Her Enemy

by Leena Lehtolainen

  Antti looked distressed.

  “Well, if that’s true, we can’t let it continue. I have to talk to Marita.”

  Antti’s words reminded me of Armi’s elderly neighbor’s story: “I can’t look the other way anymore; it just isn’t right.” Could Armi have been talking to Risto?

  “These are just suspicions,” I said, trying to reassure Antti. “Don’t talk to Marita yet—I’ll ask Kimmo first. But what do you know about his dad?”

  “I don’t know much about him.” This conversation was clearly difficult for Antti. “Apparently he’s violent when he gets angry, and when Risto was a teenager they had some serious run-ins. I also heard that Sanna got hurt pretty badly once trying to protect her mother.”

  I didn’t bother being pissed at Antti for not telling me any of this sooner. At least he was telling me now.

  When we finally glided up to the Sarkelas’ dock, it was 2:05. In the driveway sat another car beside Antti’s parents’ Saab, and the commotion coming from the yard revealed that at least Matti and Mikko were present. My weird exchange with Marita on Friday at our house both embarrassed and irritated me, and I was also afraid that Antti wouldn’t be able to act naturally around his sister after what I told him.

  Around the lunch table, everyone was discussing Matti and Mikko’s final report cards and their summer plans. Happy, random chitchat, I thought, as if Kimmo and Armi had never existed, never sat around the same table. I looked at Risto, trying to see any resemblance in his face to Sanna’s. His eyes were the same shape as his half sister’s, large and round, lending his angular adult face a certain childlike appearance. Sanna had always looked like a child, because of her big eyes and pouty lower lip. I realized that I knew much less about Risto than Kimmo or Sanna, despite the fact that he was the one I would actually be related to if I ever married Antti. Under his smooth, amiable exterior, there was still something distant, polished—one could almost say icy—about him. Perhaps his father was the same way.

  “Is Grandpa bringing us real Indian bows from Ecuador?” Matti asked, his mouth full of ice cream.

  “Don’t be too disappointed if Grandpa doesn’t remember this time. He had to hurry to come so quickly,” Marita said. “Mikko, slow down. Don’t take such big spoonfuls. Half of that is dripping on your shirt!”

  “How long does Henrik plan to spend in Finland?” Tauno Sarkela asked Risto.

  “It depends. Dad still has a lot of work to do on his Ecuador project before he retires, and I kind of doubt he will make time for a vacation.”

  “Yes, but doesn’t he turn sixty-five this year?” Marjatta Sarkela asked, as she scooped a second helping of ice cream into the boys’ bowls. “Take some more, Antti. You must be hungry from all that rowing. You too, Maria.” My prospective mother-in-law passed the bowl of ice cream down.

  “I did get my exercise,” Antti said, kicking me under the table. We both giggled. I felt like a fifteen-year-old just back from a clandestine rendezvous in the woods to make love for the first time. The warmth running between us was still strong, and a furtive touch of our fingers on the edge of the ice-cream serving dish was full of tense anticipation.

  Matti and Mikko shoveled their dessert down and asked for permission to go outside. After they left, the tenor of the conversation around the table changed, turning into more of an interrogation. Was Kimmo still claiming to be innocent? Why was I digging into Sanna’s past? How soon would the trial be? Do the police make mistakes in things as big as arresting a murderer? By the end of the grilling, I was ready to take a vow never to marry into the Sarkela family.

  “Of course, we all want to defend Kimmo,” Risto said. “But we have to face the facts. Kimmo had these…deviant…sexual tendencies, and he was under the control of those feelings when he—no doubt unintentionally—killed Armi. At first I didn’t want to believe that Sanna was an alcoholic or that she was mixed up in dealing drugs either, but I had to accept what was actually happening, not just what I wanted to be happening.”

  Matti and Mikko were playing cowboys and Indians in the front yard, with one energetically tying the other to a pine tree. I wondered whether any of the others were experiencing the same associations.

  “Luckily, Annamari still has our boys.” Marita sighed. “They can distract her and give her something positive to think about.”

