The Hummingbird

by Kati Hiekkapelto

  For me, my own language never served like an anchor, and though in a way school was fucking awful – there was bullying, and especially to begin with things were really difficult – I actually remember school and the school bus and everything about life outside the reception centre much more clearly than anything that went on inside the centre. Perhaps I was rejecting the life inside those walls, though I don’t for one second believe in psychoanalysis or any of that crap. I created a shell around myself, wrapped myself in a protective film. I couldn’t talk to Mum; she was a wreck. And with Dad I talked even less. I had the constant feeling that they didn’t notice me or Mehvan. It was as though we’d become transparent inside that cling film. And once Adan was born, Mum withdrew even more. She turned into a robot that did nothing but change nappies and breastfeed.

  She was depressed. Now I realise what it was, but at the time nobody told me what was going on.

  SEPTEMBER

  17

  ANNA WAS SITTING in a blue-and-white patrol car parked outside Bihar Chelkin’s house. It was the early hours of the morning and the sun was somewhere behind the rainclouds. She wanted to make sure that all the local residents – and the Chelkin family in particular – noticed her presence, and for that reason she didn’t switch off the motor or the lights. The street lights were refracted in small, glittering spectrums of colour in the raindrops on the windscreen. The car’s digital thermometer showed an outdoor temperature of 5°c.

  Why do I have to live so far north, she found herself wondering as she glanced up once again at the lights in the apartment on the third floor.

  Back home the evening would still be lazy and warm, the last vestiges of summer; the harvest would be at its peak, the maize ripe, and the farmers would still cut the hay at least another three times. The cold and wet weather wouldn’t come until some time in December. What on earth is keeping me here? And why do I still think of somewhere I haven’t lived for twenty years as ‘home’, a place where people lost their minds twenty years ago?

  Just then, one of the lights in the Chelkins’ apartment was switched off and Anna woke from her daydreams. The lights in the stairwell flickered to life, and a moment later Bihar and Mehvan stepped out through the front door of the tall apartment block. Anna flicked on the car’s blue lights and slowly drove up next to them.

  ‘How’s things?’ Anna called to Bihar through the window.

  ‘Fine.’ It was Mehvan who replied.

  ‘I was asking Bihar, but I’m pleased to hear you’re doing well too, Mehvan. And you’re a good boy to look after your sister like this. How about you, Bihar?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ the girl mumbled faintly, staring at the pavement.

  Mehvan spat, loud and provocative.

  ‘Bihar’s bus is going to be here soon – we’d better go,’ he said with a note of insolence.

  ‘Yes. Mustn’t be late for school,’ said Anna.

  Once the investigation had been discontinued and nobody else had wanted to observe the family unofficially, Anna had decided to do this by herself. She showed up outside the Chelkins’ house in a patrol car whenever she got the opportunity, and every now and then slowly drove past Bihar and Mehvan’s schools at break time. The family had noticed her at once but hadn’t dared to say anything. Perhaps they thought they were still on a list of suspects, still under investigation.

  Nonetheless, Bihar’s situation seemed to have calmed down. Bihar appeared contented and safe; she went to school regularly and in the evenings she sometimes met up with her Kurdish and Somali friends. But the sense of calm could simply have been the result of Anna’s presence. And what if the family found out that she was working alone, against direct orders to the contrary? She knew her job could be on the line, but she didn’t care. If she turned her back on Bihar and something happened to her, she would never forgive herself.

  Anna drove to the police station, parked the car in the exhaust-fumed bay beneath the building and took the lift up to the fourth floor. She had already acquired a sense of familiarity for her office with its bare walls. Perhaps I should buy a plant or something, she mused as she booted up the computer and lifted a folder full of papers on to the table. She opened the venetian blinds; grey clouds still hung heavy in the sky.

