Cold Courage

by Pekka Hiltunen

  ‘Absolutely,’ Lia replied. ‘You have my word on that.’

  III

  Fairness

  30

  The large television screen on the wall of Mari’s office flashed once.

  ‘This is how it’s going to play out,’ Mari said.

  Lia and all the other Studio regulars looked at the diagram that appeared on the screen. Organised within it was a list of dates and times outlining when they would release the revelations they had collected about Arthur Fried and what each person’s duties would be.

  Like fighting a war. Nothing left to chance.

  For Lia this was the first time being with the whole group together. She looked around as each person examined his or her list of responsibilities.

  Maggie in her relaxed flowery dress, the carefully groomed dame of the theatre. Rico in his sagging jeans and T-shirt. Berg cheerful in his familiar loose overalls. Paddy had deemed the day worthy of a sports jacket in addition to jeans and a sweater.

  And Mari, stylish and self-assured in her pencil skirt, like the boss of a large corporation ready to lead her troops in a hostile takeover.

  They were all different but formed a cohesive team. Lia did not feel she was at their level. Not in her abilities or in her attitude.

  This team meant to bring down Arthur Fried and the entire party he ruled.

  They could destroy an international mega-corporation if they wanted to. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised to find one in the archives.

  The first date was five days hence, 11th December. That would unveil revelation number one. By that time, Lia was to have found a reporter to leak information about Fried’s tax shenanigans. She would only give the information verbally, but with enough detail that the reporter could confirm her claims. The reporter would receive the information on condition that it be publicised in the manner they requested.

  One week later would come revelation number two. That was the day when a private investigator Mari had hired would turn over to the police the information about Fair Rule’s support for racist paramilitaries.

  Mari said she was using a PI who had a good relationship with the police. He would also get word quickly about what the authorities intended to do.

  ‘If the police don’t begin an investigation immediately, we’ll give the package to a reporter.’

  To cover that eventuality, Mari would find an appropriate journalist at a different media company to the newspaper reporter Lia would leak the tax evasion story to. They had to use different outlets to avoid the impression that this was all just one organisation with a vendetta against Fried.

  Revelation number three would go to the press just before Christmas. Rico and Berg would have the video of Sarah Hawkins’ story prepared well in advance.

  They had to film it with a camera that no one could trace in a place no one could recognise. They had to take Sarah Hawkins to the shooting location in a way that would prevent her from knowing exactly where she had been. They had to mask any ambient sounds so police experts could not track them down.

  ‘We can do it,’ Rico promised.

  He had already practised by removing background noise frequencies from old Britney Spears videos.

  ‘Britney sounds funnier and funnier the more sounds you remove,’ Rico said.

  Lia laughed, and Rico winked at her.

  Before the release of the video they would move Sarah Hawkins to a hotel for the duration of the saga. When Arthur Fried realised that someone was leaking damaging information about him, he would start trying to block any possible new sources. They could not let Fried get at Sarah to change her mind.

  ‘And when the video comes out, Sarah had better not be home. The media will surround the house,’ Mari said.

  The video they would give to an organisation named The Wall that campaigned against violence against women and whose name was well known all around the country. The organisation had been founded in the 1990s after the rape of a young woman in Birmingham. The rape occurred in broad daylight in the centre of the city when three men dragged the woman into the ruins of a demolition site where only one wall remained of the former structure. Passers-by heard the woman’s screams behind the wall, but no one went to help. The girl’s mother had founded the organisation, with the motto ‘Break the Wall’, and now their work consisted of exposing rapists and domestic abusers. They also waged pitched battles in the media if the courts found perpetrators guilty but let them slip away without punishment.

  The women of The Wall would be happy to publish the video.

  ‘What if Arthur Fried makes a comeback even after all this? What if he shows up again in a few years?’ Lia asked.

  ‘That’s always a possibility,’ Mari said. ‘Then we’ll just have to see.’

  When a public figure’s reputation begins to crumble, other skeletons tend to fall out of the closet as well, Mari pointed out. People got up the courage to talk. Who knew what ugly secrets Arthur Fried still had buried?

  After the meeting ended, Lia remained in Mari’s office.

  She was nervous about the operation against Fried. What might happen when the revelations started flowing? And she still thought about the case of the murdered Latvian woman every day.

  ‘We’ll have to get back to that later,’ Mari said. ‘You remember when I said we can’t handle two big jobs at once, right? Now we need all our time for Arthur Fried.’

  Lia understood. But something else was bothering her too.

  ‘I don’t know what to think about you and me.’

  A while ago they had been friends, plain and simple. Now they were something else. Lia was not sure what. Conspirators of some sort.

  ‘I miss when we had time to go out at night and have fun.’

  ‘Do you want to go out tonight?’ Mari asked.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘There’s a place I’ve been meaning to show you. Let’s meet at eight,’ Mari said and wrote an address on a slip of paper.

  Lia smiled.

