The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  Taina’s hands are no longer moving. I can feel their warmth, the tips of her fingers like hot needles. Then the sensation of her warm breath caressing the top of my head, the place with only a few wisps of hair, and her soft, moist lips as they press against my scalp.

  ‘Silly-billy,’ she says, her lips tight against my head. ‘I’ve thought of everything. This is for your own good. A few days’ rest and everything will look different.’

  The only way to get Taina out of my office is to promise – multiple times – that I’ll think about it and tell her soon.

  How soon?

  Very soon.

  Taina steps towards the door, her hips swinging, letting her bottom wiggle as she goes. I’ve never seen anything like this before. As she reaches the doorway she looks back and smiles. As well as a sense of compassion, there’s a clear sexual undertone to that smile, a promise. It’s a perplexing combination. I’m not used to seeing such things from Taina. I’ve never had promises like that from other women either. Not in all my life.

  I don’t know how to respond, so I turn back to my computer and wait for the door to shut. When I hear the latch click into the keep I breathe out the pent-up air inside me, lean back in my chair and release my grip on the armrests as though I’ve just survived an emergency landing.

  Was this all about sex? I don’t think so. Surely not. Of course not.

  I realise I’m probably not the most skilful or passionate lover in the world, but I’m sure I can’t be the worst. To my knowledge my strategic measurements are average. I haven’t literally got out the measuring tape, but I’ve spent enough time in saunas and changing rooms to know that, though I’ve nothing necessarily to brag about, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of either. My stamina is about as good as it can be without chemical enhancement: I might not be a cross-country endurance skier, but let’s say I can last longer than a commercial break. I might not have the body of a Chippendale, but I’ve got a good sense of rhythm. Or at least so I’ve heard – and not from Taina. When was the last time we made love? Last weekend perhaps. That’s right. If you ask me it all went very nicely, everything from the foreplay to the final round, and I think we both got something out of it. Maybe this isn’t just about sex after all. That makes Petri’s part in all this rather more interesting than I’ve imagined until now. What if he’s not a brainless penis after all, who runs on a single protein shake from Midsummer to Christmas?

  I don’t have time to give the matter much thought before the phone rings.

  Detective Inspector Mikko Tikkanen’s voice sounds every bit as pleasant on the phone as it does in person: he talks in a friendly way as he cunningly fishes for information. No, I’m not too busy, I tell him, though I doubt anything I have to say – or whether I’m busy or not – would have any bearing on what he proposes next.

  ‘I’d like you to pop down to the station. Straight away, if that’s okay.’

  ‘What’s this all about? Can’t we talk over the phone?’

  ‘I prefer talking face to face.’

  I don’t suppose it matters what I prefer, I think to myself. This is a matter of finding the right balance: I don’t want to arouse suspicion, but I don’t want to sound too keen either.

  ‘If you tell me what this is about, I can think about it on the way over.’

  ‘Just a little routine chat. Great that you can make it at such short notice.’

  Tikkanen hangs up. I look at my watch and think about my state of health.

  Though my doctor is on summer leave, he answers the phone almost instantly. In the background I can hear a rabble of small children, high-pitched yells, screams of joy, perhaps the sounds of a day at the beach, the whoosh of wind in an open space, waves even, the crashing of water against the shore, the movement of the sea. I wonder whether these are the doctor’s children or grandchildren. It’s hard to guess his age. But that’s not why I called.

  I introduce myself, and the doctor says he recognised my number.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ he says straight off. ‘I’ve just received some new information. How are you feeling?’

  I tell him I feel surprisingly well. Physically, that is, though mentally…

  The doctor seems less interested in my mental wellbeing as he all but interrupts me: ‘That conforms with what we already know. Your most recent samples have all been tested now, and to our surprise what we now see is a hiatus of some sort. We can’t say whether this is the body’s own defence mechanism or a decrease in the levels of toxins and the elements causing the poisoning, though ultimately it doesn’t matter either way. What does matter, judging by what you’ve just told me, is that the poisoning has stabilised somewhat.’

