Evil Things, page 13
“They don’t trust me to do politics yet,” Steve had told her once, by way of explanation, all the while unbuttoning his jeans. “They think I’m too frivolous. Why don’t you take this in your mouth, Inspector, while you’re thinking about how you can help me make my dream come true?”
And she would laugh, pretending to find it funny.
Until one day when, all of a sudden, she couldn’t.
“You’re a bastard, Steve,” Hella said out loud, and toasted his imaginary presence with her half-empty mug. Outside, the stars were no longer visible, and even the moon was struggling to shine through a thick blanket of clouds. “You’re a bastard, but I still love you.”
Suddenly, it seemed very important that he should know it. She had never really told him, had she? Maybe that was the reason their relationship had gone down the drain. She had never really told him how she felt about him. She had been afraid of coming across as desperate.
Hella struggled across the room and lit a paraffin lamp that sat on a card table by the window. She tore a page out of her notebook and fished out an envelope with IVALO POLICE DEPARTMENT stamped in the right-hand corner.
To Mr Steve Collins,
Yle Radio, Unioninkatu 20, 00160, Helsinki
My dear Steve,
You’re a bastard, do you know that? But I love you all the same; I’ve never stopped loving you, and I never will.
Was that a good way to start her letter? More than likely it would scare him off. Even in her current vodka-induced confusion, she knew that.
She tore off another sheet of paper and wrote:
Dear Steve,
It’s been a long time. Don’t you miss me? Even a little bit?
That was worse. It was begging for attention, and it lacked panache.
Hella downed the rest of her vodka. Never send a letter unless you’ve slept on it, her father always said. She’d take his advice. She folded the two drafts carefully and slid them into the envelope, then put the letter under her pillow. Let’s hope I have an erotic dream, she thought, and wondered if perhaps she should go and fetch more vodka from the kitchen.
The dam had broken, as they always do, first with a little crack that appeared the day she found the bodies of the four children and their mother. She telephoned Steve at his work. She knew she wasn’t supposed to, of course she did, but she just couldn’t help it. It was not something she could keep to herself.
“Hello, dear, what’s up?” He chatted amicably while the person who had called him to the phone stood close by. Then, without warning, he snapped: “What are you, crazy, calling me here? Elsbeth is best friends with our secretary. Do you want her to skin me alive? And what are you talking about? I can’t understand you. Stop sniffing and speak clearly.”
But Hella couldn’t. She couldn’t stop crying. She couldn’t speak clearly, either. She hung up, and when he picked up the phone and called her three days later, an ominous shadow had fallen over their relationship.
When, just a couple of weeks after that, she was appointed to her current position in Ivalo, his reaction was nothing short of relief.
“It might be good, you know,” he said. “For your career. Here, you’re just one of many. In Ivalo, you’ll shine. And I’m sure the work will be interesting, too. I’ve heard some weird stories from my sources up north. All sorts of things happen when you live practically on the border with our beastly communist neighbour. Soviet spies, Finnish spies, Western Alliance officials who pretend to go fishing, cameras sticking out of every pocket. Yes, you can learn things there. Promise me that if you hear something of the kind you’ll let me know. My audience loves spy stories. Well, who doesn’t?”
Hella had promised, fighting back tears. She was a strong woman. She would not let him see her cry.
She hadn’t written to Steve from Ivalo, though. Just as she was not going to post her letter now. She was stupid, but not that stupid. And pride was important when it was all you had left.
SATURDAY 18 OCTOBER
33
The letter was waiting for Hella, propped against the milk jug. It had been brought at dawn by Kai, who had spent two days doing some business in Ivalo and had been entrusted with the letter by a fat and anxious-looking man called Chief Inspector Lennart Eklund.
Hella expected to read another long missive in standard Eklundesque, full of caveats, assurances and references to official documents, the more obscure the better. A letter that used up a great deal of words while saying nothing of importance.
But what stared at her from the page was a totally different animal.
Mauzer,
When Helsinki forced you on me, they told me you were a reasonable woman. They were mistaken. Any reasonable person, let alone a qualified police officer, would know when to stop and call for help. You cannot do this alone, Mauzer. You do not have medical training. What you took for a bullet wound was probably just a puncture wound made by animal teeth. I fail to comprehend why you insist on treating this like a criminal investigation. Forget it.
You are required to report to the office ASAP. Your vacation is over and we need you here. Mr Kukoyakka will pick you up on his way back to Ivalo, so wait for him next to the Rajajoosepintie road postbox after 5 p.m. this Sunday. This is an order.
Chief Inspector Lennart Eklund
Hella read the letter twice. She even started to read it for a third time, before admitting to herself that the text was already engraved in her memory.
For God’s sake. Whatever had got into the man? Was he afraid she would ruin his statistics, or was he worried about the expenses she’d incurred while working on the case?
