Cold Courage

by Pekka Hiltunen

  ‘He collaborates with the police too; he’s an informer.’

  They ordered sandwiches and beer. Mari said that the man’s nickname was Big K.

  ‘Don’t ask why, because I haven’t the foggiest. He isn’t even very big.’

  About fifty years old, Big K was fleshy but not rotund. As he sat down at their table with a pint in hand, Lia thought he looked relatively normal, if you didn’t think an earring and a ruddy complexion were abnormal.

  ‘Evening. Long time no see,’ Big K said.

  The Rake was a very small pub but so full of people and noise that they didn’t have to worry about other customers overhearing. Mari greeted Big K and introduced Lia as her friend.

  ‘The price is the same no matter how many people listen,’ Big K said.

  He said he had made a few phone calls.

  ‘The results weren’t great. Of course, the value depends on how you interpret it,’ he added.

  No one in any of the usual professional crime circles seemed to know who was behind the brutal Holborn Circus murder. The visibility and unorthodox nature of the act made it unusual.

  ‘People who do things like this generally put the word out, or you just recognise who did it. The big gangs have established methods, and the little capers that junkies get up to are always the same, you know.’

  But no one knew why anyone would crush a woman with a steamroller.

  ‘Or whatever they used. Maybe a city highways department workman who was sick of his wife nagging him did it.’

  Lia glanced at Mari. What a pleasant chap.

  But he did have one potential scrap of information.

  ‘One friend had heard that the woman was from somewhere in Eastern Europe, Poland or Estonia or Latvia.’

  Lia said nothing, despite a strong desire to correct him.

  That was already in the news, that she was probably from Latvia. But I don’t imagine criminal types keep up with the police beat.

  Big K continued.

  ‘I heard that there were several whores involved, maybe from Latvia. That would explain how she got into such nasty trouble. And even though no one knew anything about the guy who did it, they said the body was a message. They didn’t want to make all of London shit its trousers, just one specific person or group.’

  And that was all, he said and took a slurp of his beer.

  Mari nodded, removing from her bag an envelope and offering it to him. Big K glanced in the envelope, nodded in turn and left without a word.

  Lia waited for Mari to say something, but she was concentrating on her sandwich.

  ‘It seems like you were right,’ Lia finally said. ‘I can’t think how that could help us move forward. She may have been a Latvian prostitute, or Eastern European. Plenty of those around.’

  ‘No, there was nothing concrete in that to follow up on. That’s what this is like – you put out feelers in different directions and wait for something to break,’ Mari said. ‘I could ask Paddy to ask his sources about Latvian prostitutes, but Big K is better in that respect. Paddy knows former criminals, Big K knows current ones.’

  They were silent again for a moment.

  ‘Any ideas?’ Lia asked.

  ‘Yes, one,’ Mari said. ‘The best thing would be to speak with the detectives investigating the case.’

  ‘But you didn’t want to contact the police!’ Lia said.

  ‘And I don’t. But this seems like a dead end. If this is important to you, we have to look at all the possibilities. Even the difficult ones. Go and see the police.’

  ‘Why would they tell me anything? I’m a complete bystander.’

  ‘Maybe they won’t. But when people ask direct questions, they get direct answers surprisingly often. That trait seems to be inbuilt in us somehow. We want to give people what they hope for from us.’

  Lia was hesitant.

  ‘What if they just take me for a daft woman obsessed with lurid crimes?’

  ‘That isn’t very far from the truth,’ Mari said grinning. ‘Care for another?’

  15

  The grey office block of the City of London Police at 37 Wood Street had probably been an imposing building in its time. Crushed between the modern business towers of the Square Mile, it looked small and insignificant.

  Lia had taken the morning off work for this. Two days before, she had rung the police telephone exchange and enquired which unit was investigating the Holborn Circus murder.

  She was told that each area of London had its own homicide unit. The City’s own detectives always investigated murders that occurred within the district.

  ‘Do you have information to offer related to the case?’ the woman asked in a routine tone.

  ‘No. I just wanted to talk to a detective,’ Lia answered.

  Prior arrangement was always required for any meetings, the operator informed her. They didn’t connect phone calls directly to detectives.

  Even so, Lia had decided to drop in at the police station, trusting she would be able to meet someone.

  Once she reached Wood Street, however, her hope diminished. The building’s reception area was tiny, with a group of people crowded before a counter of worn, dark wood. No chairs, no turn numbers, not even organised queues. Standing behind the counter, two police officers did what they could to straighten out the crush of clients. The place oozed with boredom and wasted time.

  Lia felt as though she were in entirely the wrong place, adrift despite her focused mission.

  She decided to queue in front of the older, male officer; the younger officer, a middle-aged woman, looked too bored. She waited twenty minutes or more. For one patron after another, the two civil servants sought forms and quickly scribbled on scraps of paper numbers for them to ring.

  When Lia’s turn came up, she greeted the policeman warmly.

  ‘Good day.’

  ‘It’s just got much better,’ the man said with a smile. ‘How may I be of service?’

