by Katja Ivar
“First, there have been no similar cases in other parts of the country, according to Ranta. I mean, people drown, of course, but no cases where the victim was a young prostitute who announced she was going solo. Or at least, not recently. There was a string of unsolved young women’s murders in southern Finland in the 1930s, but anyway, that’s too far back in time, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like we’re looking for someone who’s been inactive all this time.”
I toyed with the idea, but it sounded unlikely. If the murderer from the 1930s had never been apprehended, he’d have no reason I could think of to lie low. And that man would now be at least fifty, probably too old to hop onto rooftops. “Uh-huh. What else?”
“Second, the pathologist seems to think that it was the same weapon for Nellie Ritvanen. So it must be the same murderer. We’re looking for a multiple killer.” For some reason, the idea seemed to fill Anita with boundless joy.
“Just someone covering his tracks,” I said dully. “Klara Nylund must have known something after all. What did Mustonen say about this?”
“He said he’s reopening the investigation into Nellie’s death. That he’s now convinced it was murder. What did you find out?” Anita waited, her eyes bright and hopeful.
I told her about the contents of the black book and showed her the names I had copied down in my notepad. That left Anita silent for a moment. I sat there wondering if she’d spill to Mustonen as soon as she got to the office the following morning, but part of me didn’t care. All I wanted was to have the perpetrator arrested and charged; if Mustonen really was working on it and got there first, that was fine by me.
Finally, Anita raised her eyes. “There’s something else, right? Something you’re not telling me.” Her hand hovered above the list of names and their matching numbers.
“No,” I said quickly. “Just a bad day. I’m tired, and worried about the money. You see, I inherited my parents’ house, but I can’t live there, and I can’t sell it either. Anyway, it’s just a small —”
“Wait.” Anita’s index finger stopped on a line in the middle; her eyes widened. “The US DJ? Could it be…? Is that why you…? Oh God!”
I snatched the notepad from her, started to leaf through the pages. My hands were trembling.
“Hella?” Anita whispered in an awestruck voice. “Do you think it could be Steve?” I heard her swallow. “Do you think Steve could be involved?”
29
Hella
I had never thought Steve could actually be a suspect. I hadn’t thought of anything beyond the hurt I felt. It was a shock to realize Anita could be right, that Steve’s betrayal was not the worst thing. The worst thing was this: the only man I had ever loved, the man I had hoped to marry one day, looked like a serious contender for Helsinki’s first-ever multiple killer. But I’d be damned if I was going to admit it.
“Oh God.” I echoed Anita’s dramatic whisper. “Of course not! How could you even imagine a thing like that?”
Anita looked at her hands. “He’s on the list.”
“Yes, but hundreds of people are. OK, dozens.”
“I don’t know,” Anita said slowly. “I mean, obviously we’ve got other, much more serious suspects and all, but … don’t you want to be certain?”
She was right, I would have loved to be certain. “I don’t really see how.”
“Well,” Anita frowned. “I don’t know.” She lit a cigarette, twisted her mouth to blow a line of smoke towards the window. Then her eyes brightened. “Maybe I can pretend to —”
“No.” I slammed both my hands down on the table, palms flat. “You’re not going to be pretending to be anyone other than yourself. You tried that once already, remember?”
Anita swallowed, put out her cigarette. I was conscious of the note of hysteria in my voice; I didn’t care. “Listen carefully, Anita. You’re still very young. You’re in training. You’re not going to make any disastrous moves that could” – I stopped, unable to find the right words – “that could lead to disaster. This is not —”
“All right!” Anita screamed. The feet of her chair scraped on the wooden floor as she jumped to her feet. “Save your breath. I’m not doing anything. I’m going to bed.”
She stormed off, slammed the bedroom door shut. I thought it was over, but just a moment later the door was thrust open again. Anita’s face was blotchy with fury, but her voice had regained its composure. “Just out of curiosity,” she said, “are you afraid of what I might uncover?”
Then the door slammed shut again.
30
Hella
The next morning, I woke up to a feeling of acute self-loathing which I immediately countered with a resolute I don’t give a damn. I left the apartment before Anita was up. A heavy snowfall had blanketed the city during the night, and I had to lean on the front door to push it open. The newspaper boy, passing by, aimed a snowball at the street light; he was carrying a fresh edition of Helsingin Sanomat, with Stalin’s pockmarked face occupying the centre of the page. I caught the words “conspiracy” and “doctors’ plot” before the boy ran away. My plan was to catch up with Tom – I knew that he always started early – then go and see if there was any news of Elena. But as I trudged through the wet snow, I realized I needed to stop by my office first to pick up my bag, which I had left on the desk the previous evening.
The staircase was dark, and I could hear a shattered light bulb turn to dust under my heel. There was a heavy, expensive cologne scent floating in the air. I froze. Who could that be? Should I be afraid? But the scent was not that of a thug, and I had never believed in running away. I climbed the stairs slowly, on the lookout for potential danger. The smell got stronger as I reached the fifth-floor landing.
“Good morning,” I said to the shadow leaning on the wall. My heart was beating too fast, but I was trying my best to keep my voice pleasant and businesslike. “Are you waiting for me?”
