by J.G. Ellis
Chapter Eight
Senior police officers – those who have essentially moved into the politics of policing – are very exercised by/with the service’s relationship with the media; it’s a service now, never a force. They fret about public image and perception, and worry about their perceived relationship with certain sections of the community. They monitor press coverage and dream up community and PR initiatives to help it along and give it a positive slant. A picture of a friendly bobby with children and parents at a local supermarket – the latter being more than happy to get in on the positive publicity act – is perfect PR. Usually the officer in question will be part of a team/initiative offering advice on road safety and/or vehicle security with, perhaps, the opportunity for children to have their bikes stamped for free. In this context, press conferences are a delicate and rather distasteful dance with the devil, with absurd attention being paid to every detail. There are officers, at all levels of policing, regarded as media-friendly or media-savvy, and such a designation tends to be good for one’s career. The bobby at the supermarket is media-friendly, as is the black policewoman with a winsome take on common sense. In an organisation sensitive about its pale-male image, ethnicity matters, as does gender. Media-savvy officers are usually more senior officers who can be relied upon to acquit themselves well under difficult questioning or scrutiny – usually when a high-profile investigation has become prolonged and complicated, or otherwise gone awry – such as, rather disastrously, having arrested the wrong person. It’s not unusual for officers unblessed with the aura of media-friendliness to resent those who are – a common, and mostly unfair, sentiment being that some officers get by and on and up on little else.
Am I, then, media-friendly? I am, or was, or thought I was – when I did what I was doing without what it was I was doing being labelled or quantified. Someone was noticing, though, because I received a letter inviting me to a seminar entitled Managing the Media – a privilege, I was told, extended to only a few officers a year. The main talk was given by a trendyish – I use the term pejoratively – man in his fifties with a professional background in PR, who introduced himself as Graham. He wore a vertically striped shirt outside blue jeans and the kind of glasses that were rather more fashion statement than visual aid. His hair was a carefully composed denial of the fact he was balding. He was, however, compelling on the subject of the media, characterising it as a monster with dubious motives. When I said something about the importance of a free press, he sneered and said that we hadn’t had a free press for a very long time. All the major news outlets could be traced back to a few large corporations with their own agenda and fairly obvious political connections. The media, he pointed out, doesn’t report on, or investigate, itself unless some rival’s already gleefully doing it for partisan reasons to do with market share.
Agenda Management is important, he told us, because the media has its own agenda, which has little to do with the truth. Choices about what stories to run, which issues to pursue, were, he said, all driven by agenda. “Take a look at your local newspaper,” he said, “and you’ll see that most of the stories are agenda-driven. What’s the point of a story about an immigrant family living on benefits in a large council house? How is it, in any meaningful sense, a story? It only works in an agenda context, and we all know the agenda.” He gave an example of a story relevant to the police service. “Imagine,” he said, “that someone goes out and shoots a shopkeeper while robbing the shop. The police are, of course, investigating, and are expected to report to the public via the media. At this stage, the incident is sufficiently grave, the investigation so obviously important, that the media doesn’t need an agenda bias to report it. In the early, initial stages, reporting will be factual. That won’t last. Agenda rapidly kicks in: the availability of guns in broken Britain; the effects of new and dangerous drugs; the gangsta rap gun culture amongst young black men. The media will find an agenda – or agendum – to fit the circumstances.” He moved round the room handing out photocopies of a small news story accompanied by a picture of a police car parked outside a local takeaway. The picture was captioned “One law for them...”. Two police officers had parked in a “No Parking” zone to quickly get themselves something with chips. “This was at the busiest time of day in a busy part of town where people were regularly clamped or ticketed, which is why, of course, the paper ran with the story. Parking was a sore point. There were lots of embittered former ticketees and clampees about, some of them gleefully taking pictures on their mobile phones, several of which conveniently found their way onto the computer of the local newspaper. Throw in an attentive hack and you have one agenda-driven story to go. What are the consequences of this? Two officers reprimanded or disciplined for something as trivial as nipping out for a takeaway, and a police service that understands the need for agenda management.”
