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Authors: Barry Maitland
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collection of heads, ranged in order. ‘You who are an artist, who have studied the conformation of the human body and its relations to the brain and stomach,’ he said, ‘judge the characters, vices, and crimes of these humiliating remains of the dignity of man.’
After having reflected, I assembled my thoughts: ‘The first and the second,’ I said, ‘were assassins; the third died of anger.’ This was enough. He ran to his records, leafed through them: ‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘I am not indeed mad.’
‘What do you make of that? Why did Verge mark that passage?’
‘Perhaps I should put it to my committee.’ Kathy checked her watch. A jam had formed around the road-works at London Bridge.
‘I think I’ll have a talk to his doctor,’ Brock said.
5
K athy hurried into the room, forty minutes late.
Everyone was sitting round a table studying documents, and they looked up and stared at her. For a moment she felt exactly as she had on the first day of primary school, when her mother had got lost on the way and they’d arrived long after the classes had started. Then a man at the head of the table got to his feet and offered his hand with a warm smile. ‘You must be Kathy. I’m Desmond. Welcome. I’ve been appointed the chair of this working party.’
Desmond was West Indian and in police uniform, the twin stars of an inspector on his shoulders. He introduced her to the others, and she shook their hands in turn. There was one other person in uniform, Shazia, a woman constable wearing the new Hijab headdress for Muslim officers.
Next to her was Rex, wearing a Sikh turban, then a young white man with cropped hair, narrow glasses and a cool, slightly myopic gaze. He was Nathan, apparently, and next to him was Jay, a young white woman, also with cropped hair and narrow glasses. Finally, Desmond introduced her to a man seated by his right hand, Robert; the oldest person in the room, Robert was a middle-aged administrative officer appointed to service the working party. He gave Kathy a small, incurious smile, as if he already knew all about her.
‘I’m sorry about the short notice for the meeting,’ Desmond went on. ‘It’s been sprung on all of us. Apparently time is short. I hope it didn’t put you out too much.’
‘No, I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve just been put on a new case and I got caught up.’
‘I hope it’s something interesting,’ Shazia, the WPC, beamed enthusiastically.
‘Yes, it is.’ Kathy hesitated and they all looked at her expectantly. ‘The Verge inquiry, actually.’
‘Oh, how exciting! Has there been some new development?’ ‘No, just some changes in the team.’
‘Well, at least they’ve put a woman on it,’ Jay, the other woman, chipped in. ‘The men wouldn’t want to catch the bastard. They all believe his wife must have deserved it.’
Desmond coughed tactfully. ‘Let’s get back to business, shall we? Robert has prepared a package of material for each of us, and we’ve been scanning through that.’ He indicated a plastic folder sitting at the remaining empty chair. Kathy took her place and opened the package, heart sinking at the thick wad of material within—agenda, terms of reference, summary of background, briefing papers, photocopies of press cuttings and statements . . .
She paused at a page outlining the CVs of the members of the working party. Desmond was in the personnel department of the Metropolitan Police, and Shazia had recently joined the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe. Rex was a civilian member of a community policing committee, Nathan was a lawyer with a large private charity and Jay represented a body called Gay Victim Alliance. Looking at the six names, Kathy thought how careful someone had been with the selection. There were three men and three women, three white and three coloured, three police and three civilians. It was a masterpiece of balance; whatever happened, no one could accuse its convenors of bias, except perhaps in age, for
After having reflected, I assembled my thoughts: ‘The first and the second,’ I said, ‘were assassins; the third died of anger.’ This was enough. He ran to his records, leafed through them: ‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘I am not indeed mad.’
‘What do you make of that? Why did Verge mark that passage?’
‘Perhaps I should put it to my committee.’ Kathy checked her watch. A jam had formed around the road-works at London Bridge.
‘I think I’ll have a talk to his doctor,’ Brock said.
5
K athy hurried into the room, forty minutes late.
Everyone was sitting round a table studying documents, and they looked up and stared at her. For a moment she felt exactly as she had on the first day of primary school, when her mother had got lost on the way and they’d arrived long after the classes had started. Then a man at the head of the table got to his feet and offered his hand with a warm smile. ‘You must be Kathy. I’m Desmond. Welcome. I’ve been appointed the chair of this working party.’
Desmond was West Indian and in police uniform, the twin stars of an inspector on his shoulders. He introduced her to the others, and she shook their hands in turn. There was one other person in uniform, Shazia, a woman constable wearing the new Hijab headdress for Muslim officers.
Next to her was Rex, wearing a Sikh turban, then a young white man with cropped hair, narrow glasses and a cool, slightly myopic gaze. He was Nathan, apparently, and next to him was Jay, a young white woman, also with cropped hair and narrow glasses. Finally, Desmond introduced her to a man seated by his right hand, Robert; the oldest person in the room, Robert was a middle-aged administrative officer appointed to service the working party. He gave Kathy a small, incurious smile, as if he already knew all about her.
‘I’m sorry about the short notice for the meeting,’ Desmond went on. ‘It’s been sprung on all of us. Apparently time is short. I hope it didn’t put you out too much.’
‘No, I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve just been put on a new case and I got caught up.’
‘I hope it’s something interesting,’ Shazia, the WPC, beamed enthusiastically.
‘Yes, it is.’ Kathy hesitated and they all looked at her expectantly. ‘The Verge inquiry, actually.’
‘Oh, how exciting! Has there been some new development?’ ‘No, just some changes in the team.’
‘Well, at least they’ve put a woman on it,’ Jay, the other woman, chipped in. ‘The men wouldn’t want to catch the bastard. They all believe his wife must have deserved it.’
Desmond coughed tactfully. ‘Let’s get back to business, shall we? Robert has prepared a package of material for each of us, and we’ve been scanning through that.’ He indicated a plastic folder sitting at the remaining empty chair. Kathy took her place and opened the package, heart sinking at the thick wad of material within—agenda, terms of reference, summary of background, briefing papers, photocopies of press cuttings and statements . . .
She paused at a page outlining the CVs of the members of the working party. Desmond was in the personnel department of the Metropolitan Police, and Shazia had recently joined the Race Hate Unit at Rotherhithe. Rex was a civilian member of a community policing committee, Nathan was a lawyer with a large private charity and Jay represented a body called Gay Victim Alliance. Looking at the six names, Kathy thought how careful someone had been with the selection. There were three men and three women, three white and three coloured, three police and three civilians. It was a masterpiece of balance; whatever happened, no one could accuse its convenors of bias, except perhaps in age, for
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