The Promised Land

by Barry Maitland

When Kathy got back to the patrol car, she phoned Maggie Ferguson.

  ‘Maggie? I want to talk to this detective of yours.’

  ‘No, that’s not possible, Kathy. I’ve told you all we know. He’s been badly hurt. He can’t see anyone.’

  ‘I don’t care if he’s only got hours to live, I want to talk to him.’

  ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  Twenty minutes later Maggie called back. ‘No, it’s not possible for you to see him, Kathy. Doctor’s orders. But he thinks it would be worth your while to talk to someone called Rosie, a West Indian lady who runs Rosie’s General Store on East Street in Walworth. She put my bloke onto Mr Jamali, and he thinks she probably knows more than she told him. That’s all I can tell you.’

  Kathy and Alfarsi drove across the river to East Street and found Rosie in her shop, busy with customers. She left them to her boys and took the two detectives into the back room.

  ‘Yes, he was a nice man—too old for what he was doing, mind you. He was trying to follow that Romanian girl who lives in the flats round the back there, and one of her friends set upon him, gave him a real beating. I tried to clean him up.’

  ‘Hang on,’ Kathy said. ‘What Romanian girl?’

  ‘Elena, her name is, Elena Vasile, and he was wanting to ask her about the girl sharing her flat, who he thought was an Indian, but we always assumed she was a Paki.’

  Kathy got her to slow down and spell it all out.

  ‘Okay, so how did this bloke know that the Indian or Pakistani girl was living with Elena?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no idea, and anyway we think she moved out some time ago. We haven’t seen her for months.’

  ‘And the Romanian man?’

  ‘Marku, a bad boy. I’ll bet your local people know about him. Constantin is his other name, I think. Yes, Marku Constantin. They say he’s a pimp, runs a string of girls.’

  ‘So this Pakistani girl was a prostitute?’

  ‘I couldn’t say that for a fact. I told the old man, she had airs, a posh voice for a Paki.’

  Kathy showed her Uzma Jamali’s picture and Rosie nodded. ‘Yes, that’s her, who called herself Uzma. I didn’t know her other name.’

  When they returned to their car, Kathy checked the names on the PNC, then rang CID at Southwark Borough Command. They confirmed that the Romanian Marku Constantin was suspected of running a prostitution ring using unregistered migrant girls, and had been investigated for welfare benefit fraud and extortion, but hadn’t yet been charged.

  Kathy rang off and she and Alfarsi went to the block of flats behind East Street where he lived. There was no reply to their knocks, and a neighbour came out and told them that both he and the girl Elena had left in a hurry hours before, taking luggage with them.

  While they waited for a warrant to be issued to search the flat, they went down to the enclosure at the foot of the block that contained the garbage bins and began searching through them. It didn’t take long to discover a plastic sack containing items of women’s clothing and used toiletries, as well as torn sheets of paper and other stationery items. Thumbing through these, Kathy noticed what looked like scraps of photocopied typewriting similar to The Promised Land manuscript page. She also came upon a business card for Steve Weiner, literary agent. On the reverse was a hand-written note: 10.30, Sweet Pepper Café. A check on Google told her the Sweet Pepper Café was in Putney High Street.

  Kathy left Alfarsi to carry out the search and headed west. Traffic was congested in the South London streets and it took an age to reach Putney High Street and the café. She went inside and looked around. Judging by the menu chalked on a blackboard, it specialised in interesting pastries and coffees from exotic locations. She ordered an espresso from Papua New Guinea and asked about Steve Weiner.

  ‘Yeah,’ the Eurasian girl behind the counter said. ‘That’s his office over there, the table in the corner.’

  ‘His office?’

  ‘Yeah, where he meets his clients. He lives upstairs. Want me to call him?’

  ‘Thanks, but first, do you remember seeing this woman?’ She showed the girl Shari’s picture.

  ‘Ye-es, I think I do remember someone like her. Because of her bag.’

  ‘Her bag?’

  ‘Yeah, a big Indian carpet bag. Really lovely, it was.’

  ‘This would be a couple of months ago?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kathy thanked her, asked her to call Weiner and went to sit at his table. After ten minutes a man appeared at the café door and spoke to the girl behind the counter, who pointed at Kathy. He came over to her, looking bored and weary, as if he’d been woken after a boozy lunch. Kathy got to her feet.