  Again, something new, like in the beginning after they had just met.

  At eight that evening, Mari was waiting for Lia in Fitzroy Square.

  The place was a minor disappointment for Lia. There were beautiful Georgian buildings and a garden fenced off for residents only, but no particular ambience or other reason for stopping.

  ‘I’m taking you to one of the most important places in the world for me,’ Mari said.

  Lia laughed at Mari’s seriousness, until she realised that Mari meant it.

  Mari led them onto a side street and from there into a large, white building, the Fitzroy Art Museum.

  At the ticket desk, Mari flashed a card that gave her free admission, and the worker obviously knew her. Lia made a move to buy a ticket, but the woman waved her hand.

  ‘Go on in. We’re only open for an hour yet.’

  They walked up the stairs to the first floor. Mari nodded briefly to the guard they passed.

  Between the fourth and fifth galleries was a lobby with one piece of art and a bench placed in it.

  They sat and looked at the installation, which was made up of two three-metre high fans. They were placed facing each other, several metres apart, blowing a strong current of air towards each other.

  Between the fans, supported by the air current, were two thin black circles of ribbon. After inspecting it for a moment, Lia realised that the ribbon was some sort of film.

  The large black circles of film whirled in the air against each other, occasionally parting. There was something magical about them. They never fell. Although they frequently rippled wildly as they morphed, they never slipped loose from the grip of the air currents buffeting them from either side, locking them in an eternal aerial gyration.

  Lia lost herself watching it.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she finally said.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  The name of the work was Double O. The circles of film formed two large noughts, or perhaps two letter Os. The artist was a Lithuania
n named Zilvinas Kempinas.

  Quite a coincidence, Lia pointed out.

  ‘The Baltic is well represented in London,’ Mari said. ‘Just as is every other country and corner of the world. If you know where to look, you can find things from everywhere.’

  ‘Do you come to look at this often?’

  ‘Whenever the urge takes me. For some reason it gives me a very comforting feeling.’

  Lia had loved visual art since she was a child and had studied it as part of her graphic design training. These sorts of contemporary art installations had always represented two specific states of mind for her: they were clear and analytical yet at once open to intense emotions.

  This is how Mari is. Impenetrable when you look at her from the surface, intelligent and implacably purposeful. But inside she’s all churning waves of grand emotion and ideals.

  The museum was open on weekdays until nine o’clock, and Mari usually came late in the evening when few other visitors remained. She sat there when something troubling was going on in her life and she had to think clearly, or when she was feeling down.

  ‘It’s like it contains the rest of the world for me. It’s over there, and I’m over here. I don’t have to control it. It moves along its own trajectories. It can’t be controlled.’

  Lia thought she understood.

  Mari moulded the world to be how she wanted, one piece at a time. That must be hard. If it was possible to change things, what of all the possible things did you choose to change?

  ‘You can’t and shouldn’t intervene in everything,’ Lia said. ‘The world will keep turning on its own.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mari said. ‘That’s how I see it too.’

  Watching the circles of film whirling in the air, they forgot the passing time.

  Finally Mari stood up.

  ‘Now I want to go to a pub. Is the Queen’s Head & Artichoke OK?’

  ‘Sure, thanks,’ Lia said.

  31

  Arthur Fried’s corporate fraud would make the front page of any newspaper in the country. Lia just had to choose which reporter would get the byline.

  She decided on the Star’s political reporter, Thomas O’Rourke, whom she had met through work. The Daily Star used more of its space for reality TV interviews and photos of topless models than actual current events, but lurid scandal was exactly what the Studio was looking for. The Star also had a reputation for reaching precisely the audience that Fair Rule pandered to.

  Lia’s call surprised O’Rourke, but he agreed to a lunch meeting when she hinted that there was a story in it for him.

  At Café Blend, Lia chose a corner table. Once the waiter had brought them their meals, she went straight to the point.

  ‘I have an unusual proposition for you. I have a big political exposé I can give you, but only if you publish it at a certain time and keep the source to yourself, no exceptions.’

  O’Rourke immediately forgot his steaming plate of penne.

  ‘May I ask why a Level employee is offering me a scoop?’

  It was complicated, Lia explained. The way she had come by the information made it impossible for her to use it in her own office.

  ‘And I don’t want the story connected to me or Level in any way, shape or form.’

  O’Rourke pried no further – he was used to writing stories based on anonymous tips and expedients that had to be kept under wraps.

  ‘It’s about Arthur Fried,’ Lia said. ‘I have evidence proving that he has defrauded the government to the tune of hundreds of thousands of pounds.’

  O’Rourke’s eyes lit up, and the sparkle in them only grew as Lia related what she knew.

  ‘This is big,’ O’Rourke said once she was done. ‘Really big.’

  He said he had wondered more than once about Fried’s rapid rise and how he managed to stay so squeaky clean. When this story broke, Fried’s campaign would get a right drubbing.

  ‘When can I release it?’

