Chapter Eighteen.
The school issued an immediate statement expressing sympathy for Chloe’s family and describing her as “a first class student with many friends who will miss her acutely”. It was decided not to describe her as popular, since this might suggest that it would have been somehow less tragic had she been unpopular. An internal investigation would take place and counselling offered to the other students. The school were worried politically, of course. In an age of easy – and ugly – attribution, they wanted to avoid responsibility for her death being laid at their door. I couldn’t help wondering about the possible consequences for the school if Caroline added to their woe by killing herself. Just say “Yes, miss”... all the time. It’s hard to escape the conclusion that the most powerful weapon young people have available to them is the ability to take their own lives. It must be curious if and when one realizes that, and it was fairly obvious Caroline already had.
Unlike the school, the family were understandably less deft at issuing a statement; but under pressure from the press, they issued one via their lawyer: The family are coming to terms with the death of their daughter, Chloe, and are too distressed to talk to the media at this difficult time. They ask for space and privacy in which to grieve. In other words, Please leave us alone. We had yet to locate Samantha, and nothing was said about her officially. She was seventeen and notionally a free agent and could be anywhere in the world. It was only her family’s conviction that she was dead, a conviction supported by Caroline, that made her a priority in our investigation. That is, or was, until DC Neil Taylor sent me two links – or URLs – and phoned me to say I should view them as a matter of urgency. I remember feeling put upon – somewhat irrationally, clearly, since people – my colleagues – were only doing what they were supposed to be doing. I had, I think, a sense of, a worry about, things running out of control. Rather obviously, this was something I had – and wanted – to keep to myself.
I considered the sites for less than five minutes before forwarding the information on to Superintendent Wilson with the message that I thought – and was sure he would think – that this was likely to prove media sensitive. He would want to prepare a strategy to firefight the press, who would be dribbling and frothing at the prospect of a social interest story. What leads a talented young person to choose death, and those left behind to celebrate that death? It was the kind of story that could – and would be made to – wear a lot of different agenda costumes.
The first site I clicked on was a tribute to Chloe and Samantha Johnston, the other was dedicated to Adrian Mansfield with links to articles about his sister, and a blog site dedicated to her writings. As well as tributes and comments and discussion on the main sites, there were also links to social networking sites and video sites. Someone had captured Adrian’s preferred death image and published it online, presumably something that had been pre-planned. The image, interestingly from an investigative point of view, had him dead in the boat with the handle of the knife, hitherto unseen and still undiscovered, protruding from his chest. His head was thrown back in an echo of a crucifixion. So someone simpatico had stabbed him post-mortem, and had obviously been with him at the end. The despoiler had come later.
We would – rather disastrously – now be expected to find out everything about these blogs and accounts – who had set them up, when and from where – and probably, and absurdly, be expected to have them taken down. As we stood on the threshold of this – teetered on the brink, as it were – I wasted time advising Superintendent Wilson that we shouldn’t do anything other than glean from the sites that which would benefit the investigation. These were, after all, simply personal weblogs that could be set up by anyone in five minutes for the price of an email address, and then later personalised to good, bad, or indifferent taste. A video taken down in one account could be uploaded to another and then posted in a blog. An account could be opened as quickly as it was closed, and there were numerous sites from which to choose. It was, in short, something of a waste of time and resources. He disagreed, and said that we needed to know when they were set up and by whom – and, if possible, the IP numbers of the computers from where they had been viewed, since these were likely to be in the vicinity, and would give us the account details and addresses of those who had accessed the sites. More importantly, and this was the nub of it, we had to be seen to be making the effort. He was non-committal at this stage on whether or not he thought some or all should be taken down. I said, somewhat disingenuously, “Don’t you think it’s a bit too early to be fretting about media hysteria, sir?”
To which he replied, “I’m going to assume that that’s a sophisticated joke, Barbara.”
