Evil Things, page 22
“So how have you been doing, my dear child? Not married yet, are you? It will come, it will come. No doubt about it.”
“I’m fine,” said Hella, doing her best not to look offended by this allusion to her unmarried status. “Or at least, I was until about a week ago. Then, I uncovered” – she paused, wondering what words to use: a great injustice? A state-ordered crime? – “I discovered that a series of crimes had been committed. To make it worse, an innocent man has been wrongly accused. I need your help to put things right. So I’m afraid this isn’t a social visit.”
Kyander leaned back in his chair, joining his fingertips over his protruding paunch. The lowest button on his crisp white shirt was close to giving way.
“I’m listening very attentively,” he assured her.
54
“A little over two weeks ago, a man went missing in Lapland. His name was Erno Jokinen.”
Kyander nodded. “Go on.”
“I went to investigate. I discovered not one, but two bodies. Both had been shot in the head. The second victim was a Soviet woman. A doctor.”
Kyander’s eyebrows shot all the way up. “How can you be sure the woman was Soviet?”
“I found her identity card,” Hella said. “She and the old man had stumbled across a case of biological weapons testing. Erno Jokinen’s daughter was one of the victims.”
“Of this biological weapon?”
“Exactly.”
“What kind of agent was it? Anthrax? Plague?”
“Malaria.”
Kyander’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of malaria cases in the northern hemisphere.”
“They were testing,” explained Hella. “They wanted to see whether it could work in our climate.”
“They? Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Hella. “I think it might have been a project run by the Western Alliance, because, according to the villagers, a couple of the doctors who went out there spoke with heavy foreign accents. But I know that the SUPO is also involved, at least locally.”
“The SUPO would never do a thing like that!” snapped Kyander. “Poisoning our own people! Is that what you’re accusing them of?”
“In a way. Put like that. I suppose so. Yes. I’m not saying they did it on purpose,” muttered Hella, suddenly afraid of her own allegations and Kyander’s ice-cold stare. “I’m saying that these scientists – whoever they were – put everything in place to avoid casualties. They had sent doctors out to the village, they had enough medicine, everything was planned, but what they had not anticipated was the weather. It was a very warm autumn. Against the odds, the mosquitoes were still active in October, and some people fell ill after the doctors had already left. And when that old man, Erno Jokinen, realized what had happened, they had him silenced. They also killed the Soviet army doctor he had consulted.”
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” said Kyander slowly. “Even imagining that the rest of your story is true, which I doubt, why would an honest Finnish citizen unlawfully cross the border to consult a Soviet doctor? Don’t you have a doctor in Ivalo?”
“We have one,” said Hella. “Dr Gummerus. But he’s worse than useless.”
“Then your old man could have gone to a bigger city. To Sodankylä, for instance.”
“He could have,” sighed Hella. “But Svetly was closer, and at the time he went to see that Soviet doctor he wasn’t expecting to uncover anything suspect. He thought his daughter had the flu. But he could tell that she was dying and that it was urgent.”
“All right,” said Kyander. “Unusual, but why not? So you suspect that your man Jokinen uncovered something damaging and unwittingly shared this information with the Soviets. Which is why my colleagues in the SUPO did him in. Is that it?”
“More or less,” confirmed Hella. “They killed the Soviet doctor, too.”
“Ah, yes, the Soviet doctor. An army surgeon, wasn’t she? What did you say her name was?”
“Captain Daria Makarova. Daria Mikhailovna Makarova.”
Kyander pulled a small spiral notebook from his pocket and jotted the name down. “Did you go across the border?” he inquired.
“Me? Heavens, no. Of course not. Her body was on Finnish soil.”
Kyander raised his eyebrows again. “Do you mean to tell me that the Soviet military has invaded our country and we don’t know it?”
Hella sighed. This was proving even more difficult than she had expected.
“It was not an invasion. I think that woman – Dr Makarova – crossed the border to give Erno chloroquine in exchange for proof of the bioweapons testing.”
