TH03 - To Steal Her Love (18 page)

It was no longer evening, but it wasn’t fully night yet either. It was the moment when he would have been happy to be an eagle owl, to awake high in the branches of a giant spruce tree, slowly letting his eyes adjust to the light and listening to what was happening in the world below; where a bunny rabbit has gone to eat; where the crows have found shelter for the night. But Tweety wasn’t an eagle owl and he wasn’t happy. The thought of the locker tormented him. He felt like a train ripped from the tracks, shuddering along the railway sleepers with sand between the runners.

He hadn’t been able to stay at home. Restless thoughts had filled his mind like rubber balls bouncing from one wall to the next, and now he felt as though he didn’t want to be in town either. He trudged aimlessly north up Mannerheimintie, his Power was gone and now he was just Asko, the world around him nothing but a faded photograph. And there were far more people out and about than usual; cars sped past, their eyes glaring as if they knew something, and a storm was brewing, the wind gathered pace and the air was humid.

It had been the same inside the locker: he’d started sweating profusely. It was like one of those dreams in which you’re forced into a coffin alive, then the coffin starts gliding towards the mouth of the crematorium; it was like being
caught
, when evil things happen, when you’re killed twice over and threatened with death a third time. If that policeman had
continued
, his locker would have been next. He could hear the ebb and flow of the man’s breathing, like timothy-grass blowing in the wind. Lasse had been in the adjoining locker, and when the policeman had gone into the
toilet a soft metallic click had come from behind the tin wall: Lasse had cocked his gun ready. Down at the pit they’d once used a watermelon for target practice, and at the first shot it had exploded like a bomb. Nothing would have been left of that policeman’s head except his ears. Would they have dropped down on to his shoulders and lain there like epaulettes?

He walked on and looked at his feet, Pessi and Moses, as they came into view one after the other. They were always faithful to him. His entire life had been like that locker and he wanted out. In fact it was even stranger: he
was
the locker and was unable to escape himself.

He stopped and breathed, his lips slightly parted. He had a strong sense that he had to get away, to run. He walked out into the road without looking to see if any cars were coming. The street shimmered in his eyes; the tramlines lay ahead, like jewellery made of molten steel, but there were no cars. If he were knocked over the seagulls would have pecked at his remains and he would have been able to fly in their stomachs. They had very powerful stomach acids; if their droppings land on a car they always leave a stain.

Lasse had got better all by himself once the police had left. Reino had still forced him to see a doctor, who hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with him. An X-ray had revealed a swelling on one of his
vertebrae
, and that night he might have had a muscular spasm so strong that it pressed against the disc for a while. Once they were alone Reino said he thought the swelling was probably in his head, but nonetheless they’d established a new division of labour with regards to the Chancellor: from now on Lasse wasn’t to carry anything heavy.

The Chancellor had started to frighten Tweety. The wind carried a yellow leaf across from the park, and he realised that he really didn’t want to die. He wanted to be born first.

Tweety stopped beside a drainpipe. He stopped because Wheatlocks was suddenly in his mind. She appeared from the darkness between the middle decks, came out on to the main deck, lay down on a divan with golden feet and fell asleep in an instant. She looked exactly like she did when she was asleep in her own bed, her hair splayed across the pillow and her lips apart, and when he leaned over her face he could breathe in her breath. Her hand was like a child’s but had red, woman’s nails. And her thighs were so soft, and her stomach so smooth, and her belly button was just big enough to fit the first joint of his little finger.

He took hold of the drainpipe and it felt like he was keeping the entire house upright. He hadn’t stroked Wheatlocks in two weeks; for two whole weeks he hadn’t experienced tenderness, hadn’t felt love from anyone, and his dreams had often been black-and-white and miserable, dreams about wading across a swamp or being tied up in a cupboard and nobody coming to save him.

Wheatlocks’ apartment wasn’t far.

