THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES

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THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES A Finnish Murder Mystery by Simon Boswell




Finnish Evolutionary Enterprises in association with Booklocker.com Incorporated International Edition
Copyright © Simon Boswell, 2005 ISBN 1-59113-652-0 Updated from the original Finnish edition
Copyright © Simon Boswell, 2004
ISBN 952-91-6878-0

The ideas expressed in the seven Sibelius lectures by the novel's fictional character
Dr Nick Lewis are to be understood as the genuine thoughts of the author, Simon
Boswell. As such, the lectures should be taken as a serious (non-fictional) attempt by
the author to express an original commentary on the life and works of the great
Finnish composer, Jean Sibelius. Quotations from Sibelius and his contemporaries,
as they appear in the lectures, mostly derive from the Robert Layton translation of
Erik Tawaststjerna's Sibelius biography which, in the author's opinion, is a primary
source for any researcher of the subject. Claims are made by fictitious characters in this novel that the texts of the letters sent
to (or intended to be sent to) 'The Ainola Residence' are direct quotations from
Sibelius's diaries and letters. These claims are themselves fictitious. In reality, the
texts are not direct translations into English of anything that Sibelius wrote himself,
but merely loose paraphrases. With the obvious exception of the historical people referred to in the seven Sibelius
lectures (and occasionally elsewhere), all characters in this publication are fictitious
and their resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The following trademarks appear in this novel: BMW, Coke, Esso, Fiat, Formica,
Guinness, Honda Civic, Hotmail, Identikit, Kalashnikov, (Apple) Macintosh / Mac,
McDonald's (restaurants), Mars (confectionery), Michelin, MiniDisc, Monopoly,
Nokia, Opel Corsa, Pizza Hut, Polaroid, Renault, Semtex, Volvo, VW (Volkswagen).
[However, the drug Comatin is an invention of the author.] The front cover is a composite of photographs depicting Sibelius Park, Helsinki. In
the background may be seen a glimpse of the Sibelius Monument, sculptured by Eila
Hiltunen. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
Finnish Evolutionary Enterprises in association with Booklocker.com Inc. http://www.SevenSymphonies.com This book is dedicated with all my love to Leena (who will never read it) & with very special thanks to Carolyn Brimley Norris (without whose help and encouragement I would never have written it) NOTES TO THE READER When setting one's story in a bilingual (or, as here, trilingual) environment,
there's always the problem of how to represent the changing languages
within a monolingual narrative.
I ask the reader to follow these guidelines:
(1) Discussion between native English speakers may be taken as is.
(2) When Finns converse together, they are, in reality, using Finnish.
(3) If a character employs a language other than his or her own, this will be
clarified in the text.
(4) The occasional use of Swedish (Finland's official minority language)
will be specifically indicated. Street names in Finland generally end with the suffixes -tie or -katu, as in
Mannerheimintie & Mariankatu. These are roughly equivalent to the
English-language 'Road' & 'Street'. The Finnish police ranks of ylikonstaapeli, komisario and ylikomisario
have been converted to their nearest British equivalents: Sergeant, Inspector
and Chief Inspector. Since the novel's conception more than five years ago, new buildings have
sprung up in Helsinki where my narrative sees none. Mobile phones have
grown in sophistication and ubiquity. As a result, The Seven Symphonies is
already taking on characteristics of a historical novel! The Sibelius Lectures
The concept of presenting fiction and non-fiction within the same volume is
by no means new, but many would question the wisdom of incorporating a
series of lectures on Jean Sibelius's life and music into an otherwise
mainstream crime thriller. Of the dozen and a half people who generously
read my draft manuscript, some complained that the lectures were an
irrelevance and interfered with the plot line; others insisted that the lectures
were an important and integral part of the reading experience and must on no
account be omitted. My original inspiration for writing this book was to combine two things that I love: Sibelius's music and the jigsaw-puzzle intricacies of the detective
story. After reviewing the contradictory but valuable feedback from my
reader guinea pigs, I've decided to attempt a compromise. The lectures
remain, but certain sections have been bracketed off as optional. The
reader must be the ultimate judge of whether this approach is a success or
failure. Simon Boswell: Helsinki, January 2005.
Visit http://www.SevenSymphonies.com where you can order
further copies of this novel; download a glossary of British
spelling, idiom and slang for US readers; download a mini-
dictionary designed to assist foreign learners of English; explore the
Seven Symphonies interactive map of Helsinki; test your knowledge
with the 144-question Sibelius Quiz; and join the discussion on the
SevenSymphonies.com cyber-discussion board.
Symphony No 1 in E minor 3 I Andante, ma non troppo—Allegro energico
* * * [8.54 pm; Friday, 24th March] M en are so weak. It doesn't mean a thing. Most of the time they can't help themselves. But how could I have been so stupid — to try
and change your mind like that? It's only left me more humiliated.
Damn you! Damn all men! Why do I keep getting myself in situations
like this? And why did I have to threaten you? It was so cheap! I'd
never follow through anyway. Oh, I know I did something of the sort
once... but that time was completely different. The big question's 'What next?' I can't give you up! You have to give me another chance. What if I come back and apologize for being
such a bitch? No, you've probably already left. And why do I always
end up losing my temper? It hardly does me any favours. If I'd kept
my head, you might've taken me with you... though I doubt it!
Ashamed of what your precious friends would think. And how ridiculous to play the diva — refusing to let you walk me home. Perhaps I could've persuaded you to come in for a while…
made it hard for you to leave again. Then I wouldn't be wandering
round here alone in the dark — alone in this freezing, miserable park.
But I can't face an empty flat feeling like this… Though I suppose the
cats are some kind of company. At least they'd pretend to listen. And
the poor things need feeding. I should never've taken them on. I'm so
damn irresponsible. I can't even look after myself. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, she was unaware of the one Symphony No 1 4 who'd been watching and had now followed her here. Only at the last
moment did she experience a subliminal warning, a primordial flash
of insight that someone or something was close behind. But, as so
often in her less than twenty years of life — and now at the point of
death — she had her timing wrong. The wire was slipping over her
head and there could be no escape. Such a level of fear was unknown to her. She was immobilized, outstretched toes grasping at the ground, back arched and frozen; in
terror of making any movement that would pull the noose tighter.
Only her fingers were active, tearing at her throat, trying to prise
beneath the wire, to release the deadly pressure. With an enormous
act of will she overcame the panic and pain, wriggling her body round
in an attempt to reach the gloved hands that were making such a
brutal assault on her future. Thus it was, in the cool impersonal floodlighting which illuminated this small hallowed space beneath the trees, that she came
face to face with her attacker. The shock of recognition was fleeting.
Certainly the outward features were familiar. But that familiarity was
contradicted by eyes unlike any she'd earlier seen or imagined: devoid
of compassion, reptilian in their self-containment and single-
mindedness — holes into a dark and empty place that surely no
human soul could inhabit. With the last conscious moments allowed
her, she recognized in those unblinking, unflinching eyes her
imminent death... and abandoned all hope. * * * Hours passed. The natural silence was complete. There were no
leaves on the trees to answer the chill, almost windless air. The only
sound, muffled by the cold and distance, was man-made and came
from the occasional passing car on one or other of the two roads
which, west and east, flanked this modest area of unfenced urban
parkland. Often crowded by day, especially in the summer months, it
now stood empty… shunned by any living, breathing human
presence. But this place , created to celebrate human excellence, must sooner or later draw to itself some other aspiring or despairing human
spirit and, with one of time's gentle little ironies, the next to pass this THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 5 way would be another in preoccupied self-torment. He'd told himself so often over the last weeks that it couldn't go on. He had to put a stop to it. Of course, it would take a certain
courage… though he persuaded himself that, looking back on his
earlier life, he hadn't often been lacking in nerve, or even daring. He
could surely summon up what was necessary. It was a problem that
had to be faced and the sooner the better. He nearly missed her. She was out of his immediate line of sight as he walked towards the shoreline. But, once his eyes locked onto
that solitary and lifeless figure, set in an almost staged tableau before
him, he was unable to turn away. He drew closer, responding with a
tumult of emotions and thoughts: some irrelevant, others of an
intensity that threatened to overwhelm him and seemed to be drawing
him in surprising directions. His normally reliable sense of time abandoned him. He would afterwards have no concept of how long he stood transfixed by this
unexpected and cruelly compelling sight... But then he shook himself
— physically and mentally. He couldn't stand here staring. He had to
act. "You're late, Miranda," said Tero as she passed his desk en route to
her own. She didn't need telling, thank you very much! Some forty minutes earlier, stepping onto the pavement outside the flat she shared with
her younger sister, Rosie, Miranda had found her treasured, two-year-
old Opel Corsa boxed in by a battered old van and a flashy red BMW.
They'd left her no more than a few inches either end. And neither
vehicle was even displaying a resident’s parking permit! At first she’d
tried to manoeuvre her way out by tacking back and forth. It was
hopeless. Digging out her mobile, she phoned Leena in Registry. The
van was from out of town — somewhere up north — and its owner
didn't appear to have a cellphone. Fortunately, the BMW’s owner did,
and Miranda dialled the number. It rang for over a minute. She was
wondering whether to give up and call a taxi, when an irritable male
voice grunted something unintelligible. She didn't know what she was
interrupting and didn't care. She threatened him with tow trucks, with
swarms of traffic wardens crawling over him and his pretentious Symphony No 1 6 penis-substitute, with an eternity of police harassment. He'd better get
down here pretty damn quick and let her out! Grudgingly he agreed,
but kept her waiting another ten minutes… with full malevolent
intent, Miranda was sure. Having sat in her car and ignored him — to
avoid any risk of getting physical — she pulled out into the traffic
stream and focused on reining in her emotions. No way would a creep
like that affect the quality of her driving. But now she'd arrived at Pasila HQ almost half an hour late.
