Deep as Death

by Katja Ivar

  “No.” Tom’s favourite game: asking medical riddles you stood no chance of solving.

  “Then think,” he said.

  The body Tom was working on was that of a wrinkled old woman. In his huge hands, she looked like an air-dried child. “Does she have things in common with Napoleon and Scarlett too?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  All the chairs in the autopsy room had mountains of paper on them, so instead of sitting I leaned against a wall. “What did she do in life?”

  “She was a seamstress. But her hobby was costume re-enactment.”

  He bent over the body again, humming to himself.

  I didn’t want to look, so I picked up one of the magazines lying on the chair and leafed through it. It was an issue on Finnish athletes – a national obsession since the Olympics. The article on pull-ups had the corner turned down. “Do you really need to do this much exercise?” I asked Tom. “Can’t you be like other humans? Flabby and beer-bellied?”

  “Are you giving up, Hella Mauzer?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, but only because it’s you. Listen to what I’ve found here: sub-endocardial haemorrhage in the left ventricle, fatty yellow liver … like foie gras. Does that tell you anything?”

  “Arsenic poisoning.”

  “Good,” Tom said. “Very good.” His deft fingers were prising open the dead woman’s flesh, and I had to breathe deeper and concentrate on his voice, ignoring the rush of blood in my ears.

  “I’ll wait outside —” I started saying, but Tom spoke at the same time.

  “The woman’s daughter is accusing her brother’s wife of doing the old girl in.”

  “And did she?”

  Tom shook his head. “You really are slow today. Must be the constricted blood vessels caused by the extreme cold over in Lapland. That’s why your voice sounds funny, too, as if you can’t breathe. What did I tell you her hobby was?”

  When I didn’t say anything, Tom supplied the answer himself. “Costume re-enactment.”

  “Do you mean to say she dressed like Scarlett O’Hara?”

  “That green curtain dress Scarlett wore,” Tom said cheerfully, “was a major health hazard. Scarlett was a fictional character, she survived. This one wasn’t so lucky. Add to that the emerald-green wallpaper in her room, and there you have it. Arsenic poisoning. In that sense, the old girl shares the tragic fate of Napoleon.”

  “I thought the English poisoned him?”

  “Oh no,” Tom said. He started stitching, his head bent low, frowning with concentration. “Some people pretend that’s what got him on St Helena. Not the Brits. The wallpaper. The brilliant green one is laced with arsenic. Napoleon happened to love that colour.”

  I looked at the old woman’s body. “Was that really enough to kill her? A dress and some wallpaper?”

  “That and Dr Campbell’s complexion wafers.” Tom looked at me sternly. “Never buy those things.”

  “I won’t.” I peeled myself off the wall. “Steve left me, Tom. Again. My complexion doesn’t interest anyone any more. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “It’s not because you wanted to see an old friend?”

  I pulled Nellie’s photograph out of my bag. “Seen her?”

  Tom squinted at the picture. “I have. She wasn’t as beautiful when she got here, but yes, I’ve seen her. Poor thing.”

  “Can you tell me what you found?”

  “Step aside,” Tom said, as if he hadn’t heard me. “You’re in front of the supply cart.”

  He dropped his used gloves on a shelf, then turned towards the door. “Will you wait while I change? We’ll discuss this over coffee. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  Five minutes later, we were walking down the narrow corridor that led to the exit. The autopsy room was on the ground floor of the Surgical Hospital, but it could very well have been on a different planet. It smelled different, the sounds were muffled, the faces, lit by blinking fluorescent lights, took on a greenish hue. When strangers asked Tom what he did in life, he invariably answered: “I’m a thanatologist. I study death, and my abode is the underworld.” Usually, this was where the conversation stopped while the hapless stranger drifted away, mumbling something about the need to replenish his glass.

  “Do you remember telling Mustonen that Nellie was three months pregnant?” I asked. “It’s in the file, but I wonder if you discussed it?”

