The Promised Land

by Barry Maitland

  As he got to his feet, Brock said quietly, ‘I’d like a word alone with you, Alun.’

  Edmanda began to protest, but Brock interrupted, ‘Nothing incriminating, I promise you.’

  Hughes looked doubtful for a moment, then waved Mercy Bulimore out of the room. Edmanda followed with a reluctant frown.

  Hughes waited till the door closed behind them, then nodded, ‘Yes, Brock, man to man.’

  Brock said, ‘Switch off the tape, or whatever they have now. This is not to be recorded.’

  Hughes shrugged, pressed a switch on the machine over on the side table. ‘Okay.’

  Brock said, ‘I always thought you were an honest cop, Alun.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Of course I am.’

  ‘But you have a problem, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, do I? What’s that?’

  ‘You really don’t know what motive I had for killing Elena Vasile.’

  Hughes smiled, leaned forward confidentially. ‘Tell me then, Brock, just between us, and I’ll see what I can do for you.’

  Brock reached into the pocket of his baggy old trainer pants, took out his notebook and opened it to the page. He handed it to Hughes, pointing to the line, I’m still denying I killed the Vasile bitch, but Danny can see through my lies.

  ‘Danny is my cellmate, Alun. A sad bugger who killed his wife and is desperately hoping for a manslaughter plea. From the moment I arrived he’s been trying to get me to admit that I killed Elena Vasile. Then I discovered him with my notebook and found that crude attempt of his to forge my handwritten confession. We had a chat. Turns out he was visited by your DS Gavin Flint the day I arrived at Belmarsh. Flint put pressure on him—get me to confess why I killed Vasile and he’d make sure the prosecutors went easy on Danny. That’s an attempt to corrupt a witness and pervert the course of justice.’

  Hughes stared at him. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What, fuck I found out, or fuck you didn’t know?’

  Hughes shook his head. ‘Flint’s a good detective. Keen, like. Maybe too keen.’

  Brock said, ‘There are two ways we can handle this. One, we resume the interview and I put this on the record …’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or you pull Flint into line, make your peace with Danny, and get it into your thick Welsh head that I didn’t kill Elena Vasile.’

  Hughes frowned. ‘I can’t compromise my investigation, Brock.’

  ‘It’s already compromised, Alun. All I’m saying is, do your job and find the bloody truth.’

  Hughes stared at Brock’s notebook, then said quietly, ‘It’s that damn manuscript, isn’t it?’ He sighed. ‘I’m making inquiries to see if Vasile’s friend, Constantin, could have slipped back into the country undetected. One way or another, the poor girl was set up, wasn’t she? Either by them or by you.’

  ‘You haven’t found the woman who phoned 999, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not.’

  Kathy arrived at Belmarsh soon afterwards. Brock was already seated at a table when she reached the visit room.

  ‘Ah, Kathy.’ He got to his feet, hand outstretched. ‘Sit down, sit down. Good of you to come.’ He scrutinised her face. ‘You all right? You look worn out.’

  ‘Oh, lot of things going on.’

  ‘Of course. Well, good of you to make time to come out here.’

  ‘You said you had something to tell me.’

  He leaned closer. ‘I was talking to Pettigrew about that Old Bailey trial where he saw me give evidence.’

  ‘The Causley trial, yes.’

  ‘And it made me wonder if there might be something in your suspicion about the coincidence—Walcott, Jarvis, Pettigrew and me all linked by that trial. Because it turns out that Pettigrew wasn’t just a spectator there. No, he was the foreman of the bloody jury!’

  ‘Yes, I know. I did a bit more digging and found that out.’

  ‘Oh …’ Brock looked disappointed. ‘And did you find out that it was almost a hung jury until Pettigrew got them all to fall in behind a guilty verdict? They deliberated for three days.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  ‘And there was another person who attended that trial—Pettigrew’s author, Donna Priest. She was researching her first true-crime book. Pettigrew told me that she did a lot of background research on the Causleys, and discovered another suspicious death they may have been involved in, the previous year.’

