‘I haven’t been able to see him yet myself.’
John focused on straightening the fork on the table in front of him. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure whether I should visit him.’
‘Why not?’
He finally met her eyes. ‘I don’t think he’s ever accepted me, Kathy, not really. Despite all we went through together on the Chelsea Mansions case, I always had the feeling I was an embarrassment, the unknown son who suddenly barged into his life uninvited. I think he would hate it, me seeing him like that, locked up in prison, humiliated.’
‘But he asked you to get involved in this case, John. He wanted your help.’
‘Yeah, technical advice, nothing personal.’
There was some truth in what John was saying, Kathy thought. She’d sensed Brock’s reluctance to get involved, and had wondered if John was a reminder of a stage in Brock’s life that he’d prefer to forget. And there was something else, something more personal to her. On his last visit, she and John had discovered a rapport between them, an easiness of manner, and perhaps something more than that. But Kathy had been aware that Brock had noticed this and perhaps resented it, and it had made for a strange awkwardness between the three of them.
‘Well, you’ve come all this way, John. I think you should give it a try. It might be uncomfortable at first, but I do know him, and I think he’ll appreciate the effort.’
‘I’m not sure. Would you come with me?’
Kathy thought about that. Finally she said, ‘Okay, we’ll go together, but we’ll play it my way, okay?’
The following morning Kathy sat alone at her table in the visit room at Belmarsh, waiting for Brock to appear. Around her prisoners were bent in conversation with wives, mothers, a few with children. Trying not to appear as if she was listening, she picked up the tone of these strange meetings, some stilted and awkward, one bursting with suppressed anger, most with an effort at cheerfulness. She noticed Charles Pettigrew and calculated that it was about six weeks since she’d last seen him. She saw the change in him, his posture slumped, complexion pale. He was sitting with a grey-haired woman who was gesticulating, talking urgently to him while he sat silent, unresponsive. As Kathy watched he turned suddenly and stared directly at her, and she looked quickly away and saw Brock coming through the door.
He strode in, head up, shoulders back, casting a look around him as if he owned the place, then made his way across to Kathy’s table as she got to her feet, wondering how they should greet each other. He held out his hand with a wry smile and she took it, suddenly overcome with a sense of terrible pity, and of anger, seeing him here like this.
‘Well,’ he said, pulling out his chair. ‘Good to see you, Kathy … at last.’
She began to frame an explanation, but he waved his hand. ‘No, no, of course I understand. Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be able to come at all. Are you sure you’re not compromising yourself ?’
She took a deep breath, steadied herself. ‘Don’t worry about that. How are you?’
‘Fine, fine.’ He sat back, folding his arms. ‘This is an education. I think every young copper should be sent inside for a few weeks to get a perspective on things. And I’m learning bricklaying! How about that?’
‘That’s great. Food?’
‘Not bad.’ He shrugged dismissively and gazed around. ‘There’s old Pettigrew over there—not doing too well, I’m afraid. I see true crime has come to cheer him up. About the last thing he needs, I’d have thought.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘One of his authors, Donna Priest. She writes about real murder cases apparently. Probably planning a blockbuster on poor old Charlie, I shouldn’t wonder. She’ll be wanting to interview you next.’
Or you, Kathy thought, but didn’t say it.
‘But tell me about yourself and the big wide world,’ Brock went on. ‘That’s much more interesting. What’s this I’ve been hearing about those bloody judges? What’s the inside story, eh?’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged. ‘A mess. They’ve put me in charge of the review of the circumstances of Walcott’s suicide.’
‘A poisoned chalice, I can imagine. He was the first one, right?’
‘Yes, and now there’s Selwyn Jarvis.’
‘I remember him from way back, when he was a Crown prosecutor. Decent bloke, I always thought.’
‘And his wife was Caroline Jarvis, who was Charles Pettigrew’s second victim.’
That stopped Brock dead. ‘Eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hadn’t … God, I hadn’t made the connection.’
‘You’ve had too much else on your mind.’
