‘Damn it,’ Harjunpää snapped as though after careful consideration. He sat up abruptly, forgetting where he was, and bashed his shoulder against the sauna bench with the full force of his anger, groaned and slumped back on to the mattress. The matter itself hadn’t changed a bit; it still plagued him as it had before, a flickering mess somewhere between realisation and disbelief. He lay where he was a moment longer and thought about the bra they’d found in Retula’s flat on Eerikinkatu, hanging on the back of a scuffed wooden chair at the foot of the bed as if it had been forgotten after hurriedly undressing and an even more hurried escape. At least, this was what he’d believed at first because it seemed logical and fitted the pattern.
But the bra was so ugly, large, brown and plain, just another item of clothing, the kind that old women wear. No prostitute would have worn anything like that – unless they were paid to do so. And even through his latex gloves he’d been able to feel that the fabric was hard and stiff, and right then he realised, the following morning, that clothes felt like that when you didn’t use fabric softener and took them straight from the clothes line.
He got up again and pulled out his earplugs, went into the bathroom, felt the clothes hanging there drying and sniffed the air. The other thing was the perfume. Thinking about it afterwards, the flat had stunk of perfume; normally it was only barely perceptible in the air. Of course, Retula’s girl might have sprayed herself with perfume immediately before leaving the flat, but under the circumstances it was hardly likely, what with the man sustaining stab wounds and the police on their way, and given that she was clearly in a hurry to disappear. Agitated, Harjunpää turned on the shower and, though his body was still drained and sleepy after his night shift, began busily scrubbing himself. He couldn’t yet make out the whole scenario – he hadn’t even tried – but he was no longer in any doubt that something was out of place. Badly.
With only a towel tied around his waist he went downstairs. He wanted to call in without delay. His thoughts were running ahead of him; he was already on his way to Helsinki. To calm himself down he told himself he would only pop in for a few hours, three at most. The downstairs floor was empty. The door to the garden was open, letting the yellow afternoon light and the full scent of summer flood inside. He could hear the clink of coffee cups, Pipsa giggling, and Grandpa’s booming voice as he sang her an age-old nursery rhyme.
Harjunpää dialled the number for the Forensics office. To his relief, it was Häyrinen who answered. He was a slightly older officer who specialised in fingerprints and treated every detail with a scientific thoroughness.
‘Thurman processed the scene,’ Harjunpää explained. ‘He wrote up the crime-scene report this morning. I’m particularly interested in any observations he made about the lock.’
‘Hang on,’ mumbled Häyrinen. Harjunpää heard a thud as the officer laid the folder on the table, followed by the steady flick of pages.
‘Here it says that there were no marks on the inside of the lock, so he didn’t pick it, but there are a couple of scratches on the bolt that are consistent with some sort of hook. And… here we are, Thurman’s left you a note. He says that, as you know, a hook was used on several previous occasions, most notably at the scene at Messeniuksenkatu 10, but that these marks differ in that they’re stronger. As he sees it, in all the previous cases the intruder took the time to understand the lock, but this time he almost forced it open…’
‘Thank you,’ said Harjunpää as he fiddled with the telephone cable, his eyes nothing but slits. ‘I’d like us to go back to the scene straight away. Near the window there was a low table with an empty wine bottle and two glasses. I want the fingerprints off them.’
‘No problem. We’ve still got the keys to the flat.’
‘And if possible, I want to know whether there are two sets of prints or whether only one person touched them.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll attach a note to the case file.’
‘One other thing. There’s still a strong smell of perfume in the flat. Now, I’m not entirely sure about this but… I’ve got a feeling there’ll be a bottle of perfume somewhere in the kitchen. If you find one, smell it, and if it’s the same as the smell in the flat I want prints off that too.’
‘Consider it smelled and printed. Anything else?’
‘No, that’s all. Thanks in advance.’
