Evil Things E-Book

Katja Ivar

• Herausgeber: Bitter Lemon Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 388

Beschreibung

Hella Mauzer was the first ever woman Inspector in the Helsinki Homicide Unit. But her superiors deemed her too 'emotional' for the job and had her reassigned. Now, two years later, she is working in Lapland for the Ivalo police department under Chief Inspector Järvi, a man more interested in criminal statistics and his social life than police work. They receive a letter from Irja Waltari, a priest's wife from the village of Käärmela on the Soviet border, informing them of the disappearance of Erno Jokinen, a local. Hella jumps at the chance to investigate. Järvi does not think that a crime is involved. After all, people disappear all the time in the snows of Finland. When she arrives, Hella stays the village priest and his wife, who have taken in Erno's grandson who refuses to tell anyone his grandfather's secret. A body is then discovered in the forest and she realizes that she was right; a crime has been committed. A murder. But what Hella doesn't know, is that the small village of Käärmela is harbouring another crime, a crime so evil, it is beyond anything any of them could have ever imagined.

Leseprobe

Katja Ivar grew up in Russia and the US. She travelled the world extensively, from Almaty to Ushuaia, from Karelia to Kyushu, before finally settling in Paris, where she lives with her husband and three children. She received a BA in Linguistics and a master’s degree in Contemporary History from Sorbonne University. Evil Things is her debut novel.

EVIL THINGS

Katja Ivar

BITTER LEMON PRESS

First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Bitter Lemon Press, 47 Wilmington Square, London WC1X 0ET

© Katja Ivar, 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher.

The moral right of Katja Ivar has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978–1–912242–09-2

eBook ISBN 978–1–912242–10-8

Typeset by Tetragon

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR40 4YY

To Marguerite

“Hell is empty, / And all the devils are here.”

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

The Tempest, Act I, Scene ii

Content

Introduction

MONDAY 13 OCTOBER 1952

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

TUESDAY 14 OCTOBER

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

WEDNESDAY 15 OCTOBER

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

THURSDAY 16 OCTOBER

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

FRIDAY 17 OCTOBER

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

SATURDAY 18 OCTOBER

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

MONDAY 20 OCTOBER

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

TUESDAY 21 OCTOBER

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Introduction

It was only at the time of the Russian Revolution, after almost a thousand years of foreign rule, that Finland declared itself an independent nation. Gone were the days when it was ruled by the Russian tsars; nor was it Swedish Österland any longer. Finland had a lot on its plate – establishing democracy, rebuilding its economy and consolidating its national identity – but its biggest issue was the management of the country’s foreign relations. After all, Finland had the questionable privilege of having the longest frontier with the Soviet Union, while St Petersburg, the epicentre of the Russian Revolution, lay just eighteen miles from the Finnish border. That fact alone made Finland the object of close attention from the Soviet bear – and from the Western civilization that saw it as its weak link. Thus began for Finland a balancing act of guarding its independence in the shadow of its terrifying neighbour.

The emancipation of Finland coincided with the emancipation of its women. With men at war, it was Finnish women who fought to rebuild the country, engaging in a number of previously unheard-of activities: driving, factory work … and policing – another endeavour that was not to everyone’s taste, least of all those who, in the 1950s, still viewed female officers as lesser beings who could only be trusted with body searches on female suspects and taking care of children brought into custody. Undeterred, the female police officers took advantage of their country’s emancipation to think for themselves. Aloud.

Evil Things takes place in Finnish Lapland in 1952.

MONDAY 13 OCTOBER 1952

1

She had to squint hard to see where the village was. Just a tiny speck of grey on the map, buried deep in the crevices of that ancient, frozen land. Surrounded by marshes and hills bristling with low, crooked shrubs typical of the permafrost. Inhabited mostly by Skolt Sami, indigenous people who lived off the land, hunting and fishing. Not exactly a tourist destination.

She must have been out of her mind to have insisted on going there. And to do what? To solve a crime that her boss didn’t even believe was one.

“It sounds just like an accident to me,” Chief Inspector Eklund said, his full lips pursed.

He was standing next to her by the map that hung on the wall of his newly refurbished, obsessively clean office that reeked inexplicably of fish oil.

“It could be a crime,” said Hella. She was careful not to sound too sure, too forceful. Eklund didn’t like her bossy attitude, as he called it, and for better or worse she was stuck with Eklund.

“An old man, practically a recluse, goes missing from his home. Not a crime. He probably got lost in the forest, or drowned in a marsh. Or went over the Soviet border like they all do, got drunk on local Kremlevskaya and forgot who he even was. There’s nothing to it.”

