The Promised Land
Page 13
‘Sir.’
Kathy left, thinking about Selwyn Jarvis. Could this possibly be right? He’d just lost his wife in the most shocking of circumstances, and here was this new disaster about to strike him. And she thought about the implications closer to home. Homicide had been involved with both men. Would the Command be implicated in accusations of a cover-up? Would she be dragged into it? She went over in her head the information she’d shared with him, the places they’d been seen together—his home, his club. She got to work on her report for Torrens.
12
Brock was giving a lecture to a class of young detectives at the Crime Academy. At some point both he and his audience realised that his material was completely out of date and irrelevant, and people began to murmur. He tried to improvise to hold their attention, but that only seemed to make things worse and they started to get up and leave. He began to sweat, fumbling for words. Eventually only one man was left, someone he knew but couldn’t quite place. The man was staring at him with a look of utter contempt. Brock gulped for air and woke.
He turned to check that Suzanne was still there. Her dark hair, recently trimmed in a shorter style, spilled across the pillow, and he was filled with a sense of relief and gratitude. How could he have managed without her? He eased himself quietly out of bed and padded through to the kitchen to make tea, carrying the mugs back to the bedroom, watching her come awake.
‘Morning,’ she mumbled. ‘What’s the weather like?’
He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain. It was a sharp cold morning, frost riming the grass with white, and he wished he’d never agreed to this meeting. Enough was enough. He took his tea through to the bathroom and showered and shaved. His face was looking almost normal again.
After breakfast, when he’d procrastinated as long as he could, he kissed Suzanne goodbye and went out to his car. It refused to start. He swore to himself and stomped back to the house. He’d never make it by train and told Suzanne he’d have to cancel.
‘Take Heidi,’ she said.
He hesitated. Heidi was Suzanne’s dearest possession, a brilliant red 1978 Mercedes-Benz 280SL two-door roadster. He’d only driven it a couple of times. ‘Oh, I couldn’t.’
‘’Course you can.’ She handed him the keys. ‘She could do with a long run.’
Despite the cold gloom of the day he drove with the top down, wearing a thick coat, a cap and a scarf wound around his neck, and began to feel more positive about the trip. He pulled over at one point to answer his phone, a call from Kathy to say that she was having to attend a crisis meeting at headquarters but DS Alfarsi would be at Hampstead Heath with other officers as arranged, to intercept and arrest Elena Vasile.
‘Don’t worry, Kathy,’ Brock said, thinking how good it was to be no longer called to crisis meetings at headquarters. ‘Everything will go smoothly.’
Parking around the Heath was always difficult, spaces in the narrow lanes and perimeter residential streets hard to find, but the dull weather seemed to have deterred visitors, and he found a spot in a small car park on the edge of the woods close to the path to Viaduct Pond. He was twenty minutes early and called Alfarsi to let him know he’d arrived. The detective replied that his team was in position, two officers in the woods on the west side of the pond and himself and another among the trees to the east. Brock was warm now and took off his heavy coat and put it in the boot, transferring the knuckleduster to his trouser pocket. He slammed the lid shut and set off down an avenue of skeletal sycamores and made his way to the meeting place without catching sight of anyone except a solitary elderly dog-walker.
He stopped at the centre of the viaduct and looked down at the turbid waters of the pond, then took out a guide to the Heath that he’d brought with him and leaned on the iron parapet, turning to the section on the viaduct. It was all that remained of a failed project in 1844 by a local landowner, Sir Thomas Wilson, to subdivide this southern area of the Heath as a residential park. The viaduct was to carry the access road across the boggy valley below, but proved so difficult to build that the scheme was abandoned and the viaduct came to be known as Wilson’s Folly. While excavating the swamp to create the ornamental pond, some strange artefacts had been found, including deer antlers, bronze and stone axes, and a human skull with two holes in it. Brock hoped this wasn’t an omen. He checked his watch—five to ten.
After fifteen more minutes he decided to call Elena, but as he took out his phone it buzzed and her number came up.
