Evil Things, page 8
“It was on Thursday, the second of October.”
Sergeant Mauzer made a quick calculation: “And exactly a week later, Martta Jokinen finds her nephew alone in the house, old Erno missing for at least six days, according to his grandson, maybe even longer.”
The policewoman paused, going through her notes. “Well, something tells me we’ve got a nice motive here, haven’t we, Mrs Waltari? Sleep well. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
18
Some days she hated her job. Hands in the mud, fingers poking around. She had to do it, she knew, leaving no stone unturned, as her instructors at the police academy had called it, but some of those metaphorical stones were way heavier than others and, for all the trouble they caused, often yielded nothing. Deep down, Hella didn’t believe for a second that Father Timo would have got rid of Erno Jokinen just because the old man didn’t want to play chess with him any longer. But she suspected it was something Lennart Eklund would very easily believe in – or at least persuade himself of – if it advanced the investigation and improved the department’s success rate. As he would point out to her, people killed for all sorts of stupid reasons. Oh yes, Miss Mauzer, of course they do. You should know.
She raised her glass, which was full of vodka, to toast Lennart Eklund in recognition of his great wisdom. Then she leaned back on her pillow, her eyes set on the scattering of violets that adorned the curtains.
Of course she knew. She had spent her days and her nights looking for a reason why a husband and father would kill his wife and four out of his five children. Had he suspected her of infidelity? Had he believed that the children were not his? That, at least, would have had a perverse, horrifying logic. But as it turned out, it had been nothing of the kind. He had killed them simply because money was tight, and because he wanted to start afresh, with a young girl who admired him, and no children. When Hella realized what had happened, she’d felt as if the sky had come crashing down on her. That fate could be irredeemably cruel, she knew already; but this was not fate. It was a conscious, premeditated act of unspeakable violence by a thirty-year-old man bored with his life.
Shaking off her memories, Hella gulped down the rest of her vodka. She should have taken the whole bottle to her room. Granted, it was not Kremlevskaya, but for home-made stuff, it tasted rather good.
She leafed through her notes. One day into her investigation, and not a clue as to what had actually happened. More questions than answers.
So she had a body, or at least parts of it. One unknown woman, wearing a sweater. Was her death related to Erno Jokinen in some way? Or was it just a coincidence that they had been looking for one body and found another? It was possible, but she didn’t believe it. Bullet wound, she wrote. Slivers of glass. Loroq. The stove smeared with soot. The unlocked door. It didn’t add up to anything, did it?
There were two possibilities when it came to Erno Jokinen. One: he was the killer, and he had run away. Two: he was another victim. The fact that his house had been searched seemed to point in that direction, so maybe that was the way to examine the situation. Who would want to kill him? What person would be interested in hurting a peasant from Käärmela?
Property. The most obvious of motives, and often the right one. What property? The candlesticks? The house? Kalle would surely be the one to inherit it, unless children born out of wedlock were deprived of their inheritance by some stupid law. The neighbour Karppinen, whom she was yet to meet, wanted to have Erno’s house; that’s what he had said to Irja Waltari. What he wanted it for was unclear. Maybe it was just jealousy; he felt entitled to have more than his neighbour. Maybe. With Jokinen alive, there was no way he could have it. But with the old man out of the way? Kalle was too small. Whoever ended up adopting him after Erno’s death would probably struggle to maintain the estate. The priest and his wife wouldn’t be able to, for instance. They were quite busy as they were …
Secrets. Erno knew something, and had to be shut up. What could he have known? Had he witnessed the woman’s murder? Possibly. He was out and about all day. But that didn’t help Hella in the least, because it placed the spotlight on the unknown woman, with Jokinen simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or could it be the other way around: he’d known something dangerous, and the woman had just been a witness? But what could he have known? Spying came to mind, of course. They were close to the border, the woman’s body found lying barely a mile inside Finnish territory. But spying on what? Try as she might, she just couldn’t imagine what Erno Jokinen’s contribution to the spying business could be: betraying such sensitive information as the reindeer population or the cranberry harvest, maybe? Ridiculous. To Hella’s knowledge, the closest strategic installations were more than a hundred and thirty miles to the north. Surely, he couldn’t have gone that far. No, spying on behalf of the Soviets didn’t make sense.
Spying on behalf of the Finns, then? Pretending to go out hunting, going across the border, taking pictures of Soviet military installations. If there was no camera in the house, it’s only because the Soviets had taken it after they killed him. Mental note: ask Kalle if his grandpa had a camera. The boy should know.
She drew a gingerbread man, carrying a rifle in one hand and a rectangular sheet of paper in the other. Having done that, she told herself that she was a very bad artist indeed, and also that her theory didn’t hold water. Because Eklund would certainly know about it, if that was the case. He had access to that sort of information. He wouldn’t have let her come out here at the risk of her stumbling into something she wasn’t supposed to know.
Third idea. Jokinen as a double agent, betraying the Finns, betraying the Soviets. A nuclear project in the region that not even Eklund knew about, top secret, burn after reading, and he was a key player in the game. A nuclear physicist in disguise, made to look like Erno Jokinen following extensive cosmetic surgery, working on a new type of bomb that could destroy the whole world and then some. Kalle was a child he’d borrowed from someone to make the story more plausible, the late woman his devoted assistant. And Hella Mauzer was good for an asylum. Next.
