Palm Beach, Finland

by Antti Tuomainen

  Nyman had deliberately spoken slowly, trying to delay the man with questions. He wanted to see how the man reacted. And he’d reacted just as Nyman had expected: he had become impatient. In situations like that people often inadvertently revealed something more about themselves. Nyman hadn’t picked up on anything this time. On the other hand, his direct questions and the man’s answers had demonstrated a lot. It seemed the man had come to Palm Beach Finland on holiday, but wasn’t interested in any of the activities on offer. If you own a seventy-grand car, Nyman asked himself, and you’re not interested in any of the activities on offer at a beach resort, would you come to the erstwhile Martti’s Motel to rent a cheap cabin and do absolutely nothing?

  The answer was so clear that Nyman walked over to his kit box and took out a lock-picking set and a pair of disposable latex gloves.

  He walked to the road and looked in both directions. Nothing but cool light, a breeze through the trees, echoes of a life far away. Nyman returned to the chalet. The lock was the old Abloy make, and he had it open in thirty seconds. Nyman stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Castillo looked just like Tubbs, and vice versa. The design and equipment were identical to those in his own chalet: bunk bed, kitchenette, dining table, chairs placed around it, wardrobe, mini bathroom. The man was tidy: the bed had been neatly made, his shirts were all on hangers, the few items on the table were in a meticulous row. Nyman pulled on the latex gloves and got to work. First he examined the furniture, moved the items, picked them up and put them back again, looked underneath them. He felt the bed, the mattress, the sheets, pillows, glanced under the mattress. He examined the wardrobe inside, outside and behind. He rummaged through the pockets of the two jackets and one pair of trousers. He opened the fridge to find it stocked with foods high in protein: quark (mostly raspberry-blueberry flavour), eggs, seven packets of fat-free minced beef, fat-free cottage cheese and – somewhat surprising given everything else in the fridge – a packet of the cheapest salami you could find in the store. Nyman closed the fridge door, looked through the cupboards, opened the drawers making sure to check beneath the liners and round the back, crouched down to peer under the sink and examined the rubbish bin, which revealed that the food in the fridge was no departure from the man’s usual eating habits. He stood up and went to the window, couldn’t see anybody. He lay on the floor on his stomach, raised his head just enough to let his eyes gaze across the floor, beneath the furniture, around the skirting boards. He rolled onto his back, scrutinised the ceiling and everything rising upwards, paying particular attention to the bedframe, the kitchenette and the points where the units were bolted to the wall. He stood up, took a chair and climbed onto it so he could check above the cupboards. Then stepped down, put the chair back in its place at the dining table and went into the bathroom. He lifted the toilet lid, put it back down again, checked both with his hand and eyes behind the toilet bowl, went through the contents of a toiletry bag and found a bottle of expensive shampoo, expensive deodorant, mid-price shaving gel and a brand-new razor. No medicine or anything else that might have had a name on it. He checked beneath the sink, inside the microscopic shower unit, and let his eyes run along the edges of the walls and flooring, but nothing looked loose or as though it would provide a suitable hiding place. He returned to the main room and stood right in the middle. A rule of thumb: have you opened everything that can be opened, moved everything that can be moved? Nyman slowly looked round the space from one item to the next, checking that he knew what was inside it, beneath it or above it. He did this carefully and methodically, and eventually his eyes came to rest at the kitchenette. Had he tried every handle, opened everything that could be opened? Yes … No. He walked towards the microwave, opened it and saw a pile of cash inside. He pulled out his phone, took a picture of the money, returned his phone to his pocket and looked more closely at the microwave. The only cash in the chalet was stored in the microwave. Nyman turned and walked again to the window. Still quiet, deserted. He returned to the microwave and eyed the money. From the kitchen drawer he took a plastic spatula, stepped slightly to the side and cautiously prodded the pile. No ink booby traps, no electric shock, and seemingly no other security precautions. Just a large pile of cash inside a microwave. Nyman picked up the bundle and estimated its value. At a glance, he’d say about twenty-five thousand. Nyman placed the money back inside the microwave, closed the door and glanced round the kitchen once more before leaving. He opened the front door, took off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. He stepped onto the porch, hopped past the steps and onto the ground, and filled his lungs with fresh morning air. It was cool and clean, like the first breath after a long dive.

