‘Trains,’ Kathy said. ‘It’s next to a railway line.’
‘Or under it,’ Judy urged. ‘A railway viaduct?’
There was silence for a moment, then they all said ‘Yes’ at once.
When the railway companies first brought their lines into London, they marched over the crowded inner-city districts on great brick viaducts. Now those vaulted spaces were filled by workshops, the odd café or club, or were just derelict voids.
Kathy called to Peter to concentrate on brick railway viaducts.
‘Any bright ideas?’ she said.
Alfarsi said, ‘My money would be on the Deptford line into London Bridge.’ Others came up with different ideas, and Kathy sent them off to lead the search in those areas.
Zack went to consult with other IT experts while Kathy stayed watching the screen. It was agonising, waiting for the image to suddenly erupt into movement, or some sound to disturb the soft background rumbling or, perhaps worst of all, for nothing to happen, which would mean that Charlie Pettigrew was now lying dead in some forgotten corner of the city.
It was Alfarsi’s call that finally broke the tension. His guess had been right. The stolen white van had been spotted, covered in a tarpaulin, beside a long run of disused railway viaduct not far from the Den, the Millwall football stadium in South London.
Kathy jumped in a car and they raced across the river and down to South Bermondsey. Two ambulances were already at the scene, along with Alfarsi’s searchers in their blue overalls clustered around a doorway formed in a rusting corrugated-iron sheet wall that filled one of the archways.
Alfarsi came to her as she ran over.
‘They’re both still alive—just,’ he said. ‘Both unconscious. Pettigrew’s got a head wound along with lots of other things. Causley’s lost a lot of blood. Looks like Pettigrew rammed the chair leg through his stomach.’ Alfarsi shook his head in wonder. ‘Didn’t think he had it in him.’
‘No,’ Kathy said. ‘It was probably the first time in his life that he really lost his temper.’
23
Spring was on the cusp of summer when the Causley boys were brought to trial. In view of the overwhelming graphic evidence against them they had decided to plead guilty to the multiple murders with which they were charged. Charlie Pettigrew was in the visitors’ benches for the sentencing, with Donna Priest by his side. Together they watched the brothers receive whole life orders—life sentences without the possibility of parole.
Later, outside the Old Bailey, they watched the brothers’ lawyer declare that they would appeal against the sentence.
‘Where’s the nearest pub?’ Charlie said. He was still walking with a stick.
‘The Magpie and Stump,’ Donna said, pointing. ‘That way.’
They turned to go but were intercepted by Kathy, who said how glad she was to see them both, and asked Charlie how his leg was doing now.
‘Much, much better, though I’ll probably set off alarms when I next go through airport security. We’re going to have a celebratory drink. Will you join us?’
‘I’d love to,’ Kathy said, ‘but I’m afraid I have to get back to work.’
‘Oh dear, another time then.’
Donna said, ‘Actually, Kathy, I was wanting to get in touch with you. There’s something I need to talk to you about. May I give you a ring to explain?’
‘Of course.’ Kathy gave her the number and they said goodbye.
Donna called her that evening and got straight to the point. ‘You’re probably thinking I need help with a book or something, but it isn’t that. I have something that I very much need you to see, something that could be highly relevant if the Causleys appeal.’
Kathy was puzzled. ‘What, new evidence?’
‘Yes, and absolutely crucial to a full understanding of their crimes.’
‘Well, in that case, yes, of course, I must see it. Will you come to my office?’
‘No, I can’t do that. I’m afraid I must ask you to come to my home.’
Kathy was about to object when Donna added, ‘It’s really quite important and I can guarantee you won’t be disappointed by what I have to show you.’
‘That sounds very mysterious.’
‘It would mean a little trip out of the city to Surrey. Do you know Godalming?’
‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever been there.’
‘It’s a lovely little town and I’m sure you won’t regret your trouble. I know you must have a very busy schedule, but how about this weekend? Make it an outing, come for lunch?’ She sounded very anxious.
‘Well, I—’
‘I can promise that it will be worth your while.’
