The Wisdom of Crocodiles

by Paul Hoffman

  Howard Cornish’s mobile trilled. Normally he would let the message service take it and call back; he considered it the height of bad manners to answer his mobile in the middle of a conversation. But he was in Italy and had no intention of phoning England later and adding hugely to his already alarming bill. It was Michael McCarthy’s snooty PA asking him to put back their meeting at the Fraud Secretariat by a couple of days. He would have to phone her back anyway because he had left his diary in the hotel. He put the phone back in his pocket and turned to the man waiting patiently beside him.

  ‘Sorry about that. How long did it take to build?’

  ‘Well, it was started on the ninth of August . . .’ Barton put down his wooden tray of core samples and muttered calculations, ‘finished on . . . the twenty-eighth of March.’ He screwed up his eyes, double-checking. ‘So that’s a hundred and seventy-five years.’

  Howard Cornish looked up at the Tower of Pisa, squinting into the sun. He turned back to Barton. ‘Hard to imagine what it must be like, thinking in that way. I mean, it’s incomprehensible now, sort of extinct, an idea like that. Can you imagine completing a building now begun in, what, 1825?’

  Barton smiled. ‘Mind you, things were different then. Building styles hardly altered between the twelfth century and the middle of the thirteenth, so you wouldn’t have the problems you have now. You’d have a delicate Regency style at the bottom and a lot of exposed post-modern pipework at the top. They didn’t really have styles in the Middle Ages. This your first trip?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cornish looked back at him. ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  ‘You’re assessing the risk for the insurance company.’

  ‘That’s right.’ There was a brief silence. ‘You were going to show me the lead weights.’

  Barton led him off towards the north foot of the tower. On the way they passed two blue-jeaned, white-T-shirted men hanging from the upper storeys of the tower in slings and harnesses, easy and confident of their physical strength.

  Barton saw him watching. ‘They’re putting the last of eighteen steel cables around the base at first-gallery level. You see, the tower won’t actually fall, as such – not overbalance. It’ll effectively explode at this point because this is where the leaning has caused the greatest stress in the masonry. The cables will act as a kind of corset. Combined with this.’ He stopped in front of an enormous, squat, canvas-covered square. He pulled back the canvas to reveal a dull metal. ‘Lead. This is the north side and it leans to the south. We’re gradually loading the ground on the opposite side to equalise the pressure on the soil on this side.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘It’s not very elegant but it’ll stabilise things till we decide on a permanent solution.’

  Cornish stared up at the tower for almost a full minute, hearing the cries of the labourers, the distant clatter of metal on metal and feeling the sun and wind on his face.

  ‘Are you sure there is a permanent solution? After all, they’ve been trying to stop the tower from falling over for eight hundred years.’ Cornish smiled softly. ‘And all they’ve ever done is made the problem worse.’

  ‘We understand the problem better now, how complex it is.’

  ‘They thought the same thing in 1934, didn’t they? That they understood exactly what needed to be done. I believe their attempts resulted in the biggest lurch to the ground since it was built.’

  Barton looked at him. A man who’s done his homework, he thought. ‘You’re right about the 1934 attempt. I mean soil mechanics was a proper science by then. The trouble was that they thought they understood pretty much everything . . . the whole story. They didn’t.’

  ‘But you understand it?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t say that. But we understand what we don’t understand. What I said earlier about measuring carefully and moving slowly. We understand a lot of what’s going on but not all of it. If we observe it all carefully as we intervene, then we’ll know that it’s working and have a good idea why. Keep to that principle: know as much as you can and don’t get carried away with theories about things that are beyond you – then I don’t think you can go far wrong. That’s why we’re more likely to succeed. The most important law of medicine is the most important law of stabilising large complex structures: first, do no harm.’ He took out a cigarette and lit up. ‘Let’s go back to the hut. There are some drawings you should see.’

