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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
***Shortlisted for the CrimeFest Last Laugh Award*** ***Book of the Year in The Times*** Things don't go entirely to plan when undercover ace detective Jan Nyman is sent to the 'hottest beach in Finland' to investigate a suspicious death. Fargo meets Baywatch in a mesmerising, poignant dark-comedy thriller by the King of Helsinki Noir 'A roller-coaster read and extraordinarily poignant' Guardian 'Tuomainen is the funniest writer in Europe' Marcel Berlins, The Times 'Right up there with the best' TLS –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– Sex, lies and ill-fitting swimwear … Sun Protection Factor 100 Jan Nyman, the ace detective of the covert operations unit of the National Central Police, is sent to a sleepy seaside town to investigate a mysterious death. Nyman arrives in the town dominated by a bizarre holiday village – the 'hottest beach in Finland'. The suspect: Olivia Koski, who has only recently returned to her old hometown. The mission: find out what happened, by any means necessary. With a nod to Fargo, and dark noir, Palm Beach Finland is both a page-turning thriller and a black comedy about lust for money, fleeing dreams and people struggling at turning points in their lives – chasing their fantasies regardless of reason. –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 'Inspired meld of crime and dark comedy … Colourful characters and awkward situations, as when Nyman becomes a person of interest to the locals, enhance the zany plot. Tim Dorsey fans will have fun' Publishers Weekly 'A sort of Fargo in Finland, if you can imagine such a thing' Crime Reads 'Finnish criminal chucklemeister Tuomainen is channelling Carl Hiaasen in this hilarious novel set in a bizarre Florida-style beach resort on Finland's chilly shore. There are comically inept dim-crims, inventive psychos, a hot babe and even a blow-up pink flamingo — which is a lot for ace detective Jan Nyman to deal with when he arrives, undercover, to investigate a mysterious death' Sunday Times 'Tuomainen's crime comedy is frequently compared to Fargo-era Coen Brothers, but Florida's Carl Hiaasen is likely a strong influence too … A full-blooded, off-kilter caper-gone-wrong that also serves as an acerbic commentary on the crime genre' Irish Times 'You don't expect to laugh when you're reading about terrible crimes, but that's what you'll do when you pick up one of Tuomainen's decidedly quirky thrillers' New York Times 'A tightly paced Scandinavian thriller with a wicked sense of humour' Foreword Reviews 'Like Fargo before it, unfortunate events take place and people get in over their heads … The off kilter, black comedy tone is perfect for such a far-fetched story, guaranteeing plenty of spontaneous bouts of laughter' CultureFly 'You'll laugh, you'll cry with laughter, what is there not to like? Welcome to a classic new holiday resort!' Crime Time 'A quirky, smirky, entertaining slice of fabulous … A wonderful wave of dark humour rolls through this novel gathering raised eyebrows and snorts' LoveReading 'Takes a Finnish slice from the comic, crazy, greedy, crime world of the likes of Get Shorty or Fargo. Where will Tuomainen's imagination take us next? I don't know but before that – read this one. Absolutely recommended' EuroCrime
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Seitenzahl: 458
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PRAISE FOR ANTTI TUOMAINEN
‘A cast of misfits, a dead body, and the world’s most unlikely holiday resort – Palm Beach, Finland is the work of a master storyteller at the very top of his game’ Kevin Wignall
‘Finnish criminal chucklemeister Tuomainen is channelling Carl Hiaasen in this hilarious novel set in a bizarre Florida-style beach resort on Finland’s chilly shore’ Sunday Times Crime Club
‘This one is a winner right from the first sentence … the action scenes are fun … our potbellied hero keeps getting the best of seasoned bullyboys … An offbeat jewel’ Don Crinklaw, Publishers Weekly
‘Combines a startlingly clever opening, a neat line in dark humour and a unique Scandinavian sensibility. A fresh and witty read’ Chris Ewan
‘Tuomainen’s second foray into humorous crime fiction may remind you of Carl Hiaasen at his best … Tuomainen is one of those authors whose books are an automatic must-read, so pick up or download a copy as soon as you can’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I enjoyed every single sentence’ Thomas Enger
‘Antti Tuomainen is a wonderful writer, whose characters, plots and atmosphere are masterfully drawn’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
‘Comparisons have been made with Carl Hiassen and the Coen Brothers, but Tuomainen is his own man; liberally salted with macabre, improbable incidents of violence … Deftly plotted, poignant and perceptive in its wry reflections on mortality and very funny’ Declan Hughes, Irish Times
‘The deadpan icy sensibility of Nordic Noir is combined here with warm-blooded, often surreal, humour. Like the death cap mushroom, Tuomainen’s dark story manages to be as delicious as it is toxic’ Jake Kerridge, Sunday Express
‘Told in a darkly funny, deadpan style … The result is a rollercoaster read’ Laura Wilson, Guardianii
‘Told with a wit honed by the Arctic winter and a story that lures you in with the perfume of the Finnish forests, this is Wes Anderson meets the Coen Brothers in rural Finland … a book I will never forget’ Matt Wesolowski
‘An original and darkly funny thriller with a Coen brothersesque feel and tremendous style’ Eva Dolan
‘This was a truly beautiful book – deliciously dark, thought-provoking, and gorgeously written. It gave me chills, and not only because of the endless snow and cold. I see why Antti is so revered in Finland’ Louise Beech
‘Right up there with the best … offering a sympathetic, politically engaged investigative journalist and a profound concern for the environment’ Times Literary Supplement
‘Tuomainen’s spare style suits the depressing subject and raises a serious question: how do you find hope when law and order break down?’ Financial Times
‘Both a thriller and a dark, laugh-a-minute journey that will keep you hanging on to the end. The story of a man investigating his own death has been done before but not with such gusto’ Maxim, Jakubowski, Crime Time
