by Katja Ivar
“La!” the old man whispered, his eyes on the daisies.
“Lara! Are you trying to say Lara? So you remember her?” There was no answer, but then I hadn’t expected one. Still humming, I tied the last knot, inspected the garland. Not perfect, but it would have to do. I placed it carefully on my father’s head and smiled. “Do you know that I’ll miss you? As long as you’re alive, I know where the evil is. But shh…” I took the old man’s parched hand in both of mine. “You don’t have much time left, so let’s both think about Lara, the village prostitute. How she thought it would be fun to initiate the fifteen-year-old me. How she needed to be purified. Try also to remember how she begged you to spare her. Her exact words would be best.”
My father died that very same day, while I was reading the book to him. One moment the old man was there, his breathing fast and shallow, a touch of foam at the corner of his mouth. When I looked again, he was gone.
58
Hella
The hole Ranta had drilled in the ice looked like a dark mirror. I leaned over, glanced at my reflection: a stranger was staring back at me, a wide-eyed girl with unruly hair, her mouth set in a grim line.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll push you into the water?” Ranta said. His voice was tuneless, barely audible. As if he was speaking to himself. As if he had forgotten I was there.
The reflection in the dark water quivered, breaking the spell.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I already told you I was sorry. But I would never have suspected him if I hadn’t suspected you first. Only then did I become open to the idea that anything was possible and that the clothes don’t make the man. We can dwell on it all we like, or we can focus on what really matters.”
“If she’s already dead, nothing really matters any more.” Ranta searched for bait in the tin open at his feet, picked up something red and sparkly, slid it just above the hook.
I stared at him. I’d been expecting a stronger reaction. I had thought he would scream, call me a liar, do something. Instead, he just sat there on his overturned bucket.
“What about justice?”
“That’s just a pretty word. Besides, what kind of justice do you really expect? No one will ever believe you. Us.” Ranta shrugged, stretched out a hand, and the fishing line went into the water. A tear slid down his cheek, the first sign of emotion.
“I saw the photographs in your room,” I said. “That’s how I knew. Even though I barely recognized you.”
“Do you mean to say I was a handsome young man?”
“Yes.” I didn’t ask what had happened to him; it didn’t matter. “Why did you lie? All those years, you pretended to – How could you live like that?”
“It was to protect Edith. Anita’s mother. My dead uncle’s wife. People … people were talking, but as Anita was born nine months exactly after Edith’s husband died – he fell off a ledge – we thought it better if everyone assumed Anita was his child.” Ranta drew on the line, swirling it through the dark oily water. The bait caught the moonlight, shining like a tiny flicker of fire. I wondered if the fish were stupid enough to think that sparkly thing was real.
“Anita knew, of course,” Ranta said, still not looking at me. “We told her when she was old enough. It was only in the eyes of other people that we were cousins. It started out like that, but I don’t remember why we kept it up after Edith was gone.”
I think I knew why. When her mother had passed away, Anita was an adult already, and Ranta had grown old and unattractive. She didn’t want to be associated with him more than necessary. She was probably thinking about her reputation. The lie was convenient, and there was only one person in the world who knew things for what they were – and he could be easily persuaded to keep his mouth shut.
“I would never have guessed,” I said. “But the photographs didn’t look like stalker material. More like a proud dad. Were you the one who scared her near the brothel?”
“She was the one who scared herself. I saw her standing there in that ridiculous dress and I made a move towards her, but it was dark and she panicked and ran before I could stop her. I wanted to go after her, but then I saw her talking with Jokela and Mustonen and I thought maybe it would do her good to be scared a bit. I never approved of her becoming an inspector, but you know how children are, they never listen. And I suppose at some point she understood it was me, but by then it was too late, and she was probably enjoying playing a damsel in distress and being saved by Inspector Mustonen.”
“That’s what I thought. You never touched her. And she did look shifty about it.”
