James Thompson - Helsinki Blood

It’s early yet, the crowd thin. A few patrons throw wadded-up bills on the stage. Some girls sit at tables and nurse drinks. All are stunning, won’t come cheap. It’s clear that Whitechapel caters to an exclusive and upscale clientele.

We go to the bar and I ask to see an owner.

“On what business?”

I show my police card again. “Mind your own fucking business.”

The owners aren’t in.

“Hey, pomo ,” Sweetness says, “aren’t bartenders required to have their alcohol serving certification with them, and if the place serves food-and this place has a small menu-also a restaurant hygiene qualification certification?”

“Yes, they are,” I answer. I ask the bartender. “May I see yours?”

He purses his lips, flustered. “Offhand, I don’t know where they are. I’m certified, though, and we have them all on file here somewhere.”

“‘Somewhere’ doesn’t cut the ice. And I don’t see the alcoholic beverage license on display either. I think, in the interest of your patrons, it would be best to stop serving until all these things can be sorted out. It wouldn’t do to have someone get salmonella. There are other several issues to address as well, but I haven’t decided what they are yet. They’ll come to me by and by.”

The bartender gives in, exasperated. “Do you want to see the Ripper or the Raper?”

“Excuse me?”

He sighs like I’m stupid. “The owners are the Harper brothers, commonly known as Jack the Ripper and Mack the Raper.”

“Gee, they sound so amiable that I’m sure I’d like to be friends with both of them. It’s hard to choose. I guess I should speak to both the Ripper and the Raper.”

He makes a call and asks us to follow him. We go through the kitchen to the office. The door is open and we walk in. It’s seedy, has cheap, battered white office furniture that looks like it came from IKEA. An old gray couch has quite a few stains that look suspiciously like semen.

Two men sit on either side of a messy desk. They stand to greet us, offer us their hands. We shake and introduce ourselves. They look near identical to each other, except that the Ripper is a head taller than the Raper, and they both look like mirror images of Andy Warhol, thin pale ghosts with parchment skin and unkempt white hair, which is strangely disconcerting. Jack, the taller of the two, bids us to sit. No way I’m sitting on that couch. “Thanks, but I’ll stand. Hopefully, we won’t take up too much of your time.”

Sweetness sits on the edge of the desk. I take it he doesn’t like the look of the couch either.

They sit. The Raper says, “What can we do fer you two gents? Always obliged to help the police, ain’t we, Jack?” He pronounces it “Jeck.”

“That we is,” says the Ripper.

They have accents like characters in a Guy Ritchie film. I’m certain it’s feigned or exaggerated.

“We’d very much appreciate your help,” I say. “We’re trying to locate a missing person.” I show them Loviise’s photo.

They both laugh at it.

“And you’re amused why?” I ask.

“Listen, mate,” the Raper says, “have you ’ad a look at the birds out in the club? This one ain’t exactly in their league, now is she.” It’s not a question.

“I’m not suggesting she’s come here to work as a prostitute. I thought, as you two must be quite knowledgeable about the inner workings of prostitution in Helsinki, you might tell us where to look, give us a place to start. She’s Estonian. I don’t think she’s here of her own volition, and if she’s engaged in prostitution, it’s by force, not by choice.”

“We can’t help you, mate,” the Ripper says. “It would be a betrayal of professional confidence, wouldn’t it, Mack?”

“Aye, it would at that, and well said. A betrayal of professional confidence.”

“The birds work in here of their own free will,” the Ripper says. “We makes our profit on drink for the punters. We’re upstanding businessmen, an’ the only perk we gets is free pussy now an’ again, ain’t it so, Mack?”

“So it is. An’ what kinda man wouldn’t like thet? Thet’s what keeps me goin’ in this business when I’m feelin’ blue. Why don’t you toffs accept a little time with a couple birds as a show of respect for your esteemed positions. Get your knobs polished and then go back off in search of your missing girl.”

Sweetness stands up, reaches down and snaps a leg off the desk with one hand. He throws it at the Ripper’s head. He ducks. The leg has so much velocity that the jagged end penetrates the wall and sticks in it. The desk tips over. Sheafs of paper, bric-a-brac and a laptop slide onto the floor.

Both the Ripper and the Raper sit motionless, mouths hanging open in fear and awe.

“That was your answer,” I say.

The Ripper recovers first. “Thet weren’t necessary,” he says.

I shrug. “Apparently, it was. We expect your cooperation.”

“Our Da’ were a pimp and a numbers runner, among other things,” the Ripper says, “and we been in the cunt business, runnin’ his errands, since we was in our nappies. But Da’ weren’t an honest crook. He skimmed from his masters an’ ran his mouth, and Da’ ended up fish chum in the Thames. We learnt about this country, a place where a man can make a living and an honest one off the pussy trade, and we came here to start anew. We even donate to the police association, in both official and unofficial ways. We don’t want no trouble from ya, we just don’t want to be fish chum like Da’. You can understand that, can’tcha?”

I lean against the wall to take the weight off my knee. “Yes, but I don’t care.” I look over at Sweetness. “Cut off his little finger.”

Sweetness takes his Spyderco Delica out of his pocket and snaps it open.

The Ripper holds up his hands in a motion that says stop . “You win,” he says. “We don’t know who has yer girl, but it might surprise yer to know that a big part of our trade comes from spooks.”

“You mean spies?”

“I do. They come here because the other punters, just by walkin’ in the door, are showin’ they got weaknesses. They’re lonely, they got problems with the drink, an’ they got money, so they got good jobs, like engineers an’ such. Many got wives and families.”

“And spies make friends with them, then blackmail them for Finnish technology.”

“Yeh, the Russians especially try to keep up with the Joneses. And lots of Americans. And Chinese, among others.”

“And this is of use to us how?”

“We know the spooks, and some Russian spooks are in the very business yer interested in, includin’ the ambassador. If I was you, I’d start with them.”

I consider it. If we brace and shake down a Russian spook and he has limited or no information, those phone lines crackle and sizzle, Loviise disappears, and we get nothing. It’s a bad bet.

Sweetness and I look at each other. He shakes his head no. He thinks they’re holding back.

“More,” I say.

The two Andy Warhols look at each other and the room is silent for about sixty seconds. They’re trying to decide who they’re most afraid of. Sweetness’s knife is a lock blade, designed to be opened with one hand. He depresses the lock with his thumb. He closes it, opens it. Closes it, opens it. Seconds tick by.

Mack the Raper stares at me, takes in my cane and gunshot face. “Yer that famous cop I seen on the telly, ain’tcha?”

“Yep.”

“Is this method the secret behind yer crime-solvin’ success?”

“Yep.”

He looks at his brother and nods. The Ripper says, “If I give ya everything you need, I want it forgotten. No rat jacket and coppers showin’ up here regular.”