by Katja Ivar
First, grate some soap above a basin, pour hot water over it. Then, grab a brush, plonk it into the soap solution and start scrubbing at the tiles. The situation called for a song. Some childhood tune, domestic, sweet and unthreatening – only I couldn’t remember any. At some point after my parents’ accident my musical memory must have wiped itself clean, because all I could come up with was “Eeny Meeny Miney Mo”, and that didn’t really lend itself to humming. In the end, I switched on the radio – classical music, not Steve’s programme – and went back to my scrubbing. Two violin concertos later, my hands and calves and lower back were hurting like mad, and I’d only covered twenty square feet of tiles. Maybe this cleaning idea had been stupid to begin with. I had hoped it would give me a feeling of order, of being in control, but it hadn’t. While I scrubbed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Anita’s last words. What if she was right and I was wrong? What if I was deluding myself? No amount of cleaning was going to take away the realization that I had lied to the police, that I had placed myself firmly on the other side of the divide, based on nothing more than a hard to define malaise and blind trust in my former lover’s integrity.
I paused, wiping the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve. All that furious scrubbing had got me closer to the pipes, and the stench was becoming unbearable. What if there was something dead in there, like a rat? A stinking little corpse, leaking into the walls? Tom told me once that when you smelled something, it meant tiny particles of that thing were already in your nose. I gagged, pressed my sleeve to my face and ran out of the kitchen and down the stairs, not bothering to lock up behind me. I banged on my landlord’s door for a few minutes until I realized that either no one was home, or no one was going to answer. I ran up the stairs again, breathing through my mouth. I would leave him a message. I fished a fountain pen out of my bag and started writing: Dear Mr Norrlund, I am afraid there’s a dead rat or mouse in my wall. It’s filthy and it stinks. I need your help sorting this out. Can you please—My hand froze in mid-air. I stared at the note. Then, holding my breath, I went into the kitchen and threw the window open.
What was that word in Klara Nylund’s little black book? Filth?
The rat would have to wait. I could barely believe it, but it was possible that I’d just made a breakthrough.
The strings I had to pull cost me the last of my food coupons, but it was worth it. The dates matched. The description matched. Whether Anita would be ready to cooperate was another story, but I decided that I was not going to think about that yet.
I snapped the file shut, put on a coat and left the apartment. My plan was to discuss the case with Mustonen first, lay the facts before him and let him draw his own conclusions. But when I turned up at the police station, the receptionist informed me that he was not in the office yet. I scribbled a short note for him, left it with her. The hands of the clock behind the receptionist indicated that it was a quarter past three.
I decided to try my luck at the morgue, though I had no illusions: Tom was the early to bed, early to rise type. He was probably already on his way home, where his mother awaited him with pierogies and a pot of freshly brewed tea. I knew I wouldn’t be welcome. Mrs Räikkönen, a slim, startlingly beautiful woman who looked nothing like her son, disliked me intensely.
“She thinks you’re after my irresistible body,” Tom told me once. “She also thinks you’re unworthy of me. Much too bony. With one N.”
“Just tell her friendship is the best I can offer.”
“The F word is not part of her vocabulary, you should know that by now. And anyway, I prefer her trembling with fear at the idea that you’ll get me one day. Her cooking benefits from it greatly.”
The thought of Mrs Räikkönen’s piercing blue eyes made me quicken my step. Some people were like that: never threatening, impeccably polite, they still managed to convey the impression that they could slip arsenic into your coffee at the first opportunity.
I was also wondering what Tom would make of my theory. At this point, he seemed to be the only person likely to listen to me, the only one, too, to tell me if I was being delusional. I realized of course that my findings were pure conjecture; I didn’t have any evidence. You have to be pretty desperate, my inner voice whispered, to accuse a man of assault without the slightest evidence.
Especially if that man is a police officer.