*
Picture me, then, alone in my office in front of a computer, somewhat dispirited, surfing sites dedicated to young people recently deceased. I had dispatched DS Brightly and DC Neil Taylor to pursue the pointless investigations mandated by Superintendent Wilson. I knew – or was fairly sure I knew – that the site dedicated to Emma Mansfield’s writing had been set up by Martha Bottomley. So what? Who could reasonably object to that? Who would want to write a young woman’s writings out of history? I phoned Martha out of interest and curiosity and asked her the question directly. She acknowledged the site as her work, and added that she fully expected to take some flack for it: from those who imagine they have a right – god-given or secular – to tell others how to think.
I asked her if she knew about the sites that linked to hers. There was, of course, no reason why she should. No-one could be blamed for the sites that chose to link to theirs, though it was relatively easy these days to know who did. She said, “The diplomatic answer to that is no, Chief Inspector – and, as I’m sure you’re already aware, I’ve only added links to literary sites that might be of interest to young people. Nothing to help the authorities in search of a scapegoat.”
Ron Turner put his head round the door, saw me on the phone and immediately withdrew. He returned a moment later with a large green post-it note, which he stuck on the desk in front of me without speaking. In black felt pen: Samantha Johnston found. DI Richards, Burlington-on-Sea, and, below that, a land-line and a mobile phone number. This minor absurdity had to do with Superintendent Wilson’s directive, or decree, that all information concerning this case was to be passed on and up immediately, and no-one, myself included, was to stray from the prepared position – which differed depending on rank and role in the investigation – when commenting to the press. There was no off the record where this case was concerned. I could be as cynical as I wanted, but I was to make sure my team got the message. I was getting the message that Superintendent Wilson was loitering with intent on the outskirts of panic.
I finished my call to Martha and phoned the land-line number for DI Richards. He answered the phone after four rings and announced himself. I reciprocated by announcing myself. It was – and is – no more or less than a formality, but I had an image of us reading off top trump cards in which I had won on rank. I added that I believed he had some information for me regarding Samantha Johnston.
“Yes, ma’am. We have a body fitting your description and a suicide note with that name. There’s a copy of the suicide note on her weblog, and it’s reasonable to assume that she put it there. I’ll send you the details, ma’am, but I’ve been told to emphasise that we haven’t officially ruled out foul play yet. We think she tied herself to the end of a groyne in the very early hours of the morning, got very drunk, and waited for the tide to come in. She was probably listening to music at the time – we found earphones connected to her mobile phone. It’s too early to tell if drugs were involved or how drunk she was. She may have been unconscious at the time. Let’s hope so.”
“Where did you find the suicide note?” I asked.
“Notes, ma’am,” he replied. “There was no shortage of them. There was one on her – wrapped in plastic. There was one in a bag on the promenade with a link to the online version, and she also left one in the guest house she’d been staying in. The landlady phoned us as soon as she found it, or so she said. We’ve no reason not to believe her, and we acted as soon as she’d called us, which, incidentally, was about half an hour before we got the alert from you.”
Two emails appeared in my in-box at the same time – one from my present interlocutor, the other from Superintendent Wilson, who had marked the message high priority and had requested a receipt. I opened it while still on the phone, and my heart – not literally – sank. It was more in the manner of a communiqué than a personal email. A meeting, presumably urgent or considered so, would be held in an hour to discuss the social impact of recent events – these being the recent suicides of young people in Amberton and our – our! – wider community. Attendees: Superintendent Wilson; myself, being the officer in charge of the case; Lauren Coleman, billed as an expert in teenage psychology; Adam Towler, Melinda Markham’s constituency “Chief of Staff”; Ian Foster, the council’s education director; and incredibly – or, at any rate, distastefully – someone called Jeffrey Lamp from the local Chamber of Commerce. I couldn’t help wondering who’d come up with this little initiative. Probably someone in the police authority with political ambitions, likely prompted by our parliamentary representative.
DI Richards asked if I’d received his email. When I acknowledged that I had, he asked if there were anything – other than the death of a young woman, that is – that he ought to be worrying about. In other words: What’s your interest, ma’am? I told him frankly that her younger sister had also committed suicide, and mentioned that we were investigating the deaths of other young people.