  ‘At the Fair Rule press conference four days from now.’

  O’Rourke burst out laughing, and Lia knew that she had chosen the right man for the job.

  Mari’s strategy sat perfectly with O’Rourke. The Star would be able to publish the headline on their website simultaneously with O’Rourke presenting his questions to Fried at the press conference. The paper would have exclusive access to the background information – the rest of the media would be forced to quote the Star because digging up their own sources would take time.

  ‘Why such a precise time for the embargo?’ O’Rourke asked.

  Lia said that was what she had promised her own source. She described in detail how O’Rourke could confirm the claims she was making using Lincolnshire County Council tax records. O’Rourke wrote all this down, impressed that Lia could recite all the necessary information from memory, including the file numbers of the necessary documents.

  ‘Are you sure you’re in the right line of work? I’d say you’d make a brilliant investigative journalist.’

  ‘One never knows when one might need a new job,’ Lia said.

  ‘This is where it begins,’ Mari said in satisfaction when Lia called in at the Studio to report on her meeting. ‘The next few weeks are going to be busy.’

  To Lia’s relief, Mari was so focused on the Fried case that she didn’t seem to be paying any particular attention to Lia’s comings and goings.

  She didn’t want Mari to realise what she had decided to do. As she left the Studio, she slipped the comb and mirror from the Eastern Buffet into her bag, along with a copy of an article about the Holborn Circus murder.

  When Lia arrived in Oval, Vassall Road was wet from the cold rain, which thankfully had now let up.

  She had come to continue the investigation. She wanted to try to talk to one of the prostitutes. They must know something about what had happened.

  Lia knew she was also here for selfish reasons. Arthur Fried was Mari’s business. Of course, Lia wanted to help. A person like Fried had no business in Parliament. He belonged in prison. But the Holborn matter was her case.

  She was standing out in the chill evening air on Vassall Road because she wanted to do something for herself. The Studio employees were strong, somehow larger than life. Larger than Lia, in any case. It was time for Lia to grow too.

  Fear had been directing her life. Working for the Studio, she had faced danger and survived. She had no intention of letting fear take hold of her again.

  Lia had to keep moving to stay warm. She kept her eye on the cars and the people that walked past. One of the most important things Paddy had taught her was that you had to stay aware of your environment.

  There was no sign of Kazis Vanags’ car. As it seemed he always made his evening rounds at the same time, he was probably on his way to Assets right now.

  Lia stopped diagonally across the road from number twelve. She reckoned that seeing her from the building would be difficult because two lorries were parked in the way.

  She saw two men entering stairwell A and one coming out. Each was alone.

  Residents or customers?

  The cold of the evening began to chill her through. She didn’t see any more men, and the street was quiet.

  At twenty minutes past eight, a woman walked out of stairwell A. In an instant Lia forgot her restlessness and the cold. It was the same woman as Lia had seen when she had been there with Paddy.

  The woman walked with purpose in her steps. Based on her smart appearance, Lia would never have taken her for a prostitute, even though Paddy had said it was obvious.

  Of course they can look perfectly normal. Is she supposed to wear a sign that says ‘tart for hire’?

  The woman walked towards the corner shop. Lia hurried after her. Once they had crossed the side street and she was sure no one could see them from the building, Lia came up alongside the woman.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Lia said.

  The woman glanced at her but carried on.

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ Lia said, touching her l
ightly on the arm.

  The woman made a sound of irritation and quickly turned back the way she had come. Lia tried to keep up.

  ‘I’m not with the police. I’m not with the police!’ Lia hurried to say. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  In her hand was the pearled comb. The woman stopped and stared.

  ‘Whose is that?’ she asked in nearly unaccented English.

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ Lia said, pulling out the newspaper story. ‘This woman’s.’

  The presumed prostitute glanced at the clipping but did not seem to recognise what it was about.

  ‘Where is she?’ the woman asked, pointing at the comb.

  ‘Dead.’

  The woman’s whole body stiffened. Lia could see in her eyes that something painful had just clicked into place. She stood there for a long time, neither of them speaking. Finally the woman began moving more uncertainly towards stairwell A.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Lia asked.

  ‘Elza,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you from Latvia?’

  ‘Yes,’ Elza said, glancing at Lia in confusion. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Take this,’ Lia managed to say, handing her the newspaper article. Elza snatched the clipping, shoving it into her pocket before disappearing back into the building.

  Lia turned and started briskly walking off. She had a difficult time containing her excitement. She felt like running.

  Elza. And she knows her.

  Elza had recognised the comb. She must have known the murdered woman. Every other possibility would be too great a coincidence.

  Lia was already unlocking her mobile when something made her change her mind.

  I don’t have to tell Mari yet. I can tell her when I’ve found out a bit more.

  Lia walked to the Tube station. As she waited for the Northern Line train to Hampstead, she felt a wave of triumph.

  The following evening she returned to Vassall Road earlier.