TH03 - To Steal Her Love (23 page)

‘Damn it,’ Harjunpää snapped as though after careful consideration. He sat up abruptly, forgetting where he was, and bashed his shoulder against the sauna bench with the full force of his anger, groaned and slumped back on to the mattress. The matter itself hadn’t changed a bit; it still plagued him as it had before, a flickering mess somewhere between realisation and disbelief. He lay where he was a moment longer and thought about the bra they’d found in Retula’s flat on Eerikinkatu, hanging on the back of a scuffed wooden chair at the foot of the bed as if it had been forgotten after hurriedly undressing and an even more hurried escape. At least, this was what he’d believed at first because it seemed logical and fitted the pattern.

But the bra was so ugly, large, brown and plain, just another item of clothing, the kind that old women wear. No prostitute would have worn anything like that – unless they were paid to do so. And even through his latex gloves he’d been able to feel that the fabric was hard and stiff, and right then he realised, the following morning, that clothes felt like that when you didn’t use fabric softener and took them straight from the clothes line.

He got up again and pulled out his earplugs, went into the bathroom, felt the clothes hanging there drying and sniffed the air. The other thing was the perfume. Thinking about it afterwards, the flat had stunk of perfume; normally it was only barely perceptible in the air. Of course, Retula’s girl might have sprayed herself with perfume immediately before leaving the flat, but under the circumstances it was hardly likely, what with the man sustaining stab wounds and the police on their way, and given
that she was clearly in a hurry to disappear. Agitated, Harjunpää turned on the shower and, though his body was still drained and sleepy after his night shift, began busily scrubbing himself. He couldn’t yet make out the whole scenario – he hadn’t even tried – but he was no longer in any doubt that something was out of place. Badly.

With only a towel tied around his waist he went downstairs. He wanted to call in without delay. His thoughts were running ahead of him; he was already on his way to Helsinki. To calm himself down he told himself he would only pop in for a few hours, three at most. The downstairs floor was empty. The door to the garden was open, letting the yellow afternoon light and the full scent of summer flood inside. He could hear the clink of coffee cups, Pipsa giggling, and Grandpa’s booming voice as he sang her an age-old nursery rhyme.

Harjunpää dialled the number for the Forensics office. To his relief, it was Häyrinen who answered. He was a slightly older officer who specialised in fingerprints and treated every detail with a scientific thoroughness.

‘Thurman processed the scene,’ Harjunpää explained. ‘He wrote up the crime-scene report this morning. I’m particularly interested in any observations he made about the lock.’

‘Hang on,’ mumbled Häyrinen. Harjunpää heard a thud as the officer laid the folder on the table, followed by the steady flick of pages.

‘Here it says that there were no marks on the inside of the lock, so he didn’t pick it, but there are a couple of scratches on the bolt that are consistent with some sort of hook. And… here we are, Thurman’s left you a note. He says that, as you know, a hook was used on several previous occasions, most notably at the scene at Messeniuksenkatu 10, but that these marks differ in that they’re stronger. As he sees it, in all the previous cases the intruder took the time to understand the lock, but this time he almost forced it open…’

‘Thank you,’ said Harjunpää as he fiddled with the telephone cable, his eyes nothing but slits. ‘I’d like us to go back to the scene straight away. Near the window there was a low table with an empty wine bottle and two glasses. I want the fingerprints off them.’

‘No problem. We’ve still got the keys to the flat.’

‘And if possible, I want to know whether there are two sets of prints or whether only one person touched them.’

‘That’s fine. I’ll attach a note to the case file.’

‘One other thing. There’s still a strong smell of perfume in the flat. Now, I’m not entirely sure about this but… I’ve got a feeling there’ll be a bottle of perfume somewhere in the kitchen. If you find one, smell it, and if it’s the same as the smell in the flat I want prints off that too.’

‘Consider it smelled and printed. Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all. Thanks in advance.’

The bay window in the surgical hospital waiting room was a nice retreat amidst all the quiet background noise. There was an old white table and wooden chairs in the same style, and what’s more, a verdant, leafy palm tree reaching up to the ceiling. But still Harjunpää couldn’t relax; the agitation he’d felt earlier had turned into something approaching anger – at least, it made him grind his teeth together almost bullishly – and perhaps he was afraid of where all this might lead. He was nervous too, for he knew he was about to do something illegal, something that could have him up on all sorts of charges.