‘A tightly paced Scandinavian thriller with a wicked sense of humour and a bumbling ne’er-do-well at its centre’ Matt Grant, Foreward reviews
‘At my first smirk I almost felt guilty; should I be laughing? … Further occasions of raised eyebrows and blurts of laughter escaped, so I relaxed and really settled in to this fabulously entertaining read. Antti Tuomainen has hit just the right notes, and I can picture Jaakko and the other characters lighting up the big screen. Devilishly dark humour abounds in The Man Who Died, paired with an absolutely cracking storyline, earning a tremendous thumbs-up from me’ Liz Robinson, LoveReading
‘The comparisons with Fargo are apt, for The Man Who Died shares the same black humour and is populated by similarly hapless characters. Reading the book, you just know that the story is going to end badly for some, and part of the fun is trying to guess who will come to the stickiest end’ Nudge iii
‘It’s dark, humorous and darkly humorous. Palm Beach Finland is a destination you’ll want to have on your literary boarding pass this summer!’ The Book Trail
‘I loved the subtlety of the humour in The Man Who Died and this has been perfected once more for Palm Beach Finland. Characterisation is brilliant, the description of the landscape as chilling as a Finnish summer and the story … This is one summer vacation you won’t forget in a hurry. Loved it’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews
‘Like a summer breeze, swimming in and out of the muddy water with witty remarks, spot-on comments, and an attention to detail that make this trip to the ocean a million times worth it, the author hits the mark and provides a unique and unforgettable tale of dreams’ Chocolate ‘N’ Waffles
‘The writing is clever, it’s electrifying and utterly brilliant. This is an author you want to watch out for; each of his books is a joy to read and usually renders me speechless at the level of inventiveness woven throughout the plots’ The Quiet Knitter
‘All books have to end, even narratives as good as this, but it’s so well crafted that the dénouement fully satisfies, as well as provokes thought. This remarkable novel is truly extraordinary, a gem of a thriller, beguilingly and well written, lively and thoughtful!’ Shots Mag
‘It might not be the classic dark and gloomy noir but delivers enough drama, danger and killing to keep you on your toes, and remind readers that the most stunning forest in the middle of summer can hide very dark secrets indeed … The book is a joy to read’ Crime Review
‘I have to say, despite this being crime fiction, it has humour thrown into the mix. Quite dark humour really, which was a distinct change for me. I’ll definitely be reading some of Mr Tuomainen’s other novels!’ Crime Book Junkie
‘Jaakko follows the trail around town as he investigates, coming across a whole bunch of fabulous characters who wouldn’t be out of place in an episode of Fargo. Layered and oh so very dark, and exactly the way I like it. Superb’ Espresso Coco iv
‘I really liked this book, I liked that it wasn’t traditional, I liked the dark, dry humour and I especially liked Jaako, a protagonist with a difference and with a huge heart’ Beverley Has Read
‘A fantastic read and I can’t recommend it highly enough. Tuomainen’s abilty to pull off this departure from his usual writing and to pull it off with such skill is a testament to his talent as writer’ Bloomin’ Brilliant Books
‘Heartbreaking, darkly funny, and wholly engaging … a welcome and unique addition to any crime fiction reader’s collection’ Crime by the Book
‘Beyond the perceptive wit and the grisly, almost farcical situations, it is also a superb thriller. This is a compelling mystery with some genuinely tense moments … An unforgettable and life-affirming book about death, I highly recommend it!’ Hair Past a Freckle
‘Easily one of my favourite reads of the year. A real treat and one can only hope Antti Tuomainen feels the need to laugh in his writing again…’ Mumbling about…
‘Has a very similar feeling to some of Tom Robbins’ work. He embraces the slightly bizarre and allows the reader to feel empathy towards characters which other writers may present in a different way’ Nordic Noir
‘A dark, extremely funny novel … There were parts of this novel where I couldn’t talk for laughing. It reminded me of a Coen Brothers movie I watched years ago when I had the same reaction. It is at times slapstick, but original, and I could visualise everything as I was reading … It will probably be a long time before I read a novel as funny as this’ Steph’s Book Blog
‘A fantastic, unique thriller which is gripping start to end, with a protagonist that you will be rooting for from the very start. Highly recommended’ Have Books Will Read
‘Unique, engrossing and joyously funny. This is a story that draws you in with fingers that tickle the funny bone and carefully, exquisitely craft an unforgettable tale’ Ronnie Turner v
‘The plotting is meticulous, the humour is subtle and yet at the same time sharp, and the main character is quite simply sublime as the victim to be’ Cheryl MM Book Blog
‘It challenges and jangles the emotions’ Trip Fiction
‘This book has been an amazing read, with dark humour, a murder and some very interesting twists, a must-read’ Varietats
‘A witty, thrilling, intense, and highly addictive read which left me feeling extremely excited about whatever the author may bring out next’ The Writing Garnet
‘Such a refreshing and unique read. I was hooked from start to finish. Jaako Kaunismaa is now on my top ten list of memorable characters’ Love Books Group
‘An intriguing premise and a gripping story! … It’s dark, quirky and very funny, which is surprising given the fact that this is a book about a man who has just found out that he is dying’ Brew and Books Reviews
‘A joy from start to finish … Comparisons have rightly been drawn between the novel and Fargo: this is a stylish crime caper with lashings of black humour and a lot of heart’ Mrs Peabody Investigates
‘A dark, odd, funny thriller about a quirky mushroom business man’ Smitten for Fiction
vii
Palm Beach Finland
ANTTI TUOMAINEN
translated from the Finnish by David Hackston
CONTENTS
WARNING
The following is based on real events and real people. Nothing has been changed. In Finland, the sun shines all year round.
x
‘There will be killing till the score is paid.’