“The media isn’t your friend,” he declared when he’d returned to the front of the room. He said this as though we had previously assumed it was. “It doesn’t serve you well as members of the public, nor does it serve you well as members of the police service.” He held up two tabloid newspapers, one in either hand: one had a lurid headline about the sexual exploits of a celebrity with artificially large breasts caught cheating on her pop star husband with a “hunky” kick-boxer; the other declared the heartbreak of a footballer’s wife after it transpired her husband had been texting photos of his private parts to several ladies he’d met in a nightclub. “If you think this is funny,” – and it was fairly obvious most of us did – “bear in mind that these papers presume to tell you how to vote come election time. Politicians and senior officials in public life have been hounded out of office by these papers, police officers amongst them. You do not have the luxury of being sniffy. These are the papers that most people buy, and this is the level at which political debates and PR battles are won and lost.” He dropped the papers onto a desk as though they were distasteful to handle. “These are prole newspapers,” he said: “ignorant, vulgar, and boorishly simplistic. And, of course, dangerous – and not just for paediatricians and bibliophiles.”
We laughed at this, but I worried about the implications. I said, “If the press can’t be trusted at all, who protects the public from abuse by the institutions of the state?” This question sounds rather naïve to me now, and curiously pompous.
“That’s a big question,” he said, smiling. “To be honest, my issue with the state is that it isn’t protecting me from the press – or, more specifically, the large transnational corporations that own it. The state, in the shape of the government of the day, is considerably more afraid of the press and its corporate masters than I am of the state. The press is a corporate tool to manipulate the public. In your dealings with it, you need to be sure that your message isn’t skewed or agenda-managed against you. In short, you can’t afford to make an enemy of the press.”
“Doesn’t this tend to assume that everyone’s a bit... well, thick – ignorant, anyway?” This from a Welsh DI at the back – a bespectacled, studios-looking woman, whose tone suggested she didn’t like the picture being painted of the public’s intelligence.
Graham stood stock-still and regarded her with a deadpan expression until some of us laughed. She looked annoyed, so he decided to answer her question. He picked up the two tabloid newspapers and said, “Ask yourself this: would papers like these flourish amongst an intelligent, cultivated populace? If no-one bought these papers, they’d either have to fold or radically change what they do. They do what they do because people buy, and presumably like, what they do.”
The Welsh DI said rather lugubriously, “I find that really very dispiriting.”
Well, yes. As did I. Unfortunately, I also felt it was true. The public get the media they deserve. How are they, in their ignorance, to know that they’re being condescended to and manipulated? They think they’re getting what they want. The press has no duty to educate or ennoble, or even inform; it’s only duty is to sell copy and ple
ase its paymasters; and in so doing, one can’t help feeling that it debases itself and degrades its readership. The seminar featured sections on strategies on coping with the media, media intrusion – feeding frenzies, hounding, and crossing the line into witch-hunt territory – and a compelling hypothetical that featured the murder of a thirteen-year-old girl. So effective was his moderation of this that we were all imbued with a sense of urgency and even at one point, accused of neglecting to properly scrutinise the victim’s family, of panic. However, the overriding message I took from the seminar was that the media was an amoral, unpredictable, predatory monster that required very careful handling.
Very careful handling, indeed – goodish advice for a press conference. Wouldn’t want to drop the metaphorical ball – assumed to be slippery, of course, and hazardously in the air. That said, approaching it as if you have something to fear – or, worse, hide – is surely according the press too much respect and halfway to doing what you want to avoid – allowing them to set the agenda. The conference started promptly enough, though with no very great sense of drama or urgency. Present were myself, DS Brightly, and, from uniform, Inspector Metcalfe. Metcalfe was privately a bit grumpy at being there, since he felt it was entirely a CID issue, and that he’d just been drafted in as a PR exercise – a fairly accurate assessment of the situation. Superintendent Wilson did not attend because his presence might have risked indicating that there was something unusually important about the case. We were sitting on a dais behind three tables arranged as a long single desk with a microphone for each speaker. White boards were stapled or pinned to the front of the tables bearing the constabulary logo and slogan, which served to advertise the service as well as, more importantly, shield our legs from view.
