Evil Things, page 9
“Does your job include helping out in church?”
“It’s not a job. It’s a vocation. Like a doctor, like a police officer. You cannot do it for money alone.”
But Hella Mauzer was not to be deterred. She has an instinct for half-truths, thought Irja. For pressing where it hurts.
“So do you feel it? That burning sense of vocation?”
“My husband feels it.”
“But you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
Irja stumbled to her feet, pretending that the pot of milk on the stove required her immediate attention. She took her time, wiping the pot with trembling hands, fanning the fire. But when, some minutes later, she turned back to the table, Hella Mauzer was still staring at her with a sardonic glint in her eye.
“Isn’t this house a bit too big for the two of you?”
“That’s what rectories are like.”
“That’s correct,” mused Sergeant Mauzer. “Built to accommodate a big family. Hordes of children running around. But you don’t have any.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Or rather, you didn’t. Because now you have Kalle.”
Irja glanced towards her bedroom. Kalle was in there, reading his favourite book, about a red toy plane, to Seamus. At least he had climbed down off the stove.
“Kalle needs us,” she said. “He can’t live with his great-aunt. You’ve seen her!”
She fought back tears, angry at herself. She had been far too emotional lately. Crying for no reason. What would Sergeant Mauzer think of her?
But the policewoman was already packing her worn-out brown shoulder bag.
“What you do is your business,” she said gruffly. “Your life. I’m off to see your friend Karppinen.”
21
Hella noticed Kukoyakka’s heavy frame as she was turning the corner of the street, and her first instinctive movement was to duck behind somebody’s picket fence. But as soon as she was hidden from her visitor’s view, she felt stupid. What if he came towards her? Or if someone else did? Her cheeks burning, she emerged resolutely from behind the fence, only to see Kukoyakka’s back and meaty thighs. He was already climbing into his monstrous truck.
Hella waited for a moment, then, as the truck switched into gear and trundled out of sight, slowly made her way to the Waltari house. She had a lot to think about.
That Karppinen man was very peculiar indeed. He had hated and despised his neighbour and he was jealous of everything Erno Jokinen possessed. He had a motive – the house. It was a good motive, a sound one. Much more sound than the one she had credited Father Timo with. Much more plausible than any idea of an international spy game that had crossed her mind.
He had opportunity – well, everyone in the village or even out of it had an opportunity, really. In the forest, there was no way of knowing. She would need to search his house for the murder weapon. She would do it on her next visit. Yes, Jeremias Karppinen was a very promising suspect indeed, and he had lied to her. Had he seen the woman? Was she another one of Erno’s sisters? If that was the case, with her white hands and polished nails she must have come from a city.
Smiling, Hella climbed the three steps that led to the Waltaris’ front door. She was glad Karppinen was proving to be a better suspect than the priest. She felt a little bit ashamed, too, for the way she’d spoken to Irja that morning.
The floor in the corridor of the Waltaris’ house had been freshly washed.
“Oh, you just missed him!” cried out Irja, her hands clutching a grey mop. “What a pity! He so wanted to see you! He left only a minute ago, maybe if you run —”
She stopped in her tracks, alarmed by the expression on Hella’s face.
“What?”
“I saw him. From a distance. I don’t know what he told you, but it’s most certainly not true.”
Irja blushed. “Good to hear that. He is certainly a very decent man, but … maybe you are a little bit ill-matched. He left a letter for you.”
Hella glanced at the letter. Lennart Eklund’s schoolboy handwriting, letters plump, a double bar on the t. Why was he writing to her so soon? There was no way he could have already received her letter about the dead woman.
She smiled at Irja, who was hovering expectantly by her side. “I’ll read it later. It can wait. There’s a number of things I need to do first. I need to talk to Kalle. I don’t understand why he’s so scared. Also, I need to know if there’s a connection between the dead woman and Erno. You told me he had another sister?”
“Yes, but no one’s seen her for a very long time. Look, can’t you wait before you talk to Kalle? He’s still so shaken up. Maybe if you wait a couple of days —”
“Mrs Waltari, I can’t wait a couple of days,” Hella explained patiently. “This is a murder investigation. And it’s not as if I’m going to bully the child. Please call him through.”
Irja frowned, but she called out nonetheless, “Kalle! Come over here, sweetie.”
“You can stay if you want to,” offered Hella. Why did this woman make her feel like a monster? She was just doing her job. She was a good person.