The bay window in the surgical hospital waiting room was a nice retreat amidst all the quiet background noise. There was an old white table and wooden chairs in the same style, and what’s more, a verdant, leafy palm tree reaching up to the ceiling. But still Harjunpää couldn’t relax; the agitation he’d felt earlier had turned into something approaching anger – at least, it made him grind his teeth together almost bullishly – and perhaps he was afraid of where all this might lead. He was nervous too, for he knew he was about to do something illegal, something that could have him up on all sorts of charges.
He gripped his clipboard more tightly. Clipped at the top were the incident report regarding the stabbing and a couple of interview transcripts, but he didn’t need them, they were just for show. He stood up again and walked to the corner of the corridor, pretending to glance over his papers, and peered into the reception office. The nurse was still there, the same gangly young girl Harjunpää had asked for Retula’s room number. Just as when Harjunpää had checked on her a moment ago, the girl looked like she was just about to leave the office. And that was precisely what he was waiting for.
Harjunpää had examined the door to Retula’s room. It was one of the few two-person rooms in the hospital, and at that moment Retula was there by himself. The man in the bed next to him had been wheeled out a few minutes earlier. Harjunpää hoped he’d been taken for an X-ray, anything, so long as he was gone for about the next twenty minutes.
Finally the girl picked up a sheet of paper and left the office. Harjunpää started making his way down the corridor, and quickly slipped past a grey door that had been left ajar. He could hear the nurses’ conversation coming from inside, and from that room it would only take them a few seconds to reach the reception office, but he was almost there. He quickly glanced behind him and stepped through the open door into the office. The room was empty.
He walked straight towards the filing cabinets along the left-hand wall. He knew that what he wanted was in there, he’d even seen it on his last visit, and it was still in the same place: right at the end of the top shelf. Without a moment’s hesitation he grabbed the folder containing Retula’s patient history, which was exceptionally thick and heavy, and began flicking through the papers inside. He wasn’t looking for any specific information; all he needed was an overview. Over the years Retula had been the victim of all manner of different accidents.
Claims he fell against a bookcase and the shattered glass slashed… Slipped on the pavement and smashed his right wrist against the curb… Claims an unknown man stabbed him in the thigh just above the left knee… Fell out of bed and landed on a bottle, which as it smashed… Unknown woman waving a breadknife which slashed across the… Harjunpää glanced through the rest of the documents. Retula had claimed to be the victim of an attack on five separate occasions, four of which were suspected stabbings while in the fifth attack he sustained a broken rib after a hammer blow to the chest.
He could hear the clip-clop of footsteps approaching the office. He quickly closed the folder and replaced it in the filing cabinet. Then he stepped towards the desk and leaned over it scratching his head. The tall nurse looked puzzled as she appeared at the door.
‘Sorry about this,’ said Harjunpää. He didn’t even need to pretend to sound surprised. ‘Typical – my pen ran out. I wondered whether I could borrow one…’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ the girl smiled. ‘Here. Keep it.’
‘Thank you. This is just my luck. The ribbon in my typewriter always runs dry when I’m in the middle of an interview, and if I’ve got a spare then it’s the correction fluid or something else.’
He waved his hand, left the office and hurried off towards Retula’s room. He couldn’t see any nurses in the corridor wheeling the man’s roommate back. Now he understood why both the medical officer and the doctor had behaved so strangely the previous night, as though there was something abnormal about the case that they had noticed but which patient confidentiality prevented them from even hinting at.
And all of a sudden Harjunpää came to a stop; he realised why he’d thought Retula looked so familiar. He had seen the man’s photograph. It was years ago, but now he remembered everything clearly and tried to recall the words that had accompanied the image. The photograph had been posted on the bulletin board at the Violent Crimes office and beneath it read the words: “Retula, Kai Orvo Johannes. Thirty-four years of age. Currently of no fixed abode. If this man is the victim of an assault, look for the following…”
Harjunpää stepped inside. Retula was lying in his bed, perfectly still. He looked grey and miserable. His face was turned towards the ceiling and his eyes were closed. An intravenous drip glinted in the air.