“Connected, ma’am?” he asked.
“That’s something we’re worrying about, Inspector. Thank you for your help.” I put the phone down and opened the link to Samantha’s suicide note. Black font on a lime-green background. It was titled My last post… hopefully.
I should be dead if you’re reading this – otherwise it’ll be embarrassing. I had to go. I really did. I mean, how was I supposed to learn to like this ugly world? They – that’s mostly you, Daddy – were always telling me I should, that I needed to grow up – that if I was miserable I could always buy myself something to cheer myself up. Retail therapy – ha ha! Mummy dear, you must be really, really miserable.
I feel I ought to say something earth-shatteringly significant, something that explains how awful it was for me. Have you ever been somewhere and thought “If I had to live here, I would die”? I mean, really? Well, that’s how the world is for me. Every day. All the time. Torture.
Goodbye, my wonderful, amazing, beautiful sister. You deserve to walk with angels. Goodbye, Mother. You said I’d feel differently when I got to your age, but I never will.
Sorry about the mess, but it’s worse for everyone if you just disappear.
Her previous post a week and a half earlier was a short angst-ridden rant entitled, unambiguously enough, Selfish greedy ugly world!
Selfish greedy ugly world! Through the window on the screen – sold with sex and perfume-scream. Want your money and your life. Grope your mistress, fuck your wife! Grab everything that you can get, and never mind what you upset.
It’s a rollover, takeover, fuckover forever world!
On TV, watch the thrill of the kill on the hill. Brainy bombs and friendly fire burning down the house and school! Know the drill! Do the deal! Handshake happen! Make it real! How much is this, how much for that? Keep on spending while the cats get fat.
Someone calling themselves KatYarn had left a comment. It read: Jeez, Sam, you sound really pissed off. Hope you feel better soon. Hugs.
In the post preceding that, written a week earlier, she reflected on school being a prison, one you don’t really know you’re in until it’s too late. Something inflicted on you by your community and your parents. In the early days, you cling to another prisoner and try to work out what happened to you, and why your parents allowed it to happen. Then you look forward to leaving, only to discover when the time draws near that you’ll be moving on to an adult prison called work.
So – the search for signs post-mortem, and the dubious attribution of significance. The two posts prior to her suicide note – what, if anything, had they portended? Was it reasonable to believe that someone or some authority should have intervened based on thoughts she expressed in a blog or elsewhere? I find this a rather chilling prospect, since it implies that there’s a healthy or unhealthy – a right or wrong – way for people, in this case, teenagers, to think, and that some expert can and should be the arbiter of this. It’s a short walk from concern to control, and the path is often paved with dubious intentions.
I was preparing for the meeting, fearing something in the way of a politically motivated ambush, when I had a phone-call put through to me from Lisa Markham. She said, “Hi. How’s my favourite lady policeman?”
“Busy,” I said.
“Well, I won’t keep you.” A slight hint of, possibly affected, huffiness. “I just thought you’d like to know that Mummy’s been taking quite an interest in l’il ol’ you recently – asking all sorts of people all sorts of questions about you. Senior police officers, local journalists, business people – those sort of people – and a lot of damage can be done in the nature of the asking, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate. I mean – well, they’re bound to wonder why their local MP’s asking these questions. They might even get the impression that you’re not exactly her flavour of the month – that, just maybe, she doesn’t have confidence in you, though it wouldn’t quite do to come out and criticize a police officer publicly, especially one heading a sensitive investigation.”
I said, “Why are you telling me this, Lisa?”
“Short answer – because I like you, Barbara, and I hate her. I don’t care if you believe me; just watch your back.”
I said hurriedly, for I thought she was about to hang up, “Does she know about your part in the investigation?”
“No, she doesn’t.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Odd that.”
“Can I take you’d prefer if it stayed that way?” Meeting in 15 minutes appeared on my computer screen.
