Cold Courage

by Pekka Hiltunen

  ‘I would have graduated in less than two years, but I had to complete my internship.’

  Mari also lived alone.

  ‘I have men from time to time, but I don’t quite match your pace.’

  She had circulated through various countries, finally moving to London because Britain seemed to offer the most opportunities. In addition to her degree in psychology, she had studied sociology at the London School of Economics. For three years she worked as a personnel manager at Mend Ltd, a large insurance company. She had got the job based on a recommendation from a headhunter.

  ‘I left there three years ago.’

  Mari fell silent.

  Lia stared at the city sparkling before them. She wondered what was wrong. At the pub Mari had seemed self-confident and alluring in a strange way.

  ‘One thing has influenced my life more than anything else,’ Mari continued.

  OK, here we go, thought Lia. She’s a closet lesbian who hits on women in pubs. Or a Jehovah’s Witness who proselytises people in public parks.

  ‘I have an unusual gift,’ Mari said, looking at Lia seriously. ‘I have a sort of gift for seeing more in people than other people do. I discovered it when I was a child, and that’s why I’ve lived such an unusual life.’

  Lia stared at Mari, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Do you know how people notice really tiny things about others, often without realising it?’ Mari asked. ‘Like when someone glances at a door or fidgets nervously, you conclude that they’re anxious to get out of the room or waiting for someone to come through the door. You might call those sorts of deductions semi-conscious or intuitive perception. For me the skill of noticing and analysing things just grew a lot stronger than in everyone else.’

  The strongest manifestations related to her sense of sight. When she looked at people, she could see what they were thinking and what they would be likely to do.

  ‘Mind-reading?’ Lia said in disbelief.

  ‘No, no. If you think of a number, I can’t guess what it is. It doesn’t work like that. But I can say what you think of me. And I know what you’re probably planning to do this weekend.’

  ‘This weekend I’m planning to sleep off my hangover,’ Lia said. ‘Guessing that doesn’t take any special powers.’

  Mari laughed.

  ‘What if I told you how this all started?’

  When Mari was eight years old, her great-grandparents held a Rautee family reunion at Vanajanlinna Estate near Hämeenlinna in south-central Finland.

  In the elegant old hunting manor were arches, beautiful halls, antique furnishings and a prohibition-era themed bar located behind a secret door in the cellar billiards room. The history of the manor was complicated. Even the Soviet Union had once controlled it for a while, and at the time of the family gathering it functioned as a leftist youth academy.

  ‘Our great-grandparents were such conscientious, ideologically pure supporters of the working class that the director of the school allowed them to rent the entire place for the reunion. It was the poshest leftist party you can imagine.’

  Sixty relatives attended, the furthest-flung coming all the way from America. Mari had never met most of them. They were complete strangers, but still very warm people with familiar characteristics.

  At the end of the reunion, everyone gathered in the courtyard for a family portrait. Arranging sixty people took time. The great grandparents and other elderly people sat in the front row. The men wore the dark suits which they only dusted off for weddings and funerals. The women were in their finest gowns with their hair carefully done up. The mothers attempted to clean smudges from the children’s clothing using handkerchiefs and spit.

  ‘Then I realised that something strange was happening.’

  Looking at the group, Mari knew what many of them were thinking.

  She knew that her cousin had just got a new, special drug from an American relative. She knew that Uncle Perttu had just cheated on his wife and wanted to do it again.

  ‘I also knew that my big sister Marja had just decided what she would be when she grew up. She wanted to be a teacher. And a relative she had met there had influenced her decision.’

  No one was saying these things out loud, but still Mari knew them all the same.

  ‘Do you know how… crazy that sounds?’ Lia asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The group photograph taken at the reunion came in the post a month later.

  ‘Looking at the picture, I noticed more things, and everything I could see in those people made me very sad.’

  Soon Uncle Perttu divorced Auntie Minna, and she said it was because he had been unfaithful. Mari’s sister Marja did become a teacher and now lived in Porvoo.

  ‘I can understand even a little kid looking at someone and knowing they are using drugs. Or feeling guilty about something,’ Lia said. ‘Maybe you’re just a really good guesser. Like you guessed things about me tonight.’

  ‘No, Lia. That’s not it.’

  The seriousness in Mari’s tone made the unbelievable seem somehow real.

  If this woman is a nutcase, she is a very clever nutcase.

  ‘Up until then I had thought that everyone could sense this much about everyone else.’

  But at the family reunion, Mari had grasped the power of her gift. As an eight year old, she hadn’t known anything about life yet. And yet, she still saw through them all.

  Lia shook her head as a surge of mistrust washed over her.

  ‘The effect on my life has been huge,’ Mari said.

  Mari had seen things as a child that other people only realised in adulthood. She had begun to perceive people’s motives and understand why adults ended up doing things that harmed even themselves. And at the same time, she had become a faster learner.

  ‘When I said that I graduated from university quickly – actually I sat for exams and completed the book-based sections in two months. I didn’t want to attract attention, so I drew my other requirements out over a longer period.’

