But it was too late for denial. Elea had already caught the glimmer of recognition in Sienna’s eyes.
Chapter 27
There was no greater challenge than bringing a murderer to justice. Unsaid promises were made to the victim’s families from the moment the news broke. A vow had been made to Elea, too. The burden of these promises never weighed as heavily on Swann’s shoulders as they did now. He sat at his desk, watching the grim crime-scene video for what felt like the hundredth time. It had been filmed as dawn broke, with the rising sun colouring Lincoln’s West Common in an eerie sepia hue. Each small sound was amplified in the stillness of the new day—a day that would bring pain to so many people, its aftershock wide-reaching.
The girl had been discovered next to a walking trail, her body positioned on its side beside a wooden fence. The 250 acres of grassland were enjoyed by locals seeking peace from the noise of the city, and it was an early-morning jogger who had found Jenny Flynn semi-buried in the falling snow. Every aspect of the discovery had been filmed. Linda, their crime-scene manager, had been meticulous with her recording, taking her time as she scoped every aspect of the scene.
Swann was familiar with every sound and sight. Every breath that Linda had inhaled. The pressure of her boots driving the stepping plates deeper into the snow. He closed his eyes, placing himself back there. The whinny of horses in the distance. The rare kee-yaa call of a buzzard as it circled the skies above. The icy breeze flapping the crime-scene tape—the air cold enough to numb the tips of your fingers and toes and to make your eyes and nose run. He opened his eyes because he knew what was coming next. The sight of twelve-year-old Jenny lying on her side, her face half buried in the snow. The image was burned into the back of Swann’s mind. The blueness of her lips. Her pale, mottled skin. He rubbed his chin, missing the beard that Alice had forced him to shave off months ago. It made him look old, apparently. But in reality it just made him look his age.
Swann watched the video pan slowly across the garland of fake flowers placed on the girl’s soft blonde hair. According to forensics, she had been initially laid on her back, then later moved onto her side, her face placed downwards into a pillow of snow. Had her killer returned to the scene? Been unable to stand the accusation in her open eyes? Or had somebody else interfered? They might never know. The camera moved slowly, capturing the white dress with its delicate ribbon and lace. Hundreds of man-hours had gone into investigating the clothes Jenny had been found in. The dress was home-made. It was old, and they hadn’t been able to source the material or the design. It was too tight for her body, the zip at the back a little undone. The screen showed Jenny’s slim ankles and her white patent shoes. Shoes that weren’t scuffed or worn until that day, by the look of them. Swabs had been taken from Jenny’s face and clothing, and tape used to pick up any fibres or DNA. But there was nothing—apart from the bleach that the killer had washed her body in. There were traces of plastic, too, most likely what she’d been wrapped in while they made the journey there. Whoever put her down was forensically aware.
Hundreds of officers had worked on this case, as well as resources from other forces brought in to supplement staff. Leads could come from any number of places, and Swann’s team had worked themselves into the ground to chase them all. He had never immersed himself so deeply in a case, apart from when Liisa disappeared. Ever since then, Swann had been careful when describing victims within his team. It was something he’d learned from Elea—something that might not have occurred to him before. Usually, in a briefing, words such as “corpse,” “cadaver,” “remains,” and “body” were bandied around. Now he avoided such terms when he could. Personalising the victims made them more real.
There were times when officers needed to distance themselves. Their mental health was important, too. But when it came to Jenny Flynn and the other kidnapped girls, Swann continually personalised the case. He told officers about her hopes and dreams. Showed them videos the girls had uploaded online. Made them as real as somebody they knew: a daughter, a sister, a niece. He worked with their media team to keep them alive in the press. He had even been interviewed on Sky News andGood Morning Britain. But now he couldn’t publicly reveal the biggest lead they’ve ever had—that it appeared as if the case of the Ice Angels and Operation Turnstile were linked. It was too early for such a big presumption, and linking the case would get Elea kicked off the team.Would it be such a bad thing?He dismissed the thought. As unpredictable as Elea was, she got results. Besides, he knew how much this meant to her. She’d camp out, if she had to. She’d never leave this case now. Swann stopped the playback. She would be here soon. Had someone dressed Liisa like that? Placed her deep in the snow? Somewhere she would never be found?
Swann had spoken to Heikkinen again. He’d needed to know more. The Ice Angel case had turned cold years ago. It was hardly surprising, given how old it was. Elea kept pushing for reinvestigation, becoming more insistent, more violent, until she was forced to take a break. Swann had unknowingly thrown Elea a lifeline by inviting her to consult on this case. And now she was returning to the station, having got nothing from Ant and Sienna. She had left their address without fanfare as the couple refused to help. But Swann knew Elea. She would never have given up on them so easily. What was she up to now? He braced himself as she entered the office. He would find out soon enough.
Chapter 28
Liisa
Itry not to stare at Johanna’s crooked brown teeth as she stands over me, clothing hanging limply over her arm. Each night she spends an hour on her sewing machine. She dresses me up like a doll. But the material is always rough on my skin, the dresses ugly and ill-fitting. The welcoming smell of freshly cooked pastries and coffee wafts in from the kitchen.
