Chapter Sixteen.
“It’s a sad thing, Barbara,” he said, “but it has nothing to do with your investigation.”
Superintendent Wilson’s office – again. He had invited me to sit down and had subsequently done so himself – legs crossed and hands folded on the uppermost knee. How confident he looked, how assured. Was it all just a silly, absurd game that two other actors might so easily have played out in our stead? Same substance, different style – talking around disasters we had failed to avert.
“Really, sir?” I said; “I rather thought it had. Perhaps I’m too tired for the subtleties of nuanced agenda.” I was thinking: I wonder how long it will take us to find Samantha. I assumed, was assuming, that she was dead – something to do with her mother’s fatalism, her air of utter, abject defeat. That and the fact that rather a lot of proximate young people seemed rather keen on taking their own lives. So? So what, then? What was he talking about? ...but it has nothing to do with your investigation. Did it not? What was I being told?
He said, tentatively, “You’ve established a connection?”
“Yes, sir,” I said; “I think we have.” Actually, not quite, or not quite yet; but he didn’t need to know that – yet, or ever. I was assuming that the Caroline mentioned in Chloe’s blog was Caroline Meadows, a fact – if such it turned out to be – that would connect all the local deaths. But this was, I fear, missing the political point.
“Think you have?” he said.
Oh, dear. I was obviously missing something. Not getting the hint, as it were. I said, “Sir, I’m getting the impression there’s some conclusion you don’t want me to draw or reach. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell me what it is.”
He smiled ruefully. “You have a way of making political considerations seem insalubrious, Barbara. Unfortunately, those are what I have to consider. We don’t want stories in the local press about an epidemic of teenage suicides, do we? That benefits no-one, and is the sort of thing likely to be picked up and exploited by the national media on a slow news day. The press love a good moral panic, especially where young people are concerned. It’s the kind of thing that ends up as a topic for debate on those awful morning television programmes they have on in doctors’ surgeries.”
I smiled and said, “I’m surprised you’re so exercised by things over which you have no control, sir. The story’s already out there for anyone who wants to run with it. Martha Bottomley’s probably writing a book on the subject as we speak.”
“Yes. My point is, Barbara, I don’t want any serving officer quoted in it, or anywhere else for that matter, unless they’re stating facts. We don’t address why questions, nor do we engage in philosophical speculation.”
“Perhaps, sir, in the interests of constabulary PR, we should refrain from thinking as well. Even if we’re prone to having thoughts, we don't want to be going around expressing them, do we?”
“Don’t be cute, Barbara,” he said. “You’d be the first to complain if DS Brightly went to the press with his opinions.”
“Should I gather from that that he’s been less constrained about coming to you with them, sir?”
“He’s asked to be removed from the case, Barbara. He wants to manage it informally, without fuss or bother, or without criticism, implied or otherwise. He was – is – hoping that I can persuade you to allow him to be reassigned – to something rather more morally straightforward, I think, though he didn’t say that.”
“And are you, sir – persuading me, I mean?” I was making an effort not to sound prickly.
“I told him it was up to you, of course, Barbara.”
“But, sir. There must be a but or you wouldn’t be raising it with me.”
“Well,” he spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture, “don’t you think he’s a bit too phlegmatic for this sort of thing, Barbara? Lacks the necessary refinement of sensibility that an investigation such as this requires. Brightly’s an A to B to C sort of man, a bit join-the-dots and paint-by-numbers. Smart enough in his way, of course – the sort that retire after a solid career as a DI – but not what you’d call sensitive or discerning.”
I said, “You missed out the bits about his getting married, having children, getting divorced, and becoming a booze-dependent workaholic. Don’t you think you’re doing him something of a disservice, sir? He has a long way to go before he retires, and has – one would hope – a lot of personal development to do along the way. It's a little ungracious – not to say patronising – to map his life out so disparagingly.”
“Perhaps it is, Barbara,” he said, smiling. “Perhaps he'll eventually leave the service to pursue a career in music or poetry. In the meantime, I’ll leave you to deal with him howsoever you see fit. If you’d prefer to be shot of him, though, Chandler will be happy to take him off your hands. He’s always bleating about manpower.”
“And would I get a replacement for him?” I asked.
“DC Sayer would jump at the chance,” he said. “She’s young and idealistic, and thinks you’re the embodiment of all that’s good in modern policing. She’s not happy where she is, and has requested a transfer. She’s yours for the asking.”
“Why does she want the transfer?” I asked.
“Between ourselves, Barbara,” he said, “I think she was hoping for something rather more intellectually stimulating than DI Rodgers and DS Keane, both of whom are rather plodding and – well, shall we say traditional. It’s an open secret she’d like to work with you.”