"The boss already left," Tero went on, prompting Miranda to halt by his desk. "Wants you at the crime scene, soon as poss'. Tasty one
this morning. A murder." Much as Miranda sympathized with Tero's enthusiasm for a professional challenge, she wished he'd show more sensitivity
towards what was probably another tragic and unnecessary death. "Only been gone ten minutes," Tero added. "It's over at the Sibelius Monument." Miranda's eyes widened. "Won't be hard to find then. How come you’re still here?" "Paperwork. Going to court first thing Monday. Might be along later." Not bothering to visit her own desk, Detective Inspector Miranda Lewis hitched her bag more securely over her shoulder and walked
back the way she'd come. The Sibelius Monument, in Sibelius Park, is less than two miles from
Pasila Police Headquarters. Miranda took her own car and parked in a
quiet residential street along the park's northern edge. With the benefit of her bi-cultural background, she realized how hard it might be for a non-Finn to grasp the full national significance
of the composer Jean Sibelius. In the Finnish psyche he occupies a
place which, for most countries, would be reserved for kings, military
heroes or saints. It's true that modern times have seen other popular
figures rise to prominence in the Finnish iconography: extraordinary
Olympic athletes like Paavo Nurmi and Lasse Viren; more recently,
in motor racing, Keke Rosberg and Mika Häkkinen. But Sibelius
towers over them all as the grand old grandfather-figure of the nation.
He was there at its birth, nurturing the struggle for independence with THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 7 his Kullervo Symphony, his Karelia Suite and Finlandia. Later his art
would transcend geographical and political boundaries and reach out
to all humanity, placing Finland, with its small isolated population, on
the world's cultural map for all time. The sculptress Eila Hiltunen's memorial was unveiled in 1967, ten years after the composer's death, and it followed the fashion for later-
twentieth-century civic sculptures by puzzling many who saw it. A
large stainless-steel relief of the composer's head, reassuringly
comprehensible, now greets the onlooker from the face of a natural
granite outcropping. But that was an afterthought — a bowing to
public pressure. The main structure, which still dominates the scene,
is more esoteric. Steel pipes of varying lengths and diameters are
bundled together in a broad vertical array, at its tallest reaching to
fivetimes human height. Many of the pipe ends are frayed, with deep
irregular gashes reaching far up into their coarsely textured bodies.
Despite the creator's claims that the design represented music in the
abstract, for most people a visual association with organ pipes was
hard to avoid. Some critics pointed out that, as Sibelius had written
very little organ music, a reference to the symphony orchestra would
have been more appropriate. Miranda didn't subscribe to such
nitpicking. Her fondness for the monument was based on childhood
visits with her Welsh father. They'd indulged in much less
sanctimonious pursuits, chasing each other around the pipes and
sticking their heads up inside to hoot, scream and laugh at the
resonant echoes. Approaching the monument on this bitingly subzero, late-March morning, Miranda saw that the Scenes Of Crimes Officers (the
SOCOs) had already established themselves and were hard at work.
The focus of the crime was screened off from public view, and just
outside the screen she spotted the imposing figure and head of close-
cropped white hair that identified her superior officer, Detective Chief
Inspector Aleksi Ylenius. A police photographer standing beside him,
though not a small man, seemed almost dwarfed in comparison. Apart from his exceptional height, Ylenius was powerfully built with little excess fat for someone of his fifty-four years. And, unlike
many tall men, conditioned by years of banging heads on structures
designed by those of lesser stature, Ylenius had no tendency to stoop. Symphony No 1 8 Amiable and avuncular features moderated the effect of this
potentially intimidating size. Children warmed to him. Miranda had
several times witnessed his ability to win their trust with a few soft-
spoken and uncondescending words. As a boss he couldn't be faulted:
fair-minded, supportive in times of crisis, never failing to give credit
where it was due. Not much concerned with formality, he encouraged
his subordinates to work together on a first-name basis. He would
have been totally at ease with younger colleagues calling him Aleksi,
but for the most part, they preferred 'Chief Inspector', 'Chief' or
simply 'boss'. Miranda held him in considerable respect, both as a
person and as an experienced police officer. She was grateful for the
last eighteen months under his command. "Sorry I'm late, Chief."
"A rare event, Miranda. I'll tell you what we've got so far..."
The police photographer nodded to Miranda and disappeared behind the screen. "...The call came in at 6.48 this morning. The victim was found by a man walking his dog. The duty officer alerted me at home, so I sent
the SOCOs in first to do some of the preliminary work. The
pathologist's been and gone. He estimates death occurred between
eight and eleven yesterday evening. You'd better have a look." Miranda wasn't squeamish, but such moments in her chosen career were always unpleasant. In a way, she hoped they would never
become routine — preferring to keep her humanity unjaded and
intact. She followed Ylenius into the screened area and adjusted to the scene, letting professional training and experience take over. The
victim was seated with her back propped against the rock face, little
more than a yard to the left of the fourtimes-natural-size relief of
Sibelius's head. Her legs were straight and splayed out at an angle of
about thirty degrees. It was difficult to guess her age. Death had
disfigured her youth, but she was clearly very young — somewhere
between seventeen and twenty-five, Miranda supposed. The girl's hair was thick and Nordic fair, gathered luxuriantly around her shoulders: beautiful, healthy hair which only accentuated
the frightful distortion of the face it now framed. The eyes bulged; the
tongue protruded slightly between pale, bluish lips. Cause of death THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 9 was obvious. The girl's neck was tightly encircled by some kind of
noose that bit viciously into the flesh of her throat and had entrapped
large amounts of hair. The victim's clothes had been interfered with. Her red and yellow quilted winter jacket was open and pushed back over her shoulders. A
dark-red ribbed top and the bra beneath were pulled up to her armpits,
exposing her breasts and stomach. Her jeans had been unzipped and
tugged only part-way down her hips, as if the spread of her legs had
prevented further removal. The fact that her pants were still more or
less in place seemed to preclude outright rape, but the sexual
implications were unavoidable. "And there's this extra grisly little feature," said Ylenius, drawing Miranda's attention to the arm lying inert at the girl's right side. "Her
fourth finger's been removed — severed from the right hand. Some
kind of trophy, I suppose. The pathologist pointed out there's been
very little bleeding, so she must've been dead when it was cut off.
Let's be thankful for small mercies, shall we?" "Any indication how it was amputated?"
"Nothing found yet that’s suitable for the job. We'll be widening our search, of course." "And the violin? Was it found like that?" She pointed to a violin case leaning against the rock just below Jean Sibelius's austere and
impassive face. "Yes, the SOCOs had a quick look inside, but I asked them to put it back in situ — so you could get an overall impression of the scene." Both detectives now allowed themselves some greater distance from the victim, backing away to stand beside the monument's
towering metal pipes. "Any ID?" Miranda asked.
"Nothing useful on her. A solitary door key in her jeans pocket and a few coins in the jacket. No sign of a handbag." "What about inside the violin case?"
"Address label, you mean? No, just the instrument and some printed music." "A violin dealer might give us a lead on the instrument — suggest it's provenance, help us find its owner. But how about the music? Can
I have a look?" Symphony No 1 10 "Forensics already bagged it. What've you got in mind, Miranda?"
"I'm not sure."
But the music was located, and Miranda studied it through the clear plastic evidence sleeve. "Debussy's Violin Sonata," she said.
"So?"
"On the whole it's a lyrical piece — not exactly virtuoso stuff. But it needs some technical skill to attempt. And she does seem to have
been working on it. The music's covered in pencilled bowing marks.
She could be a professional — though, judging by her age, I'd guess a
music student. Perhaps at the Sibelius Academy." "Worth looking into."
"But we've got a problem now it's Saturday. The Academy admin's closed for the weekend. A bit ghoulish to hawk a PM photo of her
round random students in the corridors — the way she's looking
now." "You could at least try the porter on the door. Get the photographer to do a Polaroid of her face. Perhaps he can flatter her
appearance a bit — keep the noose out of the picture. But, before you
follow up on that, let's go and interview the man who found the
body." Martti Hakala lived close to where Miranda had left her car, in a
block of flats overlooking Sibelius Park from its northern perimeter.
More or less contemporary with the 1952 Helsinki Olympic Games,
the building looked in need of a major renovation. So did Martti
Hakala. Although, according to his identity card, he was in his early
forties, he could easily have passed for fifty. His face was colourless,
drawn, conveying an impression of worry and fatigue. In his bearing
there was a curious mixture of military preciseness and slouching
indecision which gave Miranda the impression of an ex-soldier fallen
on hard times. As he edged past her in the narrow hallway, she caught
a whiff of stale vodka. Hakala showed them into a living room cluttered with ugly furniture. An overweight golden Labrador was sprawled inside the
door. Its only reaction to their arrival was a brief raising of one eyelid. "Wife's at the shops," Hakala said vaguely. "Like some coffee? THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 11 Only take a moment." "Not necessary, thank you," replied Ylenius.
They sat down and the Chief Inspector made a start: "Can you tell us, Mr Hakala, exactly how you found the body?" "Okay, so I got up before dawn. Already been awake a couple of hours. Not sleeping too well lately. You know how it is… a lot on my
mind. Anyway, I made some coffee and tried reading the paper.
Couldn't concentrate. Looking at the words and nothing going in. So I
went out for some fresh air. Took Saara with me, of course. She can't
wait too long in the mornings. Her bladder isn't what it used to be." Miranda assumed he was referring to the dog rather than his wife. Ylenius gave an encouraging nod. "Usually we go for a slow stroll round Sibelius Park — seeing as it's so close — along the edge of the kiddies' playground, past the
monument and down to the seashore. I almost didn't see her — the
girl, I mean. Lost in my own thoughts probably." "Was it the dog spotted her first?" Miranda asked.
