Cold Courage

by Pekka Hiltunen

  Lia had to smile. Fried had no idea the turn that was about to take place.

  As he always did, Fried ended his grandiloquent speech by repeating the party’s slogans: Get Britain Back, No Way but Our Way.

  Then he asked the reporters for their questions. Ten hands went up at once, and the party secretary jotted something down. Usually the larger outfits were called on first, and Gallagher indeed began with them.

  ‘The Sun, please go ahead.’

  The tabloid reporter’s question had nothing to do with the issues at hand. Instead he asked about a recent case in Sheffield in which CCTV had recorded a black man robbing an aged, fair-skinned woman. Arthur Fried observed that the incident was a regrettable yet instructive example of how domestic politics that rode hobby-horse on multiculturalist ideals were driving the nation into chaos.

  Gallagher gave the second question to the reporter from The Times who wanted to know why the social programme the party had just announced sounded so much like a programme a German conservative party had promulgated during their previous round of elections. Some portions were borrowed word for word.

  The irritated glance Fried cast Gallagher spoke volumes. Apparently Fried hadn’t known Gallagher had stolen the text of his programme proposal.

  But Fried’s answer was smooth nonetheless.

  ‘We’re extremely happy that the issues our party has raised are supported by other groups. Fair Rule has never followed anyone else. We begin conversations.’

  As the third questioner, Gallagher pointed to Thomas O’Rourke from the Star.

  Lia’s heart pounded. She watched as O’Rourke stood and smiled.

  He’s really enjoying this.

  ‘Mr Fried, I have here copies of some documents I was hoping you could explain. I’ll pass out copies to everyone so they understand what this is all about,’ O’Rourke said

  Fried and Gallagher watched in surprise as O’Rourke sent a stack of papers circulating down the aisle.

  ‘There should be enough for everyone, I think,’ O’Rourke said jauntily.

  A reporter sitting on the front row handed a copy to Arthur Fried, who barely had a chance to glance at it before O’Rourke continued.

  ‘Mr Fried, these are copies of your corporate financial reports from 2000 and 2001, copies of the information submitted to the tax authority and a copy of the Lincolnshire County Council business register annual report for 2001, according to which both of your companies filed for bankruptcy in the same year…’

  ‘I can’t see what this has to do with Fair Rule,’ Fried said in an attempt to stop O’Rourke, but instead the reporter simply raised his voice.

  O’Rourke related how Fried’s companies had faked bankruptcy in Lincoln and then continued operating in London virtually unchanged. Fried had never returned the business grants he had received during 1997–2001 and had, for example, failed to deliver some £70,000 in social security payments owed to the state. The final page was a document showing that Fried was the chairman of the board of both companies and controlled one hundred per cent ownership of each along with his wife.

  ‘That means that you are individually responsible for their activities,’ O’Rourke observed.

  Even the mobile phone video connection showed how Arthur Fried’s face began to twitch.

  ‘So, the question is,’ O’Rourke said, ‘have you swindled the British Crown out of some three hundred and forty-six thousand pounds through bankruptcy fraud or is there a more honourable explanation for all of this?’

  A surge of noise rolled over the briefing room. It began when some forty reporters simultaneously picked up their mobile phones and rang their editors to say that the Fair Rule press conference had suddenly become extremely interesting. One TV cameraman moved closer to Fried to record his reaction from a better angle, and the other TV camera followed right behind.

  Arthur Fried did not look at O’Rourke. He was staring at Tom Gallagher, who was staring back. Their faces showed disbelief and a frantic effort to catch up with the situation. To this, Fried’s eyes added pure hatred.

  Finally Fried turned his gaze to O’Rourke and his eyebrows rose.

  ‘Well now, Mr O’Rourke. You certainly have a dramatic way of presenting your shocking claims. It’s almost as though you’re trying to paint me as some sort of tax evader.’

