by Paul Hoffman
‘Ow,’ said Winnicott.
There was a grunt of Holmesian inference from the chiropractor, as if he had once again detected the handiwork of some Moriarty of the spinal column. He paused for a moment and then spoke decisively. ‘Right then, over this way.’
Reluctantly, because he knew what was coming, Winnicott shifted onto his left side. Long familiar with the violent nature of the assault about to be perpetrated on his body, Winnicott tensed. The chiropractor waited. Winnicott tried to fool himself into relaxing. The chiropractor moved almost imperceptibly and Winnicott stiffened instantly in anticipation. The chiropractor backed off. They made polite diversionary conversation.
‘Keeping busy?’ said the chiropractor.
‘Yes . . . you?’
‘Oh,’ he said complacently, ‘we’re always busy. We’ve got a joggers’ boom on at the moment. All those middle-aged men who took up jogging in the late 1970s before the arrival of running shoes with decent cushioning. Loads of problems.’ He grunted with grim satisfaction. ‘God designed us to walk on all fours, basically. From the spinal point of view, standing upright is a terrible idea. People’s backs are always going to ache, business will always be good.’
CRACK!
The chiropractor had struck, fast as any kite or snake, pushing and pulling in opposite directions simultaneously. Winnicott could never quite rid himself of the fear that after so many sessions the treatment must be weakening his spine. One day perhaps it would be violently twisted once too often and he would burst open, scattering his vertebrae all over the floor like pearls from a broken string. They went through the same performance on his right side. Then the chiropractor pressed the pedal and Winnicott started to point skyward. As Winnicott slowly returned to the vertical the chiropractor made his habitual joke.
‘Be upstanding.’
Fortunately, because Winnicott’s face was buried in the leather cradle of the couch, no response was required to a remark that he had heard on nearly forty occasions and which had not been very amusing in the first place.
Inspector Geoff Healey and Sergeant Alan Roache sat in the office of Chief Superintendent Robert Hobbs of the MPD. The initials, reflecting the seriousness with which the department was taken inside the Met, were generally held to stand for Morons, Psychos and Deadbeats, the first two describing the relevant members of the public, the third referring to the fact that the Missing Persons Department was generally disdained as a graveyard for officers of whatever rank who had allowed the wheel to fall off their investigations once too often.
Hobbs was well aware of this lack of regard, particularly by members of the Murder Squad, and this accounted for the sour atmosphere in the room. It was clear that Healey and Roache were unhappy at becoming involved in the case of the missing Maria Vaughan.
‘Look, sir,’ said Healey wearily, ‘we’re being taken off inquiries into already proven murders in order to investigate someone who has a history of disappearances. I don’t see the logic of that. Unless of course the logic is that it’s now become the policy of the Met to investigate possible crimes against relatives of its members as opposed to actual crimes against ordinary members of the public.’
‘No, you look, Healey,’ replied Hobbs, irritated both by Healey’s manner and that he agreed with him. ‘Let me tell you what the policy of the Met is. The policy is for its officers to do as they’re bloody well told. The fact that she’s the daughter of a serving officer is irrelevant and I’d better not hear of you or Sergeant Roache saying otherwise in the canteen. The reason we’re investigating this case is partly because it has certain unusual features, namely that Maria Vaughan had apparently been cured of her mental problems some time ago, and partly for reasons to do with this new computer program the Information Technology Crime Unit are developing. Your boss thinks this MEMO, or whatever it’s called, could be useful in distinguishing early on between people who’ve just gone absent without leave and victims of serious crime. We want you to gather as much evidence as you can and then we’ll evaluate it with the IT people. That’s all there is to it. There’s nothing sinister and it has nothing to do with any other officers in the force. All right? Now, I suggest you get cracking.’
A week later in Brett’s office, the introductions and pleasantries over with, George Winnicott, the new director of the Fraud Secretariat, was taken downstairs to his office by Michael McCarthy.
