Robin looked surprised. The smile prompted by Chico’s compliment disappeared from his face in a millisecond. Robin stared at the bottle in front of him.
‘I can’t make it,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘I just can’t.’
‘Robin,’ said Chico. ‘Why not?’
A short pause, filled only with a sharp click from the billiard table at the other end of the room.
‘It’s talent night,’ Robin said quietly.
Chico leaned back against the wall of the booth. He thought for a moment. He thought about two things. The first was talent night; the second was Robin.
‘What are you performing?’ Chico asked and realised there was a note of something approaching dread in his voice. ‘I mean, what talent are you going to … demonstrate?’
‘I’m just watching,’ Robin replied quietly, lowering his head.
‘Watching what exactly?’
Robin looked at him and swallowed. ‘Nea will be on stage.’
Chico thought about this for a moment.
‘And what’s she performing?’
‘I don’t know. She’s on stage at half-ten.’
‘So Nea invited you, did she? You personally?’
Robin lowered his eyes. Now he spoke even more quietly than before. ‘She posted on Facebook that she was doing it.’
‘You two are friends on Facebook?’
‘I sent her a friend request.’
‘When?’
‘December.’
Chico looked at Robin and waited. Robin had said all he was going to say. Chico pushed against his cushioned seat and leaned forwards across the table. Let it go, he thought, this isn’t important.
He was about to take a gulp from his bottle but noticed a yellowish fleck floating in the liquid. The fleck looked almost alive and seemed to be twitching about on the surface. He pushed the bottle away. He desperately needed some money. He was tired of this; tired of drinking this nasty fondue of a beer, tired of playing on a cheap replica guitar. He wanted a fresh beer and a genuine, custom-made Les Paul.
Now he knew how to get his hands on both.
‘We’ll be finished before talent night,’ said Chico. ‘I’ll pick up some matches at the bar.’
2
Jan Nyman became aware of movement and noise in the next-door chalet. He was sitting at his miniature dining table, and now realised his back was stiff so he stood up. He’d been reading for a few hours. It was time to leave.
He drank two glasses of water, put on the lighter of his two flannel shirts – the one in green and light-blue check, pulled on a pair of navy-blue jeans, slipped his iPhone into his front pocket and tied the laces on his red Converse All Stars. He looked at himself in the mirror, adjusted his hair, considered shaving but decided this wasn’t the time: he was a maths teacher on holiday, and he wanted both to feel and look like one.
Nyman stepped outside.
The wind buffeted him as it had before, but it was a beautiful evening, almost serene. The sun was setting slowly, its soft brush gilding both the sky and the sea. The air was fresh and smelled of a giant salt bath. Nyman looked towards the neighbouring chalet. Behind it he could see the back of a shining black car, one of the new BMW models, the 520 maybe. A towel in migraine-inducing stripes was hanging over the railing like a flag planted on conquered territory. Nyman locked the door of his chalet, then, as he turned he heard the door of the neighbouring chalet opening.
On the veranda Nyman saw a man in swimming trunks: light-skinned, his face hard to make out – it was as though his features had melted in the evening sun; the shades and contours had all combined. A man of about forty, a year or so older than Nyman, his upper body muscular, which made his legs seem all the scrawnier, as though he’d been going to the gym regularly but stubbornly avoided working out his thighs. And the oddest detail of all: his choirboy fair hair, which would have looked adorable on a twelve-year-old, but which made a man of forty look as though he’d come down with the last shower. The man noticed him.
‘Hello,’ said Nyman. ‘Evening swim?’
The man said nothing, but simply turned to face Nyman. His black swimming trunks were small and tight. Too small, too tight.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked eventually.
Seeing as you’re wearing a pair of kids’ swimming trunks.
‘It’s a nice evening for it,’ said Nyman. ‘The sun should keep you warm.’
The man looked up at the sky. Very well, thought Nyman. You can either continue this silly game, he said to himself, or you can do what you’re supposed to do. The man only looked at the sky for a second, two at most.
