Snow Woman
Authors: Leena Lehtolainen
Tags: #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Literature & Fiction, #International Mystery & Crime, #Police Procedurals, #Thriller & Suspense
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 1996 by Leena Lehtolainen
English translation copyright © 2014 Owen F. Witesman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Luminainen by Tammi Publishers, Finland, in 1996. Translated from Finnish by Owen F. Witesman and first published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2014. Published by agreement with Tammi Publishers and Elina Ahlbäck Literary Agency, Helsinki, Finland.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
Lyrics from “A Farewell to Arms” (“Jäähyväiset aseille”) reprinted by permission of Jyrki Siukonen.
ISBN-13: 9781477826515
ISBN-10: 1477826513
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014910532
CAST OF CHARACTERS
THE COPS
Maria Kallio ...... Espoo Violent Crime Unit (VCU) detective
Pekka Koivu ...... Maria’s old partner
Juhani Palo ...... Espoo VCU detective
Pihko ...... Espoo VCU detective
Ville “Dennis the Menace” Puupponen ...... Espoo VCU detective
Pertti Ström ...... Espoo VCU detective
Jyrki Taskinen ...... Head of Espoo VCU
Minna Rautamaa ...... Oulu police officer
Akkila ...... Espoo patrol officer
Haikala ...... Espoo patrol officer
Jäämaa ...... County police commissioner
Koskivuori ...... Ministry of the Interior police captain
Lähde ...... Espoo police administrator
THE WOMEN
Tarja Kivimäki ...... Reporter, Elina’s friend
Heidi Kuusinen ...... Niina’s mother
Niina Kuusinen ...... Music teacher, Elina’s patient
Kirsti Jensen ...... Antti’s coworker
Eva Jensen ...... Therapist, Elina’s former patient, Kirsti’s wife
Milla Marttila ...... Stripper, Elina’s patient
Elina Rosberg ...... Therapist, owner of Rosberga Manor
Aira Rosberg ...... Elina’s aunt, Rosberga caretaker
Anna Säntti ...... Johanna’s daughter
Johanna Säntti ...... Elina’s patient
Maija-Leena Yli-Koivisto ...... Johanna’s sister
THE MEN
Kari Hanninen ...... Therapist/astrologer
Joona Kirstilä ...... Elina’s boyfriend
Martti Kuusinen ...... Niina’s father
Jukka and Lauri Jensen ...... Parents of Jensen children
Markku Malmberg ...... Escaped convict
Antti Sarkela ...... Maria’s husband
Leevi Säntti ...... Johanna’s husband
SUPPORTING CAST
Eeva and Helena ...... Maria’s sisters
Einstein ...... Antti’s cat
Kervinen ...... Forensic pathologist
Valentin Kononen ...... World champion race walker
Leena ...... Lawyer
Ritva Marttila ...... Milla’s mother
Risto Marttila ...... Milla’s father
Geir Moen ...... European champion sprinter
Rami Salovaara ...... Strip club owner
Saku ...... Maria’s nephew
Mikael Wirtanen ...... ICU physician
PROLOGUE
I wasn’t sure who was more nervous, the judge or me. My college friend Riina had never performed a wedding before, and I could see her cheeks tremble as she started the ceremony. But then, I had never gotten married before either. My knees were like jelly, and my hand, squeezing Antti’s, was probably dripping sweat onto the parquet floor of the Villa Elfvik dining room.
“Do you, Maria Kristiina Kallio, take this man, Antti Johannes Sarkel
a . . .
”
I had forgotten that a civil ceremony used the same familiar lines. I could barely get the two-word response out of my mouth. Antti glanced at me, probably thinking I was going to back out. Faintly I stuttered my assent. As if in alarm, Antti blurted out his response so loudly it made Riina jump. Later, when asked, our guests diplomatically claimed they had noticed nothing strange about our vows.
