by Katja Ivar
Jokela pushed into my office, closed the door behind him. He looked younger, happier than I had ever seen him. Once promoted, he would hold on to his job forever. Forget early retirement: he’d be around for almost as long as I would, blocking the way.
“Well,” Jokela said, “you’ve only got yourself to blame, haven’t you? I warned you.” A shrug. “Maybe you are too young. Or maybe you’re not made for the pressures of this job. You should think about joining the traffic police – you’ve got good enough ideas for that.”
“So you won’t be recommending me for your current position?” That much was obvious, of course, but I still wanted to hear him say it.
“No, I won’t.”
No more my boy here. No more drinking sessions either. I’d finally got what I had wished for, but it tasted bitter.
The day was only half-gone, but I couldn’t stay in the office after that. I needed air, and space. So I stuffed the drawing of the brooch into my jacket pocket and made my way downstairs. I was passing through the revolving doors when a man called out to me.
“Inspector?”
“Yes?” I couldn’t place him, maybe because my mind was on other things. Medium height, big inexpressive eyes, lank blonde hair clinging to a large knobby forehead.
“Ljungkvist,” the man said, extending a hand for me to shake. “Port Authority. I was coming to see you.”
I steered him outside, offered him a cigarette. “Why? Has something come up?”
“No,” Ljungkvist answered, squinting in the sun. “But the weather is better now. We can trawl the harbour.”
“Today?”
The man glanced at his watch. “We can start today, yes, if the police divers are ready. But tomorrow should be good too, according to the weather people on the radio.”
“Then let’s make it tomorrow. I’d like to be there, and I have things to do right now.”
Ljungkvist smiled. “Sure. With sun like this, everyone should enjoy a bit of the outdoors. Make it ten?”
“I’ll be there.”
The sun was sliding below the line of the horizon when I returned to Headquarters. I didn’t know how long the girl had been sitting there, waiting for me. Certainly long enough to make her stoop a bit, wipe away the sparkle in her eyes.
“Anita. What’s happened?”
Anita exhaled, straightened herself. Put a smile on, sucked her belly in. A little-girl voice: “I wanted to apologize. For asking that question about the Reims case and Inspector Krigsholm.”
The squad room was empty, dark. Even Jokela was gone; to celebrate or to lick boots, I didn’t know and didn’t care. I unlocked the door of my office, switched on the lamp, then ushered Anita in, leaving the door open.
“I’m not angry.”
“Then you’re a saint. I shouldn’t have doubted you. It’s just when I saw that Krigsholm had been your partner, I couldn’t help wondering if you’d known about the Reims case even before I brought it up.”
“You asked a perfectly reasonable question. I would have done the same.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” I waited a beat, enjoying the smile that lit up her face. When I knew she was able to focus again, I added: “Actually, I’m glad you came. It could have waited until tomorrow, but now that you’re here…” I fumbled in my desk drawer without taking my eyes off Anita. “Here it is.” Expensive, creamy paper, an envelope with many stamps. “As you know, I’m in charge of our cooperation with Interpol. They’re setting up an exchange programme for sharing work methods, implementing common standards. We need to give them the name of our candidate.” I smiled, pushing the envelope towards Anita. “I thought it could be you.”
A sharp intake of air, a manicured hand flying to her mouth. “Me?”
“It involves a training period in Paris, starting next week,” I said, the unspoken words – the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Montmartre – charging the air around us with electricity. “What do you think?”
46
Hella
“I refused.”
I glanced up at Anita; it was not a joke. There she was, standing in the middle of my living room, back straight, eyes blazing. She had come in as I was unpacking my cardboard suitcase and started telling me her story as soon as she crossed the doorstep. But seriously? Paris, the capital of fashion, the most romantic city on Earth, the place that everyone – everyone – longed to see at least once in their lives. A girl would be stupid to decline an offer to live there, even for a short while. And Anita was anything but stupid.
“Why?”
“I haven’t finished my investigation. I told that to Mustonen too. That I wasn’t planning to go away until I uncovered the truth, and too bad for him if he tried to stop me.”
“What did he say?”
“He was floored. I also told him I knew that he was hiding things from me.” Anita pointed an accusatory finger at me. “Just like you do. You all think I’m just a dumb blonde. But I’ll show you what I’m capable of.”
“Anita,” I sighed. “This is not some pulp fiction plot, where the blonde heroine is always rescued at the last moment by a handsome stranger. This is real. This is dangerous.”
“I went to see Ahti Virtanen yesterday, did you know that? With Mustonen. We went to his house, which is huge, and I dropped my glove behind an armchair, and then, that very same evening, I came back for it and talked to him. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s establishing contact.”
I closed my eyes. The girl worried me. She imagined herself single-handedly restoring order while looking stunningly gorgeous. She pictured a spark of admiration in Mustonen’s eyes, grudging approval from Jokela, Dr Palmu shaking her hand ceremoniously. She saw herself giving interviews to national dailies and being acclaimed by Steve on the radio. I was sure she had already chosen the new dress she would buy to wear to a small but prestigious reception given in her honour by the city’s mayor – champagne and petits fours, and all those adoring glances.