“He was born in that forest. He couldn’t possibly have got lost. And I don’t believe he went binge-drinking with the Soviets either. He left a young child behind. His grandson.”

“Oh, that’s why!” Eklund lifted an accusatory finger. “He left a child behind! Of course, that immediately makes you think he was the victim of a crime. Mind you, I understand why you’d react like this, I really do, but that doesn’t make his disappearance a crime. Accidents happen. All the time. And that old man probably wasn’t the doting grandpa you imagine.”

Lennart Eklund went back to his desk and dropped into his brand-new swivel chair, making it squeak under his weight. For him, this conversation was over. Not for Hella. She went on, her voice loud and clear, all her prudent resolutions forgotten.

“So this priest’s wife, Mrs Waltari, writes to the police saying that an old man has gone missing, leaving a child behind, that it’s been six days since he was last seen, that she’s worried, and you’re telling me we do nothing? We just file her letter in one of our neat archive boxes and forget about it?”

Eklund looked up at her, puzzled. “Police work isn’t about passion. It isn’t about people being worried. It’s about doing what is good – what is useful – efficient. It’s up to us to decide what’s best for this community. Which cases warrant our involvement, and which do not.”

“Well, I guess we should just throw it away, then,” said Hella. “The letter, I mean. Destroy the evidence. Because if there really has been a crime, and we’ve been told about it but haven’t solved it, it will ruin our hundred per cent record.”

Her boss shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and she knew she had made her point. For Chief Inspector Eklund, police work held little interest, but he had a passion for neatness and efficiency. Under his direction, the Ivalo police district currently boasted the best crime resolution rate in the country, and even if the crimes they solved consisted only of petty thefts at the timber factory and the odd case of a poisoned dog, it didn’t matter. Only the numbers mattered to him.

And now Eklund was hesitating, his plump hands playing with a paper clip, his pale blue eyes fixed on something just above her left shoulder.

“We can write back to Mrs Waltari, explaining that her concern has been noted but that at this time of the year the risk of the police being caught up in a snowfall is just too great. We can tell her we’ll return to our investigation, if there is an investigation, in May next year, when the snow starts to melt and … at least, there could be something tangible …”

His voice trailed off, but she understood exactly what he was getting at.

“And if there is a body, we just find it when the spring comes?” she snapped. “Really? That is, unless that body has been eaten by wolves or bears, in which case we can still carry on pretending there was no crime?” Unable to stop, she added, rather viciously: “Is that your golden standard of police work?Just ignoring cases when the weather conditions are too harsh?”

She had gone too far. Even a placid man like Lennart Eklund couldn’t take it any longer. She half expected him to throw her out of his office, or lecture her on the virtues of subordination, but what he said hit her far harder.

“Why are you pushing this, my dear? You’re a woman. You can’t go out there alone, can you? And both Inspector Ranta and I are very busy right now. Take my advice, forget about it. I’m not talking to you as your superior, but as an older, wiser friend. There’s that ball next week everyone is talking about. Put on a dress if you have one, and go. Or you can borrow a shawl and some make-up from Esmeralda. Her dresses would probably be a bit large in the chest for you, but I’m sure we could find you something …” He paused, thinking, his gaze summing up her body. “Kukoyakka from the timber factory seems to quite like you. Maybe he just has a thing for women who are” – Eklund hesitated, in search of a word that would describe her best, then brightened as he found it – “angular.”

Hella winced. Angular. For once, he was bang on target.

And now he was wagging his fat index finger at her, a Victorian father admonishing his irrational daughter, his problem child. “You’d better not miss that opportunity; another one might never come along.”

She looked at him in a blind rage, which he as usual didn’t notice, or at any rate recognize. “And why is that, may I ask, sir?”

He looked at her in bewilderment. “Well, men have been scarce since the war, you know that as well as I do. For women your age, given your past and, well, your present, finding one would be a miracle. I mean, being a polissyster is a very honourable profession and you can quite legitimately be proud of yourself for that, but that’s surely not all you’re looking for in life.”

Hella breathed in, slowly, counting to ten to cool off. This conversation was taking an unexpected turn. Was Eklund manipulating her, acting provocatively so she would forget about the crime and focus on her own inadequacies? Or was he just a hectoring middle-aged fool who really thought that pointing out her bleak future was his duty as her superior?

She could have answered him in several ways. That she was not a polissyster, for a start. True, she had trained as one, because when she had started her studies women were not yet allowed to be fully fledged officers, and her ambition had been to join the police. But after she graduated, and other options did become possible, she took an advanced course at the police academy that put her on a par with her male colleagues. She had been an inspector in Helsinki, for God’s sake, even though she knew that was not an argument she could use.