“Which is fine, sir,” I said; “and much appreciated – but shouldn’t I at least try to keep Simon on board? Wouldn’t that be better management? You can’t transfer every time you don’t like the nature of the case you’re on, or the manner in which your boss is handling it. Similarly, it would be unrealistic and unreasonable of me to seek to work only with people who like and admire me.” I paused. “You look unconvinced, sir.”
“It’s all about teams, Barbara,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you want to create a team built on mutual respect and admiration? A talented footballer may not work in some team set-ups yet flourish in another. It’s important that we as a service produce teams and team leaders that maximize individual talent. I know you’re sceptical, Barbara, but it does matter. There are plenty of talented officers who struggle horribly in some teams – perfectly good teams – and yet flourish when moved to another. It’s important that we acknowledge and recognise that, and match the most suitable individuals to the most suitable teams. This isn't to deny that there are some individuals that are ultimately – and regrettably – unsuitable to any team, nor that some teams are weak and unfit for purpose; it simply acknowledges that a group of talented people doesn't necessarily make a team and that not all talented people fit in everywhere, which should be obvious. Our objective is to build good teams. We waste time and energy if we put people together who simply can’t get on.”
I said, “What do you do with the talented individual who can’t flourish in any team, sir?”
“Well, if, notwithstanding, they have something substantial to contribute, you would allow them, where possible, to work alone because that’s the situation in which they’re most likely to be effective. But there is surely something to be said for the ability to work with others, and to be part of a team that’s greater than the sum of its parts because of the way its parts interact. There’s always going to be the place for the individual, Barbara, even the loner, but nothing is better or more satisfying – or more effective – than the chemistry of a good team.”
“No, indeed, sir,” I said. “But a good team doesn’t happen overnight. It has to gel and grow together, and part of that growth is overcoming individual differences and responding effectively to new external stimuli. This case discomfits Simon because of its complexity and moral ambiguity. Coming to terms with it will help him grow as an individual and a police officer, and he needs our support to do that. Simply to transfer him would be to deny him this opportunity, and would be neglectful and expedient on our part. If he definitely wants to be transferred, I wouldn’t want to stand in his way; but by transferring now, he simply avoids an issue that makes him uncomfortable. I think we owe it to him to see that he confronts and overcomes his issues with this case because it will make him a better officer and future team member and a greater asset to the service.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Barbara,” he said; “but do bear DC Sayer in mind. She would certainly benefit from working with you, and I’ll have to move her soon anyway. Can’t leave her with those two buffoons for much longer.”
*
“Please – sit down, Simon,” I said.
Well, it had to be done, so best to get it over with.
He sat – with his knees apart and his hands folded in his lap. I assumed this was one of a limited range of standard male sitting positions, crossing one’s legs being non-standard apparently.
I said, “I wanted to have this meeting with you, Simon, to discuss your desire to be removed from this investigation. I know you haven’t made a formal request, but you have made your wishes clear to both myself and to Superintendent Wilson.”
He said, “Yes, ma’am. I thought it would be better if it could be managed informally.”
For whom, I wondered; but I said, “That's fine, Simon. I have no problem with that – but I would like to discuss your reasons before we reach any decisions. Sometimes simply moving people is an expedient way of failing to address underlying issues.”
“Superintendent Wilson seemed fine with it, ma’am,” he said.
I said, “That’s because he doesn’t think you’re good enough for me, Simon. His idea is that I should just let you go to DI Chandler and get someone a bit more groovy and fast-track for myself. Your career’s all mapped out for you. You’ll retire as a DI after decades of solid, unremarkable service. You’ll probably have lost most of your hair by then and be a bit on the paunchy side, but age and the job can do that to a man. Hopefully, you won’t get married because it’ll only end in divorce if you do; and if you make the mistake of having children, you’ll have access rights that you’ll fail to keep due to the pressures of work. Understandably, the failure of your marriage and your failure as a father will weigh on you and make you feel guilty, which you’ll numb with drink and immersion in your work. You’ll fear retirement because retirement will just mean an empty house and a bottle of something forty per cent proof. Or you could stick with me, Simon – for a while at least – and walk a more fragrant, enlightening path. Personally, I’d prefer if you opted for the latter.”
“Why, ma’am? People move on all the time – and it’s not as if you need me on this case. If we arrest anyone, it’s going to be whoever stabbed Adrian Mansfield, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather shake their hand. His philosophy – one which Martha Bottomley and you seem to support – boils down to Give me what I want, or I’ll kill myself. That’s appalling and self-indulgent. It would be a joke if people weren’t actually killing themselves. You might find it fascinating, ma’am or revolutionary, or whatever, but I don’t. It’s not what police work’s about – unless we’re trying to get someone on incitement charges. Are we?”
