Detective Chief Inspector Aliisa Tuulikki Ykspetäjä.

Ykspetäjä. An approximation of how to pronounce the name, emphasise the first syllable, “Ook”, append the “spet”, and fade the “aya” as if it’s your last breath. Ook-spetaya. Not Ook-spe-ta–ya. I’m not Russian.

I was born in Salo, Finland, to a caring mother and a brutal, criminal father who took me from my homeland to Bradford, England, with his tarty girlfriend. I was six, my mother allegedly leaving for another man. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.

Of myself? I’m asocial, emotionally stunted, self-obsessed, morose, inward, sarcastic, anti-theist, lazy, glossophobic, and possess an attitude of superiority – or so I’m told. Those could be my good points. I’m focused, organised, incisive, methodical, and good at detecting, and I look young for my age, not that I’ll be classified as a typical Nordic beauty. I’m not excessively tall or blonde. Some say I wouldn’t win a beauty contest if I was the only contestant, but who cares? My features are functional, simple, undemanding, yet distinctive – deathly pale skin and dark eyes, cascading coal-black hair cropped more-or-less horizontally above my brows and across the small of my back, a svelte frame with an ironing-board chest. No jewellery distracts from the vision of chromatic austerity. 1.65 metres tall in my holed woollen socks. Kohl and grey line and shadow my eyes. My lippy is cerise, scarlet or blood red. If I get stares, it’s because I bewitch.

Thirty-two. My clothes are black and typically from charity shops, fashion being a waste of resources. And while my style might suggest otherwise, I’m not a Goth.

Nunquam minus sola, quam cum sola – never less alone than when alone – explains why I live in a remote stone laithe on White Moor, just south of Oxenhope, 1784 etched into the mossed lintel. It’s accessed by an unwelcoming shingle track, a gate and a flock of mad sheep deterring to visitors.

My motto is an old Finnish one: Me synnymme, me elämme, ja kun aika koittaa, me kuolemme – we are born, we live, and when the time comes, we die. I don’t worry about death; I see it as a relief from living.

My family & early days in Bradford –

If my parent’s weren’t shouting each other down they’d be beating each other with their fists, or whatever came to hand. I got beat too, as did my younger sister, Oili Piia, and little brother, Onni, even though they were born of my non-mother. My father was a drunkard and a bully, my non-mother returning home when I was 12. I lost my little brother four years later. My fault, or so my sister has it, but you can’t account for fate. At 17, I left home to doss around the derelict mills of Bradford with my one-and-only friend. She was killed by her drug dealer. A year later, my right hand was macerated by a mincing machine. Compensation paid for a return to Finland and my police training, returning to the UK to join the Greater Bradford CID as a Detective Chief Inspector, displacing Sadman as Beefy’s “go to” detective, making me his number one enemy.

I read classic literature It’s basically how I learned English, beyond the catch-up classes.

Testimonials from a few who think they know me –

Beefy – ‘You’re skinny, scruffy, asocial, and a miserable recluse with the fashion sense as a blind sloth… and you talk funny.’

The Burgerman – ‘Is she always so fucking scruffy? And how does she fasten her bra with one hand?’

Emily – ‘See! This is why nobody talks to you, you testy cow! You’re just so… fucking awkward! Why can’t you just accept help like everybody else?’