"You must be joking," he said mildly. "Poor old Saara wouldn't spot a hare if it hopped up and bit her. Practically blind. Don't think
her sense of smell's up to much either. Suppose I should have the vet
put her to sleep. But she's still game for a walk, as long as I don't rush
her. Difficult when you've been together so long. You get so attached.
Just like a marriage. Better than a marriage, to be honest. The wife
tells me I should just get on with it and have the poor thing put down.
But there's not much me and her agree on nowadays." Ylenius brought him back to the real issue. "Could you estimate the time when you found the body?" "Must've been a bit after six-thirty. Can't be more precise than that, I'm afraid. Six-thirty-five or six-forty shouldn't be far from the
truth." "And did you go up to the girl when you saw her?"
"Not closer than a couple of yards. Obviously stone dead. No sense checking her pulse or anything. Not the first time I've seen a
corpse, but it took me back a bit. Sort of rooted me to the spot. Her
tongue sticking out and her eyes staring like that. There'd obviously
been some funny business… With that thing round her neck and her
clothes all pulled about. I came straight home and called the police." Symphony No 1 12 "You didn't touch her?"
"No, I just said that." Hakala was showing signs of irritation.
"Or anything else in the vicinity?"
"What kind of anything else?"
"You didn't pick anything up nearby? Or notice anything lying on the ground?" "I came home, I made the call, and that's it... Well, there was a violin leaning against the rock. Is that what you're getting at?" "No, I wondered if anything else caught your eye."
Hakala shook his head.
"And the dog didn't go anywhere near her?"
"Don't think she'd even noticed."
"Well, that seems clear enough," Ylenius said.
But Miranda had another question.
"You said you regularly walk the dog on the same route. Did you go that way yesterday evening?" "Yes, I wanted to watch the ice-hockey on telly, so I took Saara out just before it started." "And did you walk past the Sibelius Monument?"
"We came back that way — at about twenty to nine, I suppose."
"Did you see anybody in the park?"
"No, it was deserted for a Friday evening. Probably the cold. Not used to temperatures like this so close to April, are we?" "And you're sure the girl wasn't already there by then?"
"No, we walked straight past the place. I'd've seen her, wouldn't I?" Miranda and Ylenius exchanged glances. That narrowed down the time of the murder to later than eight forty. Ylenius pushed himself up from the sagging sofa.
"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr Hakala. We'll send a constable round in a day or two to take a formal statement." Hakala nodded... but then seemed to hesitate, as if he had something to add. Ylenius paused expectantly. "There's one thing, Chief Inspector. I might not be here much longer. The wife and me, you see — we haven't been getting on too
well recently... and I've found this little one-room-and-a-kitchen
round the corner. It's up for rent. I thought I'd give it a try… and take THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 13 Saara with me. Don't know if it'll work out. But things have got to
such a head, I don't see as I can go on like this — not under the same
roof." When he appeared to have finished, Ylenius shifted position in the direction of the door. "If you do decide to change address, Mr Hakala, you will inform us, won't you?" "Yes, yes, of course. At once." He seemed relieved, and Miranda wondered if they were the first to hear of his impending escape. Outside on the pavement, Ylenius stopped beside Miranda's car. "What about the Sibelius Academy?" he asked.
"It'll be time-consuming. They've got three main buildings scattered round the city. Two in the centre and one out in Pitäjänmäki.
And there are so many departments nowadays:" — she counted them
off on her fingers — "Theory and Composition, Church Music,
Performing Arts, Opera, Music Education, Folk Music, Jazz, Music
Technology... Nearly two thousand students, and no way of knowing
which department she might've been in. My guess is she'll turn out to
be a Performing Arts student. They're the ones aiming at a solo career
or hoping to join a professional orchestra — just like my sister Rosie,
in fact. Officially they're based in R-block — the one on
Rautatienkatu. But the dead girl could've visited any of the buildings
on a regular basis — going to different classes or looking for an
empty practice room." Twenty yards behind Ylenius, Miranda noticed a tight-faced woman with two plastic bags of shopping turn into the apartment
block entrance they'd just themselves exited. Mrs Hakala? she
wondered. "Okay, Miranda, this lead's going to keep you busy for a while," Ylenius said. "But identifying the girl's a priority. Could your sister
give us some help?" "To be honest, boss, I wouldn't want to put her through it. She's so sensitive. A PM photo like this could give her nightmares for months.
Anyway, she's in London right now — on a Royal Academy cello
scholarship. She won't be back for another fortnight." — * — Symphony No 1 14 The rest of Miranda's day proved to be a series of cul-de-sacs.
Showing the victim's photo to the porters at the three Academy
buildings drew a blank; although she did get a list of personal phone
numbers for the various department secretaries and student affairs
officers. Miranda visited some of them at their homes. But no one
could identify the dead girl. At one point during these meanderings across the city, Miranda passed through Pasila to check her in-tray and email. She found
Sergeant Tero Toivonen in their open-plan office peering at a
selection of Sibelius Monument crime-scene photos that he'd laid
panoramically across his desk. At the same time he was chewing on
an outsize burger needing both of his hands for successful control.
The amount of junk food he ingested, Miranda often wondered how
he could retain the same lean and wiry build — 'rat-like' she privately
described it to herself, corresponding to his pointed, somewhat
sneering features. "A lot of people'll be screaming sacrilege when this gets in the papers," Tero said, through a mouthful of burger. "Committing such a
dastardly deed under the eyes of our beloved Jean." Miranda stared back coolly. "The sacrilege, Tero, was on that poor young girl — whoever she might be. Her whole life ahead. You
probably find the idea trite, but I think it's an appalling waste. And
Sibelius would've agreed. He had six daughters of his own and loved
them dearly." "So you haven't managed to ID her?" he asked, ignoring the lecture. "Not yet. Any luck with missing persons?"
"No one matches the description."
"Well, I've still got a few Academy personnel to visit."
"How's about taking me along? Get me out of the office for a while?" "No, you'd better stay and hold the fort."
"Ah, the trials of a subordinate officer," he said, though without any sign of rancour. This gave Miranda pause for thought. At twenty-nine, Tero was exactly her own age, but Miranda's university degree and resultant
accelerated promotion had left him one clear rank behind. Many men THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 15 would have resented taking orders from a woman under such
circumstances. For all his faults — and he had plenty — Miranda
considered herself fortunate that Tero was in some ways so
unambitious. He seemed content to just drift through life doing his
job commendably enough from day to day; then, in his free time,
playing endless computer games over the internet while listening to
Nirvana on one of the largest, most expensive hi-fi systems Miranda
had ever seen outside an arena rock concert. "How did the press conference go?" she asked.
"Caused a bit of a stir. Of course, we suppressed most of the details: the missing finger, the tampering with the clothes, the
ligature, the placing of the violin. They know she was strangled, but
not how." This was standard procedure. Knowledge of such facts by a later suspect could indicate guilt. Conversely, the police needed some way
to eliminate false confessions that always attended a crime of this
nature. "When's the PM?" asked Miranda.
"Tomorrow morning. The boss wants us here by ten for a conference of war." "So much for a quiet Sunday at home."
Tero nodded. "Yeah, I was looking forward to a relaxing one hundred decibels of Kurt Cobain." Miranda went trekking off again in search of someone who could
identify the dead girl. But, throughout this fruitless and frustrating
day, her thoughts turned repeatedly to an altogether more private
matter — to events in her own life over the last three days, and
especially to the Wednesday evening Sibelius lecture where she and
the Englishman had first met. . . 16 II Andante (ma non troppo lento) " J ohan Julius Christian Sibelius was born on the 8th of December 1865, in Hämeenlinna. Johan, or Janne as his family and friends
would always call him, was only two years old when his father, a
regimental doctor, was struck down by typhus — presumably
contracted from one of his patients. Although Janne never knew his
father, he appears to have inherited from him a kind-hearted,
engaging character and a love of social gatherings. Janne could be
lively and amusing, but there was a complementary dark side to his
personality: an unpredictable moodiness or moroseness; a tendency to
withdraw into a world of his own which others found disconcerting." Miranda had made it into the Sibelius Academy Wegelius Hall only moments before the lecture began. It was her boss's considerate
dismissal from a late-afternoon-stretching-tediously-into-early-
evening brainstorming session with the Community Relations
Committee that had made it possible for her to get here at all for the
seven-thirty start. In his empathetic way, Ylenius had remembered the
upcoming English language lecture series on the seven symphonies of
Sibelius and the reason why Miranda was especially keen to attend.
As she dropped into the last remaining aisle seat in the fifth row, she
received a welcoming smile from a tall, darkly moustached man in his
early- to mid-thirties on the adjacent chair. Miranda then managed to
embarrass herself by upsetting her shoulder bag and scattering
personal items around and about his feet. With reassuring humour he
helped her gather them up. He spoke in English, so she thanked him
in the same language. His response was a melodramatic tip of the
head... "Do I detect a lilt of the hills and valleys in your delightful, THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 17 velvety voice?" he enquired. "A resonance from the great Land of
Song? A reminder of the bardic realm of..." Before he could finish, or Miranda could adjust to this extraordinary manner of speech and frame an answer, the evening's
speaker had climbed onto the lecture platform, and the audience was
sprinkling the hall with polite and expectant applause. Dr Nicholas Lewis was something of a celebrity in the world of music literature. He'd written several well-researched and critically
acclaimed books that had explored the symphonic cycles of, among
others, Brahms, Bruckner and Mahler. His ability to combine erudite
scholarship, a strongly personal musical sense, and an appealingly
readable and approachable style had won him a small but enthusiastic
following. On his return to Finland, a country in which he'd spent
nearly three earlier decades of his life, he was at last focusing his
attention on Sibelius. This Wednesday lecture series would embody
developing plans for a new volume he hoped to have ready for
publication by the end of the year. He had begun this first lecture by
introducing himself to the audience, and now he was giving a brief
account of Sibelius's early years. "Apart from the untimely loss of his father, Janne was fortunate in his childhood. He grew up in a small and attractive provincial town,
in the warm and loving embrace of a cultured middle-class household.
