by Katja Ivar
I was on the corner of Steve’s street when a woman called out to me.
“Miss Mauzer? Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
I didn’t recognize her at first. A short, stocky housewife, pudgy features, ferociously sprayed hairdo that would probably stay upright even if someone took out all the pins. Then I realized: she was one of my former clients. Her husband, a plumber, had started coming home late, smiling and freshly scrubbed, and the wife had got worried. She was right, too: the husband had been having an affair, with her own sister. Together, we had put a stop to it.
“How are you, Mrs…?” I said. The name wouldn’t come. I had it on the tip of my tongue, but trying to remember only made it worse. “Glad to see you,” I muttered.
She glanced at me nervously. “Miss Mauzer, you were very nice to me, so I’ll just say this quickly and then we can pretend nothing happened.”
I didn’t have the patience for this, but she was blocking the way. “What is it? What have I done?”
“I don’t blame you, actually,” the woman said. “My husband told me I should never mention your name in good company, but I feel like —”
“Hold on. I don’t understand. What happened?”
The woman looked away. “Well, he overheard it in one of the houses he was working in, just yesterday. That you decided that you’d make more money that way. And I know I didn’t pay you well – I couldn’t spare more – but I never thought you’d be reduced to that.”
I could barely stop myself from grabbing her by the collar and shaking the words out. “Reduced to what?”
“Prostituting yourself.” It came out in a rush of breath. Prostitute. She glanced nervously over her shoulder.
I smiled. “That’s nonsense. I am – was – employed by a madam, but as a PI, not as one of her girls.”
Maybe what I was imagining was a reference to Steve was nonsense too. Look how easy it was to misunderstand. We’d laugh about it together once he had reassured me that he’d never set foot in Klara Nylund’s establishment. Well, maybe not laugh, given that we’d broken it off, but at least chuckle wryly. And maybe it would be the perfect opportunity to discuss our feelings.
In front of me, the woman was smiling as well, but her face retained that nervous, strained expression. “That’s what I told my husband too, that you weren’t the sort, that there must be some reasonable explanation. But you know how it is. People talk.” She swallowed, dancing from foot to foot. “Well, I’m glad we sorted that out, Miss Mauzer. I have to go now.”
She scuttled off before I had the chance to say another word. I wondered if she believed my explanation; she didn’t seem totally convinced. Maybe she liked her own theory better: a poor PI, struggling to make ends meet, throws herself into a career of prostitution. It could almost be funny if it wasn’t my life.
I walked over the short stretch of road separating me from Steve’s house and pressed the doorbell. By that point, the house had an abandoned look about it, milk bottles lining the front porch, the curtains tightly drawn. What I wanted was a matter-of-fact conversation. We were both adults. I just needed to know.
There was a shuffle of steps, and then the door was unlocked with a click.
“You’re here,” Steve said, blinking at me. He was barefoot, in jeans and a crumpled white shirt, pillow creases running along his left cheek.
“Sorry I woke you. There’s something I need to discuss with you. Can I come in?”
Steve hesitated, his eyes on the little house across the street. I wondered if the young woman I had talked to the day before was watching. “Better not,” he said. “Can we go to a cafe or something?”
“No, it’s OK. There’s not much to say anyway.”
I’d decided to stick to the facts – no emotions, two adults talking – but it was hard. “I learned that Elsbeth left over a week ago. Before the school play.” I swallowed back the you should have told me, but it must have shown on my face, because Steve shifted uncomfortably.
“She just went to spend some time with her parents. She was feeling unwell.” He attempted a smile. “You know how it is.”
Did I ever. Our relationship, which went back years, had been punctuated by Elsbeth’s sick spells. Never anything specific – a headache, a nosebleed, feeling out of whack – but each time it sent Steve scurrying home to her. And when it was not Elsbeth, it was his daughter.
I pulled Klara Nylund’s notebook out of my pocket, holding it with my handkerchief. “I found this. Do you know what it is?”