Riina proclaimed us husband and wife, and we turned toward the audience to kiss each other and accept their congratulations. We had wanted as informal a wedding as possible, and as Antti didn’t belong to the church, a civil ceremony seemed natural. My own relationship with religion was confused enough that I wasn’t concerned about a Lutheran priest’s blessing.
In the receiving line, the hugging seemed to go on forever. Parents, siblings, and then friends. My friend and old partner, Koivu, lifted me into the air and then, only half kidding, told Antti he’d better take good care of me.
The delegation from work, however, was strangely taciturn. My boss, Detective Lieutenant Jyrki Taskinen, head of the Espoo Police Violent Crime and Repeat Offender Unit, congratulated us nicely enough, but the two officers chosen to represent the rank and file, Juhani Palo and Pertti Ström, seemed almost resentful about being there. It was as if they thought getting married would make me a worse cop. To top it off, Taskinen’s phone started ringing just as he shook Antti’s hand.
I groaned and said to Palo, “Hopefully nobody’s been raped. I’m a little tied up at the moment.”
One of Antti’s colleagues from the university was next in the receiving line. Overhearing these words, she looked at me, startled.
Taskinen excused himself to take the call, and I continued shaking hands. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him return to the wedding reception. Apparently it was nothing that required the head of the unit to be on scene. I swallowed my curiosity and turned my attention back to our guests. It was not as though the work sitting on my desk would go away while I was on my honeymoon.
As a little girl I daydreamed about white weddings just like everyone else, but I quickly discovered there were bigger goals in life to shoot for than a veil and a rich husband. From the age of fifteen to about thirty, I was a confirmed bachelorette, and even now I was a bit mystified by what had convinced me to accept Antti’s proposal. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Antti, I just loved my freedom more—and I rather liked my erratic work schedule as well.
“Are you still a Kallio?” Antti’s sister asked me when she gave me a hug in the receiving line.
“We both kept our names,” Antti hurried to say.
Antti’s black hair, which fell to his shoulders, was in stark contrast to the formality of his tuxedo. The cut of the elegant suit made him look taller and thinner than usual. My wedding outfit was less traditional. Although long and ivory colored, my dress was adorned with garlands of crimson silk roses, one of which continued up into my hair. My gloves and shoes were also a riotous red. Maybe ten-year-old Maria wouldn’t have liked my bridal gown, but the wedding guests seemed to approve.
“It’s nice seeing you in something besides jeans or that same old pantsuit,” Palo said with a wry grin when Antti and I sat down at my coworkers’ table while making our rounds. Ström smirked, probably remembering me while I was wearing a leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings during a murder investigation a few years earlier.
“Did you leave that case report on my desk?” Ström asked, but before I had time to answer, Taskinen interrupted sharply.
“Ström, no shoptalk now. This is Maria’s wedding.”
“If I don’t have that report, I’ll have to bother her on her honeymoon,” Ström snapped back.
“Don’t worry, it’s on your desk,” I said, my voice dripping honey. Ström was always lurking around, waiting for me to slip up. I wondered how he had ended up at my wedding. We moved to the next table.
The food tasted great—of course it would, since I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Our fathers and friends gave their speeches, repeating every possible wedding cliché, from balls and chains to two rivers running together. Even the first waltz went well—or as well as could be expected when a six-foot-five man dances with a five-foot-three woman.
I was dancing with Palo when Ström butted in.
“Raitio just got collared at Turku Airport.”
That was all Ström needed to say. Raitio was the ringleader of a drug gang we’d been tracking for months. He’d gone to ground a few weeks earlier, and we’d been sure he’d made it out of the country.
“Put off the wedding night and come to Turku with us to pick him up. It’s not like you’re going to be doing anything new,” Ström added. It was crude even for him.
“Sure, but it’s the first time I’ll get to do it legally,” I shot back.
“Time to go,” Taskinen said, joining us at the edge of the dance floor. I wished them a pleasant journey, and Taskinen shook my hand and Palo gave me an awkward hug.
