‘However, when writing fiction, the characters sometimes act in ways the author didn’t anticipate, and further adjustments and improvisations in the plot have to be made as it develops. So too with the real-life version. For example, the obliteration of the features of the three Heath murder victims was intended to make it impossible for the police to identify “Shari Mitra”, but unfortunately Uzma made herself known to Charlie’s cleaner Nadia, which she wasn’t supposed to do, and then clever old Brock followed that up and discovered who she really was. This entailed a rapid adjustment in the plot and a second trip to India by the author to obtain forged birth and other certificates to form a connection between Amar Dasgupta and Uzma Jamali’s birth family, to convince the experts that the provenance of the manuscript was valid.
‘I could go on, but you get the picture. The whole story is set out in that folder, Kathy. I killed those people, and sent Charlie and Brock to jail. I did it. The Causley boys were just my instruments.’ She got to her feet and said, ‘Excuse me a moment.’
Kathy felt strangely remote, her mind labouring to take this in. She believed Donna, and wondered if she intended to kill her too. Certainly she felt barely able to move or resist.
Donna returned with a bottle of pills and swallowed a couple with a gulp of wine. ‘Sorry, headache. Where were we?’
Kathy said, ‘Why Andrea Giannopoulos? Why did she have to die?’
‘To establish the initial momentum of the plot. It was a random choice, to throw you off the scent of the true story to come. And her death was used to plant the idea of pools of water as a significant motif in the story, harking back to the death of Chloe Honnery. The same with Caroline Jarvis’s death. The brothers liked that, not realising that I would use it to implicate them.’
‘Jarrod Causley has never mentioned you.’
‘No, he doesn’t believe I was anything more than an irritating but helpful old biddy, giving him a few tips and ironing out a few problems. He’s very arrogant. He probably thinks by now that it was all his own idea.’
Kathy fought to clear her head. This was madness, surely? Donna was playing some sort of literary game with her. ‘You’re not really serious about all this?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You killed Andrea Giannopoulos just to establish background …?’
‘To be perfectly honest, neither she nor Caroline Jarvis were very nice people, both very spoilt and self-obsessed. And we all have to die sometime. I felt worse about the two girls, Shari and Elena, struggling to make their way in the world against all the odds. When we finally found Shari working in the kebab shop, and discovered how intelligent and educated she was, I couldn’t believe my luck. She was just perfect for the part—but then, when I got to know her better, briefing her on the role she had to play, I grew rather fond of her, and it was a real effort to harden my heart. But the plot had to come first—the killer plot—and it was vital that the stakes had to be of the highest. And then Elena Vasile, her flatmate, got wind of what we were doing and demanded a share of the action, and so I used her to groom Stewart Chambers and entrap Brock.’
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a cruel person.’
Donna’s voice hardened. ‘No, well, maybe when you finally confront your own death you become a little more ruthless, Kathy, and a little more impatient with people who are wasting their lives. I hope I’ve given Charlie a big enough shock to stop him going on wasting his.’
‘You were very …’ Kathy struggled to form her words, ‘… clever … with the forensics.’
‘I’m a crime writer, Kathy. I know far more about killing people than any real-life murderer.’
‘The dog hair. I should have realised …’
‘Yes, I thought afterwards that was probably a bit over the top. I got it from the dog basket in Charlie’s office, of course, along with the tissues in the wastepaper basket. He had a cold that day.’
‘My aunt and uncle in Sheffield …’
‘Research, Kathy. When I discovered you would be the senior investigating officer, I found out everything I could about you. I never met your relatives, but I almost feel I did, I know you so well. And I was so glad it was you, Kathy; a woman after my own heart, I think, determined, a fighter against a biased world. I was so glad that it was you to whom I could make my confession.’
‘But … what did you mean about confronting …?’ Kathy began, but then couldn’t remember where she was going with that. She felt a flutter of panic and tried to get to her feet, but felt Donna’s hand on her shoulder, pushing her firmly back. She saw something in Donna’s other hand—a syringe, a needle—and tried to cry out. It was the last thing she remembered.