  ‘Mr Weiner, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kolla of the Metropolitan Police. We spoke a couple of months ago about Shari Mitra. I’d like another word, please.’

  ‘Oh. Do I have any choice?’

  Kathy smiled. ‘Not really. Take a seat.’

  He called back to the Eurasian girl for an Algerian mocha and sat down with a sigh. ‘I told you, I know nothing about her. I spoke to her briefly on the phone and that was that.’

  ‘You’d swear to that in a court of law, would you, Mr Weiner?’

  ‘Sure.’ He looked away, bored, to check out the other customers.

  ‘So you deny that you met her here the following morning?’

  He turned slowly back to face her.

  ‘Let’s try again,’ she said. ‘With the truth.’

  He took a deep breath, stared at the tabletop and began drawing a pattern with his fingertip. ‘Look, when you contacted me I’d just heard the news about her being murdered. It didn’t really surprise me, somehow. She had some kind of scam going on, trying to flog this dodgy manuscript, and I smelled trouble. I didn’t want to get involved, so I just told you the short version.’

  Kathy wondered if he’d ever been an actor; every gesture, every intonation seemed calculated for a camera. ‘So what’s the long version?’

  ‘Okay, I agreed to meet her and told her to come here, and she gave me this shaggy-dog story about a great-uncle or grandfather or something who knew George Orwell, who’d given him this amazing unknown last novel worth a fortune.’

  ‘You didn’t believe it?’

  ‘What, unknown Indian knocks on door bearing fabulous gifts? Come on. Ever since the Hitler Diaries scam it’s every publisher and agent’s worst nightmare.’

  ‘Did you find out anything about her?’

  ‘I asked her for proof of identification. Nope—no passport, no driver’s licence, no credit card, nothing. That was good enough for me.’

  ‘Did she show you the manuscript?’

  ‘She tried to show me a page, but I told her not to bother. What good would it do? I assumed it was a passable forgery, and I’d be none the wiser. That’s when she got narky and walked out.’

  It might be the truth, Kathy thought, or not. It was hard to tell with Weiner. He was as plausible telling this version as the last, and as glib.

  She returned to Walworth, where Alfarsi had now gained entry to the Romanians’ flat and done a thorough search. There was nothing of interest.

  Brock lowered himself gingerly onto the bed and lay back with a sigh. ‘The wood-turning group is looking increasingly attractive,’ he said.

  The phone beside the bed rang and Suzanne reached across for it. ‘It’s Maggie,’ she said, and gave her a summary of what the doctor had told them. Then, covering the mouthpiece, ‘Can you talk to her?’

  ‘Of course.’ He took the phone. ‘Maggie. No, I’m fine really. Just got to take it easy for a day or two.’

  ‘I have a problem, Brock,’ the lawyer said. ‘Kathy Kolla is giving me a hard time. She says we’re obstructing her investigation and if I don’t get my detective to her for an interview she’s going to get a court order. I’m not sure if I can hold her off.’

  ‘Did you tell her about Rosie?’


  ‘Yes, and she’s talked to her, but now she wants to know how you came to know about the Romanian girl, Elena Vasile. Apparently she and the bloke who beat you up have done a runner, and she’s blaming you for not reporting them right away. The only thing I can suggest is that we give her a full and detailed account of your investigation, without revealing your identity, but I don’t think that’s going to satisfy her now. She’s really pissed off and wants to give you a grilling. I’ll do what I can, okay? But I thought I should warn you.’

  Brock rang off and told Suzanne what she’d said.

  Suzanne winced. ‘What are you going to do?’

  Kathy put the phone down and stared glumly out the window at the night. Rain was spattering against the glass, distorting the glimmering lights below in strange fluid patterns.

  Her mind turned back again to Maggie Ferguson. The bitch was playing games, deliberately frustrating her investigation. It was obvious why she wouldn’t let Kathy talk to her detective—the bastard must have discovered something that Maggie was going to spring on them in court. Well, she wasn’t going to get away with that.