The whole family was musical, especially on his mother's side, and
they actively played chamber music together. Although clearly
talented, Janne didn't exhibit the gifts of a child prodigy. His musical
development would be slower than that of a Mozart or a Mendelssohn
but nonetheless inexorable. At twenty years old, Janne dutifully
followed his family-elders' wishes by entering the Faculty of Law at
the University of Helsinki. After only two terms, he abandoned an
academic career in favour of the Helsinki School of Music. His
mother bowed to the inevitable with an apprehensive heart. How
could she have known that, as a consequence, this very school would
one day change its name to hers and become the Sibelius Academy. "Janne's ambition of becoming a professional violinist was painfully thwarted — probably because of his late start... not taking
formal lessons until the age of fourteen. But his talent for composition
was spotted by Martin Wegelius, the director of the Conservatory, Symphony No 1 18 and Janne's career was set on its proper course." Miranda watched the speaker with affection. He was a man of short but stocky build who had, she knew, achieved success in his
younger years as a prop forward for one of the better South Wales
rugby teams. His hair bore traces of its original dark colour, though
now almost overtaken by grey. He also sported a thick grizzly beard
which, in combination with his body shape, reinforced the impression
of an ageing teddy bear. "At this point," he went on, "I should mention the composer's Uncle Johan, who was a sea captain by profession. In those days it
was customary for such international travellers to adopt a French
form of their name when abroad and, one day, Janne stumbled on a
stack of old visiting cards bearing the name Jean Sibelius. The ring of
this combination so impressed the younger Johan that he decided to
follow his uncle's example." * [ Having completed this short biographical introduction, Dr Lewis chose to explore more provocative ground... "I'll now ask you to follow me on a small detour — one that I personally find of great interest. Let us consider the concept of
Sibelius, the Finnish composer... "His music is so Finnish. This is a statement one often hears, especially in the land of his birth… so often that it seems to be a
truism. But what exactly do people mean by this claim? Sibelius's
music is so Finnish. It's very easy to feel sympathy for a Finn wishing
to express an affinity with his or her own cultural heritage. I, myself,
am deeply proud of the fact that I was born on the same island as
William Shakespeare, and that the language he moulded into such
extraordinary dramatic and evocative forms is also my own. No
matter that Shakespeare's genius is separated from my mediocrity by
a geographical distance in birthplace of one hundred miles and a
temporal separation of about four hundred years. I feel a proprietary
sense of oneness, of somehow being myself a part of his genius. Why then should I be surprised if, for example, a thirty-five-year-old systems engineer, working for Nokia in a present-day Helsinki that
Sibelius would scarcely have recognized, takes comfort in associating * As suggested in the introductory Notes to the Reader, these bracketed sections of the Sibelius lectures may be treated as optional. THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 19 himself with his own national giant of creative genius? Sibelius was
indeed one of the great geniuses of Western musical civilization, and
he was most certainly born a Finn. This doesn't however, in itself,
help us to answer the question of what is really meant by the
statement: Sibelius's music is so Finnish. "In what ways is his music Finnish? Wherein does this Finnishness lie? Is it a product of the musical culture into which he
was born? Hardly... In 1865, the concert music tradition in Finland
was mainstream European. Janne grew up in an environment of
Bach, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven; of Schubert, Mendelssohn,
Schumann and Brahms. There was no Finnish composer, past or
present, who hadn't trained in and modelled himself on this
predominantly Teutonic tradition. The same musical influences were
paramount in Janne's formative years. He played many works of
these masters with the family trio: consisting of himself, his brother
and his sister. Should we then be calling Sibelius's music Austro-
Germanic? No, let's withhold judgment for the time being and look
elsewhere. Let's turn our attention to Finnish ethnic music. "Finland has a long tradition of folk music covering a wide range — from the genial dances of the 'pelimanni' violinists to the grief- laden cries of the professional lamenters. So perhaps this is where Sibelius’s Finishness derives: from Finnish folk music. Unfortunately
not! Sibelius isn't a nationalist composer in the way that could be
claimed for such figures as Grieg, Smetana or Bartók. Incidentally,
Bartók was a composer that Sibelius would, in later years, come to
admire, so I'll take the Hungarian as an example... Bartók's music,
although not relying directly on quotations from ethnic sources, is
imbued with Hungarianness in its rhythms and scale structures. There
is ample justification for calling his music Hungarian. In Sibelius's
case, however, although the composer had a fair knowledge of the
Karelian folk-music tradition, relatively little seems to have found its
way into his own work." Miranda looked surreptitiously around the lecture hall. The majority of the audience would undoubtedly be Finns, and what the speaker
appeared to be implying was tantamount to treason. She detected
puzzlement on some of the faces but nothing more. "Sibelius himself denied any direct influence from Finnish folk melodies and wrote a rebuttal to anyone he discovered making such claims for his music. But can't we anyway reassure ourselves by considering the composer's fascination for the Kalevala: Finland's
national epic poem? The titles of many of his pieces testify to it: The Symphony No 1 20 Kullervo Symphony, Lemminkäinen's Return, The Swan of Tuonela,
Pohjola's Daughter, Luonnotar, Tapiola. Surely these literary sources
of inspiration demonstrate the Finnishness of Sibelius's music? Well,
if they do, by the same logic we are forced to declare that the
incidental music he wrote for Maeterlinck's Pelleas et Melisande
demonstrates Belgianness and the incidental music for Shakespeare's The Tempest demonstrates Englishness! We have
clearly gone astray. "Of course, we might still resort to Sibelius's patriotism. Everyone knows that he composed Finlandia as a stirring thumb-on-the-nose at
nearly a century of Czarist rule. Yes, that's true, as far as it goes.
However, politics is politics and, although music can sometimes be
drawn into the service of political creeds, music of itself does not,
indeed cannot express political thoughts. Its language is of a totally
different nature." ] * But now Dr Lewis announced that it was time to embark on a detailed study of the composer's First Symphony, opus 39, in E
minor... Glancing to her left, Miranda caught her neighbour's eye. He grinned broadly, and whispered: "Intriguing stuff!" His face was
curiously irregular, with one eye noticeably higher than the other and
a nose that looked as if it had at some stage been broken. Although
his style of dress was conventional, the impression he made on
Miranda had something piratical about it. His voice had been a
sonorous baritone — an actor's voice — its accent plainly English.
She wondered about his connection to Finland and if he'd been in the
country long. "It's something of a tired joke," Dr Lewis continued, "that Sibelius's First Symphony should really be called Tchaikovsky's
Seventh... and, yes, there are clear traits inherited from the Russian
composer. In his autumnal years, Sibelius acknowledged a 'youthful'
fascination for the cosmopolitan Tchaikovsky. He was, however, less
ready to admit any debt to the more nationalistic Russian composers
like Borodin or Rimsky-Korsakov. Perhaps he felt it would be
'politically incorrect' for a Finn whose patriotism had come to be
considered a cornerstone of his country's recently won
independence." The remainder of the lecture provided an analysis of each of the THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 21 four movements, effectively illustrated with short examples — some
played enthusiastically at the piano by the speaker himself, and others
on CD in a full orchestral version. Dr Lewis held his listeners
spellbound. And, on drawing his presentation to a close, invited
everyone to join him the following Wednesday evening for an
exploration of the Second Symphony. The audience showed its
appreciation with vigorous applause. As they were all standing to leave, the Englishman leant over and
asked Miranda: "Have you heard Dr Lewis lecture before?" "You could say that," she laughed. "At breakfast and dinner for most of my childhood." The Englishman's brown eyes twinkled. "Am I encouraged to suppose that finding two persons of the druidic persuasion sheltering
under the same far-flung roof is no mere coincidence?" Miranda gave herself a few moments to interpret this idiosyncratic verbal style, and nodded: "He's my father." "Tempting to be wise after the event," said the Englishman, "but I believe I do detect a plausible resemblance to the illustrious doctor —
especially around the mouth. Not the colouring, of course... not your
flaming Titian red hair and striking green eyes, Ms Lewis." He
hesitated. "Or perhaps I err in assuming your name conforms to that
of your paternal lineage?" Again she made the necessary mental translation, and smiled. "I did try another name for a while, but Lewis turned out better after all.
I'm Miranda... Miranda Lewis." "Wonderful to make your acquaintance. And if I may introduce myself?" He offered his hand... "Phillip Burton — though I'd be
grateful if you limited your usage to the Phillip bit. And while we're
participating in the social graces, allow me to introduce a fellow
countryman." He turned to the man now hovering beside him:
"Vagabond and composer extraordinaire, Adrian Gamble." And that was it. Not love, of course. Miranda wasn't naive. But powerful attraction at first sight — admittedly a rare occurrence for
her in recent years — was entirely possible; though nothing to do
with Hollywood screen-star looks. This man wasn't tall — not as tall
as Phillip, for example; nor as dark. His eyes were strikingly blue. Symphony No 1 22 And his hair was a halo of tight curls. When he spoke — "Yes, I'm
Adrian Gamble. Nice to meet you, Miranda" — he had a soft,
reticent, tenor voice. His boyish smile came in appealing contrast to
his otherwise manly features, and she suddenly realized how much he
reminded her of a whirlwind teenage romance ten summers ago on
the island of Crete. Miranda offered to introduce the two Englishmen to her father. They eagerly took up the offer, and were soon praising Dr Lewis on
his lecture — Phillip hyperbolically, Adrian more directly. Both were
obvious Sibelius enthusiasts, and Nick Lewis suggested they all four
visit the nearest pub for a quick "post-proscenium pint"; adding that,
although he and Miranda had a prior dinner engagement à deux —
having not seen each other for several months — all his prattling on
about Sibelius had left him with a raging thirst which he'd enjoy
quenching right now à quatre. Phillip and Adrian protested they didn't want to impose on a family reunion; but Nick, with Miranda's unspoken endorsement,
overrode their objections. "Blissfully resident in this 'Pearl of the Baltic' for a couple of years
now," Phillip Burton explained. "No plans to leave. Suits me
admirably." "And you, Adrian?" asked Miranda.
