Was it possible for your brain to go into overdrive? Robin couldn’t slow down his thoughts. He did everything he could: he tried counting to ten, but when he reached the end two more words appeared – ten thousand – and that didn’t cool him down at all. He tried to move his thoughts to the next matters that needed his attention. He tried to phrase what he needed to say, how he planned to explain what was going to happen next. The result was that the buzzing and crackling grew stronger.
He arrived outside the familiar block of flats. He had to stop and look at his hands. Why did his hands still feel like he was carrying a spade? They were empty. They were also black from all the digging. His clothes, his jeans, T-shirt and trainers, all looked like he’d been rolling on the ground for hours. Which was true, of course, but it was unfortunate. Robin realised he should have gone through the whole plan first, from start to finish. Then he might have thought about bringing a change of clothes. But maybe his clothes were unimportant. If things went to plan, he would throw them to one side very shortly.
The tingling sensation spread from his stomach to the rest of his body. This was followed by a fever moving in the opposite direction. It felt somehow inappropriate as he loitered behind the bins. He could feel his breath becoming shallower. He realised his breath was becoming heavier too, almost rasping. He stopped himself. With that he stepped out from behind the bins and stood beneath a large birch tree.
He wanted everything to be just right. He wanted to find the right words, because this was an important moment, and important decision. He went through everything again and looked up to find the right window. He saw a faint pink light. That meant Nea was at home.
Holma didn’t like surprises. And now there were plenty of them.
For a quarter of an hour Nea had been bouncing up and down, stark naked, on his lap where he sat in the armchair. First she was facing him and then, when he realised she had no intention of shutting up, he turned her round and listened as she said, among a million other things, that she might be a little in love with him and that she’d already hired an undercover agent of her own who would take care of this business for them and that Nea had used the ten grand to tease him. Holma didn’t know what to think.
On the other hand, he liked Nea.
Her back was tanned and muscular, gleaming with sweat, her buttocks were like soft hemispheres urging him to grab hold them, and the only hair on her body was on her head. And Nea was good at her job, if a little absent-minded.
Her nonstop talking ultimately determined their speed. Her buttocks rammed against Holma’s hips until the tempo slowed a little as she began to explain something else, and once she got near the end of each topic, she stopped moving altogether and just sat in his lap until finally, when Holma’s sweat had all but dried, she came to another completely unfathomable conclusion on the subject. Then everything was quiet for a moment – a moment during which Holma didn’t quite know what to do: he was underneath, and in this position his only job – the only job of all men in this situation – was to provide a firm platform for the action at hand. Then, as he worried that his gallant warrior might pull back and shrink, things got going again, this time with a new topic providing a new monologue. To Holma, the best part was when Nea was gathering her disparate thoughts – the people, events and times associated with them. The tempo was passionate, and everything felt natural. But a moment later things became more complicated again. Holma found it hard to concentrate, he felt as though he was being abused both mentally and physically. On neither front were matters brought to a clear conclusion.
It was as though he was involved in some form of rear-guard action, but at this point he didn’t dare speculate as to who was going to win the battle.
Holma knew perfectly well what had caused Nea’s verbal diarrhoea and what had made her throw the few items of skimpy clothing she was wearing into the corners of the room. Ten thousand euros inspired people. That’s life. He’d learned that the human mind is simply programmed that way. He had also learned that when someone comes into possession of ten thousand euros they very quickly start counting in both directions at once: Think of everything I can buy with this and – above all – how can I get my hands on some more?
Holma enjoyed seeing people’s expressions when greed lit them up like a lamp. It made their faces narrow and taut, and caused the same kind of primitive reactions as lust and hunger: the shallowing of the breath, heightened salivation, audible swallowing, and eventually – and best of all – action before thought.
With the exception of Olivia Koski, that was. Holma had tried to see whether anything changed in Olivia Koski when he’d handed her the bag of money – but nothing did. He couldn’t get over her lack of reaction. She had behaved as if she’d simply picked up a pay check. Holma wondered whether he’d offered her too little. Should he have given her more in order to make a bigger impression?
Just then he realised that Nea had stopped talking. That gave Holma some space. He tried to take control of the situation and increased the tempo again, both with regard to physical and mental exertion. If he had understood correctly, Nea had told someone (or several people) about the ten thousand euros, and that meant she’d told them about him. The thought didn’t please him. What pleased him least of all was the idea that Nea had outsourced the work to a subcontractor. In that case, what did he need Nea for – beyond the next three minutes? Nothing at all was the answer.
He thought of the book he was writing. Not physically writing, of course, as he didn’t consider that a sensible use of his time. Great authors dictated stories to a secretary or some other bespectacled person, who did the boring job of writing everything out, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s, and taking care of other menial tasks that zapped his creative juices. The book was certainly going to include a section on leadership. He was a natural leader. When you lead, lead. Excellent, he mused. That’s the stuff. That sounded like something out of the leadership textbooks he’d read in prison.
By now Nea’s tempo was dizzying, her hips heaving up and down like a sewing machine against Holma’s lap. Holma’s mind zigzagged around; it inspired new thoughts. You are born a leader, he began, so think carefully about how you are born. Holma felt a tingling both upstairs and down. He was reaching his climax in every respect.