  Kathy felt a chill go through her as Brock told her about the girl drowned in the hotel pool in Majorca. ‘Alex Nicholson did a preliminary forensic psych report on the first two Heath murders,’ she said, ‘in which she drew attention to their location next to pools of water. She thought that might be significant.’

  Brock nodded. ‘Chloe Honnery and the girl in the Majorca pool. And now Andrea Giannopoulos and Caroline Jarvis.’

  ‘And you were supposed to meet Elena Vasile by Viaduct Pond.’

  ‘Right. I think we should talk to Donna Priest.’

  We, Kathy noticed, like we’re a team again. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘She’s in here quite often. That’s her over there, as a matter of fact, talking to that weird bloke. Don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around.’ He pointed to another table where Priest and a prisoner were caught up in what looked like an intense discussion, he gesticulating and she trying to calm him down. As they watched, the man got abruptly to his feet and marched away. Donna Priest shook her head and began to gather up her belongings. As she stood up she glanced around the room and Brock raised his hand. Priest smiled and waved back then came over.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I’m so glad to meet you at last.’ Then, to Kathy, ‘And to see you again, Chief Inspector. It’s a great honour to meet you both. I’ve followed your cases with great interest over the years.’

  She had a rather pedantic manner of speaking and fixing the other person with a questioning half-smile, Kathy noticed, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether to believe them.

  ‘I did actually speak to you once, Mr Brock, outside the Old Bailey following the conclusion of the Causley trial. I wanted to ask if I might interview you, but you were in a great hurry.’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t give interviews then, Donna. But I find myself in very different circumstances now.’

  ‘Indeed, a monstrous miscarriage of justice. As also—’ she turned to Kathy with a frown ‘—in the case of Charlie Pettigrew. I hope you don’t mind me being blunt.’

  ‘I’m always willing to listen to potential evidence,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Well, I don’t have that, I’m afraid, but I’ve known Charlie a long time and I find the murder charge quite inconceivable.’

  Brock waved to the free chair. ‘Sit down if you’ve got a moment, Donna. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, no. But I’d love to have the chance to talk to you both. You know, you should be writing your memoirs, Mr Brock. They would be wonderful. I could help you if you liked.’

  Brock smiled. ‘Not sure about that.’ But Kathy could see he was flattered by the idea.

  ‘Call me Brock, by the way, Donna, and this is Kathy. We were just talking about the Causley trial. You wrote a book about it, I understand?’

  ‘Psychopaths, yes. That trial was my first case study.’

  ‘And you considered the Causley boys to be psychopaths?’

  ‘The psychiatrist’s evidence at the trial pretty well confirmed it, didn’t it? The compulsive lying, the bullying, the torture of animals. I turned up a lot more evidence along those lines in the course of my research.’

  Kathy said, ‘But now Jarrod Causley appears to be a reformed character.’

  ‘Psychopaths don’t reform, Kathy. It’s innate. All we can do is try to teach them about consequences. I’ve no doubt Jarrod had learned something about consequences by the time he reached sixteen, but it wasn’t enough to stop him murdering Chloe Honnery. We can only hope that prison has taught h
im more.’

  ‘And Dean?’

  ‘I doubt if anything could get through to Dean. He was a dark and angry boy, and from what I hear his prison experience was traumatic. I think that will only have made him darker and angrier. I’d hate to meet him in a lonely alleyway.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brock nodded. ‘They were very different: Jarrod hiding behind a brazen front; Dean trying to project no front at all.’

  ‘Oh, I wish you’d let me speak to you before, Brock. I’d have loved to use that quote.’

  Kathy asked, ‘Have you had any contact with them since the trial?’

  ‘With Jarrod, yes. When Psychopaths came out, he heard about it and wrote to me, care of Golden Press. He told me he thought it was a brilliant book, but I’d made one or two errors he’d like to discuss. For a while, when he was held up north at Wakefield, we corresponded by letter, but eventually, when they brought him down here to Belmarsh, I came to visit him. He was very smooth, tried to use flattery, but once or twice, when that didn’t work, he flared up. It was interesting and rather frightening to watch, him struggling to control himself so the guards wouldn’t see. He never pretended to me that he was innocent, and never expressed any sympathy for Chloe’s poor parents, whose lives were devastated by his little experiment in sadistic violence.’