—Homer, The Odyssey (trans. Robert Fitzgerald, 1961)
PART ONE
DREAMS
It was an accident. An unfortunate turn of events. It was a misunderstanding, a delicate imbalance between push and shove. And thus the neck broke like a plank snapping in two.
They met opposite the sign. Kari ‘Chico’ Korhonen was the first to arrive. He tried to look as though he wasn’t waiting for anyone, but this proved unexpectedly difficult. Chico tried to look at the sign as though he was seeing it for the first time, as though he were walking past and just happened to glance to the side. Ten steps towards the shore, a quick look to the right:
PALM BEACH FINLAND It’s the hottest beach in Finland.
A flinch, as if he’d forgotten something, then ten steps back towards the city, a look to the left:
PALM BEACH FINLAND It’s the hottest beach in Finland.
To Chico, the change was as mind-blowing as the arrival of colour television. Jorma Leivo, the beach resort’s new owner, seemed to have flicked a giant colour switch. In only two months, what was once known as Martti’s Motel had transmogrified into Palm Beach Finland, as though an earthy grey egg had hatched to reveal a brightly coloured, sweetly singing bird.
Chico liked the new colour scheme: turquoise, pastel blue, pastel pink, pastel green. The entire resort, which Jorma Leivo had also renamed and completely rebranded, was shrouded in a garish glow: 4the buildings by the shore, the restaurant, the chalets and changing booths, the shop, the windsurfing rental facilities, even the pizzeria. Everything gleamed with a thick coat of fresh paint. The sign itself measured twenty metres by five metres; passers-by were positively blinded by its bright neon colours, its monolithic lettering and slogan. Given its location, it was probably visible as far away as Tallinn. The beach was dotted with similarly gaudy sunshades, the specific purpose of which was a matter of some discussion. The continuous wind and near-freezing water kept the deckchairs stubbornly empty. Along its other side, meanwhile, the beach was edged with a brave new row of trees, which Chico enjoyed strolling past. Palm trees, freshly planted. Plastic, of course, but still.
Life was changing. It was about to begin.
What else could this possibly mean?
Moreover, what might this mysterious meeting with Jorma Leivo hold in store?
Never mind that their first encounter had come about because Chico had been caught pickpocketing. It was an accident, pure and simple. Chico had been watching a podgy woman wobbling towards the water; he’d sauntered up to her handbag, pinched a few lunch coupons and returned to the lifeguards’ post, where Leivo was waiting. He didn’t listen to Chico’s excuses about a sudden cashflow crisis or how problematic high-season prices had become for the locals, but said soon afterwards that he – Leivo, that is – might have use for a man of action with a bit of nous. A man just like Chico. And when Leivo mentioned that when you spend your time fumbling about with fivers you miss out on the big bucks, Chico had seen the gates opening before him. Breaking through was always about luck, about chance, he knew that. He’d read the biographies, he knew how Eric Clapton and Bruce Springsteen had started out and…
‘Sorry.’
Chico turned. Robin’s brown eyes met his.
‘What are you sorry for?’ asked Chico. 5
Robin looked at him. Robin’s entire head was covered in what looked like an even black rug a millimetre thick. It was impossible to tell where his stubble began, where his hair ended, where exactly his face was. Nor was there anything to suggest that Robin was a cook, that he worked in the pastel-blue restaurant on the beach: formerly The Hungry Herring, now Beverly Hills Dining.
‘I thought it wouldn’t matter if I turned up late, seeing as we’re supposed to be meeting here by chance and we’re pretending we don’t know each other. I thought I’d say sorry and ask if you had the time.’
‘But if you know you’re late, then you know what the time is,’ said Chico. ‘And we do know each other. Leivo said this is all top secret, so best not to attract attention. Let’s do as the boss says.’
Robin turned his head, looking in turn at the shore and the town.
‘I can’t see anyone. Nobody can see us either. We can go.’
Robin was a reliable guy, thought Chico, even though he was one sandwich short of a picnic. Besides, Robin was a childhood friend. If you’ve known someone your entire life, then you know them through and through, right? It was seven minutes to seven, and they set off to meet Jorma Leivo.
Judging by his hair and eyes, Jorma Leivo could have been a mad scientist from the silver screen: his crown was bald, straggles of fair hair curled upwards and sideways, and his blue eyes stared with such intensity that before long you had to look away. In other respects he looked like the men in the clothing catalogues from Chico’s childhood. Leivo was trussed up in an extremely pink shirt and a bright-white blazer with shoulder pads that by any standard would be considered over the top. He was sweating profusely and spoke in a voice that was at once gruff and gently encouraging. Chico thought the overall impression was of an international businessman. This was a good sign. 6
‘Nothing too serious,’ said Jorma Leivo as he looked at them both in turn. ‘A smashed window, a rainwater barrel knocked over, a fire in the shed, a stolen bicycle, someone pisses through the letterbox. Be creative. Little things, annoying things. Preferably every day. Preferably so that each little annoyance is followed by a larger one. You understand the principle. A steep curve that keeps rising and rising.’
Chico waited.
‘I need that house and the plot of land signed over to me within the month,’ Leivo continued. ‘The sooner this happens, the better. A month is the absolute limit. You start today. Any questions?’
Chico tried to look as though he had these kinds of discussions all the time. He leaned back, as relaxed as he could under the circumstances, crossing his right leg over his left.
‘We’re professionals in our own field—’ Chico began.
‘What field’s that?’ Leivo interrupted.
Chico looked at Leivo. He should have tried to say more. Now he only had an answer to the next question. Now he…
‘That’s classified information,’ Chico heard from beside him. Robin had spoken. He had spoken the way he usually spoke: as though a tape with random soundbites had started playing within him. Leivo glanced at Robin and leaned backwards. He looked as though he was about to ask quite what Robin meant. Chico couldn’t allow that to happen; he had to turn the truck before it reached the cliff edge.
‘What kind of fee did you have in mind for this, Chief?’ asked Chico.