Neither was Brownie’s apartment for that matter, or the aquarium restaurant. He loved that place. He loved standing outside in the dark watching people eat, the hedge branches brushing against his cheek; at moments like that he was almost an eagle owl. He was an owl preying on rabbits. He’d left his moped in the area too. He would have liked a car but he couldn’t afford it and didn’t dare ask Reino for a loan: he would have wanted to know where Tweety was going. And though the moped was childish, at least it meant he could get home, as the buses didn’t run at the time of night when he most needed them.

He let go of the drainpipe and the house didn’t fall down, but he couldn’t decide what he wanted or what to do. And though he had pricked his ears and tried to listen to his soul he couldn’t hear any music. He stared blankly around, ahead, then he realised that the hotels were close by – he was almost there – and he decided to walk past them and peer in through the windows, and he felt that after that he would know what he wanted.

He enjoyed hotels. Their atmosphere was somehow different, richer than other places, wealthier, and the people around hotels were different too, stunning, glinting like spider’s webs, and they smelled of perfumes that were probably only sold abroad. And once in their rooms they slept naked on silk sheets, and their skin was so downy and white that he almost wanted to bite into it.

Tweety set off, now striding decidedly more briskly than at any point that evening, and as if by magic a taxi pulled up in front of the first hotel and the porter hurried to open the door. He must have felt embarrassed; his clothes were so smart he looked like a clown, a silk top hat on his head and a jacket that could have been from an operetta. The crew of a foreign airline stepped out of the taxi; Tweety could tell from their uniforms. One of the stewardesses was particularly beautiful. She looked a bit like Madonna, blonde hair down to her shoulders, and
enough of a chest to share around, and he was sure she was about to go to bed with one of the pilots.

Tweety found himself thinking about how strange it was that even a beautiful woman’s pussy was in fact a frightfully ugly thing, wrinkly and foreboding, as if deep inside it were hidden layers of teeth, sharp as a pike’s; curled, bony hooks, and if they suddenly snapped shut – that was it. There would be nothing left but ripped shreds of flesh. The wind gusted in swirls along the walls, carrying the woman’s scent to Tweety’s nostrils. It was the smell of a stifling, almost nauseating perfume, like the smell at the fox enclosure at the city zoo. His stomach started churning and he looked elsewhere, up into the sky, high up amongst the first raindrops, and he didn’t want to be a locker or a man. He wanted to be a bird.

It had been raining for a moment or two: heavy, ominous raindrops that drummed dejectedly as they hit the roof of the car. Harjunpää wondered whether to turn on the windscreen wipers, but decided against it; it was good that the windows were hidden behind sheets of water. They could just about see out, but with any luck they wouldn’t be spotted from the street. There was, however, another side to this: it was extremely unlikely that their mystery man would voluntarily get himself soaked in the rain or that anyone would willingly leave the restaurant and brave the downpour.

A bolt of lightning flashed; time passed, a moment more, until finally there came a distant rumble, and Harjunpää rested his head against the car window, hoping that the storm would let rip, thrashing the trees back and forth and sending a deluge of water on to the streets; the pavements would be flooded and the air would be thick with white light and a deafening crash. Afterwards everything always felt somehow different.

Despite this, he realised that he would have to create the storm he so needed for himself, and he knew that he would be unable to do so. Or was he only imagining it?

For he knew what was wrong. He knew that it was amateurish and stupid to put only one of their two possible locations under surveillance using only one car, and an easily identifiable one at that. The matter should have been handled differently: both restaurants should have been under simultaneous surveillance every night for several weeks in cars manned by those working on the case. Now, in effect, he and Onerva
were struggling to work the case alone, keeping an eye on the place for a few hours during the day and a few hours at night; it was like sticking your hand in the sea and waiting for a fish to swim up to you.

