by Katja Ivar
I thought about this as I walked down the street, heavy wet snow clinging to the soles of my shoes. Was Pinchus watching me go? I didn’t look back; instead, I turned left at the first intersection. Two minutes later, I was standing in front of the squad surveillance post, looking at all the parked cars around me.
62
Chief Inspector Mustonen
“Chief Inspector.” The elderly guard stretched, his eyes flicking up at me from the dirty magazine he hadn’t bothered to hide. “Working late?”
“Yes,” I said and sighed. I hesitated to add: Virtanen case. Or: I’ve got a witness to interview, decided against it. Never say more than you need to: all successful liars know that. “Awful weather,” I said instead.
The guard nodded but didn’t look up as I picked up the keys to the white Studebaker parked near the exit. It was the car I took whenever I could, my pale horse. It was fitting: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. Some things stay with you, however much you want to shed them. Maybe people were right when they said there was no escaping your childhood.
The fresh snow crunched under the studded tyres. The streets were empty but I drove just below the speed limit, glancing repeatedly in my rear-view mirror. Twenty minutes to get out of the city. Another hour to the countryside, to Ranta’s pathetic little cabin where I had hidden Anita’s body. Twenty minutes to the lake, then an hour to get back. I knew Sofia might be a problem. The bump bothered her, it pressed on her bladder, she got up three, four, five times every night. My wife would know I wasn’t in bed next to her. Whether she’d tell anyone was a different matter.
I stretched and yawned. I knew I should probably be scared, but I seldom felt fear or apprehension. Besides, the situation was under control. I was only going to Ranta’s cabin because I was a professional; loose ends made my skin crawl. It was not enough to be good, to be credible: perfect was better. And the safety net I had taken such trouble to build was perfect. A masterpiece, really, all actions explained, all intentions noble.
By the time Nellie’s body had been found, everyone on the squad knew I was on the lookout for a case to share with Interpol. This one had seemed as good as any – indeed, better than most, the port representing a possible international connection. And it was good for my image: I was a man who believed a prostitute’s death merited as much attention as any other. No one had been surprised when I had taken the case. And I had started working on it seriously, carefully, like I would have done for any other file. Some days I surprised myself by actually looking for suspects or wondering if it really had been murder, if Nellie could have accidentally drowned. I could no longer distinguish my own lies from the truth.
When Jokela called me into his office and told me he’d recommended that Klara Nylund contact Mauzer, I wasn’t worried. Amused, yes. I knew that Mauzer was good, but I also knew her weakness: Steve Collins. A perfect scapegoat. I had heard his name in connection with the Matilda Reims case, I knew that might come in useful – and it did.
And then, the next day, even better: I had found myself sitting in front of Ahti Virtanen’s father as he sipped coffee, offering me his son on a plate. Two brilliant suspects, a steady source of revenue – Mauzer’s boyfriend never missed a payment once he grasped what the risks were – and the chance to get rid of my corrupt boss, all in one go. Of course, there had been minor setbacks. Maria had been one, and the madam: they knew me, both of them, they could have talked. I stopped them just in time, bludgeoned the madam to death before going for a drink with Jokela, put the fear of God into Maria so she wouldn’t talk. There was nothing to link me to the murders, I made sure of that, while for Ahti there was plenty: I had taken the tie and scarf from the wrecked car as I inspected it and had kept both on hand. For a final touch of perfection, I had added Steve Collins’ name to the little black book while the madam was letting out her last breath in that dark back yard. It had been child’s play – and Mauzer’s imagination had taken care of the rest.
When Mauzer had written to tell me Ranta might be a suspect too, I had almost laughed out loud. So much for feminine intuition! Sofia was happy, my father-in-law was happy, the jeweller was labouring away on the brooch made from the dead girl’s pathetic trinkets.
And suddenly: Anita.
Who would have thought? Certainly not me, who had filed her under the “stupid blonde” category, a decorative presence not worth giving a second thought. When the girl had started asking the first awkward questions about Ahti Virtanen or Matilda Reims, I thought she would never guess. Even when she saw Nellie’s earrings in the jewellers – I had spotted her through the store window – and the drawing of the brooch on my desk, the ruby in the centre like a drop of blood, I still thought she wouldn’t make the connection. Or, if she did, that her attention could be diverted. Interpol came in handy, once again. A trip to Paris. No woman in her right mind would have refused, certainly not a woman like Anita.
But she did.
And she had kept asking to see the file, with the groomed picture of Nellie, her earrings plain and visible and damning.
Jesus Christ. If Anita hadn’t refused to go to Paris, all would have been well. Why had she? I’d never know now; it was just bad luck. I had laid the groundwork so well. I was ready. Ready to become that good person everyone imagined me to be. I didn’t even know any more where the real Erik ended and the fake me, the better version, began. And that stupid blonde had to walk in and spoil everything.
