I have been frantically proofreading The Triumvirate Murders. 

And I am very excited. One beta reader sent me this last Saturday:

“If you love your crime fiction with brains, bite and a big beating heart, The Triumvirate Murders is a killer. Your novel isn’t just playing in the same league as Jo Nesbø, and other Scandi-Noir writers but you are carving out a distinctive voice of your own. A dazzling, devastating and darkly delightful triumph. It was one of the greatest reading expriences for a while. Thanks. – Susan”

She also mentioned the typos, but I hope I have now ironed them out… mostly.

And because I have not had time to write any newsletter, here are the first two chapters of the upcominging book. Let me know what you think. The book will be available for preorders (soon after Amazon has sorted out their datat outages…) and then it will be officially launched on the 6th of December.

Prologue

The early August day was bathed in warm morning sunlight. The road stretched empty, cutting through the spruce forest like a giant ruler. The air was thick with petrichor and the promise of a glorious late-summer day.

Tall trees flanked the gravel road, creating the perfect environment for blueberries. The forest floor, still moist from the recent rain, basked in cool shadows – but it would soon turn dry and hot under the rising sun. A single black car sat parked at the edge of a short driveway beside the road, waiting patiently for the berry pickers to return with a bucket full of sweet treasures.

Dragonflies hovered and darted around the car’s sun-warmed bonnet, glinting like tiny emeralds in the light. A little girl burst from the forest behind the car, her long blond hair catching the sun like strands of gold. She caught sight of a dragonfly and took off after it, her laughter ringing through the stillness.

Chasing the iridescent, fast, zigzagging insect, she didn’t hear the approaching engine. She ran onto the road without looking.

With a brutal thud, the yellow sports car struck her.

The impact hurled her into the air.

She spun like a rag doll, then landed hard behind the fast-vanishing car, which didn’t stop. The sun had done its work, and the gravel road erupted in a cloud of thick, dry dust, swallowing the fleeing vehicle.

The roar of the engine faded quickly into silence.

The little girl lay still in the middle of the road. Her eyes stared upwards – into the sky and the vastness beyond – where her life dissolved like a dewdrop in the morning sun. Only the dragonfly remained, hovering above her as blood pooled behind her head, staining her golden hair into something like a velvet collar.

A scream broke the silence – her father, rushing from the woods.

He dropped to his knees, the bucket tumbling from his hands, blueberries scattering like pearls around his daughter’s body, forming a diadem of deep blue.

There was nothing he could do. Nothing but scream. Nothing but hold his daughter, who had just celebrated her tenth birthday. They had come to the forest that morning to pick berries for her birthday cake.

Chapter 1

A long line of well-dressed—or, in many cases, oddly dressed—people snaked its way towards the President of Finland and his wife. The TV screen slowly devoured this slithering spectacle while millions of Finns were glued to their televisions, watching the annual Independence Day celebrations at the President’s Castle, right in the heart of Helsinki.

This tiny nation could never get enough of that celebration. Casting off Russia in 1917, and then refusing to let them occupy the land during the Second World War—at the cost of many lives, but not their pride—was etched deeply into the psyche of the proud Finns. And that was something to be properly celebrated.

The dresses, and the question of who was with whom, became water-cooler topics long after the 6th of December’s presidential party. Everyone wore their best—some outlandish, some even offensive. The upper echelons of the nation, the crème de la crème, had gone to the trouble of dressing up. In a very Finnish way, smiles were scarce, and the President was stiff, resembling a Madame Tussauds masterpiece more than a living creature.

–––

‘Do you see them yet?’ called Hermione from the kitchen, rummaging for plates she’d misplaced during the hasty move from Ryväskylä to Helsinki just a few weeks earlier.

‘Nope, but Tuomas texted that they should be in soon. There’s been a demonstration, and they had to wait in the taxi for almost half an hour before the police cleared the way,’ shouted Baguette from the living room, where the boxes still occupied more space than the scant furniture.