Leivo looked back at him.
‘Chief?’
‘Well, I thought I could call you Chief, seeing as you’re the boss.’
‘Am I?’
Chico thought about this for a moment.
‘It’s hard to talk with staff about who’s the boss,’ he began and instantly regretted his words. ‘And vice versa, I guess.’
Leivo laid his hands on the table, and opened and clenched his fists. 7
‘Listen, this is off the record. I’m only your boss when you’re in the lifeguard hut,’ said Leivo, looking first at Chico, then at Robin: ‘And when you’re in my kitchen. Let me be very clear: this job has nothing to do with your other duties.’
Chico could smell the fresh paint on the walls. For a moment a deep silence engulfed the pastel-pink room.
‘I only pay for results,’ said Leivo. ‘The fee is five grand.’
Chico changed position, uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. He wanted only two things: first, he didn’t want to show how much that sum of money meant to him – it meant everything – and second, he needed Robin to keep his mouth shut.
So it looked like the big four-oh wouldn’t come to represent Chico’s failure after all. He would make it. He was thirty-nine years old – but what did it matter? It was meaningless. Because this time next year, he would be in full swing. Eric Clapton was seventy, B. B. King was still performing at the age of eighty-seven. A debut record next year, club gigs, sports halls, stadiums, T-shirt sales, merchandise. Chico would catch up with Eric before his fiftieth birthday party, where a young English woman, her breasts tattooed and gleaming would…
‘That sounds reasonable,’ he said eventually.
‘Of course, it’s for you two to share,’ said Leivo. ‘That’s the full amount.’
‘Five thousand divided by two is two thousand five hundred,’ said Robin.
Two thousand five hundred euros wasn’t quite enough for a bona fide, brand-new custom-designed Les Paul guitar, Chico found himself wondering. Not enough for the kind he had strummed in the instrument shop, the kind he so desperately wanted to get his hands on.
‘It’s up to you how you split the fee,’ said Leivo. ‘What’s most important is that we understand one another. We never had this conversation, and you have never done whatever it is you’re about to do. I don’t want to hear anything about it. I have never paid you 8anything, you have never received any money from me. And now, this meeting is over.’
Leivo stood up. Chico did not.
Leivo looked at him, almost with a note of impatience. ‘Is something unclear?’
‘In a situation like this, isn’t it usual to provide some kind of down payment?’ asked Chico.
‘Without seeing any results first?’
Chico glanced at Robin, who seemed to be staring at his knees. At least he was still sitting.
‘A down payment is like a retainer,’ said Chico and felt a not insignificant amount of pride at his choice of words.
Leivo was silent for a moment, then pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. ‘What kind of retainer are we talking about?’
Chico tried to conceal quite how unaccustomed he was to talking about such sums of money.
‘Five hundred,’ he said. ‘Per head.’
‘Very well,’ said Leivo, and just as the sense of victory was about to burst out of Chico, he added: ‘I’ll pay you a hundred each and we’ll call it a deal.’
Leivo pulled four fifty-euro notes from a thick wad and handed them across the table to Chico. Chico acted instinctively. He leapt up from his chair and grabbed the cash. It was only then that he realised how flustered he became at the mere sight of money. It had that effect on him. There was nothing he could do about it.
The bills felt ever so slightly damp.
The property in question was situated at the end of a magnificent peninsula. On either side of the peninsula was a beautiful sandy beach, and looking from the mainland the beach rose gently to the left and ended in a broad, thick area of forest, on the other side of which, completely hidden from view, was the area that belonged 9to Palm Beach Finland. Chico knew that Jorma Leivo had already come to an arrangement about the purchase of this land.
Chico and Robin lay on their stomachs beneath the pines and stared at the house. Darkness had fallen.
‘What’s Leivo got against Olivia?’ asked Robin in a whisper.
‘Nothing, I suppose,’ Chico whispered back.
‘So why does he want us to piss through her letterbox?’
‘We’re not going to piss through Olivia’s letterbox.’
‘So what are we going to do then?’
Chico didn’t have a chance to answer. Lights came on in the ground floor.
Olivia had come home. To be completely accurate, Olivia had come home a few months earlier, immediately after her father’s death. He had suffered a massive heart attack while out in his kayak. The wind had carried him into the children’s swimming area and he had frightened the kids, hunched over, his face stiffened into a permanent smile and an oar jutting upwards in his hands. Someone had taken a picture, which Chico had later seen. The day after his death, Olivia Koski had returned to her former hometown, alone, and decided to stay. Alone.
And now: lights in the window, a human shadow on the wall.
Chico wasn’t the kind of man to operate without a plan of action. He picked a hefty-looking stone up from the ground and showed it to Robin. Robin took the hint, and picked up a stone of his own. Chico explained the plan, which had probably been in existence since Neanderthal times: run up to the house, throw the stone, run away. On the count of three. At two, Robin sped off, and Chico followed him. They ran through the woods and into the yard, and threw the stones at the same time. The illuminated downstairs window shattered. Chico and Robin were about to round the corner of the house and disappear back into the woods when they heard it. Something between a squeal, a gasp of pain, and a shrill cry for help. They stopped in the darkness of the yard, stood on the spot as though turned to pillars of salt. Again, the same sound. 10
‘I told you we should have pissed through the letterbox,’ Robin whispered. ‘It doesn’t hurt anyone, and it’s fun.’
Chico tried to think. This wasn’t part of the plan.
‘We’re going to have to…’ he began but didn’t know how to continue. They would have to do something. Something. ‘We have to make sure nothing bad has happened.’
The same sound again, this time followed by knocking and banging.
They turned, quietly paced along the wall of the house to the veranda, walked up the steps and opened the door. The veranda, complete with a sofa and all the trappings, looked pleasant and empty. The sound was coming from deep inside the house. Chico walked in front, Robin close behind him.
