Trouble E-Book

Katja Ivar

• Herausgeber: Bitter Lemon Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Helsinki, June 1953, at the heart of the Cold War. Hella, now a reluctant private investigator, has been asked by her former boss at the Helsinki murder squad to do a background check on a member of the Finnish secret services. Not the type of job Hella was hoping for, but she accepts it on the condition that she is given access to the files concerning the roadside death of her father in 1942.Colonel Mauzer was killed by a truck in a hit and run incident. An accident, file closed, they say. But not for Hella, whose unwelcome investigation leads to some who would prefer to see her stopped dead in her tracks.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR

THE HELLA MAUZER SERIES

Evil Things

“This is a remarkable debut – the best novel I’ve read this year. A historical thriller with a heart that keeps you enthralled to the final page.”

David Young, author of A Darker State and Stasi Child

“Ivar’s stellar first novel revolves around two crucial struggles for emancipation – that of the nation of Finland after centuries of foreign rule, and that of Finnish women.”

Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

“In the strange, enclosed world of 1950s Lapland, when detective Mauzer arrives to investigate the case of a missing grandfather – it will take all her nascent feminist courage to right the wrongs she uncovers.”

Sunday Times, Crime Club pick

“A captivating first novel… ‘My dear girl,’ her patronizing boss instructs, ‘justice in a cold climate is not a natural phenomenon.’ But the stubborn and resourceful Sgt. Hella Mauzer seems just the police officer to deliver it.”

Wall Street Journal

Deep as Death

“The misdirection and manipulation of the evidence is worthy of Agatha Christie, but the quirky humour is Katja Ivar’s own. Ultimately, though, it is her portrait of Helsinki – ‘a city of lost souls’ – that is most impressive.”

The Times

“This fine psychological thriller fits firmly in the Nordic Noir sphere, bringing together all elements of the chilling genre and weaving in the private links and social issues.”

Crime Review

“Finland, 1953, a cold winter during a Cold War, and call-girls are ending up in Helsinki (‘a city for walking fast’) harbour. It ends up as a case for Hella Mauzer, a former cop turned private eye who struggles against patronising, institutional sexism. Mauzer is an engaging protagonist, the setting and characters totally convincing. Katja Ivar writes wonderfully.”

ShotsMag

Katja Ivar grew up in Russia and the US. She travelled the world extensively, from Almaty to Ushuaia, from Karelia to Kyushu. She now lives in Washington, DC with her husband and three children. Katja received a BA in Linguistics and a master’s degree in Contemporary History from Sorbonne University. Trouble is the third in the Hella Mauzer series and follows on from the success of Deep as Death and Evil Things.

TROUBLE

Katja Ivar

No man means evil but the Devil,and we shall know him by his horns.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act V, Scene ii

Prologue

April 1942

The shadows were getting longer. He reckoned that by the time they made it to the train station, night would fall. Ahead of them, the road lay empty. The only thing he could see were the tail lights of a large Volvo truck that had passed them a few minutes ago in a cloud of foul-smelling fumes, slowly, as if looking for something. He wondered if he should ask his family to hurry up, but his wife looked tired after spending all day on her feet. Maybe she had caught Hella’s stomach bug too. He thought about his younger daughter, how pale and thin she had looked this morning as she waved them off. Such a contrast to Christina, with her glowing good health and heavy Valkyrie braids. Christina was walking in front of him, pushing Matti’s stroller. He tried to wrestle it from her – he was the man of the family, after all – but his daughter laughed him off.

“Back off, Colonel Mauzer,” she said, grinning. “You’re the one retiring, remember? It’s the reason we spent the day visiting this godforsaken place, so you can put your feet up and wait for the fish to bite while you and your pal Kyander talk about the good old days. Shame he couldn’t come with you, by the way. It would have been nice for him to see the cabin.”

The colonel smiled at his daughter. “Kyander was called into the office at the last minute. You can’t hold it against him – it happens more often than you think, in our line of work.” Besides, it didn’t matter; his mind was already made up. The log house was a gem: just the right size, with a new roof and a porch, and a sauna on the side. Secluded. Lake views. Ridiculously cheap. He had made an offer right there and then, and it had been accepted. Kyander would be happy. The thought made him smile, put a spring in his step. A mile or so left until they reached the station, and then he’d sit on the train and admire his grandson’s sleepy face and dream about the future.

