The Mine

by Antti Tuomainen

  Maarit went to the bar, took two steps up to our booth, placed a bottle of Czech beer on the other side of the table, quickly shrugged off her coat and sat down.

  ‘When did you get back to Helsinki?’ I asked and watched as she adjusted the scarf round her neck until she was satisfied with its position.

  ‘Yesterday,’ she said.

  Maarit looked at me, and I looked back. I sipped my beer. It didn’t taste of anything.

  ‘I’m sorry about Manninen,’ I said. ‘You were friends. It’s hard to say anything else. My condolences.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Maarit, turning the bottle of beer between her fingers. The label spun anticlockwise, the text moving from the end to the beginning.

  I kept my eyes fixed on her. The way her hair framed her face made her look so stern, it was hard to read her expression; I could only see the essentials: her eyes, her nose and mouth. Something remained hidden. So far she’d said only two words.

  ‘So you got back yesterday,’ I said.

  Maarit nodded.

  ‘What have you been up to today?’

  Maarit looked as though she had only now truly arrived at our meeting, as though she had just noticed my presence, registered me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said what have you—’

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  I sipped my beer. How much of this would I have to drink before it tasted like beer? Maarit shifted position. She sat up, back straight, eyes focussed, pulled her broad shoulders back slightly. None of the changes was very big, but when you put them together the difference was clear. I glanced at the coat she’d folded on the chair next to her. I couldn’t see any badges. No – I could see one. It was completely black. Finally I put everything together. I was about to open my mouth when Maarit spoke.

  ‘It had to come to this.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I always thought I’d never go as far as my father, in anything. The world doesn’t need any more fanatics. And yet … I knew the way. I took us there. Manninen trusted me.’

  Maarit took a sip of beer, swallowed, pursed her lips and continued. ‘I wanted to do something positive, honestly; do something for the common good. It felt important. It is important, I know that. It still is important, but it doesn’t feel like it any more.’

  ‘You’re still in shock,’ I said.

  Maarit looked at me more acutely than at any point during our meeting.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said and didn’t look as though she was in shock in the slightest. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m writing a story. And I will write it.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  Maarit glanced first to the left then the right, then turned to look at me again.

  ‘You weren’t scared off by … what happened?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  I tried to look for signs in Maarit’s expression, signs of anything at all.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said again, still turning the bottle in her fingers. The bottle drew small, wet scratches across the table, which for a fleeting moment gleamed like the purest rain. ‘I don’t know anything any more.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Well, I don’t know if I’m sorry. I just don’t believe you.’

  Maarit looked up at me, and for the first time that evening I saw something in her face. She said nothing. I took a breath and leaned forward.

  ‘The badge. A group of environmental activists called Black Wing. The threats received by the board members of Finn Mining Ltd and their subsequent deaths. You and your surprising, and not-sosurprising, appearances in various places. And what happened this morning. You and your friends, whoever you are and whatever you call yourselves. You’re responsible for people’s deaths.’

  Maarit looked at me. Still she remained silent. It seemed as though there were more shadows on her face than a moment ago. Perhaps it was the light, perhaps the angle of her head, perhaps the thick hair outlining her face.

  ‘I apologise,’ she said. ‘But only for one thing. I’m sorry for what happened to Tero Manninen.’

  ‘That’s probably the only thing you don’t have to apologise for. Manninen knew the risks. He wanted to take those samples.’

  Maarit’s eyes glistened. ‘Anything for a good story, is that it?’

  I stared back at her. ‘Anything for the cause, you mean?’

  Maarit shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You and your friends have been murdering the Finn Mining board members. And this morning, as if to crown everything, you tried to murder Matti Mali. Your group includes, or at least it used to include, Santtu Leikola and the deceased Tero Manninen. I can’t prove anything, but I’ll be satisfied if you just tell me I’m right.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Maarit.

  ‘Why not? Are you afraid someone will try and kill you, too?’

  Maarit’s eyes shined all the more; tears appeared in the corners of her eyes and trickled into hiding beneath her hair. Her expression remained fixed. She was sitting upright, leaning against the table.

  ‘I’ve lost a friend. That happened because we all wanted to do something good. We wanted to reveal what’s going on, show these wrongs for what they are. We wanted the truth to come out. We thought that you, as a reporter, might share that sentiment. We thought you were on the same side as us. I’d read your articles and … I thought it would be worth getting to know you.’

  She looked down at the table.

  ‘Of course, it wasn’t by chance that we met here. Santtu texted me and said our favourite reporter was here. I was on the tram on my way home, but I thought I’d pop in and ask what was going on with my father’s papers, whether they’ve been of any use. What happened afterwards happened all by itself.’

  ‘Santtu Leikola? Is he behind all this?’

  ‘Behind what?’

  ‘The killings. The attempt on Matti Mali’s life this morning.’

  Maarit looked up at me as though I’d spilled her glass.

