The Last of the Vostyachs (12 page)

Outside the conference centre, small vans were skidding over the ice in their attempts to reach the open space in front of the main entrance. Well muffled-up, workmen were unloading rolls of red carpet and laying them on the steps, fixing them in place with gleaming brass rods. In the main hall, which smelt of glue and paint, electricians were installing the microphones, testing the projectors and putting the finishing touches to switchboards full of coloured cables, like costly jewel boxes. Margareeta picked her way between men in green aprons arranging flowers and plants at the foot of the podium, cast her eye over the entrance hall, went to the floor above and tried the door handles of the various offices, to no avail, then peered through the glass spyholes. There was no one in any of the rooms; desks and hatstands were empty, cupboard doors closed. In the silent corridors, all that could be detected was the stale smell of a cigarette long since abandoned in a distant ashtray. Margareeta went back wearily down the stairs. Almost stock-still for once, Hurmo was waiting for her, well out of the way of the bustling workmen. He was panting, a gobbet of slobber permanently suspended from his tongue. He lifted his gaze to his uneasy mistress, who once again snatched up his lead bad-temperedly and dragged him after her, causing him to yelp. In the main hall, beneath a large panel depicting a Proto-Uralian rock carving, a cleaner was giving the last seats a half-hearted wipe.

‘I think something has happened to my husband,' said Margareeta anxiously to the policeman who was putting the lid back on his coffee thermos.

Rauno Hyttynen had heard that phrase before. He pulled a form out of a drawer and started where he always started from: name, surname, address. Margareeta answered his questions patiently.

‘To tell the truth, he's actually my ex-husband,' she added for further accuracy after some hesitation, fixing the policeman with a trusting look. But when Rauno Hyttynen handed her a copy of the report about the disappearance of the Finnish citizen Jarmo Aurtova and turned his back on her, to go and sit down in front of the television, Margareeta looked at him blankly.

‘But…what are you doing? We must go straight to my husband's flat! I've been looking for him all day. I found the windows open in his office, and paper and glass strewn all over the carpet. Does that strike you as normal?'

‘Madam, the first patrol to get here will take care of things. I'm on my own, and I can't budge,' he told her, tuning in to channel 1. The hockey match between Helsingfors Idrottsföreningen Kamraterna and Lokerit wasn't due to begin for fifteen minutes, but preliminaries at the rink were already under way.

‘And when will the first patrol be here?'

‘Ah, that depends on where they've gone to watch the match,' said Rauno Hyttynen with a snigger.

‘But something serious might have happened to my husband,' objected Margareeta fretfully.

‘Madam, if whatever it is has already happened, it's too late. If whatever it is hasn't already happened, I can assure you that for the next two hours nothing at all is going to happen anywhere in Helsinki. Come back in two hours, and we'll find whatever it is that's gone astray: husband, stolen car radio, drunken grandfather or missing cat,' the policeman shot back wearily without taking his eyes off the line-ups of the teams which were now appearing in double exposure over the image of the pitch.

‘But he might have had an accident! He might have been taken ill at home! He might have fallen into the sea! He might have been killed!' protested Margareeta, who in her heart of hearts hoped that all four of these disasters might somehow have befallen him in one fell swoop.

‘He might also be at the rink, watching the match. And anyway, didn't you say he was your ex-husband?' the policeman retorted brusquely, turning up the volume.

Margareeta gave a sharp tug on the lead and stomped up to Hyttynen behind his desk.

‘Officer! You see this dog?' she shouted, lifting Hurmo up by his collar and hurling him clumsily in the policeman's direction. Hurmo squealed, dug his claws into Hyttynen's thighs and brushed against them with his snout, leaving a trail of slaver on his trousers.

‘Have a good look. He's just like my ex-husband.' Margareeta had taken Hurmo by the snout and was shaking him by the jaws, pressing him up against the horrified policeman. ‘He walks like him, he sighs like him, at night I can hear him snore like him, even the stench of his wet fur smells like my husband's wet socks! Do you know how much longer an animal like this can live? Another ten years, that's how long! And I don't intend to spend another ten years taking my ex-husband to the park each evening for a pee, washing him in anti-flea shampoo every two weeks, taking him to the vet when he's on heat, buying him Pappy at the supermarket and giving him worming powder when – well, I'll say no more. So, kindly get up from that chair, because by this evening I intend to be rid of this animal, of my husband and of fifteen years thrown down the drain!' concluded Margareeta, beside herself with rage. Hurmo snarled half-heartedly and went to take refuge under the table.