He gripped his clipboard more tightly. Clipped at the top were the incident report regarding the stabbing and a couple of interview transcripts, but he didn’t need them, they were just for show. He stood up again and walked to the corner of the corridor, pretending to glance over his papers, and peered into the reception office. The nurse was still there, the same gangly young girl Harjunpää had asked for Retula’s room number. Just as when Harjunpää had checked on her a moment ago, the girl looked like she was just about to leave the office. And that was precisely what he was waiting for.

Harjunpää had examined the door to Retula’s room. It was one of the few two-person rooms in the hospital, and at that moment Retula was there by himself. The man in the bed next to him had been wheeled out a few minutes earlier. Harjunpää hoped he’d been taken for an X-ray, anything, so long as he was gone for about the next twenty minutes.

Finally the girl picked up a sheet of paper and left the office. Harjunpää started making his way down the corridor, and quickly slipped past a grey door that had been left ajar. He could hear the nurses’ conversation coming from inside, and from that room it would only take them a few seconds to reach the reception office, but he was almost there. He quickly glanced behind him and stepped through the open door into the office. The room was empty.

He walked straight towards the filing cabinets along the left-hand wall. He knew that what he wanted was in there, he’d even seen it on his last visit, and it was still in the same place: right at the end of the top shelf. Without a moment’s hesitation he grabbed the folder containing Retula’s patient history, which was exceptionally thick and heavy, and began
flicking
through the papers inside. He wasn’t looking for any specific
information
; all he needed was an overview. Over the years Retula had been the victim of all manner of different accidents.

Claims he fell against a bookcase and the shattered glass slashed… Slipped on the pavement and smashed his right wrist against the curb… Claims an unknown man stabbed him in the thigh just above the left knee… Fell out of bed and landed on a bottle, which as it smashed… Unknown woman waving a breadknife which slashed across the…
Harjunpää glanced through the rest of the documents. Retula had claimed to be the victim of an attack on five separate occasions, four of which were suspected stabbings while in the fifth attack he sustained a broken rib after a hammer blow to the chest.

He could hear the clip-clop of footsteps approaching the office. He quickly closed the folder and replaced it in the filing cabinet. Then he stepped towards the desk and leaned over it scratching his head. The tall nurse looked puzzled as she appeared at the door.

‘Sorry about this,’ said Harjunpää. He didn’t even need to pretend to sound surprised. ‘Typical – my pen ran out. I wondered whether I could borrow one…’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ the girl smiled. ‘Here. Keep it.’

‘Thank you. This is just my luck. The ribbon in my typewriter always runs dry when I’m in the middle of an interview, and if I’ve got a spare then it’s the correction fluid or something else.’

He waved his hand, left the office and hurried off towards Retula’s room. He couldn’t see any nurses in the corridor wheeling the man’s roommate back. Now he understood why both the medical officer and the doctor had behaved so strangely the previous night, as though there was something abnormal about the case that they had noticed but which patient confidentiality prevented them from even hinting at.

And all of a sudden Harjunpää came to a stop; he realised why he’d thought Retula looked so familiar. He had seen the man’s photograph. It was years ago, but now he remembered everything clearly and tried to
recall the words that had accompanied the image. The photograph had been posted on the bulletin board at the Violent Crimes office and beneath it read the words: “Retula, Kai Orvo Johannes. Thirty-four years of age. Currently of no fixed abode. If this man is the victim of an assault, look for the following…”

Harjunpää stepped inside. Retula was lying in his bed, perfectly still. He looked grey and miserable. His face was turned towards the ceiling and his eyes were closed. An intravenous drip glinted in the air.

‘Kai,’ said Harjunpää and stopped beside the bed. Retula opened his eyes and looked at him. He clearly recognised Harjunpää and took fright; he shut his eyelids tightly and turned his head to one side as though he had fainted, but Harjunpää wasn’t going to be fooled again. He wasn’t sure how to proceed; it was clear that the man was ill, that his soul was
inhabited
by a difficult and complex pain, and Harjunpää didn’t want to do anything that might exacerbate it and possibly make the man in front of him clam up for good.

