I stared at her, wondering if I had heard her correctly. Was it me who just two hours ago had been afraid of solitude? There were worse things. And Anita was one of them.
I wanted to start working on the case as soon as we finished our coffee, but Anita’s mind was set on having what she called a girls’ evening. That seemed to involve putting curlers in each other’s hair, painting our nails and eating pancakes. And drinking sparkling wine.
“I don’t have any,” I said.
“I noticed.” Anita wrinkled her nose prettily. “Your kitchen is empty, except for all those pickle jars.” The implication no wonder your boyfriend ran away hung between us like a cloud.
“There’s some pressed caviar left in the icebox outside the window. Also a bottle of vodka. Help yourself. You can’t get Prosecco with coupons in any case.”
“I don’t drink vodka,” Anita said, in a helpless, dying-to-a-whisper sort of voice that must usually obtain the desired effect. “And pressed caviar is for the poor.”
“As you wish.”
I pulled Klara Nylund’s notes out of my bag and started to read. According to the madam, Nellie had announced she was going solo on 15 February. She had still been alive on 17 February, when she had dropped by her friend’s place to borrow a curling iron. On the morning of 18 February, when the friend, Maria, came to Nellie’s to get her iron back, the girl was gone. Her body was found several days later, floating in the harbour.
“Are you really going to work all evening?” Anita asked.
“That’s my intention, yes.”
“You don’t even have a TV. There’s this show I love, it’s called —”
“Anita.” I pointed at the file. “Do you mind? I’m trying to focus here.”
“I Love Lucy.” Anita slumped on the sofa, but a second later she was up on her feet again and wrapping a blanket around herself. “This place is freezing,” she said. “I never realized you were one of those superwomen who never feel the cold.”
I clamped my hands around my ears and tried to focus on the file, but it was no good.
“Six foot tall,” Anita was saying, her face hidden behind a magazine she’d pulled out of her bag. “Size eleven shoes. Maybe even president. What?”
“Nothing.”
“You were muttering to yourself!”
“I was wondering about the six-foot-tall size eleven president.”
Anita flew off the sofa and slammed the magazine on top of the file. “Associated Press,” she said. “It’s about the women of the future. What they’ll look like in the year 2000, if the Soviets don’t blow us up before then.” I stared at the illustration. On it, a massive Amazon towered above two curvaceous beauties. “Is that what they think? That the woman of the future will look like the steel kolkhoz maiden, but without her male companion and her pedestal?”
“Yes!” Anita’s voice was breathless with excitement. “Women will know how to wrestle, and they’ll be dressed in special synthetic suits, and, and … they’ll have pills instead of food. And, Hella, we might even have a female president.”
“That could be useful,” I said, pushing the magazine aside. “The pills, I mean. No cooking. Now can I continue reading?”
Anita puffed up her cheeks and blew out a long, discontented breath. Then she leaned over my shoulder and started to read my file.
According to Klara Nylund, there was no boyfriend, no promise of marriage, no man Nellie would want to present to her family. But she also noted that she probably wouldn’t have known even if there had been someone: she had close to twenty girls, she couldn’t keep an eye on everything. The address of Nellie’s best friend, Maria, was scribbled in the margin. I decided to start with her.
“Couldn’t Nellie have drowned accidentally?” Anita asked. “This sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Sure. And the police are probably right. It’s the fact that Nellie suddenly quit her job that made Klara Nylund wonder. Apparently she wasn’t the independent type.”
“Wait a second…” Anita, finally tired of her stooping position, pulled up a chair and sat next to me. “Does the madam think Nellie got involved with a man who got rid of her?”
I nodded, my eyes on a studio portrait of a beautiful girl dressed in a high-necked white blouse, her blonde hair tied in a bun. This photograph had been supplied by Nellie’s family; in it, she looked like an office worker, not an escort. I had asked Klara Nylund about this, and the madam had shrugged it off. Lots of the girls lied to their families about their occupation, she said. There was another photograph where the girl wore a low-cut gown and earrings, and had her hair loose, but the madam had given that one to the police.
“There’s something I don’t get,” Anita said. “If Klara Nylund told the cops all of this already, why would she want a PI as well?”
“She went to see Chief Inspector Jokela in the homicide squad to see how the investigation was progressing, and he told her the file wasn’t a priority for them because they’re not even certain a crime was committed. The pathologist’s conclusion seems to be that Nellie slipped on the ice and fell into the water. Cause of death: drowning. And Klara Nylund couldn’t really insist – she’s not related to the girl. Officially, her business establishment doesn’t even exist.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. Prostitution is illegal. According to Jokela, if Nellie’s parents insisted, the police would look into it more closely, but otherwise…”
Anita’s eyes widened. “Let me guess. Nellie’s parents told all their neighbours that their daughter had a respectable occupation, and they’re afraid the truth will come out if there’s a proper investigation?”
“Exactly. So Jokela told Klara Nylund that Inspector Mustonen has been working on the case but he’s got no results so far, and it was time for him to move on to something more important. Because the madam kept insisting, he gave her my address and told her a PI might be a better option.”
“Nice guy, Mustonen,” Anita said dreamily. “He makes me think of that actor, what’s his name?”
“Errol Flynn?”
Anita brightened: “Yes. Too bad he’s married to that horse-headed creature who keeps bossing him around. He loves her, too. I ran into him at the jewellers once, he was looking to buy her a gift.”
I sat up sharply. “Do you know him?”
“Uh-huh. The training programme alternates between theoretical courses and fieldwork. Ranta got me a place on Mustonen’s team. I do nothing of course, apart from wear flattering dresses, serve coffee and generally provide a nice contrast to all the manly detectives, but I can see the way they operate. Mustonen is one of the nicer ones. Hasn’t ever tried to grab my bum in the corridors yet.”
“I guess he’s a decent guy,” I said, feeling silly. “He never tried with me either.”
Anita burst out laughing. “That, honey, is not really all that surprising.”
I dreamed of the dead girl. In my dreams, Nellie was much younger; she looked about ten. She floated on her back in the murky waters of the port, her hair spread out like tentacles, her lips frozen, blue. A tall man was standing on the embankment, hands thrust into his pockets, a felt hat pulled low over his face. Waiting for something. My heart was beating too fast. I glided up to him in the darkness, stopping maybe a yard short. The man, who must have heard the sound of my steps, turned towards me. He didn’t have a face, but I knew who he was, and I knew why he was grabbing hold of my wrists and pushing me gently into the icy water. Don’t act surprised, he told me. You’re a big girl now. You’ve got to understand. I have a family to protect.