Rauno Hyttynen saw that he was dealing with a troublemaker; one of those busybodies who write indignant letters to the papers, complaining about police negligence. She might also be hysterical, and if things got worse he might have to take her to the accident and emergency department and give all manner of explanations. He dried his spittle-flecked hands on his trousers and walked backwards to take his jacket from the hatstand. He gave a last regretful glance in the direction of the television; at that moment it was showing advertisements, then there would be a newsflash; then the match would start.

‘All right, all right. Let's go and see where your ex-husband has got to. But I can't do more than open the door to his flat,' said the policeman, tightening his belt. If he got a move on, with luck he might be able to see at least half of the hockey match he'd been looking forward to for a whole month.

Sirens blaring, they arrived in Liisankatu. Alarmed by the unaccustomed commotion, the neighbours peeked through their curtains at the blue flashes slithering over the façades of the houses.

The neighbour who had opened the main door to Margareeta that afternoon now appeared on the landing: ‘No one's at home. I haven't seen the professor since yesterday. The only person I've seen today is Noora,' she volunteered, giving her a sideways look as she noticed the policeman, and warding off an intrusive Hurmo with her foot.

‘Police!' announced Hyttynen brutally, knocking loudly before turning the lock to Aurtova's flat with a skeleton key. When the door swung open, Hurmo rushed in, barking excitedly. Everything was in perfect order: the bed was made, the washing-up had been done. The cleaner had evidently been, because the shower mat had been hung up neatly, a pile of ironed shirts lay at the foot of the bed and a pair of slippers had been placed side by side in the shoe cupboard.

‘I told you so. Your ex-husband has gone to a bar to watch the match!' said Hyttynen with a smile, raising his arms to propel woman and dog towards the balcony. Biting her nails in her anxiety, Margareeta thrust the policeman aside and proceeded to scrutinise every corner of the flat in search of some sign, some clue that might put her on Jarmo's trail. It was the first time she'd been into the furnished flat her husband had gone to live in after their divorce. She walked heavily through the sparsely furnished rooms, inspected the anonymous furniture, the slightly sagging sofa, the Ikea table with the price tag still around one leg, the faded poster of an old view of Helsinki. Then she went back into the hall and gathered herself together with a weary sigh. She pressed the button on the answerphone, which told her that there had been twelve messages, but they were all the unanswered ones that she herself had made. She opened the drawer in the small table below the mirror in the entrance hall, where she knew he kept the key to the garage. Hyttynen pulled a wry face, nodded impatiently and set off for the stairs.

‘I've got to be getting back to the station,' he announced brusquely, lifting up the sliding door to the garage. Hurmo rushed into it, tail wagging furiously. Margareeta cast a sad look at the rolled-up blue tent, the canoe, the racing bikes, the old wooden skis: all familiar old friends which had made regular appearances in her life over the last fifteen years. She stepped on something which made a crunching sound, then shattered into bits of coloured plastic. She bent down to pick them up. The object in question was bait, the kind used for trout fishing. What was bait doing on the floor of the garage in mid-winter? Margareeta cast an eye over the assorted clutter in search of the box of fishing-tackle and saw it open on the table. She rejoined Hyttynen who was waiting for her at the door, fuming and stamping his feet.

‘Officer! We must go straight to Vasikkasaari!' she urged him.