And behind all this stupidity was one glaring, basic stupidity: the
investigators
had split into two quarrelling camps, each pushing their own agenda. This was no longer cooperation – if, indeed, it ever had been – this was a bitter, childish point-scoring exercise, and Harjunpää was no longer sure quite how they had arrived at this standoff. He felt strangely guilty, as though he himself had played a part in the matter. Valkama, the man appointed temporary chief of investigations, wasn’t much help either; he was continually caught up with other pressing cases, and his comments were always offhand and vague: ‘Well, these differences of opinion aren’t very helpful now, are they?’

On top of this, in the last day the situation had taken a significant turn for the worse: Lampinen had refused to comment on how things had gone with the Nikander case, presumably because they hadn’t got a result, and the others on the case had kept their mouths firmly shut, almost as if they’d struck a deal not to talk. The whole case had reached a stalemate, as had the situation at home with his father: Harjunpää still hadn’t been able to reach Ms Salin from Social Services. He shifted in his seat and hoped for an exceptionally ferocious storm.

‘Onerva,’ he said after a while. ‘We need to wrap this thing up, somehow.’

‘There may just be a very good chance of doing that,’ she replied quietly. This was her ‘action voice’, ever so slightly agitated. Her eyes nothing but a squint, she stared past Harjunpää, through the rain, and into the park in the direction of Mechelininkatu. ‘There’s somebody standing over there, by that tree, absolutely still. I don’t know where they came from all of a sudden… And just by those bushes is the spot where Thurman found the footprints.’

‘Where? I can’t… There is someone there. A man.’

‘And he’s staring across the street at the restaurant.’

Harjunpää fidgeted restlessly, as though an electrical current had been plugged into him: he was suddenly wide awake, his thoughts utterly focused as he estimated the distance to the tree and tried to think of any potential escape routes, and the rain – it, at least, had taken note of his wishes and was lashing down in torrents – and beneath his excitement he
had the distinct feeling that the solution to the case was close, that this was the right man, this was their stalker, he could feel it just as he had sensed danger back on the shores of Mustikkamaa, and with eager fingers he took hold of Onerva’s wrist.

‘We can’t mess this one up,’ he whispered instinctually. ‘Let’s be on the safe side. We’ll call Control and get them to send a plain-clothed patrol to the corner of Mechelininkatu, then we’ll split up: one of us will approach him from the front, and the other will go round the park and come up behind him. And if he’s not our man, we’ll just check his ID and leave it at that.’

‘It’s him all right. Who else would be standing out there in this weather? Just so you know, all the people who’ve tried to apprehend him have said he’s a hell of a fast runner… Should we ask them to station a dog patrol somewhere near Hesperia hospital?’

‘OK.’ Onerva picked up the car radio while Harjunpää groped in the door’s side pocket for his handcuffs, and didn’t take his eyes off the figure for a second. The man had appeared by the tree like a ghost and could disappear just as easily. It was difficult to see him properly: he was
standing
there perfectly still between the darkness and the sheets of rain, and his clothes were distinctly colourless. He was almost part of the tree, a gnarl or the stump of a broken branch. With his other hand, Harjunpää picked his long, wooden baton up from the floor.

‘Patrol 5-8-3, this is Control.’

‘We’ve got a visual on a suspect in Topelius Park, but we need a
plain-clothed
patrol posted on Mechelininkatu to make sure we get him. Can you sort it out?’

‘Hang on a minute,’ came the voice from the switchboard. The radio crackled and fell silent, and Harjunpää could almost see the clerk going through the computer screen in front of him. Another flash of lightning cut through the sky, bathing everything in trembling light, followed immediately by a boom as if something above them had ripped open. The man remained standing by the tree trunk. At least for the moment.

‘5-8-3, the only plain-clothes unit we’ve got is currently with Social Services taking some kids into care. They could be another hour or so. Won’t uniform do?’

‘I’m afraid not, this guy’s renowned for doing a runner. What about a dog patrol?’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ said the clerk, and there was genuine regret in his voice. ‘One officer just clocked off for the day and the other is out in Vantaa helping officers there with a search.’