  ‘You were some kind of prodigy? A super genius?’

  ‘It isn’t intelligence. But this ability – I call it reading people – has brought me luck. And some degree of unhappiness.’

  ‘What kind of unhappiness?’

  Mari sighed: it was hard to explain.

  ‘But I’m sure you understand why I quit working at an insurance company.’

  Mari had been an outstanding personnel manager. Above all she excelled at recruiting new workers and counselling those already on the staff.

  ‘I could see right off what kind of people they were. Whether they were telling the truth, whether they were a good fit for their jobs. But it wore on me.’

  Mari was silent for a moment before continuing.

  ‘Knowing other people’s troubles is hard. Or seeing that someone is making a big mistake or doing something wrong but not being able to intervene. For instance, once a guy requested a transfer to another department, supposedly to get more experience, but the real reason was that he was selling information to a competitor.’

  ‘You saw something like that?’ Lia asked in astonishment.

  ‘And a lot more.’

  ‘You would be the best police detective in the world.’

  Mari smiled.

  ‘A very tired police detective.’

  Lia stood up. Her legs were asleep, and the night was growing old.

  ‘You may be able to draw conclusions from people’s behaviour better than others, but I still wouldn’t call that knowing what they’re thinking.’

  ‘OK,’ Mari said. ‘Do you want me to tell you what you really think of me?’

  Lia’s mouth remained shut.

  This is getting frightening.

  ‘Let me have it,’ she finally said.

  Mari spoke quickly, without a second thought.

  ‘You like me a lot, more than anyone else you’ve ever just met. But you’re also scared by such a new situation. Most of you believes everything I’m
saying, but you won’t accept it. You aren’t used to thinking that anything like this could exist. Within about fifteen minutes you will have pacified the part of you that’s resisting, and then it will be time for us to go home to sleep. You want to see me again. You’re curious about what I haven’t told you yet and about what might happen between us.’

  ‘Ah,’ Lia said. ‘I’m afraid it’s going to take significantly longer than fifteen minutes for me to believe you.’

  ‘Good,’ Mari said. ‘A Finnish girl who won’t let herself be talked into things just like that. When you were telling me about yourself, you only told the truth, without embellishment. That’s rare. Although you did leave out a few things.’

  Lia blanched.

  What does she know? It’s been too long for her to see any of that.

  ‘You also bent the truth when you said that you never go to bed with colleagues,’ Mari said.

  Lia stared at her.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’m going to wager that you’ve only ever made one exception. Probably the political reporter, Timothy. Being with him was awkward enough that you decided not to do it any more.’

  Jesus Christ. She really does see things.

  ‘I have to go,’ Lia said. ‘It’s starting to get cold.’

  ‘OK,’ Mari said and stood up.

  Slowly they descended the hill, remaining silent all the way. Lia didn’t know what to say.

  After reaching Trafalgar Road, they turned towards the lights of taxis glowing in the darkness.

  ‘Do you mind if we let this night simmer and then chat again sometime soon?’ Mari asked, offering Lia a calling card. It said simply Mari Rautee, with a telephone number below.

  No title. Like, for example, Extremely Intelligent Loon.

  ‘You came to meet me on purpose,’ Lia said.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Why? What do you want from me?’

  Mari gave Lia a long look, and for the first time after a night that was quickly turning into morning, she looked tired.

  ‘I want you to be my friend.’

  5

  Mari watches as Lia gets into the taxi.

  She waits for the car to begin moving, driving slowly along Trafalgar Road and turning at the first corner.

  Mari thinks of Kidderpore Avenue, the street where Lia lives. She has been there. She has watched from a distance as Lia walked down the street, as Lia sat in the small park near her flat, as Lia set out for a jog.

  Lia is exactly as she had thought.

  Mari turns to look at the driver of the next taxi. South-east Asian, a little past sixty, tired from driving the night shift. Does not raise his eyes from the tabloid he is idly perusing.

  Even after all that drinking, the certainty comes automatically.

  With her knuckles she gently knocks on the side window of the cab, and the driver turns. Mari climbs in, gives the cabbie her destination in Hoxton, and the taxi takes off with a jerk.

  The driver does not attempt conversation. Mari glances at him once more, deciding he does not warrant further thought. Harmless.

  The address Mari gave is three streets away from her home. She never takes taxis directly to her building, always getting out at least three streets away.

  At her destination, Mari pays the fare and watches as the taxi glides away into the darkness and disappears. She scans her surroundings, waiting one minute. Two minutes.

  Always at least three blocks early, always a check to ensure that no one dodgy is behind, always a quick transition from street to home.

  No one will invade her home or her thoughts.

  6

  Lia didn’t ring Mari the next day, although she wanted to.

  Nursing her hangover, she took it as easy as humanly possible. She didn’t even go jogging, only walked slowly around the neighbourhood.

  On Sunday afternoon, she climbed up the flight of stairs and rang Mr Vong’s doorbell.

  Once or twice a month they played cards, sitting facing each other, always in the same seats. The table stood in the centre of the small living room. They spoke little, but smiled a lot.

