Evil Things, page 5
She wrapped herself tightly in a shawl and slid her feet into felt boots, the kind everyone wore in the countryside. Then she picked up a paraffin lamp and a box of matches.
“It’s a thirty-minute walk,” she said. “Are you quite sure you don’t want to eat something before we go?”
I hear she’s a great cook, Eklund had said. Ridiculously house-proud, a perfect woman, feminine, long hair gathered in a heavy braid, huge blue eyes and porcelain skin. Was she the one who’d made all those patchwork cushions, too? Father Timo was a lucky man. Hella wondered what he was like. All Orthodox priests she had seen before had dark tangled beards, bulging eyes and no sense of humour. She wasn’t particularly eager to meet him. And what was she supposed to call him? “Father” was out of the question; she was not a member of his flock, and never would be. Sir? Timo? The first was too formal, the last not formal enough. She decided she would settle for Mr Waltari. Neutral. Unquestionable. And his wife would be Mrs Waltari.
“Let’s just go.”
The priest’s wife turned obediently towards the door, but at that very same moment they heard voices outside. Male voices, speaking in low tones; she couldn’t make out the words. Pushing past her hostess, Hella ran for the door and heaved it open. A young man stood on the porch, a group of five or six others pressed behind him. He had a beard all right, but apart from that he didn’t look anything like a priest, unless priests could be athletic and handsome and blond. She couldn’t see the cassock, either; he was dressed in a parka, just like everyone else. But of course; he’d just come back from his search. The man looked at her in surprise.
Irja Waltari, who suddenly materialized by her side, extended a hand to him.
“This is Sergeant Mauzer, Timo. She’s come all the way from Ivalo. We were just about to go to Erno’s house. The borscht is ready, and there’s enough for all of you. Why don’t you come in?”
Hella thought she could guess what he was going to say. The man was shivering, and under his tan his skin was deathly pale. He was in a state of shock. She read in his eyes a mixture of appeal and another, more basic emotion.
“We found a body,” he said finally. “Parts of it.”
As Hella’s brain struggled to register this information, she looked at him again, at the dark hollows of his eyes and the narrow line of his lips. With a sinking feeling she realized that the other emotion was fear.
9
Feeling curiously devoid of emotion, Hella ran down the steps to where a canvas sack stood on the frozen earth, a dark brown stain spread across it like some exotic flower. She motioned towards it.
“Is it inside?”
“An arm,” said the priest. “And part of a ribcage. All bloodied and soiled.” He paused. “We’ll put the remains in the shed, if that’s OK with you.”
Hella looked over his shoulder, at the old wooden shed that leaned against one side of the house. “Yes, please do. It’s so cold now, I suppose we can keep the remains in there. I’m going to need a bucket of water, a towel and a lamp.”
The rest of the men that composed the search party stared at her for a long time.
“You heard me,” she said quietly. “I need to examine the remains.”
One of the villagers, a gangly youth with crooked teeth and a failed attempt at a moustache, ran up the steps. The others followed him inside, casting disdainful glances at Hella. Only the priest stayed at her side. He opened the door of the shed and put the sack on the workbench.
“Where did you find him?” asked Hella. The darkness enveloped them like a shroud.
“Not very far from here. Maybe an hour. East.”
“Animals?”
“I suppose so.”
Then it was an accident, thought Hella. The old man must have had a heart attack or something, and the animals had attacked him. Wolves. Or bears. She pulled open the string that tied the sack. Father Timo stepped forward.
He’s a gentleman, thought Hella. He’s probably afraid I’ll faint. Ready to catch me.
A trembling halo of light appeared on the front steps. The young man with the crooked teeth was back, holding a paraffin lamp. Irja Waltari was following him. She carried an enamel bucket.
Father Timo rushed towards them. He didn’t want his wife to see this. She heard them talking in low voices, but couldn’t catch a single word.
Soon, the priest was back. The lamplight trembled, then settled in a circle. She could start working. The priest was hovering at the door, not knowing whether he should stay and assist her.
“Thank you. You can go back inside now. Will you tell the boy?”
“Yes, I will. He saw us arrive. It’s best that he knows.”
Hella nodded. No point in hiding the truth.