"I only got here last autumn. Spent last year in Stockholm."
"Why change to Helsinki?"
"Cherchez la femme," said Phillip archly. "Or, in this case, la femme cherchée." Adrian looked disconcerted: "Don't be absurd, Phillip. You know I only came to keep a parental eye on you — that and the lure of the
Sibelius Academy." He turned back to the other two. "I won an Arts
Council scholarship in Sweden for composition and decided to bring
it over here. Now I've got a couple of part-time teaching jobs to
supplement the grant, so things are working out fine. Meanwhile
Phillip's pursuing his career as an English teacher," he added, shifting
the focus from himself. "Yes, spreading our winsome tongue to the natives," Phillip agreed. "Immense good fortune, don't you think? A worldwide market THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 23 demand for something we acquired effortlessly in the cradle. Potential
for travel and personal enrichment! Been exploiting it most of my
adult life." "You and adult life strike me as incompatible concepts," quipped Adrian. "I admit I've been a slow developer," Phillip responded. "But subtle depths of maturity await discovery for the trained observer." "Why do I get the impression you two've known each other more than just a few months?" asked Miranda. "You've penetrated our guilty secret!" exclaimed Phillip. "We do go back a long way — as far, one might say, as the redbrick halls of
Edgbaston — the confluence point of our fateful first meeting so
many life-enhancing years ago." "What Phillip's trying to say is we met at Birmingham University. I was doing Civil Engineering, and he was doing English Literature
and Modern Languages. We seem to have been recrossing paths ever
since." Nick turned to Phillip. "You're a linguist, eh? So how's your Finnish?" "Ah... well, I can manage in French, German and Italian," Phillip replied, "and pass muster in five other world languages. But Finnish, I
humbly admit, still defeats me!" Miranda picked up on Adrian's degree subject: "Civil engineering to composition? That's quite a leap!" "Maybe not," said Nick. "Bach might've made a stunning mathematician if he'd been born in another time and place." Adrian nodded. "Yes, I've always felt a close affinity between compositional and mathematical processes. But, Phillip, shouldn't we
be making a move?" "Quite so," Phillip agreed. "We'll leave you to your family tête-à- tête and wend our separate way. Although might I suggest another
occasion to further this agreeable acquaintance? Adrian and I shall
imbibe two days hence at the Ateljé Restaurant. Any chance of
joining us?" "Personally, I'm off to the country for the weekend," Nick said, "to our lakeside cottage. It's been locked up the whole winter. But I'd like
to set myself up there for the summer months and work on my Symphony No 1 24 Sibelius book. Though I'll be back in Helsinki for my Wednesday
lectures. I'm sure we can find another chance. But, Miranda, nothing
to stop you this Friday, is there?" "I've got an eight o'clock start Saturday morning. But, I suppose if we don't make too long an evening of it…" "Hope you didn't mind me putting your name forward, my dear, for
meeting our new English friends again." Father and daughter had by now settled themselves at a corner table in a restaurant nearby: one specializing in traditional Finnish
farmhouse cuisine. "No problem, Dad. Could be fun. Phillip's quite a character, isn't he?" "Gay, do you suppose?"
"I doubt it. I know he talks like a frenzied Shakespearean actor, but it doesn't come across especially 'camp'. More Lord Byron than
Oscar Wilde." "Just asking. Women are better judges of these things. But I got the impression Adrian interested you more." "Was it that obvious?"
"I've known you a long time, darling."
"And was there a hidden motive for setting me up on Friday evening? Trying some match-making, are you?" "And why not? You've been alone too long. Time to put the past behind you, Miranda. I've had to do it. Any news from Johannes by
the way?" "Someone told me he's in Brussels."
"I never thought you were a good match. You'll find someone better. But only if you put yourself in the path of opportunity. I know
your job's important to you. Just try getting out a bit more." "It's not that bad, Dad!" Miranda objected. "I've still got the string quartet." This was an amateur ensemble she'd played in since
university. "Though we only manage once a month nowadays.
Haven't done a recital for ages." "Did you get your viola sorted?"
"It only needed an adjustment to the sound post… Hey, we're running through Opus 76, No 2 tomorrow — just for fun, of course." THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 25 "One of Haydn's best. Can I tag along and listen?"
"Of course! And why don't you join us more actively sometimes? We could do a Piano Quintet together." "Tempting thought. How about the Brahms F Minor? Are we up to it?" "There'll be nobody else to hear us. We can make as big a mess of it as we like." The waitress came for their order. Both chose the braised liver with cowberry sauce. "See how it compares with your mother's culinary skills, shall we? Always was one of my favourites." Miranda leant forward, resting her chin on interlocked fingers.
"Are you coping, Dad?"
"Ups and downs. Sometimes I think I'll be fine. Then everything comes flooding back. Work's excellent therapy. I'm keeping myself
busy with this new book." "It's wonderful to have you back in Finland. I'm glad we'll see more of each other, but I wish things could've gone better for you in
Edinburgh." Nick reached out to touch Miranda's cheek. Tears had formed in the corners of his eyes and she felt her own burning in sympathy. "You and Rosie have been wonderful daughters," he said, summoning up an affectionate smile. "I've often wondered if I
should've left you so soon after your mother passed away." "Dad, we both understood. You had to take that second chance. And we weren't babies anymore. I only wish you and Eleanor
could've had more time together." She studied her father intently. The pain of nursing two successive wives through terminal cancer in less than five years had left its mark.
She realized how hard it would be for him to risk a third commitment. "Tell me, Dad, did you see Rosie while you were in London?"
Nick rallied at once. "Yes, she was radiant, and making excellent progress. She proved it to me with a private recital in my hotel room:
Bach's C Minor Cello Suite." Miranda laughed. "I wish I'd been there. She said in her last letter she'll be back in a fortnight." "So how about us meeting her at the airport?" Symphony No 1 26 "Dad, that's a great idea."
Over the following two days, Miranda's work was largely routine:
domestic violence, a couple of bar brawls. Nothing out of the
ordinary. But, at last, on Friday evening Miranda arrived at the Ateljé
Restaurant — no more than a few minutes past the agreed time of 8
o'clock — for her triangular date with the two Englishmen. Phillip
spotted her at the door and rushed gallantly over. "Miranda, you look stunning. I'm bowled over." He escorted her to the table, pulled out a chair and tucked it under her with practised
skill. Miranda found the attention mildly amusing. Somehow he
managed to be neither obsequious nor overfamiliar. "May I order you a drink?" he suggested. "Something to eat? Or shall we wait for Adrian? He's invariably late. It's the artistic
temperament, so we must endeavour to excuse him. In the company
of his creative muse he's oblivious to the passing hours." Miranda accepted a glass of red wine and gazed at the surroundings. The Ateljé, a restaurant much frequented by
professional musicians and music students, was more popular for
drinking than for eating. Apart from the nearby television, whose
volume was turned mercifully low, the place retained much of its
original 1940s atmosphere. "A long time since I was here," Miranda said. "I'd forgotten the sensation of stepping through a time warp." "A little gloomy — even a little seedy. But, yes, it has a certain aura of old-fashioned Bohemianism, does it not? Talking of which, I
was treated to an extravagant dinner at the Kämp last week." Miranda was impressed: the Kämp being the only 5-star hotel in Finland with 5-star prices to match. "Courtesy of a company that employs my English teaching services," Phillip went on. "Some top management wining and dining
me as they practised their English skills — all on the company
expense account, naturally." "The perks of a language teacher?"
"Exactly! Of course, the Kämp was a regular haunt of Sibelius and his cronies back in the 1890s," Phillip said. "The new owners have
striven to recreate that fin de siècle image — with excellent results, I THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 27 must say. Easy to picture Jean at a corner table: the painter Gallen-
Kallela to his left, the conductor Robert Kajanus to his right —
discussing the human condition, peeling back the layers of illusion to
reveal the innermost secrets of life, death, hope and despair. Well,
that's the Romantic version. All probably just pissed as wombats most
of the time." In spite of herself, Miranda grinned at the change of register.
But still there was no sign of Adrian Gamble. Several times Miranda drew the conversation round to Phillip's missing friend,
quizzing him about Adrian's previous and present life. If Phillip felt
disappointment or envy at not being the focus of Miranda's interest,
he concealed it very well, fielding her questions with attentive good
humour. Miranda learned that the femme cherchée Adrian had followed from Sweden to Helsinki was a young and rising opera star: an
exceptionally gifted Finnish soprano who'd been studying in
Stockholm. Unfortunately, back in the singer's home country their
relationship became tempestuous and survived little more than a
month. She ran off to Milan with an Italian tenor and, according to
Phillip, it was two or three months before Adrian was able to
compose again. "Never seen him so affected by a member of the very much fairer sex," Phillip admitted. Miranda might've preferred being spared some of the more delicate details of the romance, but Phillip's manner of recounting
them was highly entertaining. At exactly nine o'clock, Adrian phoned Phillip's mobile to say he was on his way. He finally appeared twenty minutes later. "Good heavens, Adrian," Phillip chided, "this is extremely tardy, even by your long-practised standards." "I'm really sorry. Something came up I had to deal with right away. I'm glad you're still here, Miranda. I was afraid I'd missed you." Miranda now found herself the focus of both men's curiosity. They were predictably intrigued to learn about her job at the Homicide
Unit, and pressed her to give an outline of her daily duties as a
detective inspector. She found the chore less irksome than with most
new acquaintances, but was still relieved when the discussion turned Symphony No 1 28 to Wednesday's Sibelius lecture. "Have you noticed," said Phillip, at one point, "a family resemblance between the First Symphony's opening clarinet melody
and the main theme for Coppola's The Godfather?" Adrian considered this proposition. "Yes, if you give it to the trumpet. Though I doubt Sibelius ever saw the film. Something that
interested me, Miranda, was your father's reference to Bruckner in the
third movement. He's right, of course, about the opening scherzo
passage — though Sibelius's touch is lighter, much less megalithic.
