Justice Mirror

by Simon Hall

  Roger had decided against studying for a degree, but instead left school to go into business. In the sixth form, he’d been given work experience at a couple of local companies. His time there was fondly remembered, because of his politeness and willingness to listen and learn, but also one striking feature. He always carried a notepad and would jot down the slightest experience, tip or sliver of advice.

  The contacts he made and the impression he left brought Roger the job of a trainee at a carpeting company. It was new and growing, and the future looked optimistic. But Roger stayed for only a year.

  In interviews afterwards, he said it was long enough to learn all he could from the firm, and more importantly to save up the money required for his next move: the tradition of taking on a market stall.

  He worked punishing hours, but fared well. The following year Roger Newman opened his first store on the edge of the city. The year after, it took over the pet shop next door and doubled in size. Twelve months later, a second store opened. And after three more years there were 12 branches of Roger’s Rugs across Devon and Cornwall, with plans to begin an expansion outside of the region.

  ***

  Roger had never been shy of the media, and the briefing contained a series of interviews he’d given. In one, an admirably cheeky reporter had asked, ‘Given your success in business, and your wealth, is there anything missing in your life?’

  The answer had taken a few seconds to come, the article said. When it did, the words were thoughtful and heartfelt. The desire to have a family was perhaps the sole remaining ambition.

  At the time Roger Newman was 28 years old. His company had expanded across much of England and the tally of stores was now 94. The symbolic century would soon be passed.

  Then, as if to mark the man’s 30th birthday, came a surprise announcement. Roger was engaged. Rachel Hawker was three years his junior and a solicitor. They had been introduced at a dinner party by some friends who had taken up the quiet art of matchmaking.

  The wedding was a lavish affair, at a stately home in Cornwall overlooking the River Tamar. Pictures filled the papers. Faces glowed with happiness. The following year a girl was born, Annette Louise Newman.

  All was set fair and Roger’s high profile waned. He was devoting his time to the twin demands of business and a young family; plenty enough to occupy any man.

  Until the next story came to dominate the news. Rachel had left the family home to live with a barrister, as if one lawyer in a household was not enough. There were reports of attempts at reconciliation, but they came to nothing. In the sad, modern-day way, to the courts they went to contest custody of Annette.

  To the surprise of many, Roger won. He could afford the finest of lawyers, but the briefing notes said it was his personal plea which had been decisive. In tears, obviously genuine and all the more powerful for that, he argued he had the means, but most importantly the love to bring up Annette.

  Why, he ended his address, should a woman who had left, taking much of his heart, also take his only child?

  ***

  Once more, the life of Roger Newman quietened. Annette was growing up and, as he had promised, fatherhood was taking much of the man’s time.

  But the pain of the separation was still evident. As often happens with people who suffer a loss, Roger looked to put new meaning into his world. He set up a charity to help children born to the kind of background he knew on the Eddystone Estate. Significant sums of money were invested in better teaching, buildings and equipment, and a series of scholarships founded.

  Time and again, Roger spoke out as a passionate advocate of the comprehensive system of education.

  ‘Look at what happened to me,’ he said in one speech to a teaching union conference. ‘I was made by good teachers. They’re an inspiration. We need more investment for more good teachers so we can transform the lives of thousands of children.’

  As an unlikely alma mater, Eddystone Comprehensive benefited from Roger’s generosity. It was refurbished and started to shed its reputation as a dumping ground for problem children. A new wing, dedicated to the study of business, was named after him.

  It was rumoured Roger Newman was being considered for an award for his charitable work. Perhaps an MBE, or maybe even an OBE. But now came the sting.

  Annette reached the end of her days in junior school. The moment arrived to decide where she would spend her years of secondary education. And Roger sent her to a private school: Imperial, just outside Plymouth, an austere and imposing Victorian estate in the Devon countryside.

  Stories immediately littered the press. Business rivals and educational experts fired accusations of hypocrisy. The mooted award of an honour never came to pass.

  Roger attempted some justifications. It was essential, he said, that Annette would be able to board when business increasingly required him to travel. But the words were lost leaves in the wind. Even to Dan, reading the notes of the time, they sounded half-hearted.

  Roger toughed it out. He was a successful businessman, well-used to ploughing a furrow over uneven ground. But, as so often is the case, it was the attack from within which caused the real damage.

  ***

  As Dan knew very well, the teenage changes can bring a spectrum of disorders. Some youngsters barely notice, others plunge off the road in a screaming fireball.

  For Annette, the transition age was 14, and the troubles perhaps middling. There had been a warning from Imperial after she was caught in a clinch with a boy in a copse behind the tennis courts. Another followed with the discovery of the dreadful crime of smuggling a half bottle of vodka into a dormitory.

  But largely it was the standard adult way. Stern faces and disappointed disapproval in public, amusement in private.

  Then, however, Annette discovered the dangerous land of politics, conscience and belief. She began to burn with resentment at her privileged surroundings. The injustice of so very much of the world had to be tackled.

  Cue, of course, the taking of more deep breaths from teachers and father. It was just a phase. It would pass.

