The Nightingale Murder

by Leena Lehtolainen

  “Whose idea was it to invite Lulu Nightingale to come on Surprise Guests?” I asked once we’d covered the benefits of various trail surfaces for running. Länsimies preferred a sawdust track, while I liked dirt.

  “Probably me. Riitta and I always confer about the themes. The criminalization of buying and selling sex is coming up in Parliament soon, and there are strong feelings on both sides. I’d read some of Lulu’s interviews. I thought she had a rare courage and directness, so I got in touch with her. I need guests who are willing to speak openly.”

  And who interest your viewers, I thought. Finland sure had changed: fifteen years ago, being a stripper was a source of shame, and now taking your clothes off in public was a sure road to fame, landing you interviews alongside politicians and philosophers. But had any of that really reduced the country’s prudishness and narrow-mindedness? Maybe the repression had just changed form.

  “Did you meet with Lulu before the day of the program?”

  “Yes, a couple of times. The final guest plays a key role. She has to be able to turn the show’s mood on its head one last time. We don’t have musical guests or a studio audience, so we have to rely on the power of speech. Riitta was with me for the first meeting, but Lulu and I were alone for the second one, the day before yesterday, at Lulu’s studio. She’d wanted to show it to me. Quite a place. I assume you’ve been there by now.”

  “Was it hard to talk Lulu into coming on the program?”

  Länsimies smiled as if to say that everyone wanted to be on television.

  “She liked the idea of getting some publicity for her business, and it would give her a chance to voice her opinion about criminalization. She was really hoping to testify in Parliament, and she intended to say so on the show, but she never got the chance. It’s too bad, really. In this job you meet a lot of people, and you learn to keep your distance. But I liked Lulu. She was serious about her profession. She wanted to give people pleasure.” Something flashed in Länsimies’s eye that I couldn’t quite read.

  “You, Riitta Saarnio, and the makeup artist knew that Lulu Mäkinen would be the final guest on the show. What about the others, the camera and sound crew?”

  “I might have hinted to them that we’d have a professional sex worker on at the end, but they never see the guests before taping. It heightens the surprise. Nuppu puts on the mics when she goes to get the guests. Except not this time.”

  “So it appears you were the last person to see Lulu alive.”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions, Detective. Wasn’t the last person to see Lulu alive the one who killed her? I’ve been wondering: How did they do it? The newspaper said the police aren’t releasing the cause of death for reasons having to do with the investigation.”

  “Correct.”

  “But that bottle of Fernet Branca has to have something to do with it, right?”

  Ilari Länsimies was used to being the one to ask the questions. So was I. We were like two cats stalking each other, but I was at a disadvantage because we were on Länsimies’s turf. I still didn’t answer the question about the bottle, but that was because I couldn’t, since Lulu’s cause of death was still unknown. Not that I’d mention that to Länsimies. Apparently, my silence began to irritate Länsimies, because he glanced at his watch and stared at the phone he’d placed on the table as if hoping it would ring. He hadn’t poured us a second cup of coffee, apparently thinking the interview would only last long enough for one. Koivu had eaten the chocolate pastries while I’d been on the phone.

  “Nordström didn’t let any of us near the body. In retrospect I realize that he was a poor choice for the show. Too curt and dry. You cops are just so hard to get to comment on anything. In fact, he was the fifth one I asked. The chief of police had other commitments.” Länsimies appeared resentful. Apparently in his mind getting to be on his show should have been everyone’s dream.

  “Tell us about your visit to Lulu’s dressing room before the show.”

  “I always stop in on our guests to make sure they’re comfortable and to build rapport. I visited Lulu a little before nine. She was putting some finishing touches on her makeup, and she looked amazing.”

  “Was she sober?”

  “I didn’t know her well enough to tell. She didn’t appear visibly drunk, and I didn’t see any open bottles around. Of course, there are always risks with a live show. Once we had to drop a poet because he showed up hammered. Riitta and I had to improvise a bit on that one. Lulu did seem to be enjoying herself, and I could tell she was confident.”

  “What about her bodyguard, Tero Sulonen?”

  “What about him? She told me that he goes everywhere with her. That was fine with me so long as he stayed out of sight of the other guests.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier for Sulonen to wait in Lulu’s dressing room?”