The daylight was beginning to fade and a bitterly cold wind was blowing off the sea. I paused on the corner of Kasarmikatu, waiting for the lights to change. No one would believe me, I knew that. Even if I came up with the most irrefutable proof there was, people would still be wary. Unless you were a crackpot who was convinced that the world was run by giant grasshoppers, you wanted to believe the police were there to protect you. It was the basis of civilized society, the backbone of every democracy. You didn’t expect a police officer to turn out to be a criminal. Because what is a police officer breaking the law? The end of a civilization.
I didn’t realize I was out of breath until I pushed open the door leading to the morgue. “Dr Räikkönen?” I called out. I had no desire to stumble onto another unknown corpse being stitched up.
Immediately, a dishevelled head popped out of the autopsy room, grinning broadly at me. “Dr Räikkönen already left,” the man told me. “He said he was feeling a bit under the weather, so he went home.”
“Thank you,” I sighed, wondering if I could still catch Tom. “How long ago did he leave?”
“At least an hour,” the man said. “Sorry.” He ducked out of view and almost immediately I heard a strange scrubbing sound that reminded me of my own cleaning efforts. I turned to leave.
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of another door, this one belonging to an elegant little mansion just off Ludviginkatu. The house, in grey Finnish granite, was the epitome of art nouveau, an urban fairy tale complete with gargoyles; Tom hated it with a passion.
I’ve always believed cities are like people, they have stories to tell. They entice you with a glint of a store window, a whiff of cardamom; they hide their scars under layers of paint. This part of Helsinki was a wealthy widow, her face transformed by powders and lotions, cornices and gleaming brass knockers. The widow kept to herself, most of the time, and bad-mouthed her neighbours. I was not at ease here.
I braced myself and knocked, putting on a smile that was as brilliant as it was fake. A short instant later, Mrs Räikkönen answered the door, her lips stretched in a smile that matched my own. “Miss Mauzer! What a pleasant surprise! My son is not in yet, but do come in. Would you care for some tea? Maybe with cinnamon buns?”
“Thank you.” I followed Mrs Räikkönen inside, and immediately my feet sunk into a deep plush carpet. With its Aubusson tapestries, dark velvet curtains and luscious potted palms, the house around me felt like one of those flesh-eating plants one read about in science magazines: it was sticky; it swallowed me whole.
“My son,” Mrs Räikkönen was saying, “has taken up drawing. Twice a week after work he goes to an art studio, where he learns how to draw.” She shrugged. “I never look at his work, of course. From what I understand, they draw nude models.” She pointed to a love seat upholstered in yellow silk. The furniture in the room was arranged in such a manner as to offer a view of Tom’s butterfly collection that occupied the north-facing wall.
“Milk, sugar?” Tom’s mother shoved a dainty teacup at me. “Truth be told, Miss Mauzer, I would have preferred if my son had carried on with the butterflies. Such an innocent hobby. I hope he doesn’t expect me to hang his drawings on the wall. And if only it was just that. He’s decided to get himself a motorbike!” She smiled but her hands trembled. “It’s been a while since I saw you last, Miss Mauzer. I even thought you and my son had had a lover’s tiff. I’m very happy to see that you’re back.”
The doorbell rang before I could answer, and Mrs Räikkönen hurried away. I heard urgent whispering at the door, a nervous laugh, but Tom’s appearance was an anticlimax: he looked his usua
l cheery self, rosy-cheeked and dapper. There was a manila folder under his arm.
“Hella!” He enveloped me in a bear hug. “I trust this is not a social call.”
“And why wouldn’t it be?” Mrs Räikkönen said in a clipped voice. “You have the right at your age to entertain young ladies.”
This was when it finally clicked. For a detective, I’d been slow on the uptake. I almost laughed out loud.
“I’d love to see your drawings,” I said to Tom.
Mrs Räikkönen went white around the mouth, started folding the edge of the tablecloth into neat little pleats. I almost felt sorry for her. The warm welcome she’d had for me, so much at odds with her previous icy politeness, could mean only one thing: she thought I was the lesser evil.