The boy stood trembling before her. She knelt before him, as they had taught her to during the training course. Kalle looked away.
“Kalle, I just want to know two things. And then you can go back and play.”
A doubtful expression spread over the boy’s face, but Hella persisted, her voice cheerful.
“Did your grandpa have a lady friend? Someone he was close to? Or did your aunt, not Martta, but another one, from the city, come over to see you?”
The boy shook his head, still without looking at her.
“I don’t think there was anyone really,” chirped Irja, eager to end this conversation. Hella glared at her.
“Are you sure, Kalle? It’s a natural thing, you know, to receive visits from friends and family. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“He didn’t have a lady friend,” whispered Kalle. “And I have no other aunt.” Hella had to lean close to him to make out the words.
“All right, Kalle, what are you afraid of? You’re safe here.”
No answer.
“Aren’t you? Safe?”
No answer.
“Are you afraid of your neighbour, Mr Karppinen?”
No answer.
Hella sighed. Having a young child as your only witness is every investigator’s nightmare. Even if he says something, how do you know that what he’s telling you is the truth? It’s hard enough with adults, who tell as many lies as children, and maybe even more than they do, but at least, being an adult yourself, you can have a pretty good idea of how your witness’s mind works. Not so with a child. And even if you are convinced that your child witness is not lying, you can never rely on his statements. What if he misinterpreted the situation? Did he even understand your question?
Her course instructor on witness interrogation had made it absolutely clear. Never trust a child witness. Don’t even ask. If you have no adult witnesses, work with the clues. But Hella couldn’t afford such luxury. For one, she didn’t have any real clues. And two, she was certain that Kalle knew a lot about what had happened. He was a bright child. If only he would talk!
Maybe it would have helped if her nephew was alive. She would have learned from being around him. Or – but she barely dared think about it – she could have had a child of her own. With Steve. A lovely, curly, cuddly boy who would have had his father’s sly smile, and they would all have lived together happily ever after.
Of course they would have done. You idiot, Hella. As it was, though, she had another undoubtedly lovely child standing in front of her, trembling, and she didn’t know what to do with him.
The priest’s wife must have felt Hella’s dismay, for she crouched next to the boy and asked Hella’s question in that cooing, soothing voice of hers. “Kalle, are you frightened because you’re not at home? Or are you afraid of someone?”
No answer.
“Is it a thing, or is it a person?”
A long, long silence. Hella started to open her mouth to repeat the question when the boy murmured, “A thing.”
“Where is it, Kalle?” Irja said, having placed her hand on Hella’s arm as if to say I’m better at this, don’t interrupt. A nasty comment sprang to Hella’s mind, but she swallowed it down for the sake of efficiency.
“Everywhere. In the village. In the forest. There are evil white things all over. Grandpa said so. He said he went to battle that evil thing and I was not to go looking for him. I wasn’t to tell anyone, either. It was Grandpa’s secret. And now the thing has taken him.”
He broke down sobbing and ran away. Hella looked at Irja Waltari. Either the woman was an excellent actress, or she, too, was lost as to what these “evil white things” could be. One thing was certain, though, Hella reflected gloomily. She was absolutely not suited to the work of a polissyster.
22
Every time she went into the spacious guest bedroom, Hella was taken back twenty years, to the house her family had occupied before the Winter War. Her room there had had the same scattering of flowers on the curtains, only there it had been roses instead of violets. The room also had the same floral smell, out of sync with the snowflakes that were dancing before her window. Probably potpourri forgotten on a shelf.
Hella collapsed onto the bed and ripped the envelope open. Lennart Eklund’s neat handwriting covered a whole page, and then some.
Sergeant Mauzer, blah-blah-blah, you will find here attached the SUPO file on Waltari, Timo and spouse. There exists no file on Jokinen, Erno.
That was quick, thought Hella, surprised. Usually, it took ages to receive a background file from the SUPO on anyone, and here it was ready almost before she’d even asked.
