Motives for Murder

Sunday Times, 7 September 2014

Our crime fiction round-up features a terrifying novel about abductions in Sweden

The Icelandic author Arnaldur Indridason has created one of the most accomplished series of detective novels in modern crime fiction. His last book, Strange Shores, seemed to mark an end to the series but Indridason is too interested in his gloomy detective, Erlendur, to let him go. Reykjavik Nights, translated by Victoria Cribb (Harvill Secker £16.99), is a prequel to the series, set at the very beginning of Erlendur’s career.

Working mainly at night, the young Erlendur is called out to traffic accidents and burglaries. Always ready to offer an unofficial night in a cell to a homeless person, he is troubled when one of the recipients of his generosity is found dead in a quarry. ­Quietly pursuing his own investigation, Erlendur links the man’s death to the unsolved disappearance of a young woman. The novel fills in gaps in Erlendur’s biography, but the best thing about it is Indridason’s empathy with victims of crime.

Roberto Costantini writes huge novels, both in terms of length and the ambition of his plots. The Root of All Evil, translated by NS Thompson (Quercus £18.99/ebook £9.49), is the second volume of his Commissario Balistreri trilogy, harking back to when his detective was growing up in post-colonial Libya. Balistreri’s father was a successful businessman in Tripoli, involved in the machinations that brought Colonel Gadaffi to power.

The first book in the trilogy, The Deliverance of Evil, was set in Rome many years later and showed Balistreri making a mess of a murder investigation. He is hard to like —sexist and careless of other people’s feelings — but the new novel reveals he was traumatised by the murder of a neighbour’s daughter and the death of his mother in Libya. The plot races along, even if his female characters never really come to life.

The West Virginia coal mines were cramped places, leaving some ex-miners unable to stand upright. Julia Keller has used a true story, about a miner’s wife who tried to create a refuge for her husband under the kitchen table, in her powerful new novel, Summer of the Dead (Headline £14.99). Lindy lives with her widowed father in Acker’s Gap, where she has turned their basement into a replica of the mine he used to work in. Lindy works in a petrol station, but she reads avidly and does her best to cope with her father’s increasing dementia. When a couple of local people are murdered, her father becomes a suspect. Keller knows small-town life inside out, and the book is full of memorable ­characters and plot twists.

One of the most difficult tasks for a crime writer is coming up with an original motive. The Swedish author Lars Kepler (actually the pen name of writers, ­Alexander Ahndoril and Alexandra Coelho Ahndoril) pulls it off in The Sandman, translated by Neil Smith (Blue Door £16.99). Jurek Walter is a serial killer, serving a life sentence in the secure wing of a hospital. His modus operandi was to kidnap his victims and keep them in excruciating conditions before they died or were dispatched.

The book begins with one of Walter’s victims, an emaciated young man, staggering across a bridge near Stockholm during a blizzard. The boy and his sister disappeared, presumed drowned, seven years earlier. Now it seems that the youngsters have been held in a concrete bunker all this time. Kepler’s plots are always thrilling, but The Sandman is one of the most hair-­raising crime novels published this year.

Anthony Quinn’s widely anticipated second novel Disappeared (Head of Zeus £12.99) is set in Northern Ireland. A former detective vanishes from the remote cottage he shares with his sister. Another man, who used to be an informer, is tortured to death. This is a tough yet lyrical novel, evoking a desperate period of Irish history when paramilitaries “disappeared” people they suspected of cooperating with the authorities.

Posing naked is one of the ultimate feminist acts

The Guardian, Wednesday 3 September 2014

It’s not always, or only, about sex. For me it was a liberation from the body anxiety that afflicts so many women

A few years ago, shortly after ending a long relationship, I asked a photographer to take some nude photographs. I know her well, so it was not as daunting as posing for a total stranger. It was not even the first time I had posed without clothes, but on this occasion it definitely had something to do with being single and not needing male approval.

Nude pictures, in other words, are not always, or not only, about sex.

There is a big difference between photographs taken for private and public consumption. This should not need to be said: pictures taken for a magazine or to publicise a film have a very different purpose from intimate photographs that are intended to be shared with close friends or partners. Our bodies are an important part of our identity, a fact that is often overlooked in a culture that is queasy about them; it is hard to imagine a moment in history when images of women’s bodies have been so plentiful, yet also the source of such extreme anxiety. If you are a woman, exploring your feelings about your naked body has seldom been more difficult. When you take your clothes off in front of a photographer, you risk deciding that you’re too thin, too fat, too pale, too brown, or just too old.