“Yeah,” Ranta said. “Well.” His voice quivered. “Are you certain of what you just told me?”
“I am.”
“When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you? Ever read Nietzsche?”
“Yes.”
“Then you had better stay as far away from this as possible. Travel somewhere.” He glanced up at me. “You can still visit those friends of yours, over in Lapland. They seem like nice enough people.”
“What about you?” I said, and then it dawned on me. All this lack of reaction, this resignation: it was just a facade. It was exactly how Ranta always acted – in the shadows. Biding his time. And if Anita had been hurt, it was not justice he wanted, it was revenge.
“It would be easier for you if I was out of the way, right? If no accusations were made, if you could approach Anita’s kidnapper unsuspected?”
Ranta’s hand froze above the hole in the ice. His knuckles, clutching the fishing rod, were white.
“Because I can’t let you do that. Call me an idealist, but I want the truth to be known. Besides, there’s the small matter of Ahti Virtanen.”
“Not my business —” Ranta began.
I cut him off. “I’m not going to Lapland.” I got to my feet. Around me, the pristine surface of the frozen lake looked like it was covered in muslin. “I’m going to stay here and fight that bastard. Now, you can keep on fishing if you’ve got nothing better to do. Or you can come with me.”
For a moment I thought I had lost him. Ranta kept staring into the dark hole, his face expressing nothing at all. Slowly, he pulled the line towards him. A little silver fish was twitching at its end. Ranta unhooked it gently and sent it back into the water. Then he got up and brushed the snow off his knees.
“Right. Then I’m with you. Where are we going?”
“Ahti Virtanen’s summer cabin,” I said. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
59
Chief Inspector Mustonen
“I really don’t understand,” Pinchus drawled, “why you’re not asking for a warrant to search Virtanen’s summer cabin. It’s only a mile from that train station.” He locked his bony fingers under his chin, staring at me with sad, reproachful eyes.
“We have no evidence yet that Virtanen was involved in Anita’s disappearance,” I explained patiently. “Jokela is already breathing fire. So is Virtanen senior. You want to go and tell them we’re accusing the boy of kidnapping a police officer? And that the only evidence we have is some old bird – who, by the way, didn’t even recognize Virtanen in that photograph – and a scarf found lying on a train platform? So what? they would say.” I mimicked Jokela’s angry rant: “Are we even sure it’s his scarf?”
Pinchus seemed unconvinced, but then I’d always suspected the man of being smarter than he looked. I added quickly: “Once we can prove that Anita is missing, and the stains on the scarf are blood, we’ll definitely ask for a search warrant.”
“I suppose.” The inspector stretched and yawned, but his eyes remained alert, watchful. “Are you going home?”
“There’s nothing else we can do here, is there? All the detectives have come back empty-handed. And God only knows when Räikkönen will get around to analysing the evidence.”
I picked up my coat, held the door open for Pinchus.
“See you tomorrow morning?”
He nodded. I could almost see the little
wheels turning inside his head. “You want to share a taxi?” he asked. Pinchus lived somewhere in the general direction of my house, but still, the request seemed strange. Or maybe I was getting paranoid.
“No thanks. I’ll walk a little. Clear my thoughts.”
Before he could add anything, I started down the deserted street. As I walked, I counted on my fingers what still needed to be done.
First, recover Anita’s body.
Second, dump it in the lake next to Virtanen’s summer cabin.
Third, hurry back home and slide into bed next to Sofia.
60
Hella
Walking on the frozen lake was hard, and I had to hold onto Ranta’s arm to keep from slipping on the ice and falling.
“How did you figure it out?” he asked me.
“It’s because he executed that boy, Ahti. When he brought me over to Virtanen’s place and ten minutes later the boy was dead, it made me wonder. Mustonen is an experienced officer. And when I checked with Tom Räikkönen, I got the impression that maybe Mustonen had shot first then placed the gun in the boy’s hand.”