She pulled a yellowish paper file out of the envelope and leafed through it. Jesus Christ! Timo Waltari, born in Helsinki in May 1925, the fifth son of a university lecturer. Member of the Socialist Party at 15, a student protester and subversive element. Was it really the same man? She tried to imagine the priest in everyday clothes, armed with a Molotov cocktail, ready to throw it at the police. Was it the same idealism, the same desire to make the world a more equitable place, that had driven him later towards the Church? She read on, with a sick feeling. On 15 October 1939, Timo Waltari and two accomplices participated in a failed attempt to murder Juho Niukkanen, at the time the Finnish Minister of Defence. A shot was fired, but missed its target. Niukkanen escaped unharmed. While Timo Waltari was not the shooter, he was present at the scene. Following a spontaneous denunciation by one of the members of the terrorist group, the three attempted murderers were arrested and given different prison sentences. Timo Waltari, having played the least active role in the group, was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment and released from prison after three years for good conduct. Upon release, he immediately entered a seminary. To the knowledge of the SUPO, since that day he has kept clear of any political or terrorist movements. The church authorities appreciate his commitment and what they call his “good spirit”. He asked to be given a poor parish in Lapland, and was sent to Käärmela following the untimely death of Father Nikolai in 1951.
Hella stared at the file in disbelief. A student protester, that she could believe. But a terrorist? The SUPO wouldn’t lie, would they? A short typewritten note was attached to the document: Irja Teiva, married name Waltari. Born on 11 April 1925. Almost the same age as her, thought Hella, surprised. She had expected Irja to be much younger. She read on. Youngest daughter of a bankrupt porcelain manufacturer. Nothing else on her.
Did this new information change anything? Even if Timo Waltari had been associated with some past wrongdoing, could she draw a parallel with present events? Could an attempted assassination of a politician relate in any way whatsoever to the disappearance of an old peasant from Lapland? Hella decided that the answer was no. She picked up Eklund’s letter again.
… as you will see from the file, this couple is dangerous, blah-blah-blah. It is very unfortunate you chose to stay at their place. I suggest you find different accommodation …
He’s got to be kidding. He was the one who’d suggested she stay in their house. What was she supposed to do now, go and ask Martta Jokinen if she would take her in as an unpaid house guest?
… I remind you that strict compliance with the police procedures blah-blah-blah, utmost caution must be exercised, blah-blah-blah, nowhere near the Soviet border …
Been there already, thought Hella, found nothing. Though she would have loved to be able to present Eklund with a nice espionage story and watch him soil his underpants. As it was, though, she had a perfectly good suspect, a man by the name of Jeremias Karppinen. Or rather she’d had one before young Kalle started talking about the white evil. It sounded just like something out of a fairy tale. Could it be that he had misunderstood his grandfather’s explanation? That the “evil white things” were something completely different?
And please do not unnecessarily delay your return to Ivalo, concluded the letter.
“Just you wait,” hissed Hella. “I’ll be back when I’m done here, and not a day earlier.”
She folded the letter in two and slid it between the pages of her notebook. She needed time to think it over. Then she pulled a page out of the notebook and started to write her daily report to Eklund.
23
Kalle’s small hand trembled in hers as Irja knelt before the altar. All the villagers’ eyes were on them. There was Martta, wearing a garish red dress and no coat, a big smile plastered across her face. Kai, who had spent so many days combing the forest, and who looked more shaken now than when he had found the woman’s remains. There was Karppinen, standing apart from the crowd, his tiny features set in a disapproving pout. They had all come, and so had the rest of the village.
Timo recited the prayers in his beautiful voice. She had fallen in love with that voice first, and with the man later. She so much wanted for that voice to sing on a happy occasion. A wedding, a baptism. But there were not many of those in the village. The last wedding had been almost a year ago, the week after Anna Jokinen’s funeral.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner …”
But will He? wondered Irja. And why should He?
That was a discussion she and Timo kept having lately, and they could never agree with each other. Timo thought that His ways are mysterious, but whatever He does, He does for a good reason, even if we may not know it at the time, and sometimes maybe not even later. But Irja was not sure it was all so simple. For her, God was far, far away, and He had no interest in humans. That was why He let innocent children suffer. Because He didn’t even notice they existed.
Irja blinked away her tears. Kalle was not crying, but his mouth was a narrow line and his face was deathly pale. She clutched his hand firmly and bent to kiss the top of his head.
“You’re not alone, Kalle. Father Timo and I, we’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Sergeant Mauzer was there too. She was standing in a corner, not praying, not even pretending to. Her sharp gaze followed their every movement, and the message was clear: she was there to work. Irja wondered whether Sergeant Mauzer felt anything. She had only emerged from her room when it was time to go to church, and she was humming. This probably orphaned child, and the old man who was still missing, and that woman who had been so horribly killed, they were just cases to solve, nothing more, nothing less. Sergeant Mauzer’s life is so different from mine, Irja realized suddenly. It’s almost like we live on different planets.