Or, she, too, could get personal. She could say she had noticed that his right-hand cuff button was missing and that there was an old grease stain on his tie, that it could mean only one of two things: either his wife, the strikingly exotic Esmeralda, was touring Southern Europe again, leaving her bland Finnish life behind, or else she was beyond caring. Hella could have also told him that she’d rather die than marry Kukoyakka, a fifty-something logging truck driver – a truck driver! – who only had one eye and whose breath stank of decay. But she chose not to say anything. Instead, she turned her attention to the map again, and with her index finger followed the jagged line of the road that led from Ivalo to the village of Käärmela. In October, the timber factory trucks went up north every day, working overtime to get as many pine trunks out of the forest as possible before the roads became impassable. And from the logging camp, she could reach Käärmela by foot in a couple of hours. It was doable. She could even try to convince one of the truck drivers to make a detour to Käärmela. She looked at Chief Inspector Eklund again. He was slumped behind his desk, his weary glance following her movements, his mouth pursed tight as a rosebud. As if powered by their own free will, his sausage-like fingers fumbled through a pale blue folder, the cover of which read, in block letters, STAFF EXPENSES.

“How about I take a couple of days off work and pop to the village?” she asked brightly. “I’ve always been interested in northern architecture, especially Orthodox churches. Those people are Orthodox, aren’t they? The Skolts usually are. Where I come from, we don’t have that sort of thing.” She looked at him expectantly.

The chief inspector sighed and, with visible effort, forced himself to meet her gaze. She could almost see the little wheels turning in his brain, weighing up the risks and benefits of giving in on this one for the sake of office peace. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was afraid of her. Or maybe not of her exactly, but of dealing with her. Then, reluctantly, he said:

“You’re a nuisance, Mauzer, do you know that? Your parents must have entertained false hopes when they called you Hella the Gentle. Still, if you have nothing better to do, if you insist, go and see for yourself. Take your vacation, and if you uncover a murder, we’ll count it as duty time. If that’s the case – and it won’t be, I assure you – write every day to inform me of your progress.” He paused, staring at her as if she was some previously unheard-of species. “The village is nice, little log cabins with ornately carved windows, if you like that sort of thing. You can stay with Waltari and his wife. I hear she’s a great cook. Just don’t wander anywhere near the Soviet border – the last thing you’d want is to wake up the Soviet bear, so to speak – and be back before Monday. The winter snow could start any day now, and when it does, the road up north will be cut off. I can’t afford to lose one of my agents. Ivalo needs you.”

He smiled, in what he clearly hoped to be a fatherly, reassuring manner, and poured himself some water from a plain glass carafe set on his desk. She could see little beads of perspiration on his baby-smooth forehead.

Of course you need me, she thought. After all, her boss didn’t have much choice. The department consisted only of herself, Eklund and old Inspector Ranta, who spent most of his time at the sauna and whose last solved case dated back to before the war. If she was stuck in Käärmela for the whole of winter, Eklund would actually have to drag his backside out of his comfortable, tidy, overheated office and do some messy detective work. His superiors in Helsinki would expect him to. No hiding behind paperwork, behind regulations and staff reports. And it was not like he had any chance of hiring a replacement for her. No one in their right mind would willingly choose the sort of life they led here. Ivalo, the dullest city on earth, without contest. Buried under ten feet of snow for half of the year.

Aloud, she only said:

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can, sir. You have my word. I have no intention of spending six months in a priest’s wife’s kitchen, getting fat on pancakes and listening to her stories. I’ll be back in no time.”

Then – because her superiors in Helsinki had once told her that if she didn’t learn to rein in her temper she would end up thrown out of the police – she forced herself to smile at him.

2

If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that Eklund had a point. In the coniferous taiga forest, people got lost all the time. Granted, they were usually young children or the very old, and the missing peasant, Erno Jokinen, was neither; but still, it was possible. So why had she insisted so hard that this particular disappearance be investigated? Did she want it to be murder, so she’d have something to sink her teeth into?

Hella shuffled down the corridor to her poky little office. From a distance, she heard Anita’s clear voice, singing a joik. Warbling like some Laplandic nightingale. Anita was a distant cousin of Ranta, which was how she’d got her job on the reception desk, but luckily she and Ranta had nothing in common.

Humming to the tune, Hella reached her office – H. MAUZER, POLISSYSTER read the sign, erroneously – noticed that the door was ajar, and stormed into the reception area.