  Before I can ask a follow-up question, a child squeals, a wave breaks against the sand and the doctor continues.

  ‘This is very similar to what we often see with cancer patients. Through a course of treatment, and sometimes for an undefined period of time, certain toxins reach a stage when they are simply dormant.’

  The doctor pauses for a second.

  ‘Of course, this doesn’t mean they are worsening or that they have disappeared,’ he adds. ‘It’s simply a matter of the timetable and the speed at which things will eventually take their course.’

  That is the answer to my follow-up question.

  ‘But for the time being…?’ I ask.

  ‘You could say that right now you are as healthy as you can possibly be. Until one day you are not.’

  The police station is a child of its time. The 1990s will not be remembered as one of the golden ages of Finnish architecture: the prefabricated sections of the building are in such bad condition that even looking at it is excruciating. On the inside the station is dark and claustrophobic, and the smell of poor construction instantly catches you in the nostrils. I stand in the foyer for a moment, breathing in microbes that must surely be a health hazard, and listen.

  A door opens along a short corridor and Mikko Tikkanen cranes his head into view.

  ‘You got here quickly. Come on in.’

  With this he disappears back into his office. I walk up to the door and step inside.

  The room is small and reminds me distinctly of the doctor’s surgery: a light-coloured desk, on the desk a computer, Tikkanen in a chair behind the desk and an empty chair opposite him. He gestures me towards the empty chair. I sit down and glance to my left. On the wall are two shelves lined with folders alternating between red and blue but with no indication as to their contents. On the right-hand wall is a free calendar from the local supermarket, opened at the wrong month. This office could belong to any number of businesses or organisations.

  Tikkanen himself doesn’t look much like a detective inspector. He is wearing a black AC/DC T-shirt bearing the dates and venues of a tour, and his sunglasses are casually propped on his forehead. The police badge dangling from his neck is the only sign of what this meeting is about.

  That and the way he looks at me.

  ‘Do you mind if I take notes as we go?’ he asks, tapping at his computer keyboard.

  The situation is a repeat of our recent phone call: Tikkanen appears to ask me questions, but will still do whatever he wants and what he has already decided. Nice to be here, I might have said if the situation and the atmosphere were different. I still haven’t forgotten the little piece of theatre that took place outside the station only yesterday: the conversation between Tikkanen and Petri, which I watched from the other side of the square, behind a herd of tourists. The knowledge of their little rendezvous lends the situation a paranoid nuance all of its own.

  ‘Let me just write down your name, the date and time, and the fact that you’ve come here today voluntarily,’ Tikkanen says. ‘Then we can get down to business.’

  Other than the sound of Tikkanen’s fingers on his keyboard, I can’t hear anything else in the building. There’s a good chance we might be the only two people here. Tikkanen stops typing, looks at the screen for a moment, clicks the mouse, leans h
is head to one side as if to align himself with an image on the screen, purses his lips and gives the mouse a few more assertive clicks. When he is happy with what he sees, he turns to look at me.

  ‘Did you know Tomi Alatalo?’ he asks.

  Straight out, just like that. I note his use of the past tense.

  ‘I don’t think I know the surname,’ I begin. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever heard it.’

  ‘Tomi Alatalo: used to work for the Hamina Mushroom Company. A big guy, blond, the bodybuilder type.’

  ‘I’ve met him. I can’t say I know him in any way.’

  ‘Are you aware that he’s been reported missing?’

  ‘Yes. His boss told me.’

  ‘Asko Mäkitupa?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Tikkanen types something into his computer. Now I see that he is touch-typing. So much for all the jokes about policemen. Again he turns to me.

