Chico staggered behind Leivo. Leivo’s head was thrashing against the sand, his hair now even more dishevelled than usual, jutting in all directions. There in the sand, the wobbling tufts of hair made the head look like a possessed pineapple. Leivo’s snarling sounded like a lion, a dog and probably a prehistoric creature of some description.
Robin whispered that someone would have to fetch the spades from next to Leivo, and because Chico had already been seen, he should get them. Chico looked at Robin. They were both backing away from Leivo and the sea. They stopped. A moment later Chico realised that he should have known what was going to happen next, though it seemed impossible. He knew Robin was right and agreed to go – if only because it was the fastest way to get them off this beach.
Chico approached Leivo again.
One of the spades was right in front of Leivo. More specifically, it was right in front of Leivo’s head – buried up to his neck in sand Chico found it hard to think of Leivo as a whole entity; he was, rather, a malevolent ball in the sand – which for now was suddenly still.
Chico pulled the spade away from Leivo and walked round the back of his head to the other side. He thought he could grip the other spade quickly round the shaft; that way it would be easier to carry. But Chico could not make eye contact with him again. He decided to stare at the sea, reach out his hand and grab the spade. He crouched down, stretched out his hand, gazed up at the moonlight reflected in the mirror-like sea and felt…
Leivo’s teeth.
Leivo bit him.
He bit harder than any dog had ever bitten anyone. Either the rag pulled over his mouth had slackened or Leivo had managed to spit it out. It didn’t matter, thought Chico as Leivo’s teeth sunk deeper and deeper into the back of his hand. Chico tried to yank his hand free, but Leivo had a firm grip. Leivo growled, and Chico could see his entire head was tensed. The pain coursing through Chico’s hand was dizzying. He shouted out, though they had agreed only to speak in whispers. Robin stood on the spot. With his free hand Chico tried to push Leivo’s head to one side – but where could it go? They had just buried him right there in the sand. Chico couldn’t think of any other course of action but to hit him. He struck Leivo twice on the forehead. It felt wrong, wholly unfair.
Robin finally started approaching, but it took him an age to reach them. Leivo was like a Doberman. Chico’s eyes were watering, this time with tears of pain.
Robin knelt down behind Leivo and began lifting the knot in the rag. Once he had the rag in position, he began pulling Leivo by the ears. Chico had to close his eyes. Finally, after an excruciatingly long time, Leivo bellowed, from pain perhaps, and opened his jaw just enough for Chico to pull his hand free.
Chico staggered backwards and jerked to his feet. He was waving his hand in the air; it felt as if some part of it was broken or at the very least severely damaged. Chico watched as Robin reattached the rag in Leivo’s mouth and tied the knot behind his neck. Leivo resisted, but Robin was strong and deftly kept away from those gnashing teeth. Leivo’s head thrashed and wrenched, and a terrifying snarl came hissing through the rag. The movement slowly calmed and eventually stopped. Leivo appeared to have lost consciousness again.
Robin stood up, picked up the spades and headed into the woods. Chico followed him, trying to calm the pain throbbing in his hand in the cool of the evening air. They stepped into the cover of the trees, taking a different route from before. Then Chico remembered something important that they hadn’t talked about. At least, he couldn’t remember them talking about it.
‘Wait,’ Chico said to Robin’s back.
Robin stopped and turned slowly. Chico couldn’t really see his expression; the moonlight was like white gold, it lit them well, but here among the trees the shadows were nothing but a thick, impenetrable darkness. Chico turned his back to Robin and looked towards the shore.
In the moonlight, Leivo’s head looked like a small object washed up on the sand. Chico thought about the view, and it felt as though something was missing. Something essential, he thought, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then he realised. He turned back to Robin, and just as the words came from his mouth he saw the spade getting closer.
‘Is there even a tide here…?’ he began. At the same time he both did and didn’t feel the blow as the spade came into contact with his temple. There was a dullness to it, and Chico was certain he could almost taste it: metal, blood, damp sand.
