Page 14

2019

Agatha doesn’t want the children out of her sight, but at the same time she can’t do her job with them in the back of her car all day. She brings them to school late but she asks Helmi to keep an eye on the little ones and tells an irritated Emilia that she has to stay in at break time.

When she gets to the station, Lassi Niemenen, the owner of Lodge, is waiting for her.

He stands when she enters reception and follows her to her office, grumbling all the way.

‘You summon me here, then you’re not around when I arrive,’ he says. ‘I’m a very busy man, Agatha. And I’ve a council meeting today.’

‘I was on police business,’ Agatha says, though she’s just back from the school. She holds open the door to her office and lets him walk in ahead of her. He doesn’t thank her and she notes with no small degree of satisfaction that the bald spot on the back of Lassi’s head is marching on.

She’s never liked Lassi. He’s in his late fifties now and still considers himself some sort of stud. His hair– at the front, at least– is too long for a man his age and he wears his dark beard in a distinctive goatee fashion that makes her think of the devil. She’s certain he uses hair dye, too.

Lassi has a reputation and he’s very happy with it. He’s slept with half of , by his account, and he always makes sure to hire the best-looking girls in the Lodge. Lassi is also married, though for the life of her, Agatha can’t understand why his wife hangs on.

He tried it on with Agatha once. When she rebuffed him, he moved on to her sister and got luckier there. Of course he did; Agatha’s sister never had any taste in men.

Now, when Lassi looks at her, sometimes Agatha thinks he’s imagining her sister and it makes her skin crawl.

‘So, what do you need?’ he says, checking his watch like he’s the busiest man in the world.

‘Vicky Evans was murdered,’ Agatha says. ‘I’m sure the grapevine has been in action.’

She knows her junior, Janic, will have told his mother, who will have told her neighbours, who in turn will have spent the night on the phone to everybody in . That’s not to mention Niamh Doyle telling everybody at the Lodge, and Alex’s presence there.

‘I heard. Terrible business. But, she’d left the Lodge, hadn’t she?’

Lassi is already sitting. He shrugs– the very act of it makes Agatha want to punch him in the face.

She takes a deep breath, and her own chair, and faces him.

‘Her stuff was packed up and taken from her cabin. We don’t know if she was the one who removed it.’

‘Well, who else would?’

‘Whoever killed her.’

Lassi laughs. Agatha bristles.

‘I don’t see what’s funny,’ she says.

‘Oh, come on. What you’re suggesting is nonsensical. Somebody murdered the girl then came and packed up her belongings? She was hit on the head, wasn’t she? Doesn’t exactly sound like the work of an organised killer.’

‘Really?’ Agatha says. ‘How would you kill somebody?’

The smile slides sideways off Lassi’s face. His eyes become slants as he stares at Agatha.

‘Isn’t it more likely she left the Lodge to be with some guy or other and they fell out? I’ve heard a rumour she was seeing one of the tourists. Some American. Maybe she thought he’d take her home with him. You know what these girls are like. He probably dumped her stuff in the lake and you haven’t found it.’

‘Vicky Evans was a British citizen. She didn’t need to find herself a Western boyfriend to rescue her. Not like some of the girls you hire.’

This is old-trodden ground for Agatha and Lassi. She’s convinced some of the temp staff he’s had in have been illegals. They never stay long enough for her to prove it. But she keeps watching. She knows Lassi’s Lodge is in competition with the ski hotel. He never lets on but it has to be affecting his business. The hotel offers better packages, is more affordable, and it’s bigger, able to carry loss leaders. She’s positive if Lassi has found ways to cut corners on expenses, he’s cutting them.

‘The girls I hire are all above board,’ Lassi says.

He shrugs and again she feels that familiar crawling on her skin.

This is a man who places all ‘girls’ in the same two categories, Agatha thinks.

Fuckables and unfuckables.

‘Did you have much contact with Vicky?’ she asks.

‘She was a nice kid, I recall.’

‘Twenty-six when she died. Hardly a kid.’

‘You get to my age, everyone under forty is a kid.’

What does that make you? Agatha wants to say, but doesn’t.