  Fried assured them that both companies had always conducted their business honestly, and he was sure that once he had had time to look more closely at the information that had been presented in such an oddly defamatory manner, a perfectly legal explanation would appear.

  ‘This event is meant to be a discussion of the new Fair Rule policy programme, and I’d like to concentrate on that,’ Fried said, attempting to change the topic.

  Another wave of noise ran through the hall. Some of the reporters were demanding a turn to ask follow-ups, while others relayed Fried’s response to their offices and the rest expressed their astonishment at O’Rourke’s allegations.

  Fried and party secretary Gallagher looked at each other again. Lia saw Gallagher mouthing words. He did not want to say anything to Fried in front of the cameras. Lia was unsure what Gallagher was trying to communicate. It could have been: ‘Stop now.’

  Arthur Fried turned again to look at the crowd of reporters, who were now rising from their seats, eagerly awaiting the next turn that events would take. They all wanted a comment from Fried on O’Rourke’s papers and the charges he had made.

  ‘Thank you for your attendance,’ Fried said in a loud voice. ‘We’ll issue an announcement soon about our next press conference. I wish you all a good day and may God bless this great nation.’

  Turning, he walked out of the hall with Gallagher behind.

  Maggie’s phone transmitted the chaos that broke out as the reporters stampeded after Fried and the party secretary and porter attempted to hold them back.

  Reporters hunt in packs.

  34

  The fact that Arthur Fried had been accused of corporate fraud made the headlines at every news media outlet in the nation. It was, ironically enough, the most press Fair Rule had ever garnered.

  Mari and Lia watched from the Studio as the story swelled. Thomas O’Rourke had done his homework. The documents he had distributed were so convincing that no one dared claim they were a fake. Because only the Star knew the entire story, the other editorial offices were forced to turn to them for facts. By the early evening, the story had spawned so many hits that the tabloid’s web server crashed.

  O’Rourke sent Lia a text message around eight o’clock: ‘I’ve given sixteen interviews today. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.’

  But Arthur Fried and Fair Rule were lying low. Because the TV stations didn’t have their own interviews with him, they were still airing clips filmed at the press conference, showing how Fried’s face froze as O’Rourke posed his question and the sorts of quiet, dark looks Fried and the party secretary exchanged. The videos closed with Fried exiting as the reporters shouted after him.

  Lia imagined the feelings of confusion and panic hanging over the party headquarters – if Fried even had the nerve to go there and thrash the matter out.

  How will Stephen, Dorrie and the others react to this?

  Sky News showed a feed from the Fair Rule office in Epping High Street. The faces of Stephen and Simon flashed across the screen. Lia swung between empathy and irritation. She expected to experience some pangs of conscience over what she had done to these people she had come to know, but they never came.

  The BBC Nine O’Clock News began with the headline ‘Right-wing Leader Tax Scandal’ and the commentators proceeded to express their astonishment that a person with such an impeccable reputation as Arthur Fried could become the target of such serious accusations. A BBC crew had interviewed the head of the Lincoln economic development office, who said this was the first he had heard of Fried’s businesses’ continued operations. In his personal view, this was a case of unusually egregious fr
aud.

  ‘Fried was a highly esteemed businessman here several years ago. His enterprises received support above and beyond the usual limits. Apparently we experienced a significant failure in judgement,’ the official said.

  Arthur Fried released his own statement the same evening, at 10.39 p.m. He announced that he would cooperate fully with the authorities in any possible investigation. If any confusion had arisen during his companies’ move to London, he would endeavour to rectify it in full. The statement came too late for most of the morning papers – they would only have time to quote directly from it in their paper editions without any further commentary. And Fried was not giving interviews.

  When the morning papers did appear, expert opinion was unanimous in predicting a significant blow to Fair Rule’s support.

