‘That’s her,’ Stewart said, and his eyes welled with tears.
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes. Brock killed her. That bastard Brock. She warned me about him.’
‘Wait, wait,’ John said. ‘That can’t be right.’
‘It is.’ His teenage vocal cords cracked and he began sobbing. ‘Brock was arrested on the same day I stopped hearing from Inga. It’s her picture. They got the bit about Romania wrong.’
‘Have you got any pictures of Inga?’
Stewart had several on his phone. They did look remarkably like the police image. John noticed that on some of Stewart’s pictures a tattoo was visible on the left side of Inga’s neck, which wasn’t apparent on the police photo. He pulled out his own phone and rang Kathy’s number.
‘Kathy, hi, it’s John. I’m here with Stewart. Something very strange has come up. The girl that Brock’s accused of killing, Elena Vasile, did she have a small tattoo on her throat, the left side? Yes?’ He hesitated, looking at Stewart’s tortured face. ‘Kathy, I think you’d better get down here right away. It seems she’s been in touch with Stewart for months.’
He listened to the doubt in Kathy’s voice and said, ‘Hold on a moment.’ He turned to Stewart. ‘We need to send your pictures of Inga to Kathy. Okay?’ The boy hesitated, seeming as if he might refuse, then he began tapping on his phone.
18
John opened the front door and ran out as Kathy drew up outside. He explained about the glider flight and his breakthrough with Stewart, and the boy’s sudden confession. Suzanne and Miranda were at an equestrian event in Hastings, and knew nothing of this. He took Kathy inside and upstairs to Stewart’s room, where the boy was waiting, an image of Inga on his computer screen. Kathy had never seen Elena alive herself, of course—only Brock had done that—but John was right about the tattoo, and the earrings were the same. She sat down beside him and he showed her a clip that he’d recorded from one of their conversations. The girl was lively and seductive, talking about her troubles at home and her dream of making a new life in England with Stewart.
‘I can see what you saw in her,’ Kathy said. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about it. When did it begin?’
‘Early October last year,’ Stewart mumbled. ‘The third.’
So long ago, Kathy thought. Seventeen days before the first Heath murder.
‘At first she didn’t seem that interested,’ Stewart explained. They had a mutual friend on Facebook, and she just wanted to chat to people in England about how things were and whether she’d be able to get a job if she came over. Gradually she told him about her life. Her parents had divorced when she was young and another man moved in with her mother. He was a brute, didn’t have a job, and Inga had to put up with him abusing her. In turn, Stewart told her about himself, living with his grandmother, and Brock moving in. She told him that Brock was bad news, just like her stepfather, and how Brock would want to take over. And Stewart could see that what she said was true, that Brock was always hanging around with nothing to do, criticising, like he owned the place. It wasn’t just Miranda and Gran and him anymore. Inga told him he had to be smart, and keep a close eye on Brock. He might have another woman somewhere; he might be stealing money from Gran’s business.
Stewart paused. ‘She was the only person I could really talk to. The only person who really understood where I was coming from, you know?’
‘Yes, I can understand that. I really can. So, how did you keep an eye on Brock?’
‘Oh, nothing, really.’
‘Come on.’ Kathy laughed. ‘For an ex-cop, Brock’s pretty useless with his own security, isn’t he? I don’t think he’s even got a password to get into his laptop.’
Stewart gave a little smirk and avoided her eyes.
Kathy looked around the room, taking it in—the screen-shots for gaming sites, a movie poster image of Jonny Lee Miller in the 1995 crime film Hackers, and a copy of AdvanceED ActionCoding 4.0 lying on the desk beside the computer.
‘So …’ Kathy said, ‘you hacked his computer? His phone? His bank accounts?’
Stewart had gone very still, arms folded, head down.
