Specific themes were repeated in the passwords Gallagher used: the party, polo, Tube station names and dogs.
But how could they know what websites he was logging in to with each username and password combination? Lia asked. The sensors didn’t record what pages he visited.
‘That’s surprisingly easy to track,’ Rico explained.
He could find the right pages by searching the web for the passages of text the user entered. Even if the pages were private, the subject matter was obvious from the messages, making identifying things like discussion boards quick work. They could confirm the identification by logging in with the usernames grabbed by the key logging chip.
‘And what if the page records the last time someone logged in?’
Most web users never look at that, Rico said. And changing log information like that was a basic hacking skill.
Prying into Gallagher’s messages was interesting, but there wasn’t anything particularly secret in them.
‘Let’s look for bank details,’ Mari suggested.
Quickly Rico determined that Fair Rule had accounts with at least six different banks Gallagher had visited over the past few days.
Rico’s software showed them what Gallagher’s usernames and passwords were at the various banks, but it was unable to show them the next codes in single-use PIN sequences.
They knew what banks the accounts were with, but could not get into the accounts themselves.
‘Is this a dead end?’ Mari asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Rico said thoughtfully. ‘The Well has had back doors into almost all of these banks’ systems. It’s just been a while.’
An hour passed, during which Lia started falling asleep in her chair, Mari read printed copies of Gallagher’s information and Rico bore down on his computer.
One by one the banks’ defences began to crumble.
‘I can’t get into two of them. And if I start burrowing into them myself, it’ll take days. But we have credentials for four banks,’ Rico said.
This news woke Lia up again.
They scanned through the account entries. Most of the amounts were small, and the payees and recipients seemed unremarkable: materials suppliers, payments for advertising space, support payments to party member organisations.
‘Using the web interface is too slow,’ Rico said.
To speed up the process, for each account he downloaded spreadsheets of all available transaction information. From these he easily separated the normal, monthly fund transfers. Lia and Mari looked up information about the recipients and payees online and compared them to the transactions. Gradually they whittled the list down until all that was left was a small number of money transfers lacking any obvious explanation.
‘A few of these do seem suspicious,’ Mari said.
In all likelihood, some of the transfers had gone to expenses the party did not want publicised. They were mostly small sums though, a few pounds at a time.
‘This name comes up several times,’ Mari said. ‘Penitent Catering.’
Several transfers of a few thousand pounds each had been made to this strangely named account, at more or less regular intervals of two or three months. The account was held in the United States, at a bank called Danford Trust.
They tried to search for the company in the international business register. The chairman of the board of Penitent Catering was recorded as Thomas Andrew Gallagher in London, and it gave the impression of being a relatively new shell company. The business had no employees and little activity in the US or anywhere else.
‘Can we get into Danford Trust?’ Mari asked.
‘I’m almost in already,’ Rico replied.
When they got the account open, it turned out that the only thing Penitent Catering had ever done with its money was to transfer it to the same three recipients.
‘They’re all on this side of the pond,’ Rico announced.
In the space of only one year, Gallagher had transferred over £20,000 to three British accounts. Each time he entered the account numbers by hand, apparently not wanting to mark the accounts as regular recipients.
‘That’s stupid,’ Lia said. ‘It’s obvious from the transaction information where the money is going.’
‘People do unnecessary things thinking they’re covering their tracks all the time. It makes them feel like they’re being careful,’ Mari said.
Rico listed the transfer recipients in the UK. The accounts belonged to organisations named Battle 88, Gallows and the Nordic Guild.
Mari recognised only one.
Battle 88 was a racist, far-right hooligan group in Leeds. The courts had convicted some of its members of throwing Molotov cocktails at mosques and other equally serious crimes.
Staring at Mari in shocked disbelief, Lia was suddenly completely awake.
‘I know,’ Mari said. ‘We found what we were looking for.’
Gallows and the Nordic Guild operated out of London; Battle 88 was lying low after the judgements against it.
The organisations’ websites did not make pleasant reading, being filled with coarse slogans and pictures glorifying the white race and demeaning everyone else.
Lia made the mistake of glancing through the image gallery on the Gallows page, which included pictures of black people being executed and female victims of sexual assault – all also from ethnic minorities. Lia found herself physically unable to look.
‘Aren’t these pictures… against the law?’ she asked.
‘Some of them are,’ Mari said. ‘Catching someone for distributing them is another matter though.’
The Nordic Guild had ambiguous connections to Scandinavian groups that used old Germanic and Norse symbols in their speeches and images. The mythology made their troublemaking seem ‘deeper’, Mari observed. Most of them were little more than disorganised clubs, but some had full-on hierarchies, online networks, fundraising schemes and profitable enterprises of their own.
But why would Fair Rule give money to borderline-illegal groups like this? Lia wondered out loud.