‘Hello, Elena?’
‘You are at the viaduct?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘I cannot come. I am sorry. I will contact you again to make another arrangement.’
She sounded tense, panicky. He said, ‘What’s happened?’ But the line went dead. He frowned with irritation and called Alfarsi, who seemed unfazed.
‘Not to worry, boss. Next time, eh?’
Brock made his way back to his car, not as annoyed as he felt he had a right to be. The sun had broken out through the clouds and the air was fresh. He thought of delaying his return, exploring Hampstead and perhaps getting an early lunch at the Spaniards Inn.
At one point he became lost among the meandering paths and thick woodland, passing joggers and walkers with an endless variety of dogs. Finally he emerged onto the entry path he remembered and came to the car park, deserted. He went over to the Merc, unlocked the door and got in. As he swung the door closed he felt something sticky on his fingers. He looked at them and saw them covered with a red stain. His first thought was that somehow the paint on the car was coming off. He looked down and saw red on the cream-coloured driver’s seat too. What the hell? He looked up, wondering if it could be something dripping from the trees overhead. Somewhere nearby he heard the urgent wail of a siren.
He got out of the car again and took out his handkerchief, wiping his hand, looking around. He could see dark stains on the sandy gravel beside the boot. Looking at his handkerchief he couldn’t help thinking that the stains looked like blood. Afterwards he wondered why it took him so long to work that out.
The siren abruptly cut out, and as he stood watching, a police car swung fast into the car park in a spray of gravel. Two uniforms jumped out and ran towards him, then came to a stop, their eyes fixed on the red-stained handkerchief in his hand. One of them stayed motionless in front of him while the other circled around to his left. The motionless one said, ‘What’s with the blood, sir?’
‘Blood?’ Brock looked down at his hands. ‘Yes, it does look like that, doesn’t it? But it can’t be.’
The man on his left had moved in close, and Brock turned to him, recognising the look in his eyes. ‘Hey, relax,’ Brock said with a smile. ‘I’m a DCI with Homicide, just retired.’
‘Do you have ID, sir? I’ll take that.’ The copper reached forward with a gloved hand and took the handkerchief. The other man was talking into his radio in a low mumble that Brock couldn’t make out. He reached into his pocket for his wallet and handed over his card.
‘Driver’s licence?’
‘Oh … I was robbed recently. They took my licence. I haven’t got a replacement yet.’
‘Can I have the car keys, please?’
Brock handed them over. As he did so he noticed movement along the path leading from the Heath and saw several men running fast towards them. The first to reach them panted, ‘DS Alfarsi …’ and showed his ID to the uniforms. He turned to Brock. ‘What happened, sir?’
‘Ah, Alfarsi, I’m glad to see you. It’s nothing. I came back to my car, and when I got in I noticed my hand had picked up some sort of pink stuff from the door. I don’t know what it is.’
Alfarsi gave him an odd look, then drew out plastic gloves from his pocket, asked the uniform for the keys and walked around to the back of the car. Brock remembered putting his coat in there and called to him, ‘I believe I left it unlocked.’
Alfarsi pressed the button and the boot sprang open. He stared at what was inside.
He looked at Brock. ‘Can you identify this woman?’
They allowed him to move closer and he saw black hair, white skin, purple lipstick. ‘It looks like Elena—Elena Vasile. The woman I was supposed to meet.’
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘No, no, we didn’t make contact. I had no idea she was in there.’
Alfarsi hesitated a moment, then said, ‘Mr Brock, I’d like you to accompany us to a police station to make a formal statement.’
‘No, that isn’t necessary and it’s wasting time. Come on, man, whoever did this must still be nearby.’
Alfarsi stared at Brock, at the blood on his hands. ‘Sir, I must insist that you accompany us. I am arresting you for the murder of Elena Vasile.’
Looking around at the scene, Brock barely listened while Alfarsi recited the familiar words of the caution and they bagged and cuffed his hands.
‘Mr Brock? Can you hear me? I asked if you had anything to say.’
