by J.G. Ellis
Chapter Five
Superintendent Wilson wanted to see me – or, rather, requested the pleasure of my company in his office, which meant he wanted to see me, but I appreciated the nicety of expression. I tapped on the door and waited for his “Come in,” before entering. It came immediately and was less a command than an invitation. He was standing at the large, blinded window that looked down over Piper Street and the plane trees at the front of the station. He turned and smiled as I came in. He was a tall man with thinning dark hair and green eyes. He had the kind of straight up-and-down bearing that suited his uniform, though he never looked stiff or overly formal in it. He wore it, not it him.
“Sit down, Barbara. Thank you for coming so promptly. How’s the Mansfield case going?” He had seated himself behind his desk, and was waiting benignly for my reply.
As well he might. Wasn’t it just a teensy bit early to be asking the question? I said, “As well as can be expected, sir. We’re still in the very early stages.”
“I understand Lisa Markham's involved.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Perhaps he had the whole station bugged. More likely, though, was that someone had felt the need to inform him. Perhaps he was disappointed I hadn’t.
“Do you know who Lisa Markham is?” he asked.
“Daughter of the local MP apparently. I hadn’t heard of her until today. Does it matter, sir? It’s not like she’s been arrested or accused of anything. She walked in here of her own volition and reported Adrian Mansfield missing. She was very upset, and very exercised that we should take her seriously. Obviously we’re now just a bit interested in what she was so upset about.”
He considered for a moment. “Barbara, there’s rather more to young Ms Markham than meets the uncritical eye. She runs with what my mother would have called a fast crowd. Only she’s been doing it in the digital age. There’s rather a lot of her online, Barbara, most of it uploaded by her or her friends, and some of it is quite unseemly. Or perhaps racy would be a better word. I don’t believe the young have the faintest notion of unseemliness.”
“I’m not sure young people can be unseemly, sir,” I said. “They can behave badly, but they can’t be unseemly. Notions of seemliness, duty, responsibility, acting against one’s own desires for a greater good, come with age and maturity.”
“Yes,” he agreed, and he sounded rather depressed about it. “You need to be aware that there will be a lot of media interest in this story, Barbara. I intend holding a press conference this afternoon, so I’d appreciate you keeping me up to date. I also expect you to attend, preferably looking happy and willing.”
I must have sighed, probably from the effort of not doing so. Superintendent Wilson was a believer in openness – or transparency, as he liked to refer to it. More precisely, he was interested in the impression of openness and transparency. The press should never feel they were regarded as the enemy. On the contrary, they were to be treated as an important part of the community, who had a right – indeed, a duty – to report what was going on in that community. I thought this a tad sanctimonious. The press were, and are, and have always been, sensation-seekers driven by market forces. Reporters pursue stories to further their careers, and to make money for their proprietors and themselves. This was not an attitude of mind of which Superintendent Wilson approved. At least, not officially, and certainly not publicly.
On this occasion, I merely raised a practical objection. “We won’t have very much of substance to tell them, sir,” I pointed out.
He smiled. “Always the best time to tell them everything, I find, Barbara. How do you want to approach young Ms Markham?”
“Straightforwardly, sir,” I said. “I would like to find out what was so upsetting her when she reported Adrian Mansfield missing. She clearly thought him in some peril. Now she knows he’s dead, she seems calm and composed. An extraordinary change in demeanour.”
“How did she find out about his death?”
“She asked me and I told her,” I said.
He frowned, but only slightly. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, Barbara,” he said, meaning he’d have felt inclined to keep that particular detail from her. “Did you happen to ask her what she’s doing in Amberton? It’s hardly one of her usual haunts.”
“Her mother, presumably,” I said.
“They're estranged, Barbara. Not on speaking terms. Their relationship didn’t survive the difficult teenage years, I understand.”
“What about her father?”
“Very supportive of her mother’s career.”
“Siblings?”
“A twelve-year-old brother. At boarding school. She hasn’t seen him for three years. She’s at university in France, and prefers socialising in Italy and Switzerland to coming home. Can’t say I blame her.”
“How do you know all this, sir?” I asked.
“I know Melinda Markham quite well,” he said. He said it somewhat self-consciously, as though fearful of appearing to name-drop. “And, as I say, there’s rather a lot of young Ms Markham on the internet.”
I smiled and said, “You’re not friends, then?”
“Me? No, I don't move in such exalted circles, Barbara. Anyway, I’m not convinced politicians have room for friends; their social circle tends to be furnished with people who are potentially useful to them. It’s all about reciprocity in the game of getting on.”
“Can I assume Ms Markham MP will be getting a courtesy call sometime soon?” I asked.
He smiled. “You can be shockingly sniffy sometimes, Barbara – insultingly so.” There was something of amusement in his tone, also a touch of rebuke. “No, she will not. Should there come a point when we need to interview her in connection with the investigation, then we will treat her with the same professionalism and courtesy that we would extend to any other member of the public. At the moment, we have no need or obligation to speak to her. And, for the record, Barbara, I don't make those sorts of courtesy calls.”
I said nothing, though I tried to look apologetic. I had, I realized, inadvertently, and rather crassly, questioned his integrity. My general distaste for politics and how it works had clumsily translated into a particular and unpleasant suggestion that that’s how it would work here, too. I had been thinking about her getting the – “Melinda, don't know if this might cause you political difficulties, but just thought...” – phone-call, and then consulting her PR advisor.
I took refuge in a question, a fairly urgent one, since she was sitting in an interview room. “What are we going to do about Ms Markham fille?”
He smiled again. “That’s up to you, Barbara. She’s your witness. But do bear in mind that she is a witness. She’s free to go whenever she wants.”
“She’s shown no particular inclination to do so,” I said.
“How very fortunate for you. Has she asked for a lawyer?”
“No,” I said; “she asked me if she ought to be asking for a lawyer – a subtle but important distinction. I think she was teasing me.”
“Go carefully, Barbara,” he said indulgently. “We wouldn’t want to offer excuses for unsuitable persons to mount high horses, now would we?”