‘They can’t openly. Supporting people like this is pure poison for a legitimate political party,’ Mari said.
However, openly racist groups were useful. They did the dirty work the party couldn’t. They made Fair Rule look moderate. Through them, young supporters could channel their aggression. They kept the immigrant population in a state of fear, thinning the ranks of their supporters and creating an image of constant chaos surrounding foreign-born minorities.
‘I’d bet the Fair Rule leadership has regular contact with them. They probably have specific requirements in exchange for their support. But we don’t have to figure that out – just the knowledge that a party trying to get into Parliament is supporting illegal activity is enough.’
‘Why does Gallagher go to all the trouble of circulating the money through an American bank?’ Lia asked.
Rico had the answer. While they had been talking, he had reviewed Penitent Catering’s financial statements. The company had made investments in the United States and taken tax deductions for charitable donations. Deductions had been granted for the past three years at least.
‘Can you guess to which three companies they made their charitable contributions?’ Rico asked.
‘You’re kidding me – the same white supremacists?’ Lia said.
‘Exactly.’
All three groups were registered as 501(c)(3) charitable institutions. In London and Leeds, Battle 88, Gallows and the Nordic Guild harassed immigrants and caused disturbances in ethnic restaurants. In America, they claimed to produce special education materials for disabled children and organise cultural events.
Lia couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘Why the charity mask?’
‘I bet that was Fried’s idea,’ Mari said.
Fried had lived in the US and knew local business practices. Using charitable tax deductions, his party was probably saving many thousands of dollars every year.
> ‘And the name Penitent. The whole thing had to come out of Fried’s brain,’ Mari said.
Penitent was an extremely peculiar name for a catering business. The company certainly never had any intention of operating publicly given a name like that.
‘This is going to be the biggest political story of the year,’ Lia said.
‘One of the biggest,’ Mari said. ‘Now we have two strikes against Fried. We still need a third. And a timetable and plan for rolling them out.’
‘How can we publicise this without our role coming out too?’ Lia asked, thinking of her visits to the Fair Rule office.
Rico assured her that no one would be able to trace the story back to them. Of course Fried would realise that the information came from Gallagher’s accounts, but that would be as far as the trail led.
Planning how to release the information would come later. Now was not the time.
‘Now we all need to go home and get some sleep. Let’s take a few days off in honour of this find,’ Mari said.
At four o’clock in the morning they all stood, groggy with exhaustion, waiting for cabs on Park Street. None were in sight.
‘I had been waiting to tell you this. But now is as good a time as any,’ Mari said.
Mari had asked Maggie to investigate whether the comb Lia found meant anything.
Maggie had visited all the stores that sold Baltic goods, checking whether any of them carried the same combs. None of them did. She had also paid visits to British shops that sold similar cheap little sundries. None of the shopkeepers recognised the comb.
‘Thorough work,’ Lia said, astonished.
‘It usually helps.’
The murdered woman had probably bought her comb from the Eastern Buffet.
‘I’ve been thinking I could pay it a visit too,’ Mari said.
Lia looked at her in surprise.
‘We agreed that this was my case, but that would be a big help.’
‘You’ve given me two weapons against Arthur Fried. Now I want to help you,’ Mari said.
25
Lia’s spent the last day of her holiday sleeping.
When she returned to work at Level, she tried not to think about anything related to the dead Latvian woman, Arthur Fried or the Studio.
It did her good.
In their editorial meeting, they talked about story ideas. Sam had a series of articles in progress everyone was excited about. He had been asking the family members of famous politicians their opinions on social issues, a subject which usually only the politicians themselves got asked about.
Lia worked on illustrations for her series about socially important books, albums, films and television programmes.
She enjoyed the whole day. She felt like a normal person doing proper work. Nothing mysterious or special.
As she left for home, she wavered between the bus and the Tube. The bus was more peaceful, but she had not been able to take it in months without remembering the murdered woman.
She chose the bus, and when it arrived at Holborn Circus, she tried to stay calm. She had to be able to move through the City without her emotions paralyzing her.
She went for an evening jog on Hampstead Heath. As she returned, she saw Mr Vong in the hall of residence garden, looking up at the gutters.
‘Evening, Mr Vong,’ Lia said. ‘I hope you aren’t still thinking about work at this time of night.’
‘We old men tend to believe the world would fall apart without our watchful care,’ Mr Vong admitted.
Lia popped in to her flat to get a package. It was the present she had purchased for Mr Vong to thank him for his night-time rescue mission.
‘My goodness,’ said Mr Vong. ‘A gift is certainly too much. But it is very kind of you.’
He opened the package. In it was a small, waterproof radio fashioned in the shape of a floating rubber duck.
‘Now you can listen to the radio anywhere. Even in the bath or outside in the rain,’ Lia said.
‘I cannot remember the last time I received such a delightful gift.’