Amid this cacophony of critical voices, one reaction to the theft of “nude pics” – the tabloid shorthand makes them sound so much worse, doesn’t it? – has been to ask why any woman would pose naked. The implication is that the singers and actors concerned have “asked for it” if the pictures are stolen, which is as fine a piece of victim-blaming as I’ve heard in a long time. Apparently, the punishment for “vanity” is publication, and some newspapers that didn’t publish the stolen photographs offered a handy guide to where on the internet they had appeared.

This is not just to misunderstand the meaning of privacy. The body is a feminist issue, if ever there was one, and the struggle to own it is never-ending. I first posed nude in my 20s, when it seemed important to me to explore the meaning of nakedness. As a young woman, I was acutely aware of the vulnerability of the unclothed female body; a naked woman might be decorative, stretched out on a chaise longue in high art, but she might also be a potential victim of male violence. For a time I looked at men’s magazines, which appeared to be the only source of representations of women’s naked bodies, but all I found were pictures taken for the pleasure of male readers.

So I decided to pose nude myself, to see what it felt like. Could I take off all my clothes and feel not just unembarrassed but powerful? It was surprisingly easy, perhaps because I was reading so much feminist material and I felt as if I was throwing off years of conditioning. I didn’t do it for publication or any reason other than curiosity, but I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve escaped the body anxiety that is so common among women of all ages.

When I did it again, three or four years ago, I was a lot older and it raised different questions; I’m a size 12 but the body gets less elastic over time, no matter how often you go to the gym. It was about being comfortable in my skin as an older woman who continues to see herself as a sexual being, regardless of cultural messages to the contrary. This time I wore high heels for some of the pictures, something I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing in my 20s when I rejected many of the traditional trappings of femininity. I don’t think I’m supposed to say this, but I was delighted with the result.

There is another factor to consider here. On the one hand, commercial porn and Page 3 push images of women that are passive and degrading; on the other, reactionary religious leaders tell women they have to cover up. Somewhere in between, ordinary women and celebrities alike struggle to feel OK about themselves, worrying about showing too little or too much. Stealing intimate private pictures is a new front in this battle, but the women have nothing to be ashamed of. Posing nude, in my experience, is one of the ultimate feminist acts.

Lessons from the Rotherham child abuse scandal: Asian women’s voices go unheard

Independent on Sunday, 31 August 2014

The Jay report showed the Labour Party’s willingness to listen only to male community leaders

Here is the story of a young woman who was abused in Rotherham. For six years, she suffered threats and beatings, using make-up to hide her injuries. She had no money, could not buy her own clothes and was not allowed to go out alone. She could not even go to the corner shop unaccompanied and was never permitted to use the phone. “Basically,” she said, “I lived like a prisoner.”

In a week when a report exposing the scale of abuse of children and teenagers in Rotherham has rightly caused shock waves, you will not have read about this young women or others like her. Most of the victims mentioned in Professor Alexis Jay’s damning report were white and their abusers men of Pakistani origin, who subjected them to almost unimaginable sexual torture. It is a dreadful scandal, exposing the failure of one agency after another which should have stepped in to protect vulnerable young people.

Between 2002 and 2006, the council failed to act on three reports about child sexual abuse, while another report published last week revealed that South Yorkshire police went out of their way to try to “disprove” allegations of rape and sexual violence.

But it would be wrong to frame this solely as a story about race. The young woman I’ve just mentioned is Asian, and she suffered years of abuse after being brought from Pakistan and forced to marry her cousin. Some men whose parents came to this country from conservative areas of Pakistan have grown up with appalling attitudes towards women, sometimes but not always connected to strict interpretations of Islam. They have ended up abusing both white girls and women from their own community.

The problem is about power and gender as much as ethnicity, posing difficult questions for the Labour Party in towns and cities with sizeable Asian populations. From Yorkshire to some areas of London, the party has embraced self-appointed “community leaders” without asking questions about their attitudes to women, gay rights and equality. Many of these men have suffered discrimination – the BNP won three council seats in Rotherham at one point – and Labour has always seen itself as the champion of victims of racism. Up and down the country, it has found allies in the Asian community, even though some of them are small-scale entrepreneurs whose values seem more in tune with the Conservative Party. Along the way, Labour seems not to have noticed – or turned a blind eye – to a different equality problem.