  It was pleasantly cool in the site office. Barton spread out a plan like an architect’s blueprint. The tower, leaning to the south, was meticulously drawn: bell-tower, galleries, steel restraining girdles and six hundred tonnes of lead weight. Beneath these were the foundations, and beneath these the striated layers of soil: silty sand over clayey silt, over upper clay, over interclay, over inter-sand, over lower clay, over sand; at depths of 3 metres, 6 metres, 10 metres, 21 metres, 25.5 metres, 27.5 metres and 40 metres.

  ‘Right, the most likely permanent solution is to induce a controlled subsidence of the north foundations so that the whole structure tilts back to the centre by about half a degree. That’ll reduce the tensions in the masonry where we’ve put the steel girdle by about ten per cent.’

  ‘It all seems very straightforward,’ said Cornish. ‘Will it work?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be a long time before we actually do anything. We’ve been trying out a new computer system called NEMO to simulate all the different ways of stabilising the tower.’ He wondered whether he should have mentioned NEMO. After three months he would have been hard pressed to say whether the computer was a help or a hindrance. It came up with useful information about as often as it talked rubbish. ‘Basically there are three ways of doing it, but the method I favour at the moment is to drive a series of small tunnels through the upper clay on the north side and dig out some soil so it subsides into the space. A slow process and very carefully done.’

  Cornish nodded. ‘It certainly seems elegant, but so was the 1934 effort . . . on paper. And this is still on paper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barton quickly, now fired up with enthusiasm, ‘but there’s a difference. Our theoretical models are better. But it’s more than that. We’re monitoring the effects incredibly closely and changing it all so slowly. Nobody’s going to pursue a mad theory. Look, nobody understands soil,’ he said, ‘but I know a lot about it. We have the best computer models available, but we’re not just going to rely on computers. We’re going to test everything out on a site near here where the soil structure is almost identical. We’re not taking chances. I can’t say it too often – we’ll move a hair’s breadth at a time. Like the Chancellor of the Exchequer I believe it’s necessary to be decisive – but not until I’ve had a long talk with my three wives: Prudence, Prudence and Prudence.’

  Cornish laughed. ‘I’d like to have a look at this site of yours.’

  ‘Fine.’ Barton began to move to the door but as he did so the computer pinged at him. It was, thought Cornish, both odd and familiar, like the sound of a doorbell coming out of an expensive loudspeaker. It was clear that Barton was pretending nothing had happened.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Cornish. Barton looked slightly shifty. ‘The program I was telling you about earlier . . . it has a sort of facility . . . it takes all the information we put into it and it searches all the databases it’s got access to and the Internet. It’s supposed to work a bit like computer brainstorming. It pings like that when it’s got something to tell you. I don’t use it,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Interesting. Would you mind? Just for nosiness’ sake.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Barton, hiding his reluctance. He typed, hoping to God it didn’t come up with any of its more lunatic ideas. Fortunately he had switched off the voice because it got on his nerves.

  Professor Barton, were you aware that your preferred method for stabilising the Tower of Pisa by the use of soil extraction was first used to stabilise the tower of St Chad in Wynbunbury, Cheshire, in 1832?

  ‘Interesting,’ sa
id Cornish. ‘Were you aware?’

  ‘Only since my first year studying soil science at Imperial,’ said Barton dismissively. ‘Like I said, I don’t pay much attention to this stuff. Where it’s useful is in building models of collapse.’ Barton pressed the escape button and the presumptuous question vanished. Then he started typing. ‘I’ve tried every way I know to bring the tower down. Using this I’ve found fifty ways to do it using best current practice for stabilising buildings. I’m not going to let this happen in real life.’

  Cornish looked at the screen. Over and over again, slowly, catastrophically, NEMO was causing the Leaning Tower of Pisa to fall to the ground.

  ‘How did you feel about not being at your mother’s funeral?’

  Hendrix noted how expressionless Winnicott’s face was and the effort that was going into keeping it that way. He was looking out of the window as if mulling over something impersonal.