  “He asked to be in the access control room. I’m not sure why. Maybe someone had threatened Lulu, and Sulonen thought he could keep an eye out from there . . . Apparently, he couldn’t, the poor devil.” Länsimies spread his hands. “Hiring him may have been one of Lulu’s few miscalculations. Muscles aren’t enough in the protection industry. I learned that in the United States. Real pros have to have sharper instincts, like the secret service did when that guy tried to kill him.” Länsimies gestured at Reagan. The picture was twenty years old, and Länsimies’s hair was wavier and not gray at all. The actor-president was dressed casually, just like Länsimies. Horses stood in the background.

  “You can’t get into the studio without a key, and the security cameras see everyone coming and going. Finding the perpetrator should be easy,” Länsimies said and smiled at me in a way that could be interpreted as either encouraging or demeaning.

  From my brief conversation with Puustjärvi, I’d understood that no one unauthorized had entered the television studio during the taping. However, Sulonen hadn’t been in the control room the whole time, and maybe the moment when he was away taking the glass to Lulu was exactly when the killer arrived. Locks didn’t keep out professionals, and if someone intended to kill Lulu at the TV studio, they would have looked into the security arrangements beforehand.

  Lulu’s position and expression indicated poisoning. Ursula would soon be observing the autopsy. I hoped we’d have the cause of death today. But if it did turn out to be poisoning, that could mean anything from premeditated murder to suicide.

  My phone beeped. The brief text message said, Unavoidable delay. Can’t come until three thirty. Lasse Nordström. I stifled a curse. Nordström wanted to show me that he would dictate the schedule for his interview. Let him try.

  “Did Lulu Nightingale give any sign that she was afraid of this TV appearance or its possible consequences?”

  Länsimies shrugged, but he seemed irritated. “I thought this was already clear. Lulu was happy to come on. I didn’t have to talk her into it.”

  “When you were doing background for the show, did she ever mention anyone threatening her?”

  Länsimies laughed. “That was exactly Lulu’s agenda: if prostitution was made legal, the human traffickers and mafia thugs would go away and the girls”—Länsimies waved his hand dismissively—“or women, workers, whatever the PC term is, could do their work in peace. I assume she’d received threats, but she didn’t tell me anything specific. I’m sorry, but that’s really all I know. You should ask her bodyguard.”

  Länsimies glanced at his watch again. It was already ten to three. “I really must ask you to leave now. My next appointment starts soon. And tonight I need to stop in to see Riitta, the poor thing. Only she and Nordström saw the body. It was such a terrible shock for her.” Länsimies wore an expression of sympathy. But I didn’t want him meeting with Riitta Saarnio before we’d had a chance to question her properly.

  Länsimies stood up, signaling that it was time for us to go. I said I’d be in touch as necessary. His handshake was warm, and he even slapped Koivu on the back like they were old friends. We’re on
the same side, the gesture seemed to say.

  A handsome black limousine with tinted windows was already waiting outside the gate. I guessed this was Mining Counselor Raivionpää’s ride. Raivionpää had just moved up, from CEO of his family’s forestry company to chairman of the board of directors. His name had come up as a possible conservative candidate for the upcoming presidential election, but apparently his health wasn’t good. He was one of those old-fashioned business leaders who liked to keep a low profile.

  From the car, I called Riitta Saarnio’s house and talked to a nurse, who promised not to let anyone in. Saarnio’s husband was also home, and he wanted to talk to me. It wasn’t until he introduced himself that I realized I was talking to none other than Arto “Hatchetman” Saarnio, the infamous corporate raider.

  “The doctor just left. Riitta’s doing a lot better. Unless she takes a turn for the worse, you can interview her tomorrow.” Arto Saarnio had the matter-of-fact voice of a person who was used to delivering bad news. “We have a medical certificate that protects her from having to undergo an interrogation today.”

  “Right. I’ll come tomorrow morning then, along with Detective Pekka Koivu. It would probably be best for your wife not to allow any visitors, not even Ilari Länsimies, until after we speak with her.”

  Arto Saarnio laughed. “It would be my great pleasure to bar that man from my home.” That sounded interesting.