Six or seven years ago, when I first visited Rotherham with my then partner Denis MacShane (who was the town’s MP), I noticed that most of the British-Asian activists in the local party, and all the Asian councillors, were men. I didn’t think this was peculiar to Rotherham but it made me uneasy; on one occasion, I refused to go to a wedding reception for a councillor’s daughter when I discovered that men and women would be segregated. I don’t think separation by gender is any more acceptable than separation by race, and the fact that some people on the left tolerate or even defend it is profoundly shocking.

What this meant, in practice, was that crucial voices were missed in discussions about the extent of both domestic and child abuse in Rotherham. As the Jay report points out, women from a Pakistani background felt there was “wholesale denial” of child sexual abuse within their community, despite 12 cases of forced marriage coming to light in 2005, many involving young girls. The report has no doubts about how this came about: “There was too much reliance by agencies on traditional community leaders such as elected members and imams being the primary conduit of communication with the Pakistani-heritage community.”

Like other towns and cities with a sizeable ethnic-minority population, Rotherham has an Asian women’s organisation which could have provided a very different view of what was going on in the community. A few years ago I met Zlakha Ahmed, founder of Apna Haq, an organisation which helps black, Asian and Muslim victims of domestic violence in South Yorkshire. From her, I first heard about a network of Asian taxi drivers who hunt down girls who have run away from abusive families; this is what happened to 17-year-old Shafilea Ahmed, who was murdered by her parents in Warrington. Her father, who is serving a life sentence, was a taxi driver.

The story of the Asian woman who is a prisoner in her own home appears on Apna Haq’s website. It lists forms of domestic abuse including beatings and rape, which happen in every community, but also types of behaviour specific to British-Asian families, such as being threatened with deportation and being told that “white women are much better”. It is a telling detail, debunking the widely held assumption that Asian men who abuse white girls behave better towards women in their own community. Of course, not all Asian men are abusers, but those who are despise all women; the difference is that their wives and daughters are subjected to forms of abuse associated with pernicious notions of “honour”. The common factor, whether they are keeping wives in isolation or taking part in a gang rape, is control.

The leader of Rotherham council, which is Labour-controlled, has resigned. The South Yorkshire police commissioner, who used to be a Labour councillor, has resisted calls to go. But the Jay report contains tough lessons for the Labour Party nationally, which has been far too ready to listen to male “community leaders” who don’t share the party’s commitment to equality. Patriarchal attitudes are incredibly damaging to women of all backgrounds. They have no place in a progressive political party.

 

Killing as spectacle: torture, murder and ethical questions for the press

 


Hacked Off, 27 August 2014


Not long ago, a British jihadist posted a photograph of himself on Twitter, apparently holding up a severed head in his left hand. The same man is now one of the chief suspects in the murder of the American journalist, James Foley, who was beheaded in Syria last week after being forced to take part in a propaganda video.


Since Mr Foley’s murder, many British newspapers have published still photographs from the propaganda video on their front pages, showing the journalist kneeling in the sand while his killer rants beside him. Some have also published the earlier picture from Abdel-Majed Abdel Bary’s Twitter account (now closed), with the severed head pixilated out. In a testament to the psychotic mind-set of men fighting for the terrorist group which calls itself the Islamic State, Abdel Bary even wrote a jokey caption to accompany the horrifying photograph.


When pictures of murder victims are re-published by the UK press, it is clearly right to obscure their features, not least to avoid the possibility that they might be seen by friends or relatives. Many Syrians live in Britain and have friends and family members in the country, where they may find themselves at the mercy of torturers and murderers from the Islamic State. But these images, which are as horrifying in their own way as photographs of Nazi concentration camps, create significant ethical dilemmas for editors and newspapers. Repeated use of still photos from the video of Mr Foley, and references (probably over-hyped) to his killer supposedly being nick-named after one of The Beatles (http://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/501795/British-jihadist-said-to-lead-The-Beatles-terror-gang), suggest that the ethical questions raised by publication have barely been addressed.


At one level, this may be explained by the adrenaline rush that accompanies such a huge breaking story. On such occasions, the impulse is to get the news out, and one of the justifications for publication of shocking pictures is that they are “already on the internet”. Even so, the Editors’ Code of Conduct still applies, and newspapers claim to hold themselves to higher standards than individuals or social networking sites, as we pointed out in a post last week. The point of drawing up such a code, even though it is often ignored or breached, is that editors agree to abide by it knowing they will have to make lightning-fast editorial decisions – and that ‘the internet’ is not signed up to any such standards.