Irja wondered what it would be like to never let anyone influence your choices. To care for no one else’s feelings. She thought of the day when, as a girl of nineteen, she had rushed home to tell her parents that her work had been noticed and praised, that a gallery in Paris had offered to exhibit her paintings. That her teacher thought she was really gifted. That she could become a great artist.
Her father, who was reading his newspaper by the fire, took his time finishing the page. He then folded his newspaper slowly and only after that looked up, but not at her. He glanced at her mother, who was hovering anxiously near the door.
“Has she gone mad?” he asked her. “I always thought those art lessons were a bad idea.”
Her mother, a small, timid woman, clasped her hands, rather like a Victorian heroine upon discovering that her fiancé has perished at sea. “I never thought that she would … Rouva Ivanova is such a respectable woman … How could I ever have imagined …”
Her voice faltered. Without another word, Irja’s father got to his feet and made for the door. He stopped when he reached the doorway.
“You are engaged to be married, young lady. You marry first, and if your husband lets you dabble with paint, it’s his business. You will do it under his name, not mine.”
Having said that, he left the room, while Irja groped for an explanation and her mother cried silently.
There was never again a discussion about her future as an artist. No more lessons, either – not only did her father refuse to pay for them, he refused to let her attend the lessons, even when Mrs Ivanova offered to teach her for free. A year later, Irja and Timo were wed in a small Orthodox church that had a tree growing inside, its trunk a few steps from the altar, its crown spreading above the roof. Her father, to whom she had not spoken for a year, suggested Irja take care of the wedding decorations, but she refused. And when Timo, her new husband, proposed that she resume her classes with Mrs Ivanova, or even that she go to Paris, she refused as well. She had turned that page in her life. No more art. She would be a devoted wife, an active member of the local community, and a mother, when her time came. It was her destiny, and it was enough. That was what she had decided on her wedding day, and she had kept to her decision with fierce determination. But now she was wondering.
Timo’s clear voice filled the church: “Again we pray for the repose of the servant of God who departed this life, and for the forgiveness of her every transgression, voluntary and involuntary. Lord have mercy.”
“It’s not a job. It’s a vocation. Like a doctor, like a police officer. You cannot do it for money alone.”
But Hella Mauzer was not to be deterred. She has an instinct for half-truths, thought Irja. For pressing where it hurts.
“So do you feel it? That burning sense of vocation?”
“My husband feels it.”
“But you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
Irja stumbled to her feet, pretending that the pot of milk on the stove required her immediate attention. She took her time, wiping the pot with trembling hands, fanning the fire. But when, some minutes later, she turned back to the table, Hella Mauzer was still staring at her with a sardonic glint in her eye.
“Isn’t this house a bit too big for the two of you?”
“That’s what rectories are like.”
“That’s correct,” mused Sergeant Mauzer. “Built to accommodate a big family. Hordes of children running around. But you don’t have any.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Or rather, you didn’t. Because now you have Kalle.”
Irja glanced towards her bedroom. Kalle was in there, reading his favourite book, about a red toy plane, to Seamus. At least he had climbed down off the stove.
“Kalle needs us,” she said. “He can’t live with his great-aunt. You’ve seen her!”
She fought back tears, angry at herself. She had been far too emotional lately. Crying for no reason. What would Sergeant Mauzer think of her?
But the policewoman was already packing her worn-out brown shoulder bag.
“What you do is your business,” she said gruffly. “Your life. I’m off to see your friend Karppinen.”
21
Hella noticed Kukoyakka’s heavy frame as she was turning the corner of the street, and her first instinctive movement was to duck behind somebody’s picket fence. But as soon as she was hidden from her visitor’s view, she felt stupid. What if he came towards her? Or if someone else did? Her cheeks burning, she emerged resolutely from behind the fence, only to see Kukoyakka’s back and meaty thighs. He was already climbing into his monstrous truck.
Hella waited for a moment, then, as the truck switched into gear and trundled out of sight, slowly made her way to the Waltari house. She had a lot to think about.
That Karppinen man was very peculiar indeed. He had hated and despised his neighbour and he was jealous of everything Erno Jokinen possessed. He had a motive – the house. It was a good motive, a sound one. Much more sound than the one she had credited Father Timo with. Much more plausible than any idea of an international spy game that had crossed her mind.