‘Alfarsi, listen to me, you’re making a mistake. You need to put a cordon around this area. Can you see a weapon?’
Alfarsi ignored him and gave instructions to the others to secure the scene, then led Brock to the patrol car.
They took him to Holmes Road, appropriately enough, in Kentish Town. It was the same police station they’d taken Pettigrew, housed in a yellow-brick building that reminded Brock of a Victorian workhouse. Inside he observed with detachment himself being processed. The only thing to disturb the calm routine was the knuckleduster they found in his pocket, which caused a few stares.
Stripped of his clothes, swabbed and fingerprinted, he was allowed a phone call. He rang Suzanne.
‘You’ve been arrested for what?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘They’ve got everything mixed up. I’m sure they’ll sort it out soon enough. I’m afraid you may have to do without Heidi for a while.’
‘Never mind that. Are you hurt again?’
‘No, no. I’m fine.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Ring Maggie Ferguson. Tell her I may need her help smartish. I’m at Kentish Town police station.’
‘Right, yes, she got you into this mess. I’ll never forgive her. What about Kathy, does she know?’
‘I imagine they’ll tell her, but I doubt if she’ll be allowed to get involved. If I’m not free by this evening you could give her a ring when she’s off-duty.’
‘All right. You sound very calm, love.’
‘Yes, it’s all a stupid mistake, but it’s interesting seeing it from the other side. I’d better go—they’re threatening me with a cup of tea.’
‘I’m coming up to see you.’
‘I’m sure there’s no need. See what Maggie says. And take extra care, you hear me? Keep the house locked, don’t go out on your own.’
Kathy had heard. She was sitting in an anteroom outside one of the large conference rooms at headquarters, inside which a cluster of worried senior officers and lawyers were discussing the Walcott/Jarvis problem, when the call from Alfarsi came through. She listened in disbelief, getting him to go through it all again. Finally, when she was satisfied that he’d done everything by the book, she told him to stay at Kentish Town and await instructions. Then she sent a text to her boss inside the meeting room.
Sir, I’ve just been notified that ex DCI David Brock has been arrested at Hampstead Heath and charged with murder.
She counted sixteen seconds before Commander Torrens burst out of the room.
‘Who the fuck did he murder, for God’s sake?’
‘The body of a woman was found in the boot of his parked car. It seems to be Elena Vasile, the Romanian woman who was involved in the Pettigrew case. She’d been stabbed.’
He listened, incredulous, as she gave him the background.
Finally he said, ‘All right, but your team can’t investigate this. You’re all witnesses, too involved—you especially, Kathy. You’ve been close to Brock for years, right? I’ll put Alun Hughes’s team onto it. You’ll need to brief them and then keep clear.’ He saw the frown on her face and added, ‘I mean it, Kathy. Walk away, for your own sake.’
Alun Hughes, a Cardiff boy, had a strong Welsh accent undiminished by thirty years working in London. At times of great stress it became almost unintelligible. He was stressed now.
‘Two honour killings one murder/suicide mysterious deaths in an old folks’ home a gang of thrill-killers on the loose and half my team down with flu and I’m expected to clear up your mess, Kathy! What’s going on in your neck of the woods? Is it contagious?’
When he’d got that off his chest, he calmed down a little. ‘I’ve always admired Brock, a bloody good detective, one of the best. What the hell’s become of him, Kathy? No, don’t tell me. I’ll have to work that out for myself. Just fill me in on what’s happened.’
So she did, the whole story—Pettigrew, Maggie Ferguson, Uzma Jamali, Elena Vasile and her friends.
When she’d finished, Hughes looked up from his notes. He gave a grim little chuckle. ‘That cunning old bugger. He sniffed out the cleaning girl, trailed Vasile halfway across London, got himself mugged and identified your murder victim when none of you could do it.’
‘Yes, well …’
‘So did he murder Vasile, Kathy? Your honest opinion.’
‘No, of course not. Not in a million years.’ She smothered the unwanted thought that came into her head: He’s been framed, just like Pettigrew.