  “Yes, and he shrugged it off, said that it wasn’t at all surprising if she was, given her profession.”

  “And you share his opinion?” My words came out sharper than I intended. “If she got to three months without doing anything about it, it must surely mean something.”

  Tom sighed. “You know there’s no love lost between me and that pompous ass. But when he’s right, he’s right. The pregnancy doesn’t mean a thing.” He raised a hand. “Don’t start bitching just yet. Hear me out.”

  “What?”

  We were getting close to the exit and the hospital sounds and smells were seeping towards us: chlorine, boiled cabbage, an ambulance’s wail.

  I stopped and faced Tom. “Don’t tell me you see prostitutes as second-rate citizens.”

  Tom glanced at me cautiously. “Well, not exactly. No, of course I don’t think that. It’s just that their profession – there’s an inherent risk factor in it. But the problem with Nellie was not her pregnancy. It was something else. It’s one of those cases where you suspect things but can’t be sure. No conclusive evidence either way.”

  “Did you tell that to Mustonen?”

  “I did. I said I wasn’t sure, and he said he’d look into it. But let’s face it, Hella. That guy is building a career. Investigating a prostitute’s death, it’s a lot of hassle for very little reward. Not the kind of case he’s likely to spend a significant amount of time on.” Tom held the door for me and we emerged into the daylight. “Which is probably the reason we’re having this conversation right now.”

  12

  Chief Inspector Mustonen

  If you must lie, be brief. The story I had prepared for Elena the escort could be summed up in five short words: no one will believe you. As I climbed the steep stairs leading to her fourth-floor apartment, I rehearsed the speech in my mind. I planned to stay five minutes, no more. Deal with it, go back to the office. Try to wipe the encounter from my mind. Maybe even convince myself I did the right thing.

  But when Elena finally opened her door a suspicious crack, she didn’t look at all like I’d imagined. I had thought Russian; I had thought potato-faced blonde with big breasts. I had to give it to the ankle biter: the boy had taste.

  The girl was slim and dark and exotic. She had huge violet eyes framed by the longest lashes I had ever seen. She looked like Scheherazade, like something out of a dream. I blinked, willing myself to remember the woman I loved: my wife. Fair-haired, modest and pure. And now, finally, getting some energy back for a bit of bedroom exercise.

  “Are you here about my attacker?” Elena asked in a small voice.

  I flipped my warrant card open and shut, too quickly for her to see anything, but the girl was no idiot. “Can I see it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Certainly.”

  She studied the document, frowning. Her eyes flew to my face, back to the card. “Homicide squad? Chief Inspector? Do you mean to say that Ahti was the one who —”

  Jesus, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to pretend I’d never seen this one. She wasn’t taking any chances. She’d remember me all right: what I said, how I looked, the colour of my damned shoes.

  “May I come in?” I said. “It’ll be easier to talk.”

  “Of course,” the girl said, but she was still holding onto the door chain. “I have a friend with me in the apartment, do you mind if he stays?” And, before I could answer: “Vlad?”

  Vlad looked Russian all right; he was also huge. He stared at me for a long time before finally nodding and releasing the chain. “Come in. I’ll be wat
ching.”

  “Maybe you don’t need the police,” I quipped, entering the room. It was furnished in Slavic style: striped cotton rugs on the floor, blue and white Gzhel cups next to a gleaming samovar. “You seem to have first-class security.” Elena smiled back, though it was clear from her expression she didn’t think that was funny. Vlad the gorilla growled something unintelligible.

  “So,” I said, pulling a chair towards me. “You’re right about the fact that, normally, the homicide squad doesn’t get involved with the sort of accident you had. But we like to be proactive.” I smiled. “That didn’t come out right, did it? What I mean is, we want to make sure people feel safe in this city. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a friend like yours.” I nodded towards Vlad but got no reaction. “So basically, I came over here to tell you that the local police station has already transferred an account of the accident to me and it seems clear enough. We’ll be conducting a background check on your supposed attacker —”

  “Wait a minute —” Vlad started. I silenced him with a raised hand.