He had opportunity – well, everyone in the village or even out of it had an opportunity, really. In the forest, there was no way of knowing. She would need to search his house for the murder weapon. She would do it on her next visit. Yes, Jeremias Karppinen was a very promising suspect indeed, and he had lied to her. Had he seen the woman? Was she another one of Erno’s sisters? If that was the case, with her white hands and polished nails she must have come from a city.
Smiling, Hella climbed the three steps that led to the Waltaris’ front door. She was glad Karppinen was proving to be a better suspect than the priest. She felt a little bit ashamed, too, for the way she’d spoken to Irja that morning.
The floor in the corridor of the Waltaris’ house had been freshly washed.
“Oh, you just missed him!” cried out Irja, her hands clutching a grey mop. “What a pity! He so wanted to see you! He left only a minute ago, maybe if you run —”
She stopped in her tracks, alarmed by the expression on Hella’s face.
“What?”
“I saw him. From a distance. I don’t know what he told you, but it’s most certainly not true.”
Irja blushed. “Good to hear that. He is certainly a very decent man, but … maybe you are a little bit ill-matched. He left a letter for you.”
Hella glanced at the letter. Lennart Eklund’s schoolboy handwriting, letters plump, a double bar on the t. Why was he writing to her so soon? There was no way he could have already received her letter about the dead woman.
She smiled at Irja, who was hovering expectantly by her side. “I’ll read it later. It can wait. There’s a number of things I need to do first. I need to talk to Kalle. I don’t understand why he’s so scared. Also, I need to know if there’s a connection between the dead woman and Erno. You told me he had another sister?”
“Yes, but no one’s seen her for a very long time. Look, can’t you wait before you talk to Kalle? He’s still so shaken up. Maybe if you wait a couple of days —”
“Mrs Waltari, I can’t wait a couple of days,” Hella explained patiently. “This is a murder investigation. And it’s not as if I’m going to bully the child. Please call him through.”
Irja frowned, but she called out nonetheless, “Kalle! Come over here, sweetie.”
“You can stay if you want to,” offered Hella. Why did this woman make her feel like a monster? She was just doing her job. She was a good person.
The boy stood trembling before her. She knelt before him, as they had taught her to during the training course. Kalle looked away.
“Kalle, I just want to know two things. And then you can go back and play.”
A doubtful expression spread over the boy’s face, but Hella persisted, her voice cheerful.
“Did your grandpa have a lady friend? Someone he was close to? Or did your aunt, not Martta, but another one, from the city, come over to see you?”
The boy shook his head, still without looking at her.
“I don’t think there was anyone really,” chirped Irja, eager to end this conversation. Hella glared at her.
“Are you sure, Kalle? It’s a natural thing, you know, to receive visits from friends and family. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“He didn’t have a lady friend,” whispered Kalle. “And I have no other aunt.” Hella had to lean close to him to make out the words.
“All right, Kalle, what are you afraid of? You’re safe here.”
No answer.
“Aren’t you? Safe?”
No answer.
“Are you afraid of your neighbour, Mr Karppinen?”
No answer.
Hella sighed. Having a young child as your only witness is every investigator’s nightmare. Even if he says something, how do you know that what he’s telling you is the truth? It’s hard enough with adults, who tell as many lies as children, and maybe even more than they do, but at least, being an adult yourself, you can have a pretty good idea of how your witness’s mind works. Not so with a child. And even if you are convinced that your child witness is not lying, you can never rely on his statements. What if he misinterpreted the situation? Did he even understand your question?
Her course instructor on witness interrogation had made it absolutely clear. Never trust a child witness. Don’t even ask. If you have no adult witnesses, work with the clues. But Hella couldn’t afford such luxury. For one, she didn’t have any real clues. And two, she was certain that Kalle knew a lot about what had happened. He was a bright child. If only he would talk!
Maybe it would have helped if her nephew was alive. She would have learned from being around him. Or – but she barely dared think about it – she could have had a child of her own. With Steve. A lovely, curly, cuddly boy who would have had his father’s sly smile, and they would all have lived together happily ever after.
Of course they would have done. You idiot, Hella. As it was, though, she had another undoubtedly lovely child standing in front of her, trembling, and she didn’t know what to do with him.
The priest’s wife must have felt Hella’s dismay, for she crouched next to the boy and asked Hella’s question in that cooing, soothing voice of hers. “Kalle, are you frightened because you’re not at home? Or are you afraid of someone?”