Kathy said, ‘Can’t you tell me something about what you want to show me?’
‘Please, trust me.’
Kathy hesitated, thinking how dull her weekends had been lately, and said, ‘All right. Sunday.’
‘Excellent!’ Donna’s mood had abruptly changed. ‘And if you take the train we can open a nice bottle of wine with lunch! Just the two of us, okay?’
Kathy hung up, wondering if she’d made a mistake. She sensed something uncomfortably obsessive about Donna, behind the matronly mask.
The author was waiting for her as the train drew in to Godalming station. It was a beautiful sunny day, the air fresh, the countryside green and bountiful beneath a cobalt blue sky. They took a short walking tour of the town along the winding high street to the curious little Pepperpot building in the centre, then on along Church Street to the parish church. Donna led the way down a small lane nearby, to a cottage whose garden was bursting with spring flowers. A winding brick path took them to the front door. There was a name on the door, and Kathy looked at it in surprise: The Promised Land. Donna laughed at her expression. ‘Yes, I thought you’d appreciate that. Mind your head. The doors are a bit low.’
She took Kathy into a comfortable room that seemed to function as both a sitting room and a study, completely lined with books. At one end, with a window looking out over another garden to a wood beyond, was a table with a computer and reference books—The New Shorter Oxford, Fowler’s, Roget’s, Butterworth’s Police Law, A Practical Guide to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, The Oxford Companion to English Literature.
‘This is exactly how I imagine a writer’s den,’ Kathy said. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Take a seat, Kathy. I’ll get us a glass of wine and tell you the story. Oh, and while I’m getting it, have a look at this.’ She handed Kathy a hardback book with an image of an antique map on the cover, and the title, The Promised Land. ‘Have you seen it already?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘It’s just been released. I got this yesterday from Waterstones.’
She fetched two large glasses of wine. ‘What do you think? Impressive, isn’t it? With an effusive introduction by Mortimer Hartley. See his comments on the back cover: A masterpiece … a milestone of twentieth-century literature … a work of genius.’ Donna laughed. ‘Poor Sir Mortimer. I fear he’ll come to regret those words. Anyway, this copy is for you, Kathy, and I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve written a little dedication inside.’
Kathy turned to the title page and read Donna’s words: To Kathy, Scotland Yard’s finest, from a fellow traveller on this epic journey to The Promised Land, Donna Priest.
‘Thank you, Donna. I really appreciate it.’ But Kathy sensed something inappropriately excited, even slightly hysterical, in Donna’s manner that made it hard to follow her train of thought and was beginning to worry her.
‘I believe you will, Kathy! Yes, yes! Anyway, you asked how long I’ve been here. Twenty-six years it is now. Before that I worked in the City, and in the early eighties I was working for a firm of stockbrokers in Threadneedle Street—very traditional, very old school. Then, in 1986, Margaret Thatcher deregulated the financial markets and initiated the Big Bang—you remember? Of course you don’t, you would have been barely a teenager, yes? Anyway, soon we were caught u
p in the whirlwind and within a year our business was completely transformed and my life became very hectic and very exciting. I was good at my job; I made deals—intricate, complicated arrangements tailored precisely to my clients’ needs. By 1989, on my forty-second birthday, I was making a serious amount of money and was offered a position in New York to make even more. Instead I decided to get out and do what I’d always wanted to do—become a writer. I’d already secretly written two novels which had got nowhere with publishers, and I decided it was time to get serious. People thought I was crazy, but I bought this place and moved out here to the depths of wildest Surrey to embark on what I felt to be my true life’s work. Fresh from my experiences in the City, I decided to write a contemporary thriller set in the money markets, which I called The Big Gang. The first publisher I sent it to snapped it up. Somehow it seemed to catch the mood of the time and it got great reviews and sold reasonably well. The second book was okay but not such a big success, and the third sold even less. Then my publisher was gobbled up by a bigger conglomerate and all the people I’d known there vanished. The new editor reviewed my sales figures and said I was “on the downward curve”, and refused to look at my fourth book.