Clench and spasm. Clench and spasm. There. Good.
He pulled Nea against his body, thought about how his forthcoming book would be received, he imagined the sensation would be much like this, only many times greater, because this was a book aimed at everyone in Finland, and that meant the feeling would be five and a half million times as great. Perhaps not this specific feeling, but still.
Holma looked at the shoulder blades in front of him.
Every company gets rid of workers it no longer needs. In the bathroom or the kitchen he was sure he would find something to make sacking this particular employee all the more enjoyable.
Holma stood up, almost throwing Nea from his lap, then walked into the bathroom and pulled the door behind him. He didn’t pay attention to what she said. Something irritated, disappointed, no doubt.
A leader, Holma thought as he turned on the shower, listens only to himself.
7
Love or murder? Nyman guessed these were his two options.
Either he could continue his murder investigation or he could try to fix his relationship with Olivia Koski. The two options seemed to cancel each other out.
Nyman was convinced that in the soft light of the lantern his face was shining like fresh paint. The sensation made the situation all the more unpleasant. Olivia was sitting with her back to the lantern. The moonlight wasn’t bright enough to reveal what was going on in those dark eyes. Nyman could only think of banalities with a vague ring of truth. I want to help. If you’ve got yourself into trouble, you need to tell me about it. And heaven forbid: I think I’m in love with you.
‘I’m prepared to believe you,’ he said eventually.
‘You are
prepared to believe me? How has that ever been up for discussion? It’s you that’s been lying about everything.’
‘Not everything,’ he said. That sounded bad, so he continued. ‘In fact, I haven’t lied about anything. I’ve just left some things out or deliberately used ambiguous turns of phrase or explained something from a perspective that isn’t necessarily my own.’
‘So in other words, you lied.’
‘I was doing my job.’
‘That’s what you call it?’
‘If needs be.’
‘What else do you call it?’
The moment of truth.
‘I like you.’
‘In an ambiguous sense or from a perspective that isn’t necessarily your own?’
Nyman sensed an element of understanding in Olivia’s voice. Of course, the tone was still angry and thorny. But maybe there was hope.
‘If I’d known I’d find someone like you here, I would have come without the murder.’
‘How flattering. You really know how to charm the ladies.’
‘It’s true,’ he said.
Olivia was silent.
‘I told my friend about you,’ she said eventually. ‘The one that said the police never stop investigating. She could see I was interested. She encouraged me. I wonder what she’d say now if she heard you were both interesting and a cop.’
‘What do you think she would say?’
‘Maybe she’d tell me to be careful.’
‘And?’
‘If I’m still interested in you, she might encourage me to see where things go.’
‘I hope she’d say the latter,’ said Nyman.
‘What about the murder?’
‘I’m convinced you didn’t do it.’
‘Of course I didn’t. But what are you going to do about it?’
Nyman shifted position, propped his left elbow against the armrest. ‘Is there someone who wants something from you?’ he asked. ‘Right now?’
Nyman couldn’t say what changed in Olivia’s expression, but something did; it was small, barely perceptible.
‘You mean apart from the undercover policeman stalking me? I don’t know if anyone wants anything from me, but there has been some interest in my property.’
‘From whom?’
‘Jorma Leivo. Mr Palm Beach Finland himself. I’m sure you’ve met him. He wants to buy the plot – for a pittance.’
Why was there no mention of this in the case file, Nyman wondered?
‘Did you tell the police about this at the time?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘No, because it doesn’t matter to me. It’s irrelevant. The place isn’t for sale. Not now, and not in the future. Period.’
Needless to say, Jorma Leivo hadn’t mentioned the matter himself when he’d been questioned. Nyman recalled Leivo’s highfalutin talk of development models, a rambling monologue that required careful attention in order to understand what on earth he was talking about.
Nyman had another thought. ‘What about the guy that looks like Patrick Swayze?’
‘Kari Korhonen,’ said Olivia. ‘Everyone calls him Chico. But he wouldn’t…’
‘What’s his relationship to Leivo?’
‘Frightened.’
‘In what way?’
‘I guessed it from the way he talks about Leivo. The last time I was talking to him, he shuddered at the mention of Leivo’s name.’
‘Really?’
‘Leivo is his boss, of course,’ said Olivia. ‘And when it comes to Chico, work-shy is putting it mildly.’
Nyman thought about this.
‘Anyone else? Has Chico got any close friends?’
‘One. Robin, he’s a cook at the beach restaurant. Chico and Robin are childhood buddies. They’re inseparable. Like brothers – in their mental capacity too. When we were kids we used to say they’re not really thick as thieves, they’re just thick.’
‘That’s cruel,’ said Nyman.
‘I don’t know how I could apologise without him finding out.’