A look of desperation spread across Onerva’s face, but she didn’t give up: ‘Well, are there any Crime Squad officers in the area? What about Lampinen and his lot?’

‘They’ve been on line 23. Why don’t you try there?’

‘Roger. Over and out.’

Onerva looked imploringly at Harjunpää, then they both glanced out into the park; the man had moved away from the tree, taken a few steps, as though he were wondering whether to run for cover before the rain got any worse, but then started moving restlessly, carelessly, and leaned back against the tree.

‘It’s worth a shot,’ Harjunpää whispered to Onerva. ‘The surveillance flat’s around here somewhere. There might be someone there.’

‘Are Lampinen and Juslin from Crime Squad on the line?’

‘Yes,’ Juslin replied, his voice as clear as if he were sitting right next to them.

‘You’re somewhere around Humalistonkatu, right? We’ve got our eyes on a probable suspect by the edge of Topelius Park opposite the Lehtovaara restaurant and we need some back-up. Can you help?’

‘Hang on,’ came a voice in the background. It was Lampinen. ‘Our suspect’ll be on the move any minute. We’ve got to be ready for him, so nobody’s going anywhere, I’m afraid.’

‘Roger,’ said Onerva as she slammed the microphone back in place and switched off the radio, and her eyes were nothing but a pair of hard furrows. Harjunpää felt the same anger, a mix of anger and weariness with everything, the police force, their case, the whole world, and with it came a desire to leave it all behind him for good, but then he took a deep breath and came back to earth and his anger had suddenly changed form; it had become a kind of bullish determination, focused on the man waiting outside.

‘We could always try to make a run for him,’ he said, restlessly gripping the handle of his baton. ‘But I think he’s too far away. He’ll have enough time to run off.’

‘And running on wet grass isn’t easy. Let’s try coming at him from both sides.’

‘Get out of that door slowly and keep your head down. Don’t move in on him until I’ve reached those bushes. We’ll walk up to him calmly – he won’t suspect a thing. And when we’re right by him, then we take him. OK?’

Onerva nodded, slung her handbag over her shoulder and grabbed the door handle. The rain was coming down like a rippling wall in front of them and the surface of the pavement seemed to bubble with water. Onerva was already outside in the thick of it; Harjunpää clambered over the gearstick and frantically gestured to Onerva to keep down. Onerva didn’t react, but instead opened the car door wide and leaned against it as though without it she would have been unable to stand up. Lightning flashed, followed immediately by a tremendous clap of thunder, and the wind shook the trees in a fury.

‘We screwed up,’ she said, pretending to remain calm, but beneath the act her voice was tense. ‘Just get out of the car as though nothing’s happened. He noticed the light come on as I opened the door. Now he’s on the other side of the tree, you can hardly see him. But I bet he’s watching us.’

‘Damn it…’

‘Forget damning it. We were in the car having a bit of a smooch and now we’re still drunk and making our way home…’

‘It’s pointless.’

‘No, it isn’t!’

Harjunpää got out of the car; raindrops pounded painfully on his head and face, Onerva opened her arms and wrapped them around his neck and shook him. Harjunpää fumbled and rested his hands on Onerva’s slender shoulders. He pulled her closer; her face was right there, almost touching his own, wet from the rain, a lock of hair stuck to her cheek. He could smell her faint scent, feel her warmth; he kissed her nose and chin and then her mouth, and it felt good, it felt overwhelmingly good,
forbidden
and yet so right. Water lashed down around them and time stopped, then Onerva drew away and peered into the park.

‘He’s still there,’ she said, slightly out of breath. ‘What’s our plan of action?’

For a fleeting moment Harjunpää wanted to say,
Let’s keep on bluffing
, but he didn’t want to spoil anything. He had felt Onerva respond to him and yet he knew that the matter could go no further, that neither of them would allow things to develop, it wasn’t meant to develop. It had been something that was almost impossible to understand. He slowly moved his
baton to his other hand, held Onerva close, pressed his cheek into her wet hair and started walking.