  ‘I suppose some people might rather resent not being even asked if they wanted to go to the funeral . . . but I don’t, again, think my father did anything dreadful. In any case, I don’t think I would have wanted to go.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

  Winnicott breathed in deeply. ‘The idea that you have to get out and grieve with other people and tear your hair and tear your clothes . . . which, it’s a fashionable idea, I suppose, that this is somehow better than grieving in silence and grieving on your own.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose you would disagree.’

  ‘Well,’ replied Hendrix cautiously, ‘these seem to be extreme ways of looking at it. I mean grieving in public needn’t involve anything as dramatic as you suggest. Most people, in this country anyway, admire reticence. Hair tearing is definitely frowned on.’

  ‘What about all that nonsense over Diana?’

  Hendrix laughed. ‘Fair enough, but we could spend a few weeks on that one alone. From my point of view, whatever it was all about, it just proves my belief that the English are the weirdest nation on earth. But to be honest, I prefer to do my own weeping in private.’

  ‘Do you cry a lot?’

  ‘Hardly ever. I rather wish I could. It clearly does some people a power of good. But the tears won’t come. We have more in common than you think, perhaps.’

  ‘I can cry,’ said Winnicott. ‘Don’t think I can’t.’ He was impressed by Hendrix’s openness. ‘Certain bars of music can make me cry almost as automatically as a peeled onion. And I cried when my dog had to be put down. But news of bereavement doesn’t make me cry. Of course I don’t need a psychiatrist to tell me that this is because of the news of this terrible event when I was thirteen. But you’d have thought I wouldn’t be able to cry at all, wouldn’t you?’ Winnicott did not expect an answer to this, nor did Hendrix offer one. ‘But you know,’ he continued, ‘I think disappointment is the . . . is one of the aspects of bereavement which is not discussed. As much as anything else – sheer bloody disappointment.’ Hendrix had never heard him swear before. ‘You’d expected them to be there . . . they should have been there, you . . . they should be here now.’ He looked at Hendrix. ‘You know, “Why haven’t they arrived?” How self-centred of them not to come, how unfeeling. How inconsiderate . . .’ he paused, ‘not to live.’ He smiled. ‘I think there’s a lot of that: disappointment at their lack of consideration for not living.’

  ‘How do you think her death has affected you as an adult?’

  ‘You mean in my relationships? Isn’t that what one must always discuss?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Hendrix neutrally.

  Winnicott considered whether or not he would continue. ‘There’s a point, I suppose, beyond which I won’t go . . . or can’t go. As I told you, I can cry, I just can’t cry about anything terrible. I know that. I’m not an emotional person in the sense that I might have been if my mother had lived. Perhaps I would have been more spontaneous. Who knows? Possibly not. That was the hand I was given. I remember watching a documentary when I was about fifteen about an African tribe where the women had these neck rings – they put another ring around their necks every few months or so, until after a dozen years their necks were stretched so that they were incredibly long.’ He looked at Hendrix to gauge whether he knew what he was talking about.

  Hendrix nodded.

  ‘Apparently, well-meaning missionaries in the nineteenth century tried to take them off. The women suffocated. Life changes you sometimes and you can’t always do anything about it. And it’s dangerous to try. I suppose you can’t accept that.’

  ‘It depends. I think for certain people therapy can be harmful for the reasons you say. Obviously I’d have to find another job if I accepted it completely. The women and the rings – it’s a good analogy. But the point I’d want to make is that your rings don’t seem to be holding you up any more – otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  Winnicott was not obviously bothered by this. ‘That’s fair, I suppose, but the fact that I’m here doesn’t mean that I accept – and I don’t mean to be rude – that anything you say has real . . .’ he searched for the right word with difficulty, ‘validity,’ he said at last.

  Hendrix again noticed the gradual increase in Winnicott’s nominal aphasia.

  ‘It’s plausible that my mother’s death had a huge impact on me – I’m not denying that. But if I am . . . If I have some problems now it doesn’t mean that that has anything to do with it. I was a policeman for twenty years and I can’t tell you how often a plausible theory turned out to be completely wrong. Lots of things are plausible and wrong. Maybe it’s entirely a physical problem. I haven’t ruled that out and neither can you. We may be, perhaps we probably are, barking up entirely the wrong tree.’ His smile was both provocative and sly.