For a moment they sat in silence. Nyman wondered how this too – the friendship between Chico and Robin – had never come to light, though he thought he knew the answer. Someone had doubtless given them instructions as to what to say. And if Chico was afraid of whoever was calling the shots, he would surely do as he was told. Furthermore: because the dead man wasn’t a local and, it appeared, hadn’t been in cahoots with any of those previously mentioned, it was obvious that no connection would be apparent there either. Until now, as Nyman began to see everything in the light of new information. The whole series of events might be a combination of two separate lines of enquiry that had been pursued individually: it was a combination of pure chance and ambitious planning, and both schemes rested on the fortunes of a bunch of bungling amateurs. That was, if hearsay and the criminal history of the deceased man were anything to go by.
Nyman looked at Olivia, her long dark hair, her chestnut eyes. Her face was in shadow, ready to speak as sharply as was needed. Love or murder? Nyman knew the answer.
‘Maybe I’m the one who should apologise,’ he said.
Jorma Leivo awoke with a snort. He felt as if he had the worst hangover he’d ever experienced … ten thousand times over. His head ached as though it had been drilled both inside and out. He felt so wretched that he couldn’t even move his legs. Or his arms. Or turn in this uncomfortable bed, this uncomfortable position. Or … He couldn’t move anything. He was hot and cold at the same time. His eyes stung when he tried to open them. There was something stuck in them, but what? There was a strange taste in his mouth, as though he’d been eating a meal of sand and raw meat.
He remembered. Jorma Leivo opened his eyes.
He saw the sea, gilded in the moonlight. He turned his head as far to the right as he could, as far to the left as his neck would allow. Nobody. Of course. Around him was what he called the old beach – a pointless conversation area, the perfect location for a water theme park and shopping mall.
Using his tongue he pushed the rag from between his teeth, wiggled his mouth and jaw and shook his head. It took a few minutes, but eventually he managed to loosen the rag completely. He shouted out. Or rather, he tried to shout out. His mouth was so dry, so rough with sand, so … traumatised that he couldn’t make a sound at all. The only sound he could muster was a low-pitched growl. How loudly can a man growl? Jorma Leivo realised the answer was: not very.
He had to think.
He was clearly stuck. That much was obvious. A significant setback. But he was Jorma Leivo, and he had survived worse. He had survived wives, bankruptcies and combinations of the two. He would get through this. He steadied his breathing.
A quick look at the facts: the pair of clowns he’d hired to do his dirty work had taken him by surprise. They had buried him on the beach, and Leivo understood why. Their intent was to get rid of him at high tide. Except that there was no tide round here, high or low. In that respect the duo’s actions were a continuation of before. Everything they touched blew up: they killed the wrong guy or didn’t kill the guy when they were supposed to. But all of that aside – because he was an optimist at heart and preferred to see opportunities instead of threats – he admired the passion, the fire, the open-mindedness with which they got to work. It was impressive.
It was impossible not to admire passion like that. And what he was now experiencing – with his whole body, no less – was quite a feat. Leivo had always thought the pair lazy and cack-handed. He admitted, first to himself, then to the glistening moonlight, that he had been wrong.
The boys had shown him what they were made of.
Jan Nyman thought long and hard, hesitated, but eventually took the plunge. He lowered his hand to the table and took Olivia’s hand in his. She didn’t pull away. I have apologised, he thought. He had made clear who he was, what had happened and what had led them to this point, both concretely and figuratively. To this moment, right here. This touch.
Nyman looked Olivi
a in the eyes and felt approximately thirty years younger than he was. Perhaps things like this really did happen in real life: you find yourself holding someone by the hand and it feels just like the very first time, long ago, when the touch opened up a world inside you, a world to which the other person’s hand held the key, that boy or girl in the school playground that you secretly fancied; then thirty years later you realise the feeling is still there and that it means more than everything that happened in between.
Olivia Koski remained silent. Nyman couldn’t read her expression, and he no longer wanted to. He tried all the same: Olivia looked as though she had come to a decision. Nyman noticed he was hoping the decision had something to do with him, hoping it was affirmative. Only someone truly in love thinks like that, he admitted to himself. Nyman hoped he wouldn’t have to break the silence. But what could he do? He was still a police officer. He might be in love, he might even be sure that Olivia Koski hadn’t murdered anyone or burned down her own sauna, but he still had a case to investigate. Eventually he had to say it. He was a police officer.
‘Can I call you?’
‘For what?’
‘The way people call one another. You know.’
‘Why do you ask? Are you leaving?’
‘Actually, yes,’ he said. ‘I have to. But I want to see you again.’
Olivia was silent for a moment.
‘Call me,’ she said. ‘I assume you have my number.’
Nyman couldn’t tell whether her tone was neutral or whether it carried a hint of a smile. He was in a hurry. The bike was calling his name.
Nyman freewheeled down the hills, swerved round the corners and headed right into the centre of the small town. He passed the Palm Beach Finland sign, which in the moonlight looked as though it might just be real, in every sense. Amid the rush of adrenalin and feverish thoughts, the notion made Nyman stop. For a split second it even made him doubt himself. Did Jorma Leivo know something that nobody else did? He undoubtedly knew a lot, but it probably had to do with this perplexing beach resort. Nyman felt as though passing the sign took longer than the laws of physics allowed.
Palm Beach, Finland Page 25