She waited until the priest was inside the house, then gently folded the fabric back on itself. Her eyes fell on what remained of a ribcage. It must have been a bear, she thought. A hungry one. Almost no flesh left. She counted six ribs on the right side, five on the left; the rest must have been chewed off. The sharp edges of the bones stuck out in all directions, only held together by the sternum. She steadied herself by leaning on the bench, closed her eyes. I’m sorry, Kalle, she thought. It was a platitude, but sometimes platitudes were right on the mark. I am sorry for your loss. She didn’t know about the good people of Käärmela – whether they had lost a brother, a neighbour, a friend – but Kalle had lost his only family. From now on, he would grow up with a shadow at his side.
Now that the priest was gone, she desperately wanted him to be back. Not to be alone, here, in the dark. Calm down, you idiot, she told herself. It’s just flesh and bone. Nothing else. You’re not afraid of it, are you? She bit her lip and peered closer at the ribcage. No man-made wounds. A bear. She was not afraid. She wrapped the towel around her hand, took the ribcage out and placed it on a shelf.
The arm now. It was in better condition, but thoroughly soiled, as if the animal had dragged it through the mud. She held it above the bucket and rinsed it, sluicing water over it with her left hand. After a few minutes, when her hand was numb with cold, she peered more closely at it. Still some skin left, and even threads from a light-coloured sweater. A strange arm, actually. The skin was white. No hairs. Hella’s heart missed a beat. She looked away, at the lighted windows of the house, saw Irja Waltari moving inside. Serving dinner. She forced herself to look at the arm again. The little finger was still there, dangling from a scrap of skin. She turned the arm over. Erno is a short man, Irja had said. Short and fine-boned. Hella lifted the lamp and brought it closer to the arm. The nail on the little finger was pink and polished. Moving slowly, she wiped her hands on the towel, picked up the lamp and left the shed, closing the door behind her.
The conversation died as she entered the living room. The men were eating. There were mountains of food on the table: Karelian pierogi pie with egg butter spread on top, herring-filled kalakukko slices, rye bread and korvapuusti cinnamon buns. And the borscht, obviously. Enough to feed an army. Irja Waltari was nowhere to be seen.
Hella continued until she reached the master bedroom. The priest’s wife was in there, consoling Kalle. The boy froze when he saw her, his eyes huge, holding his breath. So they’d told him already that the old man was dead. She supposed they had rolled out the usual nonsense about the eternal life, and the resurrection of the dead, and a God’s will that doesn’t need to be explained, only accepted. About forgiveness, and turning the other cheek. There was no colour in the boy’s face. The creases on his cheeks grew deeper, as if he was mimicking the old man’s face in a last desperate effort to retain his grandfather.
Hella returned to the living room. “Which one of you knew him best?” she asked the men. Everyone’s gaze turned to the priest. “Could you please follow me outside?” she said.
As soon as they were out of the room, she stopped. No sound was coming from the house. They were all sitting there, trying to eavesdrop. Keeping her voice to a whisper, she said, “I need you to look at this arm you found. Looks strange to me, but I didn’t know the man. You did.”
They went into the shed again. Hella held the light above the cleansed remains. “Pink polished nails,” she said. “Didn’t he work the land?”
Father Timo was staring at her. His Adam’s apple went up, and stayed up while he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “You’re right,” he said finally. “It’s not his arm. It belongs to a woman, doesn’t it?”
Hella nodded. There was nothing to be said. If he knew about a missing woman, from this village or one of the neighbouring ones, he would have told her. And this was no peasant woman, either. She would write to Eklund to check if someone had reported a woman missing after she had left that morning, but she could already guess what the answer would be. No. The woman had been dead for some days now. A week, maybe as much as ten days. She would join the ranks of unnamed victims who were regularly found in the forest and never claimed by anyone. Some death.
10
The pendulum clock ticked away seconds that transformed themselves into minutes before growing into hours. Her hands pressed on her stomach, Irja lay on her back, her eyes wide open, unable to sleep. It was still dark, but soon the cockerels would cry out in enthusiasm and welcome another grey Lapland morning. In the meantime, she would need to get up and cook breakfast for Timo and Kalle and Sergeant Mauzer.