Steve looked genuinely puzzled. “No.”
“It’s a madam’s list of clients, all referred to not by name but by some other characteristic. One of them is US DJ.” My voice quivered, the confident elation that I had felt minutes earlier having abandoned me. “I was wondering if it could be you.”
“A DJ?” Steve’s eyes found the floor. “I’m not a DJ any more. I’m a music show host.”
“You’re the only American in this city who runs a radio show devoted to American rock ’n’ roll music. And you used to be a DJ. The description matches.”
Steve shot me a quick glance, probably wondering what else I knew. He wasn’t denying it, why wasn’t he denying it, how could a thing like that be possible? It felt like a bucket of icy water thrown in my face, it felt like one of those dreams where the earth suddenly disappears under my feet and I plummet into an abyss.
“And you believe that?” he said. “Is that what you think of me? You see a mention that could refer to a dozen other men around here, and you think it just has to be me?”
“If it’s not you, why aren’t you denying it?”
Steve gave an angry little laugh. “Because you’d believe me if I did? I’ll save my breath. Goodbye, Hella.”
He closed the door.
27
Chief Inspector Mustonen
The autopsy was well under way when I arrived at the morgue, a bunch of chattering trainees on my heel. Another one of Jokela’s stupid ideas: he wanted to make sure the police academy students could see the pathologist at work, and the madam was the first indisputable murder victim we’d had in weeks. The trainees, three guys and Anita, had been talking non-stop since I picked them up at Headquarters, but as the heavy doors leading to the morgue swung open, they all fell silent. I hoped to God they’d stay that way.
Tom Räikkönen greeted us with a steely smile.
“Hands behind your back,” he commanded the newcomers in his bellowing voice. “Now stand with your backs to the wall.”
No one moved. I wasn’t even sure they had heard him. The trainees’ eyes were on the corpse. Naked, the ribcage sawn open, the head tilted to one side. From where I was standing, you could almost imagine the woman didn’t have a face any more. Just some greyish-red pulp, like something out of the grinder Sofia used to make meatballs.
Räikkönen put down the white enamel jug he was holding. His eyes narrowed. “Listen up,” he said, in a low voice that was somehow more effective than his previous roar, “one of you moves, you all leave. One of you talks, you all leave. One of you faints” – Räikkönen’s gloved hand suddenly stabbed the air, pointing at a tall gawkish recruit whose name I could never remember – “You, answer!”
The boy’s Adam’s apple shot up. “We all leave,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“Exactly!” Räikkönen smiled, turning his attention back to the corpse. He didn’t look at me when he asked:
“Any idea who did this, Chief Inspector?”
“Not yet.”
For a while, Räikkönen worked in silence. I knew better than to interrupt him. Tom Räikkönen was the best of our pathologists by far. He was also a first-class bastard. I knew that if I complained about the man’s attitude, Jokela would give Räikkönen hell. But the pathologist’s power to be a nuisance could not be underestimated, and it’s not in my nature to get on the wrong side of anyone unless I absolutely have to. Especially not when there’s so much at stake. Just the process of going through the motions
made me dizzy and elated all at once.
At last, Räikkönen slid the last of the dead woman’s organs back into place and peeled off his bloody gloves. Unlike the other pathologists, he always worked alone. Rumour had it that no one had managed to get on his good side yet. No one except Mauzer, that is. I knew I needed to watch my step.
“Well,” Räikkönen said, “much as I dislike working on bodies that have not been thawed properly” – he nodded towards the blood-stained blade of the rotary saw – “I understand that time is of the essence, and I’m not going to make you wait for a formal report. Therefore I can confirm now that the lady died neither of curare poisoning nor of a broken heart.” One of the trainees giggled, probably Anita. Räikkönen glared at her until she turned crimson.
“OK.” I was used to Räikkönen’s humour by now. “Go on.”