24
It was dark when she woke. At first she had no idea where she was, but then she made out the shelves of books, the desk by the darkened window. She forced herself out of the chair, stumbled to the doorway and pressed a light switch.
‘Donna?’
There was no response in the silent house.
She made her way to the kitchen, ran a glass of water under the tap, took a deep drink and looked around. No one there. She went down the tiny hallway to an open door leading to a bedroom. There she saw Donna lying on the bed. ‘Donna?’
She switched on the bedside light and repeated the name, but Donna didn’t stir. Kathy felt her throat and could find no pulse. When she took the other woman’s hand, it was cold and stiff with rigor mortis.
Still feeling shaky, she sat on the edge of the bed, wondering how much of what she remembered was real or a dream. Then she saw the empty syringe lying on the bedside table.
She got to her feet, intending to go to find her bag and phone, when she noticed a sheet of paper on the bed beside Donna’s body, with her name on it. She picked it up and read the handwritten note.
Kathy,
In the living room you will find a black travel bag which I now give to you along with its contents. Inside you will find the following:
• the original manuscript of my work of fiction The Promised Land by Eric Blair
• the hardback copy of The Promised Land fresh from New York, which I gave you
• the file marked The Killer Plot, by Donna Priest, being my journal of the true-crime case of the Hampstead murders, which sets out in detail everything that I did
• my last will and testament, in which you will see that I name you as my sole beneficiary and owner of my house, its contents and all my other assets to do with as you will. Use them to compensate the victims if you so choose, and mop up the damage I caused. It’s entirely up to you.
Kathy, I am relying on you. Don’t let them blame my tumour. That sentence you couldn’t finish—yes, I am confronting my own death, and have been for some time. The cancer is slow-growing but insidious and inoperable, a nasty little octopus sending out its tentacles to become more and more entangled with my brain. It cannot be treated with surgery or chemotherapy, and radiotherapy is very difficult. I underwent one course and it cost me three months’ work and I’m not going through that again. I get headaches, periods of dizziness and nausea, but I am NOT deranged. In fact, I seem to become more focused, more clear-headed as time goes on. A death sentence certainly concentrates the mind and drives one to action, but I am completely sane and utterly rational. I knew exactly what I was doing.
And now I’m going to take my pills and go to sleep and find peace. It has been a privilege to cross swords with you. Please don’t feel too angry with me.
Donna
25
From the train station Brock walked through Hampstead to Charlie Pettigrew’s house. Large gin and tonics seemed to be the order of this hot summer’s day, and they sipped them as Charlie gave Brock the guided tour.
‘I’m planning a few changes,’ Charlie explained. ‘Modernise the kitchen for a start, and clear out some of the old junk. Grandfather’s taste in furniture was pretty ropey, even for those days. But I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to get on to it.’
‘Work?’ Brock asked.
‘God yes, haven’t had a moment. We’re rushing to get The Killer Plot into print, of course. Donna’s text is very clean, hardly needs editing, but the lawyers are worried about some of the passages. No compromise, I say. We’ll publish and be damned. And if someone sues us that’ll only increase publicity and improve sales. There’s a huge reading public out there hungry for this.
‘And then there’s all the other business that’s come in. We’ve been inundated by approaches from agents and authors wanting to publish with Golden Press. Angela and I have taken on two new editors to cope with it, and some of the material is very promising indeed. I tell you, Golden Press is undergoing a renaissance, Brock, and so am I, all thanks to Donna Priest. Have you been following the social media clamour about her? Rock star status. And then that Panorama program on the BBC. Well, now, if you’ve finished your gin I suggest we stroll across the Heath for lunch. I’ve reserved a table at the Flask in Highgate.’
They set off, Pettigrew careful to set the alarm and double-lock the front door. He brandished his walking stick in the direction of Hampstead Heath and they made their way into the wooded perimeter, heavily shaded now by dense green foliage. Soon they came across the first of the eccentric figures that the Heath seemed to be home to, a small woman of indeterminate age, heavily rugged up in what looked like a Native American blanket, being pulled along by six small dogs. They emerged into the open Parliament Hill Fields, where children were flying kites, and walked up to the high point with its distant views out across the city.