‘Been here long?’ he asked. The voice was in fact surprisingly friendly.
‘Only a day,’ said Nyman.
‘Holiday?’
‘Damn right.’
‘Me too,’ said the man. ‘Long overdue.’
Nyman decided to make good use of the situation. He took a few steps towards the neighbouring veranda and reached a hand across the fence. It was one of the single most effective ways of gathering information that had ever been invented: a quick and surprising introduction.
‘Jan Kaunisto,’ said Nyman.
The man held out his hand and smiled. ‘Esa Koljonen.’
The two shook hands. Judging by what was happening in the man’s eyes, in the areas around his eyes, and from his movements and the grip of his hand, Nyman decided that the man’s name either was Esa Koljonen or it wasn’t.
They exchanged a few words about the weather, about summers in general, and once the man seemed to warm to their conversation – and especially to the sound of his own voice – Nyman wished him a pleasant evening.
He left the man on his veranda, walked into the town and quickly arrived at the so-called beachside boulevard, a street whose official name was Shore Street. Once on Shore Street Nyman hesitated for a moment, then chose a bar based on name alone. If the resort was called Palm Beach Finland, why shouldn’t there be a bar named Hawaii? Later that evening Bar Hawaii would be home to talent night.
The bar was half empty, and cosy, perhaps even a little claustrophobic. The ceiling was low and the bar counter long. The principal design material appeared to be bamboo. To the left of the bar was a row of booths, each with a covering of leaves and branches that provided extra privacy but made the room feel even smaller. At the far end of the bar were a jukebox and a fruit machine, their lights flashing in exotic colours. The stage appeared to be right next to the entrance.
A small sign on the bar counter revealed that talent night was due to start in an hour and fifteen minutes. Nyman ordered a bottle of beer from the female bartender – clearly a seasonal employee, as she struggled to find everything – and was about to take a sip when he saw a familiar profile in the mirror: long dark-brown hair and a long, slightly noble nose.
Olivia Koski was sitting by herself.
The background music was soul, a classic number – a velvet-voiced man imploring his listeners for some sexual healing. Nyman wondered whether he should wait for the song to end; in the worst-case scenario, Olivia Koski would think he had selected this song from the jukebox and was now turning up to instigate a healing procedure of his own. Nyman had seen plenty of men working themselves up to approach a strange woman, but invariably they prepared far too much: the right song, the right flowers, the right position of the planets … dream bachelor, wedding march, twin children, erectile dysfunction, a shared plot in the cemetery, all condensed into a single second. Of course, he’d seen other kinds of men too, men who stalked their prey like big cats: lying in the long grass then hungrily springing into action, their jaws wide open – Fancy a shag? Why not, bitch? – and ending up drunkenly consoling each other at the end of the evening: Mate, you never let me down.
Nyman took a sip of beer and glanced again in the mirror. Olivia Koski didn’t appear to be paying the slightest attention to what was going on around her. The velvet-voiced man continued
his song. Nyman picked up his bottle and walked towards Olivia Koski’s booth. The wine glass on the table in front of her was almost empty.
‘Hi,’ said Nyman and held out his hand when he realised Olivia didn’t recognise him. ‘Jan Kaunisto. I rented the Distance Runner board from you today. Can I get you another glass of wine and join you?’
Olivia seemed to be thinking about something, then held out her hand. ‘Maybe. I’m Olivia. That’s maybe to the glass of wine. Let’s see once I’ve finished this one.’
Olivia gestured towards the other side of the table. ‘Be my guest,’ she said. Nyman slid into the seat and looked at the woman sitting across the dark wooden table. Her hair was wet; he caught the scent of floral shampoo. The ceiling in the booth was low and the lamp attached to the wall emitted a soft, pallid light which might or might not have been its desired effect. Nyman felt as though they were sitting in a den or a tree house.
