consider going back to explain herself; in her panic, she couldn’t think of a way to make him understand she had only meant well.

  The sharp crack behind her meant the man wasn’t going to stay inside. He was hacking at the wood with an axe, widening the opening.

  She decided she stood a better chance with the lake.

  It was late spring, but only the calendar knew this. It was snowing heavily, fat, damp snowflakes clinging to her hair and dress, muffling every sound. No one would be out in this weather. No one would help her. The frozen lake stretched white and peaceful as far as her eye could see, but she knew better. Towards the north shore, where a stream fed into the lake, patches of white gave way to heavy grey slush. That was where the man drove her.

  She looked over her shoulder as she ran, slipping on the ice. The boy on the shore would not help; he was paralysed with fear. All he could do was stand there, his eyes wild and pleading, and watch the man chase her.

  “You’re dead, Lara,” the man said, not even out of breath. His voice was quiet, not menacing. He was stating a fact. She headed straight towards the north shore, where the ice wouldn’t hold his tall frame. He realized that and stopped. She stopped as well, panting, facing the man across five yards of thin, treacherous ice. Her crimson dress was like a drop of blood, trickling onto a white shroud. She was lighter than the man, but not light enough. The ice would give way at some point. Viewed from up close, it seemed illuminated from within, by some mythical creature, by a sea monster coiled below. The man sat down slowly, stretching his legs out in front of him, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He’d wait her out. He had all the time in the world.

  She sat on the ice, too, and looked at the shore, its ragged skyline of tall dark trees and windowless walls, black on black. She refused to look at the man. She still hoped that if she waited long enough, he’d get tired and leave. Then she had an idea. A prayer! A prayer to he
r guardian angel. The words came easily to her, but she only got to the end of the first sentence when, with a gentle shush, the ice beneath her started to cave in. She gasped. She had stayed still for too long. The water was so cold it stopped time. It bit at her ankles, worked its way into her boots. Her heart jammed somewhere in her throat, but her mind was miraculously clear. She could still escape. This was bad, but not as bad as the man waiting for her. And she knew what to do – everyone who grew up in this country did. No brisk movements. She spreadeagled her body on the ice and started to glide forward, making herself light. Like a bird. She inched her way forward until she managed to drag her lower body out of the water. Now she could crawl. Her feet were frozen, but she couldn’t afford to stop.

  Then she remembered: the man. He was still waiting for her, and he was smiling. For an instant, his clear blue eyes locked on hers. There was nothing in them at all.

  It doesn’t matter if I lose some toes, she thought. Doesn’t matter at all. I’ll just stay here like this until morning comes. There will be people then. Ice fishermen. Children sent to replenish water reserves. The man will have to leave. Until then, I can’t move.

  Her veins were full of ice, and her thoughts slowed. Would her mother come looking for her? Would the boy on the shore call for help? The snow before her eyes was the colour of dead fish.

  “You look like a fallen angel, Lara,” the man said. “And that snow on your hair – like a tiara. Do you remember those garlands you made, last summer? Do you remember?” The last question was for the boy, who was approaching them with small cautious steps, his eyes shiny with tears.

  The man shook his head in disgust and thrust a hand into his coat pocket.

  “Goodbye, Lara,” he said again, and opened his hand. He was holding a rock the size of her fist. He aimed carefully.

  As the stone left his hand and flew towards her, she realized what he was doing.

  The boy screamed. One piercing note, mouth wide open, eyes screwed shut.

  The rock shattered the ice right in front of her face, and she could just glimpse the inky water beneath before it swallowed her whole.

  PART I

  Beware

  1

  Hella

  26 February 1953, Helsinki

  The judge was old and irritated. He peered at me over the wire-rimmed glasses that sat on the tip of his nose.

  “Anything to add, Miss?”

  My lawyer fluttered nervously by my side. He was fresh out of law school, and much too impressed by the grand mahogany-panelled hall we were in to add anything of value. Still, he cleared his throat, pulling at his too-short jacket sleeves. His wrists were as thin as a boy’s. “Your Honour, in my closing argument —”

  The judge waved an impatient hand. “I have already heard your closing argument. What I want to know is what the defendant has to say.” He pointed at me. “You! Why did you attack that man?”

  There was whispering from the bench to my right where my victim was sitting, his one remaining eye glaring at me.

  “Your Honour,” I said. “I am afraid you misunderstood —” My lawyer drew a sharp breath. That was about the only thing he had told me before the proceedings started: never contradict the judge. Never. And that was exactly what I was doing now. “The accuser was the one who attacked me. I was merely defending myself.”

  “With a rusty nail?” The judge’s voice was carefully neutral, sympathetic even.

  “It was the only thing I had on hand.”

  “Is that right?” the judge said, his beady eyes never leaving mine. “You were in a logging camp in Lapland, which is to say in the middle of nowhere. You ventured into a place inhabited by men, where no respectable woman would ever expect to set foot. Worse, you were in that gentleman’s bedroom. Did he drag you there?”

  “No.”

  “Then you came to his sleeping quarters of your own accord?”

  “I did, Your Honour. That is not an invitation to be raped.”

  Next to me, my lawyer buried his face in his hands. Even in his limited experience, I was a crackpot.