The glass-fronted internal door creaked when Chico opened it. Startled, he clenched his teeth together. He stopped and sensed Robin tight up against him. The light was coming from the right. Chico could see cupboards and furniture typical of any kitchen. He listened carefully, but now everything was silent. No sounds, no knocking, no banging. Again he took a few steps, towards the kitchen door, and when he reached the doorway he stopped and peered inside.
A tiled floor, a dark wooden countertop, cupboards, the broken window. But more importantly: blood. Blood and shards of broken glass. Everywhere. A pool of blood right beneath the window. Droplets and spatter everywhere. A red streak across the white fridge door leading…
Right here.
Chico could taste the electric whisk in his mouth. He was falling backwards – he knew that much. He tried to stay upright but his legs weren’t quite in the position he’d imagined them, so he simply spun on the spot.
And as he fell, everything around him was bright and then darkening, like a series of disparate images: long dark hair, a face covered in blood, Olivia’s slender figure in black jeans and a black polo-neck 11jumper, the white plastic shell of the electric whisk as it reflected light from the spherical lampshade above.
As Chico came crashing to the floor, he saw Robin peer into the kitchen, just as Chico had a moment before. And just like him, he too got a whack from the whisk, this time on his temple. Robin fell to his knees in the doorway as though begging to be let into the kitchen.
Chico’s surprise was tinged with annoyance: they are worried about her, they come into the house to check she’s all right only to get whacked in the face with a bloody kitchen appliance. Now Chico heard footsteps, and he guessed what was coming but didn’t have time to do anything about it. Large black spots still obscured his field of vision. The whisk struck him like a bear’s paw: it was painful and dizzying.
‘We only came to help,’ he whimpered.
But Olivia wasn’t listening.
She had already turned round. The whisk rose into the air and came down like a guillotine. Robin remained on his knees despite the blow. Chico’s ear felt like it was on fire, and a searing pain ran down that side of his head.
They had to get the situation under control.
Chico grabbed the table for support and pulled himself to his feet. The dark figure was approaching. Chico leapt forwards. He caught Olivia by the thighs, making her lose her balance. He hollered at Robin to grab hold of her. They toppled backwards towards Robin, and he lunged for them. The whisk fell from Olivia’s hand.
Olivia ended up lying on her stomach on the floor. Chico was holding her by the legs, while her head was under Robin’s armpit. Chico was shouting instructions. They struggled to their knees. She was light. It turned out there was some use for Robin’s stubbornness after all; his grip on Olivia didn’t flinch.
Chico’s plan was the third he’d had that evening: they would take her outside, into the fresh air; they’d talk about it and sort things out, Chico would repay the cost of the broken window. Their down payment 12would cover it. Of course, paying damages like this wasn’t exactly in the spirit of their agreement with Jorma Leivo, but needs must.
Running away is out of the question, he told Robin, she knows who we are. Robin looked as though he understood what Chico was saying.
With some difficulty they struggled to their feet. The body dangling between them was wriggling, grappling, lashing out. Chico took a firmer grip and shouted at Robin to hold tight. We’ll take her outside.
Robin nodded, turned to get into a better position. Chico did the same. He shifted his weight to the other leg, shouted ‘Now’ and tensed his muscles. The pool of blood, in which Olivia had been lying face-down and where Chico now stood in his Adidas trainers, was fresh and slippery. He lost his footing. As he stumbled backwards he instinctively tightened his grip. At the same moment Robin, with Olivia’s head still under his arm, yanked them towards the front door.
The crack was like a dry plank snapping in two. Olivia’s body went limp. Robin was still carrying her headfirst into the yard. Chico was holding on to her legs, and staggered to his feet in the pool of blood. Chico bellowed at Robin, shouted at him to stop and let go. Chico let go. Olivia slumped to the floor.
Chico clambered to his hands and knees. Robin was standing in the doorway.
‘I’ve never seen her like this,’ said Robin.
Talk about stating the bleeding obvious, thought Chico. He took a few cautious steps towards Robin, then brushed the body’s long dark hair back from its face and wiped one of the cheeks with a sleeve of the T-shirt, just enough to make out its features. The skin on the gaunt face was strangely white and taut, and the eye staring intensely at the tall skirting board in front of it was bright blue, the ear was small, the moustache thin and the goatee on the chin narrow and black, as though etched in pencil.
For once Robin was right. Chico had never seen Olivia like this either. The reason was clear: it wasn’t Olivia.
TWO WEEKS LATER 1
It seemed that other people always thought that the great challenges and pains of a divorce were their business too. Everyone wanted to share their experiences, tell you what had happened to them and how they had got through it.
Jan Nyman always found these situations stressful: he couldn’t simply say he wasn’t interested (though he categorically wasn’t interested), he didn’t think there was anything particular for him to ‘get over’, and he didn’t have a bad word to say about his ex-wife, Tuula. Quite the opposite. But his boss had now decided to stick his oar in, and given that he’d invited Nyman into his office, and sounded agitated and officious on the telephone – Come straight to my office, do not pass the cafeteria, do not go to your desk – all Nyman could do was grin and bear it.