‘I see you remember me,’ he said softly and pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. ‘I’m Harjunpää, the policeman you saw last night. And I want to be completely honest with you: in a way, we already know one another. You’ve reported being stabbed before, isn’t that right?’

He looked at Retula in silence. The man had clearly heard and
understood
what he’d said. He intuitively licked his lips and the fingers of his hand hanging over the side of the bed were trembling. Harjunpää would have liked to let him think about this a while longer but didn’t dare – he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere if the others came back. For Retula, the presence of other people would have been too much.

‘Let me remind you that the statement you made yesterday makes you a legal claimant and that claimants are under a statutory obligation to tell the truth.’

Again he paused. Retula’s legs twitched restlessly.

‘I could ask you to go over what you told me last night, but I think that would mean you’d have to lie to me. Kai, I know all about your
previous
stabbings. I know what’s going on…’

The sound of footsteps and someone pushing a trolley came from the corridor, but eventually moved past the door, and Harjunpää took a relieved breath. He remembered that the text on the bulletin board had asked officers to pay particular attention to Retula’s clothes because no
cuts or tears had ever been found in them, though judging by the position of the wound and the victim’s account there ought to have been some damage. Suicidal people almost always undress the area they are about to stab. This time, however, Retula had been naked.

‘Harming yourself isn’t a crime. Nobody can be punished for it. Now that there’s nobody listening, you can tell me, then we don’t need to take it any further. Did you stab yourself?’

‘Yes,’ Retula answered almost inaudibly. Tears ran from his eyes making him look even more miserable. Harjunpää felt oddly hazy, as he had no intention of leaving Retula just yet, and neither had he promised to do so.

‘Where’s the knife now?’

‘I threw it in the bin when I went out to the ambulance.’

‘And what about the woman?’

‘There was no woman.’

‘And no night out?’

‘No…’

Harjunpää let him weep. He stared at his hands and wondered what it was that made people harm themselves. The first reason that came to mind was anger, perhaps towards someone else, an anger that erupted from time to time. Either that, or Retula truly hated himself. Harjunpää had heard many cases like that too.

‘Maybe what you really need is a little care,’ he said finally. ‘Treatment. Someone to look after you.’

‘Y–yes… If only there was someone… sometimes…’

‘Everybody needs love, it’s only natural, and not everyone gets it at home. Some have never experienced it at all… Tell me. How did you come up with this story of how it all happened?’

‘It was the first thing that came to mind,’ Retula answered, and the composure of a moment ago was suddenly gone. He seemed more agitated, and Harjunpää knew he shouldn’t force the issue. He realised that if he wanted to get to the bottom of this he’d have to sit with Retula for hours, over a long period of time. And it was clear to him that this was exactly what he would do.

‘You see, that’s just a bit hard to believe.’

‘Or did I read about it in the paper… similar cases, that sort of thing?’

‘No, that isn’t true,’ said Harjunpää. The police hadn’t released any statements to the press regarding the case, because if the intruder had read
them he would have been on his guard and might have started another spate of break-ins somewhere else.

‘You’ve been in and out of prison before,’ he said as though he knew the details of all the cases. He was annoyed at himself for not doing a more thorough background check on Retula beforehand.

‘Just petty stuff… Fraud mostly. And I’ve done my time.’

‘Someone’s blackmailing you,’ Harjunpää exclaimed abruptly. Retula flinched and quickly shook his head, then he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bulging in his thin neck, and with that Harjunpää was sure of it. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of hold Lampinen had over the man.

‘He’s over here,’ Bamse hollered from the workshop door to someone standing in the yard. Tweety recognised her voice – nobody else had a voice like hers, only the swans might have done if they’d been able to talk – and he knew she couldn’t be referring to him because he didn’t really exist. It amused him. So did the fact that he used to be so afraid of death, that the others were still afraid, and yet they’d experienced this same thing too, the feeling of not really existing, the state every human inhabited millions of years before their birth.

