Yaël Farber, who directed Arthur Miller’s play about the Salem witch trials, The Crucible, at The Old Vic in 2014, believes the play has an enduring relevance: ‘We think we are above Miller’s characters. We’re not. We are them; they’re just wearing different clothes and speaking with a different accent … It’s extraordinary what people can do to each other when they believe themselves to have righteousness on their side.’
CHAPTER 11
MIGHT THIS BE THE FINAL CHAPTER?
This is as far as my story goes, for the time being. It is only one story, one of thousands that could be told about the terrible day in 1989, about its aftermath, and of the aftershocks that still reverberate around the disaster. It is certainly not the story of Hillsborough. Others will claim the right to greater authority as objective historians. But I do know what should be included in any story about Hillsborough if it is to be authentic.
First of all, one should be wary of any account that seeks to encapsulate the story of the tragedy and its aftermath in a few simple soundbites. The Sun newspaper failed, spectacularly, to summarise the event within ninety-six hours of the disaster unfolding. They focused, with obscene prejudice, on one constituent group that was present at the event. Based upon nothing more than third-hand gossip, they published an account to the world that has, ultimately, counted more against the reputation of tabloid journalism and its methods than the reputation of a city and its football supporters. The Sun was shamed by Lord Justice Taylor within sixteen weeks of the disaster and yet the bereaved families and other campaigners have had to strive, for twenty-seven years, to dispel the myth that was created.
The so-called Wain Report, an internal document to brief police lawyers, in which I played a part, was also a hopelessly incomplete account of the day. Unlike the Sun reports, it was based on first-hand testimony that was, if anything, toned down rather than sexed up. Unlike The Sun, it was never published, distributed nor asserted as being conclusive. Like The Sun, however, it was a partial account, some might say in both senses of the word, gathered within days of the disaster. It was an account that was shown to be insufficient in the light of the broader testimony given to the Taylor Inquiry.
To link or associate these two early summaries is to create an unsavoury whiff of establishment conspiracy. The two institutions, of Fleet Street and Bow Street, were not seen, in the 1980s, as friends of the common man. Think miners dispute; think poll tax revolt. They were each, or jointly, determined, according to some conspiracy theorists, to pin the blame for the most dreadful tragedy on the poor unfortunates who found themselves on the terraces and in the cages beside the deceased. Throw in the protective cloak of Downing Street, and Margaret Thatcher’s Tory government, and one could fashion a conspiracy theory fit for a place in folklore. Some have been keen, since 1998, to link me with the briefing of the Prime Minister when she visited Hillsborough stadium on the day after the disaster. It was an issue raised early in my very first interview with the IPCC. It would, if true, add more weight to the fable, created by Maria Eagle MP, of a black propaganda unit. Neither the specific insinuation nor the general accusation is true.
I am resolved to the fact that this conspiracy narrative will remain attractive to many. It will be presented in the future as emblematic of the 1980s. An era that is supposed to have witnessed a repressive political regime; a politicised and corrupt police force; and a compliant right-wing media. There is also an understandable reluctance, now, to challenge such a narrative in case one is misunderstood as being in denial of justice. ‘1980s establishment cover-up’ is an easy label to apply and a difficult one to shift.
The word ‘meme’ has been employed, relatively recently, to describe the phenomenon, in the internet age, of the viral spread of an image or a story which appears within many blogs and persists over time. People in public life need to embrace a world in which they are at constant risk of becoming the symbol of a meme, and in which perceptions count for more than facts. Matthew Parris made the point in his column in The Times at the height of the controversy over David Cameron’s offshore investments: ‘It may be that the Prime Minister’s financial conduct has been unimpeachable, but I’m afraid the story catches the wind. The meme this weekend, this year, perhaps this generation, is establishment hypocrisy. Allegations about Cameron’s tax affairs play straight into that.’
So, if the enduring story of Hillsborough is likely to assert, or perhaps only imply, that there was a conspiracy within South Yorkshire Police and other institutions to cover up the true cause of the disaster for a generation, and if I have become associated with that charge, then what am I to do?
I marvel at the apparent nonchalance of the new generation, the millennials, who advocate ignoring the widespread and persistent defamations that are perpetrated through the World Wide Web. Perhaps they are merely commentators rather than casualties. ‘Suck it up’ is their contemporary motto as though any claim to accurate reporting is seen as somehow undemocratic or pedantic and quaint.
I have two granddaughters, aged seven and four. One is currently reading Paddington Bear books, the second is beginning to recognise the letters that make up her own name. Nevertheless, they are both, even now, in thrall to the internet. The iPad is the contemporary touchy blanket. Each amuse, entertain, and occasionally educate themselves through YouTube and they are quietened on car journeys through immersion in a personal, online world far removed from the I Spy books and travel games that I remember.