‘Maiju and I went on a week’s therapy retreat once,’ said Muurla after explaining that he too – naturally – had experience of divorce. ‘To try and get our relationship working again. There were six other couples there too – people on the brink of divorce; people who should have taken a hint, run as fast as they could in different directions and never tried to do anything together ever again; people who shouldn’t even wait for the bus together, let alone drive out into the middle of nowhere to open up old wounds. We arrive at this farmhouse after an infernal drive – four hundred and twelve kilometres of non-stop argy-bargy – and as soon as we get there the women start going nineteen to the dozen over the welcome drinks – chaga tea, or whatever they call it; tastes like earwax, smells like your granny’s armpit – regaling us with all the gory details of their sex lives, so by this point we all know that Jari can’t get a hard-on and his wife has 14started sleeping around, and I liked it, she says, and the blokes are just sitting right there listening, their ears red with embarrassment, the floorboards creaking, and by now the chaga tea is stone cold. The camp was run by some softly spoken lad who didn’t join the rest of the men in the sauna. I thought it must have been a status thing, like he wants to keep at a distance from his clients while all the time he’s watching us, staring at us, looking as though he’s about to lose hope with us: his face red, his lips pursed tight, a twitch in his temple. He didn’t like it when the rest of the men decided to have a game of volleyball, didn’t like it one bit. He stood further off in the bushes, wouldn’t come near the court. Then on the fourth day it was my turn to heat the sauna, and I’m walking to the sauna with an armful of good dry logs when I hear this moaning and grunting from the changing room, and I look inside and there’s one of these husbands – not flaccid Jari but some city-slicker type – lying on his stomach on the bench while the softly spoken instructor guy is doing him up the backside so hard his cheeks are shaking. Shirt still on, top button done up, the lot. I put the logs back on the pile, go back to Maiju, give her a kiss on the cheek and say let’s just file the sodding papers and be done with it. The drive home was relaxed and we’re still good friends to this day. It’s a pretty ordinary story, really.’
Muurla seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Nyman thought it best not to comment on the story in any way, not even with a yes or a right. He glanced outside.
The Vantaa offices of the National Bureau of Investigation were on a plot of their own, and the southwest wall, on the third floor of which was Muurla’s office, looked across the street into an undeveloped greenfield site the size of a football pitch. It was so green, so grassy, so neatly edged with small birch trees that Nyman thought of his summer holiday. He still hadn’t taken it. That said, by looking at him you might say his holiday was well under way: new white trainers, relaxed, baggy jeans, a flannel shirt in red and grey, a few day’s stubble accentuating the dimples in his cheeks, his dark, longish hair still wet and tangled from the shower. This was what he normally 15looked like – according to Tuula, he was a cross between a country singer and a long-distance runner. He was neither. He was the best detective the Undercover Unit had, and he imagined that might be the reason he was sitting here now. He looked up at his boss, who seemed to have returned to the here and now.
‘There’s the case file in its entirety,’ said Muurla, clasping his fingers together and placing his hands on the table as though in prayer. ‘It’s online too, so you can read it there. Here’s the short version: a body turns up in a small town. Local investigation, no results. Regional investigation team in and out, no results. The case is a mystery.’
Nyman looked at the man sitting behind the desk. His face resembled a broad antique sofa, its leather worn and lumpy. Muurla had been his boss ever since he had joined the undercover team after years in the Violent Crimes Unit of the Helsinki police. He didn’t know anything about Muurla’s background, he didn’t even know how old his boss was; true to its name, the Undercover Unit operated on a strictly need-to-know basis. He must have been closing in on sixty. Nyman liked working for Muurla: he was only interested in results, he wasn’t cocky and he didn’t offer advice or guidance. Of course, that might have been because he had very little to offer in that department. Nyman preferred not to think about that option.
‘There must be something else to it, if they want us to investigate,’ said Nyman. It was a question.
‘They think it was a professional job,’ said Muurla. ‘At least, they should think so. There’s still a lot we don’t know, but it looks like this: there’s a man in the house, either invited or uninvited, some other people arrive, either invited or uninvited, they all either know one another or they don’t, and their actions are either premeditated or spontaneous, but the long and the short of it is that one of them ends up with a broken neck. Your regular Joe Blogs couldn’t do something like that, and certainly not the owner of the property – a woman who might be involved in this, but then again might not. She’s been interviewed on numerous occasions since and she’s stuck to the story she told the police the first time: she arrived home to find the house 16trashed, and on the floor was a man she’d never seen before. We can’t confirm any of her story, except that she was elsewhere at the time of the incident. But whether or not she knew about what was going on in the house is a different matter, and if she did know, how was she involved?’
‘And the modus operandi suggests a professional hit?’
‘Yes,’ Muurla nodded. ‘As you’ll see from the case file, the victim was badly beaten first, then killed in an exceptional and very physical manner that would require great skill. According to the coroner, this kind of job requires two people who know what they’re doing. This isn’t something an amateur could pull off. The victim has to be in exactly the right position. This requires knowledge of anatomy, timing, cooperation, maybe even a familiarity with martial arts – and we’re not talking about yellow belts here. Black ones, for sure. And there’s something else: nothing was taken from the property. They turned up, did the job, and left before the owner returned. So everything else might be a distraction – the property might have been trashed afterwards for show. And there’s one more factor to complicate matters…’
Nyman waited. Muurla leaned against his desk and edged his elbows forwards one at a time, cautiously moving closer to Nyman.
‘There was some confusion when everything kicked off,’ he said, his grey eyes boring ever deeper into Nyman. He was used to this by now: this was the way Muurla looked at someone who was about to be sent out of the office door and asked to do something utterly impossible. ‘After hearing the original call to the emergency services, the police assumed the situation in the property was still ongoing. So a squad barged inside and shook the guy who’d broken his neck, naturally thinking he was just another local nutcase who had taken a cocktail of modified drugs, thrown some rocks around, smashed a few windows, broken in, messed the place up and passed out. Everyday stuff. Anyway, in doing so this group of boy scouts really messed up the crime scene. What’s more, there’s some renovation work going on in the property at the moment, so you can imagine it’s been 17like Central Station in there. And so, to put it politely, the forensic investigation has been, shall we say, challenging, and the criminal investigation has been conducted manually, old school, as my son would say. Talking of offspring, it’s probably a good thing you two don’t have any children, what with the divorce and everything…’
‘Who am I?’ asked Nyman before Muurla could go any further. Nyman felt he must have heard at least four hundred different divorce-related anecdotes over the last month, some pretty tenuous and far-fetched, and none of which remotely resembled his own situation.