‘Let’s cross here,’ he said in a hushed, low voice. ‘Then we’ll turn at the corner and walk right up in front of him.’

‘He’s watching us. He’s moving round the tree trunk so he can remain hidden. You can just make out his white face.’

‘When you compare him to the tree, he must be pretty scrawny.’

‘Yes…’

They crossed the street and continued walking forwards until they were only twenty or so metres away from the man; the rain was so heavy that it was hard to make out any details. Suddenly he felt nervous, excited, as he always did when he was about to apprehend a suspect, thoughts rushing through his mind: what’s going to happen; is it the right man and will he make a run for it; what if he has a gun? His body was getting ready, producing a strange, mystical energy.

They came to the corner and turned so that the restaurant was right in front of them; the light coming from inside looked safe and warm. Harjunpää’s shoes were already soaked through and his shirt clung to his back like a jellyfish.

‘He’s slipped behind the tree trunk,’ Onerva whispered and slowed her step. Then, all of a sudden, she tore away from Harjunpää’s side and broke into a run. ‘Timo, he’s there in the bushes!’

Immediately Harjunpää was running too; water on the tarmac splashed beneath his feet as he ran, his baton waving in his hand. He ran on to the grass; it was soft and slippery, every step almost tripping him over. The black tree trunk flashed past and a bolt of lightning lit the sky, a long, quivering blue-and-white explosion, and in the momentary light he saw the man, who by now was running in between the trees and up the hill. He ran as nimbly as an animal, a deer perhaps. Maybe it was his deer’s instincts that had warned him.

‘Stop!’ Harjunpää shouted, though he knew it was no use. ‘Stop! Police!’

The branches of the bushes whipped against his shins. Onerva ran to one side; she had already kicked off her shoes, then she reached for her handbag. A moment later she was holding her revolver. ‘Don’t!’ Harjunpää tried to shout out, but Onerva wasn’t pointing her gun at the man running away. She held the gun to one side, to the ground, and aimed
somewhere in the shimmering grass. Again Harjunpää ordered the man to stop, then Onerva fired once, twice; sparks flew in all directions and the air was filled with the smell of gunpowder. The man continued running just as before, perhaps even more furiously. The distance between them was growing and there was nothing they could do about it. He was going to get away.

‘In the car!’ said Harjunpää, out of breath. ‘Onerva, back to the car!’

‘No, you go. You’ve got the keys. I’ll go after him and see where he goes. Pick me up on the way.’

Harjunpää handed Onerva his baton, then sprinted in the opposite direction winding back through the park, and suddenly he regretted his decision. It felt dangerous – dangerous for Onerva. What if the man stopped and started to struggle with her? And what if he did have a weapon, a knife even? But there was nothing more Harjunpää could do about it. All he could do was move faster and trust that Onerva knew how to handle herself. And that she certainly did. What’s more, she had a gun and a baton, and the man might have been so startled by the gunshots that nothing would make him stop now.

He could see the car in front of him. Water bubbled white on its roof and the bonnet was facing the wrong way, of course. He reached into his pockets for the keys, then a moment later he was at the car, wrenched the door open, his hands trembling with the exertion, and threw himself inside. He grabbed the radio from the dashboard but realised straight away that it was useless; he was too flustered and out of breath, Control
wouldn’t
be able to make out a word he said. He decided to try them in a minute and turned the ignition. The rain looked like reeds dancing in the headlights. He steered the car out of its parking space and accelerated. He realised it would be pointless wasting time trying to turn the car or go through the park where the wheels might have got stuck, so he swung on to Humalistonkatu instead, took the first left, and Mechelininkatu was there in front of him. There was no traffic at all and at first he drove on the wrong side of the road along the edge of the park. The flashlight was too far away for him to reach. Perhaps it was a good thing, the blue
flashing
lights would have warned the man he was coming.