In this instance, Mr Foley’s killers posted the video on YouTube; this is killing as spectacle, turning a moment of individual agony into a propaganda weapon. As far as I know, no British newspaper published still pictures of the moment of Mr Foley’s apparent murder, but some did publish links to the video. That was an error of judgement and the links were later taken down, but editors continued to use photographs of Mr Foley, moments before his death, to illustrate front-page follow-ups.


To me, this is problematic. Unlike most of the pictures I’ve seen from Nazi death camps, they have been taken not by horrified outsiders – photographers accompanying the soldiers who liberated the camps, for instance – but by the actual perpetrators of terrible crimes. Their aim is to shock and instil fear in most of their imagined audience, but also to recruit other disaffected young men to the organisation. They are glorifying their crimes, and no doubt many thousands of words could be written about the brutalised mental state of the young men behaving in this way.


At the same time, the pictures raise questions about our duty towards victims of atrocities, whether they are anonymous – which is often the case when the victims are Syrian, Iraqi or Kurdish – or clearly identifiable like Mr Foley. My reaction to the pictures of him kneeling with his hands secured behind his back is that this is an image of someone undergoing extreme mental torture. He may have hoped that his captors were putting him through a mock execution, which is in itself a form of torture, but his state of fear and horror is almost unimaginable.


I don’t want to see such pictures on the front pages of newspapers, any more than I would want to see images of a woman who is about to be raped. I doubt whether Mr Foley’s relatives and colleagues had any choice in the matter, given how widely they were used in the press. His parents made available photographs of him doing his job and asked media outlets to use them rather than stills from the video, and that is how many people would have wanted to remember him.


The Editor’s Code does not directly cover matters of taste and decency (which are rightly deemed matters of editorial judgement or wrongly deemed slaves to the market-place), but it does contain clauses which bear on this issue. Privacy may seem an odd word to use in this context, but it is absolutely clear that Mr Foley did not consent to be filmed in these circumstances. The Editors’ Code says that ‘everyone is entitled to respect for his or her privacy’ while another clause deals specifically with ‘intrusion into grief or shock’, pointing out that publication should be handled ‘sensitively’. Such prominent use of still photos from the video is a prima facie breach of both these clauses, and there is an additional question about unintentional collusion with murderers. Part of the purpose of the video was humiliation, showing a Western journalist as a helpless victim, and the casual re-use of images from it performs exactly that function.


All of these questions will arise again. The Islamic State is a horrible organisation, which shows neither compassion nor respect for human beings. It will commit more atrocities, both against people who live in the areas under its control in Syria and Iraq and against Western hostages. How the press should do its job of informing the public, when some of the images available are not just horrific but produced by the perpetrators of terrible crimes, is a subject that editors urgently need to consider.

Really, it’s as if Leveson never happened

Independent on Sunday, 17 August 2014

Lurid coverage of suicides, police alerting media to a search of a celebrity’s home – all this was supposed to be behind us

One morning last week, I woke to the solemn tones of the right-wing commentator Anne Atkins on Radio 4, offering her reflections on the suicide of the actor Robin Williams. Atkins opened with an anecdote from 1806, describing how a man consulted a doctor in London and asked for help with depression. The doctor’s advice was simple: go and see the great clown Grimaldi, who was appearing in pantomime in Covent Garden. According to Atkins, the man’s reply – and I think we need to imagine violins here – was “I am Grimaldi”.

In other versions of this story, the clown’s name is given as Pagliacci, which is the title role in an opera by Leoncavallo. The fact that both versions were repeated last week is evidence of the power of stereotype, showing just how many people want to believe that comedians are inherently sad. Existential angst featured heavily in Russell Brand’s Guardian column on Williams’s suicide, which displayed the comedian’s usual species of sixth-form analysis: “Is it melancholy to think that a world that Robin Williams can’t live in must be broken? To tie this sad event to the overarching misery of our times?”

Williams was not the only celebrity who made headlines for the wrong reasons in recent days. Reporters and a BBC crew were already outside an apartment in Berkshire belonging to Sir Cliff Richard when it was searched by police on Thursday, following an allegation of historical sex abuse at a rally in Sheffield in 1985.

The singer, who was out of the country, denied the allegation and issued a statement which accused the police of tipping off the press in advance. This practice was criticised in the Leveson report, which said such leaks “are not in the public interest” and that briefings to the press should be handled “through open and transparent procedures”. A day later, South Yorkshire Police issued a curiously worded statement admitting it had decided to work with an unnamed “media outlet” on being told that news of the raid had leaked to journalists.