It was five or six times larger than anything he had occupied before and Winnicott felt a surge of pride at the ownership of such luxury. There was a polished Regency table with eight seats in red and white period stripe, a deeper red, a serious person red to the carpet, and an imposing Queen Anne reproduction desk. There was a brass lamp and a leather blotter, with thick white blotting paper, the size of a pillow case, lying expectantly on it.
He sat down in his chair – more dark wood and leather and not very comfortable – then leant forward to stretch the tense muscles of his lower back, complaining as a result of the unsupportive sofa in Brett’s office.
‘Congratulations, Director,’ said McCarthy, smiling.
Winnicott returned the smile, disconcerted that McCarthy should see what he was thinking. But, of course, it was natural to feel this way, anyone would. McCarthy sat down. ‘It would be useful if I went over the history briefly. Unless you feel you’ve covered all that.’
‘Not at all. It’s best to assume nothing. I’ve read a good deal . . . not that it’s all that easy to get hold of anything on you. I’ve talked to people. But assume complete ignorance. That’s best.’
‘Fine. I’ll go over the history, set out your specific powers and give you rather a lot of homework. You’ll need to review the history of the bigger cases – Britannia Park, Barlow Clowes, Guinness and Blue Arrow should give you what you need.’
‘Sounds formidable.’
‘Yes, but Shakma does damn good summaries. I think you’ll find them a good read. The Upperworld is a fascinating place.’
‘Upper world?’
‘As in Underworld.’
‘Ah, very good.’ He laughed not altogether convincingly.
‘There’s one thing it’s important to understand about the scale of what’s going on here, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Imagine you were to put all the robberies, car thefts, muggings, burglaries, all the solid gear stolen by working-class criminals, in a big pile. Then you put next to it all the money defrauded by middle-class people from other middle-class people mostly: the tax evasion, the expense-account frauds, the mortgage frauds where people end up driving around in their new kitchen extension, and then the big stuff, insider deals, share-support scams, trading while insolvent, thefts from pension schemes. This second pile is three . . . four . . . five times larger.’
Winnicott was clearly surprised. ‘I realised from what I’d read that this was a big problem, but I didn’t come across anything that indicated it was so serious.’
‘Yes, it’s pretty odd when you think about it that there isn’t more of a fuss. I suppose it’s because it’s all so undramatic – no guns, no lovable cockney rogues who love their mums, no psychopaths nailing informers to the floor for blabbing to the filth. Welcome to the Upperworld.’ McCarthy struggled to think of what else he had to tell his new boss. ‘Oh, by the way, your PA’s name is Lucy Bradd.’
‘We only had secretaries at the Met. What’s the difference between a secretary and a PA?’
‘About four thousand a year, I understand.’ McCarthy looked uncomfortable. ‘It might be as well to tell you about a disagreement which has caused some bad feeling. The head of personnel, Allan Gribben is a . . . he’s very enthusiastic about introducing short-term contracts. To cut a long story and all that, a few years ago he managed to find a perfectly legal way of taking the secretarial staff off their permanent posts and putting them on two-year rolling contracts. I have to say I strongly opposed it – but your predecessor and Sally Brett were quite happy
, so that was that. But there’s a lot of animosity because of it. Your PA, Lucy, was vocal in opposing Gribben. There’s some awkwardness there.’ He thought about telling Winnicott that Gribben was not a man to allow opposition from anyone less powerful to go unpunished and that he had been doing everything he could to make life so awkward for Lucy that she would leave voluntarily. Perhaps it would be better to wait until he knew him better. ‘Anyway,’ McCarthy said, anxious to get on, ‘the FS has about fifty lawyers and accountants, and a detachment of about twenty police officers. The accountants try to find out what’s been going on in a fraud by following the paperwork and doing interviews. The police mostly handle the evidence resulting from what they find. The lawyers advise on prosecution then bring the cases to trial.’
‘The accountants and lawyers . . . how do they get on with the police?’