  “What do you mean ‘still’? Why are you all talking about Kimmo as if he’s dead? Do you want to sweep Kimmo under the rug now just like everyone did with Sanna? I guess it would be a big relief for you if Kimmo would just hang himself in prison. Then the matter would be settled, and you could forget all about him!”

  At this, I stormed away from the table like a teenager arguing about her curfew. I couldn’t believe these people! Their own family seemed like nothing to them, like toys to be discarded. Oh me, oh my, this one broke—luckily, we have eleven more just like it. I could imagine what my parents would have said about me when I was born. Nurse, this child has a manufacturing defect; it doesn’t have any testicles. Can we return this? I hoped my sister would produce the long-awaited boy child so we could all be done with it.

  “Maria, wait!” Antti was coming after me, bounding over the roots and stumps in the forest as fast as he could.

  “Who the hell do they think they are? It would be better if people didn’t even have relatives! They’re just as bad as my parents—I went to law school because they didn’t think working as a police officer was ‘smart’ enough, or ‘respectable’ enough. No, our daughter has to get a fancy degree. How does anyone who’s seen this shit ever work up the courage to have their own children?”

  “Hey now, put on the brakes. Let’s calm down and think things through,” Antti said seriously.

  “I can’t stand their indifference. Could they take any less responsibility? You seem to be the only one really worried about Kimmo.”

  “That isn’t true. They’re just trying to prepare for the worst. Has it occurred to you they might be in self-preservation mode?”

  “You mean they’re bracing themselves for Kimmo languishing in prison for years? Or just the social stigma of having a convict in the family?”

  “Maria, don’t. I’m angry too. But it doesn’t help. Finding some sort of certainty is the only thing that helps.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It just kills me that I didn’t help either, that I didn’t try to do anything for Sanna. Why couldn’t I tell Armi needed something more serious than a girlfriend to gossip with?” I asked myself aloud, angrily kicking a moss-covered rock. It flipped over, and a couple of quick creeping things frantically swarmed away to conceal themselves under the next rock. I felt sorry for the little creatures. Who was I to go around exposing and frightening innocent things?

  We spent a couple of hours walking in the woods before I had to leave for the bus. As I packed my things, I muttered a reluctant apology to Antti’s family. In any event, Risto’s attitude made me suspect that he was trying to protect someone other than Kimmo, but who? Himself?

  I was set to see my old partner, Pekka Koivu, at eight o’clock that evening at the Corona Bar in the city. Since the bus deposited me a few blocks from my destination, I had a few minutes’ walk through the stately old buildings of Helsinki and along a small, quiet park. For a moment, I longed for my old apartment, which was a short walk in the opposite direction. I heard the clinking of dishes in the university café and thought about all the happy times I’d had people-watching on the Esplanade.

  In Tapiola, everything was different. With everyone so tight-knit and homogeneous, it was a completely different world from Helsinki, an international city constantly becoming more colorful and diverse with every passing year. Tapiola might as well have been a walled-off village, because everyone there had gone to the same school or played basketball or hockey on the same team. Even Antti always specified he was from Tapiola, rather than the larger Espoo municipality. After a couple of months there, even I felt settled in, like I’d lived there much
longer, perhaps because my home and work were so close to each other. Now I was seeing how oppressive that coziness could be.

  When I arrived at the bar, my friend was already sitting at a table next to the window, sipping a pint. Seeing Koivu made a warmth spread through me that only increased when he noticed me and a broad smile spread across his blond bear-cub’s face. If I had ever had a brother, I would have wanted him to be Pekka Koivu.

  We started out by trading news. Koivu was still working in the same unit where we were partners the previous year. The problems in the department sounded even worse than usual. Good. I felt less bad about leaving.

  “I’ve thought about transferring out into the country somewhere to arrest drunk farmers,” Koivu said. He was from a small country town just like I was, a little farther north but still in the economically depressed eastern region of the country.

  “Big city lights losing their shine?”