‘Eventually, after a number of refusals, I did get a publisher for it, a less prestigious one, and I stayed with them for a couple more books before they decided that was enough. By this time, I’d been a professional author for ten years and I wasn’t sure where I was going. Looking for inspiration I decided to sit in on the Causley brothers’ trial, which was probably the most notorious case in that year, 1999. I was surprised to recognise the foreman of the jury as one of the publishers who had turned me down a few years before, Charles Pettigrew, and it gave me an idea. I found the whole trial and the people involved—the victim, the killers, the lawyers, the detective Brock—quite compelling, especially when the jury took so long to come to a verdict. So when it was over I approached Charlie with my proposal to write a true-crime book around the Causley case. I was lucky in that he had found it a pretty overwhelming experience, and liked the idea of somehow capturing it in print. That was how I changed to writing nonfiction, and since then Golden Press have published three of my books. Here, let me top you up. Am I boring you?’
‘Not at all. It’s really interesting to get the …’ she fumbled for a moment for the word, ‘… the inside story on someone else’s career.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly dazzling, Kathy. My old colleagues in the City would fall about laughing if they knew how little I’ve made out of it—less in twenty-six years as a writer than I made in one year in Threadneedle Street. But I can’t complain about that. No one asked me to do this, and it’s a common enough story, the mid-list writer who just doesn’t take off. I know that Charlie has been wanting to terminate our relationship for some time but has never quite worked up the courage to tell me. And in my own terms I’ve been a failure—I wanted to write fiction. My true-crime books were interesting to do—the research, the character studies—but for me they weren’t the creative works of the imagination that I wanted to write.
‘But look, I’m going on too long. Let’s have some lunch. I’ve bought a quiche from a lovely little patisserie in Church Street—I think I really would starve to death if they went out of business. Would that suit you, Kathy? I’ve got some salad as well. Bring your glass through to the kitchen.’
As Kathy followed her through she had a strong sense that something here was not quite right. Donna’s story had been told with an odd fervour, almost desperation, that Kathy couldn’t interpret. And then there was that nameplate on the front door, The Promised Land. It hadn’t looked new to her. In fact, it had seemed quite weathered, as if it could have been there for twenty-six years.
It was hot in the kitchen, from the sun shining through the window and the Aga in which the quiche was warming. Donna took another bottle from the fridge and topped up their glasses, spilling some wine in the process. ‘It’s nice to have company,’ she said. ‘It can be a very solitary life, writing. The opposite of yours, Kathy, I imagine, constantly surrounded by people in a state of crisis, yes?’
‘It can be like that. Sometimes it’s good to shut the door of my flat and just be on my own.’
‘No partner, Kathy? Is that because of your work?’
‘Sounds like I’m one of your character studies.’
‘Sorry! Can’t help myself. I’ve never been married. There was someone … at the end of my time in the City we expanded to offices in Canary Wharf, and a new man joined the firm. We worked closely together and became quite fond of each other, but I decided that I had to sacrifice that so I could focus on my writing. More fool me, I suppose.’
She put on some oven gloves, took the quiche from the Aga and laid it on the pine kitchen table. ‘How’s that?’ She handed a slice to Kathy. ‘Help yourself to salad. Is it my imagination or are you looking a little apprehensive?’
Kathy met her eyes. ‘You said it was urgent that I come, Donna. Why was that? Is it about The Promised Land?’
Donna held her look for a moment, then gave a tight little smile. ‘Ah, that’s perceptive of you. But please, do eat up while it’s warm. You must forgive me if I sound anxious. I just … have to get this right, and … I have dizzy spells.’
Donna began to eat, and Kathy followed suit, giving her time to come to the point, whatever it was. She was feeling the heat in the small kitchen, and felt a little dizzy herself. She tried to remember how many glasses they’d drunk. Alcohol always seemed to have more impact during the day, she thought, rather than at night.
