by Katja Ivar
“Why? Did you quarrel with them?”
“Not at all.” I hoped I was convincing enough. “My relationship with the police is great – they recommended me.”
“Yes,” Maria said. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
This interview was not going the way I had expected. “Maria,” I said. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but it’s in your best interest to tell me if you know anything at all about the circumstances surrounding Nellie’s disappearance.”
The girl looked away. She knew something, but she wasn’t going to tell me. She was too scared.
“Do you know what I think?” I said.
Maria looked up at me.
“I think your friend met someone she was serious about. At the time of her death, Nellie was three months pregnant, did you know that?”
The girl didn’t answer.
“There are ways to get rid of unwanted pregnancies, and I would expect that someone in your profession would know all about them. So the question is: why didn’t she? Did she think she had a future with the baby’s father?”
“If Nellie believed she could don a frilly apron and pretend the past never happened, she was stupid. For women like us, getting married is about the worst thing that can happen: losing our independence and being prevented from using the only asset we’ve got? No thank you.” Maria attempted a laugh. “Nellie knew what I thought about it. She wouldn’t have confided in me. Besides, we weren’t even that close.”
“She came to you the day she disappeared, because her curling iron broke and she needed to borrow yours.”
“That doesn’t make us friends,” Maria snorted.
That wasn’t what Klara Nylund had told me. She said the two women had been inseparable. I wondered if my theory was correct. If there had been a man, Maria must have known something about him but been too afraid to tell. Why? Because she also knew that the man was dangerous? A thug? Would responsible Nellie have fallen for a man like that? Or it might have been someone powerful. Someone important.
A man who could offer a better future to Nellie, her son and her unborn child. A man who had killed her instead.
8
Chief Inspector Mustonen
For a man like Jokela, a clear conscience was a sign of a bad memory. I knew he’d forget this, too, as soon as our visitor walked out of the restaurant. The consequences would be mine to handle, while Jokela would reap the benefits.
Of course, as my boss liked to point out, it was not as straightforward as that. I would reap the benefits too – indirectly. The police chief, Dr Palmu, was on the verge of retirement, and Jokela was well positioned to replace him. And if Jokela climbed to the top of the career ladder, I could take his place as head of the homicide squad. The youngest ever, as Jokela reminded me every time we talked about it. Just think of it, my boy: head of the homicide squad and you’re not even thirty-five yet, not a wrinkle on you, not a grey hair. Think about how your father-in-law will see you once that happens. Some respect there, yes? He won’t be embarrassed any longer that his only daughter married a farmer’s son.
With this in mind, the man facing us across the table was a godsend. Police Chief is a political nomination. You don’t climb that high if you’re not vetted by the ruling party. Jokela had their support but he wasn’t the only one; every sabre-toothed rat in the police ranks was vying for the position. Now that was about to change. Unless, of course, I refused to cooperate.
The man sitting across from us was small, wizened even. He looked like some sort of crooner, a Sinatra in miniature. But his name was typically Finnish: Alvar Virtanen.
“So, how about it?” Virtanen said, spreading his tiny hands on the table in a gesture meant to show that we were all good friends here. “I suppose we agree that Ahti is guilty of nothing more serious than being a high-spirited young man with natural appetites.”
Jokela glanced at me sharply. “What do you say, my boy?” As usual, he was waiting for me to compromise myself before he even uttered a word.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “Your nineteen-year-old son, Ahti, was out on the town yesterday, and he had a bit too much to drink.”
Ahti’s father leaned back, frowning. “I see no problem with that. Ahti is of age.”
“Naturally.” I shifted in my chair. I needed to be careful about what I said next.
“Ahti was driving a car he borrowed from you, a red Chrysler Newport.”
A tiny nod from the father.
“He lost control of his vehicle and smashed into the boulders just outside the West Harbour terminal.”
“That’s right.”
“Ahti was unharmed, except for some minor cuts and bruises, and so was his passenger – who was she, by the way?”
“We know who she was,” Jokela interrupted. “Her name’s irrelevant.”
“Not if I have to go and explain to her why she needs to keep her mouth shut.”
Ahti’s father and Jokela both winced.
“My dear boy,” Jokela said, reproachful, “no one’s asking you to cover up a crime.”
“No,” Virtanen added in haste. “Because there was no crime.”
The man didn’t like me, I could see that. Still, Virtanen was stuck with me, and if we were playing, it was on my own terms. I waited, thinking about my police career and the irony of this request. Somewhere, some evil god was clutching his side in a fit of hysterical laughter.
“Her name is Elena,” Ahti’s father said at last.
“Is she of age, too?”
“She’s eighteen. Her aunt is a very diligent woman, she examines the girls’ papers before she hires them.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll take your word for that. What about the car?”
“Ruined.” Virtanen shrugged. “But it was insured, and the ice on the road is the municipality’s fault, not my son’s.”
There was silence. They were pussyfooting around the real issue. But once it was said out loud, it couldn’t be undone. I chose a different approach.
“What does Ahti do? Is he a student?”
“My son is reading law.”