  They had the same style of play, bold but not rash. They took the risks they could afford.

  Sometimes as they played, Lia imagined how they must look, such a strange pair. Two foreigners living alone in a quiet corner of a city of millions. From such different cultures, but on these afternoons the background of each was swept away. An older gentleman and a young, well, youngish, woman. Between them the steady, calm flow of the cards.

  The next week was busy at work. Thinking about the Holborn Circus murder also took up Lia’s time. The incident had nearly disappeared from the major media outlets, but one area of social media would not let it die: the crime enthusiast community.

  The postings began immediately after the first news reports, and the killing seemed to provide the posters with material for the most astonishing sorts of musings.

  ‘Woman without a Face the first victim of a ritual killer?’

  ‘Does crushing with a steamroller hurt as much as being burned to death?’

  The user TheHardTruth had a theory: The Woman without a Face was part of the 9/11 plot.

  Even referring to the victim by that idiotic name was too much for Lia. She only scanned the posts to see whether anything new had come out about the case.

  Every now and then the media covered other killings, none of which aroused the same interest in Lia.

  The Holborn Circus murder made the news again on 10th May when a police press release revealed three new details. Although the police were still unable to identify the dead woman, they had determined that she was most likely of Latvian extraction and in her forties. Forensic investigators had also found indications of a gunshot wound inflicted prior to the woman being crushed.

  Lia read the brief report repeatedly. The new information made the incident more concrete once again. According to the press release, the additional details were the result of exhaustive analysis of the corpse.

  How can they tell her nationality from her body? And why don’t they give more specifics?

  The next day the printed papers didn’t run the story, but for Lia it remained important. If the Latvian woman was shot, she could have been dead or unconscious when her killer ran her over. That was scant comfort, but comfort nonetheless.

  Latvia – Lia knew so little about Latvia. Actually nothing. Years ago she had visited the capital, Riga, when it became a popular tourist destination following the Soviet collapse.

  Riga had been beautiful. Lia had admired the handsome old architecture and taken the lift to the viewing level of the main church tower. She had eaten exceptional pelmeni at a fast food place with an amusing name: XL Pelmeni.

  Later Riga had become one of the places Brits mobbed in search of inexpensive entertainment. English newspapers published reports describing the raucous stag jaunts of British men and the indignation their behaviour aroused in the local populace.

  Lia realised she knew embarrassingly little about a country so close to her homeland and which had experienced such extreme historical upheavals. So at night she began searching for information about Latvia. She visited the library and borrowed two contemporary histories of the Baltic States and sat surfing the internet for hours.

  Hardly anyone but the Latvians themselves knew the history of their tiny country, which was simply too meandering for anyone else to follow – at one time or another the Swedes, Poles and Germans had all conquered the area, along with the Soviets of course.

  The economy was weak. This was partially a result of the Soviet period: Latvia manufactured nearly all of the carriages for the Soviet rail system and half of the telephones, and this specialization continued to inhibit economic growth to this day. Lia imagined the factories that had churned out railway carriages for the machinery of socialism. That job must have felt as though it would never end.

  When she found a blog discussing the most popular books in
Latvian libraries, she was delighted. The most popular novel was Lolita Puncule’s Daugavas vizbules sirds, ‘The Heart of a Daugava Violet’. Apparently it featured ill-fated love, Soviet Latvia and the war in Afghanistan. Number one in non-fiction was a book written by the poet Imants Ziedonis with his son Rimants. It told of trees, the forests of Latvia.

  The names didn’t mean anything to Lia, but that didn’t matter. What a fascinating country. People constantly borrowed a non-fiction book about trees.

  Perhaps none of this had anything to do with the Latvian woman discovered in the boot of a Volvo S40 on Holborn Circus. But now Lia felt that she could place the woman in some context, that she understood something about her.

  Both of them had come to England from the north-eastern corner of Europe, from a place little known in the wider world. Her life had probably been hard, since it ended so brutally.

  For some reason this Latvian woman had become important to Lia.

  One morning, sitting at her window eating a yogurt, Lia looked out at the dull grey features of St Luke visible in the distance and waved her spoon at him.

  I’m so well off that I even have time to think about a perfect stranger who was murdered.

  My life has room for all sorts of things.

  That day she called Mari.

  7

  ‘Don’t think for a second that I believe what you were saying. I just want to see how long this bluff of yours will hold out,’ Lia said when she and Mari met at the Queen’s Head & Artichoke.

  To start with, Lia asked about the thing that had been bothering her the most.

  ‘How did you know I would be at the White Swan celebrating my birthday with my workmates?’

  ‘I heard about it,’ Mari replied.

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Martyn Taylor.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Martyn Taylor was Lia’s immediate supervisor, the AD – art director – at Level.

  ‘I know him,’ Mari said. ‘Not very well, though. We’ve met a few times at parties and exhibition openings. When he heard I was from Finland, he mentioned you. Since then we’ve talked about you every time we run into each other.’