The Promised Land

by Barry Maitland

  The solicitor tried to intervene again, but Hughes chuckled. ‘Ah, those were the days. And where did you keep this special knife?’

  ‘In a drawer for odds and ends in the spare bedroom at my home in Warren Lane. You’ve been there?’

  Hughes nodded apologetically.

  Brock said, ‘And you found the knife in that drawer?’

  ‘No, no. We found it in the boot of the red Mercedes roadster—a lovely car, may I say—along with the body of Elena Vasile, covered in her blood and bearing traces of your DNA—the knife, that is.’

  A pause, while Hughes took a sip of coffee and gazed glumly at his notebook. ‘You see my difficulty, Brock?’

  ‘Yes, Alun, I do see.’

  Brock’s solicitor cut in again. ‘I need to suspend this interview to talk to my client.’

  ‘It’s all right, Amanda,’ Brock said. ‘I’d like to know what Alun’s thinking.’

  ‘Edmanda,’ she corrected him. ‘And if we could just have a few words in private …’

  ‘Let’s hear a bit more,’ Brock said firmly, and nodded at Hughes. ‘Have you any other difficulties, Alun?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He reached into his bag for another pouch, containing the knuckleduster. ‘This was in your pocket when you were arrested, right?’

  ‘True enough.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A precaution. The last time I met Elena Vasile one of her friends turned up and gave me a beating. So I was cautious about meeting her again.’ Brock nodded at the brass knuckles. ‘That’s an historic artefact, Alun; once belonged to Ronnie Kray.’

  ‘The Ronnie Kray, of the Kray twins? You’re joking!’

  ‘It’s true. It was souvenired by one of Nipper Read’s team that arrested them, and when he died he left it to me as a thank you for something I’d done for him. So look after it.’

  ‘Well, well.’ Hughes picked the pouch up reverently and put it back in his bag. ‘So where did you keep this historic artefact, Brock? I don’t remember seeing a glass case of memorabilia.’

  ‘No, no, just in the same drawer of oddments.’

  ‘And when you wanted to take precautions for this meeting on the Heath, you went to the drawer and took out the brass knuckles and the knife …’

  ‘No, not the knife.’

  ‘But you would have seen it in there?’

  Brock frowned, trying to picture it. ‘No, I don’t remember seeing the knife, now you mention it. There’s a lot of junk in that drawer. Someone must have taken it.’

  ‘But you groped around in the junk and found the knuckles, but didn’t notice that the much larger knife was missing?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Edmanda drew an audible breath and shook her head. ‘Please …’

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Hughes said briskly. ‘Why don’t you just tell me exactly your version of events yesterday morning, Brock, from go to whoa.’

  When Brock finished, there was a long moment of silence. Hughes hung his head as if at a loss where to begin, DS Bulimore had an odd expression like a barely suppressed wolfish grin, and Edmanda looked despairing.

  Hughes took him through it again, step by step, getting him to elaborate on certain points. The usual thing, Brock thought, probing for contradictions, but Hughes’s heart didn’t seem to be in it, when faced by so many improbabilities.

  Finally, Brock said, ‘Tell me, Alun, how did the patrol car arrive so promptly?’

  ‘You were seen, Brock, in the car park after you returned from the viaduct. A witness called 999 to report seeing a man matching your description trying to bundle a woman’s body into the boot of a red sports car.’

  ‘No, that’s not possible. I only arrived in the car park a few seconds before I heard the siren. I got lost on the way back from the Viaduct Pond. There was no one in the car park. Have you interviewed the witness?’

  ‘We will.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘A woman.’

  ‘And you have her name, her phone number?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Brock rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘They’d have to do that of course, so that you could catch me red-handed. Literally. They almost got it wrong—if I’d been delayed a bit longer the patrol car would have got there before I did.’

  ‘You’re suggesting you’ve been set up?’

  ‘Of course I was, Alun.’

