by Katja Ivar
“No. We’ll have to wait until Räikkönen is done with the autopsy.” Pinchus looked around, squinting. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Interviewing the train conductor,” I said, ticking off on my fingers. “Trying to trace any passengers who could have seen what happened.” I didn’t mention Jokela. Jokela had been summoned for questioning by Dr Palmu; it was unlikely he’d come back any time soon, if at all.
“Bad idea, the interviews,” Pinchus said. “It will never work.”
I felt like slamming him into the wall, shaking him until his eyes glazed over and the synapses in his brain collapsed. But I couldn’t lose my nerve now. I bit my tongue instead, until I could feel blood seeping into my mouth.
“So, what did you say Anita was doing on that train platform?” Pinchus asked conversationally. His one talent was ignoring the effect he had on others.
“I think she was trying to solve the case. Mauzer came to see me earlier this evening. She was afraid that Anita had been taken. I didn’t want to believe her then, but maybe she was right.” I shook my head. “I showed our witness a photograph of Virtanen, but he wasn’t able to identify him.”
“Well, it was Virtanen’s scarf, wasn’t it?” Pinchus said, matter of fact.
“Looks like it, yes. Once Räikkönen has finished with it, we can show it to the family.”
“OK.” Pinchus glanced at his watch. “But until then?”
“Two things,” I said. “You will call Virtanen’s family, try to find out if they have any idea where the boy spent the last few hours.”
“What about you?” Pinchus asked. He was clearly not happy with the assignment.
“I’ll go talk to Mauzer. I’m willing to bet serious money she was the one who got this stupid idea into Anita’s pretty head. With any luck, she’ll get Anita back to us.”
55
Hella
I needed to see the one person who wouldn’t think I was completely crazy. Someone who had no stakes in this game. Tom. As I walked down the dark empty streets, I went over the arguments in my mind. Means, opportunity: it was all there, and I thought I could glimpse a motive. And at least my new theory explained the reaction I’d got from Nellie’s friend Maria. Given my past work as a police officer, she had every reason to be afraid of me.
On the corner of Eteläranta, I had to stop because I felt sick. My head was spinning, I was struggling with nausea, with a rush of blood in my ears. What if I was going mad? Should I have gone home instead and tried to sleep on it? Or consulted a doctor? I’d been wrong before. I’d been wrong that very afternoon. But Anita was out there, and she was in danger. Not because she was a pretty girl, but because she had uncovered something.
“Are you all right, dear?” A tiny old woman was looking up at me, her face creased in concern. She was wearing a big old fur coat, raccoon or wolfskin, with the seams coming apart at the sleeve. “You look unwell. And you’re” – she held out a hand, touched it lightly on my forearm – “you’re swaying.”
“Thank you. I’m fine. I was going to the hospital. Is it this way?”
“I’ll walk you there,” the woman said. “It’s not far. And it’s dangerous for a young girl to be out on her own at night.”
I tried to smile. It must have come out odd, because instead of smiling back, the old woman grabbed my elbow firmly and steered me down the street. “Boy trouble, is it, my dear?” I mumbled something vague, and she took it for an acquiescence. “Trust me,” she whispered, leaning closer, “it’s not worth it. And you’re putting yourself in danger. You’ve heard of that maniac, the one who stays close to the port, just a stone’s throw from here, and murders young girls? Drowns them?”
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
The old woman had surprisingly strong hands. Her fingers were digging into the flesh of my forearm like claws. I had a feeling I’d seen her before, though I couldn’t remember where. “They were asking for it, of course,” the woman added, matter of fact. “Walking around the dark streets alone – don’t tell me those girls weren’t looking for trouble.”
“They were not. No one deserves to be killed. Certainly not young women whose only crime was being out on their own at night.”
The woman stopped abruptly. “You really think that, do you?” She was standing close, too close, staring at me with her mouth open, her teeth yellow and decayed. Her breath smelled like a corpse left to rot. “But what if it was our Lord’s way of separating the wheat from the chaff?”