  ‘If I could, I’d like to see one of the detectives investigating the case of the body found in the car on Holborn Circus.’

  ‘That sounds like a perfectly reasonable request, but it may be difficult in practice,’ the officer said, explaining that detectives didn’t take tip-offs from citizens face-to-face – she would have to ring or send an email to the police central office.

  ‘I don’t have a tip. I just want to ask a few questions. It won’t take long.’

  The policeman looked at her more closely. The woman next to him also glanced at Lia, and Lia could see from the motion of the policewoman’s head what she was signalling to her colleague: get rid of her.

  Lia looked the man straight in the eyes.

  ‘Is that so?’ the man said. ‘Is that so?’

  Lia comprehended how thoroughly he evaluated her in those two seconds.

  ‘What if we do this?’ he continued. ‘I’ll try to call one of the detectives, and if he decides to give you a moment, you can ask your questions. If he says no, you have to be satisfied with that. What was your name?’

  ‘Lia Pajala. And yes, that would be lovely,’ Lia said with relief. She smiled at the policeman again, adding an extra sparkle for his stern colleague.

  After looking up a phone number on his computer, the officer made the call. Lia waited, looking at the man’s soft, friendly face and ears, from which grew long hairs that he, like so many other ageing men, for some reason felt no need to trim.

  No one answered.

  Lia was sure that the man standing behind the counter was also a little disappointed.

  ‘And Detective Chief Inspector Gerrish hasn’t noted any information in his public calendar,’ the officer said. ‘He simply may not have arrived yet, or he may not be coming in at all today.’

  ‘Is only one detective investigating the case?’

  After glancing at his computer screen again, the officer explained the process of an investigation. Such large cases in the City were always dealt with by one of the larger criminal investigat
ion units, which consisted of around twenty police officers. When a body was found, they set up an incident room, a physical location where all the information was collected. All leads received by phone or by police patrols were directed there. But since the case had gone so long without any resolution, at this point only two detectives were working on it any more, one of whom, Detective Chief Inspector Gerrish, was leading the investigation. For one or two officers to take sole responsibility for a case after the initial crime scene investigation and other large-scale operations were finished was perfectly normal.

  ‘Britain doesn’t seem to have the resources to do it any other way.’

  ‘Fortunately Britain seems to have excellent police officers in her service,’ Lia said. ‘Would there be any use in waiting a moment for Gerrish to arrive at work?’

  ‘No telling. But go ahead if you like.’

  Lia flashed the man her most beautiful smile, thanking him and moving aside.

  While she waited, she watched the creeping press of patrons. Some of the visitors were exasperated, but the officers serving at the counter seemed to have a superhuman ability to keep their cool.

  Lia had never been forced to transact any complicated business with the British authorities. As an EU citizen, she had not even needed to request a work or residency permit when she moved to England. At the police station, she quickly saw how happy her position was: the greatest problem facing the people crowding the reception area was not crime, it was the paperwork jungle.

  Another twenty minutes passed, and Lia considered leaving. The policeman noticed and motioned for her to jump the queue.

  ‘Let’s try one more time,’ he said and punched the number into his phone.

  When someone answered immediately, Lia perked up. The policeman explained the situation and then waited. The reply was clearly negative. But the policeman winked at Lia and continued the conversation.

  ‘Listen, Gerrish, are you any more busy today than any other day? This young lady says she’ll be quick, and she looks like a woman who keeps her promises. S-3, I would say.’

  Lia’s eyebrow went up upon hearing this code word. The line went silent. Then from the other end came a resigned, ‘OK.’

  ‘You can have fifteen minutes,’ the policeman said to Lia.

  Lia extended her hand.

  ‘Lia Pajala,’ she said, introducing herself again. ‘Graphic designer from Finland.’

  ‘Lionel Rowe,’ the man replied. ‘Copper from Croydon.’

  A few minutes later, a man of about thirty appeared in the reception area. Lionel Rowe waved Lia over to him.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Peter Gerrish. What was your business?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you about the Holborn Circus murder.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lia was flummoxed. She had prepared a snappy answer to this obvious question, of course, but now, confronted by the impatient police detective, it eluded her.

  ‘I’ve just been thinking about it a lot,’ she finally said.

  ‘I hope you aren’t one of these women who think they can guess who murderers are in their dreams,’ Gerrish said. His tone said that he had met more than one person who fitted this description.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Lia said. ‘Just fifteen minutes.’

  The detective eyed her mistrustfully.

  ‘That balding bloke wobbling behind the counter over there is one of the best policemen I’ve ever known. If Lionel Rowe thinks that I should let you ask your questions, I’m inclined to do so. Follow me.’

  Without waiting for a response, Detective Chief Inspector Gerrish started across the lobby. Lia hurried after him. Briskly they proceeded to the other side of the building, through a door the man opened with a pass he carried around his neck, and then up two flights of stairs. Lia only had time to read the sign on the door into the corridor that led to Gerrish’s office: Major Investigations Team.

  ‘Sit,’ Gerrish said when they entered his office. ‘Ask your questions.’