In fact those tastes awaited him on the ground, which gently softened his fall. Chico’s final thought was that this really was an excellent plan. Except for the fact that it was based entirely on something that didn’t exist: the tide. At least, it didn’t exist here, he thought. It never had.
Robin might not be the brightest of the bunch, he thought, but at least he was a friend you could trust. Or was he?
5
‘Everything okay?’ asked Nyman as Olivia returned to the table and sat down. Nyman realised he’d almost finished his rhubarb pie, while Olivia had barely tasted hers.
‘Sorry?’ she asked. ‘Oh, the phone call? It was about the house.’
Nyman could see that Olivia was watching him expectantly. She was clearly more alert than a moment ago.
‘Nothing bad, I hope,’ he said.
‘Today I found out the renovation is going to be much bigger than I’d previously thought.’
‘And a bigger renovation means a bigger bill?’
Olivia said nothing. She didn’t touch her pie. Nyman allowed a few seconds to pass. He tried to examine Olivia’s expression more closely. It was serious, yes, but now it was also somewhat agitated.
‘You’re very interested in my financial affairs,’ she said. ‘I’ve noticed that. Well, I haven’t got any money. You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m skint. You won’t get any money out of me because I don’t have any.’
Nyman placed his spoon on his plate. He wiped the corner of his mouth on his napkin and leaned back.
‘I don’t want your money,’ he said. ‘Even if you did have some, I’m not interested in that.’
Olivia stared at him. Nyman noticed that Olivia was still clutching her phone. It seemed rather late in the evening for a call about the renovations to the house. Nyman didn’t believe this explanation for a second. Judging by the change in Olivia’s body language, he guessed the caller must have been the senior constable.
He could see this situation from the perspective of Muurla, his superior and operation coordinator. From Muurla’s point of view, it might be more interesting to let Nyman operate on his own. Police units often did this to undercover agents, pushed them deeper and deeper and watched to see which ones came back up to the surface and what kind of results they got. Nyman didn’t consider this at all unfair; he had always accepted it as part of the job. What’s more, there was another side to this scenario, and that side had been signed off only a few hours earlier: now there was nothing holding him back. He was free to operate in ways that earlier would have been out of the question.
‘You’re not after money?’ asked Olivia.
‘No.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s understandable,’ she said. ‘If you had more than two euros, you wouldn’t be able to count them properly.’
‘There’s no need to get personal.’
‘For God’s sake. In the short time we’ve know each other you haven’t managed to do a single sum correctly. You’ve counted everything wrong: the surfboard rental times, my theory about men, everything. I just said I don’t think you’re a maths teacher. I’m sure of it.’
They stared at each other. Nyman listened to the chit-chat of the couple at the table next to them. He couldn’t make out individual words, but he could hear the tone of voice, the closeness. Thankfully the waiter was nowhere nearby. Nyman placed his napkin on the table, tucking it beneath the edge of the plate. He thought for a moment. The house has to be renovated; she cannot afford it; a body is found in the kitchen; the sauna burns down; money suddenly start
s to appear.
Nyman leaned forwards and spoke in a quiet, friendly voice. ‘Olivia,’ he said. ‘Is someone threatening you?’
Olivia looked at him in the same way she had the first time they’d met at the rental store: eyeing him up, taking stock of him. Nyman started to shiver. It was a purely physical reaction; he was wearing far too little. The proximity of the sea is deceptive: at first the air is fresh and pleasant, but when the cold finally hits, you realise it has been cold all along. For some reason the realisation is delayed.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘I am.’
‘I heard that. I just don’t know who you are. To answer your question: maybe. I don’t know. Are you threatening me?’
Nyman realised how much Olivia affected his physical sensations. He felt the attraction. Besides the shivering, it was foremost in his mind.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said and instantly regretted his answer.