I glanced at Ranta, not certain if he had understood. “That’s when I started thinking about the reasons Mustonen might have for doing away with the boy. Because he knew Ahti was a killer but he couldn’t prove it? That didn’t seem like Mustonen. To advance his career? Much too risky. And then I thought, what if the boy was a scapegoat too, just like Steve? And what if Anita had spotted something while she was on the squad, and that was the reason she had gone missing? And there was another thing: there’s the word filth in Klara Nylund’s notes. I thought it meant poor hygiene. But it wasn’t that, it meant a corrupt cop. I should have thought of that sooner.”
“The dirty one,” Ranta muttered, shaking his head. He didn’t say anything more until we reached his car, a dark-green Volvo that had seen better days. Ranta got in first, then slid across to open the door for me. “What’s the address?”
“Koskitie Road,” I said, and then paused. “No, it doesn’t add up. Mustonen told me that Ahti’s parents were entertaining guests at their country place. He couldn’t have taken Anita there.”
Ranta drummed on the steering wheel with his gnarled fingers. “What if he lied?”
“Because you think he’s that good? A double bluff?”
“Why not?”
“No. It must be a different place. He could have borrowed one of the squad cars. What if —”
“What if Anita’s in the car?” Ranta said flatly. He hadn’t started the engine yet. He was staring ahead at the snow-covered road and the narrow tree branches that were swaying in the breeze. “I don’t think he would dare. He must have driven it back to Headquarters. Would he really be driving around with a … with Anita?” His voice caught.
“No. He wouldn’t do that.”
“And he couldn’t have just dumped her into the lake in broad daylight. Then there must be a different place. Mustonen is the sort of guy to have a backup plan. Someone to take the blame if things don’t work out as expected.” Ranta swivelled on his seat towards me. “Did you tell him you suspected me?”
“What?”
“Did you?”
I nodded miserably. “I did tell him, yes.”
“Then I know where she might be.” Ranta released the handbrake and put the car into gear. “Just pray that this damned thing doesn’t skid on the ice.”
We didn’t say a word to each other, Ranta and I, until we reached our destination. He kept leaning forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I glanced at him once or twice, wondering what was on his mind, but his face gave nothing away and I knew better than to ask. So I stared ahead at the white ribbon of the road and the tree branches laden with snow. The right headlight of the car blinked on and off, and the images flashed before my eyes like something out of a kaleidoscope, stark black and white, here and then gone.
For the first time in my life, I realized that my parents had been the lucky ones. They had never known that they had lost their daughter and only grandson. They had never known they had lost each other. The truck careering out of control had swept them up all together, swallowed their lives whole. Maybe Father Timo was right and they were in heaven together. But – and I only thought of it then – even if Timo was wrong, if there was no heaven, no hell, no purgatory, it didn’t matter all that much, because my family was still together: my parents, Christina, and Matti, who would be four years old forever. I was the one who had been left behind. Mourning, grieving, my life a despicable mess. Would I have felt better if the truck driver had been apprehended, brought to justice? I doubted it. No amount of punishment, no pleas for pardon could bring my family back. I could understand Ranta’s train of thought – but only up to a point. Anita was only one of Mustonen’s victims. In a little village close to the polar circle, a family was hoping for justice for their daughter. There was Nellie’s son, Ahti’s parents. They all deserved to know what had happened. Mustonen had to be brought to trial. Otherwise the victim’s families could never be sure.
The car swerved right, bounced down an icy, overgrown track. Ranta pointed: broken branches, tyre marks in the snow. Another car had passed there recently. The falling snow had almost covered the tracks; almost, but not quite.
“Where are we?”
“My summer cabin. You’ve turned me into the perfect suspect, so Mustonen must have brought Anita here. If she’s found before he has the time to tidy up after himself, everything will point to me. But even if she isn’t, this is a good hiding place, not too far from the Virtanens’ cabin.”
