by Paul Hoffman
There was a silence. The policemen became uneasy and a fixed expression appeared on each face that emphasised their awkwardness at not answering a direct question from a superior. Still Winnicott said nothing. The silence became more and more oppressive. It was impossible to tell from his expression whether he was angry, or embarrassed, feeling foolish, or that he even recognised how awkward the situation had become.
‘Well, sir . . .’ A collective but soundless wave of relief flooded through the room. Winnicott looked over at the officer who had spoken and smiled. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, we should be training the lawyers. The way they piss about when they interview suspects . . . I mean, you hear the tapes of them doing the interrogation – Christ! It’s like listening to bloody day-time television sometimes. And when they do get some hard evidence, half the time they won’t go for it and charge anybody.’
‘Basically the lawyers are too cautious.’
‘No bottle is a better way of putting it.’
‘We let too many people off just because they want to be certain they’ll get a result.’
‘To be fair,’ said Winnicott, calming the flow of criticism, ‘the FS has taken a lot of flak for failing to get convictions. Louis Bris, after all . . .’
‘Yeah, OK, but that’s the job. We’re supposed to be doing the tricky cases – that’s what we’re for!’
Stowell spoke again. The rest, who freely interrupted each other, sat back to listen.
‘I agree with Allan. I think we all do. The success rate is bound to be lower with the kind of crimes we deal with here, but we need to put together a tighter case before trial so it stands up better in court. This place is run by people who think they can prosecute their way to a result when what we need to do is concentrate on the evidence. And you’ve got to remember, these aren’t villains we’re dealing with.’
There was a ripple of indignation at this. ‘I don’t see why not. They’re thieves . . . only they get away with it more often because they’re rich and know how to milk the system.’
‘I’m not saying they’re not evil-doers, Mike. My point is that they aren’t part of a criminal class. It’s not OK to be arrested – or even questioned – by the police. Not in Esher or Harrow or among your pals in the City. We got Smallwood to sing because he felt it would look bad for him even to consult a solicitor.’ Stowell turned back to Winnicott, who was listening as intently as at any time since he had walked into the building. ‘For these people the punishment is the process. That evil bugger Bris may be sticking two fingers up at us, but nobody accused in Guinness is, no matter how many get off on appeal or get some doctor to say they’re unfit to stand trial. However much of a fiasco Blue Arrow was from our point of view, they’ll be putting bull-bars on a Ferrari before anyone tries that kind of stunt again.’
He sat back, enjoying, thought Winnicott, the chance to speak his mind about things he had clearly been mulling over for years. The essentials of police culture, even at the highest level, were to analyse by assertion and scorn, mixed with an aggrieved sense of being misunderstood. It was not that policemen were stupid but that they were aggressively reluctant to discuss contradictions or counter-arguments. Doubt was considered a weakness. Stowell was a working-class intellectual. Winnicott could almost feel his thwarted ambition to describe the world as he saw it to someone who would listen and perhaps do something with what he heard.
‘The thing is, Mr Winnicott, when the lawyers are deciding to prosecute it isn’t just that they don’t have the bottle to take a chance, it’s also because their training is bound up with the whole notion of fairness and due process. Even the ones who think they’re dead cynical have got pretty rose-tinted notions when you give their tyres a kick.’
Winnicott smiled. ‘I’m not sure that even an ex-policeman like me would see a belief in due process as a fault.’
‘Fair enough, but due process has to be based on what’s actually being processed . . . its nature. We’ve ridden a coach and horses through the right to silence for financial crime . . .’
‘Yeah,’ interrupted one of the others, who had not spoken before, ‘but what a balls-up that’s been.’
‘Perhaps we should let Sergeant Stowell finish,’ said Winnicott firmly.