‘I once demonstrated there,’ said Granna, pouring perhaps a third and a very generous glass of bubbles for herself. ‘It was against the war in Vietnam. Baguette, you were just a wee baby in the tram, and it was raining just like today. And now your son is in that pompous place of pretence.’

‘Relax, Mum,’ laughed Baguette, taking her glass. ‘I need this more than you.’

‘I can’t find the bloody plates,’ Hermione said, snatching the champagne.

‘Behave,’ Granna replied, feigning annoyance. ‘I bought the bubbles!’

‘Whatever, take this if it makes you happy,’ Hermione offered, handing her glass to Granna. ‘After all, I need a gin and tonic. It’s going to be a long, boring night.’

‘Shush!’ shouted Baguette. ‘Look—Tuomas and Pekka are just coming in.’

The Ylivire-Baxter family stared at the screen, secretly very proud of their offspring.

‘Tuomas is still wearing that purple tuxedo we got him for Erkki Salo’s fiftieth birthday,’ remarked Hermione, wanting to say something about Pekka’s white one but snapping her mouth shut.

‘He’s twenty-five now and still looks like a fifteen-year-old,’ mused Granna. ‘He’s inherited Ylivire’s bony frame and Baxter’s short bones.’

‘He’s quite a sight,’ said Baguette. ‘And so is Pekka. He’s let his grey hair grow almost as long as Tuomas’s red mane.’

‘I just wish—’ Hermione began, but didn’t finish her thought, taking a long gulp of her gin and tonic.

‘Hermione, your son is happy with Pekka,’ said Granna, giving Hermione a look that made her avert her eyes. ‘Do I need to remind you that you’re over ten years older than my sweet little Baguette, and when you laid eyes on him, did I ever say a word?’

‘Touché,’ said Hermione, though the unspoken maternal misgivings about her son’s much older partner still clung to her like a shadow.

Pekka Wall was the famous editor and translator who had just received the Pro Finlandia Medal and been hoisted onto the very pedestal he disdained. Only Tuomas’s persistent nagging had finally made him accept the honour and the invitation.

Tuomas couldn’t wait to get there—hoping to cause some chaos, or at least press a few buttons among the important guests. His joy was in tickling emperors under their garments with his sharp tongue. That, in the end, made Pekka agree; he adored the little scenes Tuomas was so adept at causing.

‘Mind you, dear, Oona was thirty-six years younger than Chaplin,’ giggled Baguette, who enjoyed his wife’s biases regarding their only son but didn’t see the daggers in her eyes. The flame-haired, long-locked Tuomas and Pekka, who looked like a snowman in his white tuxedo, disappeared from view after shaking the President’s hand.

‘And that was Pro Finlandia recipient Pekka Wall, with his protégé, Tuomas Ylivire, who has soared to international fame with his debut sci-fi novel, Too Bright to Shine,’ intoned the TV announcer, listing each guest as they shook the President’s clammy hand and the absent-mindedly smiling First Lady’s. Hermione took a swig directly from the gin bottle, smirking.

Baguette glanced at Hermione and paused, narrowing his eyes in a very Ylivire manner. Hermione raised her eyebrows as if to say, What?

‘Let’s order some pizza,’ suggested practical Baguette, as Tuomas and Pekka left the screen. ‘I reckon the kitchen’s still mostly in boxes. Not even I, with my detective training and uncanny intuition, can find anything in what Hermione packed.’

–––

Inside the President’s Castle, it was hot, humid and crowded. The elegant building stood on the Helsinki waterfront as a fine example of neoclassical architecture, with a hint of Empire influence, but it certainly hadn’t been designed to host two thousand people in costumes requiring plenty of ventilation—or to contain the odours that could fell even the most seasoned disco-goers, let alone the moderately overweight Finnish elite.

After the handshakes, Tuomas and Pekka were herded into the main banquet hall, already so crowded that Pekka wiped sweat from his brow and began plotting an escape. He hardly recognised anyone, and Tuomas knew no one at all. Pekka was a hermit; Tuomas, far too young.