There was no light where we were standing, and no people. At some point, without me even noticing, we’d left the large avenue we’d been walking on and headed down tiny crooked streets I didn’t recognize. In my panic-fuelled confusion, I couldn’t remember how long I’d been walking like this, dragged along by this tiny steel-clawed crab. I tried to shake her hand off, but she only gripped me more strongly.
“I bet the girl who died had boy trouble.” The woman chuckled. “Just like you.”
A dog howled somewhere in the distance; the air smelled of sea salt and fear. I willed myself to remain calm. She was just a tiny old woman. Mad, no doubt about that. But dangerous? Could she have been the one who had drowned Nellie? Killed Klara Nylund? And then I remembered what Tom had said about the murderer’s height. I burst out laughing. “You almost had me fooled,” I said. “Are you going around town scaring young women? I don’t have time for this. Which way to the hospital?”
She gave me a dirty look. “If that girl had met me, she would have been fine.” She tugged on my arm, and a few moments later the street curved and there it was. The Surgical Hospital.
I detached myself from the woman’s claws. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Hey,” she cried out. “This isn’t the hospital entrance. This is the morgue.”
“The morgue is where I’m going. You and I are after the same person. It’s only our methods that are different.”
56
Hella
Tom was hunched over a microscope, peering at what looked like a piece of fabric.
“Looking for moths?”
The feet of his chair scraped against the floor. “Jesus, Hella, can you wear heels or something, so that I can hear you coming? What if I knock the evidence over?”
“This is evidence?” I leaned in for a closer look. “Of what?”
“Of dinosaurs, I would say. Seriously, your pal Mustonen probably thinks I’m a palaeontologist. This bloodstain is weeks old. The guy must have had a nosebleed or something.”
“How do you know?”
“Dried and decomposed blood reacts to luminol in a different way,” Tom muttered. “The reaction lasts longer than for fresh blood, and the stains glow brighter.”
“Oh. And whose scarf is this? Virtanen’s? Was he wearing it when he died?” I closed my eyes, trying to remember. I was almost certain there had been no scarf.
“Yes and no,” Tom said. He was bent over the microscope again. “Judging by the embroidery, it’s his scarf all right, but he wasn’t wearing it at the time he was shot. This scarf was found on a train platform, left behind by a mysterious stranger who kidnapped a girl matching your friend Anita’s description.”
“Where? When?”
“Shh,” Tom said, pushing the microscope away. “Don’t get all excited. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men are already looking into it.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Can I ask you something?”
“You keep asking me things,” Tom sighed. “But OK, go ahead.”
I pointed at the body lying on the autopsy table, covered by a sheet. “What happened to him exactly, do you know?”
“You want the official version or the off-the-record one?”
“Off the record.”
“I don’t know.” Tom glanced up at me. “Absolute truth, Hella. I’ll write in the official version that this boy has residue on his right hand, compatible with firing one shot, and that he was consequently killed b
y two direct shots, one to the head, another to the torso, but that would be it. I don’t know what happened in there. And you know what’s worse? I don’t want to know.”
“OK. Can you listen to what I have to say without interrupting?”
Tom cocked his head to one side – Do I ever? – but, to my surprise, he did as he was told.
“What if Anita’s attack was a coincidence?” I said. “And it threw me off the scent, made me blind to what was staring me in the face. Someone in a position of power. Someone who is above suspicion. Who has a lot to lose if his relationship with Nellie Ritvanen comes out. This person isn’t a mass murderer, there’s no compulsion in what he does, just the desire to cover his tracks. Probably he enjoys the risk too, thinks he’s invincible. And let’s imagine Steve was telling the truth when he said he’d never set foot in that brothel.”
When I finished talking, Tom stood still for a long moment, his face drained of colour, his lips pursed.