The internet will, in years to come, deliver to them, whether they seek it or not, an encyclopaedia of knowledge and also of half-truths. It may not always be clear to them where one stops and the other begins. Although one hopes that their generation might develop more mature means for distinguishing the two. They may come to laugh at the fact that we were once duped by phishers and exploited by vloggers selling their wares. One hopes that they will have slain trolls and be safe from online predators. That Wikipedia is viewed by them as an adjunct to any research rather than its conclusion. Such online sophistication, though, lies in the future, for the frontiers of the new digital world are still being settled and some of its territories remain uncontrolled and hostile.
There may come the day when one of the girls decides to Google their grandpa, or whatever brand name then provides a verb to describe the act of searching the internet. They will easily find the meme of ‘establishment cover-ups’ and, alongside it, the Hillsborough narrative. They will learn nothing about my forty-year career in policing. My web history will begin with Maria Eagle’s denouncement of me on the floor of the House of Commons in 1998. That will be reinforced with the various accounts of my spectacular fall from grace in 2012 and a labyrinth of references, unsourced and unverified, that insinuate links to criminal conduct and shameful behaviour. They will find no formal record of exoneration and redemption. I have explained why that is a story that cannot easily be written by any third party in our current, victim-centred world.
I would not want either granddaughter to harbour a doubt that Grandpa was a criminal, or wrestle with the unanswered accusation that he acted dishonourably in the wake of a terrible human tragedy. I have therefore chosen an old-fashioned medium, increasingly unfamiliar to the millennial generation, to give each of the girls a point of reference to help them decide these matters for themselves. A printed book can be rejected, remaindered or criticised. It cannot, so easily as online content, be overwritten, deleted or lost.
This is not an account designed to bring down the meme. It will not dent the popular narrative. It is not intended to influence anyone who has already made up their mind that, after the Hillsborough disaster, there was an establishment conspiracy that persisted for twenty-seven years. It was not written for them. It was written for Olivia and Freya, and for future generations who may come to the story of the Hillsborough tragedy afresh.
The story of the disaster will echo through eternity and my own account and involvement may warrant no more than a footnote. There are othe
r, much more important, elements to the story that need to be told.
Any story about the Hillsborough disaster should begin by telling of a time when the followers of Association Football were regarded and treated with contempt, not only by the game’s authorities and the police, but also by journalists and politicians and through public stereotyping. It was this contempt that led to a common complacency about their welfare and safety and a widespread preparedness to believe that they may somehow be the ones to blame whenever a football tragedy occurred.
The story should also catalogue the missed opportunities that fell to many individuals, not all of them known by name, to make decisions and meet their professional responsibilities in a way that might have made the potential for disaster less likely. The football authorities; the engineers; those charged with public safety obligations; stadium owners and managers; the operational planners; event commanders and so on.
Every story of Hillsborough will undoubtedly focus on the actions of David Duckenfield, the police commander thrust late into the role of decision maker at the fateful and fatal moments on the day. No one will claim that he accepted the role nineteen days earlier, or came into work that day, with an intention to put anyone at risk of serious harm. The question that has never been conclusively addressed until the jury returned their verdict at the recent Coroner’s Inquest is whether he was grossly negligent about those risks. It wasn’t a question that was considered relevant by Lord Justice Taylor at his public inquiry; there was a different majority verdict at the original inquest in 1991; a hung jury determination in a subsequent criminal trial of Mr Duckenfield; and, because of the passage of time spent on those processes, there was a failure to impose any disciplinary sanction to at least acknowledge his professional failings.
Now, a Coroner’s Inquest has decided, twenty-seven years after the disaster, that the ninety-six were unlawfully killed at Hillsborough and, whilst no Coroner’s Court can find an individual guilty of a criminal offence, the Coroner has made clear that Mr Duckenfield’s actions were not those of a careful and competent match commander. This particular, and central, aspect of the Hillsborough story may still have some way to go.
The story of Hillsborough that is to be retold in the future will not end with the tragic deaths of the ninety-six and a Coroner’s Inquest verdict. It is what happened after the deaths that gives the story its enduring human interest.
First of all, the story will recall the apparent slowness in the reaction of the emergency services to the unfolding tragedy and will acknowledge the heroic attempts of many members of the general public to bring help and succour to the injured, the dying and the dead. Early chaos, anticipated by professionals in the immediate aftermath of any major disaster, will be interpreted as indifference, or worse. It might mean, because of the generic criticism of the emergency services, that the occasional example of heroism and compassion amongst the uniformed personnel on duty at the stadium will pass without mention. That is a shame.
Any comprehensive account of the aftermath will highlight the bureaucratic treatment of the bereaved in the hours and days that followed the disaster. Viewed from any objective perspective, it will appear callous. The reporting and heartless identification procedures; the intrusive interviews by the investigating police force; the things that were done to the bereaved rather than with them. As a counterpoint, the story might record the way that the City of Liverpool and the region of Merseyside provided immediate and genuine comfort and support and acknowledge all the ‘friends of the ninety-six’ who have carried the burning torch of remembrance all these years.