  ‘What was to be a standard press conference turned into Arthur Fried’s final kamikaze dive. What will remain of a party based on talking straight when no one else would dare now that its leader has been accused of such an astonishingly brazen con? If the accusations turn out to be true, this case will be a triumph of investigative journalism sure to influence the upcoming parliamentary elections,’ wrote The Guardian.

  Over the next few days, Fried continued to refuse any interviews, but the reporters on the political beat succeeded in prising comments out of the rest of the Fair Rule leadership. And of course representatives of the major parties were eager to comment. His own people still supported Fried, but others were more than happy to criticise his ‘messianic’ appearances and populist pandering.

  ‘Cool-nerved damage control,’ Mari said.

  Fried knew that he had to calm his own troops first. He would probably attempt to draw the investigation out beyond the election. The party’s popularity would not necessarily collapse if the public remained in the dark as to whether he had committed a crime or not.

  Lia listened to Mari’s analysis. It was almost as though she knew what was happening inside Fried’s mind.

  Fried most likely still believed that this was a game of politics, that the information had come out by chance, dug up by one reporter, Mari continued. When they released the next revelation, Fried would know that someone was attacking him. Then he would start the fight for real. They had to be one step ahead.

  Lia called Sarah Hawkins at the hotel where they had taken her after taping her interview. They had given her a new mobile phone so no one else could reach her.

  ‘Have you seen the news about Arthur?’ Lia asked.

  ‘Yes. This is unbelievable. Of course I knew about his businesses, but nothing like that,’ Sarah said.

  Lia warned her that more sensational news stories were likely to follow soon.

  ‘The media will start digging into Arthur’s and Fair Rule’s dealings in an entirely new way,’ she explained.

  ‘Good. When my video comes out, that should give them something to talk about.’

  Sarah had received a copy of the final interview. She had watched it dozens of times.

  ‘Seeing myself on the telly is so strange. But I feel better than I have in years. If only this could all be in the past. I could get on with my life again.’

  ‘It will all be over soon.’

  35

  At two o’clock on a Monday afternoon, the Westfield London was surprisingly peaceful. The lunch rush had passed, and only the occasional shopper walked here and there.

  Lia was sitting at a window table in the café, sipping her coffee and waiting. Now and then she glanced at Paddy Moore, who was sitting a few tables back.

  Although they had patched things up, they still regarded each other more carefully. Paddy wanted to see how dependable Lia was.

  Lia had arrived at the café alone, once Paddy had first checked the place and scanned who was nearby. They showed no sign of knowing one another.

  Lia had asked for two days off. Martyn Taylor, the AD, had agreed after Lia had showed him how the layout work could be divided so her leave would not muddle anything terribly. Lia had expected Taylor to object to her sudden absence, but he seemed to respect her purposefulness.

  At 2.25 p.m., four women walked into the café. One of them was Elza, and the features of the others also showed they were from the Baltic. A boy who had been following the women remained outside. Perhaps sixteen years old, he was dressed in jeans and a leather jacket and wore oversized earphones. A carder.

  The women bought pastries and coffees at the counter. Listening to them chat, Lia wasn’t sure but thought the language was Latvian.

  The women claimed the table next to her. Elza did not greet Lia, but after a few minutes cast a long glance her way.

  Then she got up and said to her friends in English, ‘Ladies, do excuse me while I powder my nose.’

  The others laughed at this affectation, and in that moment Lia realised that Elza had not told them about Daiga Vītola’s death or about herself. The humour and warmth between the women was a pleasure to see, in spite of the situation.

  Elza walked to the ladies’ room. After waiting a minute, Lia grabbed her coat and handbag and followed. Elza was waiting, looking serious.

  ‘Tell me your name,’ she asked.

  ‘Lia Pajala.’

  ‘Elza Berklava,’ Elza said, proffering her hand.

  This must be terrifying for her. She lives every moment with thugs like Kazis Vanags and that bald man.

  ‘If I tell you about Daiga, what will happen then?’

  Lia admitted she didn’t know.