That insistent pulse, those ambiguous cross-rhythms — they could
almost be lifted from a previously unknown Bruckner symphony. The
trio section's another matter. Nothing could be more idiosyncratically
Sibelius, could it?" Speaking on a subject that truly interested him, Adrian took fire. Miranda found herself drawn by his enthusiasm and more than
anything by his eyes — such vividly blue eyes, of a hue seldom seen
in Finland where a much greyer blue was commonplace. Some would
find the intensity of those eyes unsettling. Miranda thought them
extraordinarily attractive. By half past eleven, she knew she'd have to leave if she wanted to function successfully the next day. "You've been fantastic company," Miranda told them, "but I promised myself I'd be home by midnight." "In that case, fair Cinderella," Phillip declared, "I trust you'll allow these two ugly sisters to escort you to your home portals. Didn't you
say earlier your flat overlooks the Church in the Rock? 'Tis but a
stone's throw from here, and 'twould be an enormous privilege. I'm
convinced Adrian feels the same. Speak up, Adrian!" "Yes, of course," Adrian nodded.
Some fifteen minutes later, as they were saying their goodbyes outside Miranda's apartment block, Phillip proposed they met again
the following Monday at Mamma Rosa's Italian restaurant. Miranda
had been wondering how to ensure her association with Adrian —
such as it was — wouldn't end right here and now. Fortunately Phillip
had taken the initiative. And as she climbed the stairs to her flat, she experienced a sensation unfamiliar in recent years: a glow of anticipation — a THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 29 feeling that her life was moving in a promising new direction. Of course, she had no way of knowing how tomorrow morning would bring discovery of that young woman's body at the Sibelius
Monument, and how this event would begin an unfolding sequence of
horror overshadowing her life and numerous others for many weeks
to come. . . 30 III Scherzo: Allegro—Lento (ma non troppo)—Tempo I A t ten-thirty on Sunday morning, Miranda and Tero sat down in Chief Inspector Aleksi Ylenius's cosy, though unspacious office.
Miranda often wondered how this colossal man could be content with
such a tiny place of work, or how he managed to keep everything in
order without the limited surfaces becoming permanently littered by
papers and files. "The preliminary post-mortem and forensic reports on the Sibelius Monument murder," Ylenius said, handing each a folder. Miranda and
Tero studied the contents in silence... The pathologist estimated the girl's age at around twenty. She was healthy, well-nourished, and had never given birth. She was 5' 5" tall
and lightly built — a mere 7 stone (98 pounds). The cause of death
was no surprise to anyone: strangulation performed with a length of
lightweight electrical cable fashioned into a simple noose. The knot,
situated at the back of the neck, had been designed to make the
tightening process difficult to reverse. The remaining free end of the
cable had then been tied into a fixed loop, presumably for hooking
over the killer's wrist. The cable itself was of little help, consisting of
two parallel grey strands fused along the middle — typical for
connecting loudspeakers to domestic stereos, and as common as
spaghetti the report wryly commented in a hand-written footnote. Apart from the neck area, there were no obvious signs of bruising on the body. The position of the ligature knot at the back of the neck
suggested the victim had been taken by surprise from behind with
little chance of defending herself. The skin and blood found beneath
her fingernails were her own — the result of a fruitless attempt to tear
the noose away. THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 31 Despite no obvious signs of rape, sexual intercourse had recently taken place. A semen sample was being processed to generate a DNA
profile. And there was evidence to indicate the kind of tool used for amputating the little finger. Under a magnifying lens, the bone and
cartilage remaining at the severed joint showed clear marks of a blade
with extremely fine concave serrations (approximately three to a
millimetre) suggesting either kitchen scissors or garden secateurs. But
a detailed search of the crime scene area had turned up no such item
— nor, in fact, anything else relevant to the investigation. A study of the body's hypostasis indicated that the sitting position the victim was found in had been adopted soon after — if not
immediately after — death. The time of death itself was now given
more accurately: between 8.15 and 10.00 pm. And then there was the door key found in the girl’s jeans pocket. It was attached to a clear plastic tag advertising a popular brand of
Finnish beer — so common as to offer no viable leads in itself. But
the surface of the plastic bore two clear fingerprints: an index finger
on one side, a thumb on the other. Neither belonged to the victim, nor
disappointingly to any known felon on record. "Not much to go on, is there?" complained Tero.
Ylenius sighed. "And we still don’t know who she is. Missing Persons can’t offer us a match. If she lives alone, it's possible
nobody’s even noticed her absence. Any luck with the door-to-door
enquiries?" "Not yet," said Tero. "Seems the cold snap and the ice hockey on telly kept everyone tucked up at home with the curtains drawn." Miranda flicked back through her folder. "According to the report, there’s no evidence the victim was forced to have intercourse.
But, once he’d got the noose in place, she could’ve been frightened
enough to comply. The most likely sequence would’ve been the rape
first, the murder by strangulation second, and the removal of the
finger last. So something doesn't add up." "The clothes," said Ylenius.
"Exactly, boss. Her jeans and pants were more or less pulled back up. Why would he bother with that after he'd raped her? Seems
curiously prudish under the circumstances." Symphony No 1 32 "Perhaps the girl did it herself," suggested Ylenius. "A reflex action to hide her nakedness afterwards." "But she didn't get them all the way up," Tero added, "because he started tightening the noose and she had other things to worry about." Miranda grimaced at the image.
The meeting broke up a few minutes later. Being a Sunday, and with so few leads available, Miranda and Tero settled for completing
the paperwork on their outstanding cases so they’d be free to
concentrate on the Sibelius Monument murder tomorrow . In fact, when Monday came, Miranda had no greater success at the
Sibelius Academy than on Saturday. She could find no one able to
identify the dead girl, and felt her next best bet would be the Helsinki
Conservatory: a rather less prestigious music school recently drawn
under the umbrella category of 'polytechnic college'. Most of its
students were training to become instrumental or music-playschool
teachers. After decades confined to cramped and unsuitable premises
in the centre of the city, the Conservatory had, the previous autumn,
moved into a brand-new building located a convenient twenty yards
from Ruoholahti metro station. It was already 3 pm when Miranda pushed her way through the clear-glass entrance doors. The porter's cubicle and the concert hall
cloakroom lay to the left beyond a stairwell and a branching corridor.
A large cafeteria opened up to the right, reaching as far as the
building's glass-fronted facade. Few people were in sight. The lunch-
time rush was over, and only a handful of the cafeteria tables were
occupied. Behind the cloakroom desk a tall, heavily-built man was
pulling on his jacket. Miranda approached him, her eyes drawn
involuntarily to the long strands of fair hair combed from one side
across the pink dome of his otherwise bald head. "Are you the porter?" she asked.
"That's the one you want," he said, and nodded towards a much older man nearing the porter's cubicle from the direction of the
stairwell. Miranda followed him as far as the threshold and introduced
herself. He smiled back crookedly, and apologized for the fact that
talking intelligibly might be a problem. "Just came from the dentist," he explained, gingerly massaging his THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 33 jaw. "Anaesthetic hasn't worn off yet. Gave me hell last week when it
flared up. Didn't sleep a wink. Rushed straight to the dentist next
morning. But she's been digging around again today. Says she can't
do a root filling till the antibiotics've got the infection under control.
Mind you, I always think the most painful bit's the bill at the end,
don't you? Oh, sorry, Inspector. Rambling on as usual. How can I
help?" He was about sixty, with friendly eyes and a wispy salt-and-
pepper beard. Miranda warmed to him instantly. "We're trying to identify a dead girl we think might've been a student here." His cheery expression clouded. "Dead, you say?"
"I've got a postmortem photo. Not pleasant, I'm afraid. But, if you wouldn't mind taking a look... perhaps you'll recognize her." "True, I know all the students here. Deal with them on a daily basis — passing on messages, booking practice and rehearsal rooms." He took out a pair of reading-glasses and perched them on his nose. His response to the photo was immediate. "This is Liisa Louhi. She's a first-year violin student."
"Are you sure?"
"No doubt about it. What happened to the poor girl?" He made a sudden connection. "Was she that one found at Sibelius Park?" Miranda nodded.
"Oh, my goodness! I read about it in the newspaper. Never occurred to me she might be one of ours." "I'm trying to trace her movements over the days leading up to her death. Can you help in any way?" "I don't remember her being here much last week. Maybe she was in on Friday... Yes, I saw her in the afternoon. She was just leaving
the building." "What time would that've been?"
"We were just changing shifts — me and the other porter. We overlap shifts mid-afternoon, and we'd just made the changeover
when I saw her going out. So it must've been three o'clock, or very
soon after." "Did she have her violin with her?"
"Yes, I think so."
"How about a handbag?" Symphony No 1 34 He considered for a while. "Sorry, I can't remember."
Miranda scanned the ceiling of the hallway and located a video camera trained on the main entrance. "Could we check the security
tapes for Friday afternoon?" "There aren't any! The cameras are up, but the recording room's not fitted out yet. They didn't plan a security system for this building
at first. But there've been so many problems since it was opened last
autumn — kids wandering in off the streets stealing the students'
instruments. So now one's being installed, but it won't be ready till
next week." "Pity," said Miranda. "But you've been an enormous help, Mr..."
