“It’s Miss,” the woman corrected, pulling off her gloves. Her nails were painted the exact same shade as her lipstick: ruby red. “It’s about one of my girls.”
It was only then that I understood. My potential client was nobody’s wife. She ran a brothel. There were a number of them around – Helsinki was a port city, after all, and with all the refugees flooding the streets, lots of girls were on the market. Although, given the woman’s clothing, this brothel was probably at the upper end of the market. I flipped my notepad open. “What happened to the girl?”
“She drowned,” the woman said matter-of-factly. “Last month. Nellie went down on the ice in West Harbour. The ice gave way.”
“And?”
“And the police seem to think it was an accident.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I said. Immediately, my inner voice screamed: Bravo, Sherlock! If you go on like this, your visitor will get up and leave.
The woman must have been thinking along the same lines because she squinted at me. “How long have you been doing this job, Miss Mauzer?”
“I was a police officer,” I told her, with more confidence than I really felt. “In Helsinki, I was the first woman ever to be part of the homicide squad. After that, I worked in Ivalo.”
“And now you’re here,” the woman added, scanning the room. She didn’t need to add anything. The threadbare rug on the floor, the chipped desk, the icy chill of my office, they all screamed failure. “He assured me you were OK,” the woman said doubtfully to her folded hands. “How much do you charge?”
“It’s five hundred markka a day, or we can agree on a flat fee. Did someone recommend me?” I tried to keep the hopeful note out of my voice. No one ever did. Aside from the cuckolded wives, of course, but I doubted very much that any of them would be speaking to a madam.
The woman nodded, fumbling in her bag. “Him.”
She pulled out a business card. Cream vellum, elegantly formed letters. Chief Inspector Jokela, Head, Helsinki Homicide Squad.
“You know him, right?” the woman asked. She was having second thoughts.
“Jokela and I go back a long way,” I said. What I didn’t say was that there was no love lost between us, and never had been. And that I couldn’t imagine any reason for him to recommend me, except if he was convinced that the girl’s death had indeed been an accident and police time would be wasted on it.
There was a silence. I kept my eyes on the card, wondering whether the woman would get up and leave, and if that was the case, whether I was still going for the vodka bottle. Just as I was about to suggest to Miss Nylund that she come back once she had made up her mind, she pulled an envelope out of her bag and slapped it on my desk.
“Good,” she said. “I hope you’re good. Because Nellie – she was one of the better ones. I want you to find who did this to her, and I want that person to pay for what he did.”
4
Chief Inspector Mustonen
“My dear boy,” boomed Jokela’s voice, “come over here.” Those who were still at the office at that hour watched as I shot a desperate glance at the wall clock – it was a quarter past five already and I had promised Sofia I’d be home early. I picked up a folder at random and trudged towards Jokela’s office. I knew why my boss was asking to see me: it was time for one of our increasingly frequent drinking sessions. Just the two of us and a bottle of expensive whisky, the provenance of which I preferred to ignore.
Work sessions, Jokela called them. Some days, he gave the impression of actually believing in that excuse. He would make me open a file and ask me irrelevant questions while he poured the whisky. The work part of the sessions usually lasted for the first glass or two. After that, we would invariably slip into a discussion that had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the way the world at large was treating Jon Jokela.
“Here,” my boss said, pushing a chair towards me. “Have a seat.” Jokela was wearing the new open-collared uniform that had been created in preparation for the Olympic Games the previous year. The uniform was supposed to give the police a modern, less military appearance. I rarely wore it: for what I had to do, plain clothes were better.
“So, my boy, what have you been working on?”
“Roof signs for police cars. This way, the public will be aware of our presence. I’m certain it will reduce traffic offences.”
Jokela pulled a face. “Haven’t heard of such a thing. More likely than not folks will get scared and drive into ditches. Do they put roof signs on police cars in America?”
“No. We’d be the first. And here’s another idea. Why don’t we establish a dedicated traffic police? All those farmers we hired in the run-up to the Olympics would be perfect for the job.”
My boss pulled an immaculate handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead. His office was stiflingly hot. The windows, sealed for the winter, were steamed up with fog; a gas fire hissed in a corner. There was talk of the homicide squad moving into another, more modern building, but dinosaurs like Jokela were resisting. He loved being there, loved the moose antlers fixed to the walls, the bulbous office furniture, the view across the square to the neoclassical facade of Helsinki Cathedral. To him, that office represented some sort of gentlemen’s club. But Jokela didn’t have a family, he didn’t have a life outside of the office. I did.
“Well, I don’t know,” Jokela said. “Maybe there’s something in your idea. I’ll think about it. And what about the rest of the boys? What are they doing?”
“The Goldberg assault file is ready to go.”
“Good job.”
“Not mine,” I smiled. “Pinchus was the one working on it, and he’s been very diligent as usual. A valuable member of the team.” I paused. There was a pink business card on Jokela’s desk.
Jokela glanced up at me. “What is it?”
“I saw you talking to a woman, earlier this afternoon. I was wondering if it was the drowned girl’s madam?”
“That was her.”
“Oh.” Now I was hesitating. If the madam had come to ask how the investigation was progressing, why hadn’t Jokela told her to go and see me directly? Because he had doubts over the way I was running the case all by myself? Or was I just being paranoid? Aloud, I said: “I was surprised she managed to get an appointment with you.”
“That’s because I know her.” Jokela winked. “You’re too serious, my boy. You should get out more, have a fun night with me. That wife of yours is lovely and all, but a man needs variety.”
“I love Sofia,” I answered, smiling to soften my rebuttal. “What did the madam want?”
“To know where we were with the investigation.” Jokela pulled the bottle of whisky towards him, poured me a glass, refreshed his own. “I owe her a small favour.”
Of course he did. Everyone who was anyone in Helsinki had been to Klara Nylund’s club at least once.
“I’m still working on it,” I said. “Though I didn’t really get very far. I don’t even know whether we’re dealing with a murder or an accident or suicide. The forensic pathologist thinks he may have spotted something, but he’s not sure. I sent a query to Interpol, asked them if they’d had similar cases in other port cities.” I took a sip of my whisky. It tasted like cough syrup.