  Nyman committed the BMW’s registration number to memory and returned to his own chalet. He sat down at the dining table, brought his iPad to life with a click and did a search. He got a hit. The BMW was registered to a holding company whose name was a collection of italicised letters. Nyman searched for the company’s name and again came up with several hits. The company was a few months old and hadn’t provided any information about its business model. The CEO was listed as one Esa Koljonen – the name the man next door had given. Nyman searched for the man’s name – both on the search engine and the police’s own database – but couldn’t find anything. The circle came to a close. Nyman leaned back in his chair, looked out of the window and saw the corner of the next-door chalet.

  It seems Castillo has a mildew problem too, he thought.

  The resort’s office was a bright-blue box-shaped building, and on the roof was a miniature version of the sign for the beach. In front of the entrance, on both sides of the door, palm trees had been planted. The soil around the trees looked dark and churned. There was something strange about the palms themselves, but Holma couldn’t work out what.

  Holma stepped inside and immediately located the owner by sound alone. The man was on the telephone. Holma looked around. The man was by himself. Holma walked right into his office, shut the door behind him and sat down in a chair across the desk. The man watched him, his expression quizzical. It was understandable. Holma gestured and nodded to indicate that as far as he was concerned the owner could continue his conversation. The man continued talking the way Holma had heard so many men talking before him.

  ‘It’s probably been sent to my junk-mail folder … Our accountant has been a bit ill lately, so things are backlogged … Cancer of the kidneys. But he’s on the mend now … Of course, money isn’t everything … But of course, we’ll … To the front of the queue, yes indeed, I’ll make a note of it right away.’

  Holma looked at the man, who didn’t seem about to make a note of anything at all.

  On the wall behind the man was a framed poster of a woman in an itsy-bitsy bikini, standing in a suggestive, tilted position on a long sandy beach and smiling next to an autograph in felt-tip pen. Holma didn’t recognise the woman, whose significant breasts seemed to test the strength of the flimsy laces tied around them, and he couldn’t make out the autograph either. He did manage to read the short text scrawled in black lettering across the blue sky: TO JORMA WITH LOVE. That’s right, thought Holma. The man’s name was Jorma Leivo.

  Leivo eventually brought his phone conversation to an end. He picked up a cotton handkerchief from his desk and wiped the sweat from his brow. Holma didn’t think it was warm in the room.

  Leivo looked up and smiled. ‘Sorry you had to wait,’ he said. ‘It seems all our customer service officers are busy at the moment. Everything all right with the chalet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Holma.

  ‘Are you here to ask about the many other things we provide here at Palm Beach Finland? Would you like to buy some extra services?’

  ‘Extra services?’

  ‘A tennis course, perhaps,’ said Leivo. ‘Tennis coaching is on offer today. Our instructor almost won Wimbledon. I know him personally, so I can get you a good price. I’ll throw in racket rental on the house. A genuine Wilson, none of your cheap kno
ck-offs. Tested by professionals, you know, but otherwise brand new – well, an old lady used it once. In an hour I think she managed to hit the ball three times. Two and a half, to be precise. Had a heart attack. A weak arm but an iron grip. We managed to protect the racket while we prised her hand open. New tape round the handle, good as new, not the slightest whiff of granny odour. The court is the best surface around, the same stuff they use at Roland Garros. I’ve got a mate who’s visited France, and he told me as much. Big wine drinker, makes the stuff at home. Well then, shall I put your name down?’