‘And how about The Promised Land?’ Brock asked. ‘Any idea what’s happened to that?’
Charlie laughed. ‘Spectacular! PDB wavered for a while after the story broke that it was a fake, but the demand for the book only increased. Mortimer Hartley tried to stop it and get them to withdraw his introductory essay, but they’d already printed their two million hardbacks and PDB refused. That essay only made the novel more scandalously attractive, and all they did was insert a frontispiece explaining the context, as if everybody didn’t already know it. They say poor old Hartley’s a broken man, but then he’ll have the consolation of his share of the royalties to ease his embarrassment.’
Charlie was interrupted by an elderly man with an ancient Highland terrier. He wanted to know if they’d seen a certain letter published in that day’s Sunday Times concerning the migration of swallows. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ he said, shaking his finger at them. ‘An utter disgrace.’
They were saved by a phalanx of runners who distracted the old man and allowed Brock and Pettigrew to walk on towards Number One Pond and Highgate.
‘But how about yourself, Brock? Have you made a full recovery from your time in Belmarsh?’
‘Oh yes. I see the world afresh, with bright new colours.’
‘I hope your former employers have given you a grovelling apology?’
‘Not quite, but they have offered me a job.’
‘Really? Will you take it?’
‘Yes, retirement didn’t agree with me. They call it a “consultancy” and hope it will shut me up and stop me suing them for wrongful arrest. They imagine that I’ll sit on my restored laurels and stay well away from the pointy end, but I have other ideas.’
‘Really? Detective work?’
‘That’s what I am, Charlie, a detective.’
They reached the Flask and took their pints out to a table in the courtyard of the eighteenth-century pub.
‘This place has its own ghosts,’ Pettigrew said. ‘The highwayman Dick Turpin hid down there in the cellar, and Karl Marx used to drop in for a tipple, so they say. I propose a toast to ghosts, and to one in particular—Donna Priest.’
‘That’s very forgiving of you, Charlie,’ Brock said, ‘considering she planned to kill the two of us.’
‘What?’
‘Did you ever see her talking to a lifer called Arnold on her visits to Belmarsh?’
‘Yes, I remember him. I think she said something about including him in her next book. I tried to keep well clear of him—they say he’s a real psychopath.’
‘Well, Kathy told me the other day that he’s informed the prison authorities that she promised to take care of his dear old mum if he murdered us both. And he’d have done it too. It would have been part of her pact with the Causley boys, to wipe the slate clean, all four of us who put them inside—Jarvis, Walcott, you and me.’
‘Good God.’ Pettigrew had gone very pale. ‘But Jarvis killed himself, didn’t he?’
‘Kathy says they’re reviewing the forensic evidence. It seems Jarrod Causley made a trip up to Scotland at the time Jarvis was there. We were just lucky that Kathy cornered the Causleys when she did and got us out in time, otherwise …’ Brock took a deep draw on his beer. ‘Ah, that’s good. No, it’s Kathy we should be drinking a toast to, Charlie. Without her we’d both be ghosts.’
They raised their glasses in silent thanks.
Pettigrew said, ‘What’s she going to do with Donna’s house in Godalming?’
‘I believe she’s talking to some literary organisation about turning it into a kind of retreat for budding authors.’
‘Oh, that’s a good idea.’
‘Is it? I should have thought there are enough budding authors in the world without giving them any more encouragement.’
Pettigrew laughed. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘Yes, I do. Imagination without responsibility. Look what it did to Donna Priest. She should have stuck to Threadneedle Street.’
‘No, no, no,’ Pettigrew protested. ‘It’s essential, the unfettered exploration of ideas, of imaginary worlds of the mind …’
They continued arguing about this for some time, until their roast Hampshire topside beef arrived, when they stopped talking and concentrated on the more important business of lunch.
The Promised Land Page 25