I formally thanked the members of the press for attending – all five of them, though I didn’t allude to this at the time – and outlined in broad terms the circumstances of Adrian Mansfield’s death. I did not mention the scarves, nor the placard about his neck. I made the usual appeal for witnesses because it might be useful, and because not making such an appeal would have been unusual. The appeal, as with most appeals, assumed that someone must know something, and in so knowing ought to tell. Following the statement, we invited, or waited for or on, questions.
Roland Merry, Amberton Evening News: “Apologies if I missed this in your statement, Chief Inspector, but this is a murder investigation, is it? Can we be clear about that?” Roland Merry was in his late-fifties, and spoke in a fruity, “Test Match Special” voice. He had once told me that journalism had not turned out to be the high calling he had hoped for, adding that he should have stuck to law, “though doubtless that, too, would have led to cynicism and disillusionment in the twilight years, and I don’t suppose I can entirely blame my fondness for fine wines on my profession, though it does rather facilitate it – in more ways than one.”
The question was a slightly awkward one. We had rather hoped that the press would get the impression, and take it away with them unchallenged and unclarified, that this was, indeed, a murder inquiry, which it was to all and intents and purposes. We were trying to locate the person who had stabbed Adrian Mansfield. The trouble was – the minor fly in the oily murder ointment – was that we weren’t yet sure that Adrian Mansfield had been murdered. This was the trouble with going to the press too early, though doubtless Superintendent Wilson would have been happy to argue its benefits.
I said, “The investigation is proceeding on the assumption that Adrian Mansfield was murdered – so, yes, Roland.”
There was a pause. It was a tribute to Roland that the others waited for his follow-up. “The assumption? Yes, the assumption. Are you suggesting he might have been stabbed post-mortem?”
I said, “That’s a possibility that can’t be ruled out at this point, Roland. We’re in the very early stages of the investigation.” I tried to make it sound improbable – vaguely ridiculous – in an effort to discourage them from pursuing the point.
Kelly Draper, local BBC radio: “Have you found the knife that might have committed the murder, then?”
The others laughed at this.
Metcalfe said stiffly, “A search is ongoing for the weapon, yes.”
“Or no.” She smiled at Metcalfe and conspicuously made a note. Metcalfe looked bemused. She explained, “If there’s an ongoing search, Inspector, the answer to my question is no – you haven’t found the knife.” Kelly Draper was a youthful thirty-something with shiny jet black hair, which she wore tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in a white blouse and black jeans. At first glance, one might have assumed that she went without make-up, but in fact it was lightly and subtly applied. I had met her on a previous investigation when I requested the full recording of an interview she had done for radio news. She had surprised me by supplying it without quibble, and made me feel rather stiff and ungracious in so doing. When I announced I was going – “Thank you, Ms Draper. You’ve been very helpful.” – she said, “Oh, are you going? So soon? I was going to offer coffee.” I said, “That’s kind of you, but I have an appointment. Good day, Ms Draper.” She said, “Chief Inspector,” interrupting my exit; I had turned at the door: “it wouldn’t hurt to call me Kelly. I’d prefer it if you did. Of course, I’d still call you Chief Inspector.” This remark made me feel uncomfortable – rather as if I’d been caught standing on ceremony for no very good reason. I said, “Another day, Ms Draper,” – tenuously sticking to something like my formal guns – “perhaps over coffee.”
Roger Ball, Amberton Evening Echo: “Can I ask about the parents, Chief Inspector? How are they coping?”
Here it was, then. I said, “I regret to have to inform you that both Adrian’s parents are now dead. It seems they were unable to cope with the tragic loss of a second child, their daughter having sadly committed suicide four years ago.”