  “Hmm,” the judge said. “Let me get this straight. You expect that you can walk into a man’s bedroom, flirt with him, then get away unscathed?”

  “That’s what I said, Your Honour. As a police officer, I had reasons to go to that logging camp, and into that room, and those reasons had nothing to do with romance or seduction.”

  The judge stared at me for a long time, wondering perhaps if I’d explain my reasons further, but I kept quiet. What had happened to me was nobody’s business, and I was ready to suffer the consequences. To the judge, I was a former police officer from Ivalo, Lapland, discharged from the force for disobeying my supervisors’ direct orders and now being sued by a man who claimed I had damaged his leg when I attacked him.

  “Well,” the judge said at last. “Perhaps that is the truth. Still, the accuser has provided a medical certificate which states that the wound you inflicted prevents him from exercising his profession. You are a truck driver, are you not?” he asked my self-proclaimed victim, who almost jumped from the bench, nodding.

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “A very valuable profession. Especially at a time when our country, having finished paying war reparations to the Soviet Union, is undergoing a massive reconstruction. We need working men. We need truck drivers.” The judge turned back to me. “You are not married, are you? So what do you do for a living?”

  He knew already, of course. He just wanted to hear me say it.

  “I am a private investigator, Your Honour.”

  The judge chuckled. “What do you investigate? Missing cats?”

  “I specialize in murder cases, Your Honour.”

  Now the spectators in the courtroom were laughing too. Even my lawyer leaned forward to hide a smile.

  “Murder?” the judge said. “Murder investigations pay well, last I heard. The court finds you guilty of assault on the person of Seppo Kukoyakka and sentences you to pay damages to the amount of…” He paused, his eyes assessing the value of my cheap wool jacket and tired leather pumps, noting the absence of jewellery. “One hundred thousand markka.”

  Six months of police sergeant’s wages. Not that I was employed any more.

  My lawyer gasped. He sprang to his feet as the judge’s gavel hit the desk in front of him. “Your Honour, a hundred thousand markka is an extraordinary sum and the defendant —”

  “Case closed,” the judge said, not looking at him. “People like Miss Mauzer are a danger to society. You will have the chance to appeal, if you so wish. Next!”

  The lawyer threw me a dejected look. “You shouldn’t have been so provocative,” he said. “It would have been better to say you got scared, changed your mind. The judge would have been easier on you. Now, what are you going to —”

  I got to my feet. They were already bringing the next defendant into the courtroom, a vagabond who smelled of urine. The show was over, the public shuffling towards the exit, grinning.

  “Don’t you worry,” I said to the lawyer. “How much time do I have to pay the sum?”

  “Two months.”

  “Then I’ll find a way to pay it.”

  He stared at me, his Adam’s apple working up and down his thin neck. “I’m sorry, Miss Mauzer,” he said at last. “I should have prepared you better.” He leaned over to pick up his briefcase. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  Five minutes later, I stood on the steps of the courthouse, the frozen expanse of the Baltic Sea stretching ahead of me. The guidebooks called Helsinki the White City of the North, except that there was nothing white about it. To me, this was a city of softened greys and sunless mornings, of blurry shadows and damp drizzle. Its sky was ancient and low, its air charged with salt. A city of seafarers, merchants and soldiers. This was a place I was determined to once again call home. Luck or no luck.

  2

  Hella

  The snow globe sat on my desk, on top of a sheet o
f wrapping paper. There was a figurine of a child inside it. It looked like Eva: painfully thin, almost translucent, with a great mane of red-gold hair that reached down to her waist. The hair didn’t move as I turned the globe upside down – only the synthetic snow did. It swirled inside the glass sphere, the plastic child caught in a snowstorm. With the tips of my fingers, I caressed the smooth cool surface, thinking of all the little phrases I had stashed away in preparation for the big day: We don’t have to be friends – I just want us to get to know each other a little. I’m not trying to replace anyone, Eva. Your dad and I never meant for it to happen, but sometimes life is like this. It sweeps you off your feet.

  “No no no no no,” Steve said, restlessly pacing in my tiny, cluttered office. Three steps to the left took him to the window and the view of the patched-up roofs that stretched all the way to the green-and-gold dome of Uspenski Cathedral. One step to the right, and he was in front of the door that opened on what the landlord insisted on calling a reception area – in reality, a room little larger than a cupboard, furnished with two mismatched chairs and an umbrella stand crammed between them. “You’re kind, and generous, and selfless. And tough,” Steve added, once he shot a glance at the reception area and confirmed that it was empty. “You’re not asking this of me. You’re not that kind of person.”

  Rising up from my chair, I turned to face him. “I am, trust me.”

  Steve rubbed his face with both hands. He looked tired, his tall frame slumping forward a little, his blue eyes bloodshot. “You’re the kind of person who blackmails the father of a fragile child?”

  “Yes,” I said, after a glance at the snow globe. I hadn’t got round to wrapping my gift, and now I probably never would. “That’s me exactly. So is it a yes or a no?”

  I’d never meant to have this conversation in the first place. The day had already been awful enough as it was; first the courthouse, then a food stamp office where I’d had to queue for an hour before being told by a bored employee that they’d just run out of coupons and I had better come back the following day. And now this.