“Hel-lo there, Sergeant!” Anita cried enthusiastically. “What do you think?” The girl swung round in her chair.

What did she think of what? Anita’s pink floral dress, so much at odds with the drab office furniture? She’d already worn it last week. Hella was almost sure of that. Her deerskin boots? Old stuff. Her new hairdo maybe, a French twist with a blonde lock sweeping across her forehead?

Anita came to her rescue. “My lips!Just look at them! It’s this new lip gloss called ‘Cherry on the Cake’. Someone – a friend – brought it for me from Helsinki. Isn’t it lovely?” she said, batting her lashes.

“It is,” Hella acknowledged. “If Perry Como dropped by, he’d fall for you. Absolutely. Do I have any messages?”

She had been asking this very same question twice a day, every day, for two years now, and the answer was almost always “no”. Even when it was “yes”, the messages were not what she was hoping for. They were never from Helsinki. Never from Steve.

“I’m sorry, no.”

Hella turned abruptly, heading back to her office. She hadn’t left her door open when she went to see Eklund. She was certain of that. The door didn’t shut properly until it was pulled all the way, and the door handle tilted at a certain angle. She had got used to it, knew its tricks, but Ranta didn’t. Each time he crept into or out of her office, he’d accidentally leave the door ajar. She peeked inside. No one. Her colleague – her superior, even – was done with his little inspection. Hella wondered if he’d taken something this time. Ranta never went for big, really noticeable things, but he had a fondness for paper clips, and every once in a while he’d spirit away her comb. She had spent months wondering what he did with them, and if he was a hair fetishist, but the explanation turned out to be very simple: Ranta offered the three combs he’d pinched from her to Anita, as a Christmas gift. Hella had found this out on the first working day of the year, when a blushing Anita had given the combs back to her, whispering, “They are pretty, aren’t they? Please keep them locked away.”

And so she did. She had learned to lock her desk drawer, in which she kept her notes, her unsent letters to Steve and the yellow toy bus. She had developed a habit of scooping up everything that was on her desk and stuffing it in the drawer every time she left her office, even to go to the bathroom. Still Ranta prowled around.

With a heavy sigh, Hella fumbled in her pocket for the key to the drawer.

“Oh, by the way!” Anita again, slightly out of breath. “I nearly forgot. There’s a package for you. From Helsinki. Something heavy.”

She was carrying a sturdy wooden crate, making a big show of how heavy it was.

“Where shall I put it? Do you want a claw hammer?”

What if I don’t want to open it? thought Hella, but said nothing. Anita meant well. She motioned to her desk, and together they tore off the lid.

“Oh …” whispered Anita, disappointed. “Gherkins. Is it a gift from your grandmother?”

“Sort of.”

Hella lined up the jars on the windowsill, hoping that Anita would go away, but the girl lingered.

“Would you like me to water your plant?” She motioned to Hella’s aspidistra, a welcome gift from her colleagues, which was dying by the radiator.

“I’ll be away working on a new case, starting from tomorrow,” said Hella, just to get rid of the girl. “Could you take care of it while I’m gone?”

Anita could, of course, and would be delighted to. Absolutely. A couple of minutes later, having ensured that the plant, her closest friend in town, would survive, Hella ushered the receptionist away, mumbling words of gratitude. She shut her door and got to work.

She needed to leave everything in order. Order and method, as Eklund would say, for whom these two words took the place of a religion. Order and method. She pulled a stack of files out of her drawer and spread them out on her desk. Red was for urgent matters. The beggar Lahti urinating on Dr Gummerus’ doorstep, for example. Dr Gummerus was a pompous ass, and as far as Hella was concerned, deserved Lahti’s urine. But of course she couldn’t say that out loud. Dr Gummerus was a respected member of the local community, and as such had to be treated with deference. Therefore, she was expected to (a) investigate, (b) punish Lahti and (c) stop him from doing it again. Exactly how she was supposed to deal with the problem remained unclear. They did have a holding cell at the station, a one-room affair with a folding bed and a door secured by a bolt, which was out the back next to the neighbour’s chicken coop, but the room had no heating, so she couldn’t very well put the beggar in there, even for a couple of hours. The doctor knew that, of course. He even had a theory that Lahti only urinated on his doorstep during the cold months exactly because there was no way he could be punished. Well, maybe the doctor was right. Maybe she should threaten Lahti with a deferred arrest, if such a thing existed. Hella decided that she would discuss the idea with Eklund before she left.

