Helena Halme - The Red King of Helsinki - Lies, Spies and Gymnastics

‘Half an hour to harbour.’

Her shrill voice made Iain’s head hurt. He’d had too much to drink last night.

Kerttu was already eating at a sea-facing table in the cafeteria. She was wearing a pair of pale-coloured flared jeans with the shiny boots and a tight yellow jumper. Iain tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

‘I’ve got my make-up on.’

She had a suitcase next to her, with the two bags of shopping. Iain made a joke about the weary-looking people queuing up for food. Kerttu laughed, but concentrated on her food.

‘Let me help you with those. I’ll get my things and we’ll go out together,’ Iain said when he’d finished eating the egg sandwich, which was the only food he could consider having from the counter. His cup of awful black coffee was half-drunk.

Kerttu looked at Iain, then at her hands. Iain hadn’t noticed the untidy fingernails last night.

‘I…I can’t,’ she looked at Iain and continued, ‘I’m married. My husband is waiting at the jetty.’

They said goodbye and Iain returned to his cabin. Of course it all made sense. Kerttu was a cleaner, the ‘uncle’ she’d gone after, her husband. He’d been working in a factory outside Stockholm for two years while she was still in Finland. They had no children, but he wanted some. ‘I’m sorry, I drank too much,’ she said. Iain smiled, then laughed out loud.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Kerttu had asked him, her eyes wide with anxiety.

No, he didn’t mind, he’d assured her.

The sun was blindingly bright when Iain stepped outside the ferry port in Stockholm. It was noticeably warmer here than in Helsinki. As Iain followed a crowd of people from the ferry walking wearily towards the underground station he noticed the Swedes looked more Western. They wore colourful, fashionable clothes. There were many more foreign faces than in Helsinki. And everyone spoke perfect English. Even a teenage hippie sitting with his feet up in the ticket booth at the station, with the hems of his frayed jeans on show, spoke to Iain fluently, giving him precise instructions on how to get to Solna.

Solna police station was a small red-brick building in the older part of the Stockholm suburb. It stood a little way from the modern shopping centre, with its new, tall blocks of flats overlooking the low commercial buildings, where Iain’s bus had stopped. He’d got directions to the police station by a friendly pizza restaurant owner, speaking English in an Italian accent. After a few minutes’ walk, the street turned narrower and the blocks of flats were only four or five storeys high.

Sergeant Karlsson wasn’t like the other Swedes. His English was very shaky. He was a young, tall man with angular features, his long fair hair resting on a colourfully patterned tank top. The sleeves of the shirt underneath were slightly too short for his long arms. He gestured for Iain to sit down and settled himself opposite. They were in a small office, with windows overlooking a snow-covered park. Folders and papers were strewn all over a couple of grey filing cabinets.

Sergeant Karlsson held an orange folder. For a moment he said nothing and Iain waited.

‘You are interested in the Miss Berglund case?’

‘Hmm, yes,’ Iain looked at his notes.

Karlsson leant back in his chair and crossed his hands. He surveyed Iain.

‘Why?’

At last Iain had found the bit about Miss Berglund in his notes. The Swedish policeman’s pronunciation made the name sound wholly different.

‘It’s an Embassy matter. We believe she was a British citizen. I thought my colleague had telephoned Inspector Lund?’

‘Yes,’ Karlsson bent down towards the file again. He lifted his eyes to Iain and continued, ‘but there was no UK passport.’

Iain waited, keeping eye contact with the policeman. He was parched and wished that instead of being so difficult, the young man would offer him a coffee.

Finally Karlsson took a deep breath in and handed Iain the folder.

Miss Berglund was beaten to death. The pictures shocked Iain. There were black and blue marks all over her body and her face was smashed up. It was unrecognisable as that of a young woman in her late twenties. The police report was in Swedish, but Iain could see it was dated about a month ago, 22 January 1979.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Bleeding, like, here,’ Karlsson pointed to his belly.

‘Internal bleeding? And how was she found?’

‘She did not go to work and a friend came to her home.’

There was a brief silence. Karlsson continued, ‘She was beaten and also there was sign of sex.’

‘Rape?’

Karlsson stared at Iain.

‘Had she been forced to have sex?’ Iain tried again.

‘Aah…we know not. There was, how do you say? Seed inside her.’

‘Semen.’

‘Yes.’

Iain looked at the pictures again. Poor girl, what sort of person would have done this?

‘And did you find out who did it?’

‘We think this man,’ Karlsson leant over and pulled out a black-and-white picture. It had been taken with an old-fashioned camera and there was white edging to the picture. The man was standing a little way off, leaning on a railing by water. He was wearing a leather coat. Though he wasn’t looking into the camera, Iain recognised him immediately. The Colonel had been right.

‘Did you catch him?’

Karlsson looked down at his hands, ‘No.’

The Swedish policeman explained how all their searches had been futile. No one seemed to know where he’d disappeared to. The work friend knew that Miss Berglund was in love with a foreign man, perhaps from the Soviet Union. She’d met him once, accidentally in the centre of Stockholm. He’d been with Miss Berglund and the three of them had gone for a beer in a bar. The friend thought he was very controlling, and had warned Miss Berglund about the man.

‘And there are no other suspects?’

Karlsson shook his head, ‘No other boyfriend. Her family come from northern Sweden. She know nobody in Stockholm,’ Karlsson added, ‘so I think you wrong. She is Swedish, not English.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, mistaken identity,’ Iain said, getting up from the chair, ‘Thank you anyway.’ He shook Karlsson’s long, bony hand and left the police station.

Iain spent the rest of the day sightseeing in Stockholm. He went up to the Kaknäs Tower and surveyed the place from above. The city was made up of several islands, connected to the mainland by long bridges. Trains and cars crossed the overpasses, emitting fumes into the crisp, cold air. Several shipping lanes were cut into the frozen sea. Iain thought he must come back to Stockholm in the summer. Perhaps bring Maija. He had lunch in one of the many reasonably priced restaurants near the train station, and finally had a look at the Old Town before heading back to the North Harbour. At the ferry terminal he went into a telephone booth.

‘That’s very careless,’ the Colonel said when Iain told him about the photo.

‘Don’t think he knew it was taken.’

‘Have you got it?’

‘No,’ Iain hesitated. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask for a copy, ‘It was difficult as it was, Sir!’

‘Alright Collins, have a good return trip.’

It took Maija only to the first tram stop to tell Iain about Pia’s accident at the Linnonmaas’ house. Iain looked at Maija’s eager face.

‘I’m so relieved that Pia isn’t involved in anything, you know, what you thought.’ She straightened herself up slightly and looked out of the window. ‘Otherwise, I wasn’t sure if I’d have been able to come out tonight.’

‘I’m so glad,’ Iain said. The tram came to a corner and the movement shoved him nearer to Maija. She looked up at him. She looked so fragile. Iain bent down and kissed her mouth. He put his arm around Maija and said, ‘She’s a good girl, your Pia.’