Black Noise

by Hiltunen, Pekka

  Holywell rubbed his hands together. Lia understood it had nothing to do with the chilly wind blowing down on the street. Holywell was on guard because Lia had surprised him by requesting an urgent meeting. At the Studio they had decided that the profiler was their best chance, partly because he had treated Lia so warmly. Finding his personal phone number had required Paddy’s contacts in the police force, and fortunately Holywell agreed to the meeting despite knowing that his superiors would frown upon it.

  ‘What do you have?’ Holywell asked.

  Lia took out her phone and showed him the picture on the display.

  ‘This.’

  For a moment Holywell stared at the picture of Theo Durand taken from the French missing persons organisation before realising what was going on.

  ‘Christ almighty,’ he said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on –’ Holywell started to say.

  ‘No,’ Lia interrupted. ‘We’re talking about this here. On my terms.’

  Holywell shut up. His gaze flicked between the small phone display and Lia’s face.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he asked.

  Lia recounted how much work had gone into finding it and turned over what she knew about Theo Durand. Reeling off the details only took a few seconds: Theo Durand, accountant from Paris, age thirty-two. Disappeared without a trace on vacation in Zanzibar.

  ‘Zanzibar?’ Holywell repeated.

  ‘The island in Africa. Fifty kilometres off the coast of Tanzania,’ Lia explained.

  ‘I know where Zanzibar is,’ Holywell said quickly. ‘Why was he grabbed there?’

  ‘Because the man you’re looking for is there.’

  The profiler took a moment to digest this information.

  ‘Freddie Mercury was born in Zanzibar,’ he said.

  ‘You have a good memory,’ Lia said.

  Holywell stared at Lia, and Lia realised that the power relationship between them was turning in her favour. The police investigator had to react to the information she was giving.

  Lia remembered Mari’s instructions. Don’t let him take you inside. Don’t let him record your conversation. Stay outside, and be fast.

  ‘That would fit the killer’s profile,’ Holywell said. ‘Zanzibar. A change of place. This bloke is doing a lot of things differently.’

  The change in the videos from kicking to the dimly lit images of a starving prisoner was a clear tactical shift, Holywell said.

  ‘It’s unusual. Not rare, but unusual.’

  Serial killers almost always had their own peculiar MO. These things brought them satisfaction and became a major part of the killings for them. But the Queen Killer was altering things, adding new dimensions. First came the black videos, then the kicking. Now the fifth video was different from the others, and he had shifted from London elsewhere.

  ‘We have some comparable cases, killers who changed their MO and locations,’ Holywell said.

  The police’s Serious Crime Analysis Section had their own database, named ViCSAL. In it they had collected thousands of detailed pieces of information about the perpetrators of serious crimes, especially murderers and rapists. By combining and cross-referencing this information they had often been able to move forward previously unsolved cases.

  Serial killers who modified their methods were more common now than before, Holywell said. One thing united them all: they were all seeking fame. All of them became fascinated by famous serial killers and tracked their activities before starting on their own deadly careers.

  ‘He wants to keep shocking people,’ Lia said.

  ‘His audience,’ Holywell agreed. ‘He knows that if he had just kept on with the kicking videos, gradually he would have lost his influence. He wants to give them something new to look at, always new details. And now Zanzibar, a completely new place.’

  ‘He can’t know that we’ve tracked down his location,’ Lia pointed out.

  ‘No,’ Holywell said. ‘He probably thought that would stay secret for a while longer. That it would only come out when he was finished with what he means to do there.’

  ‘I want to know two things,’ Lia said quickly.

  She could tell from looking at Holywell that he wasn’t comfortable with the position he was in.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Tell me how you intend to start the investigation in Zanzibar. How long will it take?’ Lia said, pressing him. ‘And I want to know why you’re avoiding admitting publicly that these are gay hate crimes.’

  Holywell controlled himself well, Lia had to admit. His voice remained calm.

  ‘Since this is a French citizen missing in Zanzibar, the operation will fall to the local police,’ Holywell said.

  The Metropolitan Police would immediately contact Interpol and the French and Tanzanian authorities. There was a priority classification for things like this that pushed them ahead of everything else. Interpol had teams of experts at its disposal who could get anywhere in the world in under a day, but they were called upon infrequently.

  ‘Whether Interpol wants to send one of those teams will be up to them,’ Holywell said. ‘We can send investigators to Zanzibar too, but that would be done in cooperation with Interpol as well. And everything would require the blessing of the local authorities. We don’t even know yet whether anything has actually happened in Zanzibar itself other than the disappearance of a tourist. How seriously do you think the Tanzanian police are going to take this when the whole basis for suspecting a crime has occurred is an online video of a man in dark room?’

  ‘You’ve seen that video,’ Lia said.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  The way Holywell averted his gaze revealed he knew exactly what the Studio did. The police probably wouldn’t be able to act quickly enough to save Theo Durand.

  ‘How long will this take?’ Lia asked.

  ‘To get the investigation going there? Or to open a new investigation if the local police have already searched for him?’ Holywell snorted and took a few nervous steps.