She pushed the red file to one side and picked up a green one. Policies, regulations and monitoring. Eklund’s favourite, the apple of his eye. That file was bulky. Some days, it seemed to her that working on policies and regulations was all she ever did. Monitoring the evolution of the crime rate, broken down by types of crime (misdemeanours, petty thefts, serious offences), by geographic location (Ivalo, Nellim, the rest of Lapland), and its evolution quarter by quarter. Comparisons with the national statistics and those of the neighbouring regions. Beautifully typed reports that no one ever read. She was supposed to finish her latest quarter-on-quarter comparison and present it to a solemn Eklund and a sneering Ranta before the end of the following week. She sighed. Two years and counting, and she was poised to still be working on green files until she retired unless a white knight from Helsinki charged down to save her. Only Helsinki had no more white knights than Ivalo had criminals, so she’d do better to forget about it and focus on more immediate matters.

Her trip to Käärmela, for instance. Maybe she’d been wrong to have insisted on it. Still, now that she had started, she might as well do the thing properly. She leafed through the green file. Eklund had a policy for this, too. Here it was, clearly printed. Before incurring any expenses, obtain an in-principle approval from your superiors. That one was easy: she didn’t expect to incur any expenses. Next. Check the background of all involved parties with the Security Intelligence Service. The Suojelupoliisi. Another one of Eklund’s obsessions. Making sure communists, and other dangerous specimens of humanity, were properly labelled.

She wondered if this was really necessary. She was going on vacation, after all. But what if she really found something untoward when she arrived in the village? She supposed she’d better do things by the book.

Hella dutifully inserted a sheet of paper into her brand-new typewriter and typed a short letter to the regional representative of the SUPO listing the names Erno Jokinen, one Mr Waltari, Orthodox priest, and one Mrs Waltari, his wife. Then she carried the letter to the reception area and entrusted it to Anita, who was listening to the radio, her head cocked to one side.

“I’m waiting for the local news,” she explained to Hella. “They might say something about the dance.”

Hella nodded. The dance was the biggest event of the year for Anita. Her dress, a flimsy, pale green tulle affair, had been ready for months. Although Hella had never seen it – Anita was wary of actually showing the dress to anybody – she still felt she was able to describe every tiny rosebud button, every seam on it.

“I had second thoughts about my hairdo,” whispered Anita. “Should I try and wear it —”

Hella was no longer listening. The newsreader’s clipped voice cut into her thoughts.

… increasing tensions with the Soviet Union, which is protesting against what they describe as spying incidents and numerous violations on the Soviet–Finnish border. While the claim is not specific, its undertones are perfectly …

“— or even a ponytail,” said Anita. “What do you think?”

“A ponytail is a great idea,” replied Hella in a voice that left no room for further discussion. “It will give you distinction. Horses are noble animals.” Leaving Anita to ponder her advice, she hurried back to her office.

The last two recommendations in the file concerned the proper equipment to take along on an investigation, and the correct procedure when filling in expense reports. Hella closed the file and stared at the aspidistra. The plant was shedding its leaves. Maybe Anita was right. Maybe it craved water. Suddenly desperate to get at least something right, she picked up the carafe that stood on her desk and emptied all the water it contained into the aspidistra pot. She then watched, fascinated, as the cracked earth absorbed every last drop of it.

She had never regretted what she had done that day in Helsinki, and she was not going to start now. She had made the right choice, and the jars of gherkins that filtered the pale October light on her windowsill were there to prove it.

3

Once again, Irja was telling the little boy who crouched motionless next to the stove that he shouldn’t worry, that his grandpa would be back soon, any time now, really. Over the last four days, she’d kept repeating it like a mantra: don’t worry, Kalle, he went to the city, you know how it is, it takes time, and maybe he’s been hunting along the way, or else he’s bringing you something special. Kalle smiled absent-mindedly and nodded, but he clearly didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t blame him for that. What she was saying was a lie. The boy knew it, and she knew it, and all the curious villagers who stopped by her house to inquire about the boy knew it too. Old Erno was not coming back.

Irja looked at the boy, frowning. He hadn’t said a word since he’d first arrived at her house earlier that week, brought in by a sour-looking old woman who lived in a crooked little log cabin on the outskirts of the village. Irja barely knew her. Still, the woman had come in without knocking, without even taking her shoes off. She had walked over to the kitchen table, stubbornly dragging the little boy behind her, and had seated herself on the bench. The boy had sat down as well, but he hadn’t looked up at Irja nor had he answered her greetings.

Martta, that awful woman, had looked at Irja in defiance.

“You’re a priest’s wife,” she said. “You should know.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Irja. “Know what?”