The Laplander started nervously when he met a police car going down Koirasaarentie. What would have happened if the engine had died on him there in the middle of the traffic? What if they'd stopped him for a police check? He'd brought along his pistol; he put his hand in his pocket to assure himself that it was there. If anything had gone wrong, he would have had no option but to fire. Over the last few miles before Tahvonlahti he had dreamed up the most catastrophic scenarios. He had imagined himself running across the frozen sea pursued by police dogs, a helicopter hovering above him, beaming a light down on to him, a loudspeaker ordering him to give himself up, both events being in fact thoroughly unlikely to occur on the shores of the Miekojärvi, rimmed by white birches and placid beaches. It was a relief to see the tourist harbour of Koirasaari coming into view. He went along the coast road in search of a steep slope, well away from the houses, then stopped and turned the engine off. He went over every detail yet again in his mind to be sure that he had not forgotten anything. He had taken care to remove all items of Katia's clothing that might lead to her identification. Beneath her long fur-lined coat he had dressed her as a prostitute, with fishnet stockings and a red bra, but without her rings, necklaces and watch. All her pockets were empty, except for the one where he had put the
koskenkorva
; he'd even poured as much as possible of it down her throat. All he had to do now was to throw her body into the sea. The police would assume that she was one of those drunks who lose their way after a hard night's drinking, fall down unconscious in the snow and freeze to death. Finland's graveyards were full of people who had met just such a death. Dragging Katia's body over the snow, the Laplander could not resist the temptation of looking into her eyes. She in her turn seemed to be looking back at him, reproachfully, as though he were to blame for her grim fate. The tree trunks he would fish out of the mud along the Miekojärvi had never looked at him in that baleful way; they never complained when he sank his hook into their bark. They were extremely biddable, gliding over the water to rejoin the others in the prevailing current. Panting with fear and exhaustion, the Laplander laid the dead body on the quay. He listened carefully, looked round him yet again and eased her towards the water with his foot, then heard a dull thud, followed by the sound of shattering ice. Then silence. He got back into the car and drove off, with no headlights, among the darkened houses of Varisluodonakar.

The very thought of Olga naked caused his stomach to go into knots. But his country was calling him to come to its aid, and the professor's thoughts turned with a flood of gratitude to the portrait of Mannerheim hanging in his study. The great marshal had done much more to save Finland than seduce an ugly Russian! Proceeding furtively into the kitchen, Aurtova crumbled three green pills into a glass of vodka and placed it on a tray beside a glass of water. He added two slices of lemon, hoping they would mask the cloudy appearance of the mixture. Back in the changing room, he looked for Olga through the sauna porthole, praying he would find her unconscious, only to hear the sound of laughter, and the sight of her feet moving through the smoky air. Sighing with disappointment, he put the tray down on the small wooden table next to the deckchair and began reluctantly to undress, gritting his teeth with rage. He took the glass of vodka in his left hand, and the glass of water in his right. He breathed deeply and went into the sauna as though it were a gas chamber. Olga had drunk as much as he could have hoped for, but there was just no way of getting her drunk. Three bottles of champagne, four of cabernet, even half a bottle of vodka, and still she was holding out. Perhaps because she was biding her time, sensing that Jarmo was expecting something from her, and soon. Now she was stretched out on the bench, her eyes shining, giggling inanely and humming some song that she was clearly having difficulty remembering. The fantasy of carnal bliss was keeping her on the
qui vive
, ensuring that her every muscle remained alert and taut. Naked and sweating, she was twisting and turning like an animal on heat. She felt her body secreting previously unknown juices, her skin creeping beneath drops of sweat as they trickled over it like so many caresses. Clearly aroused, she was looking at her breasts and stomach, already imagining Aurtova's smooth white hands as he fondled them. She was trying to imagine how he would take her, whether on her knees on the hard bench or stretched out on the silk sheets of the bed she had glimpsed in the next-door room. Now she had settled down more comfortably on the cabin floor, as though in readiness for what must come. But even then she was babbling of Proto-Uralic phonetics, as though repeating some speech which had been endlessly interrupted.

The professor put the glass of vodka with the sleeping pills on a nearby shelf and went to sit on the other bench. In all the time he'd known her, Aurtova had never looked at Olga in the way a man looks at a woman. It was as though he was afraid of getting caught up in her ugliness, having it imprinted on his memory, unable ever to shake it off. Now on the other hand he would have to look at her fairly and squarely, fix his gaze firmly on that flabby, shapeless body, touch it, smell it. Olga was certain that this was indeed what the old Casanova wanted, and she did not want to disappoint him. She would not lose consciousness before yielding to his embrace. Only the sleeping pills could save Aurtova from his awful fate.