  ‘A few days,’ he guessed. ‘Maybe even a week. First we’ll have to see how sure we are the man in the video is in Zanzibar.’

  ‘A week!’ Lia exclaimed in astonishment. ‘You said this would be classified as urgent.’

  ‘We can’t just up and send someone there. It doesn’t work like that. We don’t even know what’s there.’

  Lia had received her answer. Mari wasn’t going to wait around for the police.

  ‘And my other question.’

  Holywell weighed the situation.

  ‘I’m not in charge of this investigation,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t decide what information we release.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘If I were in charge, it might be handled somewhat differently,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  He was trying to win Lia’s confidence. Lia realised he was about to tell her something the police didn’t usually discuss with outsiders.

  ‘The police have done a lot in the past few years to fight homophobia,’ Holywell began, proceeding to list measures already familiar to Lia. Every police division had officers appointed to handle LGBTI issues. They ran campaigns to encourage the public to intervene in hate crimes.

  ‘But this time no one wants to talk about gay people out loud,’ Lia said.

  ‘We talk about it as much as the officer in charge of the investigation sees fit. He doesn’t want to fuel a panic.’

  Several years before, the police top brass had decided not to address the sexual orientation or gender of victims of crime in public unless it was absolutely necessary, Holywell said. The media had a tendency to dig up salacious details about victims’ pasts and frequently spread incorrect information about their sexuality.

  ‘You don’t understand everything that’s going on here,’ Holywell continued.

  For some in the police force, any attention directed at minority issues always felt as
if it was being taken from somewhere else, he explained. More manpower had been dedicated to Operation Rhea than to any other case in years. In London alone detectives had interviewed more than a thousand people.

  The police knew these looked like gay hate crimes. How much they wanted to treat those crimes like their own special thing was another matter. Some police officers had a hard time digesting the constant recognition of new minority groups.

  ‘It always means new committees. Organisational restructuring where the latest pet project of the political correctness crowd runs roughshod over everything else.’

  Not long ago positions had been created for inspectors to focus on football hooliganism. When the media filled with news of child sexual abuse, special investigators were named for those crimes too. There were units dedicated to human trafficking, to preventing kidnapping and searching for missing people.

  ‘All of these are necessary,’ Holywell pointed out, making his own position clear to Lia.

  When an officer specialised in the latest matter in focus, he received a promotion. When a case involved minority issues, the investigation received more manpower and more money.

  ‘That’s always what this is about,’ Holywell said. ‘Manpower and money. How much of each there is. What they’re used for.’

  ‘Manpower and money,’ Lia repeated. ‘And those shouldn’t be focused on gay issues?’

  Holywell’s eyes were tired.

  ‘You don’t know what this is like,’ he said. ‘There are men inside this building who would be ready to go through hell to save someone, no matter who they are. They wouldn’t even hesitate. But some of them also wonder about all the other jobs left undone while the focus is on gay people. They also can’t stand that these issues can mean an easy ascent up the chain of command.’

  His tone of voice communicated that this last thought was the central issue.

  ‘You have some sort of reorganisation coming?’ Lia thought out loud. ‘And it’s going to determine who is in charge and where the manpower and money go.’

  Procedures were usually reviewed and updated at three-year intervals, Holywell said.

  ‘There’s a review report coming up soon,’ he said. ‘And there are a lot of different camps who want more money for their areas of expertise.’

  ‘You have one of the biggest hate crime cases in the country’s history going on under your nose but you’re thinking about new positions and promotions,’ Lia said.

  ‘I’m not in charge of this investigation,’ Holywell said again. ‘If I were, things would be handled differently.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe the police are wasting time on power struggles when people’s lives are at risk,’ Lia said.

  ‘Lots of things happen in this world that are hard to believe – some are even harder to accept,’ Holywell said.

  Lia nodded. A bitter feeling of powerlessness was spreading through her. The options were dwindling.

  Grabbing her mobile, she sent Theo Durand’s picture to Holywell’s number.

  ‘You’ll receive a message in a second with a link to a page about that missing man,’ Lia said. ‘But you can find it yourself by searching his name. It’s spelt T-h-e-o D-u-r-a-n-d. The D at the end is silent.’

  ‘I’d like you to come with me now to tell the investigators everything you know,’ Holywell said.

  ‘No deal,’ Lia replied. ‘I’m not coming unless you arrest me. And if you intend to do that, my lawyer will be here before you manage it.’

  A text message alert came from Holywell’s pocket. The picture Lia sent had arrived.

  ‘You’ve been warned to stay away from this,’ he said.

  ‘Lots of things happen in this world that are hard to believe and even harder to accept,’ Lia said and left.

  40.

  Sitting in the window seat of row fifteen on the aeroplane, Mari leans back and breathes deeply. Now she can let go and just let everything be.

  So much has happened in such a short time. They have been struggling to keep up.

  When Lia returned from meeting with profiler, Holywell, Mari understood immediately what was ahead. They had to leave, to do what the police couldn’t.