‘Hey, he’s over here. I can see his feet under those rags!’ Bamse shouted with her back to him. He was lying on the floor next to the far wall of the workshop, on his side, huddled as small as possible, his body almost the shape of an egg. He’d pulled a pile of old sacks over himself; their smell reminded him of digging for worms round the back of Aunt Suoma’s cottage. He felt good lying there, nothing could hurt him. He’d returned home in the early hours. He’d been unable to climb the stairs to the attic and hadn’t understood why he needed to go up to bed at all.

He’d pulled the sacks over his face, and when he peered through them the world outside looked as though it was made up of dots like a
newspaper
photograph. The doorway was the brightest part of all. Bamse was standing in the middle of it, her hair shining like an angel’s. When he was very small he’d had a guardian angel, but she had abandoned him because he’d been so bad. Light filtered in through the chinks between the boards like upright plates of sunshine. Dust hung in the light, tiny little planets, an entire universe bobbing up and down.

Outside Reino said something and Lasse answered, then Tweety heard the sound of footsteps, like the beat of a drum. Tweety knew he didn’t need to worry about them, that nobody could harm him because he was so small, so small that he didn’t even really exist, because he’d been so good that he’d sacrificed himself. He felt as though he were sheltered between the palms of two hands.

The world was flooded with more bright dots as Reino wrenched the door wide open, then the floorboards began to tremble. Tweety could feel the tremors beneath him. But the movement wasn’t really coming from the floorboards; it was the motion of Wheatlocks’ arms as she rocked him so that all his pain disappeared. She held him in her arms and stroked his forehead, and he filled his lungs with the warm, intoxicating scent of her skin.

‘Christ, man, we’ve been looking for you!’ said Reino. He was angry, but beneath his anger there was a sense of relief. ‘We’re supposed to be shaking hands with the Chancellor tonight and then you go missing. Your bed’s empty and your moped’s gone.’

‘We were starting to think the worst,’ said Lasse. ‘We’ve rung round all the bloody hospitals and God knows what.’

‘On your feet! Fast!’

Reino stamped his foot on the floor and Tweety’s bottom hurt but he didn’t worry about this, the thump or the pain, because although he was under the sacks, he was really in Wheatlocks’ belly, and in there it was warm and safe. Wheatlocks was stroking the bump in her stomach with both her hands, her nails painted red; she didn’t want to give birth to him yet, just to make sure nobody could harm him.

‘Enough of this nonsense,’ Reino snapped and ripped open Wheatlocks’ stomach, and Tweety burst into tears. Nobody was allowed to hurt Wheatlocks! He wept inconsolably, trembling, sobbing. Now that the sacks had been taken away he suddenly started shivering, as the world outside was so cold.

‘He’s sick,’ said Bamse. ‘He’s got a fever. People don’t shiver like that for nothing, you know.’

‘I’ll soon make him better,’ said Reino and grabbed Tweety’s arms. Reino’s fists were like clamps and hauled him to his feet. Tweety yelled. He was in so much pain, his bottom was like an enormous open wound that continued up his back and through his legs right the way down to his knees.

‘Jesus!’ screamed Bamse. ‘His trousers are covered in blood.’

‘What in the name… What happened to you?’

‘Were you in a crash? Where’s your moped?’

‘What if he fell down the stairs…?’

Suddenly they were all over him, holding him, examining him. He didn’t have the energy to stand up, he didn’t dare stand up or straighten his back; just trying to move was painful enough. He didn’t understand why they were doing this to him, poking and prodding him. All he wanted to do was shrink away inside Wheatlocks’ belly, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared altogether.

‘Bring the lamp over here… Hold it up…’

‘Lasse. Bring the bench over to the door.’

‘Mother Gold’s not coming, is she?’

‘Bamse, pick up those sacks.’

‘Asko,’ said Reino leaning over him. Tweety had never seen an
expression
like this on Reino’s face before. He looked scared; his cheeks were quivering and tears welled in his eyes.

‘Asko. You can still open the door, can’t you? Can’t you? Asko, the lock. The door with the squirrel. You will be able to open it, right?’

Tweety and Lasse were in the park. Lasse had got permission. And anyway, it was better going there with Lasse than going by yourself. There were so many other children there, from different backyards too. And Lasse was allowed to cross the road; he didn’t need to ask an adult to help him.

Tweety was on his knees in the sandpit digging a hole. He was digging with his hands because Lasse had taken the spade; he was digging a pirate’s cave. Tweety enjoyed digging with his hands. He was a digger, and his scooper had already reached the wet sand further down. He lifted it out and handed it to Lasse.

‘Not here. Put it over there.’

But he couldn’t answer. His mouth gave off the sound of a motor engine: brrm, brrm! There was sand in his hair too, but it was dry sand, like sugar. Lasse had put it there; he wanted to pick it out when they went to bed. That always made them laugh.

‘Mum’s coming!’ Tweety exclaimed. He was pleased that he’d noticed first, beaten Lasse to it. Tweety jumped up and ran towards her. He took long, bounding strides, jumping high into the air; he wanted his mother
to see. The hem of her jacket was flapping behind her like a pair of wings. Mum was like a bird and he was her fledgling. He opened his arms ready, he wanted to run right into her arms and hold her tightly. He loved Mother and she loved him.

‘Mum!’ he panted. He was so happy; he had the best mum in the whole wide world. He threw himself into her arms, but his mother didn’t embrace him. She moved awkwardly to one side and he fell on the floor and grazed his knee. Mum grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. That hurt him even more, but he was so taken aback that he forgot to cry.

‘Mum?’ he said, but she didn’t reply. She just stared at him, and she was terribly angry. Her forehead was gleaming like butter and her mouth wasn’t Mum’s mouth, it was Aunt Hildur’s mouth. Aunt Hildur was mean and everyone was afraid of her. Mum took Lasse by the arm too, turned and started dragging them home. They panicked: ‘Mum, we forgot the toys! We’ve left the tipper truck behind!’

‘You won’t be playing with toys when you’re at the borstal,’ she said and marched onwards. Tweety had to run to keep up. He suddenly started whimpering and he heard Lasse sniffling to himself. They knew what a borstal was. Mum had told them. All naughty little boys were sent there, and very bad boys had their willies cut off.

Mum sat them down on the bench in the lift.

‘What a wicked thing you’ve done!’ she shouted, even though you weren’t supposed to shout in the stairwell. ‘At the borstal children sleep in wooden boxes on the floor, did you know that? With no mattress and no blankets. And the only food there is gruel that you have to lap from a stone bowl on the floor like a cat!’

‘Mum, don’t send us there!’ Lasse cried. ‘Please let us stay at home.’

‘Mum!’ Tweety wept and held tightly to her skirt. ‘Mum!’

‘What wicked things you miserable children have done!’

Dad wasn’t at home. Dad was in the countryside with Reino and Sisko. The house was empty. Their mother took them into the bedroom. Then she went to fetch the leather dog’s leash. At one end there was a handle and at the other end was an iron ring. Mum took hold of the handle.

‘Trousers down,’ she said. ‘Trousers down and lean over the bed.’

They did as they were told. You had to obey Mum. And all of a sudden she was terribly frightening. She was more frightening than the
down-and-outs,
and Tweety started to feel sick. He looked at the bedspread and
concentrated
on a picture of a little flower. Then the leather leash slapped him.

‘Ouch, ouch! Mum, it hurts!’

‘You’ve raped Marjaana!’ she screamed as she thrashed them. ‘You’ve… raped… Marjaana! You’ve… raped… Marjaana!’

Tweety was in pain. It hurt him, burned him. It hurt, it hurt! He was trembling. The leash hit him again, again, and it stung. He was afraid; he felt broken. His hands had come off and now they were lying on the bed. And his legs felt cold against the floor. He didn’t know whether he still had a bottom or a head. He could hear somebody crying, he just didn’t know who it was. He was afraid that she would kill them, she was so angry. And Mum could do that because Mum was Mum. She never did anything wrong.

‘Get up,’ she commanded them, out of breath. ‘Pull up your trousers.’

Tweety stood up. Through his teary eyes he could see that Lasse’s bottom was bright red. It was covered with something like sausages, except they were blue. There were iron-ring marks on his bottom too, lots of them. Tweety pulled up his trousers. It stung, and again he heard someone crying. A lamp had fallen from the chest of drawers and broken. A piece of its globe was missing. The gap was the same size as the end of the leash.