  Hughes shook his head. ‘I’d have a few difficulties with that idea. You changed your car at the last minute. How would they know what car you were driving? How would they know, out of all the possible places around Hampstead Heath, that you’d park where you did? Of course, we can check whether someone tailed you all the way up to Hampstead from Battle. We can look at cameras along your route. But wouldn’t you have noticed a tail?’

  ‘Maybe they bugged both cars.’

  ‘No, they didn’t. We checked. And then there’s the question of motive. Who would go to such lengths to frame you, Brock?’

  Brock sensed the unspoken words: a harmless, spent old man like you.

  ‘I don’t know. So what do you think happened, Alun?’

  Hughes eased back in his chair, folded his arms, sighed and considered Brock gravely. ‘One theory is that you had a brain snap. You’d hyped yourself up for this meeting, traumatised by the terrible beating you got from Elena’s friend, arming yourself with knuckleduster and knife. And when she started taunting you, pushing you around, you lost it. Understandable, really.’

  Brock began to object, but Hughes went on, ‘And maybe he was there too, her bully boy? Is that what spooked you, made you lash out? Hell, you were acting in self-defence, right? Did she get in the way and take the blow you’d aimed at her boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Frankly I don’t buy it either. She was stabbed three times, in the back. And you wouldn’t have put her into your boot and made off without telling anyone.’

  ‘But, using your own argument, how did Elena find my car?’

  ‘Exactly! How did she do that? Well, the obvious way of, course. You told her where it was! When you were on the viaduct and she phoned you to say she was running late. We’ve tracked the phone call to the south side of the Heath, not far from the car park. You told her to meet you by the red sports car instead of at the viaduct because you didn’t want your meeting to be observed by the waiting cops. And that puts a darker complexion on things, doesn’t it? It smacks of devious intent. You wanted to get her alone to force the truth out of her, about this mystery manuscript and Uzma Jamali’s game. And things got out of hand, she fought back, and something tragic happened, a momentary overreaction, the heat of the moment …’

  Silence. Brock was aware of three pairs of eyes on him. He’d underestimated Alun Hughes, he realised. In fact, he’d underestimated the whole situation.

  Hughes leaned forward across the table, spoke softly. ‘Think about it, Brock. It isn’t just my fancy. The forensics all support it. Maggie Ferguson will make the best of it for you—your head injuries, your genuine perception of a threat. Talk it over with her. Let her do her job.’

  The same as she’s done for Charles Pettigrew, Brock thought. Exactly the same.

  After the police left the room, the solicitor said quietly, ‘I’m not optimistic about bail, Mr Brock. I’m sorry. I have the feeling that the police are bending over backwards to avoid any impression that they’re going soft on one of their own.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine they are. Don’t worry, Edmanda, I’ll cope.’

  She fiddled with her pen, reluctant to go on. He waited and finally she said, ‘I think Maggie will want you to see a psychiatrist to assess your mental condition as soon after the event as possible.’

  ‘I see. Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She seemed relieved. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Just find out as much as you can about the facts of the case. This mystery witness, for example, who called 999.’

 
‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘Edmanda, somebody killed Elena, and it wasn’t me. Whatever you and Maggie might privately suspect, I want you to act as if what I’m saying is true. Someone else must have been in that car park and killed Elena immediately before I arrived. The timeframe was very tight. It was probably Elena’s Romanian friend Marku Constantin, who attacked me three weeks ago. Have the police interviewed him? Did he leave any traces? Did anyone—a dog-walker, a bird-spotter, a jogger—catch sight of him?’

  Edmanda nodded, trying hard not to look sceptical. ‘Right. Got that.’

  Later that afternoon he was transferred to Highbury Corner Magistrates’ Court, another old haunt, for his hearing. On Maggie’s instructions, Suzanne had brought him two sets of clothes—his best suit and tie for the court appearance, and a set of casual clothes for later. After what seemed like an interminable wait he was taken up to the courtroom and told to sit down, while around him the court officers got on with their business, conferring in a familiar low murmur. He looked around, remembering previous visits, trying to recall the cases. His eyes turned to the visitors’ seats, where Suzanne was sitting in the middle of a row of unhappy women. She gave him a brave encouraging smile, as if she already knew the verdict.