“She acted alone in this?”
“Yes, I believe …” Hella paused, flushing. “I know it sounds silly, but I think she just wanted to uncover the truth.”
“Or she was using this information to mount an espionage operation with the full knowledge of her superiors. But it’s true that this is something we can only guess. More coffee? Did you try the cinnamon rolls? Home-made.”
Feeling jittery, Hella declined both.
“Now then,” said Kyander. “You have also stated that an innocent man is being accused. Who is he?”
“An Orthodox priest. A friend of Erno Jokinen.”
“A good-looking man?” smiled Kyander. “Orthodox priests can marry, can’t they?”
Hella dug her nails deep into the palms of her hands.
“They can, and he is. Married. And now it looks like the SUPO will prosecute him for a murder he didn’t commit just because he makes a good suspect. His unborn child will have no father when he comes into the world. This is” – she hesitated, then said it, for lack of a better word, even though it made her sound childish – “unjust. This whole situation.”
“It’s up to the law to decide what is just and what is not,” said Kyander pensively. “And the law decides based on the facts, not conjectures. You people are amazing. You want a state that protects you, but when it does, you’re still not happy. Someone – a philosopher – said once that, to avoid the war of every man against every man, people need order, represented by the state. That order cannot be twisted on a whim. I hope you understand that.”
“I do. And I have proof of the priest’s innocence – or rather, of the SUPO’s guilt – that I’m ready to present in court.”
“Hmm,” said Kyander. “I’m not at all convinced. So what do you want from me?”
“I need you to call your local office in Lapland and tell them that the police officer in charge of the investigation – me – has come to the conclusion that Father Timo Waltari is innocent. That whatever Chief Inspector Lennart Eklund told them is a lie, because in a case like this, it’s easier to tell a lie than the truth. That’s the first thing. And second, I need your help in immediately referring Mrs Waltari, the priest’s wife, to an army doctor who can provide her with chloroquine. She is suffering from malaria, and it’s possible that the baby she’s carrying will die, just like his older brother did. After my father died, you told me that I could come to you whenever I needed help. I’ve never asked you for anything, because everything that happened to me, however bad, I could deal with on my own. But this is different, and without your help, I can’t manage.”
Kyander remained silent for a moment, delicately rotating the little gilded coffee cup between his beefy fingers. When he spoke, his voice had a finality that sent a chill down Hella’s spine.
“Well, if you want my humble opinion, this Erno fellow is the one to blame. He betrayed his country. Of course he did. He went across the border to give sensitive information to the Soviets.” He looked squarely at her. “My dear child, you have a trusting nature. I recognize your father, who was my dearest comrade in arms, in you. You believed those people when they told you the old man’s daughter had suffered from malaria. But how do you know that for sure? You’re not a doctor, are you? You didn’t take the dead woman’s blood sample. So how do you know she didn’t simply die of the flu? Come to think of it, how can you be sure that the corpse you found was that of Captain Daria Makarova? Was her face easy to recognize? Or was it beyond identification, half-eaten by animals? Was she wearing her uniform or was she clad in civilian clothes, a sweater maybe? She could just have been some poor soul who died of natural causes. You don’t have any tangible proof of what you’re suggesting, do you?”
Hella shook her head while her throat contracted painfully; she was having difficulty breathing. I’m drowning, she thought. Drowning in a sea of lies, of half-truths, of hypocrisy. Kyander’s hectoring voice seemed far away, as if coming through water. “I totally understand that you’re worried about your friends, but if this priest is innocent, my colleagues will set him free. The SUPO isn’t in the habit of condemning people without serious proof.” He paused, looking at her with what he imagined to be pity. “As for the priest’s better half, what she needs is a good midwife. Pregnant women are subject to all sorts of delirious thoughts. You wouldn’t want her going around accusing the Finnish state or our trusted allies of being cold-blooded murderers. That wouldn’t do. Could be bad for your career, too. Did you think of that?”
