“She thinks these kids are right,” he said. “A retired teacher who thinks it’s a good idea for teenagers to kill themselves because they don’t want to be normal. Imagine if everyone thought like that.”
I smiled. “Yes,” I said. “Imagine. I think that’s her point, don’t you? Imagine if people in dull, boring jobs started dying of boredom. Who would we get to do the dull, boring jobs? Business leaders would be up in arms and their organisations would be urging governments to educate children to be more tolerant of boredom. Someone has to do the dull, unpleasant stuff, Simon. What would you have them do – smile and think themselves fortunate while they’re doing it?”
“So you agree with her?” This was said huffily, as though I were taking an unreasonable position simply to annoy him.
“It’s a point of view, Simon?” I said. “An interesting one, too. She isn’t arguing that it’s a good idea for teenagers to kill themselves; she’s merely suggesting that there might be understandable reasons for them doing so, which I would have thought was obvious. Not to shock you, Simon, but I take the view that I have a right to take my own life in circumstances of my own choosing, and logically this is a right I extend to you and others. People who disagree with this view are claiming the right to decide how other people should live and die. There’s little point discussing suicide if your starting point is that it’s always wrong, and that people should always be stopped from doing it.”
There was a knock on the door – a token one, for it was wide open. Sergeant Turner. He said, “Message for you, ma’am. There’s a Mr Alan Mansfield wants to see you about his son. He’s rather insistent and rather intoxicated. I’ve taken his car keys for his own good – informally, you understand – and put him in the small interview room with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.”
I said, “Thanks, Ron.” To Simon, I said, “Good work, Simon. Go through the pen drive and see what you make of it. It would be interesting to know if any of the other teenagers committed suicide.”
“We know one did,” Simon said. “Jeremy from Norfolk. Jeremy Collins; eighteen years old. Posted his suicide note on his blog and hanged himself from a tree in his local park. Made the front pages of the local press. Martha much admires his literary output as well.”
Something to consider while I called Raymond – to confirm that now or soonish would be a convenient time to formally identify Adrian Mansfield’s body. Raymond said he was – “as always” – at my disposal. So the grim but routine task of taking Alan Mansfield to the mortuary to identify his son’s body. I often find myself worrying about routine things because I worry about the dangers of routines. Routines can be followed coldly and unthinkingly. I could simply have ordered a car and had Alan taken to the mortuary, but I worried about the state he was in, and wondered if it wouldn’t be more seemly, more feeling, to take him myself.
I went into the interview room and found him sitting at the table with his hands folded on the surface. He had eaten the sandwich – the plate lay empty save for a few crumbs – and drained the coffee-mug. He looked up slowly and said, “Please thank Sergeant Turner for me; he was very kind. You will remember, won’t you?” He sounded emotional, maudlin even.
“Of course,” I said. It struck me for no very good reason that the sandwich had been made rather than bought. It seemed a rather poignant detail. “Do you not think it would be better to do this another time, sir?”
“No,” he said. “Now’s a very good time. Now’s the best time.” I assumed he was referring to his level of intoxication. The chair scraped back as he stood up.