“Actually, I couldn’t care less, Barbara,” she said; “I really couldn’t. But as cards go, it would have to be considered one of the face ones, wouldn’t you say – if played carefully, maybe even an ace? Take care, Barbara.”
As she hung up, an email appeared in my in-box from Kelly Draper, the reporter from BBC local radio. It read: Hi Barbara, Lots of interest in your case now. Must be difficult when an investigation takes on a social/political dimension! Give me a ring. It would be nice to hear from you. Hugs. Kelly. Influenced, no doubt, by Lisa’s phone-call and the fact I was in a hurry, I read this as heavy hint, of the friendly variety, that there was political interest in the case. It was only later, after the meeting, that I considered how well crafted the email was. She had warned me without saying anything that could be used – or spun – against her, and could argue, if pressed, that she was just tentatively angling for a story.
The meeting was scheduled to take place at a time when most people would be home, or returning home, from work, which should perhaps have rung alarms bells with me. The venue was a meeting room on the floor above Superintendent Wilson’s office – dizzying, nosebleed territory rarely visited – a place to fret about strategy and funding, or to worry about the service’s current standing with the press and public. Is it possible to have an unvague sense of uneasiness, I wondered, or is uneasiness by its nature vague – or, at least, inchoate? I had, anyway, a sense that something was amiss. And the lift didn’t work. It had – temporarily, at least – packed up, and there was something premonitory about the laminated out of order sign that had been affixed to the door. There being little choice in the matter, I took the stairs, which were mostly used during fire drills. I was on time, and did not expect to find people waiting for me. But so they were. Bizarrely – or so it seemed to me – everyone had seated themselves and appeared to be awaiting my entrance. I thought perhaps I should drop a bob and say, “Evening, all.” Instead, addressing Superintendent Wilson, I said simply, “Sir.”
He said, “Thank you for coming, Barbara.” Then, to the room: “Perhaps we should begin by introducing ourselves.”
The room was windowless and utilitarian. Colourless save for the mahogany table. Sharply black and white, marker pens like splashes of cartoon colour in a monochromatic film. The table had seating for twelve: five on either side and one at either end. Superintendent Wilson sat at one end, the head presumably – though, again presumably, the foot would have become the head had he chosen to sit there instead. There was no designated seating, as there sometimes is, especially when meetings have been scheduled some time in advance. I sat down in the vacant seat immediately to the right of Superintendent Wilson, fearing that the politically minded would make much of it if I put any distance between myself and him. Next to me but one sat Lauren Coleman, the psychologist, a thirty-something woman with a slightly Oriental appearance. She was wearing fashionable, I happily assumed, thick-rimmed spectacles and a white button-down dress patterned with green fractal-like fronds. Next to her but one sat Adam Towler, a council member who had run Melinda Markham’s election campaign and now ran her constituency office. He was groomed and dressed for television and doubtless entertained parliamentary ambitions of his own. Opposite Adam Towler sat Ian Foster, the council's Director of Education. He was in his fifties and had cultivated an academic look. His black hair was greying and longish and wavy, maybe even a little tousled, and he sported a full-face beard that had rather more silver in it than his hair. Round-framed tortoiseshell glasses perched halfway down his aquiline nose ready to be pushed eye-wards or removed at an apposite moment. He was wearing a dark-blue shirt with a narrow burgundy-coloured tie – the knot pulled down a little from the collar – and a slate-grey corduroy jacket. Next to him but one – opposite Adam Towler – sat Jeffrey Lamp, who was Chair of the local Chamber of Commerce, and therefore purportedly represented the interests of business in the area. He was shiny and bald – with a hint of pinkness – and wore a dull business suit that suited him perfectly.
I introduced myself: “DCI Barbara Black. In charge of the investigation into the death of Adrian Mansfield.”