Kathy leaned closer to him and spoke softly. ‘I’m going to try to keep you out of trouble, Stewart, but to do that I need to know everything before the heavy mob move in. Let me explain to you how it is. Her real name is Elena Vasile and she came from Bucharest in Romania, not Riga. All the time she told you she was talking to you from Riga she was actually living in a flat in Walworth, South London, with a Romanian gangster, and with him she was involved in a scam to extort money and entrap Brock, which they did very successfully. Brock is now in jail accused of Elena’s murder. They used you as a screen, to keep tabs on Brock without implicating themselves.’
She sat back, let that sink in, then went on, ‘You were tracking his phone location through the app you set up for your gran, yes?’
Stewart had turned very pale. Finally he whispered, ‘When Brock got beaten up that day, she was worried that she hadn’t known where he was, and I said I could set it up so she could see where his phone was.’
Kathy detected something false in his tone. ‘But Inga had already got you to do it before that, hadn’t she?’
He nodded.
So they probably knew that Brock was trailing Elena from the Shard that night, Kathy was thinking, and were waiting for him when he finally approached her in Walworth.
‘Is there anything else I should know, Stewart?’
He shook his head.
‘Okay. You and I are going to go to the local police station and you’ll make a formal statement—I’ll help you. At a later date, you may be called as a witness in court. I’ll try to prevent that, but you should be prepared, and if you think of anything else relevant you must tell me.’
He didn’t respond.
Kathy said, ‘Understand one thing, Stewart: Brock did not murder Inga. She was a fiction invented to fool you, and one day you’ll be able to look back on all this and tell great stories about it. But for now, the most important thing is that you tell us everything, okay?’
As she drove him over to Sussex Police headquarters at Lewes to record his statement, she wondered what else she didn’t know. This was sounding more and more like a violent scam by the Romanians to extort money, first from Pettigrew and then from Brock, for a fake manuscript. Hughes was right: there was nothing to connect this with the Causley brothers. But there had to be a connection, she was almost sure of it.
Suzanne and Miranda were home when they returned from Lewes, and John explained to them what had happened. Kathy said she’d have to get back to London, but John said he had a couple of things he needed to tell her, and they sat together in the sunroom at the back of the house, at a table on which he had been working.
‘I didn’t thank you for getting that out of Stewart,’ she said to him. ‘That was brilliant. You’d make a great detective.’
He smiled. ‘Hardly. But I did find something else that I need to show you.’
He picked up a thick book, The Diaries of George Orwell, and handed it to her. ‘Just about every word that Orwell wrote—essays, letters, diaries—has been published.’ He turned to a marked page. ‘This is a typical diary entry, for the twenty-first of May 1949, transcribed for print.’
Kathy ran her eye down the page:
7am Pulse and temperature taken. Try to get back to sleep.
7.30 Sputum cups changed.
8.00 Breakfast then request a bath, but not allowed as I have already had two this week and they are considered to be ‘weakening’.
10.00 Rest.
The list of banal housekeeping events continued for page after page.
John said, ‘Kimberly and I have searched through all the books like this that we could lay our hands on, trying to find a mention of Amar Dasgupta, and we came up with nothing. So, just to be absolutely sure, I thought I’d check some of the original documents, including the diary for his stay in the Cranh
am tuberculosis sanatorium.’
He picked up a sheet of paper from the table. ‘This is a photocopy of the diary page for that day.’
He passed it to Kathy, who recognised the same handwriting she’d seen on the first page of The Promised Land.
‘Look at the entry for ten that morning,’ John said.
Kathy read: 10.00 Rest. She said, ‘It’s the same in the printed version.’
‘Yes, but look over there, on the right-hand margin.’
He pointed to a smudged scribble on the original page.
‘I took a photograph,’ John said, and showed her on his phone an enlargement of the scribble. She could make out two faint pencil letters, AD, and an exclamation mark.
‘AD,’ Kathy said, and looked at John. ‘Amar Dasgupta?’
‘I think so. I believe that’s the day Amar arrived. And because Orwell believed the clinic staff were reading his diary he disguised the entry, and the editor who later transcribed the diaries for publication missed it too.’