  Riikka’s case had been treading water. Jere’s DNA didn’t match the sperm found in Riikka’s body. His pump-action rifle had been found in a gun cabinet at Riikka’s parents’ summer cottage, its barrel polished and shining. It was impossible to establish when the rifle had last been fired. According to Jere, this was the previous winter when he had been out hunting hares, though Esko wondered why a lad with a passion for hunting would miss the start of the duck season. He was still convinced that Jere had shot Riikka. But how could he have simultaneously been hundreds of kilometres away in Sevettijärvi? Even Esko couldn’t explain away that little detail.

  Anna had visited dozens of restaurants in town and discovered many lunch menus offering fish and pine nuts. None of the staff had seen Riikka on the day of the shooting. They had called through the members list of the local hunting association – with no luck. Many people had been out hunting along the shore near the running track, and several of them had been there on the night of the murder.

  Two of the hunters had been located, and Anna and Rauno had visited and talked to them. Neither had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary that night, but one of them thought he remembered there being a third person out with the hunt. There had been plenty of birds, so their concentration was elsewhere. Naturally, the .12-calibre rifles belonging to both men had recently been fired. One had seven ducks and one goose hanging in the shed protected by mosquito netting, while the other’s catch was already in the freezer, neatly bagged and labelled: mallard breast fillets (20/8); pintail breast fillets (21/8); four teals (1/9).

  Both men came across as perfectly normal and sensible; there wasn’t the slightest suggestion of mental illness or a guilty conscience and neither seemed to be hiding anything or lying. These men wouldn’t even have accidentally shot a shelduck, of that Anna was sure. Still, she didn’t want to give up on this line of investigation just yet. They had nothing else to go on.

  There was a third person out there somewhere. A third hunter whose prey hadn’t flown overhead, its wings rushing in the wind; it had run towards him in a brand-new, scratchy tracksuit.

  Had the killer known that it would be impossible to trace a bog-standard hunting rifle? Is that why he’d used this weapon? Or was the killer just as average and nondescript a hunter as the weapon and rounds he had used?

  Or she, Anna corrected herself.

  For all the manly accoutrements, the killer could just as easily be a woman. Lots of women hunt around here; they also serve as the president and the prime minister. They drink a lot, swear, smoke cigarettes and jump into bed with random acquaintances. They do what they please. They can enlist in the armed forces or go to the police academy. Anna cut her flow of thoughts right there. She had touched the rope that was keeping her in Finland, and that rope burned as though she had slid down it.

  And what about Riikka’s mysterious new relationship? With the exception of Virve Sarlin, none of Riikka’s friends had seen or heard anything, and they had all now been interviewed, their Facebook connections examined, revealing nothing. That being said, apart from a few phone calls and the odd coffee, Riikka hadn’t had much to do with them all summer.

  On the other hand, everybody seemed to know that Riikka had separated from Jere and was now living with Virve. Every time someone had tried to coax her out to a bar or to the seaside, she had said she just wanted to be alone, but even this hadn’t unduly worried anyone. Saara Heikkilä, heavily made-up and with peroxide-blonde hair, had explained to Anna in a nasal voice that Riikka’s relationship with her old friends had cooled somewhat once she started dating Jere, the boy that everybody wanted, and when they finally broke up nobody cared to hang out with her any more.

  Virve was the only one who had remain
ed a close friend.

  Could Virve have made up her story about Riikka’s secretive behaviour and her new relationship? She claimed to have stayed at home after Riikka had gone out on her run, but there was nobody to corroborate this. Her neighbours were unable to say whether Riikka, Virve or anyone else had left the apartment that evening. The police had only Virve’s word for what happened on the night of the murder. Was there any way Virve could have done this?

  Anna took a deep sigh and replaced the files and case reports in their folders. She had read them all dozens of times, wracking her brains to think how best to move the case forward.

  She couldn’t think of any new lines of inquiry. Nobody could. They had reached a dead end. Autumn was well on its way and the evenings were drawing in.

  More and more often Anna would leave her desk and go outside for a cigarette, though it didn’t perk her up at all; more and more often she was missing her evening runs.