  ‘It’s hardly surprising we hit it off,’ she said. ‘We’re similar, you and me. Doesn’t matter what gets trampled on, what you lose, just as long as you get what you want. Or what you think you want. I knew it the moment we started talking. Your relationship is falling apart; your father turns up after thirty years; and you can’t think of anything but your work – your own aims and objectives. You’re like me. I’m like my father.’

  I waited for a moment. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘In a way I did. But to put it more plainly: no, I am not a member of a damn terrorist organisation and Santtu … Santtu is only responsible for the emails you’ve received. Other than that, he’s only been behind his own stunts. If he’d done anything else, I’d know about it within the space of a minute. Santtu tells me everything, every single thing, all the time. He’s a lovely guy, but sometimes he’s too open for his own good. That’s why we didn’t even think of inviting him when the three of us went up to Suomalahti. As for this badge – this black one here – it’s just a black badge. That’s the whole point. It draws people’s attention for the simple reason that it’s nothing more than a black badge. Sometimes things really are exactly what they seem.’

  Maarit placed her coat back on the seat. We sat for a moment in silence. Her eyes had dried. She took a sip of beer.

  ‘Santtu is a lovely guy,’ I repeated.

  Maarit didn’t look up.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ she said quietly, but in a tone of voice that it was impossible to mistake.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Just look at yourself. You’ve got a partner and a little girl. You’re a father. Hypocritical little shit. You think it’s okay for a man to sleep around but not for a woman?’ She looked up. ‘Are we done here?’ she asked.

  Maarit shunted the bottle to one side. There was still a third of the beer left. She began pulling on her coat. The
black badge caught the light of the lamp and glinted, as though it was sticking its tongue out, mocking me.

  ‘Can you forgive him?’ I asked.

  Maarit had put on her coat but remained sitting.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father. Can you forgive him for being the way he was?’

  ‘Of course. But he’s dead. It’s too late for anything else; anything other than forgiveness. There are plenty of other things I can think of doing.’

  She stood up, zipped her coat. ‘Good luck with the story.’

  She walked across the room, pulled her hood over her head and slipped through the door into the winter’s evening. I raised my pint to my lips. Beer didn’t taste like it once had.

  *

  I went back to the office and sat at my desk for a moment. It was only then I realised quite how exhausted I was. I stood up, walked to the window. It had started to snow again. The first snowflakes were floating in the still air, so slow-moving, it was as if they were gazing in amazement at the world around them.

  3

  Emil presses his thumb against the man’s Adam’s apple and crushes it. The man’s eyes reveal surprise, fear, and eventually peace. Emil keeps his hand firm, pushes the man through the front door and lays him on the hall rug, little by little relaxing his grip. The man lies on the floor as though he is asleep. Emil pulls the door shut behind him and walks past the man into the kitchen, takes a packet of Italian liquorice ice cream from the freezer, finds a dessert spoon in the top drawer and sits down on the sofa. The man’s family is sitting there; Emil sits down between them. To his left are an exhausted mother and a boy playing on his phone; to his right a girl who has dyed her hair pink. They are watching television, which seems to be repeating the same silent scene over and over. In the images on the screen Emil can be seen strangling the children’s father and placing him on the hallway floor. Again and again. Emil raises the tub of ice cream and is about to sink his spoon into it, but stops. The tub is full of the eyes of dead men: surprised, frightened and peaceful, content with their fate.

  Emil snapped wide awake. His shirt was glued to his chest as though he had spilled a litre of water while trying to drink. He looked at the time: 4.19 a.m. The more good things that happened to him, it seemed the worse his memories and nightmares became.

  After their pleasant evening he had escorted Leena to the taxi rank, where they had exchanged a warm kiss on the cheek. Then he had walked home.

  He had drunk only one glass of wine with his meal, and that had been soaked up by the food. Once he was back home, he collected the details he’d been sent the previous day in a folder in his TOR network profile. He’d pulled on clean clothes, walked to the car park by the Olympic Stadium, stolen a car and driven to the suburb of Mankkaa.

  He had hanged the man in his garage, then returned to Helsinki, and driven to the Cable Factory arts centre, all without feeling the least satisfaction – without feeling that he did a job at which he excelled and which he could concentrate on fully. This wasn’t his life any more. He’d parked the car by the sea, looked out at the thin strip of lights across the water in Lauttasaari, and walked back along the shore to his apartment. He’d taken a warm shower, drunk a cup of tea and fallen asleep, only to awake in the grip of a nightmare.

  He stood up and took a few steps, felt the cool of the parquet floor beneath his feet. Darkness stared back at him through the window with all its force. He heard the lift judder into motion, the door opening. Out on the street a taxi sped off towards the city centre. The world was spinning on its axis, but he had stopped still.

  One more.

  Then he would have done his bit.

  4

  ‘And what do we know today?’

  Steps. The door. Bright light. I hurried to sit down. That’s right: I’d been watching the snow for a while, then nodded off for a moment on the conference-room sofa.