When it was obvious that that’s where I intended leaving it, Ian Foster smiled and said, “I think you’re rather under-selling yourself, Chief Inspector.” He removed his spectacles and placed them – unfolded – on his notepad. “Perfectly understandable in the circumstances. I’m Ian Foster by the way, Director of Education for this borough. Since, as you should be aware, the school will be carrying out its own investigation amidst an ongoing police investigation, you may expect me to be discreet to the point of opacity.” This effectively announced that the meeting had not been called at his behest – indeed, that he doubted and questioned its usefulness.
Adam Towler said, “This meeting isn’t, as I understand it, about particulars. Nor should it be. What I hope we can achieve here this evening is some agreement on a broad, multi-agency approach to a community problem. Our community – our very good community – is in danger of being labelled by the media as somewhere where young people are so despairing that they see suicide as a viable option. This kind of reporting does untold damage, and is something that it is in all our interests to avoid. Sadly, the press, if given the excuse – and we shouldn’t be naïve about this – will be only too happy to print headlines about suicide epidemics and a loss of hope amongst our young people. And that wouldn't be fair or representative of our town and community.”
Lauren Coleman smiled and said, “Well, I’m Lauren Coleman.” Fingers splayed gently on her chest, drawing attention to the fact that Adam Towler had not felt the need to introduce himself. “I’m head of adolescent studies at East Chiltern University. We run a counselling and support clinic for adolescents suffering with or from depression – which, incidentally, society is often reluctant to acknowledge in young people. We glibly assume that the young have nothing to be depressed about, and are unhappy with the idea that we might have some responsibility as a society for their mental well-being. This is especially true of the compulsory education system, which a good many young people find difficult – sometimes impossible – to navigate.” She stopped talking – perhaps fearing that she’d gone on too long too early – and made a handing over gesture, fingers pointing to Jeffrey Lamp, who had yet to speak.
Lamp shifted in his seat – to a more upright position – and cleared his throat with a fist over his mouth. “Jeffrey Lamp. I represent the local business community. I also run a company that employs a hundred and fifty people.” His tone suggested that we should all be very grateful for this. “If you ask me,” – which presumably we were, at least implicitly – “the problem is the absurd expectations of our younger people. Most of them don’t actually want to work. They’d rather be unemployed or reality TV stars. They’re not interested in training for the real world. They’re not equipped for the needs of the economy, locally, nationally, or globally. And this is a problem with the education system, which is not teaching its students the skills needed for the modern workplace.”
Ian Foster yawned conspicuously, clicked his pen, and rolled his eyes. “It’s a rather limited and limiting view of education, don’t you think – a sort of conveyor belt for the economy? Isn’t education supposed to be at least somewhat ennobling – not just a set of skills, a toolkit, to be flogged to the private sector? That’s not what you’re saying, surely: train your children well and make them useful to us, and we will buy them in the market place; then we can all get on on with the business of exploiting them in the name of GB PLC and the bottom line? Is that really your view of education? I think I’d prefer to be cultivating absurd expectations.”
Lauren Coleman said, “I agree wholeheartedly with that. Pragmatism in education – which sadly seems to have become quite fashionable – is pernicious. It manifests itself in ugly questions like ‘What’s the point of teaching children poetry – they’re never going to use it? What use is it to them?’ And, sadly, children and parents often unthinkingly buy into this. No-one should be conned into consenting to having their horizons, or those of their children, narrowed. The idea that education should be economically useful is distasteful because it promotes a view of human beings – children, indeed – as units of work, or units of work in the making.”
Lamp twitched, or flickered, with irritation, but Towler cut across him before he could speak. “I don’t think we should devote too much time to arguing our differing views of education, do you, Jeffrey?” he said, a hand hovering over the table in a politically calming gesture. “That’s not really why we’re here, is it?”
“Why are we here exactly?” Ian Foster contemplated his spectacles at arms length. “To protect the local economy – and certain political careers – from the regrettable and inconvenient fact of teenage suicides?”