‘Hmm. Well, maybe this will be more interesting than the other rubbish piling up on my desk. Interesting but unrewarding. No one is going to thank the senior investigating officer on this one, Kathy, regardless of the outcome.’
Brock, dressed in a baggy tracksuit and slippers, shuffled into the interview room and took a seat at the table. After ten minutes a constable showed Maggie Ferguson in. She stared at him in horror. ‘Brock! … I’m speechless.’
‘That’s not like you, Maggie. Come and sit down.’
She pulled out a chair, thumped her heavy document bag onto the table and extracted a recorder and notebook. ‘Better tell me all about it.’
So he did.
She stared at her notes with a sigh. ‘I can’t get you out tonight. Tomorrow I’ll apply for bail, but … a murder charge, you know. And the knuckleduster doesn’t help.’
‘I know. I just can’t work out why they haven’t realised their mistake by now.’
‘Suzanne is outside. They’ll let you have five minutes together, but an officer will have to be present.’
He nodded.
Maggie went on, ‘I tried to talk to Kathy Kolla, but she’s been forbidden from involvement in the case. Another team is taking over. I don’t know who.’
‘But is Kathy still running the Pettigrew case?’
‘As far as I know. I made the point to her that there’s an overlap.’
‘More than that, Maggie. They are one and the same case.’
‘Hmm. I’m not so sure about that. They certainly don’t seem to see it that way.’ She frowned at him. ‘You’re taking this remarkably calmly, Brock.’
‘Truth will finally and powerfully prevail, Maggie.’
‘What idiot said that?’
‘Thomas Paine.’
‘And what happened to him?’
Brock smiled grimly. ‘He was ostracised in the end, because nobody wanted to hear the truth.’
After Maggie left, Suzanne was shown in. They talked about banal, practical things, but as their time came to an end Suzanne took hold of his hands and held them in a fierce grip, and the constable had to tell her firmly to leave.
After a while they brought him his supper, a carto
n of pie and chips from the high street and a plastic mug of tea. Afterwards he lay on the bunk and thought it all through again. And when the lights were turned out, and the sounds of the station faded away, and still no one had come to apologise and set him free, he seriously began to wonder if he was losing it. First getting beaten up, now this. It was absurd, impossible. It would never have happened to him when he’d been in the force, in the thick of it. Perhaps he’d gone soft, lost his touch, his wits.
13
They interviewed him at eleven the next morning. Alun Hughes bustled in with a young female officer in tow, establishing himself laboriously, dumping his bag, methodically setting out a fat file, a notebook and four coloured pens, a tube of Polo mints and a plastic cup of black coffee on his side of the table. On the opposite side Brock sat with the solicitor that Maggie had insisted be present, a young woman who had just arrived and was immersed in her notes.
‘Brock,’ Hughes said, ‘David,’ and reached across the table to shake Brock’s hand. ‘My God, I never thought I’d find myself in this situation. This here is Detective Sergeant Mercy Bulimore, but don’t expect any mercy from her—she’s a holy terror. Whereas I, I’ve always been such a great admirer of yours, almost a disciple you might say. And here I am, ordered to question you like a common criminal.’
Brock nodded, scratched at his white beard. ‘These things happen, Alun.’
‘Ach …’ Hughes shook his head. ‘Well, I’d better do my job, I suppose. So, a factual matter—have you ever seen this before?’ And he reached into his bag and heaved out a transparent plastic pouch containing a large, horn-handled knife.
Brock carefully examined the knife, the blade, the grip, then slowly nodded. ‘Yes, this is mine.’
‘Uh-huh. Go on.’
Brock’s solicitor interrupted. ‘No, my client wishes to withdraw his remark. He can’t possibly be sure.’
‘It belonged to my father,’ Brock said. ‘See, there are his initials engraved on the blade—MB. In his youth, he was a keen boy scout. When I turned eleven, I joined the local troop and he gave it to me. In those days, scouts openly wore sheath knives as part of their uniform. I don’t suppose they’re allowed to do that now.’