‘Yes, but that’s … bizarre.’
‘Yes. And Walcott, you must have come up against him, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes, several times. Pompous, but he always got it right on my cases.’
‘There was at least one trial where all three of you were involved—you, Jarvis and Walcott. September 1999, the trial of the Causley brothers, remember it?’
‘Of course. You weren’t with me on that one, were you? Chloe Honnery, eight years old, as sweet a little girl as you can imagine. The Causley brothers tortured and drowned her just for fun. The thing that particularly shocked people, apart from the brutality of the crime itself, was that they came from a decent middle-class family in an ordinary law-abiding London suburb. As far as we could discover they had never suffered abuse or deprivation of any kind, both intelligent and well nurtured. They were just plain evil. Different personalities—Jarrod articulate with excellent school results and a prize for debating, and Dean silent, introspective, with an interest in computers and art—and both psychopaths. The judge, Walcott, took the view that Jarrod was the instigator and more culpable, but they seemed to me to be two sides of the same coin. There was some kind of unhealthy bond between them.’
Kathy said, ‘You were the senior investigating officer, Jarvis was the Crown prosecutor, and Walcott was the judge.’
‘True.’
‘We’ve been looking at all the links we can find between Jarvis and Walcott, and I noticed that one because I remembered you were involved.’
‘So?’
‘Well … three very senior law officers all publicly disgraced and under investigation within the space of a few weeks. It’s a coincidence.’
‘Yes, but we three have had many contacts over the years—committees, conferences, other trials. As a matter of fact, we all expressed misgivings about the appointment of the present police commissioner. Maybe he’s framed us.’ He chuckled, then added, ‘Come to that, Pettigrew was at the Causley trial too.’
‘Pettigrew?’
‘Yes, he told me. He saw me in the witness box there, and that’s why he suggested to Maggie Ferguson that I’d be good to advise on his case. But that’s neither here nor there.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘No, the Jarvis and Walcott cases are completely different from my problem. If you want to do us both a bit of good—you with your case against Pettigrew and me with my present incarceration—you should concentrate on that Orwell novel. That’s the key to both investigations. You said before that only that first page of the manuscript existed and the rest was just a fantasy of Charlie Pettigrew’s, but now we know that isn’t so, because Elena Vasile sent me a second page two months after Pettigrew was locked up in here. Either Pettigrew and I were innocent bystanders who got caught up in a fight to possess that manuscript, or else it was used to trap us both. So where did it come from? Who’s got it now? Did Uzma Jamali forge it, or did she steal it from the real Shari Mitra, wherever she is? Is it real or is it a fake?’
‘Yes, I’ve got an expert working on that.’
‘Really? I wish I could talk to them.’
‘You can. I brought him with me. I’ll get him in, shall I?’
‘Certainly.’
Kathy went out to the lobby where John was waiting. She gave him an encouraging smile, nodded her head in the direction of the door and watched him go i
n. Next to the visit room entrance was a small room with a one-way window for guards to observe, and Kathy slipped in there and watched John approach his father. She saw the shock register on Brock’s face, his air of confidence disappear as he got to his feet. For a moment, as they stood facing each other, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake, but then John stepped around the table that stood between them and put his arms out and wrapped his father in a hug. Kathy registered the surprise on Brock’s face, and then a flash of something like relief as he embraced his son in return. They sat down and began to talk, and soon were deep in conversation, poring over the papers that John took from his jacket pocket.
She watched them for a while, then went out to the coffee machine and bought three cups. As she was waiting for them to fill she was aware of someone coming up behind her. She turned and recognised the woman who had been sitting with Charles Pettigrew. The woman smiled cautiously at her and said, ‘Hello. You’re Detective Chief Inspector Kolla, aren’t you? I’ve been a long-time admirer of your work with DCI Brock. I should explain: I’m an author and write about true crime cases. Donna Priest.’ She handed Kathy a card.
Kathy said, ‘I noticed you sitting with Charles Pettigrew. I’m afraid I can’t talk about his case.’