But curious eyes followed them, for everyone knew who they were: the pair who’d helped solve a series of murders a couple of years ago and—more importantly—a couple whose international success was matched by only a handful of Finnish artists. And, on top of it all, they were gay. And an item.

‘Hi, Tuomas,’ came a crisp voice, clear as a dewdrop. Tuomas turned and saw the only familiar face in the crowd.

‘Metsätähti, it’s wonderful to see you!’ exclaimed Tuomas, delighted, as the brightest star among Finnish songbirds came to embrace him, saving him and Pekka from a pushy, lip-filler-enhanced influencer lurking nearby.

‘I hope you’ve forgiven me for my little pep talk all those years ago at the Bun’s studio—you were quite a handful as the floor boy. My band still has scars from your quips,’ winked the singer. ‘And you must be Pekka. My son is a fan of both of you.’

It was a relief to talk to someone who didn’t want anything from them, and Pekka almost relaxed. Metsätähti’s songs had soundtracked his generation’s journey from rural Finland to the urban technopolis, her music a low-key, nostalgic hope for decades.

‘I hope you both enjoy the evening,’ she said, and soon disappeared into the crowd. The photographers had a field day—Tuomas with Metsätähti in one frame was gossip gold, and the warm hug and kiss on Tuomas’s cheek would fuel headlines. Pekka could already picture tomorrow’s tabloids: Metsätähti and Tuomas Ylivire: Timeless Stardom at the President’s Castle.

‘Let’s get something to drink,’ suggested Pekka, and together they pushed their way towards the long bar in the adjoining hall. It was slow going—they were stopped, hand-shaken, interviewed, pulled and pushed—until at last they acquired two glasses of far-too-warm Chardonnay.

–––

Tuomas and Pekka eventually found their way upstairs, where smaller rooms offered some privacy and peace.

‘So, you’re the hot pair of the day,’ announced a tall man in his fifties as he entered the little salon. ‘I’m Kari Varassuo, and I’d love to have you on my talk show.’

‘In your dreams, Kari,’ said Pekka. Tuomas watched as Varassuo blinked, then quickly regained his composure. ‘You stole my idea once, and once is enough.’

‘I love your sarcasm, Pekka,’ Varassuo replied, slipping back into his usual charm. ‘I’m lucky I gave up editing for other ventures all those years ago.’

‘Now I know who you are,’ said Tuomas, with a Cheshire-cat grin. ‘You’re the bloke who wrote Your Inner Eagle a few years back. I was still in high school, but I remember all the female teachers were creaming because of it.’

‘Yes, it sold quite well,’ Varassuo admitted, clearly pleased.

‘The only thing you forgot was to credit the source you copied from,’ Pekka said, turning his back on Varassuo. The latter was left to contemplate one long grey-haired neck and one topped with red curls as Pekka and Tuomas moved to the next room.

–––

‘That didn’t go down too well, Kari,’ commented a suave man who had watched the exchange.

‘Hi, Sven. Wall’s a nobody, but he’s full of himself because he’s been shagging that ginger kid to fame,’ Varassuo hissed quietly. ‘Did you get the job done? Is it signed yet?’

Sven placed a hand on Varassuo’s shoulder and steered him aside. ‘Let’s not discuss work here. Have you seen Mikko?’

From the other room, Tuomas noticed Varassuo and this unknown Sven glance their way, and tried to place where he’d seen the latter before.

‘He’s Sven Wennerberg-Rydig, CEO of MediaMight,’ whispered Pekka, realising what Tuomas was pondering. ‘Sven’s known that baboon since they were teens. There’s a third in their little gang, Mikko Sadonkorjuu, but I haven’t spotted him here yet.’

‘The same one you’re working with on his memoir?’ asked Tuomas.