  The phone rang. A voice she barely recognised. ‘Brock? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes … um, got a bit of a cold. Nothing serious. Look … we wondered if you were going to be free at all tomorrow? Sunday? Suzanne’s just dying to see your flat. Me too, of course.’

  ‘Oh, that would be great. I am free actually.’

  They arranged a time in the morning and she hung up feeling a bit more cheerful. Something to look forward to.

  The intercom sounded and Kathy went to the screen. She saw Brock’s face, or at least half of it, off to one side of the camera.

  ‘Come on up,’ she said. ‘Twelfth floor.’

  She got a shock when she opened the door and saw the other side of his face.

  ‘My God, Brock, what happened to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing. A fall.’

  ‘A hell of a fall. Come in, come in. Sit down. Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘Yes, yes. It looks worse than it is.’ He gazed around. ‘Kathy, this is magnificent! That view. What did you do, rob a bank?’

  ‘Just lucky, a matter of timing. Where’s Suzanne?’

  ‘She stopped off to buy a couple of things. She won’t be long. Gives us a chance for a chat.’ He produced a bottle of champagne and bunch of flowers he’d been hiding behind his back.

  ‘Oh, they’re lovely.’ And she laughed.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘I was just thinking about the other time you gave me flowers—our first case together, remember? Things went pear-shaped and you brought me some flowers to the flat in Finchley and I threw them at you.’

  ‘Oh … yes, of course. I’d forgotten.’ He seemed to find the memory unsettling.

  ‘I was really mad at you. We’ve come a long way since then, haven’t we?’

  He followed her to the kitchen bench and watched her fill a water jug and put them in.

  ‘Coffee?’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Let’s just sit down and talk.’

  He seemed oddly subdued, or maybe troubled, and she had a horrible thought that he was going to tell her that he had something wrong with him. They sat by the windows and she said, ‘How have you been, apart from the fall?’

  ‘Good, good. I had lunch with Bren a while ago. He told me a bit about you, your new job. It sounds as if you’re going really well.’

  ‘It was a bit tricky at first, with the Hampstead murders, you know?’

  ‘Big case to land you with at the start. But you got your man.’

  ‘Yes, well, things have settled down since then. The team’s working really well. There’s the usual management bullshit, of course. We’re all snowed under with work, just needing to get on with the jobs at hand, so what does management do? Insist that we drop everything to attend a two-day wellness workshop. Then, when we’re more or less recovered from that, the team leaders have to go and waste another two days on a change management course, with a bloody exam at the end! Honestly, Brock, you’re well out of it.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t change it for anything, would you?’

  She smiled. ‘Probably not. So, what have you been getting up to?’

  ‘Well, not much until a few days ago. Then I had a strange approach from Maggie Ferguson.’

  ‘Maggie! She’s defending my Hampstead killer.’

  ‘Yes, she told me. In fact, that’s why she called me. She told me the police case against Pettigrew was overwhelming, but there was an aspect that bothered her.’

  ‘You discussed my case with Maggie Ferguson?’

  ‘Only in the broadest terms.’

  ‘What aspect?’

  ‘The business of the manuscript.’

  ‘That’s a red herring.’

  ‘Yes, very possibly, but since no one had been able to identify the woman who brought it to him, and whom he killed, it was an unknown that bothered her. She asked for my opinion.’

  ‘How were you going to do that?’

  ‘I talked to Pettigrew.’

  ‘You interviewed my suspect?’

  ‘I listened to his story.’

  She’d got it now—he wasn’t ill, he was embarrassed. And so he bloody well should be. ‘Didn’t you think of speaking to me first?’

  ‘Of course, but Maggie said there’d be no conflict of interest. It wouldn’t have a bearing on the outcome of the case and I wouldn’t give evidence. I insisted on that.’

  ‘She’s Maggie Ferguson, Brock! The defence counsel! Why would she approach you if it wasn’t to help her defence? Against me.’

  And then it dawned on her, the damaged face, the limp. ‘Oh no … It wasn’t you, was it? Who tracked down Uzma Jamali? Please tell me you weren’t Maggie’s bloody detective.’

  He couldn’t look her in the eye now. He stared down at his shoes, scratched at his beard, frowned, then finally nodded. ‘Yes, I tracked her down.’

