by Katja Ivar
“You also mentioned that the Harbour Killer has been apprehended. Is the man behind bars?”
“No,” Jokela said. “The perpetrator of these horrible crimes refused to surrender and was shot by police officers.”
“Dead?” the reporter insisted, pen poised above his notebook.
Jokela chewed on his lip. Dr Palmu had been vague about it. The less they know, the better, he had said. But make sure they leave convinced we are on top of the situation. Easier said than done. Would they swallow his lie? He said in a firm voice: “The suspect was gravely wounded. He fell through the ice. You don’t expect anyone to survive an ice dip with a bullet in his body, do you?”
The reporter opened his mouth to ask another question, but Jokela was already pointing at his neighbour, a large man in his fifties. “Your turn, I believe.”
The reporter smiled gratefully, but what flowed from his mouth was pure poison. “There’s talk,” he said, “that the suspect your people shot was himself a member of the police force.”
“Utter nonsense,” Jokela snapped. He wanted to wipe the sweat that was trickling down his forehead but didn’t dare. “Next question!”
The BBC representative said stiffly: “It has come to my attention that a young woman who was not a member of the police force was also involved in the investigation” – he paused for dramatic effect – “as bait.”
“That’s conjecture,” Jokela said, frowning to show that he had expected better from such a reputable news source. “Any other questions?”
The left-wing radical opened her big, sagging mouth. “I just arrived from the tiny village of Väinölä,” she started, and Jokela felt his bowels loosen. “A number of people there report having seen a wounded man stumbling through the streets at dawn. Does this have anything to do with the investigation?”
“That,” Jokela said, “is one of the questions I cannot answer.” The left-wing radical wrote it down. “I can take one last question,” Jokela called.
Steve Collins, who had remained silent and still throughout the interview, detached himself from the wall. “I have heard rumours,” he said, as the murmurs died down, “that Dr Palmu will be retiring at the end of the month. Could you please tell us who will be replacing him?”
Jokela had the good grace to blush. “I am,” he said. “I have this honour. Thanks, in large part, to the success of the operation we have just discussed.” He lay his palms flat on the desk in front of him to stop them from trembling. God, he needed a drink. “Ladies and gentlemen, the press conference is now over. Thank you for your time.” The reporters stirred and started shuffling towards the exit; only Collins remained standing there, an eyebrow arched, a cryptic smile on his handsome face. Jokela pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. “Thank you to all of you. Have a good day.”
Hella
They said that when I first learned of my family’s death, I fainted. I couldn’t remember that at all. What I remembered, though, was the week that followed. The doctors injected me with sedatives, and I spent the time drifting in and out of heavy, empty sleep, waking up to a soaked pillow with no memory of having cried. That’s what I felt like when I came to in the hospital. The dark was pulling me in and under and away. Then, when I least expected it, it would spit me out. An ice-tide.
Some days when I woke, Steve was sitting next to my bed. I wanted to tell him to go away, but I knew that if he realized I was conscious, he would insist on talking to me, and I wouldn’t be able to stand that. Some days it was Tom, or Ranta, his face pale and pinched, his eyes hollow. He was the one who fished me out, they’ve told me. On other days, Elsbeth was there beside me, holding my hand. Her I was happy to see. She made me think of Anita, with her milky skin and her snub nose and her dimples. Once – but maybe it was only a dream – there was a girl sitting next to her, a tall awkward child who had her mother’s smile. And then a day came when I opened my eyes and saw Irja leaning over me. There was a tiny baby in her arms. My god-daughter, Margarita. “As soon as you’re well enough to travel,” Irja said, “I’ll be taking you home. To Käärmelä.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe thanks to so many.
My agent, Marilia Savvides, who had faith in me long before I had faith in myself.
My editor, François von Hurter, for working tirelessly (and tactfully) to make the book stronger. I feel so lucky to have found you. My deep gratitude also goes to Laurence Colchester and the team at Bitter Lemon Press.
The amazing international rights team at Peters Fraser + Dunlop: Rebecca Wearmouth, Laura Otal and Silvia Molteni.
Sarah Terry, for taking a poorly formatted Word document and turning it into a book, and for being such fun to work with.
To Eleanor Rose for the cover design.
To my first readers, Tamrin Ann Lever, Lisa Marie Knoll and Gabrielle Kremers; to Erin Ruth Carter for spotting the gloves issue, and so much more.
To Leo Kostiainen from Statistics Finland for his invaluable help in figuring out what a police sergeant was paid in the 1950s, and for providing myriad other details that supported my quest for authenticity.
To Maritta Jokiniemi, curator of the National Police Museum, Tampere, Finland, for the Browning.
And finally, heartfelt thanks to my wonderful family, for all their encouragement and for giving me space to write. This book wouldn’t exist without your support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Katja Ivar grew up in Russia and the US. She travelled the world extensively, from Almaty to Ushuaia, from Karelia to Kyushu, before finally settling in Paris, where she lives with her husband and three children. She received a BA in Linguistics and a master’s degree in Contemporary History from Sorbonne University. Deep as Death follows on from the success of Evil Things, her debut novel.
COPYRIGHT
BITTER LEMON PRESS
First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 47 Wilmington Square, London WC1X 0ET
www.bitterlemonpress.com
© Katja Ivar, 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.
The moral right of Katja Ivar has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Extract from T. S. Eliot’s poem “The Hollow Men” included with kind permission of Faber and Faber Limited
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978–1–912242–30–6
eBook ISBN 978–1–912242–43–6
Typeset by Tetragon
Printed and bound by the CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY