TH03 - To Steal Her Love

Matti Joensuu
is one of the Nordic countries’ leading crime writers and a former investigator at the Helsinki Police Department.
Priest of Evil
(Arcadia) was shortlisted for the 2006 Glass Key Award for Scandinavian Crime Novel of the Year. His works have been translated into thirteen languages.

David Hackston
studied Scandinavian languages and literature at University College London. He has worked extensively from both Finnish and Swedish, and his published translations include works of prose, poetry, drama and non-fiction. In 2007 he was awarded the Finnish State Prize for Literary Translation.

Title Page
Tweety
Mustikkamaa
Tapanila
Grandpa and Järvi
One-Bedroom Apartment
Open, Sesame
Station
Bogey Man
Queen of Angels
Answering Machine
Connections
Ogre
Brownie
Pet Shop
Tuesday Morning
Watchman Elf
Bangers and Mash
Broken Cog
The Exchange
Call-Out
Night
Loan
Pike Teeth
Storm
Door
Meeting
Light
Pint
Points of Origin
Favour
Winkie
Victim
An Irreconcilable Crime
Sisko
Briefing Session
Departure
Another Departure
Oversight
Monday Afternoon
Ritual
Onerva
Proposal
Talisman
Wild Animal
Snout
Shot
Eagle Owl
Father
About the Author
Copyright

The night emitted a faint sound, or perhaps it was a smell, imperceptibly wafting out of the darkness, something soothing like the smell of boats and wet jetty planks, and though Tweety couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he could feel the effect it had on him. It triggered something inside him, opened a hatch long clamped shut at the bottom of his mind, and in a flash he realised that his powers were intact after all.

The power fizzed within him. Particularly around his groin and calves, but more than anywhere else it nested in his chest, residing there like something alive, a cat maybe, or a bird, a silver, gleaming bird spreading its wings in a coat of arms, and there was no doubt: it thrilled him. More than what he had felt in Brownie’s flat, or the emotions Little Foal’s corsets had stirred within him; more than the redhead on Temppelikatu with the black-seamed nylon tights and a pussy shaved as smooth as porcelain. But still he pretended nothing had happened. He stood on the spot, just as before, trying his best not to think about it.

But Tweety knew what he was doing. You couldn’t think about the power; it was forbidden, like laughing was forbidden too. And it wasn’t just any old Tom, Dick or Harry who’d said so; it was God himself. Best not think about that either.

Besides, just thinking about the power frightened the hell out of him. As chilling as when he was little, when the willy-eaters started grinding their teeth in the dark, when you’re suddenly sure a cancer is lurking in your bones or that you’ll catch AIDS if you don’t manage to cross the road before the lights turn red. He imagined Reino dying, Mother Gold too, that he’d
killed them somehow, accidentally, without meaning to. And this was more than just spite, it was punishment for thinking about the power, for the fact that the power existed, that he existed. And when all this flooded his mind at once: farewell, power. After that the most stunning woman in the world could have staggered past, stone drunk, her arse and tits almost bare, ready and waiting, but trying anything would have been pointless.

Tweety waited a moment longer. And when nothing started gnawing away at him he glanced around casually, briefly scanned the street in both directions, then let his eyes linger on the other side of the road where the word
Nightclub
glowed in red lettering. But nothing important happened yet. Only the night danced, its skirt billowing across the sky, and he caught the smell of the bay at Töölönlahti, the faint smell of August, that hazy, dreamy smell that always arose when the swallows flocked during the day.

‘Summer is dying,’ he whispered solemnly, as though he were standing at an open grave, and after a short silence he gently touched the front of his jacket, almost as though he were crossing himself, right by the pocket where the pouch and the knife he had meticulously sharpened earlier that evening lay biding their time. The movement was entirely unintentional, but there was something startling about it, as though within him stirred a barely controllable urge to send someone to the bosom of the earth.

He wasn’t really thinking anything like that; he was thinking that his time would soon be up. His internal clock told him so, it never got fast or slow. He was thinking about how he could walk through doors, and above all about how he was invisible. In that, at least, he was right, as few people would ever have noticed him, though he wasn’t even trying to hide but stood leaning against the wall in his regular spot beneath the archway where so far everything had always begun well. He stood perfectly still – at this, he was a master – and his clothes were carefully chosen and grey. They were even the same shade as the granite of the surrounding masonry, and at first glance he looked undeniably like a part of the building, a pillar or something only dogs would notice before leaving a puddle at its foot.

But Tweety wasn’t waiting for dogs. He was waiting for a woman. It didn’t matter that he didn’t yet know which woman, what kind of woman, but somewhere deep inside he sensed that tonight she might be blonde, a bit like Wheatlocks, maybe even a bit chubby, the kind of woman with supple, bouncing breasts and a sprightly, round behind. And if she had a figure like that, she might be wearing a bodysuit or a camisole
– and he loved them. He could just see how it fitted around her: clinging tight against her body, like a second skin. Its straps would be like silk threads, decorated with a small rosette or a flower. And he knew it would have lace cups to hold her breasts like a pair of tender hands.

‘Jesus,’ he sighed and was about to drift off, but he didn’t have time. The nightclub’s door jolted once, twice, but then the person coming out hesitated; perhaps they were waiting for someone. They kept their hand on the handle and held the door ajar letting yellow light spill out into the street like liquid that wouldn’t disappear no matter how much the darkness tried to lap it up. Sounds darted from inside. They were nothing but pounding echoes, but you could tell what it was like in there: dim lamps and expensive drinks, leather and hardwood furnishings, women dressed in silk, threads of perfume streaming through the air like vines. Though all this he knew already; he had sniffed the clothes of many people who had come out of that door.

Tweety looked around: there were no taxis in sight. That was a good sign, it filled him with warmth, and in a flash he was certain that the person about to step outside would be The One.

But it was a man that came out. Arsehole. He was fairly drunk and stumbled out of the door sideways, as though the building itself had popped out a lump of shit. His suit was appropriately brown, too, but in every other respect he looked like the kind of man whose life consisted of nothing but Rolex watches and BMWs. He stood there holding the door open, and a moment later a woman appeared, blonde, and something surged inside Tweety, so much that he had to lower his gaze. He glanced at his shoes long enough to say their names out loud – the left was Pessi and the right Moses – and only then did his throat feel loose enough that he dared take another look at the woman.

By God, she was stunning! His own age, perhaps in her thirties. Strangely she was both slim and well built, like a doll. Her face was
beautiful
in a doll-like way, almost symmetrical, and her dark-red mouth glowed like a berry ready to be eaten. And her hair… It was almost white and covered her forehead like a curtain, but around the ears it went wild and gushed in curls down over her shoulders.

She certainly had good taste: her blazer was like cream, beneath it she wore a jumper that looked like it was made of silk, and inside that there appeared to be just the right amount of life. It almost certainly had lacy
frills, then there was the smell of perfume and skin and armpits warm from dancing. But best of all was her skirt: a very short skirt, green and dazzling like a jewel. It didn’t even try to cover her bottom, and it was just the kind of bottom a woman should have: one that you notice, then immediately want to know what it feels like to the touch.

They didn’t hang around. They headed right in the direction of Töölönkatu, side by side, though with enough distance between them to indicate that this was clearly the first time they had met. You could see this on them too; you could smell it. The man suddenly turned frisky, moved closer to the woman and wrapped his arm around her waist in a familiar, possessive gesture. He might even have given her a shifty squeeze; the woman stumbled, then giggled immediately afterwards. She had a nice giggle, like the sound of a hare bounding away with a little bell around its neck.

Tweety continued to stand where he was. He never starting moving straight away; not even this time, though he was certain they hadn’t spotted him. In any case, he still had to christen them.

‘And your name shall be Silkybum,’ he whispered and stared at Silkybum’s buttocks, and they were certainly worth looking at. They swung pleasingly beneath her skirt as if they were laughing together. They had reason enough to laugh: they knew from experience exactly what kind of fun awaited them.

‘And you can be the Corpse,’ he continued, almost a snarl, and cast a glance somewhere between the man’s shoulder blades. He didn’t really know why a name like this sprang to mind; he normally christened the men Pig or Swine. The name Corpse startled him slightly, like seeing a flag at half mast, but it was too late to change it now. Once the Corpse, always the Corpse, and this Corpse was strolling towards the corner of the park with his arm around Silkybum, and turning left.

Tweety shook his head, dispelling the unpleasant thought, then listened to the night once again, but this time he listened with action ears, pointed ears with hairy edges, like those of a troll or a sharp-toothed beast. A car hummed along Mannerheimintie, only its lights visible, and somewhere in Kallio an ambulance howled, moaning like a suffering dragon being dragged along the street. But the night was still charged and promising, like the opening bars of
Thus Spake Zarathustra
. But this time it was the strains of
Carmina Burana
that began ringing in his head, and he pushed himself away from the wall.

Pessi and Moses flashed silently across the pavement; Tweety’s step was quick and relaxed. But this was just for show; he was ready to stop at any moment, to break into a run, to stagger around like a drunk or sink like a shadow behind the cars. He wasn’t even aware that he could do this for everything was stored on a mysterious disk in his mind so that, in any given situation, the right programme would start running by itself.

He came to the corner. Silkybum and the Corpse had passed the hotel and were walking straight ahead. They seemed unhurried, in a way that suggested they didn’t have far to go, and more than likely they were going to Silkybum’s flat, because both outside the nightclub and at the corner of the park she had gestured almost imperceptibly to show the way. Seeing them again, he noted that the Corpse was actually quite stocky, but he didn’t give the matter another thought. He generally never paid any
attention
to the men involved until it was time to take care of them. And in that, too, he was a true master.

Perhaps he didn’t want to think of the Corpse because he himself was rather short and slender, petite even, right down to his gaunt face and thin fingers, worn away by hard work. Only his head didn’t fit the pattern. It was as though it belonged to someone else, like the bird in
Tweety and Sylvester
where his nickname came from. It was also because, ever since he was a child, he had wanted to be a bird. His real name was Asko, but he had never liked it. Even before he had gone to school the other children had worked out how to put the letters S and P in front of it.

They walked single file through the night, a fair distance between them, but every now and then Tweety caught Silkybum’s scent in the air, the thrilling smell of sweet perfume, the sour smell of the wine she had drunk that evening. At moments like this he wanted to speed up and close the gap between them, just enough to hear the hiss of her nylon-covered thighs as they brushed against one another. But he let go of the thought and was content with the knowledge that he would be able to stroke them naked later on. It occurred to him how magnificent it would have been to be her corset; he would have spread across her skin, caressing her all over, all at once, though of course it would have felt strange that his face was suddenly elastic and his lips were a row of jutting hooks. But it would have been worth it – unless she decided to throw the whole thing in the washing machine when she got home.

The air was thick with the smell of grass and mud and earthworms. Hesperia Park was just ahead of them. But Silkybum and the Corpse walked past it, carried on along the pavement, crossed the road, and turned right at the end of the hedgerow, and Tweety could sense that they were almost home; it all but radiated from Silkybum. She was getting ready for something; she’d changed the rhythm of her footsteps and even started swaying a little, and she’d just checked that she still had her handbag. Her keys were probably in there. Tweety sped along beside the row of hawthorns.

He stopped when the hedges came to an end, and now his eyes were nothing but two watchful slits. All he could see was Silkybum, then she suddenly disappeared round the corner. It had to be Vänrikki Stoolinkatu, the one that rose up a steep hill. Tweety darted between the cars and, as though it had a will of its own, his right hand kept slipping into his jacket pocket. The bottom of his pocket was full of small pieces of tightly
rolled-up
paper, like small birds’ eggs, and he selected the second one that came to his fingers – he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the first one, it might have been nothing but a scaredy cat – then with practised fingers he began rolling it tighter still.

Tweety leaned against the wall, held his free hand against the stonework and peered round the corner; skilfully, in such a way that he seemed to grow with the wall just enough to see what he wanted. He had guessed right: they had stopped halfway up the hill and were now
standing
barely twenty metres away from him. The Corpse had his hands on his hips and Silkybum was rummaging through her bag, gutting it like a fish. There was a jangle of keys and they both burst out laughing.

Silkybum went up the stone steps, the Corpse close behind her, exuding both power and a certain rubberiness, and Tweety realised that they were far drunker than he had guessed. But that was a good thing: the Corpse would last one session at the most, and after that they would have no difficulty falling asleep, and they would sleep very soundly indeed.

The door opened and they stepped inside, or rather the corridor sucked them in, and in a flash Tweety was on the move. With his legs moving like a sewing machine needle he sprinted up the hill, the hand holding the ball of paper outstretched and ready. Magically he could see that there were no other people walking about, no beady eyes, and he could see that the door had already started to close. But he didn’t panic.
He was less than ten metres away and, besides, he knew the doors in this house. They were stiff, as slow as mating whales, and the pumps in their mechanisms often held them ajar for a full few minutes.