  Finally the magistrate raised his head, the lawyers moved back to their places and his case was called. It didn’t take long; an outline of the prosecution case, a rebuttal from Maggie, some to and fro, a couple of questions from the magistrate and then the ruling—in consideration of the seriousness of the crime and the weight of evidence, and notwithstanding his previous exemplary record as a police officer, the accused was refused bail. Although it wasn’t unexpected, the decision still hit him like a blow. Ahead of him lay long months in prison, waiting while others, free to come and go, would work on bringing him to trial.

  Downstairs, in the processing area, he changed into the casual clothes that Suzanne had brought—as a remand prisoner awaiting trial he would be allowed to wear his own clothes in prison. Suzanne had also brought a bag of other things, some of which (pens and pads of paper, books) were allowed, the rest (chocolates, apples, a bottle of Scotch) refused.

  ‘Where am I going?’ he asked, and a court officer consulted his clipboard and grunted, ‘HMP Belmarsh, mate.’

  There were three others in the van, young men, subdued. They all stared out the window at the dark streets, the rhythm of streetlights flashing past, shopfronts, houses, all now given a heightened significance by being out of reach.

  Belmarsh, Brock thought. They used to refer to the place laughingly as Hellmarsh. Now the joke wasn’t so funny. Less than a month ago he had come here to visit Pettigrew. How relaxed he’d been, how objective and uninvolved, totally unaware that he was beginning a journey that would bring him back here, humiliated, to the prison gates.

  The van came to a stop and they stumbled out and were led through to the reception bay for processing. Their possessions were carefully examined, their bodies searched. Brock was allocated a two-man cell in house block four, reserved for vulnerable and remand prisoners, and given a stream of information and instructions, half of which he barely took in.

  A prison officer led him through the communal areas, now full of prisoners in association time, some playing cards and table tennis, others watching sport on a big TV screen. Brock scanned their faces, dreading the thought that he might see someone he had put here. They continued along a corridor to house block four. This was a modern prison, built in the 1970s, and the utilitarian design of the four cruciform arms, double-storeyed, made Brock think of a grim and Spartan shopping mall with identical blank shopfronts. He was shown to a cell on the upper floor. Inside there was a bed on each side of a narrow central space, a stainless-steel toilet, a window at the far end. The belongings of the other occupant were scattered everywhere—radio, kettle and toaster, clothes, magazines, toiletries—and on a pinboard were photographs, one of a young girl and another of a group of men wearing blue Chelsea scarfs. There was a smell of baked beans, aftershave and male body odour.

  Brock dropped his few belongings on the least-occupied bed and was led back down to the communal areas. He had missed the evening meal, and was taken to the dining room for a late sitting. A dozen others were there, huddled over plates of food, eating in silence.

  When he’d cleaned his plate, Brock went out to the social area and found a seat on the edge of the TV crowd. They were all male, of course, for this was a men-only prison, and mostly young, but he spotted a few who must have been over fifty, one distinctly elderly, staring expressionless at the big screen. He didn’t recognise any of them.

  When the clock on the wall showed eight thirty, a bell rang for the end of association time, the TV was switched off and everyone got to their feet and headed for their wings. Brock found his way back to his cell, where a man of about thirty-five was stacking magazines on a shelf.

  ‘Hello,’ the man said, turning to Brock. ‘Dave, is it?’ He gestured at the label on Brock’s bag. ‘I’m Danny.’ He offered his hand, which Brock shook. The hand was soft, plump and pale, like the rest of Danny’s anatomy.

  ‘I’m just moving all my stuff over here, Dave, out of your way. Had the place to meself last four days, so I spread out a bit.’ He chuckled. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

  This was the preamble to a getting-to-know-you session. They sat on their beds facing each other, sipping their tea, as Danny explained a few useful things about the way things were done.