‘The law stops us from forcing someone to answer questions if we think they might have committed murder or robbed a bank or raped someone . . . but if they’ve only sold preference shares in a marmalade mine to someone with more money than sense then we’re allowed to dump these rights we’re always being told are so bloody important if we’re not to become a police state. And the reason we can do this, apparently, is because it’s difficult – sometimes almost impossible – to find out what really went on. So we’ve changed the basics of due process so that we can get to big-time fraudsters. Fine. I’m all for it. But the lawyers have carried on treating fraud as if it was like murder or car theft, and it isn’t. If we carry on with the way they bugger about up there, worrying over whether or not they’ve got totally firm, completely unambiguous evidence of primary involvement, then we’re going to end up with total bloody paralysis and none of the buggers will ever get charged at all. It’s not about getting convictions, it’s about charging people to set an example to all the others wondering if it’s worth taking the risk. I’d like to read you something I put in my dissertation.’
There were fairly friendly groans all round as Stowell reached into his inside pocket and took out a notebook.
‘Jesus, it’s Jeremy Paxman.’
‘Here it is. “Some persons will shun crime even if we do nothing to deter them, while others will seek it out even if we do everything to reform them. Wicked people exist. Nothing . . .” sorry, I can’t read my own . . . ah . . . “nothing avails except to set them apart from innocent people and many people neither wicked nor innocent, but watchful, dissembling and calculating of their opportunities, ponder our reaction to wickedness as a cue to what they might profitably do”.’ He sat back, putting the notebook in his inside pocket. ‘James Q. Wilson, Thinking About Crime.’
‘I’m thinking about lunch.’
‘It’s the ones in the middle we need to get the attention of. And the only way you’re going to do that is by disembowelling a few of them on the floor of the Stock Exchange. Encourage the others, Mr Winnicott.’
There was unanimous head-nodding at this.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. I’m afraid we must end there. We’ll talk again.’
They stood up and filed out, winding up Stowell as they left. It was a mockery that would be improvised on and built up, as Stowell must have known, with jovial accusations of being a big head and a show-off and sucking up to the boss. Refusing to be intimidated, Stowell turned as he left and held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the Fraud Secretariat, Mr Winnicott.’
As Stowell left, the intercom buzzed. ‘It’s the police,’ said Lucy.
‘What?’ he said, as he looked at Stowell’s retreating back.
‘Not our police, the real police. On the phone – an Inspector Healey. He was wondering if you might have a few minutes later today. I told him you were very busy.’
Winnicott looked at his diary. ‘Ask him to come at three thirty.’ He sat down and stared glumly at his reflection in the gilded mirror on the far wall. What he noticed with a much greater pang than that caused by the sight of yet another bruise on his forehead as a result of the fall at the parents’ evening, was that only two or three years ago most of its grey and purple hue would have been covered by his hairline. He was becoming concerned for Maria, but he felt pretty sure that she had just vanished for a longer than usual spell and would turn up. That was what usually happened when people of her age went missing. And then there was the strange business of what he had said when he regained consciousness at the school, and how oddly Alice had reacted later, saying something about his voice and then immediately changing the subject and evading his questions. Then he gave in to the temptation not to think about these things
any more. Feeling thirsty, he went over to the office fridge. Given the tastefulness of the rest of the office, it was an incongruous-looking object. Instead of the usual white, it had been covered in a plastic imitation walnut veneer so hideous it looked as if it had been reclaimed from the dashboard of the executive model of an Austin Maxi. Bottle of cold water in hand, he sat down, took out a pad of paper and wrote E13 at the top. For the next five minutes he sketched ideas, notions and guesses. E is the fifth letter of the alphabet. The word thirteen has eight letters in it. Eight and five add up to thirteen. Is there an anagram to be made from the words eight and five?
Three hours later Geoff Healey sat in George Winnicott’s office giving him an account of what had been happening in his investigations into Maria Vaughan’s disappearance. It was important to make Winnicott feel that he was on his side but that this could not be presumed upon and that he was in a position to help or hinder the future of the inquiry. It was important for Winnicott to feel indebted.
‘Do you have anything?’ asked Winnicott.
‘I’ll be frank with you, Mr Winnicott,’ continued Healey. ‘This is an odd case. On the face of it there isn’t much to suggest there’s a crime involved.’ He paused, as if troubled. ‘You know the score in these things. In confidence, there have been a few raised eyebrows that I’m spending so much time on this. My job is to investigate actual murders, not possible ones. You understand?’