“Get up. Breakfast is ready.”
She hands me the thick, flowery material. It’s a dressing gown, with a frayed blue waistband. The floor chills the soles of my feet as I quickly step out of bed. She waits as I go to the toilet in the corner of my room. I wash my hands with a sliver of soap and water from the pail before shrugging the dressing gown on. Today is different. She usually makes me get dressed first thing. There are no days off in this horrible place. Each morning she puts me to work—scrubbing, cleaning, cooking, washing, which has given me callouses on my palms. She’s said she’ll teach me sewing and knitting, too. If only that’s all I was here for. The thought of what could be waiting for me keeps me awake at night. My fingers peep out from the end of the wide sleeves.
Johanna’s smile turns small and pinched as she tugs on the ends, folding them over until she can see my hands. “That’s better.” Then there’s the horrible sudden thump of her fist on my back that I’ve come to hate. I’m pushed forward a couple of steps, my eyes still sticky with sleep. “Move it. I haven’t got all day.” She goes to push me again, but I’m ready this time and briskly make it to the door. You don’t question Johanna. You do as you are told.
Mikael is waiting at the table, which holds quite the feast: boiled eggs, rye bread, cheese, and Karelian pastries that Johanna seems to have made herself. The imprint of her thick fingers is pressed into the pastry, which holds a generous portion of rice porridge, served with egg-butter mix. But I don’t want any of it, because my stomach is rolling over. This is the moment when Johanna and Mikael tell me why I’m here.
She pushes a cup of coffee in my direction and watches as I sip. I try not to grimace as the bitter liquid scalds the back of my throat. “Thank you,” I say, because in Johanna’s home, manners are everything.
Johanna nods, seeming pleased that my house-training is going well. “Today is a special occasion.” She looks to her son. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mama,” he nods obediently, but his eyes are dark as they creep in my direction.
Johanna rests a pastry on my plate. “I’ll show you how to make them,” she says proudly. “You’ll need to know, now that you’re...”
I wait for her to finish, but she reaches for a boiled egg and slices through the shell with her knife. Turns out that the eggs are soft-boiled, as orange liquid oozes from the oversized blade. She carries it in a sheath that is buckled around her waist. It’s the same knife she uses to gut fish, or whatever creature Mikael hunts down in the woods. Goosebumps prickle my skin as Mikael and I exchange a glance. The air thickens between us as I study his face. The scar on his cheek. Those wide, haunted eyes. He is so quiet these days. Who should I be most scared of here? The pastry turns to sand in my mouth. I sip the strong coffee, forcing it down. At home, I used to drink milk. How I miss it now. We work our way through the rest of the food. I don’t know when I’ll eat again. That usually depends on Johanna’s mood.
She brushes the crumbs from her woollen jumper and sits back, satisfied. It will be my job to clean up the mess, but I can’t move, not yet. I count each second of silence. Eleven...twelve...thirteen. The cup of coffee shakes as I bring it to my mouth. I hold it firmly with both hands. I don’t want to hear this. I want to run.Tick, tick, tick—the clock on the wall counts the time with me.
“We brought you here for a reason.” Johanna’s voice breaks the quietness of the room.
My cup clinks as I rest it on its saucer. I can’t swallow any more. The air feels so thin, I can barely catch my breath.
“We know who you are...were.” Johanna rests her eyes on me. “You come from good stock. Your grandmother was a university lecturer in Helsinki. Your mother a police detective. You are a clever girl. Good blood.” She nods to herself.
What does she mean by “were”? I stare, unblinking as I wait for answers.
“But you’re not that girl anymore. You live with us now. We will call you Lia.”
I squirm in my chair as every cell in my body screams at me to run. She clamps a firm hand down onto my forearm, pushing it hard into the table. I press my lips together as her dirty nails dig into my arm.
“Tell her, Mikael. Tell her why she’s here.”
Mikael’s Adam’s apple bobs as he clears his throat. His mouth spreads in a slow smile. The sound of his fingers drumming on the table gets under my skin. I can’t read him, and that’s what scares me the most. Mother is good at figuring people out. She’s taught me little bits. Like how to take in what she calls “non-verbals”: how to study traits like blink rates (a normal blink rate is eight times a minute) and how people appear when they’re angry or uncomfortable. Someone’s appearance—such as bloodshot eyes or unwashed hair—can tell you a lot. But I think a place can tell you a lot too, and this creepy old cabin has spoken to me many times. I see the selection of knives that Mikael keeps in the kitchen and how comfortable he is handling them. I see the mounted deer heads on either side of the fireplace and know that they weren’t bought in a store. I see how dirty the place is, and how fine Johanna is with that. It tells me that she came from a home that wasn’t well cared for. I see the bolts on the doors. Mikael’s high-powered binoculars and the sharp-edged teeth of the traps that he sets. The gun cabinet. The home-made stun gun.