“Know what to do with him. Stubborn as a goat, that kid is. Was refusing to leave the house. Had to spank him. And now he refuses to open his mouth to eat. Cries all the time. Screams in his sleep. Wets his bed.”

“What is he doing with you?” Irja had crouched next to the boy. “Kalle? Where is your grandfather?”

“Missing,” explained the woman, matter-of-factly. “Gone. Surely dead. He” – she pointed at the boy – “he would have been dead too, if I hadn’t found him.”

“What happened to your grandpa, Kalle?” Irja had asked, ignoring the woman. “Do you know where he went?”

The boy had shaken his head without looking at her.

“But still, something happened, right? Is he …?”

She didn’t dare ask Martta outright if Erno was dead.

“He won’t say a word,” the woman had snorted. “He’s stupid, more likely than not. Just like his dear grandpa. Had to drag him out of the house, while he was screaming and trying to grab hold of the furniture. I should have just left him there, alone, but the place was freezing and there was no food.”

Irja had stared at the woman, appalled. What kind of person was she? Still, she had probably saved the child’s life. Kalle and his grandfather kept to themselves, barely venturing into the village. Apart from Timo, no one ever saw them, and even Timo didn’t see them often. Weeks could have passed without anyone knowing that the old man had disappeared.

“Do you know where Erno went?” Irja asked the woman. She remembered stories about her. Martta was a relation of the old man, but they were not close. And there were rumours of a conflict, of an old dispute, which, left unresolved, had grown out of proportion and dragged on for decades.

“Don’t know and don’t care. The Devil can have him if he wants. And you can have the boy. Maybe it’ll do you good.”

The old woman had got to her feet, straightening her grey wool skirt, tugging at her sleeves. She had barely looked at the boy, who sat like a little wooden statue, his back straight, his hands folded demurely in his lap. Only his nose, which was wet, was twitching like that of a little rabbit. Irja’s heart sank. Would she be able to take care of the child until the disappearance of old Erno had been cleared up? And what would happen next? His mother had died some months ago. Kalle didn’t have a father. Would social services take him? As if he was reading her thoughts, the little boy wriggled nervously on his bench, and a single tear ran down his dirt-smeared cheek.

“Kalle?” whispered Irja. “I’ll take care of you. I promise. And I will do everything in my power to find your grandpa, because I know how much you love him and how much he loves you.”

She had hugged the boy and held him close to her, whispering reassuring words into his ear. Her old grey cat, Seamus, had sauntered over to the boy and sniffed his hand. Seamus must have liked what he smelled because he had jumped onto the bench and settled next to the child. It was a good sign. Seamus was not the kind of cat to easily warm to strangers. If he took a liking to little Kalle, maybe it would help the boy recover. Animals are great for that sort of thing, soothing the wounded and the sad, comforting those who have lost their loved ones.

After a while, the boy’s breathing slowed. He had fallen asleep. Irja had carried him to her own bed and covered him with a bright quilt, with Seamus at his side.

Then, she had pulled a sheet of paper out of the desk drawer and had started to write her letter to the police. She had sent it the very same day, rather like a bottle that a prisoner on a desert island throws into the ocean, but she didn’t allow herself to think about that too much. Maybe in some places, in other countries, ordinary citizens could rely on the police to help them. Maybe. She was not so sure the same applied to the godforsaken strip of frozen land they called home.

TUESDAY 14 OCTOBER

4

When Hella was a child, growing up in Helsinki, her teachers had tried to teach her gratitude. They talked about it in ringing voices, like it was the most important thing on earth. Not compassion, not honesty or curiosity. Gratitude.

“You have to be thankful for what you’ve got, Hella! When you say ‘Thank you’, it should come from your heart! You are a very lucky little girl; you should count your blessings and address a short prayer to our Lord, thanking Him for all He’s done for you!”

Then, usually, seeing that she wouldn’t oblige, they’d start recounting her blessings themselves. In doing so, her teachers mixed up some really important things. The new toy she had got at Christmas was mentioned in the same sentence as her grandmother, an old woman with a moustache, who smelled of mothballs and whom Hella was afraid of and never wanted to visit. Most significantly, while they usually mentioned the fact that – in contrast to many children whose fathers had fallen in the wars that opposed the Soviet Union – young Hella still had both of her parents, they never mentioned her parents’ professions. It never failed to amaze her. Having parents, just ordinary parents, was one thing. But the family she had was something completely different. Something to be proud of, even though at that time she mostly took it for granted.