Erno Jokinen was killed by his sister. Jealousy, dating back to their childhood. Jealousy and property combined. He gets everything: the estate, the silver candlesticks, the embroidered tablecloth and his parents’ love. She gets nothing. She looks crazy, but probably isn’t. How hard would it have been for her to trap him in the woods? But what about the woman? Hella had asked Irja, and apparently Erno had another sister, whom no one had seen since her twenties, presumed dead. Could she be the one? Seemed rather far-fetched, though.
Hella sighed and slumped back on her cushions. A strong wind was blowing outside: she could hear it wail. And the clouds were low as usual; she couldn’t see the stars. Slowly, she drew little circles on the paper, all around the gingerbread man. The circles represented the coins. Next to the rifle, she drew a candlestick with a candle in it.
There was another possibility. What if Kalle himself was the motive? Unbeknown to his grandfather, the child was becoming a frequent guest in the church, and in this very house. The Waltaris made light of it when they discussed it. But could it be more serious than that? Could you kill in the name of your faith, for a child, for the salvation of his soul? She had seen stranger motives than that.
What next? She’d have to talk to the boy. She was sure he knew something, even though he might not even realize it. Except that Kalle was not talking much. Not to her, nor to the Waltaris, nor to the village folk who kept popping in at ungodly hours, presumably with the idea of seeing a badly dressed policewoman make a fool of herself. He was not saying “hi”, he was not saying “thank you”, and he asked no one to pass him the salt. He only whispered into the cat’s furry ears. And Seamus, though bright and cooperative, had proved as yet totally incapable of communicating useful information to the police. If she had a listening device, she would have just hidden it under Kalle’s pillow. If she had been back in Helsinki, she could have enrolled the help of a psychologist. But in Käärmela, her options were limited. Which was an optimistic way of saying she had none. She could ask for Irja Waltari’s help, or she could ask for Irja Waltari’s help. Though she was not very sure, after all she had said to the priest’s wife, that any help would be forthcoming.
Damn it.
The little boy was terrified. But whether something had scared him, or whether he was simply afraid of being alone, she didn’t know.
And now she was back to that day, eight years ago, when she had been older than Kalle, but no less frightened. No less desperate.
The police officer, a large, bulky man with a belt running low in the front, was standing on her doorstep, his right hand raised towards the bell. Behind him stood another man, short and stocky, with bulging eyes and a handlebar moustache. She knew that his name was Kyander and that he was her father’s colleague. Hella opened the door dressed only in a bathrobe that reeked of vomit; she had spent her morning throwing up, ill with a virus, or possibly food poisoning. She would never know, although this question would turn into an obsession for years to come. And so she was standing on her doorstep, confused and wishing she had rinsed her mouth before answering the door, and the policeman with the too-tight belt was leaning towards her. He was whispering, afraid of what he had to say.
“Miss Mauzer. I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
Oh God, she thought. Oh no. Please no. As if from a distance, she heard herself answering in a normal, even reasonable, voice, which surprised both the police officer and herself, “Could you please wait a second? I’ll go and get dressed.”
“Miss Mauzer, please. You don’t need to go anywhere. Just listen to me, please. May we come in? This gentleman here is your father’s colleague.”
“No,” she said. “Please no. Just stay at the door.” As if stopping them from entering her house could have the power to keep the news at bay.
“Miss Mauzer, now please listen —”
“I’m listening.”
After that she would not utter a single word for months.
THURSDAY 16 OCTOBER
19
Jeremias Karppinen was saddled with an obsessive personality. His house was aggressively clean, and it smelled of nothing. The cushions on the bench in his living room were strictly parallel, their covers unruffled. The samovar that was set on the table had probably never been used. Next to the door, a clothes rack, from which hung a tiny parka, and a gleaming rifle. Had he put it there on purpose? As a way to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide? Or to intimidate?
Karppinen let her in without comment, but he didn’t offer her a seat. Instead, he stood bolt upright in the exact centre of the room, his little feet, in child-sized boots, planted firmly on the floor. His position was calculated to stop her from getting to the bench. But if he thought he could deter Hella with this attitude, he was wrong. Maybe some fat-headed polissyster would have been impressed. Not her. She pushed past him, almost stamping on his foot as she did so, and sat down resolutely on an immaculate cushion. Then she pulled out a notebook and a much-chewed pencil from her shoulder bag, which she then dropped at her feet. The interview could start.
“I’ve been informed,” she started out rather sweetly, “that you were interested in acquiring Mr Jokinen’s house. You made this offer while your neighbour was known to have been missing for a week. Do you expect him to be dead?”
“I guess he is.”
“Is it important for you to buy this house? Do you like it that much?”
No answer. Hella waited. It was a trick she had learned at the police academy. When your suspect refused to answer your questions, you kept silent too. The idea was that people would begin rapidly to feel uncomfortable, and would talk. But she was starting to suspect that whoever had invented this technique had never been to Lapland. Karppinen definitely looked comfortable, and he kept his lips shut tight.