‘It’s a relationship that could do with improving.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, the police don’t think that accountants are the right people to interrogate suspects, not on their own. They think the police should be a major part of every investigation as well as being in charge of the documents arising from it. The accountants and lawyers . . . well, nobody wants to give up power, do they?’ He paused for a moment. ‘Perhaps it would be better if you had a nose around yourself. We could compare notes.’
‘How do the accountants and lawyers feel about a policeman becoming director?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know,’ lied McCarthy. ‘This has all happened pretty quickly.’
Winnicott looked at him. ‘And how does the Deputy Director feel about it?’
‘He thinks that because the previous directors were all lawyers, all prosecutors, what they understood was how to go about structuring a case once it was clear, broadly speaking, what the case was. What they didn’t appreciate, or not appreciate enough, is that we’re also an investigative organisation. A gendarme at the top is no bad thing in my view.’
Winnicott stood up and walked over to the window facing Barter Street. The headaches caused by the deterioration in his back were getting worse. ‘Is a policeman at the top no bad thing as long as this policeman listens to your advice?’
‘Yes.’
Winnicott turned back from the window. ‘That’s very clear. Thank you.’
McCarthy reached into his briefcase and took out several books and placed them on the desk. ‘I’d look at Kirk first; he’s thorough on the law. There’s a couple of good summaries of the DTI and so on. It’s quite technical, a good reference. Try Michael Levi’s Royal Commission report next. He’s a good read, too. No rush.’ He paused. ‘Friday will do.’
Winnicott looked at the pile of six books and was not sure if he was joking.
‘Shall we go?’ said McCarthy.
Evidence Room Four was the size of a small classroom but considerably higher. Large cardboard boxes were stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling around all four walls. But for a narrow corridor, the centre of the room was also taken up with shelves filled with the same buff-coloured boxes roughly the size of two milk crates.
‘This is the documentation on the simplest case we’re currently investigating,’ said McCarthy. ‘It’s a pretty big sum involved, fourteen million, but there’s only one charge.’
‘All this for only one charge?’ interrupted Winnicott.
‘No,’ replied McCarthy, with obvious pleasure. ‘The paperwork for this case fills another seven rooms just like this one.’ Winnicott advanced deeper into the room as if to get the measure of his opponent. McCarthy watched him. ‘Your predecessor said that doing this job was like herding cats.’
Winnicott laughed. McCarthy wondered whether he’d still be laughing a year from now. ‘I’d better be off. Places to go, people to see. I’ll take you back upstairs – it’s easy to get lost down here, everywhere looks like everywhere else. Lucy’ll go through your diary with you. But the highlight will definitely be the trip to the Bank of England on Wednesday.’
‘Really?’
‘They’re keen to give you the once-over. You’ll like Charley Varadi. I’ll be interested to hear what he’s got to say for himself. The Bank have got very pally over the last three years since he became deputy and I don’t know why. Still, they do a nice steak and kidney pie. There’s a book on the Bank by Stephen Fay. It’s a fine piece of work,’ he said with admiration. ‘Even though he’s a journalist.’ He said this as if describing an occupation widely suspected of involvement in the ritual sacrifice of small, blond children. ‘I’ve got a copy. I’ll get my PA to pop it down, if it isn’t beneath her to do such a menial task.’
Inspector Healey and the young sergeant he had brought with him sat across from George Winnicott in his opulent new office.
‘You don’t have any idea where Maria Vaughan might be?’ asked Healey.
‘None.’
Healey nodded. ‘Would it be right to say you were close to her?’
‘I’m not sure that I’d go as far as that. She was a secretive girl. There were long periods when I didn’t see her for months on end.’
He paused for a moment. ‘But you are her godfather?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’m correct in thinking that she was your children’s nanny for several months?’
‘Nanny would be a grand way of putting it. She helped my wife for a while when she was recovering from an illness about three years ago.’
‘Was she good at helping out?’
‘She was rather scatty, I’d say. She was a nice girl. She meant well.’
Healey smiled. ‘Shall I put that down as “not a great help”?’
Winnicott smiled back awkwardly.
