The Wisdom of Crocodiles

by Paul Hoffman

  He practised with it at every opportunity into a warm late autumn. All through the winter whenever the cloud base was high enough he jumped, learning its virtues and vices. As summer came in and the days lengthened, he jumped after work. I’d hear him arriving home at ten o’clock and would creep downstairs to have a cup of tea with them both and eat from his plate as he told my mother about the evening jump. Often we’d go with him and you could instantly recognise which one he was as the chutes deployed. The others would fall in their predictable descents but he would wheel and bank, turn into the wind, away from the target and back. It was rare that he was more than fifty centimetres away from the red circle and more and more consistently he’d put his foot on the dead centre once a day and sometimes twice.

  In early August, a month before his trip to compete in the US championship, he was booked to jump at Biggin Hill, an RAF base where there was to be a celebration of the Battle of Britain. A crowd of two hundred thousand traffic-jammed their way onto the enormous airfield where Tannoys in all their metallic, railway-station incomprehensibility signalled the start and end of every act: Vulcans like flabby Concordes V-shaped their way across the sky; silver Electric lightnings broke the speed of sound above our heads; snatches of music from the military bands mingled with the sound of automatic blanks from a pretend assault on plasterboard citadels by men in khaki hamming it up in the centre of the field.

  Halfway through the afternoon we scanned the blue sky for the Rapide; two hundred thousand faces, hands above eyes, watching for the fall. And then it came: one, two, three, four. The bodies fell, picking up speed and size. We counted them down to ten. Three of them opened; one kept falling. Thirteen, fourteen . . .

  ‘No,’ my mother said, softly. Then she started to run. I stayed where I was, watching the fall. Others began to run, passing me by. It had happened before, these lengthier drops when something went wrong. Still he kept falling. There was a movement of arms, a twist of his body; the stop.

  My father was dead.

  Few deaths, I imagine, are so abrupt and absolute, yet give the man who dies such time to consider the relationship between the awful mass of the world to which he is falling and the mysterious fundamental force pulling him to his most sudden death. There are many horrible ways for people to die: death by fire, by water or by slow disease. But what is so terrible about these deaths is the pain and suffering that accompany an end that is the logical result of what is killing them. The inhalation of water, the burning of skin, the wasting of a body is dreadful, in itself to be avoided. But for my father, and for my father’s son, the free fall was the point. I know that it served him right. By now having taken the plunge so many more times than him, I know that men were not made for falling, to be without weight, and that there can be no complaints for what was freely chosen. But even now I ask myself what was responsible for his death. Animal spirits? Class? The new technology? All of these, certainly. But in the end it was the banking policies of the age that killed him. Money that broke him. The squeeze on credit robbed me of my dad. He fell to earth because of economics.

  It’s over thirty years ago but it still surprises me how walking past a church tower or some pillared monument can take me back; still watching him balanced precisely on his hands in the tall and leaning distance of the Tower of Pisa; or how, early in the morning, just between waking and sleeping, the sound of the central heating coming on becomes the intermittent drone of a Rapide, and I can see the faces turned upward into the sun and the wide expanse of short grass moved by the wind.

  And my father, falling.

  Secret Voices

  You may be familiar with Kant’s remark that out of the crooked timber of humanity no straight thing was ever made. But what if, instead of a lament, we treat this merely as an observation? It would follow that perfection for human beings is an irrelevance, something that would break or split. Abolish notions of the straight, the level, the vertical and rectilinear and understand that perfectionism is a blasphemy against the human; idealism is the enemy of life. Elegance, said Einstein, is for tailors. Perfection for human beings is deadly or banal: it ends in a gulag; or a Barbie doll.

  Louis Bris, The Wisdom of Crocodiles

  Winnicott tried to open his eyes. He was desperate to stay asleep but sure that he had to get up for an important appointment. He forced his eyes open but once he saw the tiny room with its white walls and bright light he panicked. Was he awake? Where is this? It is the toilet on the third floor he told himself. How long he had been unconscious? He waited for a few moments and then got up slowly, unlocked the door and came out into the washroom. He looked at himself: white, gaunt, haunted, the bright light thinning the hair on his head.