  “Yeah, I miss the woods. Besides, I met this nice girl who’s graduating from nursing school next spring. She’s from Kuopio and says she wants to work somewhere up that way.”

  “And you’re planning to go with her? Whoa, Koivu, that sounds serious.”

  “Well, yeah. I guess it’s about time to starting thinking about getting married, having a family,” said this man four years my junior. Then he changed the subject back to work.

  “So why did you want this Hakala guy’s rap sheet?”

  “Nothing anymore, since there’s no way he can be my murderer. I guess I was just hoping for an easy solution to this mess. But I have a new theory.” I began explaining the conclusions I’d come to so far about Armi’s murder. Koivu and I used to be a good team, and talking with someone on the outside was nice, someone who didn’t have any emotional connection to the events or people I was dealing with.

  “Last winter I had to work with this Ström character a few times, and you’re right about how difficult he can be,” Koivu said. “I don’t think he’s necessarily a bad cop, but he’s certainly not much of one for cooperation. And I would have loved to see you in all that leather,” Koivu added, shaking his head sadly at my outfit of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.

  “I promise to wear it to your wedding. So how does it sound?”

  “No talking about weddings before I’ve actually even proposed to Anita. I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  “I mean my theory, fathead! Does it seem possible that the same person who murdered Armi also murdered Sanna—and do you think my boss could be that person?”

  “It’s pretty far-fetched, but you know what, I’ve seen way stranger things in this job,” Koivu said. “I’ve stopped making assumptions. So a couple of things come to mind. What about Armi’s brother-in-law? If he really thought Armi was driving that car that almost ran them down and led to his wife’s miscarriage, then he had motive. And then there are Sanna’s abortions. You should find out who the father or fathers were of those babies. Who would know that?”

  At the memory that Eki had been the one to enlighten me about Sanna’s abortions, I felt like vomiting. Was Sanna’s final pregnancy Eki’s handiwork?

  “Sanna was Dr. Hellström’s patient, so in a way she was also Armi’s patient, because Armi had access to all her records and dealt with her at her appointments. That must be it: Armi knew who murdered Sanna because he was the father of her child! Koivu, you’re a goddamn gem, you know that? I’ll have to revisit that awful Hellström first thing tomorrow, although I don’t fancy talking to the greasy letch about anything having to do with sex. Guess what I heard him say about me!” I told Koivu about the conversation I’d overheard at Risto’s birthday party and my own intrusion. Koivu laughed so hard he almost inhaled his beer.

  “I really miss you down at the station, especially when the boss man comes around stinking up my office with his cigar.”

  From the billiards side of the bar came a louder ruckus than usual, but we just ignored it. We started talking about his upcoming vacation.

  “Anita and I are going to Greece for a week, to Skopelos. Then I’ve been thinking—”

  An even louder bellow interrupted Koivu’s sentence, followed by a crash and shouts. Over the general commotion came a bellow of, “Oh, so you think you’re a big man, do you!”

  I also heard a waitress clearly say to another, “He’s got a knife. We should call the police.”

  Koivu and I weren’t about to let this situation disintegrate. One beer wasn’t enough to dull our edge. Giving each other a look, we rose at the same time. Koivu waved his badge at the bartender but still ordered him to call and request a patrol car immediately.

  In the back room, we found the center of the floor empty, with people standing in a ring along the walls and next to the pool tables as if watching a boxing match. But no, this would be even less civilized: a good old Finnish knife fight. In the middle of the circle, a man lay bent over a table with the back of his head against the felt. A big, ugly man held him in place with one arm, while in the other hand glinted a sinister-looking jackknife pressed against the first man’s throat. Just a tiny motion of the large man’s hand and that throat would open up in a textbook butcher-shop cut. The men could have been brothers—the same robust, beer-infused physique, the same bloodshot drinker’s eyes.

  “This is the police. Put the knife away,” Koivu said with calm authority. We’re not both the police, I thought, but I could feel him tense next to me like a bear catching the scent of its prey, and I wasn’t about to volunteer my actual career status to the crowd at that moment.