  Halonen stood in the doorway.

  ‘What’s the time?’ I asked.

  ‘Seven minutes past seven. Why are you sleeping at work?’

  Where else can I go?

  ‘I like this sofa.’

  ‘Pulled an all-nighter?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What are you working on?’

  I got up from the sofa. Halonen kept his eyes on me. It felt awkward having to stretch and straighten my clothes under the watchful eye of the detective inspector. I thought I knew what Halonen meant by his question.

  ‘I haven’t written a word about what happened.’

  ‘The murders at the mine, you mean?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good.’

  Halonen looked like he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot for a glossy lifestyle magazine. The dazzling white shirt, the top button open, no tie, the smart, fitted suit. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. It was unnecessary. I could see through the glass wall that the editorial office was deserted.

  ‘That’s why you’ve come here, isn’t it – to make sure I’ve kept my word?’ I said.

  Halonen put his hands in his pockets. He was standing at the other side of the room, but still I could smell his expensive aftershave. Clementine, incense, forest.

  ‘You’ve probably already heard that someone tried to murder Matti Mali.’

  ‘Yes. It’s been all over the news since yesterday, and I didn’t—’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. The first time you called me, you asked whether the police were looking into a certain series of deaths.’

  Kimmo Karmio. Alan Stilson. The members of the board of Finn Mining Ltd.

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Not very many people know about them. They’re not exactly classified information, but, again, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t speculate about the deaths in public or write anything about them – or about yesterday’s attempt on Matti Mali’s life.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  Halonen’s expression seemed open and honest. Perhaps he’d said what he’d come to say.

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  Halonen lips pursed almost imperceptibly. ‘In return I’m sure I could give you something.’

  ‘When?’

  Halonen raised his hands. ‘Right now, if you like.’

  I waited expectantly.

  ‘If you’ve received any threatening letters and wondered who sent them, I can tell you with almost one hundred per cent certainty that they were sent by one of the two security guys murdered at the mining complex. It seems these guys were working for one of the now-deceased board members at the company, and perhaps someone else too.’

  ‘Thanks for the information.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ said Halonen.

  We remained standing where we were for a few seconds. Halonen continued looking me fixedly in the eyes. Then he took his hands from his pockets, straightened his jacket and turned towards the door. The gesture was practised, stage-managed – this I understood almost at once – but it worked. He had half turned round when he stopped and turned back to face me.

  ‘Have you met up with Maarit Lehtinen? Since coming back to Helsinki, I mean.’

  Before I could say anything, Halonen answered the question himself. ‘You have.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You talked about recent events,’ he said, and I realised instantly that this was no longer a question.

  Halonen took a step closer to me. This time he didn’t put his hands in his pockets, but kept them by his sides.

  ‘Did Maarit perhaps mention Santtu Leikola or any of the other activists?’

  ‘Well, only to say that … he’s not that kind of person.’

  ‘Had Maarit met up with Leikola?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her that?’

  Halonen didn’t answer. His eyes seemed infinitely deep.

  ‘Violence; the death of a close friend,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re still shocked by the events in Suomalahti.’

  Again he slipped his hands into his pockets, ass
umed a more relaxed position, the kind of pose that someone might interpret as backing away. I thought of Maarit, our conversation.

  ‘If you suspect Maarit—’ I began.

  Halonen interrupted me straight away. ‘Who says I suspect her? She’s made an impression on you. I’m not surprised. She makes an impression on everyone.’

  ‘She hasn’t done anything.’

  ‘She – and you for that matter – scaled a perimeter fence, forced your way into the mining complex and witnessed a man’s murder. She is part of this investigation.’

  ‘I mean, she’s innocent,’ I said. I knew it was true. Maarit was as innocent as all innocent people. Ella. Pauliina. I was the guilty one.

  ‘Innocent,’ said Halonen under his breath.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Somebody once said that, once we reach a certain age, nobody is innocent. What would you say that age is?’

  I looked to one side, then back at Halonen. His face was impassive.

  ‘It’s a bit early for the big philosophical questions,’ I said. ‘I don’t know the answer.’

  ‘Neither do I. That’s why I’m asking. And you know the other reason I’m asking?’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘What’s your job?’

  ‘It’s not all that different from yours,’ I said.

  The room was beginning to feel smaller, and yet I still couldn’t help opening my mouth. ‘Do you have a suspect for the murders in Suomalahti?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because it’s my job.’

  Halonen smiled, quickly and almost imperceptibly. ‘Got someone in mind, have you? So you do remember seeing something out there?’

  ‘You don’t have a suspect.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Silence. Again.

  ‘Anyway, thanks for the little chat,’ said Halonen. ‘We understand each other. That’s the main thing.’

  Halonen turned, and this time he didn’t turn back. He left the door open as he walked out and disappeared down the corridor. I waited a moment, then checked that he really had left, took my phone from my pocket and made a call with what was left of my battery.