  Lia was afraid. Mari could see that. The others at the Studio could see it too.

  Mari looks at Lia sitting next to her on British Airways flight 0065 to Nairobi. Lia isn’t afraid any more. In little more than twenty-four hours she has begun to adjust to the idea of going to confront a man who has killed so many.

  Mari offered Lia the option of staying in London. Lia was torn, hesitant about leaving but feeling such a strong pull as she watched the others prepare for the journey.

  ‘I think this is going to be hard,’ Mari said. ‘And that this will change us.’

  After that everything was settled. When you give a person a chance to choose a new, stronger self, just the option can help them get a grip. The only reason to cling to the past is fear, and Lia has already learned to surpass herself.

  Courage is not just a character trait, Mari thinks. It is also a skill. You can learn it and practise it. The hardest thing is to combine it with knowledge: to know what is coming and still move forward.

  Lia had needed to ask for time off from Level for the trip. That hadn’t been easy, she had told Mari. The AD position moved further away in Lia’s eyes, beyond the horizon, the moment she notified her boss Martyn Taylor that she was suddenly going on a trip without any specific return date.

  Mari knows Martyn – they’ve met several times – actually, they are quite well acquainted – but Mari didn’t help Lia with this. If Lia wants to become the artistic director at Level, she will have to earn the place herself.

  Taylor was confused and then irritated. Finally he gave in though. Mari knows why: Lia is that good. Martyn Taylor has recognised it. He knows that this is a woman he has to hold onto, a woman who can sometimes be stubborn and impossible to restrain, which is exactly why she is so promising.

  Taylor agreed to find some cover, he agreed to having Lia notify him of her return date when it suited her, he agreed to everything. When Lia saw that, her doubts about the journey melted away. She understood that something very unusual was happening but that it must be done.

  Lia got her time off, dropped by to see Gro at Mr Vong’s flat and rang her parents in Finland.

  They have all packed for a trip of unknown duration. With Rico and Paddy’s help they are taking all the tools they might need and a good deal they can’t imagine ever needing. Three large cases full of technology, all with import documentation. Weapons transport has been entrusted to a reliable courier firm that will deliver them in such a way as to prevent any connection to the Studio.

  Rico’s programs haven’t been given to anyone or declared on any customs form. At some borders they would be considered weapons, entire weapons systems, which was what they actually are.

  All of this supports them as they set off, along with the reason that they have to go.

  Mari is not afraid now. She has met men and even women who have killed people. The others at the Studio know some of these cases, but none of them knows everything, and Mari intends to make sure it stays that way.

  Leaving the Studio was hard. Away from the Studio she feels more vulnerable.

  But this man is too evil. These deeds cannot be overlooked.

  Is he calling to them? Could he know they are tracking him?

  No. His videos have challenged anyone to stand up to him. He believes he is invincible, worshipping his idol with acts and images no one could stop, ascending to the level of his idol and beyond.

  Mari intends to drop him like a tiny pebble into a ravine. Like an insect, without mercy, without warning, in mid-flight. The man who took Berg from them will not continue his grotesque slayings. Not if it depends on Mari.

  Berg.

  Mari looks at Lia sitting next to her. With them on the same row of seats, across the aisle, sit Paddy and Rico. They are preparing for a strange task. That is why M
ari wanted Lia, the least experienced of them all, next to her.

  ‘I’ve written something,’ Mari says.

  Lia looks at her with bright eyes.

  Maggie is travelling to Stockholm. The whole Studio is on the move, and life as they know it is changing. Maggie is going to Berg’s memorial, to represent all of them.

  When Maggie goes to the service, she will see a chapel full of strangers. She will move amongst those strangers, into a room where everyone sitting is connected only by having known Berg at different stages of his life. For Maggie it will be an honour to be Berg’s friend in that company.

  Maggie asked Mari to write the eulogy she will give at the service.

  ‘If I write it myself, I’ll cry like a baby,’ she explained.

  Mari understood. When someone else writes the words, they are easier to speak. Maggie and her roles. She is so used to learning speeches someone else has written and making them her own. Conveying only the emotion meant to be conveyed.

  ‘I wrote this for Maggie at the service,’ Mari tells Lia and hands her a folded piece of white paper.

  Lia opens the paper and silently reads the words Maggie will soon read in a small chapel in Stockholm.

  I remember his way of arranging his work tools. A place for everything and everything in its place. We reveal ourselves to others in these little things.

  I remember his way of closing doors.

  His look when we talked about someone whose life was full of hidden trials.

  How quickly he calmed himself after an argument.

  And how once he had realised that he touched people too infrequently – and decided that to avoid becoming a grumpy old man he had to start patting people on the shoulder and hugging his friends more.

  We think we show ourselves to others in grand gestures, in our accomplishments, but it is in these everyday things we see the reality. What we are, not just what we pretend to be.

  For many he was a beloved relative or friend. Or set designer or master carpenter.

  To me he was a miracle man.

  What I saw of him in everyday things – in his way of arranging tools, closing doors, looking at those close to him – that was beautiful. He loved the things he made. He loved people.