22. A FATHER'S PRIDE

Prejudice showed up for what it is.

It was almost ten years since the Umbagos had uprooted themselves from their African home, both qualified medical practitioners, and had relocated themselves with their then very young son to England in order to work in the almost brand new National Health Service, which was crying out for both doctors and nurses to man the expanding services.

And Vincent (Innocent’s father) was incensed when he was summoned to the Brumpton police station by Inspector McGivven because his son had been accused of murder, to him the most heinous of crimes, and rightly punishable by death courtesy of a rope noose if convicted.

He need not have worried too much because Detective McGivven’s case against the boy had started to crumble before he arrived at the station.

It all revolved around the pathologist’s estimate of time of death, which was in the region of two weeks before the body was discovered in the grim cellar.

“You mean, when my family, and I, were on holiday at Skegness, in a caravan?” Innocent asked when he was told the pathologist’s interpretation of all things related to death and decay.

“It won’t do your case much good if you try that trick on me!” snapped the Inspector, tempted to administer a pre-emptive punch where it wouldn’t show.

The insolent boy had the nerve to shrug his shoulders, which further inflamed the Inspector, who wanted the whole sordid case wrapped up as quickly as possible so that he might spend at least an hour in his garden shed with a recent edition of Tarts in Clover which he’d confiscated earlier that week and which he’d barely had time to flick through.

Then the door to the interview room opened and Constable Bernie Swinburne poked his head round it.

“Doctor Umbago is here, guv,” he said with the sort of smirk that suggested that he had a good idea what would be passing through his boss’s mind before too long.

“I don’t want any blasted doctor!” snapped MvGivven, “all I want is the boy’s father so that he can see what happens to little thugs when poor parenting goes wrong!”

“Doctor Umbago is the boy’s father,” smirked the constable, ducking out before his superior officer threw something at him.

“Is that right?” demanded McGivven of the boy, “is your father a doctor?”

All Innocent could do was nod. He had already learned to despise the offensive man who had given no thought to solving the death of a schoolgirl in his desire to exercise his prejudice on a boy he perceived as being of the wrong colour. So when he nodded he did it as insolently as he could. And Inspector McGivven noticed and raged inwardly.

The inspector was still trying to work out whether a well place punch to the boy’s offensive body would show, his skin being already as dark as any skin he’d seen before and maybe unlikely to show bruising, when Swinburne showed Mr Umbago in.

And here we had a clash of worlds. Inspector McGivven was a blustery slightly shabbily dressed officer in need of a shave at a time when only young rebels and eminent professors dared to grow beards whilst Doctor Umbago was suave, smartly dressed and in possession of the sort of aura that spoke of power and influence.

“Why have you got my boy here?” he demanded. No sir or officer, just a bald question that demanded an immediate answer.

“He was present at the site of a murder. A young girl, little more than a child, and death by chisel,” grunted Inspector McGivven, temporarily forgiving the lack of a deferential pronoun in the black man’s question.

“And what has that got to do with my boy?” the suave and elegant physician asked, as though he was instructing a very junior doctor in some complex medical procedure.

“He found the body, and he knew the girl,” snapped McGivven, intent on regaining authority, “and in my book that adds up to only one thing.”

Vincent Umbago sat down next to his son and opposite the Inspector, and he turned to the former and smiled. “My boy, were you alone when you came upon the deceased girl?” he asked.

Umbago shook his head. “I was with Wallace, dad,” he said quietly and with dignity, “you know Wallace? My friend from school?”

“Ah, a good boy, is Wallace Pratchett,” murmured Vincent, “and a good friend to you for this many years. Tell me, Innocent, does Wallace also know the girl who was murdered?”

“Yes, dad, we’re in the same class at school, Penny, Wallace and me, and lots of others.”

Mr Umbago turned to face the Inspector. “And I suppose you have brought Wallace Pratchett in for questioning as well?” he asked politely, “I should imagine he’s in another room undergoing the third degree, though you’ll no doubt find it difficult dragging his father in because the Reverend died some years ago. That’s right, isn’t it Innocent? Wallace’s father passed away, didn’t he?”

Innocent nodded. “He was with me because we do lots of things together. Once, a year or so back, he was Penny’s boyfriend, well, sort of. They talked a lot together and he sometimes carried her satchel for her when they went home from school.”

Vincent Umbago stood up at that and glowered at the Inspector before saying, in a voice that quite clearly implied his utter distrust of the police officer, “So why did you choose to arrest my boy when his friend was also there when the poor girl was found? I knew of the place where it happened because Innocent and his friend believe they might use the cellar as a shelter against radiation should this country be under attack from nuclear missiles. I have been told this, and as the place is unoccupied and appears to be ownerless I could see no harm in what they were doing.”

“I judged this boy to be guilty as hell!” barked McGivven, determined to lose no more ground.

“Allow me, Inspector,” almost whispered Innocent’s father, “you are called to a murder site because two boys have found a dead girl and you decide there and then and with no evidence that one or both of the boys must have killed her. But which one, you ask yourself, and you see that one of the boys is black. That must be the one, then, you decide, not the white one because white is, I suppose clean and pure whilst black is not? Well, well, well, what a way for you conduct an investigation into a serious and extremely nasty crime.”

“In cases like this it’s important to lose no time in opening an investigation,” blustered McGivven, “time is of the essence and it’s already about a fortnight since the crime was committed.”

“A fortnight? Two weeks? While my family was enjoying a summer break in a very British way at the seaside? No boarding house for us with its No Blacks or Irish or dogs notice but a nice welcoming caravan on a nice welcoming site… And while we were there making sandcastles and eating candy floss you believe my Innocent sprouted wings and flew back to Swanspottle woods to murder a girl?”

“There is a scenario...” almost squawked the Inspector, “it is possible… we wouldn’t be doing our duty if we didn’t evaluate every possibility.”

“And I wouldn’t be doing my duty to racial harmony if I didn’t take you and your shallow racism to the attention of some very important people!” Vincent Umbago was warming up for his last thrust before he and his son went home, free and unblemished. “I wonder, Inspector, if you ever ask yourself how many boys like my Innocent here have been taken to court on a tissue of lies and prejudice, found guilty and executed because a shallow man like you can’t be bothered to think outside the narrow confined of his tiny minds? Come on, Innocent, for you are innocent, and we’re going home!”

© Peter Rogerson 26.06.19