by Katja Ivar
Virtanen shrugged. “Didn’t she already? Anyway. Maybe you’re right, maybe it was a bit excessive. But I had to try. That woman really is a pain in the neck.” He leaned forward suddenly, his tiny eyes gleaming. “And so are you! What the hell were you doing going around asking about my son’s alibi for the night the madam was killed? I told you he was home with us. My wife can confirm.”
“That’s the usual procedure, I’m afraid,” I said easily, hoping my visitor would believe me. “It’s routine. Your son’s name came up in connection with the investigation, and he was a client. We are looking into the background of everyone we can identify based on the information contained in the madam’s notes.”
“Well, I have made some inquiries of my own,” Virtanen said through clenched teeth. “And I’ve got a couple of other suspects to offer you.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “Here. Just in case you haven’t been able to identify them on your own.” He held out the paper for me to take.
I shook my head, folded my arms across my chest. “I do not want to hear your arguments. This investigation needs to remain impartial, if it has any chance at all of succeeding.”
Virtanen thought about this, then slid the paper back into his pocket. “So you have a suspect?”
I nodded.
“I want to hear you say it!”
There was no way around it. My son was in the next room, and Virtanen was furious with me already.
“Yes,” I said. “This is off the record, but yes. We have a suspect, an American DJ, the only one in Helsinki. His name is Steve Collins.”
36
Hella
Anita came home just as I was finishing packing. She seemed in a good mood, and started to tell me about her day, but then she noticed the suitcase and her voice died down.
“Where are you going?”
“Lapland.”
“Why?”
“I need a change of air. Besides, I’m off the case. Do you think this sweater still looks OK?”
I pulled a burgundy wool sweater out of the wardrobe and held it against my chest. Anita looked at it critically. “No. Too old. And is that a hole near the hem? But the colour suits you well, you should wear burgundy more, it sets off your pale skin. And you know what?” Anita stepped back with her head tilted to one side, appraising. “I’ve never noticed it until now, but you’re actually quite good-looking. You’ve got nice high cheekbones, huge eyes and lovely legs. It’s just that you’re too tall and skinny. You’re what, five foot seven?”
I nodded, eyeing myself self-consciously in the full-length mirror fixed to one side of the wardrobe.
“And your hair’s dark,” she added. “You need to make it sparkle. Maybe we should get you some nice earrings. I saw a pair at the jewellers on my way home, like a long chain with a ruby pendant. The store assistant said they weren’t for sale, they were there to be mended, but maybe if you insist —”
“Anita,” I said. “Thank you. But I don’t have any money for earrings. Is that where you’ve been, at the jewellers? Is that why you’re home so late?”
“I had things to do. What do you care anyway?”
“For one, I promised Ranta I’d keep an eye on you. And two, given your romantic notions of what a criminal investigation involves —”
But Anita wasn’t listening. “You know what?” she said brightly. “Maybe fashion will change one day. Maybe this time next year, gap-toothed women with hollow cheeks will be all the rage.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Really. Can we just stop this now? I’m trying to finish packing, not get into fashion modelling.”
“Well, aren’t we two spoonfuls of grumpy in a bowl full of bitchy this evening? Of course it matters! Life is different when you’re beautiful! People go out of their way to help you, and everyone is just sooo nice. You’ll see for yourself when I’m done with you.” Anita fumbled in her purse, pulled out a pair of tweezers. “We’ll start by giving a nice pointed arch to your eyebrows, and then —”
“No. I’ll leave my eyebrows as they are: straight. The Marilyn Monroe look wouldn’t go well with my face.” I stepped back. “You know, I’m not really comfortable doing this. It makes me feel like I’m some sort of mass-produced garment, with eyebrows like this and a waist like that.” Anita looked hurt, so I hurried to add: “In any case, I’ll never be a natural beauty like you. So it’s not even worth trying. I have my work, that’s what matters.”
Anita smiled, placated. How she admired herself. There was something lovely, childish and unselfconscious in liking oneself so much. She turned towards the mirror, striking a pose, and I thought she was going to leave it at that, but I was wrong. “I don’t understand,” Anita said, her jet-black eyebrows prettily furrowed. “Are you trying to be like a man?”
“No.” This conversation was getting us nowhere. “I’m trying to be real.”
“Do you mean I’m not real?” Anita had just said when there was a sharp knock on the door. I glanced at the clock: 7 p.m. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Could it be Ranta again, coming over to check up on his cousin?
“Aren’t you going to get the door?” Anita said. “What if it’s Steve?”
“It’s not. And I’m not in the mood for social calls. Would you please —”
Anita was opening the door already. The woman standing on my doorstep could have been her older sister: a mass of shiny blonde hair, porcelain skin and big blue eyes that now looked tired. My gaze slid down over the generous breasts and the narrow waist, noticing the shapely legs in nylon tights and elegant black leather pumps.
For the last five years, my attitude towards this woman had been oscillating between hatred and guilt.
“Hello, Elsbeth,” I said.
37
Hella
“Can we talk?” Elsbeth glanced from me to Anita.
“Of course.”
