Ardent Justice

by Research Professor Of Social Policy Peter Taylor-Gooby

  ‘But what was it about?’

  Ade became aware that the woman on her left had moved slightly and was listening to their conversation.

  ‘Can’t say. But,’ the blue eyes stared at her, taking her in, ‘Word of advice, Ms Corey. He’s not the sort of person you want to associate with. A regular here, you might say. Occupy London. That peace camp at St Paul’s. Aggravated trespass. Conspiracy. Incitement. That kind of thing. Known to the City force too.’ The sergeant looked away. ‘Next.’

  Ade walked over to the door. As she opened it, she glanced back. The desk-sergeant’s eyes were fixed on her.

  Silly idea going there, she thought as she walked on. There was movement at the end of a side alley, but she ignored it, there were people all round her, all going about their business. No-one’s going to recognise you, no-one’s going to think you’re someone with a pocketful of fifty-pound notes, no-one’s going to help you. Why should they? There’s no way you’ll find him. She stood there on Borough High Street, people pushing past her. A man in a smart overcoat said ‘Excuse me,’ clipping the words and shoving her aside. She turned onto Tooley Street then down a side road and found the café she’d taken him to last night, under the railway. He wasn’t there.

  ‘Never seen him before,’ said the woman behind the bar. She looked down, running a cloth over a spotless counter. ‘Don’t want to, he bring the cops here.’

  She left the café and walked on over the bridge towards King William Street with the Monument to the right. It was a crisp December day, early morning, and crowds of people were hurrying to work in the city, all of them wrapped up in themselves. Sunlight gleamed on the buildings across the river. She watched a tourist boat gliding past, all the faces turned up to stare at her. People were streaming over the bridge, huddled in quilted jackets or warm overcoats like hers.

  She moved slowly on, down Monument Street and past the area where the rough sleepers had been. Now all she could see were a few pieces of torn cardboard. She thought she glimpsed someone against the sunlight, back by the Monument, staring at her, but she couldn’t be sure. At an angle in the buildings, out of the wind, a figure in a hooded red anorak crouched on the pavement, a piece of cardboard in front of her with ‘Don’t Do Drugs, Please Help’ written on it in biro. Ade stopped and looked down. A young woman, her face strikingly pale, stared back at her.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  Her arms were folded across her chest, her hands jammed under her armpits.

  Ade walked on, felt in her pocket, turned and dropped a pound coin on the cardboard.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The woman spoke so softly that Ade could barely make out the words. She thought of Johnno last night, and the way he’d stared at the fifty-pound note.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Ade reached down and dropped another coin. A smile flashed across the young woman’s face.

  ‘Do you know someone called Paul?’ Ade asked. ‘Last night, he was here last night.’

  ‘Don’t remember none of it, there was a crazy woman with money. The cops came. I keep out of it.’

  The girl hunched down further in her clothes. She couldn’t be more than eighteen, Ade thought. She took out a five pound note and slipped it under the cardboard.

  ‘There you go.’

  She was on Gracechurch Street, the traffic fumes heavy in her throat. Two policemen in stab vests were coming towards her on the other side, wearing black gloves and black leather belts with radios, cameras and Tasers. One of them touched the other on the arm when they caught sight of her and they stood there staring at her. She hurried on. After thirty metres she looked back. No sign of them.

  Never had any trouble with the law and suddenly there’s cops looking at me like they know who I am. If it’s me they’re looking at. She thought of the day she came into the office first thing and Morwen was already there, still there from last night, her eyes glistening with enthusiasm. She hadn’t slept, she’d finished the Model by herself.

  She couldn’t stop talking, Ade had never seen her so excited. Her fingers rattled across the keyboard. She’d made it all work, everything balanced, the nested spreadsheets, every single link. She’d already submitted it to the Chief Executive and the Minister’s office, with copies sent to the Permanent Secretary and all the Board members. She had requested a formal investigation into all the major city consultancies. She wasn’t going to wait while it went through the official channels and came back in a month’s time with ‘No Action Required’ stamped across it.

  ‘If this doesn’t work, we’ll leak it straight to the media,’ she said. ‘Ade, I know I’m right.’

  Within two hours there were three cops, City of London, in stab-vests and carrying a warrant, hustling her out of the building. They’d sealed off the end of the office and taken her computer, everything from her desk. They refused to take statements from the other staff, telling them the case was not to be discussed. ‘Signed the Official Secrets Act when you joined the Revenue, didn’t you? This is an official secret.’

  Then there’d been the trial, Ade remembered the headlines, all about state snoopers and industrial espionage and unauthorised data-gathering, with no details given on grounds of commercial confidentiality. The Revenue denied all knowledge of Morwen’s work, Ade was never called, Morwen lied to protect her and Denny covered up. At least she did that for them. Morwen had cut a corner, just the tiniest corner, the last bit of data estimated and fitted in pat, to make it all work. Somehow they spotted it, and it was false accounting and fraud and extortion of legitimate profits and conspiracy with persons unknown and breach of trust in a public office – all requiring exemplary punishment. They must have had so many people on the case, combing through every detail. Then the news went through the office like a shockwave, that Morwen was taking the full blame herself and it was too late to do anything, and she was in Bronzefield and that visit was the last time Ade saw her.