No answer.
“Is it a thing, or is it a person?”
A long, long silence. Hella started to open her mouth to repeat the question when the boy murmured, “A thing.”
“Where is it, Kalle?” Irja said, having placed her hand on Hella’s arm as if to say I’m better at this, don’t interrupt. A nasty comment sprang to Hella’s mind, but she swallowed it down for the sake of efficiency.
“Everywhere. In the village. In the forest. There are evil white things all over. Grandpa said so. He said he went to battle that evil thing and I was not to go looking for him. I wasn’t to tell anyone, either. It was Grandpa’s secret. And now the thing has taken him.”
He broke down sobbing and ran away. Hella looked at Irja Waltari. Either the woman was an excellent actress, or she, too, was lost as to what these “evil white things” could be. One thing was certain, though, Hella reflected gloomily. She was absolutely not suited to the work of a polissyster.
22
Every time she went into the spacious guest bedroom, Hella was taken back twenty years, to the house her family had occupied before the Winter War. Her room there had had the same scattering of flowers on the curtains, only there it had been roses instead of violets. The room also had the same floral smell, out of sync with the snowflakes that were dancing before her window. Probably potpourri forgotten on a shelf.
Hella collapsed onto the bed and ripped the envelope open. Lennart Eklund’s neat handwriting covered a whole page, and then some.
Sergeant Mauzer, blah-blah-blah, you will find here attached the SUPO file on Waltari, Timo and spouse. There exists no file on Jokinen, Erno.
That was quick, thought Hella, surprised. Usually, it took ages to receive a background file from the SUPO on anyone, and here it was ready almost before she’d even asked.
She pulled a yellowish paper file out of the envelope and leafed through it. Jesus Christ! Timo Waltari, born in Helsinki in May 1925, the fifth son of a university lecturer. Member of the Socialist Party at 15, a student protester and subversive element. Was it really the same man? She tried to imagine the priest in everyday clothes, armed with a Molotov cocktail, ready to throw it at the police. Was it the same idealism, the same desire to make the world a more equitable place, that had driven him later towards the Church? She read on, with a sick feeling. On 15 October 1939, Timo Waltari and two accomplices participated in a failed attempt to murder Juho Niukkanen, at the time the Finnish Minister of Defence. A shot was fired, but missed its target. Niukkanen escaped unharmed. While Timo Waltari was not the shooter, he was present at the scene. Following a spontaneous denunciation by one of the members of the terrorist group, the three attempted murderers were arrested and given different prison sentences. Timo Waltari, having played the least active role in the group, was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment and released from prison after three years for good conduct. Upon release, he immediately entered a seminary. To the knowledge of the SUPO, since that day he has kept clear of any political or terrorist movements. The church authorities appreciate his commitment and what they call his “good spirit”. He asked to be given a poor parish in Lapland, and was sent to Käärmela following the untimely death of Father Nikolai in 1951.
Hella stared at the file in disbelief. A student protester, that she could believe. But a terrorist? The SUPO wouldn’t lie, would they? A short typewritten note was attached to the document: Irja Teiva, married name Waltari. Born on 11 April 1925. Almost the same age as her, thought Hella, surprised. She had expected Irja to be much younger. She read on. Youngest daughter of a bankrupt porcelain manufacturer. Nothing else on her.
Did this new information change anything? Even if Timo Waltari had been associated with some past wrongdoing, could she draw a parallel with present events? Could an attempted assassination of a politician relate in any way whatsoever to the disappearance of an old peasant from Lapland? Hella decided that the answer was no. She picked up Eklund’s letter again.
… as you will see from the file, this couple is dangerous, blah-blah-blah. It is very unfortunate you chose to stay at their place. I suggest you find different accommodation …
He’s got to be kidding. He was the one who’d suggested she stay in their house. What was she supposed to do now, go and ask Martta Jokinen if she would take her in as an unpaid house guest?
… I remind you that strict compliance with the police procedures blah-blah-blah, utmost caution must be exercised, blah-blah-blah, nowhere near the Soviet border …
Been there already, thought Hella, found nothing. Though she would have loved to be able to present Eklund with a nice espionage story and watch him soil his underpants. As it was, though, she had a perfectly good suspect, a man by the name of Jeremias Karppinen. Or rather she’d had one before young Kalle started talking about the white evil. It sounded just like something out of a fairy tale. Could it be that he had misunderstood his grandfather’s explanation? That the “evil white things” were something completely different?
