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difficult. Nor was it the prestige he radiated or the dashing Don Juan silver at his temples. No, something else in him put me on edge. I knew that a large part of my antipathy derived from our run-in at the party, and I was irritated with myself for taking offense at something so trivial.
    “Armi was a pleasant person and a good worker,” Hellström said flatly as he rotated the cigarette between his fingers. Ash fell onto the white planks of the balcony, but he didn’t notice.
    “And where is your office located?”
    “In the Heikintori Medical Center, near city hall. I share the building with several other medical specialists. We are all independent.”
    “Armi was a receptionist in your clinic?”
    “Receptionist isn’t quite the right word. Armi was a nurse with a specialty in gynecology. Of course, she did take care ofmaking appointments for patients and other practical arrangements with the main reception desk.”
    “So she was quite involved with the patients?”
    “Nowadays, we’re calling them clients, not patients.” Hellström picked a single strand of silver hair from the knee of his bottle-green slacks and dropped it over the balcony railing onto the grass. “Armi was happy and unreserved, and usually got along well with everyone. For some of my clients, her manner may have even been a little too informal.”
    “In what way?”
    Hellström paused, seeming to consider the propriety of criticizing the dead, but then he continued anyway.
    “Well, not every client wants to be called by her first name. Armi lacked the social grace that would have allowed more understanding of each client’s preferences. And she may have kept a bit too well abreast of my client’s ailments and other business.”
    “Do you mean that Armi was nosy?”
    Hellström nodded.
    “My clients include more than a few well-known women: actresses, business owners, politicians. I’m afraid Armi may have been in the habit of discussing their private matters somewhat too openly. Otherwise, she was a good worker, and I believe her interest in people came out of a genuine concern for them.”
    Hellström’s last phrase could have served as an obituary. He lit another cigarette, which made me wonder whether he chain-smoked normally or this was just a reaction to Armi’s death.
    “What sorts of things does your practice handle?”
    “A wide range of gynecological services, from checkups and contraceptive prescriptions to prenatal exams and cancer screenings. I have an adjunct professorship at Helsinki UniversityHospital, so if my clients request it, I can also attend at cancer surgeries and births.”
    This all sounded rote; Hellström had presumably repeated it a hundred times in various languages at conferences and promotional events. Suddenly I remembered that I needed to renew my own birth control prescription, but I had no intention of going to Dr. Hellström’s clinic. I patronize only female gynecologists. Besides, did I need the Pill at all anymore, since things with Antti seemed to be going down the toilet?
    “I heard that you treated Armi’s sister’s for a miscarriage some time ago. What was the cause of the miscarriage?”
    “That you’ll have to ask Mallu Laaksonen herself—my clients’ information is confidential,” Hellström said firmly. Since he was right, I didn’t argue.
    “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in Armi lately? Something she might have been concerned about—or especially happy about? New friends? More money than usual?”
    Down the narrow lane came the rattling sound of a tricycle. A mother with a stroller followed the two-year-old cyclist, the contents of the stroller howling savagely. Hellström remained quiet for a long time before answering.
    “This was about a month ago. Kimmo was visiting his father in Ecuador for a couple of weeks, and during that time Markku Ruosteenoja—I believe most people call him Makke—picked up Armi from work quite often. I asked Armi in jest