  “— and if anything comes out that points to his involvement in other accidents, we’ll get back to you.”

  Elena threw a helpless glance towards her chivalrous servant, who rose from his chair.

  “Elena here,” he said in a heavily accented voice, “she was tied up and held against her will. If they didn’t get into a car accident, she would have been killed. You know who the guy was. Go arrest him.”

  “Vlad, is it?” I said, standing up as well. “Can you maybe give me your last name? And your residence permit? I trust you’re not Finnish, given your accent. You too, Elena, please.”

  No one moved, but the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. I folded my arms across my chest and waited. When I was certain no answer was forthcoming, I turned to leave. “You see,” I said over my shoulder, “that’s exactly the problem with you. You’re illegal residents. In the eyes of the law, you don’t even exist. So before you go around accusing upstanding Finnish citizens, you need to settle that little matter first.”

  Vlad and Elena exchanged a couple of words in Russian. I don’t speak the language, but the meaning was clear.

  I stopped at the door.

  “As I said, we’re going to look into it. We take our citizens’ concerns very seriously.” I put an emphasis on citizens, to drive the meaning home.

  As I ran down the steps, I wondered if they had got the message. Vlad maybe not, he didn’t look bright enough. But Elena… I wondered if I should turn back. I wondered if she’d notice the little card I had dropped in the hallway: no name on it, just an address in Fastholma. I also thought that I should have questioned her about the incident. I had no doubt it had happened. But had it just been a kid fooling around, or was there more to it? And was there any chance in hell of proving that young Ahti had been involved in the other girl’s death? Might he make a good suspect?

  But then I thought: Nah. He was too young. That boy, a mass murderer? Come on! No one would believe that.

  13

  Hella

  The weather turned while I was in the autopsy room. The low dark skies opened up; when Tom and I emerged from the morgue, sleet was pounding the street, making it difficult to see anything beyond the warm glow of the cafe’s windows. Once inside, Tom shook himself like a big, affectionate dog and grinned. He dropped his hat and briefcase onto the chair next to him and signalled to the waiter.

  “Yes, sir?”

  The waiter, who had floppy white hair and no lashes I could discern, stared at us with undisguised disapproval.

  “It’ll be the usual. No, wait.” Tom glanced at me. “Make it two. This young woman here needs —”

  “Oh no,” I cut in. “Absolutely not.” Tom had a habit of ordering weird foods and pretending to enjoy them. Last time we had eaten together, he’d kept going on about how healthy young deer blood was. Good for the complexion and everything. So no, I was not going to risk it.

  “I’ll just have a coffee, please,” I said to the waiter. “And a cardamom pulla bread.” I glanced at Tom. “I’d rather die slowly of clogged arteries than fall victim to another of your experiments.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Maybe. Can we talk about Nellie?”

  “Shh.” Tom spread his hands on the table. “I need my drink before I can tackle the serious stuff. Tell me about Steve while we wait. What happened?”

  I threw my hands up in the air. “Because my wretched love life isn’t serious?”

  “Not really. You’ll get back together, as you always do. And even if you don’t, you’ll always have me.”

  “That’s not exactly the same,” I blurted out before I had time to think about it.

  “Why? I’m as handsome on the inside as he is. There’s just more of me.”

  “True.” I drummed my fingers on the table. In the background, the waiter was grating some vegetable or other over a tall glass. “Anyway, Steve’s gone, end of story.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I made a scene.”

  “Not you.” Tom grinned. “I’d never believe it.”

  “I was feeling down, all right? And please would you stop with your interrogation now? I’ll be fine.”

  The waiter came over with my order and a strange concoction in a tall glass. It looked sort of milky.

  “What is it? Yak’s milk with herbs?”

  Tom took a sip and smacked his lips. “Close. Goat’s milk with honey, melted butter and horseradish. I’ve never felt better.”

  I smiled into my coffee. “Good for you. Can we get back to the dead girl?”