“Come to my office, then,” Tom said, with a wary glance at his mother. “I’ll show you.”
The office, large but oppressive, was filled with more butterflies in mahogany cases. The pencil drawings were tacked to the wall in between, and they were exactly as I had imagined them – anatomically correct, with just a tiny hint of artistic feeling thrown in. All nude. All men.
“They’re not mine, by the way,” Tom said. “All these pictures were drawn by a guy I met at the studio. Touko Laaksonen, but he calls himself Tom, like me. Works in advertising. What do you think?” Tom turned to face me. A vein was pulsating in his right temple; he wanted to give the impression that he didn’t care, but he did.
“So there’s more to it than healthy living?” I said. “I should have guessed when I saw those beefcake magazines at the mortuary. Silly me.”
“Not that silly,” Tom grinned, relieved. “My mother didn’t notice anything either – I only told her who I was a couple of days ago. This thing has been building inside me, so I thought I needed to tell someone, otherwise I’d go mad. But I still hope no one else connects the dots. Maybe Sweden’s King Gustaf could have weathered this sort of publicity, but I certainly couldn’t.”
“No problem. If people start to talk and you need me to play the part of an amorous girlfriend, I’ll be there for you. But I didn’t come to talk about your sexual preferences. Hear me out on this.”
Tom sat in silence as I showed him Klara Nylund’s notes, the travel dates, my suspect’s infatuation with Anita, everything. I mentioned his obsessive personality, the fact that he had become a persona non grata in the brothel. The question I needed to ask Tom was whether the physical characteristics of the killer matched.
“You’ve seen the man, right? Could he be the one?”
Tom took his time, chewing on the tip of a pencil. “Things aren’t always what they seem, huh?” he said at last. “For everyone. But how would he lure them? He doesn’t look like a possible romantic interest to me.”
“Not to me, either. But maybe we got it wrong, maybe the romantic interest was someone else altogether and he attacked Nellie because he couldn’t bear the thought that she was leaving. Or do you think I’m totally crazy?”
“Hmm,” Tom said. “From what I’ve seen of the man, he’s a bit on the small side – he’s what, about the same height as you are? – but yes, I suppose it’s possible.” He put down the file and stretched. “Officer Ranta. Who would have thought?”
50
Hella
Outside, night had fallen. There was a bit of snow, tiny stinging flakes that melted as soon as they touched the window. The room was dark, except for a Tiffany lamp that threw a circle of golden glow on the papers strewn on the desk, leaving Tom’s face in the shadows.
“It matches,” I said at last. “The description – filth – the dates when Ranta came over from Lapland, the fact he wasn’t welcome at Klara Nylund’s any more, his unhealthy interest in his cousin’s love life, the description of her attacker. Even if Anita refuses to help, I can line up the madam’s girls, prove that Ranta was a client.”
“It’s a big thing,” Tom said, not looking at me. “Accusing a police officer. The police look after their own. Even if they believed you, and that’s a big if, they’d most likely never act on it. Instead, they’d make your life hell. Make you pay for the humiliation, for the threat to the powers that be. You’ve already spent years paying for a crime you didn’t commit – with this, you’d likely become the most hated person in all of Finland.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” It came out sharper than I intended; but then, I was scared.
Silence.
“Don’t count on me to help you,” Tom said at last, with a sheepish grin. “I love you – platonically – and all, but this thing could end my career.”
I was tempted to point out that he didn’t really need a career – not like I did, in any case – but I knew of course that wasn’t true. Even if he had more money than he knew what to do with, Tom was still very much attached to the prestige of his job, and he loved nothing more than having a medical enigma to exercise his mind. So I said: “Of course. I don’t intend to involve you. Our conversation is totally off the record.”
Tom nodded, relieved. “So what are you going to do about this? Confront Ranta all on your own? Go and see Mustonen, try to convince him?”