  ‘But whoever killed her must be brought to account.’

  Elza nodded.

  ‘I’ll help how I can, but then you have to help me too. If they find out, the same thing will happen to me as to Daiga and Anita.’

  Lia did a double take.

  ‘Anita?’

  ‘Anita Klusa. The woman they found shot last week in the Hyundai.’

  Lia tried not to show her agitation.

  Elza said she had cried the whole night after reading the newspaper clipping Lia had given her.

  ‘I had to rip it to bits and flush it down the toilet because they search our things all the time. They look for drugs – they know we have them, but they don’t want us using them too much. The customers complain if a girl is high.’

  ‘Tell me about Daiga,’ Lia said.

  Elza smiled. When she spoke, her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Daiga was a crazy girl.’

  She was from the Riga suburbs and had come to Britain two or three years before any of the other prostitutes. When they met, Daiga had given Elza pointers about working in London. She had taught several other girls as well.

  ‘In most of the houses there’s a more experienced girl who gets the others started.’

  When Daiga was still at the flat in Vassall Road, five prostitutes had been working there. Four remained.

  Daiga had been the only one who ever dared contradict the brothel operator, Kazis Vanags. Daiga took fewer clients than the others because she wanted to keep herself healthy. She wouldn’t buckle under the strain of bullying. She had always been the intellectual leader of the girls on Vassall Road, making sure that their conditions were tolerable.

  ‘Daiga always told us that life is shit but at least our shit life was in London.’

  They had done the same work back in Riga too.

  ‘Daiga and me used to turn tricks in the parks, two or three nights a week. Our area had the best parks with the most traffic. We could choose our clients ourselves.’

  Having to work year after year like prisoners here and take anyone who came was a hard blow for them.

  Daiga had thought that something else would come along someday, a better future in London. She had done everything with rare fortitude. A common problem for most prostitutes was that their minds couldn’t take it and they had to numb themselves. Daiga Vītola had not drunk or taken drugs. Because of her the girls had been able to see a doctor regularly. Even though they used condoms, they would still have inflammation and infecti
ons.

  ‘Who killed Daiga?’ Lia asked.

  Elza’s lips pursed in a bitter line.

  ‘It must have been Vanags.’

  Kazis Vanags had hated Daiga’s lack of fear. However much he railed at her she gave it back in turn. Once she even laughed in his face.

  ‘I had a bad feeling after that. Kazis wouldn’t hesitate to kill a baby.’

  Elza had no evidence against him though. She did know that Vanags had been apoplectic at Daiga just before she disappeared.

  The toilet door opened and an elderly woman entered.

  Elza and Lia fell silent. When the woman entered the toilet stall, Elza quietly said, ‘I’m going to go back to the table so the other girls don’t wonder where I am. Wait five minutes.’

  Before she left, Elza dug into her handbag and then handed Lia something.

  ‘I brought this for you.’

  Lia looked at the piece of paper. It was a photograph, the small type you might get from a self-service booth.

  In the picture was a dark-haired woman. Lia knew who it was. Daiga Vītola.

  The woman in the picture was smiling, laughing actually. She looked strong but also like a person who could take pleasure in small things. For example how silly it was to sit in a photo booth and pose.

  She looked like a mother, Lia thought. Strange that a woman like that had prostituted herself, first in Riga and then in London.

  Or perhaps that was precisely why a woman like that left her home. She probably had to earn a living for her family. She wasn’t doing it only for herself.

  Looking at the small picture in her hand, Lia thought about all the many choices people make.

  If you’ve never had to make a difficult decision in your life, you can’t know what it’s like for someone else.

  As she exited the stall, the older woman eyed Lia suspiciously, but Lia didn’t give her a second thought. The woman left, and a little later Elza returned.

  ‘I think the girls guess something’s up,’ Elza said. But Elza’s friends were afraid, and they knew better than to ask why she kept traipsing off to the toilets.