Lia was already on her way inside when Mr Vong said, ‘Seeing you looking so at peace is nice, Ms Pajala.’
‘Thanks. The feeling is mutual.’
26
In Leyton, Mari walks towards the Eastern Buffet. The name makes her smile. That’s good. Smiling is a good thing. She knows she’s too serious these days, too caught up with trying to control what might happen. She has been wondering for a long time whether she could come here.
The summer has gone swimmingly, especially because of Lia. She has made Mari smile every day. But during this autumn, Mari has had a hard time keeping her head clear.
She owes Lia this visit. And the Latvian woman, killed and mangled by someone so brutal. Unforgivable.
Mari has feared coming to this shop. If that barbaric, evil person is there, the visit will be hard. Sometimes she reacts so strongly to what she sees that she can’t conceal the surge of emotion. That has happened before when she’s dealt with criminals.
Mari has only told a few people about her ability. Even them she hasn’t told how the gift has changed over the years and how it has changed her.
She can’t always decide whom she reads. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes she feels like an antenna obliged to receive and feel every signal from every person that comes her way.
There are days when Mari has complete control over her thoughts. But in recent years she has felt more and more often that the gift controls her. Limiting it takes all her willpower – or a few drinks. That is another reason why she has enjoyed her evenings with Lia. And their little juominki.
Juominki. She must remember to say that to Lia. An old, rakish word. The moment when a person feels truly alive.
Mari stops at the threshold of the Eastern Buffet and breathes in. Strange smells, an entire foreign world. She steps inside. The place is exactly as Lia described.
Mari sees the customers, four women, and sees immediately that they are not simply buying food, aromas and tastes. They are seeking something to fill an empty space. The void formed by the gradually fading memories and feeling of home, of belonging somewhere. Of a world they have lost.
Mari’s eyes fill with tears, the feeling is so strong.
She has not missed her own homeland, but now, in the middle of this shop, whose shelves are filled with real and artificial mementos of these people’s origins, she is ready to burst into tears.
She tries to calm herself. She looks at the calendars and magazines on a rack against the wall. They are written in languages she doesn’t know, which keeps them closed to her. Having something that does not cause an avalanche of thoughts and stays unknown feels good.
Mari sees the pearled combs and mirrors. The sight startles her. Here, in the middle of so many useful and so many other useless things, their significance is suddenly perfectly clear.
They are part of a tradition: small girls sitting still in the evening while their mothers comb or brush their hair. One hundred strokes. Mothers sitting next to their daughters at night, every night, even if the day has been busy, the daughters learning the peaceful rhythm of the comb and carrying it with them always. The daughters feeling something which perhaps never takes shape as a conscious thought: if they ever have daughters of their own, they will pass these moments on to them.
On the combs and brushes are white daisies made with cheap imitation mother-of-pearl. Whenever a woman buys them, the memories of her childhood make her smile as she completes her purchase.
That was what the Latvian woman did.
At the back of the shop a curtain moves, the shopkeeper stepping out into view. The motion makes Mari reflexively look at him.
A second passes, perhaps two, and then the man looks back.
Mari just has time to stop her reaction. She holds back her cry but not the pain, which slams into her.
The man looks at her, and Mari knows that he is thinking of the full shelves in the back room, of all the go
ods he has ordered from thousands of kilometres away, and then of how many women are in his shop who will not buy anything, who are just looking. And Mari knows that the man has a dark side, a side as black as pitch. So cold and brutal. Panic grips her.
This man has killed many times. He has killed men and women, with steady hands and the efficiency of a postman delivering letters. If he did not kill the Latvian woman whose body ended up in the white Volvo, it is only a matter of chance.
The man looks at a woman moving down an aisle, and Mari sees him think how much he would like to strike her down – and the thoughts that follow become too excruciating for Mari to bear.
Mari rushes out onto the street, the door to the shop banging closed behind her as everything floods out of her in a panicked deluge.
She waves down a taxi, looking at the driver only for a fleeting second, but that is enough. Collapsing into the back seat, she asks him to drive to Hoxton.
Mari gets out of the cab before reaching home. Always at least three streets early.
All her strength has cascaded away, but she must walk the last few blocks to make sure that no one is following.
The man who has killed goes with her, inside her, in the terrible certainty growing within her.
Now there are two. Arthur Fried and this man. She must stop them both.
Before her building stands an older gentleman, slow movements, walking cane, decades-old cap upon his head. Looking at him, Mari sees something that takes a moment to recognise – what it is, what remains, when a person begins to slip away. Forgetfulness.
She is filled with compassion and envy for the old man. She does not have forgetfulness as her aid.
Two men who require action.
At home in her top-floor flat, she looks out the window. She sits there for a long time, minutes stretching into hours. Fear burns in her. Anger hardens her. She sits there until she can control her thoughts.
That night she doesn’t sleep. She thinks.
Cold Courage Page 19