“No,” I said slowly. “The first thing to do would be to talk to Anita. When she told me about the attack, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew who her attacker was. If I’m right, even if she chooses to deny that it was Ranta who scared her, I’d still see her reaction.” I got up to leave. “The most dangerous lies are those we tell ourselves, aren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Tom said. “I only tell lies to others. So kiss me goodbye, baby!”
“Baby?! Is this for your mother’s benefit?” Tom’s voice rose on this last word, and I was wondering if Mrs Räikkönen was hovering outside, trying to eavesdrop.
Tom winked. “Give me a hug, my sweet love.” I did, giggling madly. The anxiety was gone, replaced by an elation that set my whole body on fire. The case was about to be solved; it might take a while to collect the evidence, if Anita refused to testify, but I was certain we’d get there in the end. And the best part: it wasn’t Steve. I had known that, of course I had; I still felt better because I had a credible suspect now.
“I should hurry up,” I said. “With a bit of luck, I’ll catch Anita before she leaves the office.”
“Be careful. I’d hate to have you on my autopsy table. Besides, my schedule is full for the next few days.”
Anita was not at police headquarters – she’d left early, Tarja informed me gleefully, after receiving a sumptuous bouquet of pink roses at lunchtime. She was not at Ranta’s either. There was no one at Ranta’s. I knocked and I called, but the thin, wobbly door remained stubbornly closed. I peered into the keyhole: no key in the lock. Ranta’s house was on the wrong side of town: overflowing garbage bins, peeling paint, not a tree in sight. There was an old woman in a tattered fur coat, sitting on a bench near the house with her eyes downcast. When I said hello to her, she turned away and started muttering under her breath. I crossed the street towards a tiny corner store, asked the owner if he’d seen Ranta or Anita recently. The man shook his head, probably wondering who I was. It’s how it goes in that sort of place: people mind their own business. It’s safer that way.
I stuck around for an hour, feeling increasingly jittery, like an overanxious mother waiting for her teenage daughter to come back from a date. It felt wrong, because I knew that Ranta, too, had left the office early. He had told his colleagues in Archives that he was going out of town, fishing. A passion of his, or so he claimed. I wondered about Anita. Could she be with him? Unlikely. And even if she was, it didn’t necessarily mean she was in danger. Wasn’t I the one who had told her she was as capable as any man? Anita was a police officer. She knew how to shoot, she knew how to fight. She was not stupid. I tried to imagine Mustonen in her place, going fishing with Ranta. Would I be afraid for him? The answer was most definitely no.
When the little hand on my watch reached seven, I decided I’d waited enough. It was tim
e to go and see the only person who could help me now.
Time to see Mustonen.
51
Hella
“I read your note,” Mustonen said, “but I refuse to believe it.”
He ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were bloodshot, tired. “I haven’t seen Anita this afternoon, it’s been an awful day. I can’t really go into details, but there could be changes here soon. Besides, we’ve made a breakthrough on the harbour drownings case. The evidence we have doesn’t point to Ranta, it points to a man called Ahti Virtanen. His initials are embroidered on the tie that was used to attach a piece of metal scrap to Nellie’s handbag. We are now performing an inspection of his car. So no, I can’t really believe Anita would disappear like that. And that Officer Ranta could be involved.”
“Maybe it’s both,” I said. “Maybe Virtanen is a mass murderer while Ranta is an occasional rapist. Look, maybe it’s nothing, but I’m worried about Anita. I want to make sure nothing has happened to her.”
Mustonen looked at his watch, frowning. “You know what? I was planning to go and interview Ahti Virtanen, because I happen to know that his parents are at their summer cabin, entertaining some important guests. He’ll be alone. You stay in the background, don’t say a word. You’ll see for yourself. And if it has nothing to do with him, we’ll try to track down Ranta.” He pulled a shoulder holster from his desk drawer and put it on, grabbed his jacket from the back of his seat. “Team? Just like in the good old days?”
“Thank you.” I wanted to tell Mustonen that I had been wrong about him, but it didn’t seem like the right place, or the right time. So I nodded and followed him out of the office.