Winnicott considered this for a moment. ‘This is a widespread view?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was widespread.’ He was pleased with this reply; it sounded both honest and ominous.
‘And does the fact that it’s not your view make a significant difference to how things might proceed?’
‘At the moment, yes.’
‘And why do you think it’s worth pursuing?’
Healey had not expected this and he did not reply immediately. ‘Instinct,’ he said at last.
‘You don’t think the facts of the case, as such, justify continuing?’
‘To be honest, no. But, to put it simply, it doesn’t feel right.’
‘I’m not sure if I were your superior I would consider that a sufficient reason.’
‘It’s not a reason at all, I told you. My intuition tells me there’s something odd about this case.’
‘And you always trust your intuition?’
‘Not always.’
‘But in this case?’
‘I don’t know. But I want to do the right thing by Maria Vaughan. I can’t go on indefinitely, but I can continue for a while longer.’
‘But if your superiors aren’t willing to let you continue . . .’ Winnicott was guarded, but he wanted the case continued, that was now clear.
Healey pressed on carefully. ‘It’s all a question of presentation, isn’t it?’ He looked serious. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this case,’ he said.
Winnicott’s expression was doubtful, worried. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I’m grateful for your concern.’
‘As it happens, I was reminded recently of what it feels like to worry about people close to you. You need that reminder from time to time, I suppose.’
Winnicott nodded but Healey was alarmed to see by the way he shifted in his chair that he was about to bring the interview to an end and hadn’t picked up at all that from Healey’s point of view it was just beginning. ‘In fact,’ he continued quickly, ‘you might be able to . . . if you have a moment.’
Winnicott settled back into his chair, guarded. In a few seconds he reappraised the significance of their conversation.
‘It’s about someone I know. She’s an accountant, an auditor. She’s come across some discrepancies. It’s tricky stuff, there might be something . . . untoward, but there are big problems. It’s not an area I know much about. There’s the possibility of fraud. I’d appreciate your advice.’ He paused. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course not. But I’m still pretty new at this. Anything you say, I’d have to go over it with my deputy.’
‘Oh.’ Healey looked crestfallen.
‘Is your friend implicated in any way?’
‘No, not at all,’ replied Healey, ‘definitely not. It’s a reporting problem . . . whether she might be sued for defamation if she brings in the authorities and they can’t get enough evidence to prosecute.’
‘Well, if you give me the details I’ll be able to see what we’re dealing with. Perhaps it would be possible to put the situation to Michael McCarthy without naming names. Obviously this might be awkward, but let’s keep it hypothetical. That should cover things for the moment.’
They talked for about twenty minutes, during which it became apparent to Winnicott that whoever Healey was talking about it was someone close to him and that he was deeply anxious about her. He promised to get back to Healey quickly. It was clear the policeman would put every effort into finding Maria, as long as Winnicott helped him.
They shook hands and Winnicott saw him to the door.
Jane Healey was not a woman who cared for facile optimism in her fiction. As a serious reader she was often more satisfied with unhappy endings, with books where there were more funerals than weddings. But she liked facile optimism a lot in her life. She expected it, that everything would work out. Up until a few weeks ago she believed that the narrative of the possible future that everyone has inside them was certainly capable of sustaining shocks, of imagining horrors – the kidnap by the paedophile, the heart attack, the road accident – but it was not capable of sustaining this shock. This was an unimagined unexpected twist, an unforeseen implausible turn. Unfortunately it had completely altered everything that had preceded it, so that now she had to go back to the beginning and rewrite a lifetime’s work, her secret, private, and public drama. She had to start the story all over again so that she would make sense. But she didn’t know how. And this was why she began looking at the album of photographs again. She had lost the plot and all she had was a picture book to help her get it back again. To her surprise a sense of detachment began to take over as she moved from page to page. Something in her shook, certainly, but after a while, twenty minutes or so, she felt as if she had no body, no attitudes, no position. She simply looked. Although now and again something would flare up – amazement or shock – she began to understand that many of these women were not just, as she had first assumed, delighting in breaking a taboo but cultivating a special interest. There was, to her, a confusing lack of shame. It seemed a foolish thought, for obvious reasons, but this was a world entirely, absolutely and completely without modesty. There was not even a homeopathic trace of a quality she thought nearly all women shared at some level, as much a part of them, of their genetic inheritance, as large hips or a monthly cycle.