"Koskinen. Olli Koskinen."
"If you think of anything else, please get in touch." She handed him a card, and asked for directions to the student affairs office where
she hoped to get more details about the murdered girl. Passing the cafeteria, Miranda noticed a group of female students chatting at one of the tables. On impulse she joined them. There was initial shock at the news of Liisa Louhi's death. But they were all willing to talk. Unfortunately, getting background on the
dead girl proved difficult. It seemed that Liisa Louhi hadn't confided
much in her fellow students. "No close girl friends here as far as I know," said one of the group. "Kept to herself. And that's unusual. We're a tightknit bunch in this
place." "How about boyfriends?"
"The boys took an interest in her all right. But she stayed sort of aloof — like she thought they were too young for her or something." "That didn't stop her taking advantage when it suited her," said a second girl. "She could turn on the helpless-little-woman act at a
moment's notice. Had them running round fetching and carrying,
helping her with her music theory homework, stuff like that. But I'm
pretty sure she wasn't dating any of the students here. We'd've heard
about it." A third girl, very blonde, with a face — so it struck Miranda — like a picture-postcard angel suddenly spoke up: "I was in here last
week sitting at the next table to her, and I overheard a phone
conversation she was having. Sounded like a boyfriend. She was THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 35 talking to him in English." "How do you know it was a man?"
"Well… the tone of voice, a bit flirtatious, sort of bantering. Sounded like trying to talk him into letting her visit him. But without
much success. She was getting a bit annoyed. And then she gave up.
Said she'd phone again later." "When was this?"
"Could've been last Monday. Yes, that's right. I'd just had my horn lesson." "Did she ever refer to this person by name?"
"Not that I remember. I only picked up the general feel of it all."
"Thanks, anyway. I'm trying to build up an overall picture of her life, so everything helps." "There was some kind of scandal last autumn," said a girl with short henna-ed hair and a stud in her lower lip. "Some trouble
between Liisa and her violin teacher. Rumour was she'd been having
an affair with him. Frowned on, of course: teachers consorting with
their students." "I heard something different," said Angel-Face. "That he came on too strong and made a pass at her during a lesson." "That could've been it. Anyway the teacher left. Don't know if he resigned or was kicked out." Sounds promising, thought Miranda. "So who was this teacher?"
"Not a Finn. From Eastern Europe."
"Hungarian," someone else chipped in. "Don't remember his name." "No, it was something unpronounceable," said Studded-lip. "He was only here a few weeks. Dishy to look at, I can tell you that
much," she grinned. "I expect the office'll give you his name." The secretary-of-studies was a prim, conservatively dressed woman
of about sixty who allowed Miranda into her office with a minimum
of fuss but no more than sufficient politeness to maintain
professionalism. Miranda assumed she was annoyed at having her
Monday afternoon routine disturbed. With a moue of distaste, the
secretary confirmed Liisa Louhi's identity from the photograph, and
then provided the dead girl's full name, birth-date, address, next of Symphony No 1 36 kin, etc. To Miranda's surprise, there was also a photograph — taken
for an upcoming concert programme. She studied the lovely face that
posed smiling for the studio camera. It was hard to recognize the
distorted parody that death had left at the Sibelius Monument. The
girl looked so young: a child's face, though with more than a hint of
womanly sensuality. The secretary allowed Miranda to fax the photo
and other details straight to Pasila. Nineteen-year-old Liisa Louhi was originally from Turku: Finland's third-largest city, a hundred miles to the west of Helsinki.
Her mother still lived there, and somebody from the local Turku
station would have the unenviable task of telling the woman about her
daughter's death. Liisa's address in Helsinki was a flat close to
Sibelius Park in the same network of streets as lived Martti Hakala —
the dog owner who'd found her body. Full student attendance records weren't submitted to the Conservatory office until the end of term, but the secretary prepared a
hand-written list of Liisa's teachers and their telephone numbers.
Miranda immediately spotted Adrian Gamble's name near the top.
She also noted that the replacement violin teacher was a woman. A
calculated move to avoid further problems? In fact, the secretary refused to be drawn into any discussion about Liisa's previous violin teacher, Zoltán Szervánszky, or his sudden
departure from the Conservatory, saying simply that one of the
Helsinki orchestras had offered him employment, so he'd decided to
give up teaching for the time being. The secretary also declined to
comment on the rumours of impropriety in the Hungarian's behaviour,
although she did agree to look up his address. Miranda managed to interview three of Liisa's teachers presently in the building. The solfège teacher had a look at his attendance lists
and confirmed his recollection that Liisa had been absent from both
the Tuesday and the Thursday sessions. The harmony and figured
bass teacher hadn't seen her either at his Wednesday lesson. On the
other hand, Liisa had managed to turn up for her personal violin
tuition at a quarter past one on Friday — albeit more distracted and
unprepared than usual, having left most of her music at home. They'd
been able to work extensively on only one of her pieces — the
Debussy sonata — and the lesson had ended at two o'clock. THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 37 Miranda would have welcomed the excuse to speak to Adrian Gamble as well, but apparently he didn't come in on Mondays. Never
mind, she'd be seeing him this evening at Mamma Rosa's. Before leaving the building, Miranda visited the Conservatory library and learned that Liisa had dropped in at about twenty to three
on Friday afternoon to enquire about a symphonic score for a future
form-analysis project. No copies remained on the shelf, so the
librarian had checked on the internet and located one at the public
library in Töölö. This was only four or five hundred yards from
Liisa's flat and would have been directly on her route home, so
Miranda decided to drive straight there and ask if anybody
remembered the dead girl. Miranda's luck held. The young librarian in the music department
looked up Liisa Louhi on his computer. "Yes, she borrowed a miniature score of Mozart's 'Jupiter' Symphony on Friday at 3.41 pm. I remember her," he added. "I
helped her find it on the shelves." The wistful look in his eye suggested he'd been another male victim to the aura that Miranda was beginning to suspect had
accompanied Liisa wherever she went. "Was she carrying a violin?"
"Yes."
"And a bag?"
"Perhaps... Yes, she took her library ticket out of it. Dug around for ages. Made some joke about old ladies and their handbags. And
she put the score in there afterwards." "Could you describe this handbag?"
"I'm not exactly an expert on ladies' handbags. But she did have it up on the counter." He frowned, trying to summon up an image. "A
shoulder bag, about this big..." He indicated something the size of an
encyclopaedia... "in a sort of light-brown suedey material. Soft-
looking. Lots of tassels on it. Sort of like Indian moccasins." Miranda nodded. He'd managed quite well for a non-expert.
"Do you remember what she was wearing?"
This he found easier, describing the same clothes Liisa had been wearing at the murder scene. Symphony No 1 38 But the young librarian had even more to offer: "Don't know if it helps, but I saw her later on — after she'd left the library. I went out
on the balcony for a smoke. Spotted her down on the street. She was
over on the other side, walking back down Humalistonkatu. Then she
went into the corner café." "How long was this after she left you?"
"Less than ten minutes."
"Was she still carrying the bag and violin?"
"Not sure about the bag... but I can picture the violin in her hand."
Miranda considered the implications. The library had no side entrance, so Liisa must have left by the front door and doubled back
along the side of the building — up Humalistonkatu towards her own
flat. Why then was she coming back down the street so soon? Her
own flat was a good third of a mile away. If the librarian's estimate of
less than ten minutes was correct, she wouldn't have had time to get
home and back — even if she'd run the whole way. So where had she
been in the meantime? Perhaps she'd started walking home but
changed her mind and decided to go to the café instead. Before Miranda left the library, she made a formal request that Friday afternoon's security videos be retained, promising to send an
officer round for them later with the necessary paperwork. Her own
next move would be the corner café. But the staff there proved
unhelpful: Yes, they'd both been working on Friday afternoon. No,
they couldn't remember anyone fitting that description. The place was
always full on Fridays. No way could they be expected to remember
one particular girl. But, as Miranda noted, the café staff were both
girls themselves. By now Ylenius and Tero would probably be at Liisa's flat with a
forensic team. Miranda wondered whether to join them. She was
already close by. But it was getting late, and her meeting with Adrian
and Phillip was scheduled for 8 o'clock. The most productive way to
spend the remaining time might be following up on the Hungarian
violinist. She called Chief Inspector Ylenius on his mobile and brought him up to date. She also asked about Liisa's flat... "Have you come across her handbag, boss?" THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 39 "No, but we found two desperate cats. Obviously hadn't been fed since Friday. The smell of ammonia from the litter tray practically
knocked us out. But there was something interesting. One of the
speaker cables on the stereo's been chewed up — presumably by the
cats. The other one's missing altogether. Seems to be the same kind of
cable Liisa was strangled with." "Doesn't that suggest the killer had access to her flat?"
"Maybe, but I don't think we should read too much into it. As Forensics already pointed out, this kind of cable's very common.
Anyway, after you've interviewed this Hungarian fellow, call it a
day." — Thanks, boss, but I already intended to! — "No need to rush
in early tomorrow. We've all been putting in a lot of overtime. Get
yourself a good night's sleep." Miranda dropped in at Pasila HQ. The interview with Zoltán
Szervánszky might turn out more than just a fact-finding mission.
She'd better take another officer with her. While in the building, she
checked her email. Nothing of significance. But as she was leaving
her desk to find a suitable backup, the phone rang... "Inspector Lewis? I'm Jaana Saari from the Conservatory. You came over to our table this afternoon... gave us all your card. I was
the one who overheard that phone call of Liisa's." "Yes, Jaana. I remember you." It was Angel-Face.
"You see, something sort of popped into my head on the way home. You asked me if Liisa called the guy on the phone by his
name." "You've remembered it?"
