‘And you let him?’ Paula’s voice rose almost to a yelp.
‘What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t go chasing him through his own house. He’s just a witness, boss. I didn’t have any power to detain him.’
‘He’s not just a witness, Karim. He’s a person of interest. The groundsman, Martinu? He gave up Father bloody Keenan when we interviewed him earlier. If you’d phoned in like you should have, you’d be sitting outside his house right now, making sure he doesn’t do a runner.’
‘Oh shit,’ Karim whispered.
‘Oh, shit is right, Karim. So you’re going back there first thing in the morning with me and we are going to bring him in. I want you outside my house at six a.m. With a decent cup of coffee and a bacon roll. And meanwhile, get your fucking report filed with the incident room and start praying Rutherford doesn’t find out how comprehensively you’ve bollocksed this up.’
36
Some people discover they have a talent for music or painting. Pursuing it gives them a mission in life. Unfortunately, some people discover they have a talent for violence and their mission brings misery to everyone around them. Part of the problem is that we all like to have a sense of purpose; it’s hard to turn your back on something you’re good at.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
It turned out that Matis Kalvaitis wasn’t just a good fighter. He was also a good publicist. Writing the draft appeal against his deportation had occupied Tony for a couple of days. He’d done some research in the prison library. It had an interesting if random collection of law books, which the prisoner on library duty had described as ‘the DIY section’. He’d found what he needed to put together a letter that he thought covered the bases, attaching a note that made it clear what additional information was needed and where it should go. He’d handed it over at the first opportunity and let it slide from the front of his mind, which was by then occupied with writing a chapter on misogyny.
The next morning, when he’d returned from breakfast, three prisoners were hanging around on the landing outside his cell. He felt the sudden fizz of adrenaline. Had he pissed someone off? Was this a punishment crew? Before he could turn and walk away, one of them called to him. ‘Don’t freak out, Doc. It’s not what you think. Well, not yet, anyway.’
It turned out that Kalvaitis had been so impressed with what Tony had done that he’d told all his mates. Who had told all their mates. Not only did the shrink write good English, he had nice handwriting too. The kind of writing that would impress a woman, or cheer up a kid or make you look like you weren’t a complete loser.
Three inmates, three demands. A letter to a landlord demanding that he fix the troublesome toilet in the flat where the man’s girlfriend and three kids were living; a birthday message to a mother; and a bedtime story for a three-year-old daughter. ‘It doesn’t have to be long, or fancy. Just a little bit of a story that her mum can read to her.’
Tony was nonplussed. He hadn’t written a story since his third year at high school. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, dubious. ‘Why can’t you read her a story down the phone?’
The man’s hands had clenched into fists. ‘If I could . . . ’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s fucking impossible to get on the phone at the right time, you know what it’s like. No point in a bedtime story at three o’clock, is there?’
And Tony understood. It wasn’t the story that was the issue, it was the reading. He couldn’t write a story because he couldn’t write. He couldn’t read to his daughter because he couldn’t read. ‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘What does she like?’
‘Princesses and space rockets,’ the man muttered. ‘I’ll pay you in phone cards.’
Which would be fine, Tony thought, if he had anyone to phone. He wasn’t without friends. Paula and Elinor had become close in recent years. He and Torin were mates, going to Bradfield Vics and hanging out on his narrowboat together. And then there was Carol . . . But he’d always struggled with talking on the phone. He felt at a disadvantage when he couldn’t see people’s body language, gauge the changing messages of their faces. Besides, what could he talk about? ‘Thanks,’ he said. At least phone cards were currency. He’d find something he wanted to trade them for.
But the encounter made him think. He suspected these wouldn’t be the last things he’d be asked to write. As he pushed his laundry basket round the wing, he mulled it over. And remembered hearing about a scheme to combat violent crime he’d read about in a psychology journal. One of the key points where changes in behaviour could be effected, the article said, was when violent men became fathers. They longed to be proper fathers but they didn’t know how; either their fathers had been absent or they’d been abusive in a terrifying range of ways.
The researchers had uncovered the fact that there was a high rate of limited literacy among their target group. In the face of resistance from men who didn’t want to be seen reading ‘kid stuff’, they’d worked on teaching them enough basic reading skills to be able to read their young children a bedtime story. It didn’t sound much, but the reported effects had been significant. Building bonds with their children had put a brake on criminal activity that punishment had failed to manage. It wasn’t an overnight transformation but it was clear that something had shifted for some of these men.
Tony considered how