Ström, however, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Enjoy it while it lasts. Cops and marriage don’t mix. Admit it. You’re at your wedding and you still want to come with us. There’s no man alive who’ll put up with that.”
“Thank you for your kind words, Pertti,” I replied sweetly and left a smudge of red lipstick on his cheek. Ström fled, blushing, but my smile faded as I wondered whether he might be right. Luckily Antti chose that moment to drag me back onto the dance floor, and I forgot my doubts for the rest of the night.
1
Wind buffeted my tiny Fiat, whipping snow against the windshield. Even this far south, December had been unusually wintry. It was only three o’clock but already almost dark. Although I visited Nuuksio, a rural suburb north of Espoo, relatively often, in the dark the road suddenly seemed unfamiliar. I remembered the directions I’d been given: turn right a little before the curve at the lake and then take the next two lefts. The last road would be narrow and possibly blocked by snow. Fortunately I had a shovel in the trunk.
In the end, I didn’t have to stop once to use it. Someone had already plowed the lane to Rosberga Manor. The lights of the main house shone from high on a hill. Someone had even spread gravel on a steep stretch that led to the reddish-brown stone gates. Rosberga was probably a beautiful place in the summer, but in winter the rosebushes surrounding the walls jutted out like spikes.
The gate was closed, and the sign attached to it wasn’t terribly friendly: “No Men Allowed” it proclaimed in simple black letters. A few years ago, when the Rosberga Women’s Education Institute was founded and the sign appeared, it had caused quite a fuss. A cat-sized bear statue skulking atop the gate looked significantly more welcoming.
Elina Rosberg, owner of Rosberga Manor and director of the Rosberga Women’s Education Institute, didn’t let any men onto the grounds. The therapy groups and self-defense courses she hosted were meant only for women. Rumor had it that she even insisted on hiring female plumbers and painters to do work on the home. And when she wanted the police to come talk at an emotional self-defense course, she requested a female officer.
The Espoo Police Department had been emphasizing external outreach for the last few years. We gave schoolkids trading cards featuring the department’s local cops and our octopus mascot, and we were encouraged to attend any events that could provide opportunities for us to talk about our work. So no one but Ström had laughed when Elina Rosberg requested a female officer to come to the manor and talk about violence against women and relations between women and the police.
“That’s a perfect job for Kallio,” he said. “If you want to get those feminazis to trust the police, you have to send one of their own.”
“It’s too bad they won’t let you in. I could take you along as Male Chauvinist Pig Exhibit Number One,” I tossed back.
“Who, Ström, a chauvinist pig? Come on. Remember, he did let his wife get a job. Of course, we all know how that turned out,” Palo said and then ducked under the table to avoid the swing of Ström’s fist that perhaps wasn’t as playful as he tried to make it seem. Even after a few years, Ström’s divorce was a sore spot.
I was happy to provide a realistic picture of the work of a female officer and discuss women’s interactions with the police. But I wasn’t sure what kind of audience I’d be addressing. Some in the media had labeled the Rosberga Institute a hotbed of feminist extremism, especially because they offered courses in cooperation with the Finnish Feminist Association and LGBTI Rights Finland. I was a member of both, and I knew how many different kinds of women belonged to them. I imagined I’d have to defend my profession, which would be a little different from the senior centers and homemaking club meetings I usually spoke at.
The department liked sending me to represent the force because I didn’t fit the traditional image of a cop. Not only was I female, I was also shorter than average. I had tousled red hair—natural but amped up a bit via the hair salon—a snub nose, and freckles, which thankfully disappeared in the winter. I was in good shape, my body was naturally curvy, and I tended to dress a bit young. Although I was over thirty, cashiers at the liquor store still asked for my ID.
For the visit to Rosberga Manor, I’d thrown a blazer over my jeans and polo shirt and put on makeup. Hopefully the combination gave an impression of maturity.