She had put the sergeant to sleep in one of the many spare rooms. She had also given her a white bathrobe and felt slippers with pompoms, but now she was wondering if the sergeant would really wear these when she got up.
Irja thought about the day that lay ahead. Before going to sleep, Sergeant Mauzer had written a report to be sent to Chief Inspector Lennart Eklund at the police station in Ivalo. Irja had been instructed to find someone to deliver it to the postbox on the Rajajoosepintie road. From what she understood, Sergeant Mauzer intended to spend the next day searching the part of the forest where that poor woman’s remains had been found. It had been an accident, the sergeant had said. The woman had been attacked by a bear. She seemed to believe that explained Erno’s disappearance too, but Irja had her doubts about that. Erno was fit for his age. He never went into the forest without his rifle. Irja had said as much to Sergeant Mauzer, but was not certain the policewoman had accepted her arguments. The only witness Sergeant Mauzer wanted to question was Kalle. That was the last thing she had brought up before retiring to her room:
“You do know that I’ll need to question the boy, don’t you, Mrs Waltari?”
Irja, who was hoping very much that Kalle would be left in peace, acquiesced nervously. “If you absolutely have to —”
“Of course I do,” snapped Sergeant Mauzer. She didn’t add you stupid woman, but the message was clear. Mind your own business. Don’t be a nuisance.
Irja, who at first had thought that Sergeant Mauzer was a sort of polissyster, had to admit that nothing could be further from the truth. Sergeant Mauzer had no experience of children whatsoever. This was obvious. She’d probably be more comfortable running around in the woods after a murder suspect than talking to a child. But apparently the polissysters, whose role it was to deal only with women and children, were a thing of the past. They had female detectives now. And not only in Helsinki: they had them in Ivalo, too. It was amazing, when one thought about it. A recognition that women were as good as men, equally competent, even if they didn’t wave their guns around as much. And even though the sergeant was unfriendly, what a change from Inspector Ranta! The woman was not a bureaucrat like her colleagues. What bureaucrat would have travelled forty miles, part of it on foot, just because a priest’s wife was worried sick about someone’s disappearance?
It is a pity she doesn’t like me, thought Irja. She must take me for a boring, dutiful wife with no interests, no personality. All ritual and no substance. And who could blame her? That’s what she looked like, after all. And with Timo’s vocation, with their way of life, she couldn’t even paint any more. The villagers would probably drop dead in horror if they saw her work. Never mind. Now she had Kalle to look after. Until he was taken away. This was another thing she needed to ask the sergeant, because she couldn’t think of anyone else who could answer that question. Did Kalle have to go and live with his great-aunt Martta? She was his closest living relation, as far as Irja knew, but that didn’t make her the most suitable one.
“I hope you sleep well,” Irja had said to Sergeant Mauzer’s retreating back. “What would you like for breakfast?”
“I’ll eat what you make. Whatever. I don’t care much about food.” The door had slammed behind her.
Suddenly, Irja thought of something. She quite liked Sergeant Mauzer, but even so, she didn’t want her to find certain things. Quietly, making sure the bed didn’t squeak, she got up and tiptoed barefoot to the living room, where Kalle was asleep above the stove. She had tried to lure him to one of the nicer bedrooms, but he insisted on sleeping there. Holding her breath, Irja extended her hand towards the life-sized icon of Christ the Saviour and grabbed a little package stuck behind the frame, putting it into her pocket. Then she quietly made her way back into the bedroom, where finally she fell asleep.
WEDNESDAY 15 OCTOBER
11
They set out at dawn, after a hearty breakfast that Hella devoured without talking to anyone and washed down with coffee. The priest’s wife made it Lapland-style: green coffee beans were first fried in a pan, then ground in a coffee grinder, and finally boiled in a copper pot. The resulting beverage was surprisingly good, just like the rest of the breakfast. Three sorts of bread, cheese, two kinds of sausages. Russian tvorog cakes. Jam. Eggs. Maybe the priest’s wife cooked all this stuff for me, she thought. I have to find a way to tell her that I’m slim – angular – not because I’m malnourished, but because this is what my body’s like. Long, fine bones, and no fat. She could eat cream cakes all day long without the slightest effect. Flat-chested like a boy, her mother used to say. Nothing to flaunt. Christina had been better in this respect, a real woman, with a narrow waist and large breasts; all the boys Hella liked went after her sister. But she had never resented Christina’s good looks. And she was not going to resent Irja Waltari either. The priest’s wife was much too maternal, much too gentle and meek for her taste, but she was a good woman and she meant well. It was not her fault she looked like Elsbeth.