Hella rose slowly from her seat. There was still some coffee left in her cup, and she drank it before cautiously replacing the cup on the table.
“I’d better be going, then,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Get back to work. Sorry I took up so much of your time.” She tried out a smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “It was good to see you. I’ll send you a card at Christmas, if you don’t mind.”
She breathed slowly, trying to not let her anger overwhelm her. It would have been the easiest, the most natural response to call the man a liar to his face and ask him who exactly had told him about the sweater Captain Makarova had been wearing at the time of her death. It had been a mistake coming here. She should have known. As soon as she had seen the house and heard about the breakfast room she should have bolted. Too late.
Kyander was holding up her parka for her.
“Would you like to stay here and rest? I can put you in the guest bedroom. Draw the blinds. You can get some proper sleep. You’ll feel better afterwards.” The red mouth quivered. The beady eyes were looking up at her with a mixture of contempt and worry.
“No thank you. I’m perfectly fine. I thought that maybe while I was here, I’d go and see my former colleagues. My new colleagues, I should say. Apparently Jon Jokela wants me back on the homicide squad.”
“And that is very good, very good indeed. Jon is an excellent man, one of the best. When you’re back, we should get together one day, all three of us. Talk about the good old days.”
What good old days would those be, exactly? wondered Hella, but said nothing for fear of betraying herself. Her intellect put a lid on her emotions; or rather it chose one emotion and decided to stick with it, however much effort it would cost her. She picked up her shoulder bag from the floor and tried to open it to extract something, maybe her gloves, but the buckle stuck. When it finally gave way, after much pulling, all of its contents spilled onto the parquet floor. Kyander crouched down immediately to collect her miserable belongings. Her keys, her badge, a wrinkled apple she had been meaning to eat for some weeks now. A handkerchief. Discarded Fazer Blue wrappers. Her gloves. Finally, her blue notebook and a small leather pouch which he held in his hands a split second longer than necessary.
“Are you certain you don’t want to stay? You look so pale.”
“It’s a polar night tan,” she quipped. “When I’m back in Helsinki for good, I’ll thrive.”
55
She had never felt so lonely, not even after her parents had died – she’d had neighbours then, who had come over to console her at all hours. And even her separation from Steve, and her exclusion from the homicide squad … well, that was life. But what was coming at her now, like a giant wave ready to swallow everything in its way, was death. The death of that unborn but already loved baby. The death of Irja, his mother, who would not survive a second tiny coffin. The death of the Hella Mauzer she knew, not of her body – that was the least of her worries – but of everything that made her life worth living.
As she was descending the stairs, gripping the banister in order not to slip on the icy steps, she thought about her options. She had none. Her defeat was utterly, hopelessly complete. No chloroquine for her. And no truth. She wondered how on earth she would be able to explain the situation to Irja. By the time she reached the gate, she even thought for a moment about turning back and starting over again: her reasoning, the arguments, the proof. But it would do no good. Kyander wouldn’t listen to her. He was surely already summoning his fellow spies to get rid of her.
She realized that she was wrong as soon as she saw her car. Kyander must have called his colleagues before she’d come to see him. Otherwise, how could she explain the fact that the driver’s door had been forced open and Irja’s belongings lay scattered on the floor of the car? Searching for evidence, thought Hella. She tightened her grip on her shoulder bag. At least she had saved something. Her tradeoff for Irja’s medicine.
“Did he refuse to help?” Irja was suddenly standing next to her. Hella hadn’t heard her arrive. A little further down the road, Kalle was playing with his bus in the snow.
“He did,” said Hella. “He already knew about it; he’d clearly been warned by his colleagues. They’ve searched the car as well. It’s a good thing we have a plan B.” She smiled with more confidence than she really felt.
“What’s plan B?”
“We’ll go to the Western Alliance. They have an office next to the American embassy. We’ll ask them for chloroquine. They must have it; they were the ones who ran the tests. We’ll trade the vials for chloroquine, get you healthy and agree to forget about the whole thing.”