  Hendrix changed the subject. ‘How does your wife feel about the way you’ve come to deal with things?’

  ‘You mean, does she resent the fact that I’m not more open with my emotions?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I was nearly thirty when she met me. I was pretty much the same person I am now. And I’d say she’s less emotional than I am in many ways – at least, less willing to go on about feelings in the way women are supposed to want to do all the time. She’s a reserved person and I admire her reticence. Now there’s an admission,’ he added mockingly.

  ‘So you get on well?’

  ‘As I said before, we have our ups and downs like everyone else. But to be honest I’d rather not discuss her, not just because it bothers me, but because it would bother her. Her great dislike is of being exposed. She would feel it a betrayal, I think, to be talked about here.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you to that effect?’

  ‘I may have as little insight into myself and others as you think, but that’s something I do understand. She does not want to be discussed. She despises people who drone on about their emotional problems.’

  ‘So what does she think about your coming here?’

  There was a long pause, during which Winnicott’s expression did not change. ‘She doesn’t know,’ he said at last.

  Lucy Bradd knocked and entered Winnicott’s office, followed by a tall, slightly stooped man whose eyes scanned the room with a forensic attention to detail. He gave the impression he could tell almost everything that had happened there in the recent past from a discarded cigarette, or the chewed end of the visitor’s forgotten Biro, and that to shake his hand would be like going to confession after many absent years.

  ‘How are you, Michael?’ he said to McCarthy. McCarthy was clearly pleased to see him.

  ‘Howard, let me introduce the new director of the Fraud Secretariat. George Winnicott – Howard Cornish.’

  Winnicott took his hand. It was a powerful grip but effortlessly so; he was not demonstrating anything, he was simply very strong. Cornish sat down.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ said McCarthy beaming at Cornish with pleasure.

  ‘I’ve just come from Pisa – looking into this attempt to stop the tower from collapsing
. Fascinating stuff.’

  ‘I’ve been reading about it in the papers. I went there with my father when I was a boy,’ said McCarthy.

  Cornish laughed. ‘Well, if you want to take your own son, Michael, it might be wise to do the trip sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Is it really in danger of collapsing?’ said Winnicott.

  ‘I hope not. But if there wasn’t any risk of it falling, they wouldn’t be paying me to try and find out how big that risk actually is. So,’ he continued briskly, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘We’ve had information about a possible fraud. Obviously at this stage I can’t identify those who may be involved. There are indications that there might be some kind of collusion between insurance salesmen over large-scale projects and the actuaries calculating the figures on which the premiums have been based and . . . presumably . . . any underwriting of that risk by second parties.’

  ‘I see,’ said a puzzled Cornish. ‘Or rather I don’t really. Better give me the details.’

  McCarthy glanced at Winnicott who was looking on impassively. McCarthy quickly summarised what information they had. ‘Not a lot to go on, I realise,’ said McCarthy when he’d finished. ‘But there are questions about the probity of their dealings elsewhere which are much more substantial, and given this is more your field, what we were hoping was that you might give us an idea of the kind of fraud they might be involved in. What would you do in this area if you wanted to rip someone off?’ Cornish breathed in and out heavily and stroked the skin on his neck, but said nothing. ‘I mean, we’re not asking for anything specific, just whether there could be anything in this . . . give us some idea of what we could pursue. Don’t feel it has to be watertight.’

  ‘Sort of brainstorming?’ offered Cornish.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘We’re talking about oil rigs, for example – that kind of thing?’

  McCarthy nodded. Cornish said nothing for a while. Then he started to speak. ‘I’ll have to think about this but just off the top of my head: if the person negotiating the deal is on a percentage of that deal, then obviously they’d benefit from the sale. If price is the biggest issue, you could see him conspire with the actuary who works out the chances of the oil rig being destroyed in a storm or an explosion. He could get him to produce figures which lengthened the odds and so lowered the premium . . . so he gets the sale and the commission, which he splits with the actuary.’