‘So, talent night,’ said Nyman. ‘Are you watching or performing?’
Olivia glanced at him, perhaps slightly amused. ‘I came here for a shower,’ she said and nodded towards the bar. ‘You don’t happen to know anything about plumbing renovations, do you?’
‘The only time I ever experienced that was in an apartment block,’ said Nyman and shook his head. ‘It took longer than planned and ended up costing more than it should have.’
‘Brilliant. That cheered me up.’
‘I must admit I didn’t really follow it very closely. I was working away from home at the time. Are you getting a renovation done?’
‘Hopefully,’ she said, then shook her head. ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
Nyman waited.
Olivia stared at her glass, then eventually raised her eyes. ‘So you’re not a plumber and you’re not a windsurfer. What exactly do you do?’
‘I’m a maths teacher,’ said Nyman.
‘Long summer holidays.’
‘Everyone says that.’
‘It’s true though, isn’t it?’ she asked and sipped her wine.
Nyman took a gulp of beer. ‘What’s up with your pipes?’ he asked.
‘They’re a hundred years old and they’ve given up the ghost. I need to replace them. But I haven’t got…’
Nyman waited.
‘Let’s talk about something else.’ Olivia pushed her glass away and looked Nyman in the eyes. ‘What brought you here?’
Nyman looked at Olivia, at those brown eyes. When he was dealing with criminals, lying always came naturally to him – he lied systematically, automatically, without giving it a second thought. But right now there was something about lying that disturbed him. He decided to add at least an element of truth to everything he said. Maybe that would make it feel less wrong.
‘A friend told me about this place, said I might have an interesting time.’
‘Did your friend say why?’ Olivia asked.
‘Well, I guess it had something to do with the location by the sea. I’m not sure. And he particularly recommended windsurfing, which is something I’ve never done before.’
‘He didn’t mention anything about a strange occurrence here a few weeks ago?’
Nyman tried to look puzzled. He might even have succeeded.
‘I feel like everybody knows about it,’ said Olivia.
Nyman continued to feign an element of confusion. He was trying his best.
Eventually Olivia put him out of his misery. ‘You’ll hear about it sooner or later. A dead man was found in my house.’
‘What, just like that?’ asked Nyman, quite sincerely.
‘I don’t know if it was just like that,’ she said, and Nyman listened carefully to her tone of voice, trying to judge how she spoke about the event, what she stressed, what she said and didn’t say. ‘Someone smashed the windows. There was a fight in the kitchen. Well, in fact I don’t know whether there was or wasn’t, but the kitchen was trashed. Then, somehow, a man died. I arrived home that night and found him there. The police think he was probably murdered. They’re looking into it. I’ve no idea what conclusion they’ve reached, because they never tell me anything. I don’t know why. You’d think they would keep the owner of the property up to date. Maybe not though.’
Okay, thought Nyman. Impossible to make any judgements based on this.
Olivia glanced at him. ‘You don’t seem very shocked,’ she said.
‘That’s quite a homecoming.’
‘It was terrible,’ she said, her voice neutral. ‘And there’s something else, something I haven’t told anyone else.’
Nyman sipped his beer and waited.
‘It’s a bit embarrassing,’ said Olivia.
Nyman made a hand gesture to indicate that her secret was safe with him. And it was, assuming what she was about to tell him didn’t involve a criminal element. Go ahead, Nyman tried to smile at her.
‘I’m not entirely sure about it. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. It’s about my father and grandfather. I think the thief must have taken a backscratcher from the wall between the kitchen and the hallway.’
‘A backscratcher?’ asked Nyman.
‘My grandfather was a fisherman. He wore long johns from the beginning of August right through until Midsummer – basically all year round. He didn’t have many pairs of long johns – in fact he probably only had one. As you can imagine, during the winter they started getting a bit itchy in certain places. So my grandfather got himself a backscratcher which he hung on a hook between the hall and the kitchen and which he used to solve his little problem. He used it for decades. Once my grandfather died, my father started using it. Why would anyone steal something like that?’