  ‘What kind of conversation did you have?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Asko Mäkitupa is a competitor of yours. Now, I don’t know anything about the mushroom business, but I assume there’s an element of competition just as with any other line of business. I’d imagine – if you’ll allow me to speculate – that, if a competitor pays you a visit and wants to talk about one of his employees, it must be a matter of some importance and will have an impact on what kind of conversation ensues.’

  ‘Asko invited me for a pint.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘The pub boat in Tervasaari. The top deck. The furthest table from the shore. I was sitting facing the harbour and the open sea.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday, around this time in the afternoon.’

  I’m taken aback at how quickly everything is happening. It’s simply not true that before you die your life plays out in front of your eyes like a sped-up film reel. This is all happening so quickly that following the film would be impossible.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Asko told me exactly the same things. He hasn’t seen Tomi either. He thought he might have gone to St Petersburg. Apparently he does that from time to time – disappears suddenly and eventually lets you know he’s in St Petersburg. Or he only lets you know once he gets back. I can’t remember which.’

  ‘Didn’t this puzzle you?’

  ‘That someone should travel to St Petersburg? Not really.’

  ‘That your competitor Asko Mäkitupa should visit you and ask you where one of his employees is.’

  ‘I misunderstood.’

  ‘Why do you think he imagined you might know something about it? How would Asko Mäkitupa get it into his head that you know something about his employee?’

  Despite my initial reservations, I’m starting to like Mikko Tikkanen. He is doing his job, trying to find out what’s going on while most people he meets tell him anything but the truth. I can relate to that. I don’t want to lie to him. All I have to do is leave out a couple of things. I wonder whether he was sitting here in this office, the windows behind the Venetian blinds looking out into the courtyard, while right outside Tomi and I were doing laps round the Town Hall.

  ‘I’d touched his sword,’ I explain. ‘Tomi’s Samurai sword. I believe this annoyed him. And as far as I know he – Tomi, that is – had spoken about his feelings to Asko, his boss.’

  Tikkanen was about to turn to his computer. His hands stop in the air, his fingertips hovering a fraction above the keyboard.

  ‘So you admit you stole the sword? Yesterday you denied it.’

  ‘I still deny it. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I lifted the sword from its display case on the wall and held it in my hand. Then I put it back. That’s all.’

  Tikkanen’s fingers are still hovering in the air.

  ‘Is there anything else you’ve told me in the past that you’d now like to amend?’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  Tikkanen looks at me, his fingers almost touching the keyboard. For some reason it makes me think of a finger tensing round a trigger.

  ‘No,’ I repeat.

  Tikkanen continues to scrutinise me for a moment, then his fingers move across the keyboard, fast and practised. He stops, reads what he has written and turns to me.

  ‘When you met, did Asko tell you the story of his friend who jumped off a bridge?’

  I nod.

  ‘In truth, the story didn’t quite go the way Asko might have told you.’

  ‘Didn’t his friend jump and die after all?’

  ‘The friend died all right,’ says Tikkanen. ‘But whether he jumped by himself is another question. The Similä brothers weren’t both at the top of the structure at the same time either. Kalle only climbed up there once Ville had already jumped. Or fallen. Or was on his way down. Kalle didn’t see how the jump or fall took place, though he later claimed he heard Ville say something – something like, “Don’t, for Christ’s sake, there’s a log down there”, or something to that effect. Later on it transpired that Ville had pinched Asko’s girlfriend some time before the incident. Of course, this might just be a chain of unfortunate coincidences. Ville might have jumped by himself. Kalle might have heard him wrong. Kalle might have heard right too, that Ville saw the submerged log and Asko pushed him off the bridge in revenge for stealing his girlfriend. Who knows? At the end of the day we only have Asko’s account, so that’s that. Just so you know.’

  Someone has lowered the temperature in the room. I feel cold. Tikkanen has shifted in his chair to face me fully. He is sitting slightly askew, propped on his left elbow.

  ‘What do you mean, just so I know?’ I ask.

  ‘Exactly that,’ Tikkanen replies. ‘Just so you know. In case you’re planning on getting involved with Asko.’