Kathy reached across to grip his hand. ‘So it’s true! The manuscript is genuine.’
‘Maybe.’ He was looking down at her hand on his.
‘What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?’ she asked.
‘I need to get back to Canada. Term started a week ago and I can’t stay any longer. I’ve got a flight booked first thing on Tuesday.’
‘Oh. But I’ve seen so little of you.’
‘You’ve had a lot on your plate. I guess it’s always like that. You have a very demanding job.’ He looked sad. ‘Anyway, it was good to catch up with you again, Kathy.’
He got to his feet and said, ‘I won’t hold you back any longer. Good luck.’
It was for the best, she told herself, as she drove back to London. But it didn’t make her feel any better. She had an uneasy sense of having lost something important.
She shook off the feeling and headed to Walworth. The East Street market was busy as she made her way through the crowd to Rosie’s store. Rosie was in the back office, making up an order, and she heaved herself to her feet when she saw Kathy.
‘I seen that Roma girl’s picture in the paper. Murdered, yeah? But you got the man okay?’
‘We’re still investigating, Rosie. Maybe you can help me.’ She took her iPad from her bag and opened the file of photographs. ‘We’re looking for people who may have had contact with Elena recently. See if you can recognise any of these men.’
Rosie considered the faces, one by one. Among them were images for Jarrod and Dean Causley, but she didn’t react to them. She shook her head.
‘Sorry, luv. Don’t recognise any of these. Have you tried Old Bert?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘He’s got a flat in the same block as the Romas, same floor, next to the stairs. Nosy old bugger, keeps an eye on everyone. Ask him.’
Kathy walked around to the block of flats and made her way up the stairs. When she reached the right floor, she saw the net curtain twitch in the window of the adjoining flat. She knocked on the door, but there was no reaction. She bent down to the letter flap and called out, ‘Open up, Bert. I’m the police.’
Finally there was a shuffling sound and the door opened on a chain. ‘Whaddya want?’
‘I want to show you something.’
Reluctantly he let her in and she showed him the images. When he came to Dean Causley’s picture, he pointed. ‘Mean bugger. Threatened me he did.’
‘Why?’
‘Saw me watching him. Told me to fuck off or he’d bash me, him and the other one.’
‘There was someone else with him?’ She flicked through the images and he stopped her at Jarrod’s.
‘That’s him. The two of them came to see the Romas, down there.’
‘How often?’
‘I seen them three or four times, maybe more.’
Kathy showed him Elena’s picture.
‘Oh yes, she was there, and that Paki girl, Uzma. Brasses, the pair of them.’
‘Prostitutes?’
‘Yeah, brasses, toms. ’Course they were.’
She couldn’t get him to be more specific about when the Causleys had visited, or how often. She thanked him and returned to her car. She’d seen the empty bottles in the hallway and smelled it on his breath. It was a start, but she’d need more to convince Torrens. She wondered what other loose end she could probe and thought of John’s impression that the Orwell expert, Mortimer Hartley, had already seen The Promised Land page. Was that possible? Was he involved? She checked with her office and got a number for Hartley’s address. An answering service replied. Sir Mortimer was currently overseas. Did she want to record a message? Kathy said no.
Who else? She tried the number for Golden Press, and when Angela answered she asked her if she’d heard anything in publishing circles about Charlie’s case or the manuscript that he’d claimed to have seen, The Promised Land.
‘Nothing concrete,’ Angela replied.
Kathy heard the caution in her voice, and said, ‘Anything, Angela. Anything at all.’
There was silence for moment, then Angela said, ‘I shouldn’t really be talking to you, should I? You’re the one who’s trying to get him locked up for life. I went to see him the other day, at Belmarsh, and I was shocked at how he was. He broke down while we were talking. He burst into tears. It was so awful. He begged me not to believe he was guilty.’