“Multiple blows to the face with a blunt cylindrical weapon, by a right-handed person facing the victim.”
“Like a poker?” I asked. I tried to imagine a man wielding a poker in the brothel’s snow-covered back yard. The image wouldn’t stick.
“No,” Räikkönen said. “A bit larger than that. Like a metal tube or a rolling pin, though that would probably be too large. Or even the barrel of a gun.”
I reached into my holster, pulled out the standard-issue Browning. “Do you want to see if that fits?”
Räikkönen weighed up the gun in his hand. “Could be something like that, yes, though why anyone would hit her with a gun instead of just firing it is not a question I can answer.” He handed the Browning back to me. “Anyway. Once you find the murder weapon, bring it here and I’ll see if it matches.”
“What about the time of death?”
“Early evening. Around seven. Good for you, I suppose – lots of people on the street at that time, bars and restaurants still open. Someone might have seen something.”
“Did she die instantly?” I asked. The trainees were still staring at the corpse with undisguised fascination.
“If your question is about whether she could have murmured her assassin’s name into someone’s interested ear, I think it’s unlikely. She didn’t die instantly, but she would have been unconscious in a matter of seconds.” Räikkönen started wrapping Klara Nylund’s remains in a white plastic sheet. For him, the conversation was over.
“Wait,” I said. “Two more questions. Do you have any idea how tall her assailant was?”
Räikkönen glanced at me. “Probably about your height. Give or take. Meaning that close to fifty per cent of Finnish males would fit the description.”
“Right. Could it have been a woman?”
“Are you asking because I mentioned a rolling pin?” Räikkönen pushed the trolley charged with the body against the wall. “I suppose, yes, it could be possible. Though of course it’s not common to see a woman in a fit of murderous rage. Your typical woman would probably choose a different weapon. Poison, maybe. Or pushing the victim down the stairs. Something nice and clean.” He started to unbutton his green surgical gown, which now looked like a butcher’s apron. “Of course, it would help if you had managed to get footprints.”
Somehow he was making it sound like it was my fault. There had been no footprints in the yard: the madam’s attacker had smoothed the snow with a branch he had broken from the birch tree. The police had found the branch at the end of the alleyway that ran alongside the property.
The trainees stirred, but I wasn’t done yet. “What about the victim’s general health?”
“You said two questions, Chief Inspector,” Räikkönen said quietly. “I answered two questions. You’ll have all the details in my report tomorrow.”
“I need to know now.”
“All right,” Räikkönen sighed. “Anything specific?”
“I was wondering,” I said slowly, “if the victim was pregnant. She doesn’t look very young, but I suppose it was still possible?”
There was silence. Räikkönen collected the instruments he had used for the autopsy and dunked them in a metal bucket filled with water. Then he strolled over to a filing cabinet that stood in the corner of the room and pulled a thin manila envelope from it. “You’re an intelligent man, Chief Inspector Mustonen. Not that I ever doubted that. No, the latest victim was not pregnant. But” – the pathologist turned and his bright blue eyes locked on me – “the single blow received by the drowned prostitute Nellie Ritvanen could have been made with the same weapon. The autopsy file is here if you want it.”
28
Hella
I couldn’t bear to go home. Too many memories… The walls that Steve and I had both repainted in sunny yellow, a framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower – he had promised we’d go together one day – the knitted scarf that used to be his but that I had begun to regard as mine. The office was safer. Cold, lonely. No shared memories there, and no Anita to ask me about my day. The only thing waiting for me was the snow globe, which I shoved promptly in the drawer; I thought I had better try to forget it even existed.
