Evil Things, page 4
Suddenly weary, she shut her eyes and thought about Steve, about his lean body and his sexy voice. After all this time, she still missed him so much the pain felt physical. A song Steve liked to put on the air for his audience came to her mind. It was sung by Frank Sinatra – not one of her favourites; she liked Perry Como better, or Bing Crosby – but this one song was so true, it cut like a knife.
I’d tried so not to give in
I said to myself this affair never will go so well
But why should I try to resist when baby I know so well
I’ve got you under my skin.
7
“When do you think the police will come?” asked Kalle in a small voice.
Irja stopped mid-movement. She was chopping vegetables for the borscht. Ruby-red cubes of beetroot were scattered over the cutting board, while a bunch of yellowish carrots awaited their turn. Putting down the knife, Irja pushed a strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her hand. She leaned close to the boy.
“Any time now, Kalle.”
Then she remembered it was the same answer she had used to convince Kalle that his grandpa would be back soon. She added hastily: “They’re probably packing their equipment. Do you know how much equipment a police officer needs? A lot!”
Kalle stared at her, frowning. The shadows cast by the paraffin lamp creased his tiny features, and for a split second she recognized old Erno in him. His eyes were black marbles, drowned in ice water. It was the first time he had spoken to her, or to anyone, since he had been brought to her house five days earlier. She needed to say the right thing. To establish a dialogue, to not scare him off, but also not to make empty promises.
Troubled, she picked up the knife again and started chopping the carrots, quickly. Her hair fell forward again, covering her face. I need to cut the onions next, she thought. Their pungent smell would provide an explanation for her tears.
She had made a mistake in admitting to Kalle that she had written to the police. It had now been three days since Timo had left the letter propped on the letter box four miles from the village, on the road leading from Nellim to Ivalo. When Timo had checked the next day, the letter had gone. Presumably one of the truck drivers had taken it, and delivered it to its destination. But then what?
Irja had no idea whether the Ivalo police would even agree to take on the case. She had only ever seen one of them, several months ago, when she had travelled to Ivalo to report a wife-beater. Before going to the authorities, she and Timo had tried to settle the issue by themselves. The man, a calm, middle-aged former schoolteacher, was courteous to a fault to strangers. It was just that his wife had, according to him, a despicable habit of bumping into things and being careless with lit cigarettes. He had listened to Timo with his head cocked to one side, and denied all involvement. The next day, the wife had four of her teeth knocked out, reportedly in another one of her unfortunate accidents.
Irja had talked to the woman, offering her refuge at their house, telling her over and over that what her husband was doing was not right, that he needed to be stopped. When their joint efforts yielded no result, Irja had travelled to Ivalo, full of hope that the police would know how to handle the situation.
After a long wait, she had been received by an Inspector Ranta. She took an immediate dislike to the man. He never once looked her in the eye. His gaze settled on her breasts, and it was them he addressed when she had finished explaining the case to him.
“Is that any of your business?” he asked her.
“It is.” She clenched her fists, willing herself to remain calm. “I can’t just sit around waiting until that man kills her.”
“You’re a priest’s wife, aren’t you? Why don’t you pray for her?”
“I do.”
“Then why isn’t your God doing anything? Why do you expect us to be more diligent than the Almighty?” He smiled, pleased with his joke, baring a row of crooked yellowish stubs. “Yes, why don’t you ask Him, and leave us to do our work as we see fit?”
“I’d like to see Chief Inspector Eklund,” Irja replied.
But Chief Inspector Eklund was in a meeting. A meeting that, according to Inspector Ranta’s sneering comment, was likely to last for at least a couple of hours.
“Never mind,” said Irja. “I’ll wait.”
And so she waited and waited, unsure of what to do, sitting next to a pretty blonde girl, a secretary or a receptionist, who gave her one dismissive look and went back to polishing her nails. As the day dragged on, it appeared likely, then certain, that Chief Inspector Eklund had no intention of seeing her. She hung on in the reception area until the blonde girl started to turn off the lights, explaining that Chief Inspector Eklund had already left via a back door.