‘So, this nice kid, as you call her, is working in your Lodge. She disappears, without notice or any indication of where she’s gone, and it takes two weeks before one of her friends comes to see me. Nobody in any official capacity at the Lodge was concerned.’

‘Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing, Agatha? It can take something innocent, like a girl moving on from her job, and make it appear sinister in the blink of a retrospective eye. Ask any business owner. Employees leave. Sometimes without notice. You’re only ever a job to these people. There’s no loyalty. Even when you pay them well and give them good conditions, they’ve free will. Should we assume that each time an employee departs from the payroll, they’ve been murdered? You certainly didn’t. From what I’ve heard, you were no more concerned than anybody else.’

‘Don’t you all refer to yourselves in the Lodge as one big happy family? If your sister or daughter suddenly didn’t come in to work, wouldn’t you be concerned?’

He’s smirking at her now. Agatha knows it’s because he’s thinking of her sister and how utterly unreliable she always was in any and every job. Agatha doesn’t react. She just sits there, unblinking, and waits for his answer, refusing to let the colour that’s rising up her neck go any further.

‘Well, I don’t have any sisters or daughters,’ Lassi says. ‘And as I said, I agree this is a terrible business. Hopefully you catch the American guy. I am very concerned, Agatha. Don’t think I’m not. News like this is extremely bad. You and I both know it’s important that everybody sees as a safe destination.’

‘Heaven forbid your business is affected,’ Agatha says.

‘Which would you rather?’ Lassi snaps. ‘Skiers on the hills or excavation machines? You know how badly those corporate types want access to our mountain? is built on money, Agatha. If you only knew the sort of offers I’ve seen made to the council for mining licences. . . people could be tempted, you know.’

Agatha feels her jaw clench. She counts to ten, calms herself down. To acknowledge Lassi as some sort of saviour of is something she just can’t do.

‘So, for the record,’ she says. ‘You had no interaction with Vicky, other than hiring her? You didn’t see her afterwards?’

Lassi stares at her.

‘I saw her,’ he says. ‘But I didn’t see her, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m a married man.’

Agatha swallows the snort that threatens to expel itself.

‘If that’s all,’ Lassi says.

He stands up.

‘How did you know about the American?’ Agatha asks.

‘What?’

‘You heard a rumour she was seeing an American tourist. From whom? It’s not like you to be hanging around with the staff at the Lodge.’

Lassi hesitates.

‘I saw them in Elliot’s bar that night. Vicky, a few others from my staff and the group of Americans staying there. I was at the poker night. All night. Ask Elliot.’

Elliot, owner of the most frequented bar in town and one of Lassi’s inner circle.

She watches Lassi leave.

She knows he’s lying to her.

She’d lay money on Lassi having tried it on with Vicky Evans.

But did he do more than that?

Back at the cabin, Alex checks his new Instagram account. There’s still no reply from Bryce Adams. Alex wonders if he’ll even see the message; whether people notice DM requests from those they’re not following on Instagram. The guy has fifteen hundred followers; maybe his inbox is full of messages from people he actually knows. Plus, Alex wasn’t exactly direct. We have a mutual contact, can we speak? What else could he have said? I think you might have murdered my sister, or at least fucked her the night she died. Give me a call?

Alex didn’t want to mention Vicky at all, in case he scared the guy off.

But now, he has nothing. Not even an indication the message has been read.

He dials reception at TM she’s followed him outside. She’s coatless and wraps her arms around herself, shivering as she speaks.

‘Well, you’re an idiot, but not a dangerous one,’ she says. ‘The Americans say Bryce Adams just reported to his local station and wants to make a statement. He’s going in with his lawyer. Turns out, as soon as you spoke to him, he realised he’d be a person of interest. But he’s claiming he had nothing to do with Vicky’s death.’

Alex stares down at his feet, or what he can see of them.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It was. . . impulsive of me.’

Agatha says nothing.

‘He answered a message from Vicky,’ Alex adds, looking up. ‘He thought she was still alive. I’m sure of it.’

‘We’ll see,’ she says. ‘Alex, can I give you some advice?’