Standing out amongst the raft of insensitive responses, and transcending the general charge of cold indifference, the Hillsborough story will recall the malicious misrepresentation of the facts surrounding the disaster, the Sun newspaper being a potent example. One might hope that the flagrant excesses of tabloid journalism, common in the last generation, also come to be seen as a historical footnote.
The story, if written thoughtfully, will acknowledge the judiciary as a keystone in the unwritten constitution of this country. The Hillsborough disaster has been examined, and poked at, and summarily disposed of, by many institutions over the last three decades. The issue has, in turn, been ignored or politicised and the facts and myths have been made to fit any number of pet theories, particularly about the actions of ‘the fans’ or of ‘the police’. These one-dimensional accounts have been narrow and sterile. Standing out, like a beacon, in this superficial landscape are the various examinations and procedures employed by Her Majesty’s judges.
Firstly, there was Lord Justice Taylor, who, in spite of the haste that was applied to his public inquiry, was able to give an account of the disaster and its causes that has stood as definitive for twenty-seven years. He needed only sixty pages to present his judgment and completed his task within sixteen weeks of the disaster occurring.
Later on, Lord Justice Stuart-Smith inquired into concerns that had arisen about the conduct of the original inquest. He criticised the approach taken by the Coroner and recommended that the Taylor Report should have served as the guide to how the ninety-six had died. Notwithstanding, it would be fifteen more years before the unsatisfactory inquest was overturned.
In 2000, Mr Justice Hooper decided, against fierce counter argument, that David Duckenfield and his number two, Bernard Murray, should face a jury trial in relation to their actions and omissions on the day of the disaster. He oversaw a thorough, and emotionally charged, trial, in which Mr Murray was found not guilty. He decided, in the light of the failure of the jury to reach an agreed verdict as to the culpability of Mr Duckenfield, that he should not have to face a future retrial. Each of Justice Hooper’s judgments was bold.
In 2012, the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Judge, sitting with two other senior judges, laid down a carefully considered judgment that the original inquest should be set aside and that, regardless of the passage of time, there should be new inquests held. The recently retired Senior Presiding Judge for England and Wales, Lord Justice Goldring, was appointed Coroner in 2013 to conduct those proceedings. He has concluded, after the most comprehensive and detailed inquiry, that the ninety-six people who lost their lives at Hillsborough were unlawfully killed.
Each of these eminent judges have added clarity to the complex, and sometimes foggy, picture of the Hillsborough disaster. They have cut through controversy and swept away myth. I cannot think of any event or social issue that has enjoyed a greater amount of judicial scrutiny, and the balanced determinations of the courts should occupy a central place in any account of Hillsborough that is yet to be written.
Every story must also spend some time, as my own has done, recounting the long battle of those bereaved at Hillsborough. They were often met by heartlessness and apathy. They railed against false and malicious testimony wherever they found or perceived it. They overcame setbacks and disappointments in the formal and bureaucratic procedures that confronted them. When they seemed to be defeated they rallied, with an even greater resolve, in their campaign for a proper hearing. Finally, after battling for a quarter of a century, they achieved what was sought from the outset – a full and detailed examination of all the circumstances that surrounded the untimely deaths of their loved ones. The story of Hillsborough will conclude that this would never have happened without the families’ struggle.
If my granddaughters ever get around to reading this book, or other authoritative accounts of the Hillsborough disaster and its aftermath, they will discover much more than Grandpa’s story. They will learn how contempt for, or complacency about, others in society can lead to tragic consequences. They will be reminded of the strength of the judiciary in deciding the affairs of a just nation, particularly in a booming, buzzing world full of digital noise and chatter. They must also surely learn something about fortitude and the indomitability of the human spirit that can prevail over time and against all the odds. If they do, then they will have learned three important lessons for li
fe. Ultimately, it may be these lessons for life that are the enduring legacy of the Hillsborough tragedy.
I hope that the bereaved families might soon find peace. They deserve it. It has been twenty-seven long years since their loss. I am always sorry for that loss and, today, pay tribute to their monumental struggle. The Family Support Group have announced that they wish the 2016 Memorial Service at Anfield to be the last of its kind. The large, public, set-piece event giving way, in future, to a myriad of personal and more private commemorations on each 15 April. They have said that there are to be no more fundraising campaigns, for no major battles are envisaged. The inquest, held over these last two years, may have delivered all that was ever fought for – a fair and comprehensive examination of all the circumstances surrounding the deaths of their loved ones in the spring sunshine at Hillsborough.
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by
Biteback Publishing Ltd
Westminster Tower
3 Albert Embankment
London SE1 7SP
Copyright © Norman Bettison 2016
Norman Bettison asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the publisher’s prior permission in writing.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Hillsborough Untold: Aftermath of a disaster Page 25