Maybe I should have done as I was told, thought Hella grimly, her eyes fixed on the desolate landscape outside her window, with its crooked yellowish shrubs and scattered stones. Maybe if she had really been grateful, things would have turned out differently for her. Of course, it was no use thinking about it now. Rearranging the past. Thinking of what she might have done differently. It was no use and it led her nowhere. She’d do better to start packing.

Her bulky pigskin suitcase stayed under the bed. It would be impossible to carry around if she ever had to cover part of the road on foot. As a result, she decided to put all her stuff into a backpack, which meant she had to drastically limit the number of things she took with her. From a pine wardrobe that stood in a corner of her room, she pulled out a couple of sweaters and a pair of trousers. She added some sensible walking shoes, and warm flannel pyjamas. And a coffee pot, adorned with the Paulig company’s Paula Girl in her traditional costume, smiling away. She wasn’t sure whether they had coffee in Käärmela. Even in Ivalo, she could only buy it with rationing tickets, and only at the beginning of each month.

She wondered where she would be sleeping in the priest’s house. Would she have a bedroom of her own, or have to doze off in the middle of the living room? It was possible. She had forgotten to ask if the priest and his wife had a big family. She had heard that the Orthodox servants of God were the ones who usually had the largest families, apparently with the idea of setting an example to their parishioners. She tried to picture herself sitting in a hot, low-ceilinged room, trying to question a suspect while little children crawled all over her, picked up her pen and tore pages out of her notebook. She sighed. What a change from her previous position in Helsinki, where she’d been the first woman ever to work in the homicide squad. Interesting, complex cases, envious glances from her male subordinates, an apartment with a sea view smack in the middle of the city. Real power. But she had decided that she would not dwell on her past. So, walking shoes then. And socks. And a notebook. A small, hand-embroidered bag into which she put her toothbrush and a small jar of face cream, her last concession to femininity. Her hairbrush wouldn’t fit into the bag, so she put it directly next to her clothes. She was ready. She had already decided that she would carry her gun on her, in the handgun holster under her parka. The armed conflict in the countryside had ended more than six years ago, but still, you never knew who you might encounter in the woods. And of course there was also the fact that she had to travel to the village with Seppo Kukoyakka. The other logging truck drivers set off early, sometimes before 6 a.m., and she would have preferred to go with one of them, but they hadn’t wanted to give her a lift and had told her so to her face. She’d had to settle for Kukoyakka. Because he had just one eye, he left the timber factory much later than the others, once the sun had risen and he could see the road properly.

Just thinking about Kukoyakka and his huge Sisu truck made her shudder. Would he try to push his luck and maybe make advances to her? She struggled to imagine how she would react if he did. She couldn’t shoot him, after all. Not after what had happened in Helsinki. But then what? She once read a book by the French writer Stendhal where the main character, a young and beautiful girl called Lemiel, had to travel in the company of lecherous men. To avoid being disturbed, Lemiel had deliberately made herself ugly. The girl had smeared her face with some sort of paste which gave her skin a sore, blistery appearance.

Hella sat down heavily and stared at the oval mirror which hung next to the wardrobe. Should she try something similar? But it was probably unnecessary. It was not like she was some irresistible beauty. A gap-toothed woman of around thirty, bony rather than curvy. Angular. All elbows and grit, as Steve would say. Freckled, too, which was really unjust because her eyes were black and her hair dark. How could anyone have a redhead’s complexion and not be a redhead? If Kukoyakka was tempted nonetheless, well, it was just too bad for him. She wouldn’t hesitate to pull out her gun. Even if it meant that he rushed off to complain to Eklund about her.

This thought made her smile. If it hadn’t been for her past, she would have loved for something like that to happen. She could imagine the rumours – the plain girl from Helsinki, the police sergeant, had had to shoot a man who had tried to come on to her. It would prove to them once and for all that she was an attractive woman, that men fell for her, even if one-eyed Kukoyakka was not exactly a catch, with his large behind and his beer belly. Still, he was a man, and, as Eklund kept saying, men were scarce these days, so attention from one of them was something. That would shut them up for good, them being her landlady, Mrs Tiramaki, who had lately got into the habit of clicking her tongue with disapproval each time she encountered her, and Eklund, who kept comparing her to his wife – Mrs Eklund this, and Mrs Eklund that, as if she was a template for all women. Hella had to recognize that he was not alone in his admiration. In this town the exotic Mrs Eklund, with her pitch-black hair (which Hella supposed was straight out of a tube), her long eyelashes and her tiny, upturned nose, was the beauty queen and the trendsetter. When last spring the local dressmaker had got his hands on a stock of crimson chiffon adorned with tiny black dots, the entire female population of Ivalo, from pimply teenagers to toothless matrons, had stormed the shop, ready to pay any price, and even sell their souls if need be, for a chance to wear a flamenco dress, one of Esmeralda’s signature styles. Eklund, meaning well, had let Hella have the afternoon off that day. She’d never dared tell him that she had spent that time doing something she never had an opportunity to do when her landlady was present, which was just about always. Locked in her room, the radio set to full blast during Steve’s Music Hour, she had danced away and cried her eyes out. The swollen eyes had come in useful when she presented herself at the police station the following day, pitifully reporting that the last piece of fabric had been sold to the woman in line just before her. That Hella would rather die than look like Esmeralda Eklund was beyond the chief inspector’s imagination, and it was just as well. She had more of an incentive to make things work here than he did.