It was Irja’s first – and last – encounter with the police, and therefore she didn’t expect much of them. She had only written to Ivalo because she needed to do something, because she had to busy herself until Timo came back from the church and set up a search party.
Irja didn’t think Kalle had heard her talking about it. But she was wrong.
She slid the carrot cubes into the pot, then looked up. Kalle was gazing at her wide-eyed.
“What kind of equipment?”
Images of Sherlock Holmes popped, unbidden, into her brain. Unable to think clearly, Irja muttered, “A magnifying glass. And special powder for fingerprints. And, and … books on criminalistics.”
“And police dogs,” he added.
“Of course,” chirped Irja, fingers crossed behind her back. “They’ve probably already started their inquiry. Sometimes they prefer to make up their own minds before questioning witnesses.”
Kalle turned to stare out of the window, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“They’ll bring Grandpa back in no time.”
It wasn’t a reproach; but still, Irja took it like one. She bit her lips and busied herself with the borscht. The room was quiet, its silence only troubled by the loud ticking of an old clock and the chopping noise made by her own knife.
If ever the police come, she thought. That would be a miracle. And now Kalle was waiting for them. If only Timo was here! But she barely saw him these days. When he was not searching for old Erno, he was engrossed in church work, serving Mass, receiving the parishioners and painstakingly restoring the fabulous church icons he claimed were so precious. She understood. Of course she did. But it still hurt, feeling so alone.
Kalle shuffled on his bench, his nose pressed against the window. “I think someone’s coming. Can you see? There’s a shadow there, by the church. It’s moving. It’s not Father Timo; he balances his arms as he moves. This one’s carrying something.”
Irja leaned towards the window. Kalle was right. There was someone out there, barely visible in the faltering daylight. As the shadow progressed towards them, Irja made out a tall angular figure, dressed in a parka, a shaggy chapka hiding its face, a bulky bag worn on its back. After getting to the corner of the church, the figure stopped for a second, hesitating.
Then it strode towards their house.
“It’s a woman,” whispered Kalle in disbelief.
8
Some things looked exactly like Hella had imagined them. There were ornate window frames, and cornices, and wooden benches by the doors. There was smoke coming out of chimneys and frozen vegetable patches on which decrepit scarecrows sat looking down at birds they no longer frightened away. There were furtive glances and moving curtains which accompanied her progression through the village. There was a church, a wooden thing with a blue onion-shaped dome and a cross to top it off, but she didn’t stop to look at it. Contrary to what she had told her boss, she was not interested in architecture, traditional or otherwise.
And then there was the house next to the church, and the woman who had opened the front door just as Hella was extending her hand to knock. Next to the woman, clinging to her leg, stood a young boy, barely six or seven. At first, Hella thought they were mother and son. They had the same milk-white skin, and the same bouncy, reddish-blonde hair. They also had the same look in their eyes, that of incredulity mingled with disappointment. Then the woman extended her hand, smiling bravely, and dispelled the misunderstanding.
“I’m Irja Waltari, and this is Kalle Jokinen, Erno’s grandson. Please come in. Did you have a good trip? You must be so tired!”
She’s not asking me who I am, thought Hella. Which probably means that it’s obvious I belong to the forces of law and order, regardless of the civilian clothes. Or else no one ever comes to this godforsaken village.
She wiped her feet on a striped cotton mat and followed the gentle priest’s wife through a narrow corridor crammed with skis and anoraks into a wood-clad, honey-coloured living room that smelled of coffee and cinnamon. As soon as they were inside, the little boy let go of the woman’s leg and scarpered off to climb on top of a great whitewashed Russian stove that occupied the centre of the room.