I sat behind my desk, looked at my empty daily planner, then started to cry. As I sobbed, I realized that, up until the moment I had seen Steve’s name mentioned in the little black book, I had still been hoping we would somehow get back together. It hadn’t been the first time we’d argued. We had even been separated for three long years while I had worked for the Ivalo police department. But until now, the situation had been simple: Steve’s wife had been there first, she’d had precedence, and I had been the outsider. I’d been the other woman. I hadn’t been proud of that, of course I hadn’t, but I had still felt justified because Steve had told me he was happier with me, that it was only in my arms he felt alive. That he and Elsbeth didn’t love each other any more, that she was only still with him because she was incapable of managing on her own. So, stupid me, I’d thought Steve and I were soulmates. That we were meant to be. That Elsbeth had been a terrible mistake. Turned out the terrible mistake was me.
I realized with a sinking feeling that this was exactly how Elsbeth must have felt when she’d first discovered my existence. The shame washed over me like a wave. Maybe she had never been the stupid housewife that Steve had made her out to be. She had been a teacher once. She had given up work when their daughter was born.
And suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I’d write to Elsbeth. I’d tell her that I was sorry. The nasty little voice inside my head whispered: About time. And it’s not like you’re risking anything. Steve and you are over.
There was no food in my office and nothing to drink, but I could always rely on the abundance of ink and writing paper. I started writing without giving myself time to change my mind.
Before long, I had poured everything out.
The time when I had spied on Elsbeth having lunch with a handsome young man, hoping madly that she was having an affair with him and that I could report her to Steve. Did I really need to add that the man turned out to be her brother?
The time I was so insane with the pain of not being an official part of Steve’s life, I had gone to the hairdresser and dyed my hair blonde, just like hers. Then, ashamed of myself, I had rushed back and asked the bemused hair stylist to reproduce my natural mousy brown. He had done his best, although it never even came close to my original colour. No reaction from Steve. He hadn’t even noticed.
The time I made a decision that cost me my career, and Steve told me that my posting to the outer confines of the country could be a good thing – all that clean fresh air.
That wasn’t even the worst of it.
The worst was those innumerable times Steve had told me I was a tough girl, not at all like his wife, and that I could live with the uncertainty. He told me he was proud of me because I never begged for him to commit – and so I didn’t.
What an idiot I’d been.
When the letter was finished, I put it into an envelope and sealed it. The address did not present the slightest difficulty. If Elsbeth was indeed staying with her parents, I had their address j
otted down in the most comprehensive file in my office: the Elsbeth file.
Then, I locked my office, ran down the stairs, and dropped the letter in the mailbox on the other side of the street. I felt curiously light, empty even. Ready for the first evening of the rest of my life.
Of course, as I was walking down the crowded streets, I didn’t know that before long my old life would come crashing back.
Anita, perhaps sensing the state I was in, didn’t ask any questions. She pointed to the table, where a bowl of chicken soup was already waiting for me, then busied herself in the kitchen while I ate. The soup was surprisingly good. I wondered what I would have been doing if Anita hadn’t been home. I probably would have drunk myself to sleep. Some days, I really wondered if I was turning into an alcoholic.
I finished eating and carried the soup bowl into the kitchen, where the window was open wide to get rid of the musty smell. When I returned to the living room, Anita was waiting for me with her notepad open.
“So,” she said crisply. “Let’s get started.”
I leaned my face on my hands. The food was working its way into my system and I felt exhausted, numb and almost happy, like someone who had found peace after making a decision that was long overdue.
“Do we really need to discuss the case now? I don’t even know that Mustonen won’t get a court injunction against me or something, for mucking up the investigation.” I had of course forgotten to drop off the madam’s little black book at his office.
“No he won’t,” chirped Anita. “He’s a good investigator; he wants this solved. He’ll appreciate your help.” She looked like an eager puppy, staring at me with those bright blue eyes, holding her breath.
“Maybe,” I sighed. “But Elena is still missing. What if he —”
Anita’s eyes widened. “Did her in? Do you really think he could, that he could—? Why would he do that?”
“Sounds unlikely, I know. But I’d only be certain once I found out what happened to her. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve uncovered so far?”