‘Oh no, no, of course not. I’m here as a friend really—he’s been my publisher for many years and I feel so sorry for him. He seems to have been abandoned by all his other former colleagues. But it is an intriguing case. Maybe when it’s all over we could have a chat?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And we have another connection, actually. I know your aunt and uncle in Sheffield, Mary and Tom.’
‘Seriously? How?’
‘I was up there doing some research on Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper, and one evening I went to see a show at the Playhouse, and in the interval I got into conversation with this lovely couple, Mary and Tom, and they told me about their wonderful niece who was a detective with the Met in London. Well, of course I’d heard of you, and we struck up a friendship. How are they?’
‘I’m afraid they both died last year.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. They thought the world of you. Such a lovely couple, real characters.’
‘They were. But that’s amazing that you met them,’ Kathy said. ‘Small world.’
‘Yes, indeed. But I think the real world is full of coincidences like that, isn’t it? Unlike the world of fiction, where it’s not allowed.’
Kathy smiled. The woman, probably in her early sixties, had a bright, intelligent manner. Was this how authors worked, cultivating contacts with useful people in the real world? ‘Have you always been an author?’ she asked.
‘Oh no. Once I worked in finance in the City, but although it was exciting in its way, I never felt satisfied. To me it didn’t get close to the mysteries of the human condition. Does that sound pretentious?’
‘No, I think I understand. That’s what makes police work so compelling for me.’
‘Exactly! Look, Kathy—may I call you that? I feel I know you so well already—might I send you a copy of one of my books? You may have a dull moment one day to glance at it.’
Kathy gave her a card with a smile and took the coffees over to Brock’s table. The two men barely looked up, intent on examining some quirk in the handwriting on the first page of the manuscript. As she waited for them to finish she thought about Donna Priest’s story and about the Yorkshire Ripper, who had also attacked his victims—thirteen who died and seven who survived—with a hammer. Could that have been an inspiration for Pettigrew?
On the way back Kathy said, ‘So it went all right then?’
John nodded. ‘Yes. A bit awkward at first, for both of us, but then it was okay. The worst bit was walking away and leaving him in that place. Has he got a decent lawyer? If it’s a matter of money, I could help.’
‘I’ll give you her contact details. I’m sure she’ll be happy to talk to you, John.’
‘Right. And thanks, Kathy, for bringing me today.’
‘He seemed very taken up in what you had to tell him.’
‘He’s kind of obsessed with that Orwell manuscript—he’s been reading all the Orwell stuff he can get hold of, starting with Burmese Days. We were talking over the research I’m going to do at UCL.’
He explained that he’d phoned the Special Collections office of the university in Gower Street, not far from the British Museum, and they had arranged a pass for him to access the main part of the Orwell documents held in the National Archives, ten miles upriver on the Thames at Kew. She drove him there from the prison, then returned to her desk in the Box.
Later, when she’d cleared the backlog of requests and reports, she thought about her conversation with Brock about the Causley case and his remark that Pettigrew had also been there. It was an extraordinary coincidence, surely? Why was he there? She’d have to ask him or Maggie. She opened her file on the court documents again and searched them for the name Pettigrew. And when it came up she frowned and read it again. Pettigrew hadn’t been just a casual onlooker; he’d been a member of the jury. In fact, he’d been their foreman, and had been the one who’d delivered their verdict to the court.
Kathy sat back, took a deep breath and tried not to get it out of perspective. But every way she thought of it brought her back to the same inescapable fact—that the four key people involved in locking up the Causley brothers were now, within the space of a few months, themselves in deep trouble with the law. What were the odds? A million to one?
She thought: What do I do?
The first thing was to find out more about the Causleys, sixteen years on. She began with their parole board reports. Dean, the younger boy, seemed to have suffered from a considerable amount of aggression and abuse while in jail, and was said to have become very withdrawn and uncommunicative. He was released under licence into the community after serving ten of his fifteen-year sentence and was given assistance to change his identity after receiving death threats. That was six years ago. He had kept out of trouble and after five years the licence period was completed and the monitoring stopped. His brother Jarrod, sentenced to twenty years, was described as having an exemplary prison record, completing an arts degree with the Open University and a postgraduate diploma in librarianship. He had been released two years ago, and was currently working as a trainee assistant librarian at a public library in North London. He was now thirty-two, his brother thirty, both having spent almost half their lives in prison.