Towler said, “It’s about trying to do one’s best in a sad and difficult situation, Ian. We do need a strategy for the press here. I make no apologies for saying that. We have the other pupils of the school to consider as well as their parents and the wider citizenry of our community. It’s easy to sneer and portray politicians as acting only in the interests of their careers. It’s fashionable and possibly justified given the regrettable behaviour of some politicians, but ask yourself the question: do you want the media running stories about suicide epidemics and a sense of hopelessness amongst our young people? I don’t. I don’t think anyone does. Who is served by that except the media?”
Lauren Coleman said, “You do accept, presumably, that the pressures produced by the environment in which these young people grew up and lived had something to do with their suicides? You’re not seeking to absolve everyone of everything – or, to put it another way, sweep it all under the carpet? Politicians do like to bang on about parental responsibility when it suits them – usually when it’s convenient to shift responsibility from society onto the individual. They’ve even been known to mention the education system when they think there’s political capital in it.”
Adam Towler said, “The precise circumstances surrounding the suicides should be a matter for sensitive investigation, not an opportunity for the press to increase circulation. We have a problem – and we may as well recognise this – with so-called tribute sites. It must be a concern that they encourage other young people to take their own lives, to say nothing of the pain they cause to surviving relatives and friends. I think they should be taken down, and I’m optimistic that we can get the co-operation of the various companies that host them.”
“I fundamentally disagree with you,” Lauren Coleman said; “and I hope you don’t get the co-operation you so glibly assume will be forthcoming. Do you really want to deny to these young people – some of whom are dead – the right to have and write their own history? Worse than that, are you seriously proposing erasing it for political and social convenience? That’s a disgraceful and indefensible position. And why are they so-called? Why describe them in such pejorative terms? Imagine if I described a site set up by friends to mourn a dead soldier as a so-called tribute site – and argued that it must be a concern that it encourages young people to glorify war and death, and promotes a cult of the fallen hero? But don’t worry; we think we can get the co-operation of the host to take it down.”
Ian Foster smiled and said, “I think you’ll find Mr Towler happy to draw a convenient distinction between the two.”
Jeffrey Lamp, who was visibly becoming irritated, said, “Where’s the common sense in all this? Not much point having a history, I wouldn’t have thought, if you don’t have a future. They’re spoilt and self-indulgent. They need to learn that the world doesn’t owe them a living.”
Ian Foster laughed. “I wondered how long it would be before we had an appeal to good old-fashioned British common sense. Hard work and straightforward black-and-white thinking; it’s the British way – with a little hypocrisy thrown in just to oil the wheels. Maybe they have learned, and that’s why they’re killing themselves.”
Lauren Coleman, smiling, said, “You’re very quiet, Superintendent.”
“Yes, Ms Coleman.” He seemed amused. “Unless anyone has anything specific they want me, in particular, to address, my role here is entirely facilitatory. I called this meeting at the behest of the police authority, who – without wishing to be cynical – must surely have been politically prodded, presumably – with respect to Mr Towler, who may or may not wish to confirm this – by our local MP, whose duties on the national stage doubtless keep her from being with us in person.”
Towler said, “It’s not unreasonable for an MP to take an interest in what’s going on in her constituency.”
“No, indeed,” Ian Foster remarked. “Some would argue it’s a novelty that ought to be widely essayed.”
Superintendent Wilson said, “I can’t help wishing that her interest had been more directly and discreetly expressed, Mr Towler. There is now an impression among the police authority and some sections of the local media that there is political dissatisfaction with the investigation. That’s obviously unhelpful from a police perspective.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting any impropriety.” Towler’s composure had slipped a little. He had not, I felt, expected to be so directly challenged.
“I am surprised to have come under political pressure quite so early in the investigation, Mr Towler – particularly since the investigation has been so carefully handled. I can assure you – and Ms Markham – that I’m more than sensitive to the possible and actual media interest in this case. Media interest in teenage suicide clusters is not unprecedented.”
Lauren Coleman said, “Indeed, the cluster can be a media event created by a feedback loop that blurs the line between cause and effect.”
Jeffrey Lamp, irritably: “Isn’t that also true of the online media they create themselves – which you’re so against taking down? They glorify someone’s suicide, and then another one decides it’s a good