“Is that why you want to move on, Simon?” I was amused and a little exasperated, and it probably showed. “Because I’m not roundly condemning these ideas? Really, Simon – is that what it comes down to? Would you prefer if I proceeded in an orderly fashion, called a spade a spade, and made much of common sense as a virtue? Preferably all in trousers. I expect to be contradicted here, Simon.”
Simon said, guardedly, “Is this a formal meeting, ma’am?”
“No, Simon, it’s not. It’s what I hoped would be a free and frank exchange of views. I also had the idea that, if I were frank with you, I might talk you out of transferring because I believe that to be the best outcome for both of us. Not doing terribly well, am I?”
“Why, ma’am?” he said again. “I mean, why do you believe it to be the best outcome?”
“Well, isn’t it all a bit too cosy and convenient otherwise? I want to be able to work with people who don’t necessarily like me. I certainly want to work with people who feel free to disagree with me and argue their point of view – don’t you? Do you really want to be – or work with or for – the kind of absurd person who seeks to surround him- or herself only with people they find personally agreeable? Organisations are polluted and corrupted by such people, Simon. Diversity of views and opinions is vital – right up to political discussions about what a police service’s role should be. Anything other is just empire building or canteen culture writ large.”
“I agree with most of that, ma’am, but there’s still a lot to be said for moving on. Loyalty and long-service might be a good thing, but they can just as easily be a positive spin on inertia. People often stay where they are because they’re afraid of change – and overcoming workplace difficulties often just means putting up with them until they go away, or learning to live with them if they don’t. The longer you’re in a job, the harder it is to move on because people become institutionalised to some extent. I don’t want the life or career you so amusingly described, ma’am; I’d rather leave the service and do something else, and I don’t mean work with a security firm. As daft as it sounds, I joined the police because I wanted to do some good in the world, but maybe I’d do better as a teacher. It’s not something I’ve entirely ruled out. I think what I’m trying to tell you, ma’am, is that I’m not wedded to the job. The possibility of not being a policeman doesn’t frighten me – it doesn’t even bother me – but I do know the type of copper you’re talking about. My brother’s a gas-fitter, and makes more money than I do, so that’s another possibility if I decide I’ve had enough of policing – or policing decides it’s had enough of me. It’s a job at the end of the day, ma’am.” He must have caught something in my expression, for he hurried to clarify: “It’s getting me down, ma’am – the case, I mean. I can’t cope with how deeply I’m thinking about it. It’s normal enough to think about a case when you’re not at work, but I’m getting depressed about it. And – frankly, ma’am – I couldn’t, and can’t, get my head around you thinking it a good thing. You and Martha Bottomley seem to be hailing teenage suicide as the new revolution.”
“It’s an idea, Simon – one I find interesting. So what? Would you have found it less depressing if these youngsters had been raped and murdered? I think you would, Simon. I think it wouldn’t have depressed you at all. They’d have been victims, then – innocent victims – of an external evil, and it would have been your duty – simple and honourable – to apprehend the beast and bring it to justice before it did more harm. An agent of good doing the right thing against a backdrop of panic and moral outrage from press and public.”
Simon said, “I don’t know what to say to that, ma’am; I really don’t.”
“You could do me the courtesy of answering the question,” I said; “or at least considering it. Or is that something else you can’t get your head around?” For a second, he dropped his gaze to his hands; and in that second he seemed – well, rather lunkish, doggishly male. I felt a twinge of guilt, and worried that I might be bullying him. I said, “I’m sorry, Simon, I’m bombarding you.”
He said, “It's certainly a lot to think about, ma'am.” He tilted his head and rubbed his nose – an expression of relief, of knowing he was being let off the hook. He wanted to be told he could go.
“Well, you go and have a think about it, then, Simon.” I tried not to sound condescending or dismissive. I concede I may not have wholly succeeded in this. “You do need to let me know, though.” He was standing up, ready to make good his escape. “If you tell me tomorrow you still want to transfer, I’ll arrange it for you immediately. I promise. This is not about a long-grass solution.”
“No, ma’am,” he agreed. “Thank you, ma’am.” He wanted to leave – in the immediate, situational sense – and was in the process, or act, of so doing. It had not been a successful meeting. My fault, of course. I should have planned it better, prepared something. I was, after all, trying to convince him to stick with me for his benefit. That must have sounded vain and rather arrogant with nasty undertones – entirely unintentional – of a political threat: Leave, Simon, by all means, but it will mean the slow, plodding lane from here-on in. I was – had been – frustrated and had handled it badly. Perhaps Superintendent Wilson was right, and Simon and I were simply not suited to the same team.