  “Well,” Tom said. “I suppose you know how people drown in ice-cold water? A so-called torso reflex, also known as cold shock response?”

  “Not first-hand, no. Come to think of it, not second-hand either.”

  “Actually” – Tom smacked his lips again – “short of being hit by a bus or struck by lightning, cold shock is one of the most extreme things a human body can experience. It’s potentially lethal.” He stuck out his thumb. “First, your heart rate picks up because all the blood vessels constrict when they come into contact with the cold water. You gasp, and not just a little. A huge, heaving gasp that totally fills your lungs. If your head is under water at that moment, you drown instantly.”

  “OK,” I said. “But if the person doesn’t drown immediately? Can she swim to safety?”

  Tom stuck out a second finger. “Not easy. After the gasps, hyperventilation sets in. Even a good swimmer will find it difficult to swim more than a few yards. Your best chance is to pull yourself up where you fell through the ice.”

  “But you can’t do that if your attacker is standing right there, ready to push you back in,” I said. “Is that what you think happened to Nellie?”

  “The third stage is called hypocapnia,” Tom continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “It’s a result of the hyperventilation. The symptoms are dizziness, cramps, numbing of the hands and feet, not that it matters any longer. You will also find it difficult to hold your breath – you’ll feel like you’re suffocating – and the pain will be intense if the water temperature is below forty degrees Fahrenheit, which it was in this case.”

  “Enough,” I said. “I get it. If ever I fall through the ice, I’ll just whisper a short prayer and let myself drown.”

  “Focus on your breathing. For a fit person like you, it does get better after about three minutes. If you don’t pass out from the cold first. Or, better yet, don’t go anywhere near the water.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. Can we get back to our victim? Do you think someone pushed her through the ice?”

  “Well,” Tom said, “there were two things. First of all, she had a wound on one side of her head.”

  “Maybe she banged her head on the railings, stumbled into the water.”

  “Maybe.” Tom didn’t sound convinced.

  “Could it have happened somewhere else and she just drifted?�
��

  “No. I looked at the patterns of the currents and there’s no way she could have been brought into the harbour if she drowned somewhere else.”

  “So someone hit her, then pushed her over the railings? Is that what you’re saying? I stopped by the harbour on my way, and the ice is pretty thick there, so there must have been an impact.”

  Tom smiled modestly. “You didn’t ask me about the other thing I noticed.”

  I waited. He was going to tell me anyway. He took his time though, first asking the waiter to bring him a second glass of goat’s milk, then fussing with his scarf. I hated it when he did that, but there was nothing I could do, so I just sat there, sipping my coffee and gritting my teeth.

  “Her earrings,” he said at last. “They were torn from her ears. Mustonen told me fish. And maybe,” Tom snorted, “maybe earring-gobbling fish exist, but I’ve never heard of them. More likely, someone ripped the girl’s earrings out of her earlobes. Before she drowned.”

  “So to you, it was a murder. It’s just the evidence that’s inconclusive.”

  Tom looked at me sternly. “This is your chance to prove to that bastard Mustonen that you’re way more capable than he is. Just watch your back, will you? He might not like it.”

  14

  Chief Inspector Mustonen

  The card was still where I had left it the previous night after snatching it from Jokela’s office: on my desk, propped against the silver-framed photograph of my family. Thick pink paper, the initials K. N. and a telephone number. Nothing else. I stared at it for a long moment, then scooped it up and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.

  I had work to do. Serious work. Jokela had asked me to represent the Finnish police on the committee dedicated to cooperation with Interpol. There was talk of exchange of best practices, and the inclusion of local data in the cross-continental information system Interpol was trying to establish. A meeting was scheduled for the following day, and I had a sheaf of documents to read. In English, which was not easy for me, and next to impossible for Jokela. So I tried to concentrate on that, but it was no good. My mind was on the drowned girl. I decided that Jokela had made a mistake sending Klara Nylund away. I should have continued with the investigation, kept an eye on things.