The Promised Land

by Barry Maitland

  He looked desperately at Brock, then, seeing the expression on his face, slumped. ‘Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? If I were brave enough, and had the means, I’d put an end to it and save us all the trouble. Maggie seemed to agree that it would be a good idea to involve you, but I’ve never really been sure what she believes.’

  ‘She believes that there are aspects of the case that haven’t been made clear. She wants me to try to throw some light on them.’

  Pettigrew gave a bitter laugh. ‘I notice you don’t say she believes I’m innocent.’

  ‘She’s a very good lawyer. She’ll do everything in her power to prove you are. But she’s worried that no one’s been able to find out anything about Shari.’

  ‘Yes, the police have been going on at me about that, but she never told me anything about her situation. There was her phone. Maggie said they traced where it was bought to a shop somewhere south of the river … Elephant and Castle? But Shari never mentioned where she was living. All I could say was that I didn’t think she was staying at the Savoy like her great-grandfather had done—I noticed her shoes were very worn and her jacket was a bit shabby.’

  ‘Did the police get you to re-create her face?’

  ‘Yes, I worked with someone on a computer. It wasn’t easy. I felt we got some things right—her hair, the shape of her face, the style of her glasses—but overall it didn’t really capture her. It just looked like any young Indian woman. Maggie says they haven’t had any luck with it.’

  ‘No.’ Brock checked his watch, consulted his notes. ‘You lost your wife Fran a year and a half ago. How long had you been married?’

  ‘We celebrated our fortieth anniversary two months before she died.’

  ‘Hard for you. Maggie said a stroke?’

  ‘Yes, totally unexpected. Everything normal then bang.’

  ‘How have you coped?’

  ‘How? Work, friends, pills, drink.’ He shrugged. ‘You try to carry on.’

  ‘What kind of pills?’

  ‘Oh, nothing illegal, just stuff the doc gave me. Helped a little, maybe. Made me sleepy, but I didn’t mind that.’

  ‘So you were clinically depressed.’

  ‘Yes, of course I bloody was. Half my life had been gouged out of me in an instant.’ He drew a breath, lowered his head, whispered, ‘Sorry. Mustn’t feel sorry for myself. Fatal.’

  ‘Are you seeing somebody in here? A psychiatrist?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Everybody wants to talk to me. But what’s the point? I say to them, “All you have to do is tell them that I’m incapable of doing what I’m accused of”, and they give an awkward smile, because they all believe I must have done it, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I? Pure Kafka.’

  There was a tap on the door and Maggie came in. ‘How are we doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ Brock said. ‘We’ve had a good chat.’

  He and Pettigrew got to their feet.

  Pettigrew said, ‘I’ve seen you before, you know.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘At the Old Bailey, giving evidence at a trial. Long time ago, the Causley boys.’

  ‘Ah yes. Nasty.’

  ‘Yes, I was there, and I saw you in the witness box. Very impressive. That’s why I told Maggie you might be a good person to advise us. They claimed they were innocent too, so now I know how they felt. Except, unlike them, I really am innocent.’ He looked bewildered. ‘I am, you know. I really am. Please … please help me.’

  When they got back to the car, Maggie said, ‘What do you think?’

  Brock said, ‘Old hands say they can spot a liar by little signs that give them away, but they’ve done scientific experiments and it isn’t so. Even the most experienced interrogators perform poorly with good liars. I certainly wouldn’t have picked him as a good liar, or as a psychopath, but I could be quite wrong. What fascinates me is the elaborate Orwell story. You say there’s no corroboration for it?’

  ‘Apart from that single sheet of paper, nothing. No manuscript, no photograph, no letter to the Savoy, nothing. Just a very elaborate, vaguely plausible story that Pettigrew could have dreamed up himself.’

  ‘He told me he’s convinced that someone broke in to steal the manuscript.’