  ‘Have you seen him since he came out?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him a couple of times. He’s keen for me to write something—an article or blog—about his exemplary reform. I’ve resisted the idea.’

  ‘What about Dean?’

  ‘No, I’ve had no contact with him. I understand he changed his name and moved away somewhere. Let’s hope we don’t hear of him again.’

  Kathy bit her lip, thinking of the face captured by the Spaniards Inn camera.

  ‘Was that one of your case studies you were talking to just now?’ Brock asked.

  ‘It was indeed—Arnold. Have you bumped into him? Actually, you’d be better not to—he was one of my psychopaths, been in prison for twenty years now, and, I would say, totally unreformed.’

  ‘I must get hold of a copy of your book,’ Brock said.

  She gave a coy smile. ‘Well now …’ She reached into her bag and drew out a paperback. ‘I do just happen to have a copy with me. I’d be honoured if you’d accept it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you.’ Brock examined the cover image, a pair of manic eyes staring through a red mist.

  ‘Can I sign it for you?’

  ‘Please.’ He handed it back and she wrote inside with a flourish.

  ‘I’m afraid I only have one copy with me,’ Priest went on, ‘but please let me send you a copy too, Kathy. You may find something of interest in there about the Causley boys. But tell me, do you have any particular reason for being interested in them? I ask because Charlie mentioned them to me. He reminded me that both you, Brock, and he were key figures in their conviction, and here you are now, both accused of murder under strangely similar circumstances. He asked me if I thought they could be behind it.’

  ‘And do you?’ Brock asked.

  ‘Well, it’s a big leap, but …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, frankly, I think those boys would be capable of anything. Jarrod is very intelligent and he’s had a long time to plan his revenge, if that’s what it is. And as for Dean …’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathy said, ‘but why so elaborate? If they wanted to punish Brock and Pettigrew, why wouldn’t they just kill them?’

  ‘Good point,’ Donna said. ‘Perhaps they wanted you to suffer incarceration first, as they had to? You don’t look convinced, Kathy. No, of course not—Charlie’s is your case, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s not just that. Are you suggesting they killed Andrea Giannopoulos too? Why?’

  ‘A trial run perhaps,’ Brock said, ‘to establish the pattern. They wanted Pettigrew to be known as a serial killer.’

  ‘Just as they are,’ Donna added. ‘I’m sure Chloe Honnery wasn’t their first victim, although Charlie’s lawyers wouldn’t let me put it in the book. I’d be very happy to expand on anything that interests you. I still have all my notes.’

  ‘What about The Promised Land? Did Charlie tell you about that?’

  ‘Oh yes. That is intriguing, isn’t it? It’s what we’re all looking for, one way or another, isn’t it—the promised land?’

  ‘Was Jarrod capable of writing it?’

  ‘I haven’t seen it, so I couldn’t say. But I believe he did study English literature with the Open University while he was in prison, didn’t he? I suppose anything’s possible with those two. Anyway, I’d better be going. It’s been wonderful to meet you both. Do get in touch if I can be of any help.’ She gave them each a card.

  After she’d gone Kathy read the dedication she’d written at the front of the book she’d given Brock: To a great detective, David Brock. With all best wishes from a long-time admirer, Donna Priest.

  ‘Well,’ Kathy said, ‘you’ve got a fan there.’

  Brock waved a hand dismissively. ‘Why don’t you take the book, Kathy, see if it sparks any ideas.’

  When Kathy got home, she opened Donna Priest’s book. The style was much more lively than the crime reports she was used to reading, and in one or two places she was annoyed when Donna passed over some point that Kathy thought needed more explanation. But she couldn’t deny that it was entertaining, and the description of Chloe’s murder was gripping. But the most interesting thing for Kathy was a passage near the beginning, in which Donna described the boys’ normal, relatively untroubled middle-class family life. On a school trip to France, Jarrod’s class had visited the D-Day Normandy beaches, and at one point he had slipped and fallen into a rock pool, hitting his head. For a time he had lain unnoticed face down in the water, before he was hauled out and CPR applied. He recovered completely from the incident, but he described it to Donna as ‘a near-death experience’, and the start of a fascination with death.