  “This fucker cheated me at eightball!” The man with the knife spat in the face of his victim, who didn’t dare move a muscle.

  “I want you to calm down and put away the knife,” I said, taking a few steps to the side and then two forward so the knife-wielder would be sure to see me. Usually troublemakers calmed down more easily when a woman was giving the orders. However, this time my attempt seemed unsuccessful. The man was obviously intoxicated, and drunks are way more unpredictable than other people are.

  At least that was what they taught us at the police academy.

  “If you come one step closer,” he snarled at me, “I’m gonna cut this turkey’s throat open!”

  Sweat and tears of fear mixed with spit on the alleged cheater’s face. Disregarding the threat, I took several more steps forward, extending my hand invitingly and trying to lock eyes with the attacker. At the same time, I saw that Koivu was slipping behind him. He didn’t mean to rush him, did he? Given the likelihood of injuring the victim and himself, the risk was far too great. Persuasion was a much better tactic.

  “I want everyone else out of here!” I yelled. “Clear the bar!” The crowd would probably just goad the knife-wielder into doing something even stupider than he already was doing, but with only a few people present, he would have an easier time giving up without losing face.

  Although only a few dozen seconds passed, I had time to ponder how long the patrol car might take to arrive and how on earth someone could manage to cheat at pool. I mean, you knock the balls into the pockets, and everyone watches.

  Of course, the curious crowd of onlookers had no desire to disperse. Why should they miss the free entertainment? They might even get to see live and in person how corpses got made. I heard someone whisper that this was just like a movie. Maybe they thought the guy lying on his back on the table had ketchup running through his arteries.

  By now, I was close and began slowly circling the pool table, trying to keep all of the man’s attention on me so Koivu could more easily slip behind him. For a big, muscular dude, Koivu moved silently—more like a giant cat than a bear.

  “Fuck, girl, are you supposed to be a cop?” For the first time, the man with the knife turned his eyes straight toward me. “Do you have a gun? Are you gonna shoot me?” He was trying to sound sarcastic, but his tone contained a hint of uncertainty.

  “If you do as I say, put the knife on the table, and let that guy go, then nothing will happen to y
ou,” I said, staring the man directly in the eyes like a snake charmer. I saw Koivu behind him now, poised to attack: as soon as the man let go of the knife, Koivu would tackle him.

  The man holding the knife stared at me for a moment. Then came a sudden move of his hand, and the knife sank into the green felt of the table eight inches away from me. Giving in must have been a serious blow to his pride. I snatched the knife, tossing it out of reach and then rushing to Koivu’s aid as he wrestled the man to the floor. We didn’t have handcuffs or any other restraints, but between the two of us, we managed to keep him down for the two minutes until the patrol car arrived.

  “What were your names again?” one of the patrol officers asked after getting the assailant buttoned up in the back of the cruiser.

  “Officer Pekka Koivu and Maria Kallio, inactive reserve detective,” Koivu answered briskly. “I work in Violent Crime—the switchboard can find me if you need any more information.”

  “So you intervened, even though you were off duty?” the other patrol officer asked with a hint of disbelief. Apparently, he hadn’t listened closely enough to my “title” to notice the part about me being an ex-cop.

  “Should we have stood by and watched while that other guy got a knife in the throat?” I asked, although I had clearly acted without authority.

  The patrol officers thanked us coolly for the assistance, and we returned to the bar.

  “Hey, Koivu, Red! The rest of the night is on the house,” the bartender yelled.

  “Great! You got Dom Pérignon? Well, OK, a bottle of Guinness if you’re all out,” I replied.

  Koivu took a large bottle of domestic Karjala. Adrenalin was still coursing through my veins, making my whole body feel electrified. We cracked a few jokes with the servers, but the rest of the patrons in the bar wouldn’t stop staring at us. I felt like a zoo exhibit. Perhaps police were like some sort of exotic, repugnant creatures to them—a police officer wasn’t supposed to look like a normal person, at least not one having a beer in their bar. I wondered whether we should change taverns, but on the other hand, drinking here was going to be cheap.