I couldn’t see a bell or knocker on the gate, but just as I was getting out of the car to have a closer look, the gate opened. I drove into a courtyard filled with the same spiky rosebushes shriveled by the cold. The gate closed behind me with a clang that sounded strangely threatening.
Rosberga Manor was painted a rosy pink, and withered rose vines grew up the walls. I recalled the inevitable jokes about Sleeping Beauty’s castle that had made the rounds when the institute was closed to men. “Feminists still waiting for Prince Charming’s kiss?” one tabloid headline inquired. Apparently Elina Rosberg’s great grandmother had planted the roses.
When I reached the manor, Elina Rosberg stood in the white-framed door. She shook my hand firmly. She was several inches taller than me, slender, but with broad shoulders and large breasts. The wind blew her short blond hair up, and the side lighting emphasized her narrow nose and high cheekbones. Even wearing Levi’s and a shearling coat, she looked like a chatelaine. Her voice was low and pleasant, as though on the verge of laughing.
“Would you like a cup of tea before your presentation?” Elina asked. “We still have a relaxation exercise going on in the meeting room.”
As I followed Elina into a spacious farmhouse-style kitchen, I asked her what the Emotional Self-Defense audience would be like.
“It’s one of our larger groups. Around twenty women. This is the first time we’re offering the course, but they’re a talkative bunch and not without their conflicts.”
In the corner of the cozy kitchen an older woman, probably in her seventies, sat near a tiled masonry baking oven that radiated heat. I couldn’t help but look for a cat curled up somewhere near the hearth.
“Aira, would you mind fetching Sergeant Kallio a cup of tea? I’m going to peek in and see how the session is going.”
Rosberg left the room, and the woman stood up and introduced herself as Aira Rosberg.
“Elina’s aunt,” she added.
Even without the clarification, I would have known they were family. Aira was nearly as tall as her niece, with the same erect posture. She also had the same long, narrow nose, pale-blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Only their hair was strikingly different: Aira’s had grayed to an elegant steel.
Sitting down in an armchair in a corner of the kitchen with a mug of hot black currant tea, I declined Aira’s offer of bread. I tried to run through my presentation in my mind, but my eyes kept wandering back to Aira, who was moving dishes from the dishwasher to the cupboard in her gray-striped Marimekko apron. Was she the cook at Rosberga? Aira’s movements were methodical and quick, and she worked undisturbed by my presence, only stopping once to ask if I wanted more tea.
Time seemed to move slowly here in the warm kitchen, but when Elina returned, I looked at the clock and saw that only seven minutes had passed.
“We’re ready when you are.”
I followed her into a wide hall with an ornate stairway. Double doors opened into what must have been the manor’s former drawing room. Rose-patterned paper covered the walls, but the furniture consisted of utilitarian folding tables and chairs assembled in rows like a school classroom. Elina showed me to a table with a projector at the front of the room and introduced me to the women.
I began my presentation a little nervously but quickly found my feet. Elina sat in the front row listening, her blue sweater reflecting more color into her light eyes. Her long legs were shoved awkwardly under her chair, and I noticed that one of her gray wool socks had been darned hastily with violet yarn. After a few minutes Aira slipped into the back row. She had removed her apron and looked angular in her gray flannel shirt and navy velvet pants.
The women listened quietly, with surprising interest; one of them even took notes. They were exactly the kind of women I’d imagined attended Rosberga Institute courses: average age around thirty-five, casually dressed, and at least half with red-tinted hair. Traditional Finnish Kalevala jewelry hung from almost every ear. Many were wearing the same little Moon Goddess design I wore. I fit in perfectly.
There were two class members who did stand out though. The younger woman had extremely short hair with purple and black stripes. She wore more makeup than all the other course participants combined and had on a black minidress that barely covered her buttocks and slightly plump curves, a black leather jacket, and high-heeled purple suede boots. Although it seemed obvious she was trying to add years with her makeup, she didn’t appear to be older than twenty. Looking bored, she stared at her dark-purple nails and unconsciously grimaced every time I said the word “police.”