There was a scattering of onion skins and carrot peel on the wooden table. Irja Waltari rushed to clear away the mess, before inviting Hella to take a seat at the table.
“I’m Sergeant Mauzer,” started Hella, hoping that her low voice and her rank would make a good impression if not on the priest’s wife, then at least on the boy who was watching her unblinkingly from his bed above the stove. “I’ve come from Ivalo police station to investigate the mysterious disappearance of Erno Jokinen.”
Why am I talking like Eklund now? she wondered. Was it because she felt awkward? Did she really need to impress them that much? Or was it because she was afraid they would question her authority, or her skill, because she was a woman? Would she have reacted differently if the kindly young woman sitting in front of her had looked less maternal, more professional, more like herself? Unable to stop, she went on in a hectoring voice:
“I presume you have reasons to believe that police intervention is necessary? Have you organized a search party yet?”
Irja Waltari blinked, surprised. Hella was clearly not what she had expected.
“Mrs Waltari?”
The young woman nodded silently and turned away, rearranging her skirt, averting her eyes. She had full breasts and glowing skin. She looked like – she looked like Elsbeth, only more luminous. Steve would have loved her.
“Yes, we have. My husband, Timo, and five other men from the village have been combing through the forest. They haven’t found anything … yet.”
And they probably never would, thought Hella. Unless they knew where the old man was heading when he disappeared. And even then, it was not like there were roads in this part of the country. Just a sparse forest that spread in every direction. You had to be very lucky to find anything.
The more she thought about it, the more the idea of an investigation seemed ridiculous to her. Eklund was right. Investigate what, for God’s sake? For all she knew, the man might not even be dead. Still, here she was, so she might as well do something. The little boy was staring at her from the stove. How could she question the woman in his presence?
“Is there a place we could talk in private?”
Irja Waltari jumped to her feet. “Would you like me to show you your room?”
Hella’s mood lightened a little. At least she would have her own room. And the house was quiet. Now that she thought of it, she didn’t see any small children running around. Was it just the Waltaris and the boy who lived here? Where was the priest? Still searching the forest with his loyal parishioners?
She rose to her feet and followed Irja Waltari out of the room. It wasn’t apparent from the outside, but the house was huge. The narrow corridor leading to the bedrooms was at least thirty feet long, with doors on either side. Hella caught a glimpse of the master bedroom – a gleaming copper bed with a lovely patchwork blanket, snow-white pillows, a crucifix on the wall, a candle burning before an icon. These people were living a sheltered life. Murder – if there had been a murder – must be a novelty for them.
She tried to remember the words of Irja Waltari’s letter. A respectable, dependable man … unexpected departure … a child left alone … completely out of character … It has been six days, and we still have no news.
The priest’s wife was opening the last door on the left. The farthest one from the living room. Very considerate of her. Mrs Waltari’s breasts were big, much bigger than Hella’s, who had nothing to be particularly proud of in that department, but her waist was not that thin, even if her shapeless green dress and striped apron disguised that fact. Hella raised her chin. She had nothing to be ashamed of. This woman might look like Elsbeth, but she was just an uneducated priest’s wife from Käärmela, Lapland.
The room was panelled in pine, like the rest of the house. Another gleaming copper bed. A hand-knitted throw in pink wool. A worn-out pink quilt. A tall pine wardrobe, not a plain one like she had in Ivalo, but varnished and ornately carved. She would have almost nothing to put in it. A shelf for each piece of clothing. She hoped she wouldn’t have to stay for too long.
She turned towards the window. A scattering of violets on the curtains, in total disregard for the frozen land outside. The room overlooked a meadow and in the summer, the view must be lovely.
“I’m so glad you came,” said Irja Waltari. “We were all hoping someone would. Even though I understand the case might not be a priority for you.”
Hella nodded. This woman didn’t need to know that it had indeed not been a priority for Chief Inspector Eklund. Still, Hella enjoyed this indirect recognition of her efforts, even coming from someone who looked like Elsbeth Collins.