‘Your name is Jan Kaunisto,’ said Muurla and tapped a plastic folder on the desk. On top of the pile of documents was a brand-new Finnish passport. ‘A maths teacher. On summer holiday.’
‘Excellent,’ said Nyman, and he could hear as he spoke quite how dry and laconic the word sounded. His tone of voice notwithstanding, he was pleased that this time he was able to keep his own first name. It helped when getting used to his new identity.
‘There’s a month’s wages and holiday pay in your account,’ said Muurla, opening the plastic folder enough to show the documents beneath the passport. ‘And here’s a debit card. You can sort yourself out with whatever else you need – telephone, that sort of thing. Any questions?’
‘Plenty, but the case file will probably answer most of them.’
Muurla slid the folder across the table to Nyman. They looked at each other. ‘Do you want to hear my theory?’
Nyman remained silent. Muurla took that as an ardent yes.
‘This woman has recently met a man,’ he began, folding his arms across his chest in a way that made him look closer to retirement than Nyman had previously thought. ‘But this man turns out to be something quite different from what he appears. She realises he’s not going to leave in a hurry. She knows people around town, so she hires a couple of bruisers to take care of things. These guys do what they’ve been paid to do, then they stage – or try to stage – the scene to make it look like a break-in or a fight.’ 19
‘Then what?’ asked Nyman.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If the woman hired some professionals, as you suggest, they’ll be back. These kind of people never go away, they take you for every penny you’ve got. They always come back, and when they can’t use you anymore, they make sure no one else can either.’
Muurla thought about this for a moment.
‘It’s just as well you’re going to be there, then,’ he said. After a further moment of contemplation, he nodded again, not at Nyman but seemingly at something only he could see. ‘Mark my words, the woman’s pulling all the strings.’
2
Olivia Koski was walking round the house with a man in a baseball cap. The man was rotund and spoke like a gushing water fountain. Olivia thought it best to stay alert, though, as at some point in the man’s stream of consciousness he might say something relevant. A moment earlier the man had introduced himself as Esa. It was like the moment a stylus touches a record and begins to play. Now the record was in full swing, and so was Esa. The brand-new yellow-and-brown van he’d arrived in bore the words Kuurainen and Company – Plumbing Solutions, so Esa must have been either Kuurainen or Company.
At the southern wall of the house Esa stopped and turned to face Olivia. His arms dangled at his sides; he raised his eyes slightly to look at her and had to squint into the bright midday sunshine. He looked like a little boy carrying out an important task.
‘This is where I’d run it,’ he said. ‘The main water pipe, that is. Hot and cold. How long have you been having trouble with the water?’
Olivia thought of her father, her father’s father, and his father before him. Sincere, wise, good men, whose fingers and thumbs had belonged to some of the most impractical hands in the history of humanity.
‘Since the tens.’
Esa chuckled.
‘Not the 2010s, the 1910s,’ Olivia explained.
Esa’s chuckles came to an abrupt end. He looked at the ground and returned to talking endlessly.
‘I’d dig here, lay the pipe along here, renew the lot, inside and out. What’s the water like at the moment?’ 20
Olivia didn’t have to think long about the pressure or quality of the water, all she had to do was think back to her shower that morning: the shampoo that she couldn’t rinse from her hair, the wriggling around, the eventual chattering of her teeth.
‘Freezing cold,’ she said. ‘And I can almost count the number of droplets.’
‘It’s on its last legs alright,’ Esa nodded, and Olivia could tell the contractor could barely hide his enthusiasm. ‘This needs sorted urgently.’
‘How urgently?’
‘Hard to say. The plumbing could conk out next week or the next time you flush the toilet. And seeing as there’s little to no pressure – and saying you deposit something bigger than normal – there’s no telling whether it’ll go down or not. Not that I’m suggesting you would, Mrs Koski – you cut a slender figure, so maybe you wouldn’t – but say you have a buffet lunch one day or you’re having a bit of trouble downstairs, then—’
‘Miss.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s Miss Koski,’ said Olivia. ‘People called Mrs are generally married, though given my age…’
Olivia tried not to show quite how exhausted she was. The last two weeks had been even tougher than the weeks and months before that, which, with all the funeral arrangements, were rough enough to start with. Had she bitten off more than she could chew? It wasn’t the first time she’d thought this. Here I am, she thought, standing in my garden, listening as a perfect stranger waxes lyrical about my bowel movements.
‘Water,’ said Olivia. ‘I want running water in my house. That’s why I called you.’
‘Exactly,’ said Esa. ‘We have to decide whether to go for a full pipe refit or whether to concentrate on this area here.’
‘A full refit?’
‘We’d be talking seventy grand.’
This was nothing particularly new. Olivia had never built or 21renovated a house, but she’d had plenty to do with builders and decorators. It was one of those areas of life in which you could suggest, agree and promise absolutely anything to absolutely anyone, and nothing ever had to be factually correct – it never had to arrive on time, never had to work or reach completion. Not to mention whether the sum of money Esa had pulled out of a hat had anything to do with the scope of the job at hand – or whether it would be enough.
‘Let’s concentrate on this area,’ said Olivia.
At this, Esa clearly tried hard not to look disappointed. But his disappointment lasted only about a second and a half. Like most men in his trade, after the initial setback he started fishing for money from a different angle and didn’t seem to worry himself unduly over how abstract or generally impractical his suggestions were.
‘You’ll appreciate, even that is quite a big job. This is an old house, with old structures; it’s a challenging project. Sourcing materials, renting machinery…’
‘And?’
Esa folded his arms and looked as though he was adding it all up. Olivia couldn’t say what went through men’s heads at moments like this, but it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the value of the work or materials. The final results always proved otherwise.
‘Fifteen thousand.’
‘Euros?’