Kathy was searching for the contact details for Jarrod’s probation officer when her mobile rang. It was John.
‘Kathy, are you still at work?’
‘Yep. How did it go at the National Archives?’
‘I made a start, but there’s a lot of stuff to get through. But look, I think you need a break. How about taking some time off tomorrow?’
‘I wish.’
‘No, I’m serious. I thought you looked exhausted today. They’re forecasting a break in the weather tomorrow, a sunny spring-like day they say, and I thought we could take a boat up the river to Kew and have lunch in a nice little pub to discuss developments in The Promised Land mystery, and then we could call in at the National Archives and I could show you their Orwell holdings. Consider it a work assignment—research.’
‘Sounds good. Let me see …’ She had the joint task-force meeting at nine, the HR briefing later in the afternoon, but the prospect of a few hours off and time to get reacquainted with John was tempting. ‘Yes, okay. I’ll work something out.’
‘That would be wonderful, Kathy. Thanks.’
When she rang off, Kathy thought how keen he’d sounded, and wondered how she really felt about that. She set about rearranging her commitments, then remembered Jarrod Causley’s probation officer. She found the number and explained that she wanted information on Jarrod’s current situation.
The woman sounded worried. ‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’
‘No. His name came up as a possible
witness in another case, but I think it’s unlikely he can help us.’
‘Oh, something to do with the library, do you mean?’
‘He works there full-time, does he?’
‘Yes. From what I hear they’re very happy with him.’
‘Do they know his background?’
‘Oh yes, but he came out of prison with full marks for motivation and the head librarian was keen to give him a chance to rehabilitate himself. She interviewed him and was impressed. He can be pretty plausible when he wants to be.’
‘You sound sceptical.’
‘Just between us? I’ve met his type before, manipulative and totally self-centred. And he’s never expressed guilt or remorse for what they did to Chloe Honnery. But I can’t complain about his behaviour on probation. He’s done it all by the book. Never tried to cut corners.’
‘Friends? Girlfriend?’
‘Not that I know of. He seems to get on all right with the other library staff.’
‘What’s his brother up to, do you know?’
‘No idea. I hear he got beaten up when he came out of prison and changed his name and moved away. I did meet him the once, at Belmarsh, when he was visiting Jarrod towards the end of his brother’s sentence. He didn’t say a word to me, and Jarrod didn’t tell me anything about him except that it was unlikely they’d have much to do with each other when he got out. Their parents both died during the period they were inside, and they were left the house and a bit of capital, so they’re neither of them on the breadline. Was there anything specific you wanted?’
‘There’s a time I’d like to check whether Jarrod was at work at the library. I’d prefer not to approach the staff myself, in case they get the wrong idea and think he’s in trouble.’
‘Good point. I could ask them if you like.’
‘That would be a great help. The time I’m interested in is the morning of Friday, January the eighth, between nine and eleven.’
‘I’ll get back to you.’
Jarrod was in Belmarsh too, Kathy thought as she rang off. So many coincidences. She put a call through to the prison and spoke to the office manager. She explained that she wanted to identify a twenty-eight-year-old male who’d visited Jarrod Causley in the period immediately before his release in 2013. Within half an hour she got an email attaching the visit application form for someone called Ethan Hawke. There was also an image of Hawke’s ID, a driver’s licence with a photograph of a pinched, surly-faced man with a shaved head who didn’t look a bit like the American film star of that name, but was recognisable from earlier pictures of Dean Causley. The address given was the Causley family’s home that, on checking, Kathy found had been sold by the two boys soon after Jarrod was released. She wasn’t able to trace an address for Dean Causley or Ethan Hawke since then.
The Promised Land Page 16