One thing was certain. She was not going anywhere tonight. First, she had already organized her day, and she didn’t in the least like last-minute changes of plan. Second, there was no way she was going to wait next to the postbox, like a destitute hooker, for Kukoyakka to pick her up. If he wanted to see her, let him come down to the village. Third and most importantly, she had a case to solve, and she was not going to let anyone, least of all Eklund, interfere with her investigation. And the investigation was far from over. She had not one, but three leads now. The Waltaris. The Soviet captain. And Karppinen, too, because if that troll believed he was off the hook, he was very much mistaken.
She pocketed Eklund’s letter, everything about her demeanour suggesting that the piece of paper was not important. Then she sat down with the album and a large mug of steaming coffee by her elbow.
The whole Waltari family was gathered in front of her: Irja, who looked radiant that morning, her skin glowing pink, her eyes bright; her husband, who was getting ready for the church, and Kalle with his bosom friend Seamus at his side.
Hella opened the album and immediately met the stern gaze of a slight blond man, dressed in a tailcoat, his face adorned by an impressive handlebar moustache.
“That’s Erno’s father,” explained Irja. “Erno is the youngest son of a timber-factory owner.”
Kalle slurped his milk and craned his head to look at the photograph.
“You’ve seen these already, Kalle, haven’t you?” inquired Hella. “Nothing new here, right?”
The boy hesitated, then seemed to recognize that the question didn’t constitute a violation of his grandpa’s secret. No, he mouthed silently. Nothing new.
Hella took the photograph out of the album and scanned the back for clues. But the ink was faded, the words barely visible, and, in any case, unsensational: name, date and place of birth and death. She put it back. She flipped the pages and more photographs followed: a pale woman, pretty in a very conventional way, her almost white hair dressed in an elaborate construction that obscured her tiny, birdlike face.
Irja provided an unnecessary explanation: “Erno’s mother”, but Hella had already guessed as much herself because of the full page the photograph occupied, and because Mrs Jokinen and her children had the same mouth: small and resolute.
The next double page was dedicated to the children: there was Erno as a young boy, dressed in a sailor suit. Another little boy standing next to him: you could see in his face that this one was not going to survive the rigours of Finnish country life. An older girl, who would have been beautiful if not for the huge scar that ran across half her face. Finally, Martta, the youngest child, with her rodent smile and her peculiar, calculating gaze.
No clues here either. She flipped forward a few pages which contained pencil sketches of the house and the furniture, with the price written next to each object. Hella dutifully took out each photograph, each drawing, to inspect it, but there was nothing whatsoever of interest. Just a plain, old family album, useful to a historian, not so to a police officer who was about to violate her chief’s direct orders.
The last page contained only three photographs: a portrait of a stern young woman in a checked dress, her hair tied in a bun – probably Erno’s wife – occupied half of the page, the space next to it empty. One picture at least must have been taken out of the album, and Hella believed she knew which one it was – the photograph of Anna that Kalle had been carrying around.
Then there was Kalle himself, smiling. He has a beautiful smile, thought Hella, but she’d never seen it, and given the turn that her investigation was taking, she doubted she ever would. Next to him was a recent picture of Erno, staring grimly at the camera. Was Jokinen defying her to uncover his secret, or was he hoping that the secret had died with him? It was a strange case, full of contradictions and hidden motives, and, not for the first time, she wondered if she would ever manage to solve it.
She closed the album with a soft thud, with the Waltaris still watching. OK, so the album was not important in itself. It was just a tactic Erno had used to make sure someone would come and check on Kalle. Because he was afraid he might not be coming back. But why hadn’t he asked the Waltaris to check on the boy? Was he afraid they would ask too many questions? Still, he could have thought of something, invented a plausible lie. So there must have been a different reason. Had it been because of his argument with Father Timo? Or was his mission perhaps somehow related to the priest and his wife? Once again, Hella made a mental list of the questions that remained unanswered: the unlocked door, the presence of the Soviet officer, and now this. Not to mention the “evil white things”, and something Karppinen had mentioned and that she had only realized now. Digging. He said Erno had spent his time digging. Didn’t make sense, any of it.
Hella, who for a short moment had allowed herself to join in the domestic bliss, lapsed back into her professional self:
“So, Mr Waltari, why don’t you tell me again the exact words you exchanged with Erno Jokinen when you saw him last?”
Father Timo looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t remember the exact words. I suppose I must have mentioned Kalle’s enthusiasm in helping me out in the church – his ambition was to become an altar boy. I knew Erno was a non-believer, but he was also a friend, so when Kalle told me his grandpa had agreed to let him attend, I believed him. It was a shock to me when I realized Erno knew nothing about it.”
“So he became angry?”
“Angry is an understatement. He was seething with rage. I think, for him, it was a betrayal on my side, and I didn’t manage to convey to him that it was just a misunderstanding. So I apologized, took my chessboard, and left.”
“And that’s all?”
“It is. I wanted to talk to Kalle, to explain to him that his grandpa had his reasons for not allowing him to come to the church, but Erno wouldn’t let me.”
“He didn’t mention his intention of going anywhere?”
“Not to me.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No.”