I didn’t believe him. I didn’t want to believe him. I grabbed my flashlight and jumped out of the car, sinking ankle-deep in soft translucent snow, and ran towards the tiny cabin painted a fiery red. The tyre marks stopped maybe five yards from the porch. From there towards the door, the snow was trampled. Someone had dragged a heavy burden behind them. I flung open the unlocked door.
In the middle of the room there was a big canvas sack, the sort they use to store potatoes in. Something red peeked out of it: Anita’s crimson suede pumps, one of the heels broken. I rushed towards the body in the bag, fumbled for a pulse. Dead. She was dead.
Behind me, Ranta let out a long shaky breath.
61
Chief Inspector Mustonen
Once, when I was eight or nine years old, my father took me to a small village outside Tampere. We went there to attend the funeral of a young girl, a distant relation of our family. As we climbed into the horse-drawn carriage, I finally summoned up the courage to ask my father what had happened to her.
“She was from your mother’s side,” came the laconic answer. I waited. Even at that young age, I knew that insisting on an answer, however politely, would accomplish nothing at best and probably get me punished. My father would tell me what had happened to the girl if he wanted to. Which he did, half an hour later, once we found ourselves in the middle of a snowy field, our carriage the only spot of colour in the sad, inexpressive universe. “She burned to death,” my father said. “She was helping with dinner and her dress caught fire.” He shrugged. “Some fancy dress. These people think very highly of themselves.”
My father’s eyebrows were spiked with snow crystals but his mouth quivered, red and moist as he spoke. “They bought her a wedding dress to wear in the coffin.” He laughed harshly. “Can you imagine a burned girl, Erik, her skin charred like coal, wearing a white dress? I suppose they think it would make her a fiancée of Our Lord.”
“Well, it would,” I said, “if she died a virgin.” Virginity was a frequent topic of conversation around the dinner table.
“No,” my father said, in a slow, careful tone I knew only too well. “Think about it, Erik. Her skin burned away. Even between her legs.” He bent closer to me, his breath smelling like vinegar. “Could she still be a virgin?”
I swallowed, hard. I didn’t want to imagine what the girl looked like, but now that was all I could see: a charred stump
of a body covered with lace. “Um, no?”
My father cracked the whip and the horse jerked forward, its hooves slipping on the snow. “No,” he said quietly. “No. It’s blasphemy, Erik. That’s why only you and I are going to the funeral. I don’t want your sisters exposed to this, because women are not capable of understanding. Now, if that poor child had drowned” – he paused, his voice dropping to a murmur – “it would have been much, much better. They could have dressed her in a wedding dress with a veil, she’d be a tiny fiancée of Our Lord, all would have been well.” My father glanced sideways at me, to make sure I understood.
“Yes,” I whispered, because that’s what was expected of me. My father nodded with an encouraging smile, so I continued: “Yes, death by water would have been better for her.”
“For everyone,” my father said. “This is what Our Lord does when he wants to show mercy. It’s like a second baptism.” He turned away, satisfied with my obedience, and I could lift my eyes to the sky and let the snowflakes land on my lashes.
That word – mercy – kept resonating in my ears for years to come. I choked on it when Lara drowned. And it was there, on the tip of my tongue, when Nellie stopped thrashing in the water and looked at me one last time. I knew, of course, that mercy had nothing to do with it. I was not like my father; I didn’t kill for purity, I didn’t kill for pleasure. I only killed because I had to. It wasn’t my fault that harlot threw herself at me, saw me as a means to change her life when all I wanted was a little distraction on the side. If Sofia hadn’t been exhausted by her pregnancy, none of this would have happened. Just like nothing would have happened if I’d had enough money to pay her off, like I wanted to. But I couldn’t change the past, and my family was more important than anything. I needed to hide my infidelity from Sofia – I could never risk her running out on me and Arne. The rest didn’t matter; Nellie had been expendable. I had looked at Nellie, but all I could see was a lace wedding dress, and the charred remains within. That, and Lara’s face under the ice, her blue eyes frozen solid.