  His stomach heaved, then his chest. Something surged into his throat as if it were alive. He staggered back against the wall, cried out in terror and began to speak: ‘You’re going to have to let me tell them,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘I’m sorry, but this is not the kind of thing I can keep to myself any more. I know the . . .’ The voice stopped, trying to find the right word, frustrated as it struggled to do so. ‘. . . design . . . end . . . consequence . . . the meaning of life.’

  It was gone. He stood there for five minutes staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like a man of eighty. He tried using his fingers as a comb, pushing and scrabbling and rubbing his hair into a presentable state.

  Slowly he walked out of the washroom and past Lucy, still huddled at her desk with the boy from the IT department. He swallowed hard and went back into his office.

  There was a brief pause and then McCarthy spoke. ‘Howard just had a thought . . . we waited for you.’

  How long?

  Cornish began to talk enthusiastically. ‘I was just thinking it through. I mean, obviously the point is not to get caught – to bury whatever you’ve done so deeply no one could ever really find out what you’d been up to. The thing is, when you’re dealing with large sums to insure an oil rig, say, and it explodes, OK, there are advantages to that. You could make big money on a commission because there’s a lot of money involved. But it also means that when whoever you’ve deceived has got to pay out – what? – three thousand million pounds, they take a damned good look at the way the contract was arrived at before they pay up. If you’ve screwed the figures they’ll find it. OK, you could take the risk that an oil rig won’t explode. But there’s a better way – and I don’t think there’s much chance of getting caught.’

  A mobile trilled. Gasping with irritation, Cornish opened his briefcase and switched it off. The interruption had put him off his stride.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Where was I? Right. No one would believe you if you calculated unrealistic odds, but with the kind of money involved here you only need to shave a few per cent to undercut your rivals by enormous sums, but you get the commission on the whole lot. That’s if it’s just an assessor and actuary fraud. Anyway . . .’ his face creased under the effort, like an explorer confronted with the choice of a dozen paths, ‘let’s keep it simple. An actuary can calculate the odds in different ways perfectly legitimately. I mean, it’s just a form of gambling. You can use – within limits – the figures optimistically or pessimistically. There are different figures you can use particularly when the data is limited – there’s not much in the way of experience to go on when it comes to really big disasters. So . . . all you do is consistently interpret the odds at a realistic but always optimistic level. Your calculations show the rig is less likely to blow up than other actuaries’ more pessimistic calculations.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be obvious that you’d always done that?’ said McCarthy.

  Cornish seemed deflated and said nothing for a moment. ‘No, think about it,’ he said. ‘They might suspect . . . would suspect. But what could they prove? That’s the issue, isn’t it, for you? You’ve got to prove a guilty intent. That’s right?’

  McCarthy nodded.

  ‘How are you going to prove that – if all the figures are real
istic. I mean prove it in a court of law.’ He laughed. ‘So, first the disaster’s got to happen – and it might not – then they’ve got to find the figures are a bit odd. They probably will – but they might not either. Then you’ve got to prove beyond reasonable doubt that they did this with the intent to defraud.’ He grunted. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He was about to move to the door when he stopped and said to McCarthy, ‘You know, if you were clever and it was the right kind of risk, maybe, you could even avoid suspicion when they checked you. I mean, what I’d do is throw in a few unusually pessimistic figures as well, and some middling ones. You’d still be able to come out optimistic – unrealistically so in the end. But if you camouflaged it well enough it wouldn’t even be suspicious. After all, the calculation could even be right – actuaries make guesses. We’re not talking about certainty here, just probabilities.’ He smiled. ‘This is beginning to make my head spin. I’ll talk to you.’ He looked over at Winnicott, white and vacant. ‘Nice to have met you, Mr Winnicott.’

  ‘I’ll show you out, Howard,’ said McCarthy and followed after him.