“And I trust he intends to follow in his father’s footsteps?”
The father nodded cautiously. “Ahti has a passion for civil service. It would be a pity to ruin the boy’s future career over one unfortunate accident.”
“Of course,” Jokela said. “Of course. Chief Inspector Mustonen will make sure that doesn’t happen.” He stomped on my foot under the table to drive his point home. Bastard.
A doe-eyed waitress came up to our table offering a coffee refill, but Jokela sent her away. “What is your problem, Mustonen?” he hissed. “The matter is pretty straightforward. The young woman was drunk, she was incoherent. Even the witness recognizes that. The fact that she insisted on going to the police … she probably regrets it as we speak, but what’s done is done.”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” I said to Virtanen, ignoring my boss. “From what I understand, the young woman is claiming that your Ahti was holding her against her will, and that his idea of a fun night was a bain de minuit in Helsinki Port.” Virtanen closed his eyes briefly, a picture of human suffering, a man misunderstood. I pressed on: “And when the witness rushed over to help the passengers out of the car, he saw that the girl’s hands were tied?”
Virtanen’s eyes flew open; his fist landed on the table. “They were just messing around, for Christ’s sake! I recognize that the idea of tying up the girl was unfortunate, and that the midnight ice dip, with or without the girl, was plain stupid. But young men make mistakes. That doesn’t mean they – and their families – should have to pay for that with their careers.”
There we were, at last. “Well,” I said, keeping my eyes on the father, “as long as we all recognize how important that is for the careers of all the parties involved. I’ll interview the girl and the witness and see what I can do. You’re probably right and the girl just panicked because she heard the stories going aroun
d. Let’s hope it was just that. In the meantime, I recommend that you keep Ahti home for a while, make sure there are no other unfortunate accidents. It could draw unwanted attention to what happened yesterday night. Are we clear on the terms?”
“Yes,” the father said. “We are.” He was looking at me when he said that. Not at Jokela.
9
Hella
I didn’t know what I was expecting. Crimson silk, certainly, and velvet and lace. Tall champagne glasses and sensual girls in negligees. But during the daytime, at least, Klara Nylund’s establishment looked like any other house: freshly painted woodwork on the outside, the smell of cooking on the inside. Roast lamb. My stomach growled.
The girl managing reception heard it and smiled, the gold tooth in her mouth gleaming in the morning light. “Can I help you, Miss?”
She was wondering who I could be. I didn’t look like a prospective employee. I didn’t look like anybody’s wife either.
“My name’s Mauzer. I’m here to see Miss Nylund.”
The girl nodded, interested now. So the news had got around.
“Up the stairs, second floor.”
She didn’t offer to accompany me, so I made my own way there. The stairs were covered in thick carpet, and there were photographs on the walls. Lots of pretty girls, most of them blonde, all of them young. One of the frames was empty: Nellie.
Klara Nylund was standing on the landing when I got there. Without a word, she escorted me into her office, motioning towards a high-backed chair.
“Any luck with Maria?” she asked once I had sat down.
I shrugged. “She knows something, but she’s not telling. I’m guessing she was afraid. I need to know more about this place, when you started, who your clients are – that sort of thing. If you had other girls disappear in the past…”
The madam looked tired, dark circles under her eyes sinking deep into her skull. I caught my reflection in the splotchy glass behind her: I looked worse.
“Smoke?” The madam pulled a crumpled pack of unfiltered Chesterfields out of the pocket of her cardigan.
“No thank you.”
“You must be the only girl in Helsinki who’d say no to a cigarette.” She watched me with narrowed eyes. Her words, when she spoke again, came out drenched in smoke. “So, about this place. We first opened in December 1938. I inherited this house – I was already in the hospitality business, so I thought I’d open my own place. It was smaller then. Just me and two girls. And before you say anything, I know what women like you think about my trade. I’m not ashamed of who I am.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“You’d be the only one.”
“Maybe.”
Klara Nylund chuckled. “Anyway. We closed after a year.”
“Because all the men had gone to fight in the Winter War?”
She answered with another question. “Do you know that syphilis rates spiked when the war started?”
“They doubled, right?”
“Make it times eight. And gonorrhoea, times three. I couldn’t keep this place going. I spent the war years helping out at the Surgical Hospital in Ullanlinna.”
I had been there too, with my mother and my older sister, Christina, who had spent her time flirting with the soldiers. I wondered if Klara and I had met back then. Not that it mattered.
“When did you reopen?”
“1946. There were lots of girls on the streets, the locals and the refugees. They’d come knocking, ask me to take them in. Most of them would stay a couple of years, then find something different. The idea they have when they come here is that they’ll hook up with and marry one of the clients. It never happens, of course.”
“Nellie definitely hooked up with someone. She was pregnant at the time of her death. Did Chief Inspector Jokela tell you that? It was in the medical report he gave you, but it’s written in such a way that someone who’s not used to the terminology would never guess.” I showed her the report. “It’s here. Gravida. That’s Latin for pregnant.”
The madam nodded slowly. “Nellie had been looking unwell recently. I remember asking her about it, but she shrugged it off, told me it was just a bug she’d caught.” Klara Nylund frowned. “Do you think that could have been the reason?”