Edward Lang, Independent Television: “To be clear, Chief Inspector, you’re saying the Mansfields have taken their own lives?”
I said, “We’re sure that Mr Mansfield did, indeed, take his own life, and we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with Mrs Mansfield’s death. The precise circumstances form part of the current investigation.”
Lang smirked, or perhaps it would be more charitable to say he smiled without humour. He said, “He killed her, didn’t he, and then he topped himself? You don’t have to be quite so delicate, Chief Inspector – we’re all adults here with strong stomachs.” Edward Lang was a bald, brawny man in his early fifties, who would not have looked out of place manning the door on an insalubrious nightclub. He had plied his trade on the tackier, tabloid side of the journalistic tracks, taking advantage of the more down-market aspects of radio and television news to further his career. We had met – briefly – once before. He had disliked me on sight, and presumably sound, and I hadn’t much cared for him.
I said ill-advisedly, “Notwithstanding the strength of your stomach, Mr Lang, I hope some notion of taste would be offended if I started using colloquialisms like topped.” I managed to smile at the end of this – to pass it off as banter – though actually I was furious.
DS Simon Brightly: “What you describe, Ed,” – “Ed”! – “is the most probable scenario, but we’re not yet in a position to confirm that officially.” This was meant to mollify Lang, but I thought it was going a bit far. Simon was cultivating a reputation for having the common touch.
Edward Lang: “So how did Mr Mansfield – excuse me –” nodding at me, “take his own life?” The question was addressed pointedly to Simon.
Simon turned to me, and made a deferential over-to-you gesture. The implication was clear, though: I’d like to be frank with you, Ed, but it’s not down to me.
Jennifer Collins, Independent Local Radio: “He hanged himself, Ed. Does it matter? Can we move on?” To me, she said, “Is this one of those polite press conferences where you have very little to tell us, but go ahead and tell us it anyway?” Jennifer Collins was in her mid-forties and had so
mething of a retro-seventies look about her. She had long, frizzy grey-black hair, swept back over her shoulders, and wore thick-rimmed almond-shaped spectacles. She was, by her own admission, jaded, and continued in her current occupation because she couldn’t be bothered finding another. “There’s nothing good about journalism,” she had told me once. “It’s parasitical and cheap and rarely does any good. Most of the time, the public would be better off ignorant. Ramming a cheating MP down their throat just makes them outraged about something they don’t really understand, and panders to a feeling that there’s a class of people for whom the dreary rules of making ends meet don’t apply. Since it’s obviously not them, they might as well be bitter and self-righteous, and enjoy the chump served up by the media for their derision and delectation.” Which was some of why she’d left print media for local radio. To get ahead in print media, she maintained, one either had to be impossibly idealistic, believing the press to be a force for good notwithstanding its ugly warts, or corrosively cynical – approaching the world with a poisonous belief in the venality of everything.
I said, “I think we’d be heavily criticized, Ms Collins, if we waited until we could tell you everything before holding a press conference – though we’d doubtless hold considerably less of them.” I thought of Superintendent Wilson and added, “It’s a dialogue, Jennifer, not an announcement.” I accompanied this with a you-and-I gesture.
She was gracious enough – or amused enough – to smile at this.
Roger Ball, rather as if he were putting the conference’s first question, asked, “Are you likely to be making an arrest soon, Chief Inspector? ” Roger Ball was in his sixties and devoted much of his journalistic efforts to saving Amberton’s non-league football club from closure, with which it seemed to be perennially threatened. Talk of merging the team and ground with that of a another town’s in similar trouble had prompted protests in both camps and campaigns in their respective local newspapers.
His question, though, rather summed up the conference. An obvious question to which the short answer – ungiven – was “No”. The official, longer answer – given – had to do with still being in the early stages of the investigation and pursuing various lines of inquiry. In other words – unuttered – we’d just started and thought we’d let them know before they ran away with the idea we were keeping things from them, which, of course, we were.