‘Right, we’re going,’ Mum said and took them by the wrists.

‘Mum, no!’ shouted Lasse. ‘I didn’t do anything to Marjaana!’

‘Don’t lie! Asko is too little. He wouldn’t have come up with that by himself. Do you know what happens to boys who lie? Where’s the belt?’

‘Mum, no! I won’t lie any more. Please let us stay at home. Mum, please!’

‘Mum, let us stay here! Let us stay here!’

‘We’ll decide that later. You two are going to apologise to Marjaana and her mother.’

There were lots of children out in the yard. The big Volanen boys were there too. Kari had a skateboard. Their shouts and laughter echoed. A wagtail sat on the roof of the garage. Pekka ran up to them.

‘Can Tweety stay out and play?’

‘No,’ said Mum. ‘Asko may very well be going to the borstal tonight. He’s committed a crime; Asko has raped Marjaana.’

Tweety couldn’t look at Pekka. He stared down at his feet; the lace on one of his plimsolls had come undone. He was ashamed, ashamed because he’d been so bad. He’d been bad and raped Marjaana. He didn’t
understand
what it meant, but it must have been very bad, because even Mum had stopped loving him. Mum wanted to hurt him; she wanted to send him away from home. She wanted him to disappear. His face felt pinched like it did in the winter cold.

Marjaana’s house smelled different from theirs. Marjaana was playing with the doll’s house her father had built for her. He was a carpenter. Tweety couldn’t look at Marjaana. He couldn’t look at her mother either. She ordered him to look her in the eyes, but he couldn’t.

‘Marjaana has been examined by a doctor,’ her mother explained. ‘Thankfully she didn’t sustain any serious injuries, though that stick was so big. I hope you boys learn your lesson: don’t put anything in other people’s private areas. Ever.’

Lasse said he wouldn’t and so did Tweety. Then they both apologised. Tweety didn’t know if they would ever be forgiven. Nobody said anything. Only once they were out in the corridor did he dare look at Marjaana. She smirked at him. His eyes filled with tears once again.

Out in the yard the other children had stopped their games. They stood in front of the caretaker’s door and stared at them. The wagtail was gone.

‘Asko’s a raper,’ said the eldest of the Volanen boys. Tweety lowered his head. Mum marched them across the yard. All the other children followed them. ‘Asko’s a raper! Spasko’s a raper!’

The house scared Tweety. It had changed; it was suddenly unfamiliar. Everything seemed sharp. Mum picked up the leather leash again. Tweety’s bottom was burning. He started to cry, then so did Lasse.

‘Trousers down and lean over the bed.’

‘Mum, please, no more! Please!’

‘Please, not the leash!’

‘You’ve committed an irreconcilable crime. Almighty God is angry too, and he’ll never forgive you… Trousers down and lean over the bed.’

They obeyed her.

‘Will you ever do anything like this again?’ shouted Mum as she lashed them. ‘Will you… ever… do… anything… like this… again?’

‘No! Mum, please!’

‘Never!’

Mum put the leash back on top of the chest of drawers. Then she went and sat down by the hall table. She picked up the telephone and started dialling a number.

‘Mum, who are you calling?’ said Lasse in distress.

‘The borstal,’ she snapped. ‘The police will come and take you there. Stand by the window and look out for the police car.’

Tweety didn’t go to the window. His legs were dancing all by themselves. He didn’t want to leave home! He didn’t want to be sent away to live with the bad boys! He didn’t want them to cut off his willy! He ran up to his mother.

‘Mum, please, don’t call the borstal!’ he begged. ‘Let us stay here, please!’

He stroked his mother’s hand and leg and her dress. He tried to climb into her arms. He wanted to give her a kiss, to kiss her back to being his mother again.

Mum put down the receiver. She stood up and looked much bigger than before. Then she brought her hands up to her face and went over to the bed. She sat down and cried. Tweety’s whimpers soon turned to tears.

‘Huh,’ she wept. ‘Do you hear your own mother crying? Mother feels terrible because you’re such naughty boys. Don’t you love your mother any more? Is that why you do things like that?’

‘We do love you!’ they shouted. ‘We love you, Mum!’