‘Did your wife get on with her?’ Healey noticed that the question made him seem ill at ease.
‘She was . . . irritated by her. She needed the help but Maria was more the kind of person who needed support rather than someone capable of giving it. Don’t get me wrong, she was a kind person and generous, but she was unhappy, I suppose.’
‘Not a good choice, then.’
‘No. My fault. I thought it might help them both. I was wrong.’
Healey nodded as he wrote in his notebook. ‘Did she leave under a cloud?’
‘No, not at all. My wife had a relapse. Maria found it difficult. There was relief on both sides when we decided it would be best to make other arrangements.’
‘But you got on well with her personally throughout this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have the names of any people she might have been seeing when she was staying with you?’
‘There were people but I can’t remember anyone in particular. As I said, she was very secretive, even as a child. Have you been able to find her boyfriend?’
‘Yes. Well, he found us really. He reported her missing a few days ago. A Steven . . .’ He took out his notebook and searched inside. ‘Griltch – God knows if that’s how it’s pronounced. He did tell me on the phone. A name like that, you’d think you’d remember it.’
Healey took out a photograph from the file he was carrying. It was of a young woman, drably dressed, far too thin and with waist-length, slightly greasy hair. He passed it to Winnicott. ‘Her parents said she’d changed a lot since this was taken about six months ago. Would you agree?’
‘Yes, a different woman. I think it would be fair to go that far.’
Healey made a brief note. ‘Could you give us a description?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Winnicott. ‘Her hair had been cut shorter than this to about halfway down her back . . . expensively cut, with a fringe just about here.’ He drew a line across her forehead with his finger. ‘But it was still long. She’d put on weight and she needed to. I never thought I’d describe Maria as curvaceous but she’d be about a stone heavier now. But it wasn’t fat. She was wearing make-up, not a great deal but it had been put on with skill. She must have learnt that recently – on the rare occasions when I saw her wearing it in the past s
he’d always looked a bit of a fright, to be honest.’
Healey asked a few more questions, most of them concerned with double-checking things he had already been told. He changed back into an affable former colleague, then he and his silent partner left.
Women in Love
The masculine and the feminine do not describe two sets of qualities in the human heart, but four: good maleness and bad maleness; good womanliness and bad womanliness. When evil men and women discover their feminine or masculine sides they do not become nicer or more resolute, they simply discover a different way of being evil.
Louis Bris, The Wisdom of Crocodiles
‘He’s in a meeting. I did see your proposal on his desk.’ There was a pause. ‘I think. Can he call you back?’ Steven Grlscz gave the secretary his number. He almost pointed out that she had said the same thing the last time he’d called. But he didn’t.
When people expressed interest in his life as a consultant it was always with the sense that this life was to be approved of and even prized. Consulting seemed to be the epitome of the modern: he was embracing change and did not worry about what was coming next. He was nonchalant about shift and slip, thrived on chaos. In fact his life consisted of long-term unease and short-term drudgery: he had to do his own photocopying, buy stamps and toner, paper in reams; every call had to be answered, even the briefest business acquaintanceship had to be followed up. He must network. He must accept without question the schedules of those who paid, people who had no obligation to give him work, answer his calls, or respond beyond the perfunctory to the hours of effort that went into every proposal. The contracts he signed were fictions. Even lies. If he wanted to work with them again, and such repeat business was the only hope of some stability in all this flux, then he had to accept that they were like beautiful women with many fish in their sea. They had to be stroked, their whims acceded to. And while they could be disagreed with, they could never be crossed. How were you to find satisfaction in this? How were you to find peace of mind? People were aspiring to the condition of sharks, not because they were becoming more predatory but because they could not rest or they would sink and drown. The gurus of business, pimping for instability, were always saying that the Chinese pictogram for problem was also the sign for opportunity. But he knew they must be wrong. It must have been a translation thing. The synonyms for problem were pretty much invariant no matter what the tongue: difficulty and riddle, puzzle and doubt, quandary and snarl and mess.