‘Kai,’ said Harjunpää and stopped beside the bed. Retula opened his eyes and looked at him. He clearly recognised Harjunpää and took fright; he shut his eyelids tightly and turned his head to one side as though he had fainted, but Harjunpää wasn’t going to be fooled again. He wasn’t sure how to proceed; it was clear that the man was ill, that his soul was inhabited by a difficult and complex pain, and Harjunpää didn’t want to do anything that might exacerbate it and possibly make the man in front of him clam up for good.
‘I see you remember me,’ he said softly and pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. ‘I’m Harjunpää, the policeman you saw last night. And I want to be completely honest with you: in a way, we already know one another. You’ve reported being stabbed before, isn’t that right?’
He looked at Retula in silence. The man had clearly heard and understood what he’d said. He intuitively licked his lips and the fingers of his hand hanging over the side of the bed were trembling. Harjunpää would have liked to let him think about this a while longer but didn’t dare – he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere if the others came back. For Retula, the presence of other people would have been too much.
‘Let me remind you that the statement you made yesterday makes you a legal claimant and that claimants are under a statutory obligation to tell the truth.’
Again he paused. Retula’s legs twitched restlessly.
‘I could ask you to go over what you told me last night, but I think that would mean you’d have to lie to me. Kai, I know all about your previous stabbings. I know what’s going on…’
The sound of footsteps and someone pushing a trolley came from the corridor, but eventually moved past the door, and Harjunpää took a relieved breath. He remembered that the text on the bulletin board had asked officers to pay particular attention to Retula’s clothes because no cuts or tears had ever been found in them, though judging by the position of the wound and the victim’s account there ought to have been some damage. Suicidal people almost always undress the area they are about to stab. This time, however, Retula had been naked.
‘Harming yourself isn’t a crime. Nobody can be punished for it. Now that there’s nobody listening, you can tell me, then we don’t need to take it any further. Did you stab yourself?’
‘Yes,’ Retula answered almost inaudibly. Tears ran from his eyes making him look even more miserable. Harjunpää felt oddly hazy, as he had no intention of leaving Retula just yet, and neither had he promised to do so.
‘Where’s the knife now?’
‘I threw it in the bin when I went out to the ambulance.’
‘And what about the woman?’
‘There was no woman.’
‘And no night out?’
‘No…’
Harjunpää let him weep. He stared at his hands and wondered what it was that made people harm themselves. The first reason that came to mind was anger, perhaps towards someone else, an anger that erupted from time to time. Either that, or Retula truly hated himself. Harjunpää had heard many cases like that too.
‘Maybe what you really need is a little care,’ he said finally. ‘Treatment. Someone to look after you.’
‘Y–yes… If only there was someone… sometimes…’
‘Everybody needs love, it’s only natural, and not everyone gets it at home. Some have never experienced it at all… Tell me. How did you come up with this story of how it all happened?’
‘It was the first thing that came to mind,’ Retula answered, and the composure of a moment ago was suddenly gone. He seemed more agitated, and Harjunpää knew he shouldn’t force the issue. He realised that if he wanted to get to the bottom of this he’d have to sit with Retula for hours, over a long period of time. And it was clear to him that this was exactly what he would do.
‘You see, that’s just a bit hard to believe.’
‘Or did I read about it in the paper… similar cases, that sort of thing?’
‘No, that isn’t true,’ said Harjunpää. The police hadn’t released any statements to the press regarding the case, because if the intruder had read them he would have been on his guard and might have started another spate of break-ins somewhere else.
‘You’ve been in and out of prison before,’ he said as though he knew the details of all the cases. He was annoyed at himself for not doing a more thorough background check on Retula beforehand.
‘Just petty stuff… Fraud mostly. And I’ve done my time.’
‘Someone’s blackmailing you,’ Harjunpää exclaimed abruptly. Retula flinched and quickly shook his head, then he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bulging in his thin neck, and with that Harjunpää was sure of it. He couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of hold Lampinen had over the man.