  After losing enthusiasm for running the marathon, Anna had started running regularly four times a week without any goal other than retaining her sanity. Her weekly programme consisted of two basic runs, one longer run and an interval session. She ran without giving it a second thought. It felt natural; she couldn’t live without it.

  Now, for two weeks in a row, she had skipped the long run and the intervals. Even on her normal runs she felt increasingly as though her legs were made of lead.

  But she didn’t want to worry about that now. She would make it up again, when it wasn’t raining so much, when she had more time.

  Anna glanced at her watch. It was already afternoon. She could use the few hours of overtime that had built up over the last few weeks, go into town for a bite to eat, get home and go to sleep. Tomorrow was her only free weekday all autumn. It made the thought of going home early seem all the more attractive. The investigation had kept her at work until well into the evening several times, and getting to sleep had become a problem. Keeping an eye on Bihar was an added cause for concern. Anna planned to sleep in until late morning; perhaps then she would tidy the flat a little and go clothes-shopping in town. Sari dressed so stylishly, she had noticed, to her embarrassment. Anna always turned up in jeans and a hoodie. How easy life in her patrol uniform had been in that respect.

  It wouldn’t be until the unit meeting next week that they would decide on any new lines of investigation. Until then, she would have to go over the same old case files, documents whose contents she already knew by heart. Anna hoped that she might be assigned a new case; how nice it would be to investigate bicycle thefts or something similar. New investigations, new cases – it sounded refreshing. But there would be no bicycle thefts for her, not here in the Violent Crimes Unit.

  Sari pulled up slowly in front of her house. The garden was cluttered with small plastic buckets and spades, and the yellow swings dangled empty. They hadn’t planted anything this summer either; the lawn grew in isolated, tangled clumps and they had become used to the sight of piles of rubble in the garden. Maybe next year, once the children are a bit bigger. We could dig a small vegetable patch, the kids could plant things themselves, watch as they grow. Sari opened the front door and stepped into the hallway. The children’s clothes were hanging neatly on their hooks. The sound of laughter came from the kitchen and the scent of food wafted into the hallway. Thank God we can afford a nanny, Sari thought once again. What a luxury to come home after work and have food ready, the laundry done and the kids happily playing. Sari didn’t dare imagine what a trial it must be getting them ready for nursery.

  ‘Knock, knock,’ she said as she stepped into the kitchen.

  Siiri and Tobias jumped from their chairs and came bounding into her arms. Sari hugged them both and felt the endless love flowing within her.

  ‘Right, back to the table. What wonderful food has Sanna made for us today?’

  ‘Macaloni!’ said Tobias.

  ‘Oh, macaroni, yummy!’ Sari corrected him and smiled at Sanna. ‘How’s your day been?’ she asked the young nanny they had found through an agency and who initially had caused Sari great concern with her dyed blue hair, her heavy make-up, the silver bead in her lower lip and the thin ring through her left eyebrow. Teemu had talked her into it. The girl had seemed smart and confident, and the children had taken to her straight away. Don’t judge a book by its cover, her dyed-in-the-wool middle-class engineer husband had convinced her, frowning on Sari’s prejudices. Because there had been no one else on offer, Sari had eventually consented – through gritted teeth.

  And thank God she had.

  Sanna had proved to be worth her weight in gold. As the eldest child in a large family, she was excellent with the kids and knew how to look after the house. She was always in a good mood, had the energy to play with the children, to keep them occupied for hours – and all this without being too lenient with them. Sari felt that her children’s behaviour had taken a radical change for the better since she’d gone back to work and Sanna had entered the house. What’s more, Sari didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty about it. On the contrary, she was enjoying it to the full.

  ‘Siiri was a bit sleepy in the morning, so we didn’t go outside for a while,’ Sanna explained as she stroked the girl’s fair, angelic locks. ‘I let them play in their pyjamas until midday. What did we play?’