And please do not unnecessarily delay your return to Ivalo, concluded the letter.
“Just you wait,” hissed Hella. “I’ll be back when I’m done here, and not a day earlier.”
She folded the letter in two and slid it between the pages of her notebook. She needed time to think it over. Then she pulled a page out of the notebook and started to write her daily report to Eklund.
23
Kalle’s small hand trembled in hers as Irja knelt before the altar. All the villagers’ eyes were on them. There was Martta, wearing a garish red dress and no coat, a big smile plastered across her face. Kai, who had spent so many days combing the forest, and who looked more shaken now than when he had found the woman’s remains. There was Karppinen, standing apart from the crowd, his tiny features set in a disapproving pout. They had all come, and so had the rest of the village.
Timo recited the prayers in his beautiful voice. She had fallen in love with that voice first, and with the man later. She so much wanted for that voice to sing on a happy occasion. A wedding, a baptism. But there were not many of those in the village. The last wedding had been almost a year ago, the week after Anna Jokinen’s funeral.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner …”
But will He? wondered Irja. And why should He?
That was a discussion she and Timo kept having lately, and they could never agree with each other. Timo thought that His ways are mysterious, but whatever He does, He does for a good reason, even if we may not know it at the time, and sometimes maybe not even later. But Irja was not sure it was all so simple. For her, God was far, far away, and He had no interest in humans. That was why He let innocent children suffer. Because He didn’t even notice they existed.
Irja blinked away her tears. Kalle was not crying, but his mouth was a narrow line and his face was deathly pale. She clutched his hand firmly and bent to kiss the top of his head.
“You’re not alone, Kalle. Father Timo and I, we’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Sergeant Mauzer was there too. She was standing in a corner, not praying, not even pretending to. Her sharp gaze followed their every movement, and the message was clear: she was there to work. Irja wondered whether Sergeant Mauzer felt anything. She had only emerged from her room when it was time to go to church, and she was humming. This probably orphaned child, and the old man who was still missing, and that woman who had been so horribly killed, they were just cases to solve, nothing more, nothing less. Sergeant Mauzer’s life is so different from mine, Irja realized suddenly. It’s almost like we live on different planets.
Irja wondered what it would be like to never let anyone influence your choices. To care for no one else’s feelings. She thought of the day when, as a girl of nineteen, she had rushed home to tell her parents that her work had been noticed and praised, that a gallery in Paris had offered to exhibit her paintings. That her teacher thought she was really gifted. That she could become a great artist.
Her father, who was reading his newspaper by the fire, took his time finishing the page. He then folded his newspaper slowly and only after that looked up, but not at her. He glanced at her mother, who was hovering anxiously near the door.
“Has she gone mad?” he asked her. “I always thought those art lessons were a bad idea.”
Her mother, a small, timid woman, clasped her hands, rather like a Victorian heroine upon discovering that her fiancé has perished at sea. “I never thought that she would … Rouva Ivanova is such a respectable woman … How could I ever have imagined …”
Her voice faltered. Without another word, Irja’s father got to his feet and made for the door. He stopped when he reached the doorway.
“You are engaged to be married, young lady. You marry first, and if your husband lets you dabble with paint, it’s his business. You will do it under his name, not mine.”
Having said that, he left the room, while Irja groped for an explanation and her mother cried silently.
There was never again a discussion about her future as an artist. No more lessons, either – not only did her father refuse to pay for them, he refused to let her attend the lessons, even when Mrs Ivanova offered to teach her for free. A year later, Irja and Timo were wed in a small Orthodox church that had a tree growing inside, its trunk a few steps from the altar, its crown spreading above the roof. Her father, to whom she had not spoken for a year, suggested Irja take care of the wedding decorations, but she refused. And when Timo, her new husband, proposed that she resume her classes with Mrs Ivanova, or even that she go to Paris, she refused as well. She had turned that page in her life. No more art. She would be a devoted wife, an active member of the local community, and a mother, when her time came. It was her destiny, and it was enough. That was what she had decided on her wedding day, and she had kept to her decision with fierce determination. But now she was wondering.
Timo’s clear voice filled the church: “Again we pray for the repose of the servant of God who departed this life, and for the forgiveness of her every transgression, voluntary and involuntary. Lord have mercy.”