“What do you think?” I prompted him when I couldn’t bear the silence any longer.
“You’re not mad,” Tom said at last, not looking at me. “You’re worse.”
“How so?”
“Your actions are perfectly logical, it’s only your conclusions that are wrong.” Tom licked his lips, a quick, reptilian movement of the tongue. He turned towards the filing cabinet in the corner. “I mean, OK, it’s possible he could have done it, he’s the right height, and the weapon matches, but why take such a risk? That’s the real question, Hella. Why would a man who’s got everything to lose do a thing like that when he could just buy her off? And don’t start on that gibberish about homicidal compulsions or some such psychological reason. The man’s not mental.” Tom stopped rummaging in the filing cabinet and turned to face me. “Answer me, Hella. Why would he do it?”
I looked at Tom’s white, swollen, suddenly old face.
“I’ve been asking myself the same question, and there’s only one answer that I can come up with. Because he thinks he can get away with it.”
I didn’t remember the journey home. It must have been quick – my wristwatch indicated it was 10.15 when I paused on the corner of my street. The roof of my house was white with snow, but the windows were as black as tar. A police car was stationed outside, its driver slumped in the front seat. I stepped back into the shadows and thanked my lucky stars that I had decided to find Tom before going home. I thought about what that police presence implied for me.
One thing was obvious: my apartment was out of bounds. Chances were someone was watching my office too, so I knew I’d have to do without a weapon. It wouldn’t be the first time. Better to get moving before anyone spotted me lurking there in the shadows.
Ranta had told his colleagues where he was going – to a lake near Tuusula – and I decided I needed to start there. I threw one last glance at my own dark windows, trying to conjure an image of all the good times I had spent there with Steve, and then turned resolutely away. No time for feelings of any kind. Even my own uncertain future didn’t bother me at that point.
The only thing that mattered was finding Anita. I had failed her on every front, but maybe it wasn’t too late to bring her back. Over the last few days, and even though we had spent half of our time fighting, she had become one of my closest friends. And now I ran the risk of losing her.
PART III
The Abyss
57
Inspector Mustonen
July 1946
After just a few days at my father’s house, I had settled into a nice, predictable routine. In the morning, those glancing in through the brightly lit kitchen window would have seen me enjoying my breakfast with Mrs Saari. It was an arrangement that suited us both: she supplied me with freshly baked bread and village gossip, I provided a jar of good coffee. Company, too. Her husband, the baker, started work at 5 a.m. She was lonely. Not horny lonely, she just wanted to talk, which suited me just fine. We’d sit together in her kitchen, sip our coffee, and the picture of my father’s life would come together, filling me in on the last ten years I’d missed.
“I didn’t know him very well,” Mrs Saari said. “He kept to himself most of the time, but I heard so much about him. Such a good, upstanding citizen. Always in church. And you turn out to be an inspector. He must be so proud.”
I shook my head, smiling. “I doubt it. He wanted me to be a lawyer. It didn’t work out that way.”
“Why did you choose detective, then?” Mrs Saari laughed. “You could have studied law. It’s the same.”
“No,” I said. “Totally the opposite. Lawyers play with the truth, alter it in order to suit their goals. Our job is different. We serve justice. Besides, I like the danger, the adrenaline.”
“You’re an idealist,” Mrs Saari sighed. “Until I met you, I always thought that young men joined the police because they wanted to be above the law.”
“Maybe some of them,” I admitted. “But not the majority. Not me, in any case.”
After breakfast, I would help her wash the dishes, then I’d wish her a good day, although I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I’d see her. Mrs Saari had a habit of popping up unannounced at the old man’s house, and I had to keep that in mind. As for me, my days really started when I climbed the stairs leading up to my father’s bedroom. The old man needed washing too. He hated it when I touched him, glared at me from under drooping eyelids, but once that was over he was clean and smelled nice, and Mrs Saari could tell everyone who would listen what a good son I was.