In the end, Hella was the one to break the silence: “Mr Karppinen, are you a friend of Mr Erno Jokinen?”
That question took him aback; she could see that. Maybe because the word “friend” was not part of his vocabulary.
Once again, he took his time answering. First, he tugged at his trousers, then he sat down carefully, his bony elbows on the table. “I was his neighbour.”
From where Hella was seated, she could see the white picket fence surrounding Erno Jokinen’s garden, and a string of clothes he must have hung there to dry before going away.
“For how long?”
“Since I was born.”
“So you know him well,” she mused. “What kind of man is he?”
“Stupid.”
Hmm. Interesting.
“Any precise reason why you would say that, Mr Karppinen?”
“He lent money to his idiot of a sister once. He took in his slut of a daughter to live with him. And he even read books to her little bastard at night.”
Which was clearly not something the wise Mr Karppinen would have done if he had been in his neighbour’s shoes.
“Wasn’t she his daughter, and the little boy his only grandchild?”
“So what? She was a grown woman. Could have fended for herself, couldn’t she? But she complained all the time, pretending to be sick. They woke me up once in the middle of the night; their horse had hurt its hoof, and they wanted to borrow mine to get her to the doctor.”
“Did you oblige?” asked Hella, knowing full well what the answer would be.
The little man let out a cackle. “Course not. What am I, an old fool like him? So Erno put her in a wheelbarrow and carted her off to the village, knocking on all the doors until someone lent him a horse and carriage.”
This tells me something about Erno, thought Hella. But it says even more about you.
She still didn’t know what kind of person Erno Jokinen was, but she was starting to have a good idea of what he was not. He was not a believer in God, he didn’t rely on anyone else, and he loved his family.
“So when did you last see him, Mr Karppinen? If I may ask?”
As always, the angrier she was, the more her voice mellowed. This was something that the nuns in her school had insisted upon a lot – being graceful under pressure, concealing her feelings. For the quiet, subdued young Hella, it had never been a problem. But the evil gnome who was sitting in front of her, his eyes gleaming, didn’t know that.
“Erno was always out and about. Cutting wood, hunting, whatever. Digging in his garden. Can’t remember when I saw him last. I don’t spend my time keeping tabs on old Erno.”
I bet you do, thought Hella. The man had good eyes, too, because otherwise how would he know that Erno read books to his grandson at night? And there was one other thing. He must have noticed the old man had been gone a long time, and that the little boy had been alone, but still he hadn’t gone to check on him. Not his business.
“You might know already,” she said out loud, “that we have found a woman’s remains in the woods. Do you have anything to tell me?”
The gnome fidgeted, but said nothing.
“Mr Karppinen?” Her voice struck an official chord. “You are being questioned as a witness now. I would rather appreciate your cooperation.”
No answer.
Hella tried another technique. “I heard that Mr Jokinen had received visitors lately. Did you by any chance see who they were?”
“No,” said the tiny man stiffly, but his eyes danced in all directions.
Lying, thought Hella. I’m sure you’re lying. There was someone. Hella felt a familiar tingling sensation running down her spine. But Karppinen was not the kind of person who would spontaneously cooperate with the police. Let him think she was not interested.
Hella rose to her feet, dwarfing her host who remained seated, an expectant half-smile on his thin lips.
“In that case, Mr Karppinen, I must thank you for your time. Our interview hasn’t been very informative, but then, I shouldn’t have expected too much from a senior citizen with poor eyesight. Goodbye, Mr Karppinen.”
20
The thin manila envelope, addressed by hand to SERGEANT MAUZER, WALTARI HOUSE, KÄÄRMELA, was propped against the milk jug. Every once in a while, Irja stopped to look at it. The letter had been delivered shortly before noon by a middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Sergeant Mauzer’s fiancé but refused her invitation to have a cup of coffee while waiting for Miss Mauzer to come back. He had work to do, explained the man. Important work at the logging camp, a busy schedule. So he had left, and Irja had wiped away the muddy traces his big black boots had left on the floor.
So Sergeant Mauzer had a fiancé. Irja was not surprised, not really, even though she would have expected the sergeant to marry some sophisticated city type, a lawyer or a doctor, rather than this aggressively masculine man with a single eye that had ogled her as if she was a thing on display. Never mind. Sergeant Mauzer was probably wondering why she had married a priest. She had hinted at it over breakfast that very morning.
“So where did you two meet?” Sergeant Mauzer had asked her. “In church?”
It was an innocent question, decided Irja. Nothing to it.
“No, just on the street. In Turku.”
“And you knew he was a priest?”
“He wasn’t a priest back then. He was a student.”
“So you two fell in love …”
“Yes,” confirmed Irja, a dreamy smile on her face as she remembered that cold October day. “We did.”
“I bet at that time you imagined you’d have a good life. A sheltered life,” implied Sergeant Mauzer with a nasty smile, and broke the spell.
“I hadn’t imagined anything at all,” said Irja, pulling herself sharply back into line. Sergeant Mauzer was not her friend. She was just pretending to be one.