“This is dangerous,” I said again. “I don’t want you to end up another bloated corpse, floating face down in the harbour.”
“I won’t. I’m smarter than that. And anyway” – Anita snorted her disdain – “a liar like you doesn’t have a say in the matter, not any more.” She pulled her suitcase from under the wardrobe and started throwing her clothes into it.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” Anita picked up the crimson suede pumps from the back of the wardrobe, wrapped them in tissue and placed them on top of the suitcase.
“Why?”
“Going back to Ranta’s.”
She stormed off to the bathroom. I followed her, saw her collect the little vials of cream and perfume scattered around the sink. The hairbrush. The curling iron.
“Why?”
Angry breathing, no answer.
“Is this because I provided Steve with an alibi?”
“No,” Anita said, clicking the suitcase shut. “It’s because you lied.”
“Steve is innocent,” I said. “I know it. He’s being set up.”
“Is that what you really believe, or what you want to believe? You’ve been accusing Mustonen of partiality, but are you any better?”
Never before had I seen Anita so furious. “Go on, tell me you’re better than him,” she needled. “Tell me your lies are justified because you can’t possibly be wrong. Because you’re so good, so pure and true, you get to define what the truth is? Go on!”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry’s not good enough.” Anita kicked the suitcase onto the landing. “I don’t know who I hate more, you for being a liar, or myself for being gullible enough to believe you were anything different.”
47
Inspector Mustonen
July 1946
Mrs Saari, who turned out to be the baker’s wife and my father’s next-door neighbour, ran out of her house as soon as she saw me push open the gate.
“How good of you to
come, Mr Mustonen! Would you like some coffee? Or tea? Or anything?”
“Maybe later, Mrs Saari. I would just like to see my father right now.”
I thought she would stay at the door, but the woman followed me inside the house. I didn’t know what to expect. In my mind’s eye, my father was as formidable as ever, and when I breathed in the familiar scent of home – wood polish and mothballs – I almost turned back. Only the thought of Mrs Saari hovering behind me in the narrow corridor forced me to climb the creaky stairs and open the door to the bedroom.
“Hello, Father,” I said from the doorway.
There was no reaction, so maybe Mrs Saari had not been exaggerating after all. I came closer. My father’s strong regular features had melted away, leaving behind a lined, beaky mask, immobile except for the watery blue eyes that blinked as I approached.
“It’s Erik.” I leaned over to kiss my father’s damp forehead. “I came to keep you company.”
“Isn’t it great, Mr Mustonen?” the woman chipped in. “Your son’s here. No doubt, your daughters will be arriving soon.”
“I don’t think they will, actually,” I said, taking the woman by the elbow and steering her towards the door. “But I’ll be staying a while. As long as my father needs me.”
Once Mrs Saari was gone, I made coffee in the downstairs kitchen and carried it to my father’s room. “Why don’t I tell you about my life?” I said. “After all, it’s thanks to you that I’ve become the man I am.”
48
Chief Inspector Mustonen
I blinked and my father’s photograph came sharply back into focus. I glanced at my watch; it was only eight in the morning, though it felt like hours since I had tiptoed across the empty squad room and sneaked like a thief into my own office. Now the first morning light was sweeping brushstrokes of yellow over the rooftops, and all around me the familiar furniture, clean, uncluttered, impersonal, seemed to acquire a life of its own. It stared at me accusingly. It oozed with disapproval.
The furniture was telling me it was time I made a decision. Not only because of what my father’s life, and death, had taught me. Because of Anita, too. When the previous night she had said thanks but no thanks to Paris, the high blush on her cheeks had told me everything I needed to know. The reason she had declined. What she thought of me. I had to reverse the flow, and fast. Make the right choice. Act like a better man.
I picked up the receiver but dropped it back on its base immediately. Checked the door first. Made sure it was closed. Locked it, for more security, so no early bird could overhear my conversation. Waited for the furious thumping of my heart to subside. OK, here goes, I thought. I picked up the telephone again and waited for the secretary to answer.
“It’s Mustonen,” I said, my voice strangled but my mind clear. “From the homicide squad. I need to speak to Dr Palmu. Yes, I’m afraid it’s urgent.”
The hours that followed rushed past like an extract from a movie, a kaleidoscope of tight, action-packed scenes.
My second call was for the garage on Ratakatu. A girl answered, already bored. This time I gave my name and title. “Do you still have Virtanen’s Chrysler?”
She didn’t know.
“Could you find out, please?”
I held my breath as she wandered off. Doors slammed shut, someone yelled, and I’d started to think she’d forgotten all about me by the time she finally came back on the line.
“Inspector?” She was chewing gum now.
“Yes?”
“We have it.”
I breathed out. “Good. I’m sending over an officer with a warrant. We’ll be towing the car to Headquarters for inspection. No, don’t say anything to Mr Virtanen. Not yet.”
A glance at my watch: 9 a.m. The squad room was filling up with people; I could hear their yammering through the thin partition wall. Jokela was not in yet – I had been straining my ears for the unmistakable heavy step. Just as well. It was time to get going.