The rest of the day was spent reading. My father’s favourite book: Counsel to Parents on the Moral Education of Their Children. I couldn’t be sure whether his mental facilities had remained intact, so I read the book slowly, the words falling like stones into the dark and filthy waters of the old man’s mind. The beautiful thing was, my father listened exactly like I had when I’d been a child: petrified. Every once in a while, when I paused, the old man would move his lips.
“What is it, Father?”
There would be no answer.
“That’s what I thought,” I would usually say. “It’s not a book to discuss, it’s a book to listen to, just like everything else. Remember this? A mighty power which fathers hold in trust for the future of their children is the character of the legislation which they establish or sanction. Beautiful, huh?” I’d lean over to rearrange the blanket, breathing in my father’s scent – pine resin, incense and moss – and my childhood would lunge at me. I’d hide behind the book: “It is too frequently the case that the father, absorbed in outdoor pursuits, regards the indoor life as exclusively the business of his wife, and takes little or no part in the education of his children. That wasn’t you, no. When Mother ran away with that circus guy, you took care of our education. For as long as I can remember, you were there.”
I stopped before we got to the chapter on purity. I lit a cigarette and tried to imagine what my five sisters had become. If I met one of them on the street, would I even recognize her? It had been too long, and we’d never been close. My last contact had been with Anna, who was a year older than me. She had got married the previous year, to a civil servant from Rovaniemi. I had sent her a gift: a porcelain teapot with a set of matching cups, and in return I had received a thank you note but no invitation to come and visit. It didn’t matter; I hoped she was happy.
“Did you carry on swimming in ice water, Father?”
A moan.
“Did you? I’ll ask Mrs Saari. If you were in better shape, we could have gone swimming together. Remember when you told me that one day I would enjoy it? That what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger? You were right. I love it now, never miss a day. You’d be proud of me, living like one of the characters from this book. It was tough, but I learned how to do it. All thanks to you.”
My father’s eyes darted towards the book, panicky, pleading.
“I wonder if the girls still dream of their childhood at night,” I said, “or whether they’ve managed to push it to the back
of their minds? The rules, the fasting, the interdiction against looking in the mirror – Vanity, saith the preacher – the endless sermons. Was there some warped love in this, or just the desire for your daughters to grow up as different from their mother as possible? And are you satisfied with the result? Don’t you want to dictate a letter to your daughters? I can write. No? Well, where were we? Oh yes. Purity.”
I resumed my reading: “The wilful ignoring of right and wrong in sex; the theory that it is a subject not to be considered; the custom of allowing riches, talents or agreeable manners to atone for any amount of moral corruption. The purest family contends with difficulty against this general corruption.
“You know what?” I said suddenly. “I just thought of something. To make your life better.” I ran down the stairs and out of the house, knocked on Mrs Saari’s door. She was doing laundry. When she opened it, her shirtsleeves were rolled up to her elbows and bubbles of soap clung to her skin.
“Can I cut some flowers?” I asked her. “I think my father would enjoy looking at them.”
“Of course!” Mrs Saari said. “What a wonderful idea! I should have thought of it myself.”
She gave me a pair of very sharp scissors and pointed to a well-tended flower bed. “Help yourself. Do you know what sort of flowers he likes?”
“Daisies.”
“Well, I’ve got plenty. You can take as many as you like!” She smiled again and disappeared back inside the house while I went to work, clipping the long stems at ground level in order to keep them suitable for my purpose.
When I’d had enough, I left the scissors on the porch and went back to my father’s room. The old man started blinking, fast, when he saw me. “I thought at first I’d put these in a vase,” I said, “but you don’t have one. I’ll make you a garland instead.” My father’s lips moved and I leaned closer. “I can’t hear you.” A single fat tear rolled down his cheek. I started work on the garland, humming to myself. It had been an eternity since I had made one, and it came out clumsy, flowers sticking out every which way.