How excited she’d been when she had unwrapped the flowers and pulled out the note. It was lunchtime; I had just come back into my office, leaving the door ajar, ostensibly working, Anita’s desk in my line of vision. The girl had put her coat on as she ran down to the reception area to collect her flowers. She was still wearing it as she unwrapped the bouquet and froze, staring at the note, reading it once, twice, a dark crimson glow spreading over her high cheekbones. Her coat was cheap but pretending to be the real thing: only when you touched it could you feel the coarseness of the fabric, see that the buttons were plastic and not horn. Slowly, holding her breath, Anita had refolded the note and slid it into her pocket. Then, she took the coat off and hung it lovingly on a wire hanger, sneaking a glance in my direction. I made a show of frowning, of holding a page to the light. I thought of Virtanen’s call the previous evening, the angry breathing down the line: “You must be out of your mind, Mustonen, to send your girl to spy on us. What did you think? That she could come back under false pretences and try to establish a rapport with my son?” I knew then that I had to act before Anita realized Ahti was not the real murderer and started looking elsewhere.
Deep in thought, I didn’t notice I had left the city behind me; now my car’s headlights were sweeping across the dark countryside. The road ahead of me was empty, as was the road behind. No moon, no stars, but the snow provided its own light, a sickening, bluish white. Soon it would be over and done with. Another case solved. A success to recount to Interpol. Jokela’s office, Jokela’s driver, the new house, another baby. I drove past the solitary pine tree and switched off my headlights. I parked the car in the shadow of a birch grove, next to Ranta’s summer cabin. This is the last time, I thought. The risks were too high, it was not worth it. From now on, I would be faithful to Sofia. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was a good spouse and she had class. In my new position, that was going to make all the difference.
63
Chief Inspector Mustonen
Twenty minutes later, having stowed Anita’s body in the car, I parked next to the lake in Tuusula. It had stopped snowing and the moon was peeking out of its cloudy blanket, pouring blue light on the tall pine trees and the white expanse of the lake. For a short but blissful moment, I sat with my hands on the steering wheel, humming “Silent Night”. My mother’s favourite song. I was five when she had slipped out of the house one night, abandoning her husband and six children for a new life with a travelling circus. Had my father been unhinged before she ran away? Had my mother dis
covered something about him she couldn’t bear? Now it was Sofia who sang the song to Arne before bed and sometimes, when I was home early, I joined in. But enough of that: it was too soon to relax just yet; now that I had picked up Anita’s body from Ranta’s summer cabin, I needed to finish the job. I turned off the ignition and got out of the car.
The air was cold and still and sweet, and for one surreal moment I was tempted to shed my clothes and slide under the ice with Anita in my arms. Cradle her as I swam, just as I had cradled Lara’s body. But the risks were too high – I had parked the car close to the lake, and passers-by might see it – so I gave myself a talking-to and pulled out the sack. The red pumps were sticking out; I pushed them down out of sight.
I was glad I had put Anita in the sack. I didn’t want her blank fishy eyes staring back at me, and there was less risk of getting her hair and bodily fluids on my clothes, not that anyone would think to check. Now I carried the body towards the edge of the frozen lake. This was not the harbour in Helsinki, where the ice was forever thin because of the currents. To my practised eye, the ice at the edge of the lake was almost three feet deep. Still, finding a hole was not difficult. The Finns are a nation of ice-fishermen: there were dozens of holes on the lake. I looked carefully where I stepped. As I walked, Anita’s body nestled on my shoulder, I decided that searching for it until spring came and the ice melted would represent an inefficient use of police resources; besides, the situation would lack closure. No, I needed to find a way to subtly direct the search to this very place. Should I ask Ahti’s parents if the boy was on the lake often? If he liked skating? Ice-fishing?
Ten yards towards the centre of the lake, I found a nice large hole.
“Goodbye, Anita,” I said softly. I crossed myself. Contrary to my father, who had never said a prayer for the ladies of pleasure, not even as he killed them in the name of his terrible God, I was not a monster. I had only killed Anita because I had to protect my family. There had been no pleasure in it. The least I could do was say a prayer for her. “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.” The words were familiar but something seemed off, though I couldn’t quite place it at first. “May they rest in peace…” Suddenly, I became conscious of shadows moving on the shore, sliding up to my car in the darkness.
And then, worse, other shadows began to advance across the ice.
64
Chief Inspector Mustonen
I froze. Looked down at the red shoes spiked with dirt, glanced again towards the shore. In the moonlight I could just make out one of the shadows crouching next to my car, pointing a gun at me. Whoever they were, they were good. They had followed me to the lake, and I hadn’t noticed. They must have called for backup, too.
I only had two options, and not much time to make a decision.
Option one was to surrender.
Unless the jeweller came forward, there was nothing to link me to Nellie’s drowning, nor to the madam’s murder. I could say that Jokela had forced me to get rid of Anita because the girl had discovered the cover-up. True, I’d exposed the cover-up already and Jokela was at that moment sitting in an interview room, waiting for his impending arrest, but I could be very convincing. I almost convinced myself.