But what else could he have said? If Olivia was involved in something illegal, then of course he was threatening her. But if she was innocent, then the answer was…
‘That’s comforting,’ she said. ‘By the way, the police are on to you. I know you were snooping round my house today.’
‘I thought so,’ said Nyman and realised that he would finally have to tell her what was going on. But what was holding him back? The very same Olivia Koski, whom he suspected. Nyman thought he knew what would happen when he told her he was an undercover police officer. It would lead Olivia to the only logical conclusion: that Nyman had tried to get close to her by lying, cheating and pretending to be someone else. It wasn’t an ideal starting point for any further romantic involvement. And romantic involvement was exactly what Nyman hoped might happen, if and when he was completely honest with himself. He had reached a turning point in his life. He would soon turn forty, so perhaps this was the moment.
‘Who are you?’ Olivia asked. Her voice had changed.
‘I’m not a maths teacher,’ said Nyman and decided to take the greatest risk thus far. ‘I’m a police officer.’
‘A policeman?’
‘Yes.’
‘A policeman called Jan Kaunisto?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’
‘Jan Nyman.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Yes.’
Olivia’s eyes gleamed like hard glass.
Nyman held out his hands. ‘Well, not right now. I only have a passport in the name of Jan Kaunisto with me at the moment. But I can prove it later. I just need a little time. And a few answers. From you.’
It was hard to read Olivia’s expression. The harshness had spread across her face. She looked down. Nyman couldn’t say how long she sat in that position – four or five seconds perhaps – but when her position changed, a look of disgust had appeared on her face. Olivia picked up a piece of pie between her fingers and threw it at Nyman’s face, hitting him directly between the eyes. She stood up.
‘Who do you think you are?’ she asked. Her voice was agitated, hurt.
‘If you’re innocent, I can most definitely help you.’
‘Innocent?’ Olivia almost shouted.
The neighbouring couple turned to look at them. A few quick glances before returning to their own conversation.
Nyman remained seated. ‘If you haven’t done anything—’
‘Wait a minute,’ Olivia snapped and raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Just a minute. Let’s assume for a moment that you really are a policeman…’
‘I am.’
‘Whatever,’ she nodded. ‘You suspect me of something? And what might that be?’
Olivia was waiting, he could see that. He couldn’t think of any option but to continue on the path of honesty.
‘Murder. Manslaughter. Arson. Or at the very least accessory to those crimes.’
Olivia’s hand remained in the air. The harsh glare of her eyes was fixed on him. He heard the rush of the sea, not so much the crashing of individual waves, but the presence of the sea. Were the lanterns moving in the wind? The shadows on Olivia’s face seemed to lengthen and shorten in turn. She lowered her hand, gripped her glass and chucked the remainder of her wine in Nyman’s face. Nyman took his napkin from the table and wiped his face. She’ll soon run out of things to throw at me, he thought. She’s already used the wine and the dessert. Unless she turns to the crockery. Even that was preferable to her leaving. Nyman finished wiping his face. Olivia took several deep breaths. She looked like she was making a decision. Eventually she pulled out her chair and sat in silence. Nyman gave her some time.
‘I suppose this explains a lot,’ she said eventually. Her voice was steadier now, but there was still a note of pure, incandescent rage. ‘Like how you knew to ask about the sauna when there was a fire in my yard, how you just happen to turn up everywhere, always so interested in my affairs, in the men around me. You’ve been playing a role.’
There it was.
‘It started like that,’ Nyman heard himself saying, and once he’d said it, he guessed he could say more too. ‘But it changed. It changed the moment I met you.’
‘What changed? You mean after that you only suspected me of arson?’
Olivia placed her hand on the table. Nyman wanted to touch it. The distance between the tips of their fingers was about twenty centimetres.
‘I became interested in you, more than as a … suspect.’
‘Did a woman ever hear anything more touching?’
Nyman was no longer sure of anything. Rather, he was sure of many things, but now things were even more starkly divided into those about which he was certain and those about which he wasn’t, and most things didn’t seem to fit together very easily at all and…
‘A friend recently told me the police never stop investigating.’