  Because Nordström wasn’t anywhere to be found at the station, I went to see Puustjärvi. He was just putting the finishing touches on Lulu’s parents’ interview record, and Autio was trying to get in touch with Lulu’s sister but had only reached her voice mail. Maybe she was on her way from Salo to comfort her parents. I sat down on the corner of Puustjärvi’s desk and asked how things had gone in Inkoo.

  “If the term heartbroken ever applied to anyone, it would be these people,” Puustjärvi replied, his voice full of empathy. “They live in a duplex just outside Inkoo and both used to work at the harbor. They’re on disability retirement now. The father has a bad back and the mother’s got a heart condition. They have a spitz—it’s old and lame too. They said they’d known for years that things wouldn’t end well for their daughter. According to them, she got mixed up with the wrong crowd in Zurich. Fortunately, their other children have done well for themselves, but Lulu only caused them sorrow. They’d been praying for her to turn respectable, then this happened.”

  “Did they have any ideas about who might have done it?”

  “No. Lulu hadn’t visited them in three years. She did keep in touch with her sister, the one who lives in Salo.”

  At this point, Autio joined in. “The sister works at Nokia and is married to an engineer. Kallio, you should have seen the parents’ house. It was like being in a time warp. The furniture was all at least thirty years old, and there was a cross-stitch of that painting with the fighting wood grouse on the wall. And there were other cross-stitches all over the place, including on Lulu’s dad’s slippers. I guess Lulu inherited her mother’s craft gene; she just took it in a different direction.” Autio snorted at his own joke. “At first, I was amazed by all the flowers, but they turned out to be fake and covered in dust.” Autio brushed off his jacket as if ridding it of the memory of the Mäkinens’ home. Today his suit was dark gray, and, as always, wrinkle-free. His tie had dark-blue flowers on a light-blue background.

  Lulu’s parents were no help in terms of the criminal investigation. However, as the next of kin, they would have to arrange their daughter’s funeral and empty her apartment. Or would that be Tero Sulonen’s job? Who would buy Lulu’s costumes and sex toys? One of her colleagues? Had the Tax Administration allowed her to claim her ropes and whips as business expenses?

  Defenders of the sex industry were often asked if they would want their own daughters to be prostitutes. That question did two things: first, it exposed the assumption that sex workers were always women. Second, it revealed how people tended to divide humanity into “us” and “them” and that their daughters had nothing to do with the “others” who could be bought and sold. I no longer hesitated in answering that question. When I thought of Iida, I said no.

  My phone beeped, and I looked at the message because I saw it had come from Ursula. Prelims from the morgue. Lulu’s blood is bright red, indicating cyanide. Tubes tied. Signs of violence postmortem.

  “Jesus!” I exclaimed, loudly enough to make Autio spit out his coffee. “The pathologist suspects that Lulu died of cyanide poisoning, but someone beat her up after she was dead too. Autio, find out ASAP how a regular person could get their hands on cyanide. Can it be ordered online? Hopefully the lab results on the liqueur bottle and the glasses come back soon. It matters whether the poison was in the bottle or the glass.”

  “Cyanide . . .” Autio shook his head. “Maybe it was suicide, and we’ll find a note on the computer or those disks.”

  “Yes, go through the computer too. Haapio is working on the passwords. We were lucky we could get him for a few hours.” Haapio was the department IT expert. He worked mostly for Narcotics and White-Collar Crime, but I’d managed to talk him into squeezing us into his schedule. “I’m going to question Nordström now and put off a press conference until tomorrow morning, assuming the autopsy report is complete by then.”

  Nordström, press conference, computer . . . The words swirled in my brain. I needed some fresh air, but our office windows didn’t open. And I didn’t feel like going outside, because that would look to Nordström like I was waiting for him. So I threw together a quick interim report for the public relations officer and asked him to announce the morning briefing. By the time Koivu and Nordström finally walked into my office, I’d managed to call home too and tell Antti not to count on me for anything over the weekend. He was supposed to be in Vaasa again starting Wednesday, so we’d need to ask his mother for help.

  Nordström was a large man at nearly six foot six. He’d been just as broad-shouldered during college as he was now, but the belly was a new addition. Maybe squash had taken a back seat to the demands of the job. He was wearing jeans and a sports coat, and his cowboy boots added another inch to his height. When he shook my hand, I intentionally shook back as hard as I could.