He finds a spot somewhere over her shoulder and stares at it, too embarrassed to make eye contact.

‘I can’t make you go home. I even understand why you want to stay. And I sense you’re not the sort who can easily be dissuaded from trying to find out what happened to your sister. But, please, allow me to do my job. Don’t second-guess me. Just because in your head this is some backwater, that doesn’t mean I’m not equipped to conduct this investigation professionally.’

‘I’ve apologised—’ Alex begins.

‘And I accept. You have a right to be informed of developments, but if you insist on rushing at things hot-headed, then I will request a liaison officer from Rovaniemi be assigned to deal with you and your embassy. My job is to solve Vicky’s death, not put out your fires. Look. . .’

She hesitates.

‘It’s been a very stressful few days. Why don’t you take a couple of hours to relax? Look around town, go for a sauna, something. Clear your head. Spend a little time understanding what Vicky did here. Maybe then you’ll start to see this place a little clearer, too.’

Alex takes a deep breath.

Agatha turns and walks back to the station.

Alex heads in the direction of the Lodge.

Do what Vicky would have done.

It’s not a bad idea. If he puts himself in his sister’s shoes, he might find the steps she walked that led her to her murderer.

He has, in his rush to confront Agatha about Bryce Adams, completely forgotten to check Vicky’s second email account with the password he has remembered.

Early evening, and Alex finds himself sitting in a dimly lit wood-burning sauna at the Lodge, which he’s been told by Florian is the most traditional type of sauna.

This isn’t the first time Alex has been in a sauna but he’s wondering right now if it’s the hottest. Sweat is dripping from every part of his skin– from his forehead on to his eyelids, from his neck and down his back– on to the wooden bench on which he sits.

There’s a large stove in a pit in the middle of the room, the coals resting on top. Alex watches as a completely naked man stands, pours water on to the coals with a ladle from a bucket, then starts wildly swinging a towel around his head to make the steam circulate faster. Alex is oddly transfixed by the man’s penis as it flaps between his legs and is amazed that nobody else is fazed.

Every other Finnish person in the sauna is naked, but there are tourists, like himself, who are wearing swimwear. And most of them are drinking beers. Alex can’t decide whether it’s genius or imbecilic to mix alcohol with this heat.

The door opens and somebody enters. He doesn’t see it’s Niamh until she’s sitting beside him. She’s wearing a swimsuit, her red hair roped in a plait that hangs down her back, and he can’t help but appreciate the curves of her figure. Alex might have other things on his mind, but he’s still a man and still alive.

‘You enjoying this?’ she asks him, quietly.

‘It’s like a meeting with the partners in my job,’ Alex replies. ‘I’m sweating and uncomfortable and it feels like it will never end.’

She smiles.

‘How long have you been in here?’

‘About five years. Or maybe minutes.’

‘Give it five more. Then you’ll need to cool off.’

She hands him a glass of iced water with mint leaves and berries floating on top. He drinks it, gratefully.

‘You have to keep hydrated,’ she says.

‘Why are saunas such a big thing here?’ he asks.

‘I don’t really know. They’re obsessed. Two million in the country, they say. For a population of just over five million.’

‘Why so many? How are there so many?’

‘A lot of businesses have them. A lot of private homes, too. Some people sacrifice a bedroom to have a sauna.’

‘You’re kidding me?’

‘Nope.’ Niamh smiles. ‘I know. London is like Dublin. Bedroom numbers are everything. But these people like to have solo saunas. I guess it has a lot to do with what they say about the Finns.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An introverted Finn looks at his shoes when he’s talking to you. An extroverted Finn looks at your shoes. They like their own company. They’re quiet. Shy. Private.’

Alex eyes the naked man.

‘Nudity in saunas is very normal,’ Niamh says, grinning. ‘It’s only us non-Continentals that are total prudes.’

Niamh pauses.

‘Time for some cold air,’ she says.

Alex helps her down off the bench and they leave the sauna.

Even though the door brings them directly outside, the cold doesn’t hit Alex straight away, his body is so hot.

‘Come on,’ Niamh says.

He follows her down a deck; Alex realises too late that she’s leading him to the lake.