Not for the first time, some sections of the press are behaving as though the Leveson inquiry never happened. The former boxing promoter Kellie Maloney has revealed that she went public about her new life as a woman only after two newspapers threatened to expose her. And it is only five months since several national newspapers were roundly criticised for providing too much detail about the suicide of the designer L’Wren Scott, including a Daily Mail column which offered a macabre fashion detail about the method she used to kill herself. Scott’s death promoted a raft of speculation about why this glamorous woman had ended her own life, citing the state of her finances and supposed tensions in her relationship with Sir Mick Jagger.

The same thing happened after Williams’s death, despite advance warnings to newspapers from the mental-health charity Mind and the Samaritans. When celebrities kill themselves, there is an obvious risk that vulnerable people will draw comparisons with their own lives and make copycat attempts. Yet the Daily Mirror’s front page threw caution to the winds and announced that Williams “hanged himself when money worries pushed him to despair”. The Daily Mail’s front page declared that Williams was “facing bankruptcy” and asked whether “money troubles” tipped him over the edge. Both The Sun and the London free newspaper, Metro, described on their front pages how Williams killed himself.

This lurid coverage involved so many apparent breaches of the Editors’ Code of Practice that it was hard to keep track. The code says that publication should be handled “sensitively” in cases involving grief or shock, while a clause on reporting suicide expressly advises against “excessive detail about the method used”. The chief executive of Mind, Paul Farmer, condemned “salacious speculation” about the cause of Williams’s suicide and offered this succinct summary of why journalists need to exercise caution: “In short it’s to keep people, who may be struggling with their mental health, safe.” Someone else put it even more starkly, declaring that editors have a duty not to kill their readers.

It was only a matter of time before all these voices urging caution were vindicated in a particularly grim manner. What none of the amateur psychologists knew when they produced a slew of sensational headlines was that Williams had been told he was suffering from Parkinson’s disease. The devastating diagnosis was revealed on Thursday by his wife, Susan Schneider, who said he was in the early stages of the degenerative condition. According to her statement, the actor was “not ready” to make the diagnosis public but his “sobriety was intact” at the time of his death, scotching rumours that he had starting drinking again.

Pictures then emerged of the actor at a reception at an art gallery in San Francisco last weekend, taken weeks after a widely published “last photo” of him posing with an employee at an ice-cream parlour in June. The Daily Mail described the photographs as “heartbreaking” even though one of them, taken from behind, simply showed the actor in a short-sleeved black shirt and trousers. A sculptor called Mark Jaeger, whose work was on display at the gallery, recalled that Williams was in high spirits, talking and laughing with other guests. Clearly, mental-health charities are right to warn that suicide has complex causes.

Williams’s premature death is tragic. He had suffered from depression in the past but a diagnosis of Parkinson’s would be hard for anyone to cope with, no matter how psychologically robust. Sadly, the revelation produced a fresh round of stereotypes, recasting Wednesday’s frail victim of addictions and money problems into Friday’s heroic patient “battling” a dreadful disease. Heartlessness and sentimentality go hand in hand, as sections of the British press never cease to remind us.

For confidential support call the Samaritans in the UK on 08457 90 90 90, visit a local Samaritans branch or click here for details

Joan Smith is executive director of ‘Hacked Off’

The Girl Next Door by Ruth Rendell

Sunday Times, 10 August 2014

Hutchinson £18.99/ebook £9.99 pp288

Ruth Rendell is one of the world’s leading crime novelists. Since her first book was published in 1964, she has won dozens of awards, seen her work adapted for tele-vision and cinema, and become a life peer. This summer, she has chosen to mark her half century as an author with a novel — her 65th full-length one — that takes her back to her Essex roots.

Although her best-known novels are set in the fictional Sussex town of Kingsmarkham, Rendell has always been a superb observer of the suburbs. The Girl Next Door is set in Loughton, on the edge of Epping Forest, where she went to school. It is one of those liminal places, not quite London but not the “real” countryside either, which she writes about ­brilliantly. Her other great strength — small changes in language that reflect big changes in social attitudes — is on show in a novel that switches between the 1940s and the present.

The book opens during the Second World War. Some of the characters could easily have been Rendell’s school friends, and she effortlessly recalls the close-to-careless ­attitudes towards children in wartime. As adults come and go, a group of children play in a series of tunnels, not realising that they are the foundations of a half-built house. Rendell gets a couple of murders out of the way at the beginning, employing stark prose that reflects the casual ­dispatch of a wife and her lover by her psychopathic husband. The killer takes a gruesome souvenir, the couple’s severed hands, and conceals them in a biscuit tin that he buries in the children’s tunnels. The girl next door, Daphne Jones, sees the husband carry two heavy bundles into a summerhouse and set fire to them, but she is too scared to tell anyone what she has seen.