  Holma had been observing Leivo throughout his monologue. A bright-green shirt, hands rhythmically gesticulating, ruddy face, unruly white hair sprouting at the side of his head, and those blue, red-rimmed eyes. He looked like a burned-out maestro.

  ‘Put it down in the same place where you made note of that final demand,’ said Holma. ‘Right at the front of the queue, where you put that last caller.’

  Holma watched as Leivo’s expression changed.

  ‘I’m kidding,’ he said. ‘I’m not here to register for a course, and I don’t want to buy any extra services.’

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked Leivo. This was now the voice of an altogether different man.

  ‘There’s no shame in finding yourself in financial difficulty,’ said Holma and took the box of business cards from his pocket, opened it and handed one to Leivo. ‘We all have cash-flow problems now and then. Well, not me personally, but I know people who do. And I also know, no matter what the problem, there’s always a solution.’

  Holma decided not to add that sometimes that solution was terminal. Leivo didn’t say anything. He read the card, turning it in his fingers. Holma watched as the card’s embossed golden insignia flashed in the sun.

  ‘I like this place a lot,’ he said and looked up at Leivo. ‘And the investors I represent think along the same lines. We see this as a possible investment prospect. We’ve been thinking about the sum we’d like to invest. My client operates on a cash-only basis.’

  Again, Holma decided not to add that his client was lying in a Helsinki hovel with his throat slit.

  ‘But there’s one thing we’re concerned about,’ Holma continued. ‘Which, I’m sure, we can solve and control. I’m referring to the reputation of this place.’

  Leivo cast a curious look at Holma. His expression was more open than a moment ago. The whiff of money had changed things. People suddenly became friends. Not friends, perhaps, but something even better: allies who were prepared to sell out their friends.

  ‘A while ago a homicide occurred here, an event that has cast an unfortunate shadow over the entire community,’ said Holma. ‘To my understanding, the case remains unsolved. My client strongly believes that if this case were to be solved, providing, if you will, some form of closure, the whole matter could be wiped away and we could all start with a clean slate. Who knows what Palm Beach Finland could then become?’

  Leivo seemed interested. He turned the card in his hand and read it aloud: ‘Vanamoinen & Siltakari.’ Leivo nodded, impressed. ‘Capital Ventures and Investment Portfolios.’ Leivo pronounced the words in a thick Finnish accent. Holma considered this a good sign.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Markus Komulainen. A company representative.’

  ‘Right, of course,’ said Leivo, and by now his voice had reverted to the teddy-bear tones he had used when presenting the tennis course. ‘Potential. This place has plenty. And let me be frank, it’s no wonder Palm Beach Finland is already being compared to the likes of St Tropez. We’re about to acquire some extra land too, which we’re going to use to build a luxury area for the more discerning customer. Just a few plots still to snatch up – well, only one, actually – and there will be no stopping us. There will be a helipad, a new marina. I can show you the designs, I’ve got them over here…’

  Holma raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘The homicide.’

  Leivo looked at him. Holma couldn’t quite read his expression.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a problem,’ said Leivo. ‘People die in beach resorts all the time.’

  ‘We are prepared to pay ten thousand euros for information leading to the arrest of the guilty party.’

  Leivo fell silent. This is what it would take, thought Holma. Leivo cast his eyes down at the desk in front of him and seemed to notice it was covered in papers, presumably unpaid bills. He looked pensive. Then he placed both hands on the desk and looked up at Holma again.

  ‘Ten thousand euros?’ he asked.

  ‘In cash,’ said Holma and paused slightly to allow the sum to burrow its way into Leivo’s understanding. ‘Let me stress that this is just an initial step, but a necessary step nonetheless. After this, anything is possible. Things here could really take off. I promise you that. But first let’s make sure the resort’s reputation is restored and this unfortunate matter is cleared up once and for all. And there is another reason why we are approaching you in this manner.’

  Leivo stared at him, motionless.

  ‘It’s to do with your position in the community,’ said Holma. ‘You know a lot of people, you hear all sorts of things. You interact personally with almost all the tourists that come and go. You can ask around.’