  ‘And why would I do that?’

  Tikkanen looks at me, his eyes clearly trying to read me.

  ‘We found Tomi Alatalo this morning just off the coast. Caught up in a pikeperch net. A few amateur fishermen were out there early this morning. At first they thought their luck was in, they managed to haul in the net just enough to see the shape of a man and something shiny, then reported it to us. Because this is an ongoing investigation I can’t tell you any more at present.’

  I say nothing. Tikkanen moves his fingers slightly, silently tapping the arm of his chair. On the surface he looks slightly bored with our perfectly amiable conversation. Of course, it’s quite the opposite. And I have to say something. I can’t simply walk out of his office in silence; at this juncture that would arouse more suspicion than anything else.

  ‘I don’t plan on having anything to do with Asko,’ I say eventually. ‘I have no reason to do so.’

  Tikkanen slowly shrugs his shoulders. ‘Let’s hope Asko doesn’t decide otherwise.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Tomi has disappeared, Asko pays you a visit and asks his whereabouts. What do you think Asko is going to do now that Tomi has been found?’

  I’ve got to give Tikkanen credit; he’s spun this web very cleverly indeed. He hasn’t said he suspects me of anything, he hasn’t even suggested that he’s interrogating me or that this is in any way an official interview. But here I am, caught between Scylla and Charybdis. I don’t answer immediately, and Tikkanen doesn’t appear to be in any hurry.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ I ask.

  Tikkanen holds out his hands.

  ‘Unless there’s something else on you mind,’ he says.

  We look at each other. I shake my head. ‘I can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Very well.’

  I’m about to stand up.

  ‘One more thing,’ says Tikkanen. ‘I’d like you to stick around town.’

  I stand up and find myself looking down at him. ‘Of course. Why would anyone leave Hamina at this time of year?’

  Tikkanen leans back in his chair. ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  The back of my shirt is wet and cold, and it�
��s glued to my skin. I pull it down, turn, and I’ve almost reached the door when I remember something that’s been on my mind.

  ‘About Asko’s story: it sounded important to you, important enough for you to correct his version.’

  Tikkanen looks at me from his chair at the other side of the room. Thin strips of light filter into the room through the blinds behind him. He is about to say something but hesitates. It’s a brief moment, barely perceptible at all, and the first of its kind – that I’ve seen, at least. He quickly regains his composure and says:

  ‘It’s good to know who you’re dealing with, don’t you think?’

  14

  At first the tub of ice cream feels like a lump of winter in my hand, but it quickly warms. The ice cream melts at the edges and eventually comes apart in the centre too, soft and milky. I read the text on the side of the tub: free, happy cows, merrily milked milk and joyfully churned butter, Grandma’s old biscuit recipe and bananas from the family farm. Of course, none of this is remotely truthful.

  Afternoon arches towards evening. The sea seems bluer the longer I watch it. I try to see the end of the earth but it hurts my eyes, the horizon becoming first uneven then blurred. You can’t see all the way to the end of the world.

  As I left the police station I imagined I knew what paranoid people must feel like. At first I couldn’t even count the number of people I thought were openly hunting me down or otherwise plotting my downfall and ultimately my death. For a moment I sat in the car, frustrated, and waited for the end, either to be arrested or to be struck down by an assassin. When nothing happened, and the end didn’t come, and the car started to feel unbearably hot, I stopped off at a kiosk and drove down to the shore.

  There are plenty of things I count obsessively, but not calories. I need energy, and ice cream is the only food I can think of that doesn’t make me feel nauseous. Maybe my internal organs are so traumatised that only sweetened dairy products are gentle enough for them. I open another tub of ice cream: chocolate made with cocoa beans grown on a mountainside in the southern hemisphere, English toffee made with a secret recipe handed down through the generations. The world isn’t built of steel and concrete after all; it’s made of sugar and candyfloss.