“Oh, here it is again,” Christina said.

“What?”

“That truck’s coming back.” She turned to face him, making a show of wrinkling her nose.

He looked. She was right: in the distance he could see the same truck, with its left headlight blinking, charging towards them. It was going fast now. “Move over to the side,” he called out to his family. “The road’s dry, but you can never be too careful. And it’s getting —”

He never finished his sentence. The truck swerved, hitting Matti’s stroller first and then, a split second later, Christina. The colonel didn’t move, wouldn’t have had time to even if he’d wanted to, didn’t cry out. He thought briefly of his wife, walking behind him. And of Hella, sick, home alone. Would she find… The truck was upon him now, and in the evening light he locked eyes with the driver. So that was who —

He didn’t have the time to finish that thought either. The beast tore right through him, ripping his skin, crushing his bones and what his superiors in Helsinki called “the finest spy mind in all of Europe”.

The last thing he heard, as the light dimmed in his eyes, was his wife screaming. And the truck engine revving, speeding away.

1

June 1953

The metal plate on the mantelpiece was covered with a furry grey blanket of dust. Hella picked it up carefully, holding it at arm’s length so that she wouldn’t sneeze, and ran a damp handkerchief over it. Then she frowned. It was probably the wrong way to clean the makeshift ashtray. Even though some of the dust had adhered to the tissue, the rest stuck to the barbed wire rim in irregular wet clumps. As for the ash at the bottom, it had solidified into a compact mass. Oh well. She didn’t smoke anyway. She should probably put it in storage, along with all the other trinkets that crowded the mantelpiece: a pipe, a battered tobacco tin, a pack of cards, a porcelain statuette of a small, snub-nosed shepherd and his shaggy dog.

It had been eleven years, after all. She supposed it was time to move on. Recognize that she’d been lucky, make plans for the future. She could put a vase here instead, or some candles. Something that would make the room look more like a home and less like a shrine to her long-dead family. Instead, she put the ashtray back, next to the little shepherd, and dropped the cloth on the floor, pulling the letter out of her pocket again. Cleaning could wait. She had more important things to do.

Dear Hella,

I trust you have fully recovered from your injuries.

If you are back in Helsinki, would you come and see me at Headquarters, at your earliest convenience? There’s a little matter I would like to discuss with you, which I hope will be of interest. It’s in your line of work.

She folded the letter and put it back in her pocket, wondering if Police Chief Jokela had been thinking about the last case he had sent her way. That one certainly hadn’t ended well. Maybe Jokela was feeling guilty about what had happened, and that was the reason for this invitation, though Hella doubted it. He was not that type.

It would be best if you could come by some time after seven in the evening. That way, you would not have to run into too many of your former colleagues. I have alerted them at reception, and they’re expecting you.

Hella glanced at her wristwatch. It was almost seven. If she left now, she could be at HQ in forty minutes. And if she walked all the way there and back, maybe that would tire her out and she might finally sleep. As for Jokela’s little matter, she doubted it would be of interest. In your line of work, he had said. To him, she would forever be a polyssister, only good for dealing with children or prostitutes, only useful when male police officers could not intervene for reasons of decency. She’d had enough of that. True, her PI business had hit rock bottom after a month-long hospital stay and her recovery in Lapland, but she was determined to make it work. Besides, she thought, with a wary glance at the dust motes already settling back on the mantelpiece, it wasn’t like she had any other talents. Nobody in their right mind would hire her for her cooking or cleaning skills, and she could only type with two fingers, so secretarial work was out of the question too.

She put on her straw hat, even though she knew her efforts to look presentable would be lost on Jokela. Picking up her handbag, she opened the front door, stepping out into the evening glow and almost into the arms of a young man she’d never seen before. Dark hair, rueful smile, blue eyes. His hand was raised as if he was about to knock on her door.

“Oh.” She squinted up at him. “Hello. Who are you?” She was certain she had never met him before; she would have remembered that smile.

He lowered his hand. “Hi. I’m Erkki Kanerva.” The smile grew bigger, dimpling his left cheek but not the right. “Your neighbour.” The young man made a vague gesture towards a prim little house that stood next door. “I saw you moving in earlier today, so I thought I’d come and introduce myself. It’s good to see someone living here after so long.”