Irja frowned, thinking it over. When she spoke at last, her voice was firm, but her eyes held all the anger, sorrow and pain of the recent months.
“That won’t do. The truth is important. Truth and justice for the dead. I’m not trading that.”
“I’m a police officer,” said Hella. “Justice is the only thing I believe in, but I’m willing to let that go to save your child. Do you realize what the risks are if you don’t get chloroquine? For you. For the baby.”
“I do.”
“And you still think the truth is more important?”
Irja nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “What becomes of our freedom if we sign a pact with the Devil? I want my child to be born a free man.”
I’ll never be a good police officer, thought Hella. Jokela was right about that. I favour the particular over the general good. A victim’s life over some intangible, bigger truth. But I am what I am. There’s no changing me now.
“Truth is meaningless,” she said out loud. “It’s a ripple on the water. It’ll soon be forgotten. But your child … he could live. Isn’t that more important? Isn’t it?” She wanted to shake Irja, to slap her, to make her understand. “Your child’s life is more important than truth, more important than loyalty to the dead, more important than anything. And you might not want me to” – she touched Irja’s stomach, driving the point home – “but I’m going to save him.”
She paused, looking at Kalle but thinking of her nephew. She could no longer remember his face.
When she spoke again her voice was soft, barely a whisper. “You cannot save the world. Not you, not your husband. The world – what I know of it – is unsaveable. Irredeemable. There’s too much at stake, too many superpowers vying for control, for dominance. But I respect your feelings. I’ll need to leave you alone for a while. Will you be all right? You can wait in the park. No, not the park. Another public space. There’s a restaurant on Unioninkatu. Wait for me there, and don’t move.”
Hella got into the car without waiting for an answer and drove off, her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. She headed straight for the railway station in Kluuvi. Once or twice she glanced into the rear-view mirror, and it seemed to her that the dark grey Volvo in the left lane had already crossed her path earlier that day, but she couldn’t be sure.
In Kluuvi, Hella stopped the car two hundred yards from the granite arches of the station, on the far side of Elielplatsen. The clock tower, partly destroyed in a fire two years earlier, had been restored during her absence. It struck ten as she parked. Still clutching her bag, she went into a telephone booth to make a phone call. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to pick up her conversation if she was quick. In any case, it was a risk she had to take. She spoke for no more than a minute – nothing emotional, all matter-of-fact – ignoring the man in a suit who had materialized out of thin air at the end of her conversation and was loitering next to the booth. Not close enough to hear, decided Hella. She hung up and pushed past him, then went into a neighbouring café to buy something to eat. She then marched back to the car, with the same dark-suited man watching her, put her bag on her lap, and waited, all the while nibbling at the turkey sandwich she had bought. She didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes later, a squat little woman dressed in an ankle-length sheepskin coat and a garish headscarf emerged from one of the side streets and made her way inside the station. Walking behind her was a tall, gawky man lugging a heavy suitcase.
Hella, who was still eating, glanced at her watch, then, with the sandwich bag in her left hand and her shoulder bag worn across her body, she hurried across the square. Once inside the station, she went straight to left luggage. She loitered in the room until there was no one around, then she stuffed her shoulder bag inside one of the lockers and walked out quickly. The gawky man was standing next to the train schedule, beads of sweat rolling down his face, his black coat open. Hella looked away, bumped into him and would have fallen if the man hadn’t caught her. He looked astonished as Hella slipped her hand into his pocket briefly, but before he could say anything she had excused herself and hurried away. She attempted to throw her half-eaten lunch into the overflowing bin by the exit but missed, then ran across Elielplatsen to her car. If she had turned to look, she would have seen the gawky traveller being roughly handled by two square-jawed young men while passers-by watched and commented. She would have also seen the squat little woman, who had been standing by the exit eating an apple, pick up the sandwich bag containing the key and shuffle back inside, and then, less than a minute later, come out of the station, her heavy sheepskin coat bulging at the front.