  ‘Your first time inside, Dave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bit of getting used to then. Same for me when I came in, four months ago, but you adjust. We all adjust. You’re on remand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too. What they got you for, Dave? Fraud, is it? I’m just guessing. You look the bookish type.’

  ‘Murder,’ Brock said.

  ‘Ah! Fancy that. Me too.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Killed my missus. You’ll find quite a few of us in here did that. You?’

  ‘No, another woman. At least, that’s what they say.’

  ‘Oh yes? What, you’re going for manslaughter, like me, are you? Provocation, that’s the thing, innit? I fell for a cute little bum and discovered I’d married a big vicious mouth. The bitch gave me a hard time for years. One evening we both had a bit to drink and she started on at me again and I couldn’t stand it no more and I whacked her with the ketchup bottle. A bit too hard as it turned out. But it was provocation. Is that how it was for you, Dave?’

  ‘Not exactly, Danny, no. I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Danny looked disappointed, as if Brock had broken some unspoken rule of etiquette. ‘There’s no hidden microphones in here, mate,’ he said, sounding offended. ‘I’m not a bloody nark.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re not, Danny, but that’s just the way it is. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  From Danny’s expression it was clear this wasn’t good enough. He said, ‘Suit yourself,’ and took their mugs to the sink and rinsed them, turning his back on Brock.

  14

  A cold and blustery Sunday evening, with rain hammering in vicious gusts against the big windows. Kathy turned the heating up a notch and buried herself in a corner of her sofa. Sometimes she missed the stuffy, closeted atmosphere of her old flat, the walls of masonry instead of glass, the creaky old lifts, the muffled sounds of neighbours’ music or arguments instead of the utter silence of this building, where most of the apartments were owned by absentee overseas investors.

  Somehow, by default it seemed, she had become the senior investigating officer reporting to the ad hoc committee, codenamed the Falstaff Committee, advising the commissioner on the Walcott case. It was her task to review the investigation into Walcott’s death as a matter of urgency, though not quite as much urgency, she sensed, as another team from the Directorate of Professional Standards investigating how the hell the story had leaked to the papers. She had her own theory about that
, centring on the recently retired DI O’Hare, now apparently impossible to locate. Kathy’s team was busy reinterviewing everyone else involved in the original investigation and re-examining every scrap of evidence, but it was becoming clear that the hard nub of truth lay inside the judge’s computers—the laptop found in the hotel room and the desktop unit in his home—in which all the incriminating links to paedophile rings and to Selwyn Jarvis were contained. For that sort of truth, she could only sit and wait for the experts to pronounce. While waiting, she’d got a team searching for every instance they could find of connections between the two judges. It was already an impressive list, from the Lord Mayor of London’s annual banquet to a shared yachting holiday in the Caribbean, apart from hundreds of more mundane professional and social contacts. It didn’t help that, among her team’s paperwork spread out on the sofa and floor and coffee table around her, was Saturday’s newspaper, naming Jarvis as the second paedophile judge.

  The phone rang. Suzanne’s voice, sounding breathless. ‘Kathy, hello! Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all, Suzanne. Where are you?’

  ‘On my way to London Bridge to catch the train home.’

  ‘You’ve been to see Brock?’

  ‘Yes, it was such a crowd, the prison visitors. I was wondering …’

  ‘Have you got time to call in?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ Kathy heard the relief in her voice.

  She arrived half an hour later, wet and exhausted, and sank into a chair with relief.

  ‘Kick your shoes off,’ Kathy said. ‘Tea, or something stronger?’

  ‘Oh yes, please. Mother’s ruin, if you’ve got it.’

  Kathy poured a couple of stiff gin and tonics and Suzanne began to relax. ‘You just get used to it, I suppose, the whole paraphernalia. I got into trouble because I had a five-pound note in my pocket and you’re only allowed to take in coins. And then when I came out I couldn’t find my locker key. I’ll know better next time. But, Kathy, to think people are doing this for years and years. Some of those poor women, dragging their kids along …’