Finally Donna put down her knife and fork and said, her voice suddenly firm, ‘What really upset me, what I just could not tolerate, was that they never took me seriously. Even with that successful first book, they patronised me, as if I was just some silly woman indulging a hobby. All of them did, Charlie most of all. What I was doing was basically trivial in his eyes, not real literature like that written by the great authors his father and grandfather knew—Waugh and Maugham and Orwell and the rest. They didn’t take me seriously, Kathy. That really pissed me off. In the City I had managed more wealth and more complexity in a week than they would see in a lifetime, but they patronised me. With their sense of privilege and their lazy judgements, they refused to take me seriously. But they bloody well will now.’
She was gasping and gulped a glass of water. She took a deep breath and continued more slowly. ‘I mentioned I had something to give you. If you’ve had enough to eat, let’s go back to the living room. It’s cooler there.’
Kathy got carefully to her feet and followed her, wondering at how tired she felt. The last eight months had really stretched her, but still.
‘Take that comfortable chair, Kathy.’
She sat and watched Donna go to a roll-top desk and take out a thick package that she brought over. ‘Here, this is for you.’
Kathy opened the package and took out a weighty folder. On the front was a title: The Promised Land. She opened it and saw the familiar typewritten text of the manuscript, with its scribbled note at the top. She looked more closely and said, ‘This isn’t a photocopy, is it?’
‘No. It’s the original, written on that typewriter over there.’ Donna pointed to an ancient machine sitting on the roll-top desk.
Kathy felt a dull shock, like a slap on the head, the sense that she had somehow completely missed the point of a long and elaborate story. Trying to deny this to herself, she said doubtfully, ‘By you?’
‘Yes, Kathy, by me. I finished it about a year ago. It took me four years, what with all the Orwell research and so on. I began thinking about it when I learned that Dean Causley had been released from prison.’
This was crazy, surely. And yet the document in her hands was undeniably the original. ‘You’re saying Sir Mortimer Hartley has authenticated a fake?’
‘Yes. Serves him right, pompous old fart. But no, that’s not fair, because actually he’s absolutely correct; it is a masterpiece. It’s
just that nobody would have said that if my name had been on the cover instead of Eric Blair’s.’
Kathy struggled to find flaws in this bizarre claim. ‘Orwell’s diary in the National Archives … you altered it, did you?’
‘Oh, you know about that? I had to be careful not to overdo it, but it was such great fun. If you go back through their records, you’ll see when I was there. I used my real name.’
Kathy swallowed, her throat dry. ‘Careless of us not to check.’
‘Not at all. You had a much more important problem to solve—the Heath murders.’
A moment’s silence, then, ‘I’m almost afraid to ask.’
Donna chuckled and disappeared for a moment, returning with their refilled glasses.
Kathy said, ‘I think I’ve had enough.’
‘Well, real authors of genius who write milestones of literature are invariably notorious drunks and right now I need all the help I can get to go through with this. So cheers.’ She sat down with a sigh. ‘The other thing that really annoyed me, apart from not being taken seriously, was that they didn’t believe I could really tell a good story, either because I relied too heavily on plot, or else not enough. That publisher who turned down my fourth book told me that I’d failed to think up a killer plot. Well, I sure as hell have now.’
She got to her feet, went back to the desk and returned with a second fat folder which she handed to Kathy, who read the label on the front: The Killer Plot, by Donna Priest.
‘Don’t read it now. I’ll summarise it for you. Talented but unrecognised author devises a spectacular plot in which two vicious killers, recently released from prison, take revenge on the four key people who locked them up. She explains her plan to the two killers, who love it, and together they resolve to make it a reality. At first the killers want to simply murder the four, but the author points out how obvious that would be, how they’d be back in jail in hours. She has something much more subtle, more complex in mind. The four must suffer as the brothers have suffered—disgrace, humiliation and incarceration—and their families must suffer too. The killers aren’t sure about that (they’re not really very bright), and finally they reach a compromise—they will murder the pompous judge who sentenced them, and, because they enjoy murdering women, the wife of the prosecuting council, and then go along with the author’s plans for the rest. Frankly, they have no interest or understanding of her larger themes. The author adjusts her planning and the story begins.
The Promised Land Page 24