Hella had already asked these last few questions before, when she had gone to interview Father Timo in the church, and he had given her the exact same answers. Answers that led her nowhere. She was about to close her notebook when Irja, who had remained silent throughout their conversation, spoke up suddenly.
“I saw him. I’ve been meaning to tell you this, though it’s probably not significant. Erno came here the day after the dispute. He said he wanted to talk about Timo, but now I’m wondering if that wasn’t just an excuse.”
34
Irja remembered the scene in all its vivid detail.
She was standing next to the table, peeling beetroots, when Erno knocked on the window. Unlike the other villagers, Erno never came in uninvited, so Irja wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and went to open the door. He stood on her doorstep, his grey ushanka in his hands, and she suddenly remembered Timo’s words: Erno is a natural gentleman. He hadn’t needed an expensive formal education to become one.
She beckoned him in. She was happy to see Erno, because she knew about the dispute from her husband, and she looked forward to their reconciliation.
“Would you like some coffee? I have Swedish cinnamon buns straight from the oven.”
Erno nodded, but she could see that his mind was elsewhere. Still, she poured him a huge mug of strong, very hot coffee, and placed a basket full of buns at his side. She also packed another basket for him to take home to Kalle.
“Timo isn’t back yet,” she ventured, while her guest remained silent. “Have you tried the church? Sometimes he works with only one candle, so the windows look dark from the outside —” She bit her tongue. Church was maybe not a good subject.
But Erno looked at her absent-mindedly, and shook his head.
He’s trying to make up his mind about something, thought Irja. And he’s not sure I’m the right person to talk to.
To put him at ease, she picked up her beetroot again.
“Would you mind if I continue peeling it?”
Sometimes it was easier for people to talk to you when you didn’t look at them. It occurred to her that that was what they’d had in mind when they had invented confessionals.
Erno sipped his coffee in silence. Then, just as she was about to ask him a question about Kalle, he spoke up.
“Do you remember when you first moved here? A year ago, right?”
“Of course I do. It was early October, and the village was so lovely, all gold and red. It was very warm for the season.”
“It was. The soil wasn’t even frozen, and I had no trouble digging Anna’s grave. You came because old Father Nikolai died.”
Irja nodded. Father Nikolai’s passing away had been unexpected, and the church had stayed empty for three weeks while the authorities had frantically searched for a replacement. They had wanted to find someone quickly, because there were quite a number of funerals to conduct.
“Yes, old people dropped dead in droves that year,” confirmed Erno quietly.
Irja poured him some more coffee, but for once she didn’t avert her eyes, which were full of tears. Erno knew she had lost her son that very October. Just a couple of weeks after he had lost his daughter.
“Do you remember Anna?” he asked her. “You took care of her during her last days, didn’t you? You see, I don’t remember how it was, exactly, and who was there. When I try to think back to those days, I just get glimpses of this and that … but the big picture is blurred.”
“Yes, of course I remember her.”
Although, come to think of it, did she really? For Irja too, those days spent at the bedside of a dying woman had become a blur, annihilated by her own, private grief. She remembered a blotched face, hollow eyes and spidery hands. She had wondered, at the time, how this emaciated, barely-there woman that nothing seemed to interest any longer could have given birth to such a big, healthy, lively boy. She remembered wondering about Kalle’s father, whom Anna had not even mentioned once. As if he’d never existed.
“I was very grateful when you came over to help me,” said Erno finally, breaking the spell. “But I was afraid that you’d fall ill too. Catch the flu from Anna. And you did fall ill, didn’t you? Then, because of that, you lost your own child. This entire time, I haven’t been able to forgive myself.”
Irja forced the tremor out of her voice. “That’s nonsense, Erno. I could have caught it from just about anyone. The entire village was ill. Why do you think they sent a whole team of doctors here? Because the situation was so serious.”
Erno shook his head and looked away. “Didn’t stay long enough, did they? They were already gone by the time Anna and you fell ill.”
Irja waited, thinking he wanted to add something, but he just sneered at Seamus, who had surreptitiously crawled next to him.
“Did you want to ask me something about Anna’s last days?” She tried to meet Erno’s gaze, but he kept looking away. What was he hiding from her?
“You’re expecting again, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she smiled, a little concerned that he had guessed so easily. Still, he was one of the very few people she wanted to share her good news with. But if she expected him to offer his congratulations and the reassurance that this time all would be well, she was mistaken.
“I don’t feel guilty any more about you catching that fever from Anna. That’s what I came to tell you. I shouldn’t have felt guilty in the first place. And as for your husband … I suppose he means well. But he serves a God I neither like nor trust.”
Erno got up and carried his cup to the washbasin.
“Please don’t tell him I came round. He doesn’t need to know. Yet.”
35
Sometimes, what is not there is more important than what is. And what was not in the album was the photograph of Anna Jokinen that Kalle kept carrying around with him. Hella saw it, of course; she saw it every day. Propped against a coffee pot while Kalle ate his breakfast. Between the pages of Kalle’s picture book. Peeking out from under his pillow. She saw it, but she had never looked at it, not really, just because it had been under her nose the whole time. She picked it up now.