“That’s why I need to know the names of Nellie’s clients.” I pulled my notepad out of my bag, unscrewed the top of my fountain pen. “You cater to a well-off clientele. Those men have a lot to lose.”
Klara Nylund stood up. “That’s exactly why they come to my place and not other establishments, and that’s why there’s no list. I’d be risking more than my business if I gave you the names of my clients. No, you’ll have to do without.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Interview people working in the port. This isn’t someone she met through my place, and any regulars she had were not the type to kill anyone. We don’t cater to homicidal maniacs here.”
“You’d be surprised,” I said.
“Nothing surprises me any more. Being surprised is your job.”
Klara Nylund marched towards the door and opened it wide.
The interview was over.
10
Chief Inspector Mustonen
As my father-in-law was fond of saying, the only difference between a man and a boy was the price of their toys. I thought about that as I left the cafe through the back door and started walking down the busy street. Young Ahti had very expensive toys. They could spell trouble, not only for the Virtanen family but also for me now I was involved. I needed to tread carefully but act quickly. Assess the damage, see what could be done.
First, the car. No matter what Ahti’s father said, I needed to make up my own mind. People lie, objects don’t.
The Chrysler had been towed away to a garage on Ratakatu, where it sat awaiting assessment by the insurance company. I considered taking a cab there, but the morning traffic was already heavy, and besides, I wouldn’t be able to claim expenses on that one. So I walked, my felt hat pulled low over my face, my mind racing. Had I just made a mistake? And what would happen if I changed my mind?
All around me, the street was teeming with people. Men hurrying to their offices, armed with briefcases, dowdy housewives returning home from the market with their bags full. A newspaper boy peddling Helsingin Sanomat. The cover story was on Julius and Ethel Rosenberg’s campaign for clemency. I bought a copy. The boy barely looked at me. This was what I enjoyed the most about living in a big city – you could do your own thing and, as long as you looked respectable, no one took notice.
The garage was on a narrow street and I could hear banging – metal on metal – before I even turned the corner. There was no one in the reception area, so I strode right in, my warrant card in my pocket. Better to avoid showing it.
“What do you want?” A stocky guy in overalls glanced up from whatever he was doing on the carcass of a Ford. I pointed towards the cherry-red Chrysler in the yard.
“Assessment.”
“Sure.” Even as the mechanic answered, he was turning away, his mind already on other things. I looked the part: young, professional, wool coat, briefcase, hat. If the man in overalls had thought about it even for a moment, he would have realized that no lowly insurance expert could afford a coat like mine, but people like him don’t think. Besides, I’d never said I was sent by the insurance company. If things went belly-up, I could claim I’d showed him my card but that the mechanic hadn’t been paying attention.
The Chrysler was a beauty, with its swept-back roof, its curved rear windows. I walked around it, leaning close to the car in case the man was watching me. The car looked barely damaged. I’d been expecting worse. The right headlight was smashed, and there was a dent in the bumper. Probably a problem with the steering, too, given that the car had been towed here. I tried the doors, which opened easily. There was a jumble of clothes on the back seat: a stole, a tie, a woman’s pointy shoe. I picked up the objects one by one in my gloved hand, wondering wh
ether at some point they might prove useful to the investigation. I thought about that girl, Elena; if she realized how lucky she had been. Lucky to have had the car skid on the ice, lucky that a passer-by had rushed over to help. Lucky to be alive.
I needed to interview Elena, and I also needed to see young Ahti. The boy must have known that the body of a prostitute had been pulled out of the harbour recently, but he had still done what he did. So far, I had only two working hypotheses: either the boy was stupid, or he had a very weird sense of humour. I refused to consider the third possibility, that the boy was a good candidate for the role of mass murderer. It was too early for that. I needed to find more evidence first.
I was also wondering about Hella Mauzer. How long before she heard about last night’s accident and sprang into action?
11
Hella
The pathologist looked like a Popeye who some prankster had managed to squeeze into green surgical scrubs three sizes too small. His huge bulging forearms ended in deft, sensitive hands. At that precise moment, those hands were pulling on a liver-spotted scalp with a scarlet rim running around its circumference. The skullcap, coming loose, made the same sucking sound as a pickle jar being prized open.
“Back off, young lady,” the pathologist muttered without looking up. “This is not a place for a woman.”
I took my hat off. “You have one on the table before you. Or do you mean this is not a place for a live woman?”
“Hey! My favourite sleuth!” Tom strode towards me with his arms outstretched, something viscous dripping from his gloved fingers. “Give me a hug! How’s your lumberjack stallion?”
I glanced at the corpse he had left behind on the metal table. “Tom, this is the only coat I’ve got. Can we smack the air like the French?”
Tom blew me a kiss, sending droplets flying in all directions. “Find yourself a chair. I’m nearly done with this one.” He wiped his hands on his shirt, his blue eyes twinkling behind horn-rimmed glasses. “Do you know what Napoleon Bonaparte and Scarlett O’Hara had in common?”