“I’ll do what I can,” she said simply. “You wrote your letter on Friday, right? And since then? No news?”
“No. I’ve asked everyone I can think of, but nobody knows where Erno was off to. His neighbour, Mr Karppinen – I expect you’ll want to meet him – told me Erno was heading east, so that’s the direction Timo and his friends have been exploring, but that’s about it.” She hesitated. “The fact that he’s been missing for so long … does it mean anything?”
The priest’s wife was asking her whether she thought the man was dead. But how would she know? They teach you at the police academy that if a person has been missing for more than forty-eight hours – and they mean a criminal disappearance, like a victim being led away at gunpoint – then that person is probably dead. But they don’t teach you about Lapland, where normal rules don’t apply. She thought about what Eklund had said, that the man had probably got lost, or somehow drowned, or gone over the Soviet border, got drunk on vodka and was now lying in a ditch somewhere. Except that, at this time of the year, the ditches were frozen. And if he had been taken by the Soviet forces to sober up in jail, they would have realized by now that he was a Finnish citizen and sent him back. She had heard that the Soviets were tolerant of old Finnish folks crossing the border to do some grocery shopping, as long as they kept quiet and went back to where they came from as soon as possible. They wouldn’t have tolerated anyone staying for that long.
Irja was looking at her expectantly.
“I don’t know,” lied Hella. “It’s not unusual. Does he” – she almost said “did he”, but caught herself in time – “does he have any family in the region? Other than the boy?”
“He has a sister who lives in the village. Her name is Martta – Martta Jokinen. She never married. He had a brother, too, and another sister, but I believe they’re both dead.”
“If he has a great-aunt in the village, why is the boy – Kalle – not staying with her?”
Irja Waltari hesitated.
“Martta is not … maternal. She’s very nice but a bit … peculiar. Also, she has this habit of … collecting things. She’s a bit of a hoarder.”
So this is how the priest’s wife divided her world. On one side, the good, decent, maternal types, to which she so obviously belonged. On the other, the loners, the eccentric ones, the I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-a-child types. As if being maternal was just something you were born with, like blue eyes.
“I’ll need to see Miss Jokinen. Tomorrow. And that other man you mentioned, the neighbour.”
“Mr Karppinen?”
“Exactly. But now I’d like to see the house where Erno Jokinen lived with his grandson.”
“Now?” exclaimed the priest’s wife, appalled. “Really? Do you have to? It’s getting late.”
It was late. Hella could barely make out the shapes of things outside. And she was exhausted from her journey. As they reached the Käärmela junction, Kukoyakka had again tried his hand-on-thigh manoeuvre. She had pushed him away, her patience worn thin, and as a consequence had been left at the side of the road and forced to finish her journey on foot while Kukoyakka’s truck made a U-turn, roaring towards the logging camp and its makeshift bar. Still, she couldn’t really back down at this point. Even if it was more than likely that she wouldn’t be able to see a thing.
“Yes, now.”
Irja Waltari sighed and, without a word, led her back into the living room. It was the boy she was worried about.
“Kalle, can you stay here alone for a little while? Father Timo will be back from his search any minute now, and Seamus will keep you company.”
The boy nodded silently. If only he would cry, thought Hella. Cry out his anger and fear, kick and bite the adults around him, break something. That would make him feel better. But the child didn’t move, didn’t say anything. He’s like me, thought Hella. He keeps everything to himself, but one day he won’t be able to any longer. On that day, he’ll explode in an outburst of uncontrollable violence.
A sleek beige and grey cat, probably a Siamese, wormed its way between Irja’s legs and stopped, purring, next to the child. Suddenly, Kalle grabbed the cat, burying his face in its fur, holding it tight, his hands white-knuckled. Still holding the cat, he ran from the room and slammed the door behind him.
“Let’s go,” sighed Irja again. “I’ll show you the way.”
