Cold Courage (22 page)

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 lightly 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.

The encounter with Elza the previous day had made her cautious. She watched number twelve from further away, from a shadowed spot on a corner down the street. She held her mobile in her pocket with Mari’s number on speed dial.

Lia watched as Kazis Vanags arrived, parked and disappeared into the building. About half an hour later he came out and left.

When Elza stepped out a few minutes before eight, Lia felt her pulse accelerate. Once again, Elza headed towards the shop in the next row.

Instead of following immediately, Lia waited to see whether anyone was following Elza. Then she hurried after her and entered the shop.

Elza showed no surprise at seeing Lia but also showed no sign of recognition. Her shopping basket contained a fashion magazine, cigarettes and a packet of tampons. When she moved further into the shop, between the aisles, Lia followed.

‘Did you read the story?’ Lia asked.

Elza nodded.

‘Who are you?’ Elza asked.

Lia told Elza her first name and that she was from Finland.

Elza thought for a moment.

‘Did you know Daiga?’

Lia blanched.

That was her name!

‘No.’

‘Why are you asking about her then? Who do you work for?’

‘No one. Daiga was murdered brutally. Whoever killed her
deserves
to rot in prison for the rest of his life.’

Elza frowned, looking uncertain.

‘Now is not the time to talk,’ she said. ‘I can only be outside for ten minutes or I get in trouble.’

Monday was the only day each week when she and her friends went unwatched for a time. They always went to the Westfield mall. One man did follow them, but he usually didn’t bother to keep up.

‘He goes to a pub and sends a carder out to follow us.’

Lia looked at Elza questioningly: ‘A carder?’

‘The boys who paste up our pictures on the walls of bars and phone boxes.’

Of course Lia had seen cards and stickers around the city
advertising
female companionship. She hadn’t realised that tart card distribution had its own specialised labour force. The everyday life of a prostitute in London was gradually dawning on her.

‘Come to Westfield on Monday,’ Elza said. ‘There’s a café there where we can talk.’

They arranged to meet at two o’clock. Lia decided to ignore her own work. Maybe she could take another day’s holiday.

Before Lia left the shop, one more question popped into her mind.

‘What was her whole name?’

‘Daiga Vītola,’ Elza answered quietly.

Smiling at Elza, Lia left.

Daiga Vītola. I’ve found you.

As she exited the shop, Lia glanced around. No sign of anyone.

She started walking towards the Tube station. Inside her a giddy, almost dizzying feeling of triumph mingled with the dozens of
questions
running through her mind.

The evening had grown darker. All she saw before her was a hint of movement and then it was too late.

The bald man. The same burly man Lia had fled from at Flash Forward and from whom Mr Vong had rescued her. This was no carder. This was a grown man whose job description Lia had no desire to become more familiar with.

She had no way of defending herself. And the street was empty except for the two of them.

The man approached her. He was close. There was no way to escape.

Lia was distantly aware of her arm rising with her mobile in her hand. Pointing it at the bald man, she snapped a picture.

The man stopped a few metres away and stared.

‘I have a picture of you,’ Lia said, surprised by the sound of her own voice. It was hard, as if she were in control of the situation.

‘And now that picture is going to my friend,’ Lia continued and pressed a button on the phone, exaggerating the gesture.

She knew all too well that the whole trick was a bluff. Pictures like that never turned out sharp, especially in the dark. And no picture went anywhere with just one press of a button.

But the stunt made the man stop short.

‘What do you want here?’ he asked.

Lia recognised the accent. Elza’s was the same. The man kept one hand in his coat pocket, and Lia didn’t want to think what he was holding there.

‘What do you want here?’ the bald man repeated.

Tell your story. The same one as at the club.

‘I’m looking for my sister. She moved to Latvia a long time ago. I heard that she was in London.’

The man stared at her.

‘You’re looking for a whore?’

‘I don’t know what my sister is doing here. We haven’t had any contact for several years.’

Lia heard a car approaching from behind.

I have to say something. Anything.

‘Have you seen my sister?’

The man snorted.

‘You can come with me and we’ll talk about it.’

When he made his move, Lia guessed that the car was only ten metres behind her to the right. Turning, she rushed into the street.

A metallic shriek of brakes. Lia did not allow herself to stop, pelting forwards with all her strength. Skidding out of control, the car’s front bumper grazed her leg. Then she was on the other side of the street, running.

A glance back. The bald man had been forced to dodge the moving car, losing several seconds.

Lia had never run so hard. She ignored the slipperiness of the street. She took no heed of anyone who might cross her path. One thought only pounded in her head:
Get away.

After passing two side streets, she allowed herself a second look back. The bald man was following her but was rather far behind. That gave her renewed strength to increase her pace.

Lia saw the lights of the Tube station, with two taxis waiting
parked in front. As she jumped into a cab, she turned and saw the bald man stopped a good hundred metres back.

Lia gestured for the cabbie to drive off. She couldn’t catch her breath to talk, but the cabbie understood, starting the car and driving away. When Lia’s breathing slowed, she asked him to take her to Bankside, Park Street.