  Later that afternoon Winnicott was in his office distractedly attempting to solve E13. He couldn’t settle to work. He was tense and bewildered at what was happening to him, but unable to think calmly, so it was better not to think at all for the moment. It’s probably the blow to the head. Thirteen letters after E in the alphabet is R. You came back too quickly ER stands for Elizabeth Regina. Queen Elizabeth has fourteen letters. You need a holiday. Remember to check the postal district E13. Can’t remember it. Why can’t I? Just wait and it will stop. A few more days. If it happens again . . .

  Lucy walked in and put several papers on his desk.

  ‘Thank you, Lucy,’ he said without looking up, hoping she would take it as a signal not to interrupt.

  ‘Pat Shepherd rang to cancel your meeting with Boyd Gribben.’

  Winnicott sighed with irritation. It was the second cancellation.

  ‘She was very apologetic.’

  ‘Please make another one,’ said Winnicott, almost inaudible with exhaustion. Then irritation flared up in him. ‘And you can make it as clear as you like that I don’t want to hear this a third time.’

  She was pleased at this robust response, and left the office full of enthusiasm for the phone call ahead.

  Geoff Healey was in a bad temper. Roache sat on the other side of the office listening to the radio. It was Virgin. Healey knew this not because he was a frequent listener to commercial radio but because of a deep-seated insecurity on the part of the DJs. They knew the audience loved Virgin Radio, but they seemed convinced that most of the listeners were dreadfully afflicted by a medical condition that gave them the memories of goldfish. If not reminded every five seconds that they were, in fact, already tuned in to their favourite radio station, their endlessly amnesiac congregation would forget and might at any time twiddle the dial and tragically vanish in search of the beloved station they were, in fact, already listening to. Healey was about to tell Roache to switch it off when a brief commercial for the news at midday interrupted the prattle and endless songs by Phil Collins, an artist for whom Healey had long harboured a deep loathing. To his surprise, the second most important item – the lead being an exclusive on whether or not the station’s owner was really having sex with one of the Spice Girls – concerned the fact that the new Governor of the Bank of England was about to announce his first decision on interest rates. ‘What will Charley decide?’ asked the DJ chummily. ‘Will it be up – or will it be down? Find out the good or bad news for your credit card at twelve today. Virgin – first with all the news that matters.’

  Healey’s mobile rang. ‘Switch that bloody thing off,’ he said to Roache as he picked it up. ‘Healey speaking.’

  ‘Geoff, it’s Snowy here. Look, we’ve just had a call from a woman who lived in the flat opposite Maria Vaughan. She says she saw her outside in the street two days after she disappeared. She was with a man and they were having a big row.’

  ‘What’s her number?’

  ‘Seven. Same block. Phone number . . .’

  Two hours later, Healey and Roache were back at the station going through the statement they’d been given by Maria Vaughan’s neighbour, and file checking for anyone who might answer the description of the man she’d been arguing with in the street; but there was no denying it could have been Steven Grlscz.

  ‘Do you want me to recheck the dates with Grlscz? See what he’s got to say for himself?’

  ‘No.’

  Roache was surprised. ‘You’re just going to put him straight on an identity parade?’

  ‘I want to think about it. The problem is that the woman didn’t get all that good a look, whatever she says. The description of the man is pretty vague and she only caught a few seconds of the row they were having. More to the point, she didn’t see Maria’s face. She just recognised her voice and that it looked like her from the back.’

  Roache looked at him slyly. ‘Did you notice who else fitted the description she gave us?’

  Healey realised he was being teased. ‘It wasn’t much of a description, was it?’

  Roache smiled. ‘No, it wasn’t – but even so. I mean, after all, it could have been a description of me, but it couldn’t have been one of you. Still can’t think who else it could be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘George Winnicott.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No. Look at it. About six foot, dark hair, between thirty-five and forty-five, long, thin face, well dressed.’ Roache smirked. ‘Makes you think.’

