JESSICA STEPS OUT on the fifth floor and shuts the old-fashioned elevator gate. She fits her key into the lock of the door marked with a brass nameplate that reads NIEMI.
She steps in and turns on the lights in her studio apartment, where the windows give onto the inner courtyard. She takes off her shoes, hangs up her coat, and picks up the junk mail the postal carrier has slipped through the mail slot. She stands in the middle of the room, looking around, the sheaf of papers in her hand.
On some nights, especially when she’s really tired, Jessica stays here in the studio to sleep. It’s a kind of role play for her, like a tent in the backyard where you can leave comforts behind without being in any real danger.
But it has been a couple of weeks since Jessica last spent the night here. It was the night Fubu hit her up at last call, drunk off his ass but as charming as ever, and wanted to offer her, in his words, the best loving of your life. Despite the big talk, his performance had ended up being an all-time low, and in the end Jessica had settled for throwing a blanket over her passed-out guest and cleaning up the mess from a wineglass that had slipped from his limp grip.
Jessica puts the mail on the table and picks through her key ring for a second key. On the right-hand wall as you enter, next to the alcove, there’s another front door. Two entrances in such a small apartment has always aroused hilarity in her rare visitors.
Jessica opens this door and steps into a second stairwell in her stocking feet. There’s no elevator here, only stairs leading down to the lower floors and the airing balcony and up to the attic. There’s one other door on the landing, and it’s unmarked. Jessica doesn’t need to turn on the stairwell lights; she hears the door to her studio close behind her. The key marked with the green rubber ring sinks into the lock. Once again, light floods into the dark stairwell. But this time Jessica enters the code for a security system before walking down a long hallway. She enters a large room where bay windows give onto a panoramic view: across the park to the bay and south toward the parliament building and brightly lit Mannerheimintie beyond. The decor is a mix of the latest trends and old furniture, as well as conservative and modern art. Half a dozen paintings in ornamental frames hang on the long wall behind two divans. Despite their divergent styles, the works by Munsterhjelm, Schjerfbeck, and Edelfelt are in complete harmony with one another.
Jessica walks through the living room, passes the spiral staircase leading to the second floor, and enters the spacious kitchen. She clicks on the electric kettle, takes a white mug from the cupboard, and places it on the table, then leans against the counter. Poggenpohl. Aside from the finish on the cabinetry, the kitchen is exactly the same as the one at the Koponens’ house. Three years ago it cost sixty-three thousand euros, including appliances and installation.
The water inside the chrome kettle gradually starts to simmer. Jessica opens the laptop that’s on the counter, taps in the password, brings up a search engine, and enters malleus maleficarum. An hour ago, The Hammer of the Witches meant nothing to her. But now that she has seen the text on the roof of the Koponen residence, she can’t resist Googling it. Responsibility for investigating the book and its history does not lie on Jessica’s shoulders; Erne immediately assigned the research to the unit’s nutcrackers, Nina and Mikael, who at this very moment are furiously reading through not only all of Roger Koponen’s works but also everything about The Hammer of the Witches they can get their hands on in the middle of the night. Nina and Mikael are the homicide unit’s power pair and have an unfailing eye for detail critical to investigations. Jessica also happens to know that they see each other outside of the office, although they don’t admit this to anyone. Jessica feels a pang in her heart. Nina deserves a better man—and a better friend.
Jessica clicks open the English-language Wikipedia article. It’s more comprehensive than the Finnish one and features medieval drawings detailing various methods of killing. She reviews the text thoroughly; some sentences make her heart skip a beat. It was permissible to torture a suspected witch until she confessed to being one. Jessica knows that employing psychological or physical violence to elicit a confession is not an unusual phenomenon—it happens in plenty of authoritarian states to this day—but the idea of witchcraft as a criminal offense is absurd. How many innocent people had to suffer in such horrific ways simply because they were heretics in the eyes of the Catholic Church? How was it possible that one wrong utterance, nasty rumor, or accurate weather prediction could get anyone at all cast into the flames as a bloodthirsty crowd cheered?
Jessica unfolds the printout Erne gave her. She taps the name of Maria Koponen’s employer into the search engine and browses through the clinically sleek website of the company called Neurofarm. Contract manufacturer of neuroleptic drugs—whatever that means. She could assign further research to the unit’s propeller head, Rasmus.
The water in the kettle starts to boil. Jessica raises her glazed eyes from the screen, drops a tea bag into the mug, and drowns it in the steaming water. The mug feels hot and numbs her fingertips. It has been ages since Jessica has wanted to numb not only her fingers but every single cell in her body.
Jessica shuts her laptop and rubs her eyes. She’s burning with a desire to dive into the case, but her brain needs a minute. Hot tea in hand, she goes into the living room. It’s like a museum she has gradually updated every year. The ancient grand piano got the boot, as did the coffee table set that had been in the family for a century. The lily wallpaper made way for pale gray paint. Still, the apartment has a split personality, as if the person living there can’t decide if she’s thirty or eighty. For some reason, this has been bothering Jessica lately.
A coldness fills her, as if the wind outside has taken up residence inside her. She finds herself regretting not going over to Fubu’s. The home where Jessica was born so long ago has always felt safe, never too big, bare, or lonely.
But tonight Jessica is sure she’s not going to be able to sleep.