I ushered her into the living room, my heart flailing. There were heaps of clothes on the two chairs and the sofa. I carried them into the bedroom, dumped them on the bed. By the time I got back to the living room, Anita had already put her shoes on. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. “Maybe get some milk or something.”
“Thank you. This is … thank you.” At this hour, the stores were already closed; Anita would have to sit on the stairs and wait. Still, I couldn’t bear to talk to Elsbeth in her presence.
After she was gone, Steve’s wife and I remained silent for several minutes. I didn’t know what I wanted to say any more. Everything had been in that letter I’d sent her. There was nothing else to add.
“I didn’t know you lived with a friend,” Elsbeth said at last.
“I don’t. Not really. Anita is staying while she’s looking for her own apartment.” With a little shock, I realized that wasn’t true, that Anita wasn’t even looking. Over the past few days, we had fallen into a curious routine, like an old married couple who spend their time arguing but can’t imagine getting a divorce.
Elsbeth looked around. “Is this where my husband used to spend his evenings? You even started living here together, didn’t you?”
“It’s over now,” I said, for what it was worth. “Steve and I are over.”
“I don’t want him either,” Elsbeth stated bluntly, sitting down. “I’ve had enough.” She held my gaze. Up close, she didn’t look like the fragile little thing I had imagined. She looked steely. Tough. There was a question I needed to ask her, but I was so afraid of the answer, I probably wouldn’t dare.
“How’s your health?” I asked instead.
Elsbeth grinned. “Never better. Are you asking because Steve told you I was on the verge of succumbing to some mysterious illness? That I was incapable of surviving on my own?”
I felt a hot flush washing over my face. “Don’t bother answering,” Elsbeth said. “Steve actually told me the same thing about you. That he needed to support you, otherwise you’d just crumble and die. I suppose you’re also well?”
I nodded, inca
pable of coherent speech. The idea I’d had of my relationship with Steve was unravelling with breathtaking speed. “I’m happy to hear that,” Elsbeth said. “Because I didn’t come here to complain.”
“Why, then?”
“I found a job. At a high school, teaching biology. I’m due to start next Monday.”
“And?”
“So this morning, I went back home to collect my clothes and other personal stuff. I’ve rented a nice apartment not far from here, and” – Elsbeth paused to rummage in her handbag – “don’t ask me how, but I found this.” She pulled an envelope out of her bag, holding it by one corner. “Please read it.”
There was a typewritten letter inside the envelope. I shook it out on the table. No date on the letter and no signature; there was just one phrase, its meaning terrifyingly clear:
I KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO THOSE POOR DROWNED GIRLS. GET READY TO PAY FOR YOUR SINS.
38
Hella
The room started spinning around me, its edges blurred and darkening. Elsbeth must have realized I was about to faint, because next thing I knew, she was pushing my knees up and putting my head between my legs. “Deep breaths,” she instructed me. “In through the nose, out through the mouth. It will pass.” After a moment, when she saw the colour flowing back into my cheeks, she got up and left the room. Soon, I could hear the whistling of the kettle and the clanking of china in the kitchen.
“Are you trying to slim down?” Elsbeth asked when she came back into the living room. “Or is money tight?” She set down the tray holding two ill-assorted cups and a chipped teapot. “I didn’t find any sugar.”
“I’m trying to slim down.” The tea was scalding hot but I sipped it anyway, hoping Elsbeth would attribute my burning cheeks to the drink.
“I can help you out,” she said as if she hadn’t heard. “Or give you an advance, if you accept the assignment.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This.” She pointed at the letter. “Find out who sent it. Make them stop.” I opened my mouth to object, but she laid a hand on my sleeve. “No matter what Steve did to me, he doesn’t deserve this. And our daughter doesn’t either. It’s because of Eva that I’m here. I need to protect her interests.” Elsbeth looked away. “I thought of going to the police first, and then I had a better idea. You. You can figure it out.”
“Nice try,” I said, when at last she stopped talking. “But even if I was ready to accept this assignment, which I’m not, what makes you think I’ll keep quiet about Steve’s eventual involvement? This” – I pointed to the letter – “is blackmail. But that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily…” I swallowed. “That it’s necessarily misinformed.”
Elsbeth sprung to her feet. “How can you imagine that there is a word of truth in that, in that —”
“I’ve seen the dead woman’s notebook. You haven’t. Now sit down and let’s talk.”
Elsbeth hadn’t stayed together with Steve because she was frail and needed looking after, I knew that already. More worrying was the realization that she had stayed in her marriage because she loved him, and because she knew he wouldn’t survive on his own.
“He’s the one who needs looking after,” she said to me, unshaken in her belief in Steve’s innocence even after seeing the handwritten copy I had made of the madam’s black book. “But then, he’s a man, so I guess it’s not really surprising.”
I was dumbstruck by her reaction. I’d said what I had to provoke her, because I wanted to see how far she would go to defend the man who had cheated on her for ten years. She didn’t hesitate for one second. Did that make her a saint, or a fool? I couldn’t tell.
“Let’s get down to basics,” Elsbeth said. “Is there a set fee for your services or do you charge by the hour?”