She started to read the captions alongside the photos. Claire remembered making love in a truck; Kay liked to watch herself being penetrated in a mirror. There was a Jane, who sometimes went to work without her knickers on, Millie in a car, Carol in a train, Jackie who’s always had this thing about appearing naked in a magazine. Sue is game for anything but she doesn’t know I’ve sent these pics. Elaine fantasises about threesomes and having sex with another woman – a gormless male fantasy, Jane would have said, but for the woman lying on her stomach with her legs apart. On their faces the expressions ranged from the frank to the thoughtful to the absolutely lewd. A shy smile from Jennifer, incongruous because her fingers are simultaneously pulling apart the lips between her legs. Christine with her genitals shaved, wearing thigh-high rubber boots and with a disdainful look on a face you’d see behind the till at any bank. Alison is poking out her tongue, one breast eased outside her dress.
Another woman turned up several times with different names (Helen, Lucy, Fran) and different coloured hair, but always cut unusually short, almost like a boy’s. She had a thin face but a curvaceous body and some of the photos gave the impression that they belonged to two different people. With a sudden stab that almost brought tears to her eyes,
Jane realised that perhaps ten years separated her first photograph, when she must have been forty-odd, and her last. It now occurred to her that many of the pictures must be at least as old. It was not just the style of the few clothes in the pictures, but the kind of make-up that bore witness to the depth of this obsession. These older photographs were also more discreet, she thought, recognising that this was not the right word. The expressions were more coy and they tended to keep their knickers on. The first one of this woman, Helen or Lucy or Fran, had her in bra and pants, one finger hooked into the elastic at the waist and pulling it down slightly to tease the watching audience. In the second, her legs were wide apart, her hair now dark instead of blond, but still strikingly short, and with an elegantly manicured hand covering her crotch, though she was clearly naked underneath. In the last, she would have been fifty and had aged noticeably but well: her breasts were fuller, her waist slightly thicker, the lines around her eyes deeper. She looked like a matron in a hospital or the department head of a chain store. This time she wore only a pair of hold-up stockings, and the fingers of both hands were pulling herself as wide apart as she could. And on her face, a look of sheer delight.
Jane went into the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror. She had always liked looking at herself in this particular mirror because of the way the light fell on her face from the window, softening the tone of her skin and diminishing the lines around her mouth and eyes. She had no neurotic fear about her looks, at least not until the discovery of the album. She had suffered occasional panics about the wrinkles, the double chin, the enlarging pores and fitfully spent money on treatments that she knew she would not keep up: the cleanse, the scrub, the tone, the moisturise. But if anything the slightly too thin face, pretty enough but a trifle sharp, had been softened by a gradual increase in weight across the years. Certainly Geoff had said that she improved with age and there was no falling off in his desire for her or, with one exception, in hers for him. He was six foot two and muscular. Without vanity, he was nevertheless proud of his strength and he visited a gym several times a month, never took the car if he could walk and still played squash. She had never liked men who were too interested in their appearance and had thought herself indifferent to mere looks. This was not so, however. While she acknowledged the pleasure of his muscular body next to her in bed, the ease with which he could pick her up and the sense of security this gave her when she was out with him at night, she was ashamed when she realised that he was losing his hair and that this mattered to her. She had been surprised at how much it had bothered her, how it dulled slightly her natural desire when she looked at him across a room or watched him undress for bed. Had he known that she was feeling as she did, she was certain that things between them would never have been the same again. Thankfully his lack of vanity solved the problem. Tiring of the wispy ungovernability of his thinning hair, he just shaved it off. To her immense relief she came to like this new look, particularly as he made an effort to keep a tan so that the oily pig-like pink of exhausted follicles was not allowed to mock his handsome face. Still fit, still muscular, the honesty of a close shave allowed her off the hook and she had quickly forgotten how uneasy she had felt.