  She became aware of someone walking beside her.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Paul!’ She stopped. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Nothing much. They let me out.’

  ‘I know – I went to the police station in Southwark. They said the City of London police wanted to question you.’

  ‘You been looking out for me? I thought I was supposed to be looking out for you.’

  ‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said. ‘For last night.’

  ‘S’all right.’ He rubbed at his left ear. ‘I work on the streets these days, just making sure people are OK.’

  He stepped closer to her. He was slightly shorter than she was. She could see tiny wrinkles round his eyes when he smiled.

  ‘Just glad I was there,’ he said.

  ‘Me too.’

  She said it before she thought. His shoulders were so thin under the jacket. He’d cleared the plate last night like he was half-starved. There was a kindness in his eyes; he gave you his full attention, the same way Morwen did.

  He stood there smiling at her.

  ‘Guess I should get to work,’ she said after a while.

  ‘Yeah, me too. ’He gave a half-wave, palm open. ‘So long.’

  ‘See you again.’

  She turned but she hadn’t taken half a dozen paces before he was there, walking beside her. ‘Don’t go,’ he said softly. Then: ‘Why do you think those cops were staring at you, back there?’

  ‘I should be at work already. I’m glad you’re OK.’

  ‘City of London cops. Red and white hat-bands. You’ve got to be careful. Someone’s keeping an eye on you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She touched his shoulder. His face lit up.

  ‘Gotta go,’ she said. ‘See you.’

  6

  ‘What is your job, Adeline?’

  The grey eyes were
fixed on her. A woman Ade had never seen before sat behind Denny’s desk, in Denny’s chair. Her dull blonde hair was tied back too tightly, her lipstick too striking. She leaned forward, alert. Ade thought of a hunting dog. With cheek-bones like those you’re in the wrong job.

  Denny, Ade’s line-manager was on an upright chair between the bookcase and the window. Denny with her round, comfortable face and smooth cheeks and brown eyes, she always reminded Ade of a country wife. You could trust Denny. The room was already in shadow at nine am. A blank brick wall rose immediately opposite the window. Denny smiled at Ade and nodded.

  ‘I’m a tax-inspector, grade seven.’

  ‘So what’s your job?’

  ‘To enforce the income tax sections of the Finance Acts and maximise revenue.’

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  Ade frowned.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Don’t be.’ The woman behind the desk, she hadn’t introduced herself, smiled, her lips compressed. ‘You are a servant of Her Majesty. Your job is primarily to implement government policy. Government policy is decided by my Minister. Check your job description.’

  Denny nodded again.

  Ade said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. So long as you understand.’

  The woman tapped a file on the desk.

  ‘The Webster Consultancy. Much respected. In some ways a City bellwether. I understand your enquiries have been aggressive. My Minister wishes us to be seen as a business-friendly government. We wish to have a more cooperative relationship between tax-payers and the Revenue. There’s too much suspicion, too much regulation. We plan to move towards a revenue framework guided by an industry code of practice.’

  Ade said nothing. She thought of the envelope: whose pay-roll are you on? There was a silence. Denny spoke for the first time.

  ‘All my staff understand their duties.’

  Colin understood it all right, thought Ade, he found out which side his bread was buttered on pretty soon. Morwen understood it differently.

  ‘So long as that is understood.’ The woman smiled but her eyes were like gun-metal.

  Assent? Is that all you want? You want us to give up so you can outsource the Revenue to your accountancy friends.

  Ade relaxed her grip on the sides of her chair. The woman stared at her as if weighing her up.

  ‘There’s another thing.’

  Ade thought of Webster, of the money in the envelope slipped down the bottom of her brief-case, of the expression on his face. She wasn’t going to mention the money.

  ‘You’ve been associating with,’ she flipped open the file, ‘a Mr Paul Affarn.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with the Revenue, it’s my private life. He’s not a close friend anyway.’

  The woman snapped the file shut and kept her hand on it.

  ‘Of course. Nothing to do with the Revenue.’

  She glanced at Denny.

  ‘I think we’re done.’

  She picked up the file and walked to the door, ignoring Denny’s outstretched hand, then paused and swung round.

  ‘You’re coming up for review aren’t you, Ms Corey? For a grade six?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The grey eyes were fixed on her. Ade felt something important was being said.

  ‘That’s often the most difficult promotion. Especially for a woman.’

  She pulled the door open.

  ‘Good day. Don’t escort me.’

  The door clicked shut. Denny stood for a minute looking at Ade. She snapped on the light.

  ‘Special advisors,’ she said, ‘I hate them. A cooperative relationship with business.’ She sniffed. ‘There’s our side and there’s their side and that’s all there is.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  Denny motioned her to the chair. ‘Your work is excellent. You have increased revenue from the consultancy sector year on year. It’s the most difficult sector.’

  ‘It was really Morwen’s model.’