  Until the day came when Annette disappeared from school. She was missing for almost 24 hours. Fellow pupils, teachers and Roger himself had to endure the sight of police officers beating their way through the woods, divers scouring ponds and rivers. All in a search for that which can never be said.

  Dan had been away on holiday at the time, walking another section of the South West Coast Path with Rutherford. They stayed in north Cornwall, tackling the toughest part of the trek. Some of the climbs were so steep it would have been little surprise to find the cliff tops capped with snow. Dan was vaguely aware of the story, but it was only a brief episode, a flare of interest, nothing significant to cause it to linger in the mind.

  Annette returned to Imperial the next day. She just walked back in past two bemused police officers. She had booked into a cheap bed and breakfast, the kind where they take little notice of the clientele and even less of the frenzy unfolding in the news. The time she had taken, she announced, was ‘to escape these cloying surroundings’ and ‘find herself ’.

  What she found instead was a brief suspension, a father both enraged and tearful, and an iron lecture from a superintendent.

  The root of Annette’s grudge was only revealed the following month when Roger invited the media to witness their reconciliation. It was a bizarre event, but one which was held at Annette’s request.

  She had been teased about her father’s hypocrisy by a fellow pupil. She looked up his tributes to state education, plentiful as they were across the internet, and began to simmer with anger. A lesson must be taught she said. And so, she believed, it had been.

  The pair were photographed, filmed and interviewed at home, cooking a symbolic meal together. A deal had been reached. Annette would continue her studies at Imperial, whilst devoting her spare time to good causes. Roger’s fortune would be used to fund the work.

  One such project was the Soup and Sandwiches Mission for
the homeless. Annette insisted it be carried out on Friday nights, to emphasise the inequalities of society. While some partied, others sought only food and shelter.

  And so her work went on. Until yesterday evening.

  ***

  The thump of the window being pulled shut summoned Dan back from the past. The clock had ticked around to seven.

  Adam, who was watching the police station entrance below, now strode for the door and stepped fast down the stairs.

  ‘He’s here,’ was all the detective needed to say.

  Chapter Nine

  Roger Newman had the firm handshake that must be a job requirement for the successful businessman, but it was laced with a hint of his suffering. There was a clamminess to the grip which lingered on the palm.

  Adam fussed over him, talking about how he understood what a difficult time this was, but greatly appreciated Newman agreeing to the interview.

  ‘Anything,’ he replied simply. ‘If it could help.’

  His voice was husky with tiredness. Adam guided him to the chair and Newman sat slowly, found a silver flask in his jacket pocket and took a long draw. The sweet scent of whisky tinted the air.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just – helping me get by.’

  Every profession has its uniform and Newman had done his duty to the empire of business. He wore a black suit, blue shirt and dark tie. Dan caught Nigel’s comment of a frown.

  ‘I usually enjoy being interviewed,’ Newman said. ‘Who doesn’t like talking about themselves, if they’re honest? But this… I’ve been fretting about it all night.’

  ‘We’ll make sure it comes out well, don’t worry,’ Dan replied. ‘On the subject of which…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your suit.’

  Newman fingered a lapel which had been lovingly shaped by a doting Italian tailor. ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s very smart.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Great for a business meeting.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘This isn’t about business. It’s about being a father.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘A more relaxed approach might look better. We want the kidnappers to see you and Annette as ordinary people.’

  ‘This is my best suit,’ Newman protested. ‘What you would prefer? Ripped jeans and a baseball cap?’ He looked across at Adam, who in turn looked to Katrina. Dan couldn’t help thinking it was like a game of pass the parcel – or buck.

  ‘Any advantage we can get, we should take,’ she said gently. ‘Sometimes the smallest of details can settle these cases.’

  Newman got up from the chair and removed his jacket. He was about to sit back down, but Dan let out a pointed cough.

  ‘What is it now?’

  The benevolent manipulator tapped at the collar of his shirt and said, ‘Modern life, modern looks.’

  ‘I have a reputation to preserve.’

  ‘And a daughter to save.’

  Newman frowned, but began unlacing his tie. Nigel checked the viewfinder. He sighed, reached into his bag and handed Dan a compact of face powder. Newman eyed it warily and took another long drink from the flask.

  Behind the camera, Adam checked his watch. The clock had slipped on to ten past seven. Half past was the set time to feed the interview to all the waiting media.

  The textbooks say the preamble to an interview is the time to relax the subject. Build a bond, ready to get the best from them. But the man in the chair was condensed with emotion. He was jaded and tetchy in every word and movement, frayed by the pressure.

  Any further comments on Newman’s appearance were unlikely to improve relations, and there was no time for more manoeuvring. Dan thought quickly and took a risk. He opened the compact and began sweeping powder across his forehead.

  ‘What the hell are you doing now?’ Newman grunted.

  ‘It’s in case we need to film any of my questions after the interview.’ Dan tried a semi-smile, just to see if the ice might be prepared to thaw. ‘My hairline’s not quite what it was and shining skin looks strange on camera.’