  ‘What, the Heath serial killer just happened to be a collector of literary manuscripts? Even I would blush trying to present that defence, not to mention the fact that the thief took the manuscript but left ten thousand quid scattered on the floor. And that he got in without any sign of a forced entry and left without leaving a trace.

  ‘No, the DID explanation is the only one that makes sense to me, Brock. I agree with you; I wouldn’t pick him as a good liar either—he lacks the self-confidence. I think he genuinely doesn’t know what he’s done. The lack of an alibi for the times of the first two killings supports that—Dr Jekyll has no idea what Mr Hyde has done, so he hasn’t prepared an alibi for him. You don’t agree?’

  ‘Hmm. I’d like to talk to someone who knows him well. What about someone at his office?’

  ‘There’s really only his editor, Angela. She’s worked with him for years. Want to try her?’

  She put a call through to Golden Press and Angela answered. She said she’d be happy to talk to Mr Brock.

  Mister, Brock thought. By the time he retired he’d forgotten what a powerful weapon the title of Detective Chief Inspector was.

  The front office was deserted when Brock stepped in, and he looked around before ringing the bell on the counter. He had expected the Golden Press offices to be a bit more impressive, but the air of genteel decrepitude didn’t disappoint him. This was exactly what he thought a small independent London publisher’s offices should be like: musty and reeking of past encounters between the great and the good.

  A middle-aged woman appeared and asked if she could help him.

  ‘I’m hoping to speak to Angela,’ he said. ‘My name’s Brock, David Brock.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Brock, hello,’ the woman replied. ‘I’m Angela. Maggie Ferguson said you might call in. Let’s go through to Mr Pettigrew’s office and we won’t be disturbed. Can I get you a coffee or anything?’

  ‘No, thank you. I just wanted to speak to someone who knows him, to get a better picture of the man.’

  She showed him into the office and said, ‘The police searched this room and took away several things, including Sophie’s basket, I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Sophie?’

  ‘Charlie’s dog, a retriever. After his wife died he sometimes used to bring Sophie to work with him and she’d lie quietly in her basket all day. He was heartbroken when she died and couldn’t bear to get rid of her basket. He loved his dog.’

  So did Adolf Hitler, Brock thought.

  Examining some framed photographs hanging on the wall, he pointed to one and asked, ‘Isn’t that Ernest Hemingway?’

  ‘Yes, with Mr Adrian Pettigrew, Charlie’s father.’

  ‘In a bar, naturally.’

  Angela smiled. ‘Yes, in Kingston, Jamaica.’

  ‘And this one, in uniform?’

  ‘On the Western Front, Wilfred Owen with Mr Mortimer Pettigrew, Charlie’s grandfather, who founded the firm. In six years it’ll be a hundred years old.’

  ‘Is that right? And that one at the end is the present Mr Pettigrew?’

  Brock could see the family resemblance, but whereas the earlier publishers had smiled triumphantly at the camera, Charles Pettigrew looked diffident and vaguely worried. ‘When was it taken?’

  ‘About ten years ago. He was at the Edinburgh Festival with one of our authors, Bartholomew Jowitt.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid he never amounted to much. He was a crime writer. Most of our present authors are.’ She indicated a display of books on a shelf, and Brock noted the lurid cover images, mostly featuring knives, pistols and other deadly weapons.

  ‘So Charlie specialises in crime, does he?’ He picked up one of the volumes, Killers,
by D.C. Priest, with a cover image of a pair of hands gripping a woman’s throat.

  ‘Not really by choice. That’s just the way things have turned out.’

  ‘How long have you worked for him?’

  ‘Sixteen years.’

  ‘Has he been a good boss?’

  ‘Very fair, and generous.’ She seemed to be struggling a little to find positive adjectives. ‘A very nice man.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, sometimes I wished he had a bit more fire in his belly—about the business, I mean. When I joined the firm, we had eight staff. Now, even our receptionist has gone and there’s just me left. Charlie’s father was alive when I started, and at eighty he was still the real power, although Charlie was supposed to have taken over. Adrian—AP—was the one who decided what to publish and what not, and his judgement was always spot on. Do you remember Oliver Smart’s Summer in Seville?’