Outside, the day was still full of darkness. The sun had risen all right, its pale yellowish disc hovering just above the line of the horizon, but its rays seemed unable to pierce the thick fog that surrounded them like grey cotton wool. That was exactly the problem with Lapland. The gloom of the polar nights was compounded by fog. You almost never saw a clear sky.
The gangly youth from the previous evening – Kai, Hella had learned, Kukoyakka’s friend who worked at the logging station – was already waiting for them outside, accompanied by two burly men who looked Hella up and down and turned away without saying a word. Father Timo made the introductions.
“Sergeant Mauzer is from Ivalo police station. She’s come to investigate Erno’s disappearance.”
One of the men spat on the ground; the other turned his collar up, and started marching towards the forest.
The rest of the group followed him, a miserable procession surrounded by a colourless infinity. Only Kai stayed at her side. He wanted to talk.
“How come they sent you here?” he asked her. “Weren’t there any men?”
“Why?” growled Hella. “I was part of the homicide squad in Helsinki before. I’m competent enough.”
Kai looked at her, his eyes wide open in surprise, ignoring her question.
“If you were in Helsinki before, how come you work here now?”
“Liked the climate,” explained Hella morosely, as little drops of melting snow started falling on them from a lead-coloured sky. They were close to the forest now. In grim silence, their hoods pulled low over their foreheads, they ventured into the trees. Not another word was exchanged until, an hour and a half later, a big grey rock came into view. It was shaped like a lion’s head. Kai motioned to the right of it. “It was there. Three hundred yards down the slope. I went to find a spot to pee, and there it was. I almost stepped on that arm.”
At the foot of the hill, they separated. The intention was to comb the area to see if other body parts could be found, something that would allow Hella to identify the dead woman. At first, Father Timo didn’t want her to search alone, but Hella glared at him and he backed off. Gun out, safety off, she removed the trigger guard and started raking through the nettles. After a while, she heard a cry. One of the men had found two more fingers. They gathered around him, everyone waiting while Hella wrapped the fingers in paper and put them into her backpack before they resumed their search. After an hour, Hella’s back was aching. Soon, she would have to call it off. No more discoveries for today. Go back to the village, warm up, then talk to the boy. If he didn’t tell her anything interesting, she would leave tomorrow. She’d walk to the Rajajoosepintie road and wait till someone gave her a lift. Or she could —
“Here!” the priest cried out. Hella rushed towards him. He pointed to something lying under a bush. Hella had trouble making out what it was at first, until Kai, who had materialized at their side, pulled the branches back. It was a head. Much chewed upon, the eyes sucked out, but still unmistakably a head. A woman’s head. Short blonde bob, good teeth. And a gaping bullet wound in the right temple.
“Have you seen her before?” asked Hella of no one in particular. No one had. Father Timo recited a prayer, his beautiful, well-modulated voice grave and sorrowful.
The Waltaris had coffee brewing at all hours. Hella held the mug close to her cheek, inhaling the aroma, trying to empty her mind, but the thoughts, confused and terrifying, kept coming back. She was feeling light-headed and at the same time crushed by so much responsibility. There was no doubt about it now. The woman had been murdered. She had a responsibility to solve it. Would she be able to? Would she even be able to find out who the woman was? And what about Erno Jokinen? Had he been murdered too? Or should she consider him a suspect? She briefly toyed with the idea of calling Eklund to rescue her, before deciding against it. From what she knew, Eklund had never solved a violent crime. He would be at a loss here. And there was one other reason. She didn’t want him to think she was incapable of working on her own just because she was a woman. Sighing, she gulped down the rest of her coffee, refused Irja Waltari’s offer of cinnamon buns and threw her parka over her shoulders. Back to the shed. The head was there, staring at the ceiling with its empty sockets. Once she was done with it, she would ask the priest to accompany her to Erno Jokinen’s house.