  Newman sat back on his chair. ‘Think yourself lucky.’ He tapped his pate, as smooth as a frozen pond. ‘My hair started going when I was 16. Imagine that. All the other kids are experimenting with Mohicans and nature’s clearing the top of my head as if she wants to build a bloody motorway.’

  Katrina let out a chuckle and Dan smiled too. ‘But it had an upside, didn’t it?’

  ‘You’ve done your research.’ Newman nodded, sounding easier now. ‘You’re right; it’s where Roger’s Rugs came from. I thought it’d stick in people’s minds. And it worked.’

  Dan finished his dabbing and held out the compact. ‘You’re welcome to some powder.’

  ‘I’ve never worn make-up in my life.’

  ‘Nor had I until I went into TV. But it does make a real difference… and this is a big interview.’

  Newman hesitated, raised a finger to his skull, then took the compact and began dusting on the powder.

  ***

  There was one more important rule in this interview. Dan wrote it across the top of his notepad, to guard against an easy slip which could ruin the conversation in a second.

  Annette is. PRESENT tense. Never Annette was…

  ‘Let’s start with a simple question,’ he began. ‘Tell me about Annette. What’s she like?’

  ‘Every parent would say this, but she’s a wonderful daughter. You know how Rachel, her mother, left us? A couple of years ago, she got back in touch and said she’d like to see more of Annette. We discussed it and I said it was up to her. So she invited Rachel round for dinner.’

  Newman let out a long sigh. ‘I didn’t let Annette know, but I was so nervous. I’d hardly seen the woman for years and that court battle was horrible. We had supper and it was all ok, even fairly pleasant. But at the end Annette said – and I’ll never forget this – “Thanks for getting back in touch. It’s good to know you’re there and I’m happy to give you a call occasionally. But I’d ask you not to bother Dad and me otherwise. He’ll find it too upsetting and we’re very happy as we are”.’

  Dan let the power of the words resonate while he composed the next question. ‘And since then – how has she grown up? It’s an important time in her life.’

  ‘She’s doing well at school, really well. I don’t know where she got the brains from – not me, certainly. She wants to go to university. Annette keeps talking about doing medicine, but she says she likes the idea of teaching as well.’

  Even through his suffering, the pride was enough to prompt a tired smile. ‘She reckons that’d be in the family tradition. With me and my little “educational crusade”, as she puts it.’

  In the reflection of the window, Dan could see Katrina nodding. The questions were hitting the target, the replies ticking the boxes.

  And it mattered, how it mattered. This was no standard interview. It was being haunted by a ghost of the living.

  ‘On the subject of crusades, Annette’s got one of her own, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Her charity work? You know how it all came about? Our little spat because I sent her to a private school. We talked about it… “Everyone’s a secret hypocrite,” I said. “Not me,” she replied.

  ‘“Wait until you’re a bit older,” I told her, “and then you might think differently.” Anyway, that was how we left it. But being Annette, she said I had to pay a price. She decided the best way to punish a businessman was to hit him in the wallet, so we did a deal. The Soup Run was her idea. And she’s got other plans, as well.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Newman almost managed a laugh. ‘Annette has decided Roger’s Rugs has to become carbon neutral. How we’re going to make that happen with all the vans and warehouses I have no idea, but she’s insistent. I’ll probably end up having to plant at least a couple of forests.’

  Dan took a glance at his notes to find a gap to think. They were approaching the difficult ground. The k
ingdom of thoughtfear.

  ‘You’ve given me a picture of a fine young woman. But Annette’s a teenager and she’s human; both dangerous traits. There has been… friction?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the heart of the father replied. ‘There was her disappearance from school. That was one hell of a way to make a point. And she’s been in trouble for having a few drinks and dabbling with boys. But what young woman hasn’t? She’s got a boyfriend now – James, he lives in Manchester, they met on some trip – and do you know what she announced? She said she’s going to have him to stay, and in her room, too.’

  Such familiar battles of the generations, aired so publicly. It would have prompted laughter, had it not been for the context of the interview. Annette was all around them. Those eyes, which relished life, now filled with dread. And looking here, to this room, this conversation and these few minutes for help.

  ‘And what did you say to her… suggestion?’

  ‘I said she would do no such thing. When she was 18 we might think about it, but not before. I tell you this: sometimes I wish I’d had a son. Daughters give you no end of trouble.’

  Dan had matched Newman’s smile, but now let it fade. They were moving towards the end of the interview. It was time to change the mood, to ingrain the message which would fill the airwaves.

  A great professional and a sensitive mind, Nigel felt the shift and gently zoomed in his shot for the power of the close-up. Newman’s face would fill the screen, the moistening of his eyes emphasised by the dark circles of sleepless fears that surrounded them.

  ‘And worries are what we’re talking about here,’ Dan said softly. ‘Difficult though it may be, can you tell us what you’ve been going through?’

  With each answer before, Newman had taken a second or two to consider his words. But now the reply was instant. This was the only thought, the sole feeling, the one consideration.

  ‘It’s been torment. There’s no other way I can describe it. Every minute, every second, I’m thinking of Annette. I’m wondering where she is. And…’