  ‘Vaguely. It was a bestseller, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Huge. It carried the firm for years. AP picked it. Charlie’s never had a success like that. He’s ended up with mainly crime writers by default, but they’re not the kind of author he really wanted to publish.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Not proper literature, in his opinion. He’d love to publish more literary fiction, but somehow he’s never been very lucky with those. Jonathan Gratz?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Nobody has. Sold less than five hundred copies, but Charlie was convinced he was the next James Joyce. That author in your hand, Donna Priest, sells fairly well, but Charlie thinks her books trashy, catering to ghoulish voyeurism—those were his words to me, in private. He’d never say that to his authors, of course. He’s the most polite man I’ve ever met. Kind of ironic now—Donna writes true crime and she’ll probably end up writing a book about Charlie. Though I just cannot believe he did what they say.’

  ‘But if the police are right, can you imagine how it might have happened?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been struggling to do. How could dear old Charlie be capable of something so horrible?’

  ‘Something to do with his wife’s death?’ Brock suggested.

  ‘Yes, that’s the only thing I can think of. He hasn’t been the same since she died. It’s as if she’d been holding him together.’

  ‘How did he change?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t look after himself, and he was drinking.’ She frowned, looking down at her hands.

  ‘Go on,’ Brock said quietly.

  ‘One Friday evening, about three months ago, I came back from a meeting with an agent and the office door was locked. I assumed everyone had gone home, but when I came in I saw a light in Charlie’s office. I put my head round the door and saw him sitting here, at the desk, holding a tumbler of Scotch, staring at nothing. He looked up and waved me in, told me to join him for a chat. I could tell from his voice that he’d already drunk quite a lot, and when I sat down and looked more closely at him I was alarmed to see tears on his cheeks. He poured me a glass and told me that Penny, our secretary, had just asked for a reference. Apparently she was looking for a job elsewhere as an editorial assistant. I said not to worry, we’d soon get someone else, but he waved his hand and said no, no, I should do the same thing, look for a job elsewhere. He said I was wasted here and he’d let me down, let everyone down; he’d been a failure, let down the family tradition. It was pretty embarrassing and I tried to break in, but he just went on. He said, “You know, Angela, I really hate this place, Golden Press, always have, it’s been a millstone around my neck. I’ve lived a lie, out of funk, out of guilt.” And then he told me this rather unpleasant story.

  ‘When he was a small boy, six or seven, he came home early from primary school one day. There had been a sex education lesson, and the headmaster had described how babies were made. It had made him feel dizzy and sick, and he’d been sent home. When he got there, he went up to his room. The door was open, and inside he saw his mother and a man, both naked, on his bed. He wasn’t sure at first what they were doing, because he recognised the man as his Uncle Bob, his mother’s brother. Then he remembered the school lesson and he realised. He watched them for a minute, then quietly went away. That evening, at dinner with his parents, his father, AP, asked him how school was. He said he’d felt ill and came home early and saw his mother and Uncle Bob having sexual intercourse—that was the term he used, like in the school lesson. His father sent him to his room, and he heard them rowing downstairs. He never saw or heard of his uncle again, and a week later he was sent to a boarding school, where he was bullied for five years until he tried to hang himself. Then AP sent him to another school, which wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Brock frowned.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t have told you, should I? I didn’t tell the police. But you’re on his side, aren’t you? It probably isn’t relevant. But the fact he’d tell me a story like that just shows how depressed he’s been without Fran, his wife. She was strong, kept him going.’

  At the station, waiting for the Hastings train, Brock phoned Maggie.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked. ‘Find out anything useful?’

  ‘Not sure. Have you spoken to Pettigrew’s cleaner?’

  ‘Yes. She’s on the witness list. She didn’t tell me anything we didn’t already know.’

