He wanted to put his head in his hands and growl like an angry dog. Instead he bit back his anger and said, ‘You didn’t see signs of any kind of abuse?’
‘If I had, I would have taken action. I’m not completely rubbish at my job.’ The piteous expression on her face gave the lie to her words.
‘What happened to the girls when the refuge closed?’
A momentary flash of spirit. ‘Well, they were all alive and accounted for, if that’s what you’re getting at.’ Again she consulted the folder. ‘The one whose dad was still alive? She went to live with him and her stepmum. The other six went into foster care. Two of them are over eighteen now and they’ve both slipped off the radar. The other four . . . ’ She looked stricken. ‘Two runaways. One fifteen, the other sixteen. Reported to the local police. Not exactly high priority for your lot.’
‘In fairness, they don’t usually want to be found,’ Steve said. ‘Bradfield’s a big city. It’s not hard to fall off the map. That leaves two. Where are they?’
Jackie frowned at the folder again. ‘It’s not great, really. One committed suicide three years ago. Paracetamol and vodka. The other one is in hospital. Sectioned, actually. Severe anorexia and mental health problems.’
Steve stared at Jackie. ‘Not exactly a sparkling set of outcomes for a bunch of girls who were supposedly in a “proper” care home.’
‘No,’ Jackie said. ‘But sadly it’s not exceptional for kids who have grown up in the care system.’
‘I’m going to need details of all these girls,’ he said.
Jackie quickly closed the file and held it to her chest. ‘I’m not sure that’s allowed.’ Her air of anxiety was rising towards panic.
People would try anything to cover their backs. ‘We’re looking at upwards of thirty dead children here. If you want to make absolutely sure you and your colleagues get the blame for what happened at the Blessed Pearl, just keep on obstructing our inquiries. Now go and get your boss to authorise you handing over all of the files on these seven girls.’ He folded his arms. ‘I’m going nowhere until you do. Don’t make me sit here and get one of my tame media pals to tweet about how all Bradfield Social Services care about is their reputation.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
He gave her a sour smile. ‘Why are you still here, Jackie? It’s not too late to start to do your job.’
19
For too long, people clung to the idea that criminals were born bad. It let all of us off the hook – what’s the point of trying to make society better if those ‘born bad’ criminals are just going to come along and trash everything? But slowly, we’ve come to realise that most criminal behaviour is situational and circumstantial. And the idea that it’s possible to change people’s narratives has recently started to gain serious traction.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Tony lay on his narrow bunk, hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the blank magnolia ceiling of his cell. It was annoyingly free of cracks and blemishes he could translate into a fantasy map or some ancient Babylonian cuneiform. There was nothing to distract him from the low cacophony of the prison. It was impossible to ignore the constant noise; waiting for the next scream or outburst of rage that was bound to come, he felt the perpetual tug of anxiety.
He was trying to work out a script for his next broadcast. It wasn’t like delivering a lecture to students or a seminar to peers. There, he’d always known broadly what he was going to say. He might even have managed to organise some PowerPoint slides to keep him on track. He could be pitch-perfect without being word-perfect. But on Razor Wireless, he couldn’t afford to put a foot wrong. His audience would be on the lookout for any jarring notes, eager to find a reason to pounce on any potential offence. There were limits to protection, and he was in no hurry to find the provocation that would test them. He always needed to rehearse what he was going to say and he needed to get it right.
It was at times like these that missing Carol was close to a physical pain – a tightening across his temples and a tension in his neck. He knew he had an unusual gift for empathy when it came to figuring out what went on inside the heads of the damaged and the lost. But he also knew that his social skills sometimes didn’t measure up. He sometimes said the most interesting thing that came into his head without considering whether it was a helpful conversational gambit. He’d learned over the years to run controversial ideas past Carol before blurting them out to others. She was good at helping him tweak what he wanted to say without losing its meaning or its positive impact. He didn’t always manage to figure things out far enough in advance to use her to his best advantage, but he had definitely been getting better at it.
This would have been the perfect opportunity to use her help. And she’d have been happy to give it. But he’d put himself beyond that. He’d pushed her away for all the right reasons. As long as he was there for her, she’d always find reasons not to confront her demons and tackle the PTSD that was making her a danger to herself and to the people around her. He knew she felt it like a punishment. He wasn’t sure whether she knew that he did too. What would she say