But just then, a bright light blinded them, and the crowd parted for a TV crew. The crew entered, gathering Kari Varassuo, Sven Wennerberg-Rydig and their wives, lining them up beside Tuomas and Pekka. There was no escape from an impromptu interview. Fuck this, thought Pekka, but he mustered a wry smile for the camera while Tuomas leaned on him purposefully.

The journalist, earpiece in place, shuffled Sven, Kari, Pekka and Tuomas closer together and had just begun her first question when Tuomas squeezed Pekka’s bum. This earned otherwise publicly crumpy Pekka his first and never-before-seen genuine smile, lighting up screens in millions of homes.

–––

‘This pepperoni’s too dry,’ said Baguette, helping himself to a beer from the cooler filled with ice. Somehow, the fridge wasn’t working, but he decided that was a Monday problem. The important thing was cold beer and chilled wine.

‘Shush!’ exclaimed Hermione as the interminable handshakes finished and the camera began to wander around the banquet hall.

Empty pizza boxes gaped in wonder before the enormous seventy-six-inch television they’d bought for their new flat in central Helsinki, just a stone’s throw from the President’s Castle.

Hermione, Baguette and Granna squeezed together on the old couch they’d refused to leave in Ryväskylä. Its soft, stained leather was filled with memories, but it didn’t suit the spacious, executive flat oozing luxury and money.

The apartment was Hermione’s perk from her new job as Chief Communications Officer at the Saxon Group, Europe’s largest and most influential business communications, publishing and lobbying corporation.

‘Look!’ cried Granna. ‘There they are.’

All eyes were glued to the screen.

‘He’s so handsome,’ Hermione slurred, already tipsy.

–––

The reporter framed the group and began, ‘Welcome to the Independence Day celebration. I have the top talent of our publishing world here. Sven Wennerberg-Rydig, you’ve been leading MediaMight for years, but now there are rumours you’ve been appointed CEO of one of Europe’s largest companies, the Saxon Group. Is that true?’

The camera zoomed in on Sven and his wife.

‘I have to say, Finnish news outlets don’t waste time. Yes, I’ll begin my new role in January,’ Sven confirmed.

The camera panned back and, if viewers had been able to lip-read, they would have seen Pekka clearly mouth, What the fuck.

Sven continued, ‘I’ll be reorganising some of Saxon Group’s operations and also acquiring new, missing elements – like our Finnish sci-fi publisher, Andromedusa Publishing, which has soared after the phenomenal success of our young Tuomas Ylivire here. That deal was signed yesterday, pending formal approval in January, when Andromedusa holds its AGM.’ He nodded to Tuomas and patted his shoulder.

Tuomas’s cheeks reddened as he glanced at Pekka, eyebrows raised heavenward.

‘And what about you, Kari Varassuo?’ the journalist asked gleefully, sensing a raft of headlines in the making.

‘Well, I wanted to keep this secret, but I’ve decided to take a sabbatical to South America after selling my Content Factory to MediaMight,’ Kari revealed, savouring the darkening look on Pekka’s face. ‘I realised that money isn’t everything, and I need to recharge after two decades of talk shows, training events and leadership coaching.’

‘Money may not be everything, but you’ve clearly received quite a windfall from MediaMight,’ said the microphone-armed sycophant. ‘But what about our most famous guests this evening – Pro Finlandia recipient Pekka Wall and young author Tuomas Ylivirta? Any news? Anything as dramatic as Sven and Kari?’

Tuomas recovered quickly from Sven’s bombshell. ‘Nothing so boring, but certainly more entertaining. My first novel, Too Bright to Shine, will be adapted into both a film and a mini-series. Netflix has already started work on the mini-series, which should be out by the end of 2019. The film – a prequel, or rather a pilot for the series – will be released about six months earlier.’

‘By the way, it’s Ylivire, not Ylivirta,’ said Pekka with a wry smile, causing the journalist to lose her train of thought momentarily.

