JESSICA GLANCES AT her phone. It’s twenty-two twenty-two, time to make a wish. In terms of probability, the rate at which people check the time during this minute is curiously high. Of course it’s merely an illusion, a fallacy based on the fact that we remember twenty-two twenty-two more easily than, say, twenty-one nineteen. Still, it feels especially ominous on this dark evening, when the icy wind is whistling in the chimneys and making the frames of the old windows pop.
Water is simmering in the pot. Jessica doesn’t have an electric kettle in her studio. Maybe because she has never really lived here, maybe because not having one reinforces her cover story: she lives in a bare-bones bachelorette pad where the furnishings are somewhat haphazard. Besides, water tastes the same whether it is heated in a stainless steel pan or a cream-colored KitchenAid kettle.
Jessica sips from the mug she forgot on the table; the tea is cold. Seventeen sheets of typing paper lie next to it, some torn into smaller pieces, others glued into larger wholes. Beneath the photographs of the crimes and their victims, she has copied a few phrases from Roger Koponen’s books, snippets of text that have presumably served as inspirations for the killings. But have they missed something in focusing so much on scouring Koponen’s books for clues? Jessica remembers what Mikael said: We know as much as they want us to know. Only that and nothing more. Mikael’s cynicism is often irritating, but he’s often right.
Jessica drains her mug, and the last drop of tea goes down her windpipe. She coughs into her fist, and for a fleeting moment, she thinks she knows what drowning feels like: not being able to cough up liquid that has entered the trachea, and it fills the lungs, preventing the flow of oxygen.
Jessica steps over to the sink, blows her nose, and fills the mug with boiling water. She opens the IKEA cupboard and fumbles for the glass jar where she keeps her tea bags. It’s almost empty, and the two bags that are left are some goddamn vanilla tea.
At that instant, her phone rings. She doesn’t recognize the number; it’s not the same one the SUPO guy on stakeout called her from earlier. It might be Fubu bombing her with a phone he borrowed from a friend. She’s got to hand it to the guy: he’s persistent.
“Niemi.”
“Hello?” The woman’s voice is tentative, fearful.
“Is this regarding a police matter?”
“Yes,” the woman now blurts out. There’s a tinkling in the background that reminds Jessica of a cowbell. Then she hears mumbling; the woman on the line has covered the receiver with her hand and is conversing with someone at the other end. After a few seconds, there’s a cough.
“I’m sorry. I . . . Yes, this is about a police matter. That’s why I called.”
“Fine. How can I help you?” Jessica says, sitting back down at the table. She hears the sound of a door opening in the stairwell a story or two below.
“Umm . . . my name is Irma Helle. I own a women’s clothing store here on Korkeavuorenkatu. . . .”
Jessica’s eyes focus on the piece of paper. “What sort of clothing store?” she asks in concentration.
“A dressmaking shop. Evening gowns . . .”
The yapping of a small dog carries in from the stairwell. “And?”
“Wait just a moment, please,” the woman says, and turns to talk to someone else again. Jessica thinks back to the tinkling she just heard. It must have come from one of those bells attached to a door that announce customers entering a store.
“Is your shop open this late?”
“Of course not . . . It’s already . . . But I have a dress to finish and—”
“Are you alone, ma’am?” Jessica asks, herself unsure of the question’s purpose.
“I just forgot to lock the door and . . . Well, now I’m alone.”
“Good,” Jessica says, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“I called the tip line about the Koponen murder and—”
“Right. Some of the calls are forwarded directly to me. I’m the principal investigator, Detective Sergeant Jessica Niemi of the Helsinki police force,” Jessica rattles off, feeling the pinch of anxiety in her fingertips. She has a hunch why the woman has called; she knows it has something to do with the evening wear the victims were dressed in.
“I knew Maria Koponen.” Irma Helle holds a long pause. “She was a customer. Ordered things on a couple of occasions.”
Jessica sits up straighter and grabs a pen. She’s bursting with curiosity, but she is determined to keep her mouth shut and listen intently instead.
“I was so shocked when I heard that she had been . . . that she had been killed. . . .”
“Of course.”
“But then my daughter called. She helps me out from time to time. . . . She’s very knowledgeable about women’s clothing and fashion. She’s getting a degree in textile and fashion design—”
“What did your daughter say?”
“She’d seen a YouTube video that had been spreading among the students this morning.”
Jessica suppresses an itch by scratching her neck. Irma Helle’s daughter saw the video of the dead Maria Koponen. The video that YouTube had almost immediately removed from its servers, but that had nevertheless begun to live a life of its own. Jessica can practically hear the voice, its hypnotic repetition: Malleus Maleficarum. Malleus Maleficarum.
“My daughter thought it all seemed like some sort of sick joke. She doesn’t know Maria Koponen, but she recognized the dress she was wearing.”
“Did your shop make the dress?”
“Yes. I’m sure of it,” Irma Helle says, suddenly sounding profoundly shocked. “Dear God. My daughter sent me a picture, but she had cropped out the face. And then I realized the picture was taken after she died, and my daughter didn’t want me to see her face.”
“I see,” Jessica says, trying to stay as calm as possible. She takes a deep breath and presses her trembling fingers against the tabletop. This call might be a breakthrough. All female victims, excluding Sanna Porkka, were wearing identical evening gowns. Identical shoes. Even their nail polish was the same shade. She sets the phone down on the table and turns on the speakerphone. “Please, go on.”
“It might just be a coincidence that Maria was wearing a dress I designed, but . . .” Jessica thinks she catches sniffling. “But when Maria Koponen came in to order it about a month ago . . . we took her measurements and picked the fabric . . .”
“Yes?”
“She didn’t just order one. She ordered five, if you can believe it.”
Jessica feels a cold wave wash over her. “Five evening gowns?”
“Five identical gowns.”
Jessica knows the other four aren’t hanging in the walk-in closet at Kulosaari.
“All with different measurements,” Helle continues.
What the fuck? This can’t be real.
Jessica drums her fingers against the tabletop. “Do you still have the measurements somewhere?”
“Yes, in my order book. All the information is there. Maria gave me five different measurements to use when sewing the dresses. She didn’t tell me why, but I assumed they were for a wedding party or something. Or some other party where the women were supposed to be dressed alike—”
“So Maria Koponen ordered these dresses? And paid for them?”
“Yes.”
“How late will you be at the shop tonight?” Jessica glances at her watch; it’s almost ten thirty. Someone has to get over there immediately. If no one else is free, she’ll go herself, no matter what Erne says.
“I’m sure I’ll be here until midnight. . . .”
Now Jessica hears an indeterminate noise at the other end of the line, and Helle says: “What on earth does that woman want?”
Jessica is on the alert. “What is it?”
“That woman is at the door again.”
“What woman?”
“The one who just barged in . . . Oh my goodness, she could be Maria Koponen’s twin sister. . . . Wait just a moment, please.”
Jessica hears the phone being laid down on the counter. “Hey! Wait!” she cries, jumping up. “Hello? Irma?”
But Irma Helle has already lowered the phone from her ear. Jessica hears footsteps, knocking, and, a moment later, the jingle of a bell.
“Don’t open the door,” Jessica whispers, and walks over to the window, hand on her forehead.
Next, she hears faint speech on the line: “I’m sorry, but we’re closed. We’ll open at nine tomorrow. Excuse me. Did you hear me? We’re closed. I’m going to have to ask you to leave—”
The call cuts off, and three short tones blast in Jessica’s ear.