Hella ignored the unspoken question, preferring to answer with one of her own. “And what’s that?” In his other hand, the man was holding a small rectangular package, clumsily wrapped in kraft paper and secured with string.

“A parcel?” He sounded unsure. “I found it on your doorstep just now.” He handed her the package. Hella noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“Thank you.” Hella half-turned, wondering if she should invite him in, then remembered the tragic failure of her housekeeping efforts and stopped. He could already glimpse part of the living room over her shoulder. She almost expected to see his eyebrows shoot up, but if Erkki Kanerva was shocked by the mess, he was too polite to acknowledge it.

“Thank you for stopping by,” she said, dropping the package onto the small side table by the front door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She made a show of glancing at her wristwatch. “There’s somewhere I need to be.”

Erkki Kanerva ran a hand through his hair. “Of course,” he said. “But…”

“What?”

That smile again, his eyes on hers. “You haven’t told me your name.”

“Oh. Hella Mauzer. Hella with an a.”

“That’s a rather unusual name. For a Finn, I mean.”

When she’d been young and insecure, she would take the time to explain. She’d say: My father’s family was German, my mother was Estonian, and haven’t you heard of Hella Wuolijoki? But she was beyond caring what anyone thought of her, and at twenty-nine she wasn’t all that young either. In fact, she was probably a couple of years older than the good-looking boy on her doorstep.

She raised her eyebrows. “Is that so? It was very nice to meet you, Mr Kanerva. You’ll probably notice that I tend to keep to myself, so it seems unlikely we’ll meet again. Have a good evening.”

“And you too, Miss Mauzer. It was a pleasure.” Smiling, he doffed an imaginary cap to her, then took a step back from her porch. Now his blue eyes were level with hers. “I certainly hope you’re wrong, and that we do meet again.”

2

The clock on the dome of Helsinki Cathedral was striking eight when Hella stopped in front of the three-storey yellow building on Aleksanterinkatu. She lifted her gaze towards the windows, catching the glint of the evening sun on the glass. A lifetime ago, she’d spent a few years working in that building, running up and down its creaky steps, trying to be one of the boys. Leaving it was heartbreaking, but now she didn’t miss it one bit. Too much of an old boys’ club for her, and too stifling in the winter, when the windows were sealed tight against the assault of the freezing wind blowing off the sea and the gas fires hissed like a bag of serpents.

When he had become police chief a few months earlier, Jokela surprised everyone but Hella by keeping his old office. Generous souls whispered that it was because he wanted to stay close to his troops, or was too modest for the grand locale vacated by the retiring Dr Palmu. Hella, who had never thought of herself as a generous soul, suspected the reason lay elsewhere. Jokela was like an old predator. He knew his own limitations and sagely preferred to keep to familiar hunting grounds.

The bored young recruit behind the reception desk nodded when he heard her name. “Yes, the boss’s still here. He’s working late. Third floor to the left —”

“I know the way.”

As Hella climbed the stairs, she wondered whether Jokela would be drunk. She hadn’t seen him since the incident that the police and press had qualified as an unfortunate accident. While she’d lain in a narrow hospital bed fighting for her life, he’d brought her flowers, yellow tulips that, at that time of the year, must have cost him a small fortune. Sometimes, in her dreams, those tulips still haunted her. But what had happened to her had not been Jokela’s fault, or not entirely his fault. Maybe the unfortunate “accident”, and everything that had ensued, haunted him too.

“There you are! My dear girl!” Jokela beckoned her into his office. Definitely drunk, and not just because he was slurring. She could smell a malty tang of whisky in the air that he had tried to mask by spraying cologne. “How have you been? Take a seat, take a seat. You look good, by the way, have you put on weight?” Hella slumped into the visitor’s chair. It was so like her old boss to comment on her physical appearance.

She glanced at Jokela, wondering if she should return the compliment, but there was no way she could tell him he looked good. If anything, he looked purple, the spider’s web of ruptured veins on his face matching the dull stone in the pin on his tie. “I’m fine,” she said. “I got your letter.”