Since this wasn’t a critical press conference – no-one was clamouring for it, and our backs were a long way from the disaster wall – there was no formal debriefing. Nonetheless, and notwithstanding, Superintendent Wilson “joined us” afterwards for an informal meeting to offer comments and pointers. Inspector Metcalfe had a good physical presence, he averred, which we had under-utilised. We should not underestimate the positive effect on public perception of a senior uniformed officer answering questions in a detailed, matter-of-fact way. On the plus side, we had succeeded in creating a collegial, inclusive atmosphere that made the press feel part of the process. Superintendent Wilson had rather liked the fact that Edward Lang had ultimately been silenced by another member of the press – and was apparently unconcerned how she might have come by the ammunition to do so.
After all and which, I needed some coffee – a mugful at a minimum – and some apolitical company. I found both in the shape of DC Taylor, who was making himself coffee in the kitchen, and cheerfully added me to the order.
I asked him if he’d found anything of interest. This can – under pressure, at least – be interpreted, or misinterpreted, as a leading question. What have you got for me? What’s your assessment of what you’ve been looking at? Is there anything worth my immediate attention? To which a not unreasonable reply might be, “That depends what else is going on – and if you haven’t already found out what I’ve got.”
“I’m not sure, ma’am,” he said. “There’s lots of information, but I don’t know how significant it is.”
“Don’t hedge, Neil,” I said; “just tell me what you think.”
“I think he fancied this girl called Caroline Meadows. Not sure if it was reciprocated. She argues with him all the time in a light-hearted way – almost as if she’s mocking his seriousness. And he was very serious – routinely talked about suicide and the pointlessness of being alive. They set up an exclusive blog together – just the two of them – where they discussed meaning-of-life type questions. He says things like ‘I was blissfully unaware before I was born, and expect to be blissfully unaware when I’m dead.’ And she replies with things like, ‘Between my infinities of blissful unawareness, I thought I might amuse myself and have a good time. If you don’t think you can do that, then you might be right in wanting to hasten your return to oblivion, since your time in the light is obviously a cosmic mistake.’ Something like that. I've printed some of it out. There’s a lot of it.”
“I don’t suppose you know where she lives,” I said.
“I think I do, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I also think I know how old she is, and where she goes to school. The trouble with the internet is that others can be indiscreet on your behalf – intentionally or otherwise.”
“Okay. Where?”
“Here in Amberton. I've written the address down. She goes to St Mary’s Grammar School for Girls. She's in the fifth year, and regarded as one of their best students.” He put a mug of coffee down on the work-surface for me – a white mug with a smiling green frog on both sides.
“How do you know all this, Neil?” I was impressed and amused.
“Various virtual clues cross-referenced with the real, or non-virtual, world. It’s amazing how much people are willing to give away on the net. Caroline Meadows exists; she lives in Amberton; she attends St Mary’s Grammar School, and I’m fairly certain she’s the same girl who argued with Adrian Mansfield online.”
I was thinking: What’s the likelihood of three people from the same family independently committing suicide? I said, “Good work, Neil. I’ll go and see her tomorrow when she’s in school. I’d like to read their blog exchange in the meantime, and anything else between them.”
“Why tomorrow, ma’am – if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Parents, Neil,” I said. “They can have a very inhibiting effect on their teenage offspring.” I noticed a spider’s web in a corner of the ceiling. Missed by the cleaner. A spider had built its home there, but had since abandoned it. I pitied its wasted endeavour.
“How did the press conference go, ma’am?”
“Oh! – remarkably well, Neil, considering we had nothing to tell them. I’m told the press are happier to be summoned and told we have nothing to tell them than to be told nothing at all. Notwithstanding the waste of time and resources, Superintendent Wilson believes we should keep them informed of our lack of information.” This was behaving badly with a junior colleague, talking inappropriately about our relations with the press, which is doubtless why I was doing it.
Neil smiled and said, “I’m sure summoned isn’t quite the right word, ma’am.”
“No, Neil,” I conceded drily; “I’m sure it isn’t.”
I thought I heard the phone ringing in the office.