I lifted my coat from the hook, grabbed my bag, my hat. Down the stairs at a running pace, hoping not to bump into Jokela. I didn’t take the car; I knew I’d be faster on foot, and there was an added benefit too. I could stop by Elena’s place, warn her that she needed to testify against Ahti Virtanen. It was a good thing I had helped the girl; there was nothing Virtanen senior could do to her now that she was a Finnish citizen, and her testimony was going to be crucial. I reached her building in less than ten minutes. There was no going back now: the next twelve hours would either make or break me. No, I told myself as I climbed the stairs. Don’t even think that; it will work. No reason it shouldn’t, I was doing the right thing. A bit late, but still, I was doing it.
“What do you want?” Vlad droned, as if he had never seen me before. As if he didn’t owe me.
I gave him a fuck-off look. “Where’s Elena?”
“Busy,” Vlad said. “In the bathroom.”
“All right. Tell her not to leave the city. She’ll have to testify.”
Vlad grumbled something which I decided was a yes. Down the stairs again, taking them two at a time. Cold morning air in my face, snow pricking my skin like needles. Thinking along the way, hands in my pockets because I had forgotten my gloves, heart racing. The familiar landscape – cranes, boats, docks – flew unseen past my eyes. I only became conscious of my surroundings when I arrived at my destination. The nondescript Mr Ljungkvist was standing guard above an open trunk full of debris: broken bottles, a doll’s porcelain leg, a handbag’s chain, other junk that was impossible to identify.
“I’m sorry,” Ljungkvist said when he saw me. “I know I promised we’d wait for you, but my guys told me there’s a storm alert for this afternoon, and they didn’t want to be caught in it.”
“Of course,” I said. “Perfectly natural. Anything useful?”
“Don’t think so.” Ljungkvist stuck a cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hands around a match. “But I’m no expert. We’re almost done, by the way. Just one last stretch to go and we’ll be good. Then you can take our treasure chest” – a nod towards the gaping trunk – “to the police station and inspect it at your leisure. You never mentioned what exactly you were looking for, did you?”
“That’s because I wanted your guys to keep an open mind. You never know what might come up.”
“No weapon so far,” Ljungkvist said. “No bodies either. A nice tie, if you’re interested. Looks almost new.”
“No thank you,” I grinned. “My wife chooses my ties for me. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for that gun.”
Ljungkvist nodded again, didn’t say anything.
In this part of the port, cordoned off by police, the silence was only disturbed by the humming of the air compressor. Two lines ran from it towards the water, disappearing into the murky depths. A man in a fisherman’s cap and a fur coat was frowning, his gaze on the gauges at the front of the compressor; two others, in matching sweaters, were turning the wheel. Yet another man, in a diving suit but no helmet, leaned above the water, watching the bubbles. The whole operation felt impeccably rehearsed and synchronized, as I supposed it should be. I stuck my hands deeper into my pockets and tried to rein in my impatience.
Next to me, Ljungkvist was smoking, blowing perfect rings into the cold damp air. I hesitated to ask him for a cigarette – I had run out of smokes and was dying to have one – but decided against it. Finally, the cord running into the water tensed and the men perked up. I came closer.
The diver’s huge round head was already above the water. “Anything?” Ljungkvist cried out.
No one answered. They waited another minute while the diver was pulled onto the embankment and his faceplate lifted.
“Anything?” Ljungkvist asked again. He seemed even more eager than I was.
The diver – pale and puffy-eyed after his time on the seabed – squinted at us. “Sorry, no.”
Ljungkvist shot me a worried glance. “All for nothing, huh? A pity.” He looked like he was ready to plant incriminating evi
dence himself, if only I cared to tell him what it should be.
I bit my lip, frowning. “Maybe not,” I said at last. “Can I have a look at that tie you mentioned?”
49
Hella
I hadn’t run after Anita. I’d wanted to – to make her stay, talk to her, explain the dark and tangled reasons making me believe in Steve’s innocence – but I knew it wouldn’t be any good. Furious as she’d been, she wasn’t going to listen to me, and even I could recognize an argument that was going nowhere. Instead, I’d spent another bad night tossing and turning in the too-wide bed, the thump-thump-thumping of Anita’s suitcase travelling down the stairs still loud in my ears. I woke up late; my hair was clinging to my damp cheeks, and my eyes were red and swollen.
Slumped in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, I thought about the events of the previous day. I had underestimated Anita. To me, she was just a pretty, foolish amateur detective. But I knew nothing about her other than what I had seen, and I had only seen – or had chosen to see – what she had let me.
Shivering, I made my way towards the kitchen. The plan was to throw cold water onto my face and then make a cup of tea. To try and do something useful. The sort of useful didn’t really matter at this stage. So when I put the kettle on and noticed the slimy wall tiles, I decided that would do. Spring cleaning! Come on, girls! My mother’s cheerful voice echoed in some distant chamber of my mind, and I nodded to myself gloomily. My apartment could do with some cleaning, whether spring or otherwise. Besides, the stench had got stronger in the last twenty-four hours. It was coming from the pipes and I couldn’t help wondering if something had died in there. The image made me shiver. I put on an old shirt and got to work, like my mother would have done.