‘With serious crimes that’s the case,’ he said.
‘Now you’re talking like a policeman.’
‘I am a policeman.’
‘I should have listened to her.’
‘If you’re innocent, you have nothing to—’
‘When were you thinking of telling me you were a police officer? And what did you think would happen when you told me?’
Nyman didn’t know. This situation was new, something he’d never experienced.
‘Did you imagine I’d shrug my shoulders and say, That’s okay, it doesn’t matter?’ Olivia continued. ‘That’s nice, now I feel safe after a little bit of spying and snooping and lying?’
‘It’s not exactly an ideal start.’
‘Start!’ Olivia blurted. Her expression turned solemn. ‘I’m sorry. The start of what?’
Something happened to Nyman, something that hadn’t happened in the course of his entire career. He blushed. His cheeks burned. Why wouldn’t the sea breeze cool them? He felt as though he’d been found out in many ways, as though many layers had been peeled off him at once. He, who had hung out with hardened criminals, spent evenings with them, taken a sauna with them; he, who had remained calm even when a knife was pressed to his throat and he’d been asked directly and perfectly calmly who the hell he was. The situation was so completely different. That was it. A turning point. Olivia Koski.
‘The start of a relationship?’ she asked. Her voice was now so prickly that it seemed to shoot darts into Nyman’s sensitive skin.
‘I don’t know if I’d use that word, it’s a bit corny,’ he replied honestly. ‘I thought we could get to know one another.’
‘And who would I be getting to know?’ Olivia asked, clearly in disbelief. ‘The person you might have been or the person you claim to be now? I have to say, if those are the options, I should think twice before going on a date with you again. And another thing: why would I have murdered someone in my kitchen and why the hell would I burn down my own sauna?’
Nyman didn’t know the answer to either of those questions.
Two mutually exclusive options lay before him: get to the bottom of this or prepar
e for full-blown catastrophe.
6
Robin’s head was buzzing and crackling, small explosions popping one after the other. Just as he was trying his best to forget things – especially what he had just done – his synapses began frantically forming new connections. Time after time he saw Chico’s expression, felt the thud running from the shaft of the spade and into his wrists, his fingers, his fingertips. No matter how much he shook his arms, he couldn’t get rid of the sensation.
Robin was half running, half walking. In the moonlight everything seemed still, frozen. He felt himself hurtling through the landscape.
And time and again Chico’s face appeared in front of his eyes. Robin was sure Chico must have seen the spade approaching, that he’d had just enough time to realise Robin was about to hit him with it. That felt even worse than the actual thud. His best friend. But, he thought, Chico would understand; eventually he’d understand how important this was. Chico wasn’t the only one with dreams. Robin had dreams too. They might not have been the same dreams of rock stardom as Chico, but they were just as important, just as big.
Robin thought perhaps he should send Chico a letter and explain everything, but – as he passed the enormous sign for Palm Beach Finland, which, in the moonlight, seemed to have lost its neon glare – he realised the idea was impossible: he hadn’t written a single letter in his life, and besides, Chico didn’t have a permanent address. If Chico ever decided to join Facebook, Robin could send him a friend request. No, even that seemed wrong.
In any case, from Chico’s point of view there was still plenty to be happy about. It was summer, so he wouldn’t freeze to death in the woods. And he had work until the autumn. Or did he? What would happen to Palm Beach Finland? Robin didn’t want to think about it, but his brain wouldn’t obey his orders. Again he saw Chico’s face just before the steely kiss of the spade. It was weird, but the expression wasn’t surprised or remotely angry or enraged. On the contrary, Chico looked as though he accepted his fate, as though he had finally … arrived. But what did that mean? They hadn’t arrived anywhere; they had dug a pit for Leivo and walked off. And that’s when Robin did it, thwacked his best friend round the head with his own spade.
Palm Beach, Finland Page 24