The other woman was so gaunt she could have been doing hard labor her entire life. Her vaguely blond hair was held back in a tight bun, and her cloudy-gray eyes seemed to stare into the middle distance. It was hard to pin down her age; her grandmotherly brown cardigan and brown checked dress would make anyone look old. She sat stock-still in a little bubble that seemed to separate her from the rest of the world.
While most of the women in the audience smiled at my stories or occasionally touched their neighbor on the arm or exchanged glances, these two sat alone in the crowded room—one loudly restless and the other in oppressive silence.
When I finished my presentation and moved on to questions, I wasn’t surprised that the women asked about the increase in sexual harassment on the streets.
“The police just say we shouldn’t be out alone after dark,” one woman said indignantly. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I have to exercise when I can, which means running when my husband is home and the kids are asleep. I’m not the criminal, so why should I have to time my life according to these dirtbags?”
“I totally agree, you shouldn’t have to,” I said. “But it also makes sense to avoid unnecessary risks. Where do you run?”
I knew the feeling that sometimes came over you running alone in the dark. When you started listening for every little rustle, worrying there might be a murderer lurking in the bushes.
One of the women described getting away from an attacker by biting him, and another related a story about her coworker, who put an abrupt end to a Christmas party when she told the hostess that her husband had been coming on to her. I quickly found myself acting as a sort of therapeutic sounding board for the women’s diverse stories. I couldn’t help feeling irritated. I was there to talk about my work, not play life coach. Apparently Rosberga really was the fortress of man-bashing the media had wrung its hands about.
When one of the women angrily started describing an incident involving a male police officer, I was relieved to be back on topic. Apparently he’d automatically assumed she was responsible for a collision at an intersection and joked that her husband was going to have a fit when he found out she’d wrecked his car. She’d bought the car with her own money, she added indignantly. At least I could give her some practical advice about dealing with the police. But just as I began outlining some options, the young woman with the striped hair sitting in the back, who’d been focused on her nails throughout the presentation, jumped up.
“Your problems are fucking pathetic!” she yelled. “Oh, your car got dented. Oh me oh my! Is that why you need emotional self-defense, or don’t you have the guts to talk about your real problems? Huh?”
She walked quickly up the aisle toward me. Her perfume was musky, and sweat beaded the thick coat of powder on her forehead.
“I’ve been raped so many times in my life I can’t even count them all. Incest first, of course, and then a pack of other guys. Most of the time I was so drunk I barely even remember it. But I remember the last time. I might be a sex worker, but I’m not a whore. Look down on me if you want to, but I just dance for money—that’s it. A guy in my building came to watch me a bunch of times, and then one night he grabbed me in the basement when I was getting a bag of potatoes out of my storage unit. He thought since I dance naked he could do whatever he wanted to me. He did it right there on the concrete floor. Apparently that was a turn-on for him.”
Her strangely pale eyes, surrounded by nearly a quarter inch of black eyeliner, stared accusingly at me. The nostrils of her tiny pierced nose trembled like an enraged animal’s.
“Did you file a police report?” I asked when I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Of course not! Do you think those pigs would treat me any different than my neighbor did? But I sent the asshole a letter telling him I have HIV.” Then, as if out of some strange social compunction, she added, “I don’t really, unless I got it from him.”
“What exactly is it you’re hoping to get from this course, Milla?” Elina Rosberg intervened. I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to continue the conversation.
“What do I want? I don’t have any idea. I keep wondering what the hell I’m doing here.” Milla turned to me again. “But you, are you some kind of feminist cop or something? What would you have said to me if I’d reported him to you? Would you have taken me seriously?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“And you wouldn’t have given me some kind of sermon about being a stripper?”
“We aren’t in the habit of giving sermons on morality in situations like that.” I was trying to be friendly, but it didn’t take. I could feel the antagonism ooze from the girl like smoke from dry ice.