  Leivo said nothing. It didn’t matter, thought Holma, he’d already made himself clear. There was nobody, nobody at all, that an easy ten thousand euros wouldn’t spur into action – making them do something, anything. Holma stood up.

  ‘You know where to find me,’ he said and stepped out of the office.

  16

  Now there’s a surprise, thought Olivia Koski. This morning her swimming costume felt almost as though it fitted properly. It still didn’t look good, and the text emblazoned across it seemed all the more absurd, but in some way the garment itself felt lighter, easier to bear. Maybe, thought Olivia, it was because she now knew all of this was temporary. And how did she know that? She … just knew. More to the point, she had decided to make sure it would be temporary.

  In the morning light she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered how much it took for people to really learn things. How much did it take for a thirty-nine-year old to look herself in the mirror and know with certainty that from now on everything was going to be different? In her case it had required two catastrophic relationships, the death of her mother and father, a murder, an explosion in her shed, the incineration of her sauna, the water suddenly cutting off – and a curious maths teacher. Olivia had realised it later the previous evening as she’d said it out loud to herself. Jan Kaunisto was funny and fascinating, she’d said. In all honesty, when was the last time she’d met an interesting, funny man who hadn’t started complaining about his dire financial situation – temporary, of course, and purely circumstantial – on their second date? Olivia smiled and caught a glimpse of her smiling face in the mirror. It felt good. So good that it looked good too.

  Olivia pulled her tracksuit and hoodie over her swimming costume and tied her trainers. She looked in her bags, double-checked that she’d packed a change of clothes. She went down the steps and walked to her bicycle. She always left it in the yard unlocked, and there it was now, the remains of the sauna behind it. She thought about the solicitor’s proposition. She had told him she’d be at home until nine in the morning, then at work on the beach, so she would be easy to find: she would be in the watchtower, of which there was only one. He could bring the ten thousand euros to either place, as long as it was in a neat package. The solicitor said he understood, assured her he was always discreet when it came to money.

  Olivia placed the bag in the basket tied to the rack at the back of her bike, secured it with a bungee cord and jumped on the saddle. It was a cool, beautiful morning. She inhaled the sharp air and remembered that Jan Kaunisto’s windsurfing lesson was about to start. There was something comical about it. Not in the laugh-out-loud sense. In the sense that she felt i
t beneath her sternum rather than in her cheeks.

  Olivia recalled what Miss Simola had said about the police always continuing their investigations. The reason Olivia had previously dismissed Leivo was because just by looking at him he was too obvious a suspect: he talked the way all salesmen talked, lying if not with every word but at the very latest by the end of each sentence. What’s more, Leivo had put in a pathetic, offensively low offer on Olivia’s house and land, and in that way almost put himself forward for an identity line-up. What’s more, on the night of the murder Leivo had been sitting in his restaurant eating ice cream and managed to stain the front of his white shirt, and there were photographs to prove it. Given all this, Olivia found it impossible to suspect him. It all seemed too easy.

  But Miss Simola wasn’t one for idle gossip. Olivia remembered her as a woman who followed her own path, who said what she meant and meant what she said, and seeing her again after all these years hadn’t remotely changed that impression.

  Very well, she thought. Let’s assume it is Leivo after all. He doesn’t get his own hands dirty, but … But what? Leivo sends someone into her house, then someone else to kill the first guy. No. Leivo hires two men who end up having an argument while they are doing … what exactly? Nothing had been taken except her old wooden backscratcher, so this definitely wasn’t a burglary. Which, in any case, would have been completely futile. Apart from the house itself, Olivia didn’t own anything of worth, and there was nothing in the house of any monetary value except, maybe, her mother’s paintings. They didn’t normally count, as sad as it sounded. So this whole scenario, in all its absurdity, went as follows: Leivo hires a person or persons to go into her house and fight until one of them dies.