  This was alarming. Healey was sure Winnicott couldn’t have been involved. It was impossible. But then a flicker of doubt. It’s never entirely impossible. Of course it was nonsense. All this could do was alienate Winnicott when he might need him on his side to keep his wife out of trouble. On the other hand, Roache was right. The description did fit him. He couldn’t just ignore it, could he? What if he was involved? Failing to look into it when it had been brought to his attention would be wrong – pure and simple. He sighed and looked at Roache. ‘So what you’re suggesting is that I bring in the former Head of the Anti-Terrorist Squad, now Director of the Fraud Secretariat, and stick him in a line-up just in case he might have done away with his goddaughter?’

  ‘There are loads of photos of Winnicott around. Why don’t we just show her a dozen different pictures of slim, tall, dark-haired men and put one of him in it. Simple. We could stick in one of Vaughan’s psychiatrist as well – what’s his name? Hendrix. He fits the description pretty well, too. Nine times out of ten the murderer is well known to the victim. In fact, why don’t we put Hendrix in the line-up?’ Roache smiled unpleasantly. ‘Nobody will kick up a fuss if we annoy a psychiatrist or whatever the bloody hell he calls himself.’

  It was with a mixture of the deepest trepidation and an emotion she could not identify that Jane Healey walked down from Holborn tube towards Trevor Hat’s bookshop to begin her new career in pornography. She arrived just before nine thirty and was spotted by a young man of twenty-odd with short hair and a bad complexion. He opened the door for her deferentially. Hat was on the other side of the shop looking out of the window with Gordon and another young man of twenty-five or so, neatly dressed in a green Lacoste T-shirt and a pair of sharply creased trousers. Hat was passing judgement on the women walking past the shop.

  ‘That one on the left has got a sweet little bottom but, dear oh dear, look at the one on the right. Last time I saw a mouth like that it had a hook in it. Look at her nose – it’s like a cormorant.’ He shouted at her, merely for the benefit of the others because the glass was thick. ‘Hey, darling, how much do you charge to haunt a house, then?’ The others smirked. The boy standing next to Jane shuffled awkwardly. ‘Uh . . . boss,’ he said at last.

  Hat turned round. ‘Ah, Mrs Percy, good to see you. Let me introduce my lads. Lads, this is our new bookkeeper, Mrs Percy. You
will be courteous to her because she is going to ensure you all get paid on time and that shitehawk Cronin gets off my back. Any one of them gives you any cheek, Mrs Percy, just say the word. I’ll put his lippy arse through the blender.’ The three looked uncomfortable, as if they suspected the threat was not metaphorical. ‘The one next to you is Kevin.’ Kevin nodded shyly. ‘The smart one here is Neil, and you’re already an intimate of Gordon’s, eh?’ He leered at the uneasy-looking Gordon. ‘Right then, your office. If you’d step this way.’ He headed for the stairs. Jane followed, her stomach plunging as if in a lift.

  He talked over his shoulder at her as he went down the wide stairs. ‘I forgot to mention that the office is through the other side of the basement, so you’ll have to come back and forth sometimes when the customers are in. That won’t bother you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, as they reached the floor. It was L-shaped, with magazines on floor-to-ceiling shelves completely covering the walls and with another smaller rack in the middle of the room facing both ways. There were an assortment of videotapes in glass cabinets down the, stairwell, but she’d only taken in two of the covers, one of a woman vainly attempting to get an erection whose head was the size of a lampshade into her mouth and another of two women, fully clothed, wrestling. He unlocked a door in the side of the room. It was a small, sparsely furnished office with natural light coming from a thick pavement window in the ceiling. He took her through the various ledgers for the next half-hour, maintaining a quiet, even gentle, tone.

  ‘Do you want to discuss the tax matters?’

  ‘Oh . . . not just now. Get settled in and we’ll talk about it at the end of the week. Friday’s OK, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Fine.’

  Kevin walked through the door. ‘There’s a secretary on the phone. Says the managing director of Electric Blue wants a word.’