  The room was full of papers and files. Lia sat in the visitor’s chair, the upholstery of which was so worn that the stuffing showed through.

  ‘I saw the car on Holborn Circus. I don’t have any eyewitness testimony that would help you though, because I only saw it from the bus,’ Lia began.

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘No. But the case has stuck in my mind, and I wanted to come and ask about it because… Because it just felt like someone on the outside needed to be thinking about this woman too. Everyone else has already forgotten her.’

  Gerrish said nothing; he only looked at Lia seriously.

  ‘I’ve read all the news reports about the case, and they’ve contained almost no information. Have you discovered anything about who she was?’

  Gerrish sighed, growing even more sombre.

  ‘This was such a brutal murder that it’s anyone’s guess,’ he said. ‘This is also an unusual case in that the body was dumped during morning rush hour in the middle of the City, but we still don’t have any real leads. Every deadline my superiors give me for getting results passes with nothing new to report. And now I’m going to have to ask for more time again. Is that sufficient?’

  Lia shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry to be taking up your time. But I’m not a crackpot, and I’m not a murderer groupie. If you don’t want to tell me anything, I can leave.’

  ‘Are you a reporter?’ Gerrish asked.

  ‘No,’ Lia replied. She had intended to tell him she worked at Level but now left it out. ‘I’m a professional graphic designer. Just a normal person who wants to think about this case.’

  Gerrish asked to see Lia’s identification and jotted down her national insurance number on his computer. Instead of returning her card immediately, he stared at it.

  ‘All the bells in London,’ he said, a little wistfully.

  Lia stared at Gerrish in confusion, and he continued.

  ‘All the bells in London, all the cells in London. All the tears in London, all the fears in London.’

  ‘Where is that from?’ Lia asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Part of a longer rhyme. They read it to us when we were young. Not here in London, in Manchester. Seemed to me it was saying something about how short life is and how much trouble a person can find in it. Don’t borrow sorrow from tomorrow, our old vicar used to say.’

  ‘I like that. It sounds like something that would have brought a lot of people comfort over the years.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that you don’t have anything to do with this crime. But you’re still choosing to carry this sorrow,’ Gerrish said, unable to conceal the ridicule in his voice.

  Lia flinched, as if he had slapped her across the face. A stinging, naked shame filled her.

  She realised how tired Gerrish must be.

  His job is accepting death. And then trying to explain its logic to others.

  Yet still, Lia’s small sorrow didn’t merit such condescending treatment. True, she had chosen this sorrow, but his disdain was unnecessarily hurtful. Indignantly she stared at Gerrish.

  The smile disappeared from the corners of his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them again.

  ‘I’m sorry. People should think about crimes and what can be done about them. Too few people bother.’

  ‘I read that the woman may have been Latvian. I’ve also heard that she may have been a prostitute,’ Lia said.

  ‘That’s a reporter’s trick for trying to get a detective to shoot his mouth off,’ Gerrish said sharply.

  Lia went quiet.

  ‘If I tell you something about what I know, can I be sure I won’t find it online or in the news later?’ Gerrish demanded.

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘Right, then. As you know, we determined that the victim was Latvian. We publicised that because we expected the uncommon nationality to prompt more tips from the public. It didn’t. You said you saw the Volvo. Do you know how the body looked, exactl
y what was in the car?’

  Lia swallowed, remaining silent.

  Gerrish spoke quickly without waiting for any reaction.

  ‘When a person is crushed with a steamroller, nothing stays intact. It’s like everything bursts and loses its shape.’

  He described the pathology findings in detail. The woman’s tissues, her organs, everything had been flattened. Whoever did it had driven over the woman several times – the medical examiners had deduced that from how the body was smashed: the tissues showed stress marks in different directions. Most of the victim’s blood had been squeezed out and flowed away, and of course the large bones were crushed to powder.

  ‘But, oddly enough, many of the smaller bones weren’t pulverised, they just broke into smaller pieces.’

  The detailed description made Lia feel ill, but she ordered herself to get a grip.

  The forensic pathologist had determined that the surface on which the woman was crushed influenced the result, Gerrish told her. The terrain had been soft, fresh asphalt that gave a little under the body.

  ‘That was why parts of the skin were preserved and some small things like the fingernails were almost undamaged. Both the fingernails and toenails were painted.’

  Lia felt tears welling up.

  I’m not going to cry. I can cry about this later but not right now.

  ‘Do you know anything about the place where it happened?’ she asked.

  Not much, Gerrish admitted. There had been fresh asphalt, but the particles that adhered to the body mass were a composition used all over the country. The presence of the asphalt and the use of the roller indicated a road construction site had been the scene of the murder.

  ‘But in theory it could have happened anywhere tarmac had been resurfaced recently. Even in the drive in front of a house, if they might have been able to do it without the neighbours noticing.’

  The police had investigated all the building sites in the Greater London area, because the remnants of the body had only been in the car for about twenty-four hours. There had been sixteen such sites, but none of them had shown any evidence of the crime.