  He sat down on my couch without being invited to do so and patted the seat next to him. Instead of joining him I took the chair across from him, and Koivu pulled his own chair over so he could set his laptop on my desk.

  “Well, Kallio, have you figured out what poison killed our songbird?” Nordström said. “And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t poisoning. The convulsive state of the body was obvious.”

  “The autopsy is still ongoing. Let’s start officially now,” I said as I started the recorder. “March eleventh, four thirty p.m. Present Detective Lieutenant Maria Kallio and Sergeant Pekka Koivu. Please state your full name and birth date for the record.”

  “Nordström, Lasse Henrik, born August sixth, 1962. Shoe size twelve and . . .” Nordström stopped when he saw my face. “Come on, Kallio, we don’t have to be so formal, do we? We’re all cops here.”

  “You of all people should understand that we have to do this by the book. Did you know that Lulu Nightingale was one of the other guests on Surprise Guests that night?”

  “No, and I didn’t know anything about any of the others. Am I being questioned as a suspect or a witness? I assume you know the difference.”

  “Your current status is witness,” I replied. That meant Nordström had to tell the truth if he wanted to avoid being charged with perjury. Cop or not, we were going to interrogate Nordström to the fullest extent.

  “Did you know Lulu Nightingale, AKA Lulu Mäkinen?”

  “I knew who she was, but I didn’t know her personally. I assume you two keep tabs on potential future clients too. It isn’t that abnormal for a whore to end up dead.” Nordström grinned at Koivu, who returned a forced smile after a moment of hesitation. Lasse Nordström wasn’t going to fall for any “good cop–bad cop” ga
mes, but male solidarity might be an inroad we could use. Koivu knew the tactic, and we’d used it before. My job, of course, was to play the bitch.

  I asked Nordström to tell us about what had happened after Riitta Saarnio had stumbled screaming into the studio. He squinted like a cat that’s caught a mouse and is waiting for praise.

  “It’s instinct, you know that. When there’s an emergency, you rush to help. Civilians tend to panic. So I knew that, as a law enforcement officer, I had to take control of the situation. I ordered the others to stay put and went to investigate. When I found Lulu, she looked dead, and there was no pulse or respiration. I tried to revive her, but it was obviously pointless.”

  “You tried to revive her? You did chest compressions?”

  “Yes, and rescue breaths.”

  I remembered Ursula’s message about signs of postmortem violence. That was probably the result of Nordström’s attempt at CPR.

  “When that didn’t help, I called emergency dispatch. I knew the Espoo guys, and gals, would respond, but I couldn’t have guessed that a detective lieutenant would rush to the scene. Don’t you trust your people?”

  “Did anyone else go in Lulu’s dressing room?”

  “No, I didn’t let anyone else in. Her bodyguard tried to get in, along with Ilari Länsimies, but I locked the door from the inside and didn’t open it until your patrol arrived. Then I thought I’d done my part, even though the studio was still pretty chaotic.”

  Nordström had to understand the meaning of what he was telling us. He had been alone with the body, so he would have had every opportunity to hide or stage evidence. I looked at his fingers, which drummed on his broad, muscular thigh. They were delicate, out of proportion with the rest of his solid frame. He had a cleft chin, which many women probably found sexy. But there was no ring on his left hand, which surprised me. I’d been under the impression that Nordström was married and had at least two children. “This is a pretty strange case. If I were you,” he continued, “I’d look into the relationship between Lulu and her bodyguard. Maybe someone bribed him to kill her, and he decided to do it in a place where there would be other suspects. I’ve worked enough investigations into the connections between these girls and organized crime to know just how cheap their lives can be. Like that one you posted the notice about in the paper. You aren’t going to find her. She might have survived if the police hadn’t interfered, but once you started questioning her, they would have had to silence her. The underworld has its sources, probably even in this very building. Who can stay perfectly clean on these salaries?” Nordström leaned toward me and put his hand on my arm. He was playing the good cop now, trying to convince us he was on the right side. But I shook his hand off. My shoulders hurt—I must have been tensing them unconsciously.