"No, no! Not exactly. But I did remember something peculiar," she said, and hesitated... "I'm not sure if this'll make any sense." "Try me."
"While she was talking to him, a few times she said stuff like 'Come on, eh!' or 'What about it, eh!' and then once 'Hey, eh!' It
sounded really odd. I remember wondering if she was saying "eh" to
make a question — you know, like you stick on the end to get a
reaction. But most of the time it didn't sound like a question. And
then I wondered if she was throwing in the Finnish word "ei" —
instead of using the English "no" — sort of mixing the two languages Symphony No 1 40 together. But that didn't seem to work either. Now I've thought of
another explanation... and this is the really silly bit. Try not to laugh.
What if "eh" was his name? I don't mean his whole name. Just a
nickname. Or the first letter 'A' of his name — like calling somebody
by their initial." She paused again. "Sounds far-fetched, doesn't it? I
expect you think I'm crazy. Wasn't sure whether to tell you or not." "I'm glad you did, Jaana. Everything's worth considering."
Miranda took the girl's phone number, and ended the call. In truth, she didn't see how Jaana's information would help much. But as
Miranda stood up to leave, and before she could even grab her bag,
the phone rang again. The caller introduced herself as Hanna Kettunen...
"I heard you've been asking about Liisa Louhi, so I thought I'd better let you know she came to visit me on Friday afternoon. We
rehearsed a violin sonata at my place. I've got my own Steinway, so I
prefer to play at home rather than on a Conservatory instrument." A rich mummy and daddy somewhere, Miranda supposed.
"How long was she at your place?"
"From half past four. We played for an hour and a half. So she must've left at ten or quarter past six." "Where do you live, Hanna?"
"In Mariankatu."
An expensive area! And doubtless an expensive flat, Miranda speculated, to provide a suitable setting for the Steinway. Mariankatu would have been a twenty or thirty-minute ride from Töölö library on a number 18 bus. If the librarian saw Liisa going into
the corner café at about ten to four, and she stayed long enough to
drink a cup of coffee, then she must have travelled directly to Hanna's
flat to arrive by four-thirty. "Did Liisa seem in any way different from usual?"
"Not that I noticed. She was always a bit distant — sort of scatty. But she liked the piece we were playing. We were going to perform it
in a couple of weeks. Anyway, we started practising, and she really
got in to it. She played the second movement beautifully." "You mean the Intermède?"
Hanna paused. "Yes, that's right." She seemed bemused by Miranda's clairvoyance. But Miranda didn't bother to explain how THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 41 she'd guessed the piece was the Debussy sonata. "Did Liisa tell you where she was going next?"
"No, she wasn't very forthcoming about her private life. With people like that, you give up asking after a while. I offered her some
coffee, but she was in a hurry to get away." Hanna confirmed that Liisa owned a suede shoulder bag, but she hadn't noticed it on that final Friday visit... "She would've left it by the door with her coat. Anyway somebody phoned me just after our practice session, so Liisa ended up letting
herself out." Miranda had now managed to construct a picture of Liisa's movements between one o'clock and quarter past six on the afternoon
of her death. But what had happened in those last few critical hours? Zoltán Szervánszky lived in Herttoniemi, five miles east of the city
centre. Since the element of surprise could be a useful tool for
gauging a suspect's veracity, Miranda took a chance and didn't phone
him beforehand. As backup she took along a chatty, twenty-year-old
constable from the uniformed branch. Only six months on the force,
Riitta was full of enthusiasm, and reminded Miranda of herself at the
same stage in her own career. That was probably why she'd chosen
Riitta. The Hungarian's apartment block, although convenient to the metro line — only 150 yards north of Siilitie station — was an ugly
box-shape, painted in a drab olive-green. As they climbed the stairs to
his second-floor flat, Miranda heard strains of the Sibelius Violin
Concerto permeating onto the landing. Not a recording: the real thing
— though, of course, lacking an orchestral accompaniment. Miranda
waited for a breathing space in the musical line before ringing the
doorbell. She knew how irritating an interruption could be when you
were concentrating on a fine piece of music. No need to aggravate the
violinist before the interview even began. When Szervánszky answered the door, he'd decided to be annoyed anyway, making it plain that he wished to rid himself of these
unexpected callers — whoever they might be — as soon as possible.
He was forced to amend this attitude when their identity and purpose
were explained, and begrudgingly invited them in. His sitting room Symphony No 1 42 furniture looked shabby: most likely acquired from second-hand
shops and the Salvation Army. Apart from the kitchen and the
bathroom, this seemed to be the only room. There was no sign of a
bed. Probably the sofa performed a dual function. But despite the
meanness of his domestic surroundings, Szervánszky took obvious
pains with his personal appearance. His clothes were immaculate —
almost dandified — and his dark wavy hair was expensively cut to
create an impression of casual bohemianism. One heavy lock fell
across his forehead and he frequently brushed it aside with his left
hand in a graceful but, Miranda felt, overly self-conscious gesture.
She suspected him of having perfected it in front of a mirror. Difficult
to guess his age. Mid-thirties, perhaps? Undeniably good-looking,
with a swarthy complexion and dark, fiery eyes. His features were
sharply drawn: an 'artistic face' one would have to say. But Miranda
also detected arrogance, even insolence, and the near-perfection
suggested more than a hint of effeminacy. Although she realized how
some women would be reduced to whimpering jelly at the mere sight
of this man — Riitta was already showing dangerous symptoms — he
only made Miranda squirm inwardly. "We're trying to learn as much as possible about the dead girl," Miranda began brusquely once they were all seated. "I understand
you were Liisa Louhi's violin teacher last autumn." "That is correct. I taught her for two months, perhaps for three months. She was not a satisfactory pupil." Szervánszky spoke Finnish
well enough, though with a clear Hungarian accent. "Why do you say that, Mr Szervánszky?" Miranda felt her back stiffen in Liisa's defence. "She had much talent, but she did not like to work. She was lazy. I gave her good teaching, and she wasted it. I set her many excellent
études to make her technique better, but she did not practise them.
She made little progress. It was not my fault." "Did you have any other problems with her? Personal problems, I mean?" Szervánszky sighed theatrically with pinched lips, and cast his eyes back and forth across the room before answering. "So this is why you have come. Can I never be free of ugly gossip? She was not a nice person. She was difficult. It is true that I THE SEVEN SYMPHONIES 43 allowed temptation to control me once. But only once. It was to be
excused. I drank some wine that evening. It was a celebration. I had
been taken into the Tapiola Sinfonietta to be leader of the second
violins. That was a good thing for me." Miranda noticed his fingers. Long and tapering, with scrupulously manicured nails. "Are you telling us you had a relationship with Liisa?"
"It was not a relationship," he said irritably. "I slept with her once. That does not make a relationship. But afterwards she thought she
could own me. She would not leave me alone. At the end I lost my
temper. I told my true opinion of her. That was a mistake. She went to
the principal with a story that I had tried to make sex advances. It was
the opposite. But the principal — I think she did not believe me. And
you will not believe me, either. You are also a woman." He stared a
challenge at Miranda, but she held his gaze until he broke eye contact
first. "So you left the Conservatory because of this 'problem' with Liisa," Miranda suggested. "No, I did not leave the Conservatory because of Liisa," he replied with emphasis. "I left because I had a job in the Sinfonietta. I did not
want to teach so much. And now I want time to practise my
instrument. I will enter the Sibelius Violin Competition this year. It is
my last chance. I will perhaps win it." At least he didn't lack self-confidence! But Miranda now had to correct her estimate of his age. Candidates for this famous
international violin competition weren't accepted beyond their thirty-
first birthday. "Did you stay in contact with Liisa?"
"Of course not. I did not wish to see her again. That is obvious."
"And she didn't try to phone you?"
"Once she did. Two weeks after I left the Conservatory. Very late. She awoke me. I think she had too much to drink. She told me she
was happy I had lost my job. I did not lose my job. I left because I did
not want to stay. I took the telephone plug out of the wall. She never
called me again." "And you haven't met her since?"
"Never." Symphony No 1 44 "And can you tell us, Mr Szervánszky, what you were doing last Friday evening, between eight and ten o'clock?" The Hungarian stood up abruptly and threw his arms in the air with affected exasperation. "So now you think that it is certainly I
who killed her." He walked round to the back of the sofa and leaned
across it. "You are quite mad. I have not seen Liisa for a half year. I
have no wish to see her. You say she is dead. Such a pity! But I did
not kill her." "Please answer my question, Mr Szervánszky." Miranda's voice sharpened. "Can you account for your movements on Friday
evening?" "Yes, I can tell you what I did." He turned momentarily to Riitta, and gave her a conspiratorial smile. She blushed like a schoolgirl.
"On Friday evening I sat in the orchestra of the Finnish National
Opera House. Sometimes a player is sick and they ask me to take the
place. It is not a permanent work, but I have done it often. It brings
extra money. I did it last Friday. I hope I do not make you very
unhappy, Inspector." Miranda had to admit some disappointment that this odious person might have an alibi for the evening of the murder. They'd, of course,
check it, but there was now no point in pursuing the interview.
Miranda made her escape, with a reluctant Riitta trailing behind. Back at HQ, Miranda paid her desk a final visit. Tero was still in the
office, typing up a report with one hand and grasping a Mars bar in
the other. Miranda told him about the interview in Herttoniemi. "What d'you reckon?" he said. "Are all Hungarians like him?"
"I've met plenty of others and had no trouble liking any of them. Obnoxious people can be born in any country, Tero. Even in
Finland," she added pointedly. But Tero seemed oblivious to the irony.
"Will you check out his alibi tomorrow?" Miranda went on brusquely. "And tear it down in shreds for you?"
"That's just wishful thinking. But since you've probably never set foot in the Opera House, it'll be an educational experience for you —
a broadening of