  Denny closed her eyes and Ade saw how tired she was. She ran her hand across her face. ‘Morwen Archer. I couldn’t do anything, not with all of them closing ranks. You understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘No one blames you.’

  Denny looked down. The window behind her was fully in shadow. Ade couldn’t make out the bricks on the wall opposite. She wished she could put out a hand and touch Denny’s shoulder. Not appropriate.

  ‘Truly,’ she said. ‘No one blames you.’

  Denny grunted. ‘Give yourself some credit. You worked on that model and it was the best thing anyone’s ever done in this office. Not a good idea to say so at the time. It’s not on your record, at least I made sure of that.’

  She paused and continued: ‘Webster’s a rattlesnake. But I can’t pass this request for a special audit.’

  ‘We could ask,’ said Ade. She kept her voice level. ‘The evidence is there. You should see the artwork in his office: a quarter of a million upwards each picture.’

  ‘Yes. They love to flaunt it and when you ask where they got it, someone gave it them, it was a win on the spread-betting, they got it at a boot fair. But that’s not the point. I’m doing this for you. When Morwen tried it, you saw what happened. They faked those charges, I’m sure of it, but there was no way I could stop them.’

  ‘This is different; everything adds up, there’s a hole in those accounts you could drive a bus through.’

  Denny sat there staring at the stack of files on her desk.

  ‘You don’t understand what we’re up against. Not really. They hate paying tax. They’ll do absolutely anything to avoid it. It’s not just money, it’s power; it’s who they are. They have to win, always. We can only make progress slowly.’

  ‘I understand.’ Ade paused. ‘I was the last one of us to see her. In Bronzefield. I’m sorry,’ she added quickly as she saw the hurt on Denny’s face. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ She found she had her hand on the desk just next to Denny’s. She slid it back.

  ‘It’s OK, Ade. You did everything you could. And more. That’s why there won’t be a special audit. We’re not going to make trouble.' Denny sighed. ‘Then there’s the reassignment. Grounds of incompatibility. But it’s your field.’

  ‘Personal incompatibility, not technical incompatibility.’

  ‘Yes. He’s a slimy rattlesnake. But we’re professionals.’ Denny stared through the window into the blackness. ‘That special advisor. She’s right you know. Grade six is the hardest one. Then you’re on the inside, Head Office material. I never made it and look at me now.’

  ‘People respect you,’ said Ade.

  ‘You have to go to the meeting with the accountant. Just do everything by the book. No fancy models. Business-friendly. You’ll fight another day. When you’re a grade six you’ll have more influence. Things will get better.’

  It seemed to Ade that the shadows deepened outside the window. She didn’t say anything. Denny touched the back of her hand. ‘Everything’s OK, is it?’

  Ade straightened her back. ‘Of course. Shouldn’t it be?’

  ‘None of my business, it’s just…you were a good friend of Morwen’s weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I tried to be.’

  Denny was standing very close to her. ‘I trust you, Ade. I’ll try to help. But some things are outside my control. These people are very powerful. Take care.’

  She held open the door. Ade saw how everyone in the office glanced up from their screens and looked down again. She ignored all of them. She’d said nothing about the money. Business-friendly.

  7

  Ade sat on a comfortable upright chair, the lap-top open on her knees like a barrier, watching Webster as his eyes followed the blonde young woman in the tight cream dress with the coffee tra
y. The sun streamed through the picture window, the river sparkled and the buildings opposite rose up like a white marble cliff. The secretary set down the tray and turned to Ade, a professional smile on her face.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Ade, smiling at her, ‘I’m fine.’

  The secretary bobbed her head and poured coffee for Webster and Ms Devi, the accountant. Webster touched her arm.

  ‘A little cream.’

  He kept his hand on her arm and, as she leant forward, he slid it towards her breast. She jerked back, and a white tongue licked out from the jug and slopped onto the carpet.

  ‘Careful, Jessica.’ He pulled the handkerchief out of his top pocket. ‘Here, mop it up.’

  He looked round at Ms Devi who was busy with something in her briefcase and, quite deliberately, at Ade. She stared back. Stones, think of his eyes as stones. After a long pause he looked up at the secretary. The young woman took the handkerchief, bunched it in her hand, bent and dabbed once at the floor.

  ‘Not like that, get down to it.’

  He put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her down to her knees. Ms Devi was still rummaging in her brief-case. Ade stared at him, horrified.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Webster. He sounded almost happy. Ade was on her feet. ‘Mr Webster, do not harass your staff.’

  Webster smiled at her. ‘I forget, you civil servants with your codes and your rules-books and your fuss. We’re all a team here, we have our little jokes. It’s all right Jessica, you can go.’

  Ade felt her throat constricted. The young woman glanced at Ade, blushed, and moved towards the door. Webster continued: ‘Sorry about all that.’

  Jessica ducked her head and closed the door softly.

  ‘Women,’ said Webster and rolled his eyes to the accountant. She ignored him, found what she was looking for in her briefcase and snapped it shut.

  Ade took a deep breath. Business-friendly: ‘Thank you for inviting me to your office. Now perhaps we should consider the accounts.’