‘Of course, Tuomas—I am so sorry for my slip,’ she said quickly, and continued to bask in the scoop when a somewhat unsteady Mikko Sadonkorjuu wedged himself in beside Pekka Wall, practically shouting, ‘Did you tell this TV lady you’ll write my memoir, Pekka? And did you say how much I had to pay for the pleasure of having you as my ghost-wrangler?’ He slurred the last syllables and turned to the group.

Pekka shook his head and signalled to the journalist to wrap it up, but Mikko was in full swing. He was agitated, and before the director could cut away, he threw his arms around Pekka, Sven and Kari, pulling them so close to the camera that his round face filled the screen. He winked and whispered conspiratorially, ‘And this book will be a tell-all and more! I know where the bodies are buried.’

Tuomas grinned behind Mikko’s broad head, knowing the real show was only just beginning.

–––

The scene switched to the dance floor, where the President was preparing to take his wife for the first dance of the evening.

‘What the fuck was that?’ said Baguette, fetching another beer. ‘Hermione, did you know about this Wennerberg-Rydig business?’

‘I’m gobsmacked,’ replied Hermione. ‘No one told me a thing. Mind you, I start next week. I knew there’d be a new CEO, but not until much later next year.’

‘I smell a rat,’ said Granna. ‘These men are just a bunch of dodgy fiddlers. But they’ve always known how to land on their feet. They were hailed as heroes back in the mid-seventies for saving a classmate from drowning at summer camp, or something. It was all in the papers—these teenage heroes. But I always thought they were just lucky, cocky, entitled rich kids.’

‘I wonder what Pekka makes of all this,’ Baguette murmured, more to himself than the others. He has a talent for summoning ghosts from the past.

–––

The chaos was palpable. Sven spat at Kari, ‘Take that idiot home, tie him to his chair and make sure he stays there. Thank God his wife isn’t here. I’m not in the mood for Russian theatrics. I’ll bring our wives to the Kämp Hotel’s bar for the afterparty. See you there. And use your bloody brains, if you have any. I must see a few people – including the President – before we go.’

‘That was strange,’ said Tuomas, as he and Pekka left the businessmen to their scheming. He sensed that something ugly was brewing.

‘This bodes ill, Tuomas,’ said Pekka. ‘Saxon Group doesn’t care about Andromedusa Publishing—they just want the rights. I think it’s time we found some alternatives.’

–––

The first dance began, and the President just about avoided treading on his wife’s feet. The army’s brass band tried to mask the awkwardness with sheer volume.

‘Let’s dance,’ suggested Tuomas, who didn’t know how—nor did Pekka, who gasped and eyed him, wondering if Tuomas had drunk too much warm Chardonnay.

But Tuomas was determined – he wanted to end the night on a high note – and dragged Pekka to the dance floor, right next to the President, who stopped and stared at Pekka’s snowy presence and Tuomas’s flaming hair and purple tuxedo.

The band’s conductor turned to see what had caused the sudden halt, baton held high, jaw dropped, as the scene unfolded.

Every home in Finland watched as, in close-up, a red-haired young man knelt before a much older man, camouflaged in a white tuxedo like a sniper in the snow, while the President made space with his eyebrows raised high in astonishment.

Some security behemoths tightened their jaws and were ready to spring into action to protect the President when the young man took something from his pocket, opened it, and reached out to Pekka, revealing a beautiful platinum ring.

The microphone boom swung closer, and the entire country heard the young man ask, ‘Will you marry me, Pekka Wall, and take me as your loving husband?’

‘I will,’ whispered the older man, wiping his eyes as he lifted the young man up.

They kissed as the President of Finland applauded and his wife, alive for the first time that night, beamed. She had secretly hoped for a different Independence Day celebration, and her favourite sci-fi author granted her wish.

–––

At home, Hermione dropped her gin and tonic on the floor, ice cubes scattering across the polished parquet like transparent mice, and Granna laughed hysterically.

Baguette grabbed another beer and declared, ‘That was something. At least now we’ve got something to talk about when they get back.’

Janus Lucky
www.januslucky.com

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