She cast her mind back to their last conversation, and once again she wondered why Eklund had decided to become a police officer. With his love of neatness and order, with his passion for regulations, he could have made a good accountant. Maybe even a corporate lawyer. But a policeman? Hadn’t he had a choice in the matter? Or had young Lennart Eklund been different to the man he had become? She decided that one day she would ask him. Not directly, of course, but she would try to find a way. Even though it was possible that he himself had long since forgotten the answer, absorbed as he was in mountains of paperwork that created for him a comforting illusion of reality.

5

Jeremias Karppinen was the tiniest man Irja had ever seen. Which was just as well, because he was also the angriest. Just under five feet tall, wiry and cadaverous-looking, he was the embodiment of pure hatred. At first, she had thought she was provoking this reaction in him. She had wondered whether maybe he was against the Church or in conflict with religion. Or maybe he had his own reasons for hating women. Then she realized that it had nothing to do with her, or with women, or with the Church. It was just the way he was. She understood this the day she saw him drowning his dog’s pups in the marsh. Here in the countryside, lots of people did it, out of necessity. But Jeremias Karppinen had taken pleasure in it. He had lingered next to the slowly sinking bag until it disappeared with a soft swish and the muffled sounds of crying puppies could no longer be heard. Then he had walked away, slowly, a large smile spreading across his tiny face.

Now he was sitting opposite her at the kitchen table, his fingers curved like claws around a glass that he had picked up without asking. His nails were black and split.

“Do you have any grog?” he asked her casually, extending the glass towards her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.” Irja averted her eyes, afraid he would read her like an open book. For you, she wanted to say, I do not have any grog for you. He was aggressive enough already; drunk, he would become violent. She noticed that Kalle had disappeared as soon as he had heard Karppinen’s deep barking, so incongruous in a man his size. Irja supposed Kalle had climbed on top of the Russian stove, even though the flowery curtains that hid the makeshift bed above the stove were not moving. If Kalle was indeed hidden there, he was lying perfectly still.

“Or dumplings?” Karppinen cast an exaggerated glance towards the stove, the open door of which revealed a cooking pot.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit early for dinner,” said Irja drily. To her, the Christian tradition of hospitality had its limits, and Jeremias Karppinen was definitely on the other side of that division. “Did you come to inquire about Kalle’s well-being?”

Which was a polite way of asking if he had come to snoop around. That was what most villagers did. They dropped by under the pretence of asking how the boy was faring, but all they really wanted to know was gossip. Was it really possible for no one to have any information about old Erno’s disappearance? And when were the police coming? And how come her husband, Timo, who had been out and about searching for the old man, had still not found anything?

Some people, a minority, did come with good intentions. They brought her pierogies, jars of home-made lingonberry jam, and warm clothes for Kalle. The men accompanied Timo in his search. The women sat next to Kalle, caressing his hair, telling him everything was going to be all right. Yes, there were good people in the village. But Jeremias Karppinen was not one of them, and Irja doubted very much that he had come to offer his help.

“I came to offer my help,” proclaimed the little man sententiously, but just as Irja was starting to wonder if she had been wrong about him, he spoke again, shattering her illusions. “I have decided that I will buy the house.”

He smiled, baring his sharp white teeth, triangular like those of a cat, and waited for her answer. A tiny, muffled sound came from the bed above the stove.

“I beg your pardon?” Irja was not sure she had heard him correctly. “What house?”

“The boy’s house,” explained Karppinen, his eyes greedy and excited. He was starting to lose his patience. “The boy doesn’t need it; he can live with you. So I’m offering to buy the house.” He fumbled in the breast pocket of his green army shirt, then pulled out several crumpled banknotes. Six hundred markka. The price of six and a half pounds of fresh fish at Ivalo’s market.

Karppinen pushed the money towards her. He was already rising from the bench.