“I will not take any money from you. And, just so we’re clear, I haven’t agreed to take the case.” I collected the tray and carried it over to the kitchen. I waited until I was safely hidden by the door before I dared to ask the question.
“Was your daughter in a school play a few days ago?”
I held my breath.
“She was due to play Ophelia. God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.” Elsbeth laughed. “That applies to all women, doesn’t it? Always feeling like we have to pretend to be something different than what we really are. Men too, probably, though I wouldn’t know. Anyway. The play was cancelled a couple of hours before the performance. Hamlet slipped on ice and broke his leg.”
I reflected on this. So Steve hadn’t argued with me that evening just because he wanted to spend his time with a prostitute. He really had been intending to go and see that play. “All right,” I said. “I’m not accepting yet, but I promise I’ll think about it.”
“You know what?” Elsbeth stood up as I made my way back into the living room. “I hated you too, because I knew about you almost from the start. And I knew he was serious about you.”
“He was not.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I could taste blood.
Elsbeth smiled sadly. “Believe me, he was. And because of that, I hated you. But now I’m mad with Steve, because I feel that, had we met under different circumstances, you and I might have become friends. We’re not that different.”
39
Chief Inspector Mustonen
Bonaparte once said: never interrupt your enemy while they’re making a mistake. As I sat well hidden in a booth in the far corner of Kappeli, I wondered if that applied to colleagues as well.
The restaurant was known for its stuffy waiters, its old-world cuisine and its steep prices. It was also conveniently located just around the corner from Headquarters, and the current police chief, Dr Palmu, was a regular. He was now sitting alone in his usual spot by the window, waiting for his order of blinis with sour cream and caviar.
I took a sip of my mineral water. Several tables away from Dr Palmu, out of earshot but in plain sight, sat Virtanen and Jokela, their heads bent close together in animated conversation. I wondered what those two were talking about. Me? No, they were smiling too much. More likely than not, they were discussing the guest list for the reception Jokela was planning to organize once his nomination to the position currently occupied by Dr Palmu was made official. According to the grapevine, it was a matter of days now. I’d had to learn that from Tarja, not from Jokela himself. Jokela wasn’t talking to me; not since he had discovered that Ahti Virtanen was officially still a suspect and that I had gone to formally interview him with Anita in tow.
“Why don’t you focus on that DJ?” Jokela asked, his tiny eyes trailing me as I paced his office. “Or, I don’t know, other clients?”
“The other clients all have alibis,” I countered.
“Well, so does Ahti.”
“Provided by his parents.”
“What’s wrong with the parents?” Jokela roared. “You’re a parent too. You know your child. If Virtanen says he didn’t do it, then he didn’t do it. Does the DJ have an alibi as well?”
“No. The night Klara Nylund was murdered, the programme schedule at Yle Radio had been altered to allow for extended coverage of the upcoming parliamentary elections. Which means Mr Collins was free to roam the streets alone at the time the murder was committed.”
“You see?” Jokela said. “Did you bring him in for questioning?”
“Tomorrow.”
“A confession would be best.” Jokela’s eyes narrowed. “You can interview him in a cell, use a sock stuffed with snow like they do in the Soviet Union. No traces, all nice and clean. People speak, believe me.”
“Beat up the suspect with a stuffed sock? I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”
“Do whatever it takes. I just hope you are not hesitant to go after the man because he’s Mauzer’s boyfriend?”
“He’s not her boyfriend any more. And it’s not that. I want to be sure we explore all the options before focusing on just one suspect.”
“Ahti is not an option,” Jokela said.
The whisky glass flew past inches from my head, shattering against the wall behind me. When Jokela spoke, his voice was seething with rage. “The boy’s not guilty. The fact that he was fooling around in the port doesn’t mean a thing. Coincidences happen, we all know that.” Jokela pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, wiped his hand. “I want you to focus on the radio guy. Make an arrest and make it quick.”
He hadn’t talked to me since. He had even pretended not to notice me when, ten minutes earlier, I had followed a waiter to my table. The only one to acknowledge my presence was Dr Palmu, who smiled and shook my hand.
“Are you also having lunch with business associates, Chief Inspector?”
“No, sir,” I said, smiling back. “I’m having lunch with my wife.”
And now Sofia was being ushered in by a waiter. She looked stunningly elegant, the angles of her long body softened by her pregnancy, her head carried high. Contrary to me, Sofia was at home in this sort of place. She knew how to speak to the waiters, she was dressed just so, she made all the other women, even the beautiful ones, look tacky.
“Hello, darling.” I kissed her on the cheek.
The waiter pulled out the chair and my wife sat down. “I’ll have mineral water too,” she said.
“No.” I took my wife’s hand. “We’ll drink champagne. Darling, I have good news for you. I made an offer on the house and it’s been accepted.”
I was back in the office two hours later. Jokela’s door was closed, and judging by the low rhythmic snoring coming from that direction, my boss was inside. It was a wonder he had even managed to find his way back, given the quantity of alcohol he had polished off; I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye while Sofia talked with breathless excitement about the new life that awaited us.