The man laughed. “I guess I am. The light seems to be out. Would you happen to have a paraffin lamp in your office?” His voice seemed polite, even friendly. A new client? This early?
I fumbled for the lock, trying to avoid turning my back on the man. As if realizing I was scared, he lit a match to help me. In the trembling light, I saw dark hair falling across his eyes and a chiselled chin. He was wearing a suit and tie, and a dazzling white shirt. The door swung open at last, but the man waited outside while I found the light.
The paraffin lamp sat on top of the filing cabinet; a moment later, its warm glow filled the room and I could see my visitor better. He was older than I had first thought. Expensive, well-cut suit, a diamond pin in his tie, manicured nails. Not exactly the sort of client I was used to.
“How can I help you, Mr…”
“Gustafsson.” He smiled. “I own a small factory that produces spare parts for engines. Recently, my chief accountant brought to my attention that we’ve been receiving a higher than usual number of complaints about the quality of our products. Given our business, it’s obviously a huge problem.” He smiled again, thinking perhaps that the information he had provided was sufficient.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How could a quality problem be —”
“I suspect sabotage, only I have no idea who the guilty party is. This is why I need your help.”
“I see.” The explanation was plausible, but I still didn’t believe it somehow. “Why not hire a man to help you? He’d surely be more credible.”
“No,” my visitor said. “That was my idea at first, obviously, but then I realized everyone would be wary of a new recruit the boss brought in. Now, if it was a woman… You surely have a minimum of secretarial skills.” He winked at me. “A woman wouldn’t rouse suspicion; she’d be much more efficient. And of course I’d pay you as if you were a man. I’m even ready to give you an advance.” He pulled a leather-bound chequebook out of his briefcase.
“Oh,” I said. “Well, thank you for coming to see me. Can I think about it for a couple of da
ys? I’m actually working on a different matter, but that now seems to be coming to a close.”
My visitor froze, the chequebook in his hand, looking slightly taken aback. He had probably been expecting me to jump for joy and rush over to his factory, forgetting the whole ghastly murder business. I wondered who had sent him. Mustonen? Would he stoop so low as to involve other people in his shenanigans? Should I consider this as proof of Ahti Virtanen’s involvement? I didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of a conspiracy was starting to feel appealing, like a minor itch taking attention away from the dull pain I’d been suffering from for days.
I rose to my feet, and the man did so too. “Out of curiosity,” I said, “who recommended me to you?”
“Chief Inspector Mustonen,” the man answered promptly. He knew I would ask the question. “Ten years ago, we were comrades in arms. After the war finished, we kept in touch.” The man smiled, pulling a card out of his coat pocket. “My address and telephone number. Please try to make yourself available quickly. I would hate to lose orders if the problem persists.”
“Of course,” I said, even managing to muster a smile. “Just one murderer to catch, and then I’ll be as free as a bird.”
31
Hella
By the time my visitor left, it was too late to go and see Tom. He’d be busy working, and I didn’t want to interrupt him. Instead, I decided to go and see if I could find out more about Elena. It was more of a formality really – I was pretty sure the girl was gone forever. It might not even have been directly related to Mustonen’s visit. Ever since the war, Helsinki had become a magnet for refugees of all kinds: the reds, reluctant to go back to their country where Comrade Stalin’s rehabilitation camps were waiting for them; the wayward Nazis, in search of a new beginning; the displaced peasants from Lapland. Outcasts of all sorts. Scores of them had arrived in the city, a hundred thousand, someone had told me once, and the worn-out, drawn faces of these men and women had become a familiar part of the landscape. For all her beauty, Elena was one of them. She was here by an accident of sorts, one that had made her native country impossible to live in. She was not moored, the people she met here were not her people, she could be here today and gone tomorrow. She could take off at the slightest danger.
I thought about my other options as I made my way towards the address Egg had given me. Should I try to find other witnesses to the accident? Could Elena’s friends help? But when I knocked on the door of the ground-floor apartment and explained to an overweight man suffering from a very bad case of halitosis why I was there, he jerked his thumb upwards. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” he said, and I held my breath. “Where she’s been. Only thing I can say, she’s back now, and back to normal. Partied all last night.”
“Are you certain it’s her? Not some other girl?”
“I know Elena, OK? It’s her. Go and see for yourself.”
At last he closed the door and I could breathe again. So Elena was back. I wondered what I could say to make her understand that I didn’t present a danger to her.
Elena’s door opened on a chain. At first I thought that I must have got the wrong apartment. But then the man moved a little to the side and I glimpsed a beautiful dark-haired girl standing next to him.
The two spoke at the same time.
“What do you want?” asked the girl.
“Go away!” growled the man.
“I want to talk about Ahti Virtanen,” I said, my eyes on Elena. “I’m a private investigator. My name’s Mauzer.”
The man shook his head and started closing the door. “We have nothing to say to you.”
“I know what he did. I can help you.”
The door clicked shut in my face.
“Not all the police officers in this country are like Inspector Mustonen,” I cried. “I can take you to people who’ll listen to you, take your statement. People who will be ready to help you.”
