Sing Like You Know the Words (13 page)

The official inquiry that
eventually followed expressed mild criticism of the desk sergeant
for not calling a doctor earlier. But it was a Friday night. You
had to suppose there would be more than a few drunks in the cells
complaining about not feeling well and probably not so many doctors
eager to come out and examine them.

Patricia knew from David that
the police preferred to leave suspects in the cells till around two
in the morning, either to give them time to calm down and sober up,
or because of the way the shifts changed. At that time, the
officers would have a look at each prisoner’s situation and conduct
interviews where necessary. You got more sense out of them after a
few hours in a cell, and it was just a bonus that this meant
getting their lawyers out of bed in the middle of the night to
attend the discussions. No one had been called out to represent
Obuswu, probably because they had never intended to charge him.

The desk sergeant in the case
was retired now. His statement didn’t include anything unusual,
except that Obuswu had been interviewed that night by a detective
investigating a different case, about an hour after he was brought
in. David told her that it was standard practice for officers to
persuade suspects in custody to ask for other offences to be taken
into consideration, even if the suspects knew nothing about those
offences. It boosted clear up rates and the suspect might hope for
some favours in return. Probably the detective had wanted Obuswu to
confess to some petty theft that had been unsolved for too long. It
wasn’t a lengthy interview. No doubt the officer had given up
trying to get any sense out of the alcoholic vagrant.

Mr Obuswu had died from internal
injuries, but according to the medical evidence, it was not
possible to be certain when he suffered them. What it came down to
was that someone gave him a kicking and he bled to death from the
inside. Patricia noted that it would be worth challenging the
pathologist’s reluctance to put a time on injury relative to the
time of death, and to compare his conclusions with best practice at
the time. It might be worth commissioning an expert review of the
report on this basis, even at this late stage.

The desk log was maddeningly
vague about the important things, and unfeasibly precise about
minor details, in the way of official documents. It was recorded
that various prisoners, including the victim, had been complaining
at different points in the shift, and that they were attended to
confirm that they were not in serious distress. The language was
the same in each case. “Attended” could mean anything. You could
attend someone with the toe of your boot if they were making too
much noise. But the desk sergeant did not read like that sort. He’d
have been middle aged already at the time, close enough to
retirement, with a record as a steady type: only four more years to
serve. David said that the bad custody officers were known to
everyone: usually they were the younger ones, who were bored or
resentful about the job.

The desk sergeant had not been
the only officer in the station, but anyone else would have needed
to go through him to reach the cells. However, being an old hand,
he might have been prepared to stretch the rules about recording
any visits. It could have been that another officer was in the cell
at some point without that fact having been noted. Perhaps the
sergeant could be pressed to refresh his memory, if he was
reassured first that his pension was not at risk.

What about the detective? He was
on record as having been in the cell. He’d declined to cooperate
with the investigation, although that was easy enough to understand
since the man had later been dismissed for financial
irregularities. The notes were not specific about what kind of
stealing was involved, and he’d not been charged. Perhaps, after
all these years he might be prepared to talk, especially since this
was not a police investigation. At least he might remember who else
had been in the station that night. The desk sergeant’s memory was
a little vague on that score.

Patricia began the work of
comparing the information available from the different sources,
bristling with energy and full of righteous indignation; confident
that she would find something buried in the records that needed to
be brought to light. She had convinced herself that the fact that
the case had resisted being consigned to oblivion for all these
years meant that there was more to it than had been told in the
official versions. There must have been a cover up.

The amount of paper that had
been generated over the years was surprising. They needed a
separate room for all the boxes. There were the records of the
internal inquiry by the police themselves as well as the witness
statements the press cuttings and the station records. But there
weren’t any obvious inconsistencies between them: in fact several
of the witness statements had clearly been written by the same
person using the same words for each witness. Even where this was
not the case, the official language concealed more than it
disclosed.

It was maddening: the same
trivial details repeated and repeated, and then when you reached
the point where something useful might be said; silence. But at
least there was an official version; something that was set down in
writing and could be challenged, if only she could get at the facts
that were buried under all these words.

Unfortunately, as the work
progressed, she found nothing more than unconnected fragments; no
pattern; no evidence of conspiracy. Somehow this made her more
convinced than ever that there was a hidden version. That
conviction, or maybe it was only wishful thinking; the feeling that
someone was trying to fool her, was what kept her going. She
re-interviewed the serving officers, uselessly. Their conversations
were stiff and formal. The matters to be discussed had to be agreed
with the men and their representatives in advance. The officers
were defensive; resentful of ancient history being raked over once
more; suspicious of Patricia and her motives; more as a matter of
routine than because they seemed to have anything to hide. The men
gave stock answers, that she could have written herself without
bothering to ask the questions.

Soon her initial burst of energy
was dissipated and what remained was boxes and boxes of paper that
had to be read through and catalogued somehow.

She sent regular progress
reports to Gerald in case he might want her to focus on any
particular point, but they had barely spoken since he assigned her
to the case. He seemed satisfied that their own files were building
up and not at all dismayed by the absence of new evidence.

The worst thing for Patricia was
that she knew that the clerks were directing cases to the other
juniors: cases that she felt should have come to her, if not for
that she was fully employed churning paper for the inquiry. She had
found no hidden treasure in the dusty papers, nothing that might
make her name by shaping the course of the review, and now she
doubted that she ever would. In the meantime she was slipping back
in the race to be the clerks’ favourite junior.