‘Angela, my job isn’t to lock Charlie up, it’s to discover the truth. It’s just possible that he was the victim of a plan to extort money over that manuscript, and I need to know anything that might help me get to the truth.’
Another long silence, then, ‘I did hear something … I’m not sure.’
‘Go on.’
‘When I first started here, I was pretty inexperienced, and the senior editor at the time took me under her wing, and we became good friends. After a couple of years she moved on to one of the big publishers, and later they sent her to New York, but we’ve stayed in touch. She rang me last night. I’d already told her all about Charlie’s problems, of course, and she wanted to know if there were any developments. Then she told me the latest publishing gossip in New York. There was a rumour going round of a bidding war between three of the major publishers for a manuscript of an undiscovered novel by a famous writer, she didn’t know who. What made her think of Charlie was that she’d seen the top Orwell authority, Sir Mortimer Hartley, in New York, having lunch with one of the publishers who was supposed to be bidding.’
‘Did she have any idea who was selling this manuscript?’
‘No, it’s all very hush-hush. Big money, apparently. That’s all I know.’
‘Okay. Thank you, Angela. I promise I’ll keep an open mind about Charlie until I’m sure I’ve learned everything. Let me know if you hear anything else, will you?’
Kathy rang off and said to herself, Steve Weiner. She turned the car and headed for Putney.
She found a space on the high street not far from the Sweet Pepper Café, parked and went inside. The corner table that served as Weiner’s office was empty, and she asked the girl behind the counter where he was.
‘Oh, he went to New York about a week ago … no, maybe it was longer than that. Full of it, he was, how he was going to take a big bite out of the Big Apple.’
An older woman came out of the kitchen with a tray of pastries and said, ‘Talking about Steve?’
‘Yes, I was just saying he’s in New York.’
‘No, he’s back. Got back last night. He’s … Steve!’
Kathy turned and saw the literary agent in the doorway. He looked different—hair groomed, a smart suit and gleaming white shirt, dark tie, and carrying a smart new travel bag. He frowned, recognising Kathy, and looked as if he might make a run for it.
‘Mr Weiner,’ Kathy said, and quickly went over to him. ‘We need to talk.’
‘No time, I’m afraid. On my way to the airport.’ He waved to the women behind the counter and turned on his heel.
Kathy followed him outside, where a cab was waiting at the kerb. She pushed in front of Weiner, showing her police ID to the cabbie. ‘The ride’s cancelled,’ she said. ‘Get going.’ The driver muttered something and took off.
‘Hey!’ Weiner yelled. ‘I’ve got a plane to catch!’
‘I’ll give you a lift,’ Kathy said. ‘My car’s over there.’
Weiner looked around, furious, then checked his watch and reluctantly followed her.
‘Where to?’ Kathy said as they set off.
‘City Airport,’ he snarled.
‘And where are you flying to?’
‘Mind your own fucking business.’
Kathy swerved into the kerb and pulled to a stop, snapping the door locks. ‘This is going to be a slow journey if you don’t cooperate.’
He swore softly.
‘What was that?’
‘Okay, okay. I’m going to Frankfurt. Get a fucking move on, I’m late.’
Kathy set off again. ‘And who’s in Frankfurt?’
Weiner said nothing, face turned away, and Kathy put her foot on the brake.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he groaned. ‘Welthammer.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘The Welthammer Publishing Group.’
‘Who are …?’
‘One of the big five global publishing houses, that’s who.’
‘And they’re bidding for The Promised Land, are they?’
His head jerked around to face her. ‘How …?’
‘I know a lot of things, Steve. And I’m sure Welthammer and the others would be interested to hear that you’re involved in a criminal conspiracy to sell a forged manuscript.’ She caught the expression on his face, shocked, appalled.
‘No … no, that’s not true.’
‘You’re going to have a big job convincing me of that. Everything you told me the last time was a lie. I think I may just drive you straight to the nearest cop shop and have you charged with fraud and conspiracy to murder.’
The Promised Land Page 20