‘Are you sure it’s missing?’
‘I’ve cleaned the ground floor from top to bottom many times. I don’t know why I told you this.’
‘Sometimes it’s good to talk about things,’ said Nyman.
Olivia leaned her head back slightly and looked at Nyman almost from above. ‘But you knew all this before. The bit about what happened in my house, at least. I always notice when people know about it. They look at me differently from other people. I doubt they do it on purpose, but it happens all the same. She’s the one with the body in her kitchen. Something like that.’
Nyman nodded, but not too enthusiastically.
‘I did hear something,’ he said, relieved that at least in this regard he could tell the truth.
‘I knew it. The other option is that you’ve seen so much brutality in your career as a maths teacher that the thought of bodies in people’s kitchens doesn’t disturb you in the least.’
‘Oh, it always disturbs me,’ he said.
And when it was Olivia Koski’s turn to look puzzled, Nyman explained what he meant. He told her about his deployment in Afghanistan – two tours as a peacekeeper in Mazar-i-Sharif. He didn’t go into details. Still, it felt good talking about himself. Naturally he left out the bits about his years in the Violent Crimes Unit, the citizens of Helsinki who over the years he’d seen turn up dead in every imaginable way.
‘And what then?’ asked Olivia.
‘After Afghanistan? I came home, went back to college, met a woman.’
This was all true. In its own way.
‘But you’re on holiday by yourself?’
Nyman couldn’t discern anything flirtatious in the question. It was simply a question.
‘Divorce,’ he said. ‘She’s a very nice woman. I haven’t got a bad word to say about her. But we haven’t got anything in common. With hindsight I think we met each other at a time when both of us wanted to get married to someone, so we ended up marrying each other.’
‘Sounds better than my relationships. Engaged twice, married once. I was going to say we had nothing in common either. But in my defence, I should say the two men had a lot in common. For instance, I ended up supporting both of them.’
‘That’s modern,’ said Nyman.
Olivia might have smiled, he wasn’t sure.
‘But it’s be
en a while since then,’ she continued. ‘I came back here a few months ago. My father passed away…’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thanks.’ Olivia paused for half a second, then continued. ‘I inherited a house where the plumbing has stopped working. The place needs a complete renovation. I’ve done lots of small things myself, but I’ve been putting off the bigger jobs until I win the lottery.’
‘You play the lottery?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t believe in that kind of thing.’
‘What, chance?’
‘The lottery isn’t chance. It’s torture. Chance is the idea that you might find a good bloke, but it’s not like the choice you make on lottery odds, which would be like choosing between all the men on the planet, all three and a half billion of them. You choose from an insanely small group of men that you get to know in the course of your life. And I don’t mean in the intimate sense. Let’s say there are seven of them. Two are hopeless cases – I’m an expert on them. Then there’s one that’s tidy round the house, but he’s no good because that’s all there is to him: he doesn’t make a mess, but that doesn’t exactly count as a personality feature. Then there’s one interesting guy with whom everything seems to be going well, but who one day stops calling you. Then there’s one that turns from a prince into a frog the minute you kiss him, though there’s no physiological explanation for it. Then there’s … Wait a minute.’
‘You’ve got three left.’
Olivia shook her head.
‘Two,’ she said. ‘Of whom one is the product of my imagination, in the sense that he’s the first man I ever kissed, back then we were fourteen and I haven’t seen him since, and he doesn’t look like Brad Pitt but sits lounging on the sofa stroking his double chin while he waits for a nice sandwich and for death to pay a visit.’
‘Then there’s only one left.’
‘And that’s chance.’
Nyman looked at Olivia Koski. She moved her glass on the table.
‘It’s empty now,’ said Nyman.
Olivia looked at her glass.
‘That can’t be chance.’
Palm Beach, Finland Page 8