Jokela cackled. “Straight to the point, I see. Haven’t changed one bit. Not that I’m surprised, not really. Never thought people did change. In my view, they just grow more like themselves as they get older. Well, about the letter.” He sighed, dropping the smile. His beefy face grew long, and almost sad. “You see, we’ve been busy around here, working our socks off to establish a modern police force. Traffic, forensics, organized crime – the works. Lots of new people joining the force. Some leaving, too.”

Hella nodded. She still couldn’t see what he was getting at. Surely he wasn’t planning to propose she rejoin the homicide squad? Would she even consider accepting it if he did?

Jokela’s hairy fingers had seized on a matchbook and were snapping it open and shut. “And this, ahem, is the reason I wrote to you.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve known each other for what, ten years now?”

“Eight.”

“That’s right. Eight. And before I met you, I knew your father. You’re a bright girl, and you can be trusted.”

Well, this is new, Hella thought. But would he ever get to the point? She looked out of the window at the shiny white mass of the cathedral basking in the sun. When days dragged on forever, people lost all notion of time. “So, what was it you wanted to see me about?”

Jokela looked away. “Well, there’s a man we’d like to hire, to fill my old position as head of the homicide squad. We considered Pinchus first, but he’s a practising Jew. He even spent time in a labour camp during the war. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the SUPO parked a number of Jews out of sight for a few years before releasing them into society again. So in the end, I decided that it wouldn’t do…” His voice trailed off. Hella waited. “So, this candidate we have in mind,” Jokela said, giving the matchbook a vigorous squeeze, “is a most distinguished man. As a matter of fact, he currently works for the SUPO.”

Of course, Hella thought. A secret service man. Probably knows nothing about policing or detective work, but who did that ever stop when deciding on a promotion?

“His name is Johannes Heikkinen,” her former boss added, as if an afterthought. “I’d like you to do a background check on him.” Jokela set down the matchbook and looked her in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” Hella said. “I still don’t see where I come in. Surely if your candidate worked for the SUPO, you have all the information you need?”

Now it was Jokela’s turn to contemplate the cathedral across the square. “We do. We do and we don’t. We have the dates, and the performance appraisals, a list of his skills and the languages he speaks, but that’s all.” He turned to face her. “I’d like to know more than that. I need to know what he’s like.”

Hella reached for her handbag and stood up to leave. “I’m sorry, Jon. But you’re not being frank with me, and I feel like I’m wasting my time here. I can’t work if you don’t tell me what you suspect him of.”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Jokela rubbed his face with both hands. “Just thought that you might like a nice easy job, a bit of pocket money. I mean, I owe you an easy job this time around, right?”

“Thank you, Jon, but last I heard, free cheese was only available in mousetraps.” Hella shook her head and turned for the door. “I hope the candidate will prove to be suitable for the job.”

“Wait. Close the door. Sit down. You’re right, there is something.”

She took a seat again and waited.

“The job is confidential. SUPO wouldn’t be happy to learn that we’re looking into one of their own. That’s one of the reasons I called you – the other being that I couldn’t very well ask one of my own men to investigate his future boss.” Jokela lowered his voice, and she had to lean forward not to miss anything. The whisky smell was getting stronger. “And it’s probably nothing. It’s just that we can’t take the risk. I can’t.”

“What risk?”

Jokela continued as if he hadn’t heard. “They say it runs in families. And they’re probably right. Mr Heikkinen’s father committed suicide – it’s in his son’s personnel file – and apparently his cousin is off his rocker, and then his child and wife died and he went off on a bit of a tangent himself.”

“I see,” Hella said.

“Of course you do.” Jokela visibly perked up. “So I’d like you to make sure the man doesn’t have… issues, I suppose that’s what you’d call it. You know, that he doesn’t bark with the dogs, or secretly believe he’s the Messiah or something. What with your female intuition, you have an eye for such things.”

Hella bit her lip, thinking. It made sense. Jokela was walking on eggshells in his new position, and he couldn’t afford to bring in someone who might be unstable. Well, maybe free cheese existed after all, because this was exactly the sort of boring job that paid well. And, besides, she had an idea that might even make the assignment worthwhile.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it. But —”

“Splendid! Wonderful!” Jokela fished a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and slid it towards her. “Here are his details and the addresses of some of the people who know him. Go and speak to them. Take your time. I’m off shooting crows in Nuuksio tomorrow, so you do what you need to do, and we can talk about it at the end of the week.”