  By the time they reached the flying club, John was having doubts. The clouds overhead looked dark and forbidding, and when they stepped out of the car they were buffeted by gusts of cold wind. They made their way to the clubhouse at one end of the long grass field. A dozen gliders were parked nearby along with one small powered plane. They stepped inside to the sound of a radio crackling, and a man behind the counter gave them a beaming welcome.

  ‘I wondered if you’d still be flying this morning,’ John said, ‘in this weather.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely. You’ve got a booking?’

  John showed him his receipt for two winch-launched flights.

  ‘Right. I’ll be taking you up first, Stewart, and Libby’ll pilot you, John. Follow me.’

  He led them outside and John watched as he took Stewart to the plane waiting at the end of the strip, explaining the drill and then helping him up into the two-man cockpit. To John’s eyes, the machine looked incredibly fragile. His pilot, Libby, joined him and together they watched the first glider being hitched to the winch cable. Suddenly it lurched forward and set off across the field, faster and faster until it arced steeply upwards into the sky. ‘Okay, John,’ Libby said, ‘our turn now.’

  When he was strapped inside the little bubble and felt himself being flung up towards the clouds, John gave a whoop, wondering how Stewart was taking it. He could see the other glider high up ahead, banking and beginning to circle over the dark green forest of the South Downs National Park. Soon they were alongside, and John saw Stewart’s pale face staring across at them. He gave a wave, and after a moment he got a wave back and what might have been a smile.

  Together the two planes circled down and around, Libby giving a commentary on the features below. All too soon John saw the nose of the other glider dip and begin its descent towards the strip. Libby circled one more time then began to take them down, talking about airbrakes and crosswinds and calling their speed. They touched the ground at fifty knots and rolled to a halt where Stewart was standing watching them, eyes wide, long hair
blowing in the breeze.

  John clambered out and said, ‘How was that?’ and the boy grinned and said, ‘Magic.’

  John said, ‘Don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

  A club member directed them to a local pub where the grub was good, and gave Stewart a pamphlet about learning to become a pilot. The lad took it and shook his hand. John felt relieved at the way it had turned out.

  It didn’t last long. By the time they reached the pub and John had brought them a couple of beers to a table by the window, Stewart seemed to have regressed into some kind of introspective mood. After an unsuccessful attempt to make conversation he finally said, exasperated, ‘What’s the matter, Stewart? You in love or something?’ and saw from the startled look on Stewart’s face that he’d hit the bullseye. ‘Me too, I think,’ John went on. ‘Don’t fancy my chances though. How about you?’

  Stewart looked away, that droop of the head again, and John thought he’d lost him. But then, so softly that John could barely hear, he said, ‘She’s dead. And that bastard killed her.’

  ‘What?’ John stared at him in astonishment. The boy looked over at the door as if he might bolt for it, but John put out his arm. ‘No, wait. What are you talking about? Stewart, for God’s sake talk to me. Who’s dead? What’s her name?’

  Again John thought he’d lost him, but it was as if the boy had been bottling it up for so long that he could no longer hold it back, and gradually it came out, a strangled sentence at a time.

  ‘Inga.’

  It seemed that Inga lived in Riga in Latvia, and was studying computer technology. They had met on the web last November and had been skyping ever since, until about ten days ago when her messages abruptly stopped. She had spoken about her plan to come to England to see Stewart, and for a few days he had hoped to hear that she had arrived. But then he’d seen a report on the web.

  He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, played with the buttons, then showed John a picture of a young, dark-haired woman, and beneath it the message, Police are asking the public for information about the above woman, aged in her twenties and thought to be originally from Romania, who was found murdered recently in a car park on the edge of Hampstead Heath in London.