  ‘Magic forest!’ they cried in unison.

  This girl’s superhuman, Sari thought.

  ‘In the afternoon we went out to the garden. The strap on Tobias’s dungarees broke.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ he stuttered.

  ‘No, it doesn’t matter – we’ll mend it,’ said Sari.

  ‘All in all, a good day.’

  ‘Great. Thanks so much, Sanna. You’re amazing.’

  Sanna smiled contentedly.

  ‘What time shall I start tomorrow?’

  ‘Come for nine. Teemu’s going to work a bit later tomorrow. You can lie in too.’

  ‘Great. See you in the morning,’ said Sanna, waving to the children.

  Sari sat down at the ready-laid table, scooped a plate of macaroni gratin for herself, poured some milk and looked at the clock: 3.30 p.m. Teemu would be back in an hour. She would have a relaxed evening at home with nothing in particular to do. Because of Teemu’s business trips they had cut back their hobbies to a bare minimum. They didn’t want to let hectic timetables spoil these rare chances to focus on the children and to spend time together as a family. It was a good solution; they enjoyed being at home. The children had no idea that things like stress and time constraints existed.

  Her mobile made a gurgling sound. A text message. Teemu had changed the regular ringtone to a frog’s croak, and it took a moment for Sari to realise the noise was coming from her work phone.

  U R so sexy. So sexy there. Yummy yummy.

  Sari automatically peered through the window out into the street. There was no sign of movement. Then she went round the house, checking all the windows and looking out into the yard.

  Were the swings moving? Had the wind picked up?

  Have I got some kind of perverted stalker, she thought, and double-checked that Sanna had locked the door after her.

  Rauno had remained at the station, again. He enjoyed the quiet that descended on the Violent Crimes Unit after six o’clock once the majority of the investigators had clocked off. The office doors were closed, nobody was running along the corridors, the photocopier wasn’t whirring, there were fewer lights on and there was no buzz of conversation. It was easier to concentrate, to get his thoughts in order. His work wasn’t being constantly interrupted and nobody disturbed him.

  Rauno laid the pile of reports on his desk with a sigh and rubbed his exhausted eyes. Explanations and excuses; at least he could admit it to himself. He didn’t feel so passionately about this job that he wanted to spend every evening in his office. Far from it.

  He didn’t want to go home. He knew that his absence was only making things worse, that when they were having their difficulties they should
try and come closer to one another, try and grow together instead of withdrawing. This was one way of losing his last opportunity to make things right, of making Nina despise him more and more each day. Still, he refused to be the only guilty party.

  He didn’t know where it had all gone wrong. He had tried and tried, but he’d always felt as though nothing was ever good enough. He was sick of it all.

  If it hadn’t been for the girls, he would have walked out long ago.

  Or would he?

  Despite everything that had happened, sometimes Rauno felt as though he still loved Nina. Perhaps the feeling was just a habit. They’d been together for seven years. Surely that should be long enough, he thought, and felt a wave of shame and failure. His own parents were still together after 35 years.

  Rauno flicked through the reports one last time. There were still plenty of names on the hunting association’s member list. This is pointless, he thought, as he decided to call another few names. The killer could be anyone and could live anywhere. He might as well get hold of a list from the neighbouring hunting association and go through them too. What about the Rotary Club? The Women’s Institute? Rauno sighed again. Perhaps the bulk of the work was yet to come.

  He called five numbers. One didn’t answer, and he scored through the other four with a pencil after talking to them. All of them could prove they were somewhere else on the night of the murder – one was even in Thailand. Rauno believed them; what reason did he have not to? It would be impossible to look any more closely into their alibis. He had to trust his own sense of judgement. That’s why Rauno had been assigned this task. Apparently he was a good listener. Nina would have disagreed. It was strange how a person could give such a different impression of themselves at work. Which is the real me: the Rauno from home or the Rauno at work? Is it someone else entirely? Someone waiting inside him to develop into the man he really was?