Then she began to think for the
first time that perhaps there was no smoking gun to be found. Maybe
she had been wrong to believe that Gerald had put his trust in her
because he had some trust in her abilities. It could be that he saw
the work as pointless and just some profitable drudgery to hand
out. She was the silly enthusiastic girl he’d found to grind out a
minute examination of a case that was as dead as it could be but
still chargeable by the hour.

Her sleep began to suffer as her
belief began to fade. And still there was no escape. The boxes were
there waiting for her every morning and somehow she knew, this
thing had to be got through.

***

Like Patricia, Matthew had to
get used to his share of boredom and humiliation in the world of
work. It didn’t hurt him as much, since he was more inclined to
believe that this was the natural order of things. And somehow, in
spite of himself, the job started to feel more comfortable

Looking back, he’d admit that
Richard, in his quiet way, and Ralph in his not so quiet way,
taught him a lot, probably without knowing it. Just now, Matthew
didn’t realize that he was being taught, or even that there were
things he needed to know. In general terms he was painfully
conscious of his inexperience, but specific ignorance made him more
defensive than curious, at least in the moment. Afterwards he’d be
furious with himself over the opportunities missed because of
pride.

Finally, after he’d outlasted
all expectation and Ralph had become accustomed to his presence,
the day came when Ralph suggested that Matthew might accompany his
lunchtime visit to the Town Hall Tavern. Matthew was delighted to
accept, though he should have realised that being taken under
Ralph’s wing would not be an unmixed blessing as regards Matthew’s
relations with the management of the paper.

Ralph had been with the business
for longer than anyone could remember. He made his own rules, that
management were wary of challenging, on the basis that none of the
current bosses could be sure what personal indulgences their
predecessors might have granted to him.

In fact, Ralph would not have
described himself as an employee of the paper at all. In his mind,
he owned the Examiner fully as much as he was owned by it. The ink
of its press flowed in his veins. He guarded his privileges
jealously and sought to extend them at any opportunity, as much to
thwart the despised businessmen who thought they managed the paper
as for personal convenience. The result was that he was regarded
with impotent suspicion by management.

As Ralph’s designated friend,
Matthew enjoyed the summons that came most days to join Ralph in
the pub for what he liked to call an editorial conference. Although
they were inseparable in the office, Richard didn’t share these
expeditions, but since Ralph was a senior reporter, no-one could
object to Matthew staying as long as he was told to do so.

Although Mr Elliott couldn’t
easily object, he watched and made clear that he did not approve.
When the two of them eventually stumbled back to the office,
occasion would be found to let Matthew know that his behaviour was
proving a disappointment, and that Ralph was not the best person
for him to associate with. As a writer, Elliott allowed, the old
chap was first class, not a word could be said against him, but as
an example that was a different matter. If Matthew wanted to get
on, he should realize that men like Ralph; difficult types who
caused trouble, were the past.

Matthew wasn’t interested in
getting on and he couldn’t imagine that there were so many men like
Ralph. He liked to pretend that he didn’t care what Elliott
thought. On the other hand he didn’t want to put his job at risk.
He knew that he wouldn’t easily find another one that was so
congenial. Sometimes he did become concerned that he was taking too
many liberties, and that he would be found out. On the other hand,
every journalist he’d met and thought he could respect seemed
indifferent to office discipline. Besides he reasoned, if he was
going to take Mr Elliott´s advice seriously, he may as well have
gone straight from university to banking or accountancy, like
everyone else.

Mr Elliott was more inclined to
preach than praise. He made it clear that there was something about
young Matthew´s manner that he didn’t approve of. Matthew was prone
to depression at the best of times. He began to suspect that
Elliott was planning to be rid of him. Unusually, Ralph noticed
there was something wrong. He generously offered to share his own
wisdom on the subject of employment. Since it was almost lunchtime,
he suggested that the conversation would flow better in the
pub.

The bar was crowded. Ralph was
in an expansive mood. He continued the monologue he’d begun earlier
as he shouldered his way to the bar and returned, more quickly than
seemed feasible, with two pint glasses brimming with beer.

-Matthew, think of this
afternoon as my symposium, which I want to begin today by telling
you about politics

-I’m not much interested in
politics anymore.

-How so? Drink up.

-I mean, I used to think it was
important. I still read the papers and everything. Before Thatcher
I used to think that politics was a way to change things: so that
everything would be fairer. I’m not talking about college;
everything seemed childish there. I mean further back; ideas from
home. My mum has strong ideals, I suppose.

-Matthew, sometimes when you
speak, everything comes out at once and you make no sense at all.
Now you sound like a doubting young priest. What happened to make
you lose your faith?

-It was the election. I know
Labour was exhausted and useless, but people voted the other lot in
out of greed and self interest, or what they thought was self
interest. That’s the other side of it; once working people lose
conviction and a sense of sharing, it turns out you can make them
believe anything. The rich tell the not rich what to think and
bribe them with their own money to keep quiet while the future is
sold off cheap.

Ralph gave a wry smile. Given
the strange physiognomy of his face, the effect was grotesque.

-Oh, I see. You felt solidarity
with the working man until you decided that the working man had let
you down by disagreeing with you. A familiar story I believe.

-I think the truth is that
people of all classes are mostly not worth caring about. They’re
only interested in getting even a little bit more for themselves,
maybe buying a house cheap to sell it at a profit, or making a few
pounds when the government sells off what the people used to own.
They keep smiling as everything that was shared is wrecked or given
away. And the more they get, the less they want to help the people
at the bottom, only because they feel that bit further on from the
bottom themselves. The messages they hear are lies, but they’re
only taken in because they want to believe the lies.