  ‘Could you arrange for me to speak to her?’

  ‘Okay. Any particular time?’

  ‘I’ll fit in.’

  8

  Kathy pulled up outside the Holy Emmanuel Apostolic Church of Christ, formerly the Three Crowns public house. Next to it was the Polski 777 Crazy Grocery and beyond that the burnt-out ruin of what had been the Sitar Indian Restaurant, beneath two floors of share accommodation in which three people had died the previous night. The fire investigators had detected accelerant in the remains of the restaurant kitchen and suspected foul play, making this a case for Homicide and Serious Crime.

  DS Alfarsi was with her, and they pulled on overalls, boots and hard hats and walked over to the fire scene, where one of the investigators was waiting for them. He took them inside, interpreting the debris as they picked their way through the mess.

  Kathy’s phone rang and she checked the name. Selwyn Jarvis. ‘I’d better take this,’ she said and turned away. ‘Hello, Judge.’

  ‘Kathy, I hope I’m not interrupting, but I wonder if you could spare me a little time to discuss a matter that’s come up.’

  ‘Of course. Concerning your wife’s death?’

  ‘Possibly. Could we meet? Perhaps after work, if that suits.’

  They arranged for her to go to his house in Highgate that evening.

  He opened the door as soon as she rang the bell and ushered her into the living room.

  ‘Can I get you anything—a drink?

  ‘No, thanks.’ Kathy looked around for signs of decay. An old man abandoned. Would he go off the rails like Charles Pettigrew? Brock was lucky to have Suzanne, but Bren had told her that he’d seemed restless and bored when they’d last met.

  Jarvis indicated his wife’s armchair for her to sit. ‘So how are things going?’

  ‘With the case? Very well. I’m hoping we can get to trial early in the New Year. The defence is very weak.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I still find it incredible that a man like that … I would have said, one of us. Quite incredible that he should have been capable of such acts. Insanity defence, of course?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s still pleading innocent. But I assume it’ll come to that.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Have you by any chance heard about the sad case of Roger Walcott?’

  The sudden change of subject surprised her. ‘Only what I’ve seen in the news.’

  It had been a lead item a few weeks before—the suicide of a High Court judge in a Central London hotel room.

  Jarvis nodded, frowning. ‘Mm. Shocking business. And utterly out of character. Roger was very well known to all of us, full o
f energy and optimism, happily married. His wife had taken off to Switzerland for a week with the children and grandchildren and he’d booked into a hotel in town convenient for work. Then this. Unbelievable. There was no note, and it was so out of character that a few of his friends wondered if it really could have been suicide, and so I offered to have a word with you, off the record. We just want to be reassured that every possibility has been examined.’

  ‘I see. I haven’t seen anything about it in-house. It was a hanging, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hangings are such a common form of suicide that they’re rarely referred to us, but I’m sure that in the case of a High Court judge it would have been investigated very thoroughly. If you like, I’ll make inquiries. Is there anything particular you’re doubtful about?’

  ‘Only what I said, that he was the last person we would have expected to do a thing like that. And I suppose … well, two judicial tragedies so close together makes people wonder.’

  ‘Well, you can be assured that this had absolutely nothing to do with Caroline’s murder. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d be most grateful.’

  Brock was already sitting at a table in the Castle, around the corner from Holland Park tube station, when the girl walked in. Outside the evening traffic was sluicing through the freezing rain and she looked soaked and miserable. He got to his feet as she looked around, then came towards him. They shook hands.

  ‘Hello, Nadia,’ he said. ‘I’m David. Can I get you something? Vodka?’

  She looked at his whisky and gave a cautious smile. ‘Okay.’

  ‘With tonic?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He got her a double. She shook her wet headscarf, looking tired, glad to sit down.

  ‘Finished for the day?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded towards the tall white stuccoed houses on the far side of Holland Park Avenue. ‘Two doctors. Very untidy.’ She tasted her drink. ‘You’re a policeman, yes?’