  She stared at him, sitting there like a big shaggy damaged bear trying to look contrite. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  He began to speak but she cut him off. ‘Hang on. Go back to you interviewing Pettigrew. What did you make of him?’

  ‘Frankly, I couldn’t get a grip on him. If he’s a psychopath, he’s unlike any other I’ve met over the years. And that bizarre story of the lost Orwell manuscript, where had that come from? The only thing I could think was that he’d been the target of an elaborate hoax, for money. But how did that square with the Hampstead murders? Was it just an unfortunate coincidence that Uzma picked the killer as her victim? As you know, I don’t like coincidences.’

  ‘So you decided to solve the case your way.’

  ‘No, no. I just wanted to get someone else’s perspective on him, to try to make sense of him. I spoke to his editor at Golden Press, and that only made me more confused. There was the story about his mother when he was a little boy—you know about that?’

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘But he seems to have been an entirely passive and nonviolent man. So then I spoke to his cleaner.’

  ‘His cleaner?’

  ‘Yes, Nadia from Poland, who found the body. She told me that when she was taking Pettigrew’s bin out the week before Uzma was murdered she spoke to what she took to be an Indian woman who stopped outside the house. She asked questions about the owner and Nadia asked if she was looking for a cleaning job, but the woman said no, her housemate from Romania was a cleaner at the Shard and she wanted something better than that. She joked that she’d married a rich man, but that didn’t work out. So, based on that and a bit of shoe leather, I tracked down Elena Vasile at the Shard, followed her to Walworth, met Rosie and ended up at Tariq Jamali’s in Shadwell Road.’

  ‘And got beaten up in the process.’ Kathy shook her head, not sure whether to throw him out or feel sorry for him. ‘You old bastard. You just wanted to prove that the Met couldn’t do it without you—that I couldn’t do it without you.’

  ‘
No, no, Kathy. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Oh really? Why didn’t Nadia tell us about the Indian woman?’

  ‘Because the agency that employs her doesn’t like their girls getting involved with the police, and she was afraid they’d send her back to cleaning hospital toilets. Look, I know I’ve trodden on your toes, and I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean that to happen. But I did at least identify your victim for you, and there’s no harm done, is there?’

  ‘Except to my pride. Is there anything else I should know?’

  ‘Um, well, I’ve sent a copy of the manuscript page to John in Montreal for him to take a look.’

  ‘Oh, so he’s involved in my case too, is he?’

  ‘I didn’t mention the case or the name Pettigrew, but I thought he might be able to throw some light on the authenticity of the document. I’m sorry, Kathy. I was just trying to help. You are absolutely sure he’s your Hampstead killer, are you?’

  Exasperated, Kathy turned on him. ‘Yes! Did Maggie show you the forensic report?’

  ‘No. She just said the evidence against him was strong.’

  ‘It was overwhelming, Brock. Hell, he even had Uzma Jamali’s dried blood on his trouser legs when we arrested him the next day. And there’s evidence tying him to the second murder too. The killer made a mistake and opened Caroline Jarvis’s handbag, leaving a small DNA trace. We’ve now established that the trace belongs to Pettigrew. The killer also took a trophy, Caroline’s necklace. We found it in a drawer in Pettigrew’s bedroom. In addition, a hair was found on Caroline’s body, a dog’s hair, and the DNA matched that of the hairs of Pettigrew’s dog. So yes, I am absolutely sure he’s the Hampstead killer.’

  ‘But why, Kathy? How could a man like that become such a monster?’

  ‘Rage—rage at his mother, rage at women, rage at his own impotence and failure. He realised that Uzma was trying to make a fool of him, and he lost it. You should have seen that bedroom where he killed her. He slaughtered her in a blind rage.’

  ‘I see. And the Orwell manuscript?’

  ‘Uzma was running some kind of scam, trying to get an advance from publishers and agents for a fake Orwell novel—we know of at least one other person she approached. And yes, she was unlucky enough to choose the one who happened to be the Hampstead killer. Pettigrew mustn’t have been able to believe his luck. Unfortunately—for him—he took too many sleeping pills with a bit too much wine, and passed out after he’d done the deed. The next morning he went off to work forgetting that he’d left the mess in the spare bedroom.’