Esa stared at her, again looking like he was weighing it up in his head, and nodded. ‘Euros.’
Olivia paused. ‘Why is it a sum like that sounds as though half of it is made of Scotch mist? The kind of sum a professional tradesman plucks out of thin air and throws at a woman who lives by herself and who knows little about the ins and outs of drainage, plumbing and ventilation, in the stereotypical and all-too-predictable hope that because she’s a woman she won’t understand anything of this most manly of manly subjects?’
Esa said nothing. Either the sunlight had struck his cheeks and 22brightened them or the redness was radiating from inside. He looked baffled, perhaps even a little agitated. The wind rustled in the trees.
‘Stereo-what…?’ he began quietly.
‘That’s right,’ said Olivia. ‘The question is, why?’
Esa looked askance at Olivia, his face tilted slightly to one side.
‘Why? Why indeed,’ he said. ‘It’s not Scotch mist. Ten thousand. That’s my final offer.’
Olivia waited for a moment, then gave a nod. She wasn’t planning on telling him that this figure was almost precisely ten thousand more than she currently had in her bank account.
‘I’ll email you a written quote,’ he said. ‘Once it’s been accepted and the down payment received, we’ll get to work. But you realise this is unprofitable work for us, we almost have to pay the clients to let us dig up their gardens…’
All the way back to his van, Esa muttered to himself about how everyone was taking him to the cleaners: women, the taxman, subcontractors – and now his customers. Olivia had heard it all before and didn’t pay it any attention. She chose not to ask Esa how happy he would be if all the people he’d mentioned suddenly disappeared, leaving him to potter around in peace, without hindrance or distraction, to dig up gardens and lay drainage pipes without the interference of women, the taxman, subcontractors and customers. It would surely be the kind of bliss that only a man could understand.
Upon arriving at the van, Esa turned in a semicircle – literally spun on an axis – squinted his eyes again and looked at the house. He looked like he was pondering something. Olivia knew what he was imagining: a set of shiny new windows.
‘Yep, this place certainly needs touching up here and there,’ he said, with more than a little dose of payback in his voice.
Olivia said nothing. She was waiting for Esa to get into his van and drive off. Eventually he clambered inside, started the engine and swerved out of the yard. Olivia felt like shouting – something, anything, at anyone.
It was a small town. Everybody knew what had happened. Or 23rather, nobody knew what had happened, but everybody knew exactly where it had happened.
And there it was. Her kitchen, which was beginning to look almost the way it used to.
For three whole days her kitchen had been like a movie set: broken glass everywhere, things strewn all around, her things, every surface red from the fingerprint powder, and on every surface imaginable, both vertical and horizontal, police marking tape and the dried blood of the unknown victim. Naturally she’d asked the police who this man was, or rather who he once was, but to her surprise the officers, especially the last two to visit, had asked her the very same question. Needless to say she’d been unable to answer, and so they all appeared to be in a situation in which nobody knew anything about anything.
But somebody must know. All Olivia knew was that it wasn’t her.
Scouring the floor had been an operation in its own right, that and making sure she’d picked up every piece of broken glass from between the floorboards, from the table tops, the chairs, the counters. There were even pieces of glass in the bread bin. The peppermill was covered in blood.
After the initial shock – when she had returned from town to discover the man, run out into the yard and made that garbled call to the emergency services – she had taken the events in her stride with a calm that surprised her: after all, she was living in a house in which a man might have been murdered. Perhaps it was the shock of her father’s recent death from which Olivia was still suffering, a relative had suggested.
Was she suffering?
When the news of her father’s death had arrived, she’d cried for a week and regretted not having spoken to him more often, or not having spoken about the things they should have spoken about, 24without having an idea of what those things might be. Then the feeling passed and she realised she had spoken to him quite enough and that her father wished her all the best, just as he had done when he was alive. That was it.
And that’s what this was all about. Right here in this kitchen, this house.
Which reminded her of money, yet again, of the way things had always gone – always! – and always for exactly the same reason.
She had been engaged twice and married once. Both relationships had lasted almost exactly eight and a half years. On both occasions she had been the one who eventually said, Enough is enough, Kristian / Marko.
She’d often wondered whether there was something seriously wrong with her, something that flared up every eight and a half years, but as often she wondered whether the greatest success of these relationships was that it was only her money she ended up losing.
Kristian: a photographer who had once owned a camera – but didn’t any longer. Olivia was young, very young. Kristian had temporary complications when it came to money and inspiration. At that point his complications had already lasted twenty-nine years. Olivia had listened, stroked his head, consoled him, and carried on studying, though she eventually dropped out of college because one of them had to work and pay the rent for their home and the office space they rented in the same building and for which Kristian still hadn’t fetched his own set of keys, until one day Olivia came home from work, sat down on the sofa she had paid for and said to her boyfriend as he sat through a zombie-film marathon (Kristian’s idea of hard work) ‘This isn’t working…’
Marko: owner of an office hotel situated in a place nobody could ever find and where nobody wanted to work. Marko spent all night sitting in the director’s office looking out at the lights of the nearby industrial area, drinking room-temperature salmiakki liquor and waiting for the phone to ring. Perhaps he was still sitting there, still waiting for the phone call that never came. Olivia had dropped the 25keys next to the bottle of liquor on Marko’s desk. Marko was tapping the computer’s mouse with his forefinger and running the cursor over the empty reservation diary when Olivia said ‘This isn’t working…’ and walked out of the door. Soon afterwards she started sharing a one-bedroom flat in Kallio with her former classmate Minna, and there she had lived until she moved back here, to this house.
Conclusion: men are an expensive hobby. They can be charming, funny, rude, stupid, bright as a shining star, dull as the handle of a hammer, handsome, not so handsome but still perfectly okay, trustworthy or untrustworthy, and everything in between, but whatever you do, whoever you meet: keep hold of your wallet.