There was no answer.
“Did he threaten you? Are you afraid of Mustonen?”
No one answered but I could swear they were waiting behind the door, listening to every word.
“All right,” I said. “I’m leaving. But if I were you, I would press charges. People like Mustonen need to be stopped.”
I had started walking down the stairs when the door behind me opened with a bang. “It’s you who needs to be stopped,” the girl cried out. “How dare you go about saying horrible things about him!”
“Shh,” the man said. “Elena, get back inside. No one needs to know.” But there was no stopping the girl any more.
“Inspector Mustonen sent us to someone who helped us get the papers,” she said. “We’re Finnish citizens now, Vlad and I. He’s the best thing that ever happened to us.”
PART II
Fighting Monsters
32
Chief Inspector Mustonen
That morning, Sofia woke up angry. I was in the kitchen, frying eggs for breakfast. Arne was sitting on the counter next to me, his short legs dangling over the edge. We both looked up when Sofia stumbled into the kitchen.
“Mummy!” Arne trilled, smiling from ear to ear. I set him on the floor and the boy ran to his mother, bumping into her legs. “Mummy!”
Sofia stared at him as if she wasn’t quite sure he was hers. “Would you just take him, Erik? I’m feeling unwell.”
“Sure,” I said, and scooped Arne up one-handed. “What you need is a good breakfast, honey. It’s just a bout of morning sickness. You’ll be fine after you eat.”
“I’ll be fine once we move into the new house,” Sofia snapped. The eggs were sizzling in the pan. I set Arne in his high chair, slid the eggs onto three plates, and carried them to the table. The coffee pot and the cups were there already.
“So that’s what this is about?” The previous night, I had called Sofia’s father to tell him that we weren’t buying the house. We couldn’t afford it, and besides, even if we could, it wasn’t the right time. My father-in-law had snorted and hung up on me. Sofia had been standing next to me during the telephone conversation. When her father put the receiver down, she had turned and gone into her bedroom. She had refused to talk, blaming a headache.
“Sofia,” I said. “I know you want that house. But it’s come at a bad time. Maybe next year…”
She stabbed the yolk on her plate, not looking at me, the corners of her mouth twitching. She was as angry as I’d ever seen her. “There will be no next time. How often do we have to say it? This sort of house —” She threw her fork down, hid her face in her hands. On the other side of the table, Arne was staring at us, his eyes round. The kitchen clock chimed seven.
Sofia muttered something through her fingers. I leaned closer. “What is it, honey? I can’t hear you.”
“I said…” She was sobbing now, shoulders heaving, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
I kept my hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. “Mummy is tired,” I said to Arne. “The little baby is kicking her tummy.”
Sofia took a big, shuddery breath. “My father says you don’t really care about me. About us.”
Arne looked at us gravely. “I hate little babies,” he said.
“How stupid —” Sofia started. She pushed her chair back, hoisted herself up, both hands gripping the table. Her bloated face was a mask of fury. “I’m going back to bed. You take care of him! If you can’t get us a decent place to live, you can at least take care of your child!” She stormed off.
“Pff,” Arne said. “Mummies.” He shrugged, trying to look grown-up and unconcerned, but his lower lip was trembling and his eyes were liquid with tears.
I drew a deep breath. I loved my wife. I really did. And I was not blameless; why would I deserve a perfect wife? Besides, Sofia was perfect… Usually. Just not now. I looked at my son. “Want to go to my office, buddy? You can help me work. And when we come back home tonight, Mummy will be fine, I promise.”
Arne nodded, hopeful now.
“Good. In that cas
e, finish up your breakfast.”
I pulled Sofia’s plate towards me. The fried egg was torn into pieces, leaking yolk. I gathered it on a fork, stuffed it into my mouth. It was the first time Sofia and I had had an argument like that. Ironic, really, that it had to be about a stupid house.
When I finished eating, I sent Arne to get his jacket and hat, and then marched towards the bedroom door. It was locked; I could hear Sofia sobbing inside.
I rapped on the door.
“What?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said. “About the house. But I can’t promise you anything, OK?”
“OK,” Sofia said. Then she resumed her sobbing.
Arne loved coming to my office. It didn’t happen often – there are better surroundings for a three-year-old boy than an overheated homicide squad room with its gruesome exhibits and portraits of criminals on the walls. But when he did come, he enjoyed the gentle cosseting of the squad secretary, Tarja, and the camaraderie he felt with the officers. He had already told me that when he grew up he wanted to become a detective too. Good thing his grandfather hadn’t heard that; the old snob would have had a heart attack.
Arne’s arrival that day provoked the usual whoops of delight. He sat on Anita’s knee, smiling dreamily while she murmured something into his ear. All around them, the detectives were rushing about, the majority of them part of the team investigating Klara Nylund’s murder. Neighbours, girls and those clients the police had managed to identify had been questioned, but none had provided any valuable information. The search of the back yard, the lane leading to it, and the interior of the house had been completed, to no avail. All the police knew was that someone, most likely a man, had met with the madam between 7 and 9 p.m. and bludgeoned her to death with an unknown weapon.