I glanced at the hole at my feet, at the thin skin of ice that had formed on its surface. At the shadows drawing closer to me. One of them was Mauzer. The other one was hunchbacked and bow-legged. Ranta.
Option two was to get even.
I didn’t know what would happen to me if I did. If one of my pursuers would open fire; if I’d be shot while trying to flee to the other side of the lake. The men on the shore hadn’t brought dogs, I noticed, so unless I was shot, I had a good chance of getting away. A very good chance.
“It’s over, Erik.” Mauzer, stopping a few feet from me, an old pistol in hand. Ranta was to her left, taking aim.
I grinned. “Who are these people on the shore? Wilderness protection officers? Do they even know how to shoot?”
“I do,” Mauzer said, “and I will.”
I grinned again. “And lose your only chance to discover what happened to your family?”
“Put Anita’s body on the ice, and your hands up.”
I did as I was told, shifting so Ranta stood between me and the men on the shore. “Aren’t you even interested? We can chat about that while you drive me back to Helsinki.”
“My family was killed in a car accident.” Mauzer pulled handcuffs out of her pocket. “On your knees, slowly, your hands behind your back.”
Again, I did as I was told. But I kept speaking. “There’s a file at Headquarters with your name on it. Classified Top Secret. I had a look.”
Still pointing the gun at my head, Mauzer leaned closer. Ranta, like all sentimental people, could easily be stopped. If my plan worked out, he wouldn’t go after me. And the wilderness protection officers? Them, I could manage. I turned ever so slightly, braced myself. A cuff clicked around my left wrist.
“And in that file, it says the truck that killed your family was driven by —”
I whipped round, knocking the pistol out of Mauzer’s hand.
And then I pushed her into the hole.
65
Hella
It felt like falling into fire.
I clamped my mouth shut, fighting hard not to gasp. Through the roaring noise in my ears, I heard Tom’s voice: Whatever you do, don’t gasp. Your only chance.
My boots were dragging me down. I kicked them off. Tried to orient myself. Milky twilight all around me, like being lost in a dream; I could see no way out. And then, at the edge of my vision, a darker spot.
Could be a hallucination.
Could be a sign I was losing consciousness.
The pain in my limbs was unbearable, millions of tiny needles sticking into my flesh. I lunged for the dark spot and prayed it was the hole through which I had fallen. I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. My body craved oxygen; it was refusing to take orders from my brain.
When I saw my nephew’s face smiling at me from the darkness, I knew that it was over. I hoped it was. I couldn’t take the pain any longer.
With one last, spasmodic movement, I propelled myself under the water. My focus was on Matti’s face. I took a deep breath. Icy water rushed into my nose, my throat, my lungs. I wanted to say goodbye, but my lips refused to move.
After that, nothing.
Darkness.
EPILOGUE
Chief Inspector Jokela
“I’m sure you all understand,” Chief Inspector Jokela said, “that this was not your run-of-the-mill investigation. What that means is two things. One, the identities of those involved need to be protected. Two, only some of your questions can be answered.”
He observed the motley crew of reporters sitting before him. The police were in luck; on the other side of the border, in the Soviet Union, Comrade Joseph Stalin had finally kicked the bucket. Speculation ran wild as to who would be chosen as his successor – Stalin’s deputy Georgy Malenkov, the genial Nikita Khrushchev or the terrifying secret police executioner Lavrentiy Beria. That was good. The Harbour Murders would not make the front pages, and the reporters attending the conference were not the cream of the crop either. Still, all the major dailies were present, their representatives alert and dapper, whispering to each other like excited schoolchildren. A stern-looking man from the BBC, sitting front row with his arms folded. An unkempt woman – a woman! – from some left-wing rag Jokela had never even heard of. A tall blonde man in the corner, looking a sickly shade of pale, hands deep in his pockets. So, Mr Collins had come as well. No big surprise. Even though only a small amount of information had been released to the press, this was still a major event.
Jokela smiled a measured smile. “You can start with your questions.”
The man from the BBC lifted his hand, but the representative of Helsingin Sanomat was quicker. “Chief Inspector,” he said in a high falsetto voice, “let me see if I’ve got this s
traight.” He glanced at his notes. “Over the course of the last week, the Helsinki homicide squad conducted a covert operation to identify the notorious criminal known as the Harbour Killer. The victims were three prostitutes and a young man interviewed as a witness. In the course of the operation, a member of the homicide squad lost his life.”
“Her life,” corrected Jokela. A glance at the BBC representative. “You must know that the Helsinki police force is among the most progressive in the world. We have been employing women since the 1920s. And in 1948, I personally hired our first ever female detective.”
“Was she the one who was murdered?” chipped in the unkempt radical in the flowered skirt, her eyes round like saucers.
“No, madam,” Jokela responded gravely. “We have more than one female murder detective. So no, she wasn’t the victim.”
The Helsingin Sanomat representative coughed politely to remind them he was still there, waiting to go on with his summary of events. Jokela nodded. “Yes?”