They stop at the end of the pier-like walkway. It’s dark, but lights are dotted along the ice path and around the pool of water.

He watches her descend a few steps into the water, holding on to a rope, until she is submerged to her neck.

Alex frowns. He can’t understand why she’d bring him here, why she wouldn’t see the significance of it for him. Unless she’s just not thinking at all. This place is still a job to Niamh, after all. She’s probably stopped seeing it as anything other than a series of tasks every day.

‘You have to do it,’ she says, her lips trembling. ‘In and out. It’s a rite of passage.’

She clambers out and hands him the rope.

‘The steps are slippy with ice,’ she says. ‘Just hold the rope and don’t let go.’

He takes a good grip and, before he can talk himself out of it, lowers his body into the icy-cold water.

The pain is instant. It takes all his willpower to continue, to make his whole body go under the surface. His breaths, already shallow, start to shorten until he’s gasping.

When he’s in it up to his neck, Alex can no longer see Niamh, or anything around him.

It’s not just the piercing cold.

His head is filled with thoughts of Vicky.

This. This is what it must have felt like. Her last moments, in this lake.

He dips his head under.

In an instant, the world goes silent, but just as suddenly, the rushing starts in his ears. He’s in agony. Panic courses through him. He reaches to pull himself out with the rope and realises it has slipped from his hands. He didn’t even feel its release.

He opens his eyes, the water assaulting his eyeballs like shards of glass. He can’t see anything except blackness.

Alex is in full terror mode until he feels his arm being gripped and he’s pulled to the surface. His foot hits one of the steps as he moves; he was still standing on them and didn’t even realise. He’d lost all sense of where he was.

He emerges, coughing and spluttering, his heart racing. Niamh is standing on the steps beside him, her face ashen, her hand still gripping his arm.

‘Why did you do that?’ she asks, her voice filled with distress. ‘Why would you do that?’

Alex can’t answer her. His teeth are chattering too badly.

Later in the bar, dried and dressed, Niamh hands him a hot juice of some sort and some sugary biscuits that she orders him to eat.

‘I wanted to feel it for a moment,’ he tells her. ‘I’d no idea how disorienting it would be.’

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I forgot. . .’

‘It was horrible,’ he says.

He can’t think of any other way of describing it, no descriptive noun that would capture it better. It was just horrible. Completely.

‘I hope,’ he says, and his voice chokes a little, ‘I hope she was already unconscious when she went in.’

Niamh is staring at the bar counter. She’s crying. She roughly brushes the tears away when she realises he’s watching her.

‘I shouldn’t be doing this in front of you,’ she says. ‘It’s just every time I think about it. . . I feel so angry at Vicky for dying. Does that make any sense?’

‘Yes,’ Alex says.

‘It does?’

‘I’m angry all the time. When I’m not sad and confused, I’m angry.’

‘Alex, I. . .’

She trails off. He waits. She visibly swallows.

‘There’s something I’ve been keeping from you,’ she says.

Niamh is still looking down at the bar counter.

‘Everybody is keeping something from me,’ he tells her.

‘It’s not exactly about Vicky,’ Niamh says. ‘Except. . . except I think it could be.’

Niamh glances around them. There are a few tourists in the bar, but none of the guides, and nobody appears to be paying them any heed. Still, Niamh is cautious.

She looks furtively at Alex.

‘Have the police mentioned Miika Virtanen?’ she says.

‘Who?’

Niamh hesitates again.

‘Maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Look, talk to the police. Ask them to tell you.’

‘Niamh.’

‘I. . . I just think he might be a person of interest.’

‘Who is he? Does he work here?’

‘No. Not here. He lives here, though. In .’

She glances at Alex, her face a little fearful.

‘I don’t want people to think I’m causing trouble,’ she whispers. ‘This is my job. I don’t want to lose it. This is a small town and we guides, we’re just meant to smile and do the work. But if you’re looking for somebody to blame. . .’

‘Who is this Miika? Did Vicky know him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Niamh says, even quieter. ‘She would have known of him. We all do. If the police aren’t looking at him, you should ask why.’