“But,” Hella said, “in return, I want access to the police archives. I’d like to see what’s in my family’s file.” She held her breath.

To her relief, Jokela waved an impatient hand. “If you wish. Not a problem for me. I’ll leave word with whoever’s in charge.”

“Thank you.” She took the sheet of paper and, folding it in two, slid it into her handbag. “I’ll get started tomorrow.”

She decided it wasn’t necessary to tell him that she would be starting with the archives. There must be something, some trail she could pick up, to find who had been driving the truck that killed her family. Maybe that would make moving back into her childhood home a little easier.

3

When she turned her key in the lock, it was already past ten, but the sunshine streaming through the dirty windows was still mercilessly picking out the old worn-out furniture, the stacks of books on the floor and the pendant light wrapped in a mosquito net. Hella dropped her keys on the side table, and that was when she noticed the package she received earlier in the day. No name on it, and no return address. Was it even for her? The paper wrapping felt grimy, as if someone had been carrying it around for weeks, and prudence dictated that she throw it away without opening it. Unfortunately, prudence had never been one of Hella’s defining qualities, so she took the package with her as she went into the kitchen to make coffee.

The kitchen still looked as if its rightful owners had only stepped out for a second. Her mother’s check apron lay folded on the counter, the bread box was gaping open, and there was a mummified something in a little glass by the window. Upon closer inspection it turned out to be the remains of a spring onion. Hella unscrewed the lid on a tin of coffee and grabbed a small copper pot from a box that contained the few belongings she had brought over with her. The water, when she turned on the tap, ran rusty, and she had to wait for a few minutes until it lost that orange hue. Then she lit a match, half expecting the fire not to take, but it did.

While she waited for the coffee to boil, she forced herself to stare out of the window, at the cute wooden house that her cute new neighbour with his cute smile lived in. Anything but face the calendar on the wall, with its jumble of black dates and pen marks crawling around like insects. April the sixteenth, the date her parents and sister and Matti had gone to visit the cabin, was circled. She had seen them off and then stumbled back into bed, nauseous and weak, her head swimming. She had spent that day drifting in and out of sleep and running to the basin to throw up, feeling sorry for herself because no one was around to hold her hair or bring her a glass of water. And then, when dusk had already set in and she was starting to wonder what was taking them so long, there had been a knock on the door…

Hella gritted her teeth. The coffee was boiling now, and she poured herself a cup and carried it into the living room before returning to the kitchen to grab the strange parcel and a pair of scissors.

The string gave way easily. Hella put it aside and slowly unwrapped the paper. She did not know what to expect: a welcome gift, maybe, prepared by some myopic neighbourhood granny, or a personal garment she might have forgotten at the hospital, or even a dead rat. What fell out of the wrapping made no sense at all, though. A handkerchief-sized piece of grey felt tissue, well-worn, stained and shiny in places. And a slip of paper with some numbers on it: 169062. She supposed the sender must have hoped the contents of the parcel would mean something to her. Hella peered at the paper, turning it in her hand. Maybe this was meant for someone else and had been dropped on her doorstep by mistake? Or maybe it was some sort of joke? She carefully wrapped the parcel again and put it on the coffee table – it seemed oddly at home among the mess that was her living room – then took a sip of her coffee. She had forgotten to pick up food, and now it was too late to go out, but that was all right, because she wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was the prospect of sleeping in her childhood room, with the rosebuds blooming on the faded wallpaper and a photograph of a smiling Christina and Matti tucked under the mirror’s frame. Or maybe it was the loneliness. She had told only a few people that she was moving back to her parents’ house, because she still wasn’t sure it was the right decision. Even so, someone must have known.

She squinted down at the parcel on her coffee table, then got up. No one was watching her; it was just her imagination. Still, she walked to the window and pulled the curtains closer together. A midnight sun was seeping through the fabric, a light that even the tightly drawn curtains could not extinguish. The room was bathed in milky dusk, and suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she wouldn’t be able to sleep. But what else could she do? She filled her coffee cup to the brim, then made her way upstairs, towards the cosy little room with its faded rosebuds and its narrow metal-framed bed.