Seven decades later, the tin is found by builders and the police open a desultory inquiry. The investigation is an excuse to bring together the kids who played in the tunnels, most of them now grandparents or great-grandparents. They don’t think they have much to tell the police, but the reunion sets off dramatic events. One of the men is so bowled over by meeting Daphne again that he leaves his wife for her.

Rendell understands the difference between how people appear to outsiders and their turbulent inner worlds; it is this disjunction that leads to so many of the crimes in her fiction. She has always been acutely aware of the passage of time, and never more so than in this novel.

Rendell herself is in her mid-eighties. Fifty years on, the girl from Essex has become the unchallenged crime queen of suburbia. Her powers of observation are as acute as ever, and she writes about old age with as much gusto as any of the subjects she has tackled in her long career.

Priority for caregivers, not shareholders: why campaigners support a ban on Roche’s new cancer treatment

Independent on Sunday, 10 August 2014

Nice had ‘no option’ but to reject Kadcyla at its current price

Most of us know someone with breast cancer. Some of us have friends or relatives who have died of it. So any controversy about a new drug therapy is bound to raise strong feelings, especially if the headline news is about women in the late stages of the disease being denied treatment on grounds of cost. It happened again last week, when the National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (Nice) announced that a “revolutionary” new drug called Kadcyla was too expensive to be made available on the NHS. Nice said that the cost of the drug – £90,000 per patient – was prohibitive.

For the patients who would benefit from Kadcyla, this is disastrous news. It has been shown to extend life expectancy by six months in women in the late stages of the HER2-positive form of the disease. Some of them will almost certainly die while the row between Nice and the drug’s manufacturer, the Swiss-based pharmaceutical giant Roche, rumbles on. It doesn’t help that Nice has previously made questionable decisions, such as initially limiting access to another breast cancer drug, Herceptin, to women with advanced cancer.

Herceptin (also made by Roche) is much cheaper than Kadcyla, costing the NHS around £22,000 per patient per year. After a flood of appeals and the threat of court action, Nice did the right thing, changing its guidance and making Herceptin available to women who have just been diagnosed. Kadcyla contains the same ingredients as Herceptin but it also contains a chemotherapy element which acts directly on cancer cells, avoiding damage to healthy cells and causing fewer side-effects.

Even so, there is a great deal more to this story than the cash-strapped NHS making a mean decision and condemning desperate patients to a premature death. Roche would certainly like the public to believe that; it went on the offensive last week, making its arguments on news programmes and to health correspondents. It pointed out that Kadcyla has taken 30 years to develop and said that other European countries, including Switzerland and Austria, have not baulked at the enormous price tag.

What it didn’t talk about was the economics behind the company’s pricing decisions, which can be summarised quite starkly. Four of its five top-selling drugs are for cancer and they are showing healthy growth: sales of Herceptin are up by 6 per cent while Avastin, a treatment for several different cancers, is showing growth of 13 per cent. Hence a slew of headlines along these lines in the trade press: “Roche cancer drugs drive healthy sales rise” and “Sales of cancer drugs soar once again at Roche”.

The crucial thing about Kadcyla is that it is likely to be of use to far fewer patients than Herceptin. Every year, almost 50,000 patients are diagnosed with breast cancer in the UK and around 11,500 die of it. But Kadcyla would benefit only 1,500 British women per year, according to some estimates. This is not to question whether women with aggressive forms of breast cancer should in principle have access to the most modern and effective drugs. It is to raise questions about the corporate social responsibility of big pharmaceutical companies, which have a duty to patients as well as shareholders. Roche’s own code of conduct includes a commitment to maintaining “high ethical and social standards in our business dealings”. But the company’s “commitment to society” comes after this unequivocal statement: “We aim to continuously create value for our stakeholders and to achieve sustainable, high profitability”.

Nice has been negotiating with Roche over Kadcyla since April and the company says it offered a lower, but so far undisclosed, price in recent weeks. In the past, doctors and charities have criticised Nice for decisions which deny life-extending drugs to sick people, but this time the response has been markedly different. Sally Greenbrook of Breakthrough Breast Cancer described Kadcyla as a brilliant drug but said it was “incredibly expensive”. She credited Nice with going “over and above their usual processes” to try to approve it and called for the price of life-extending drugs to come down. Mia Rosenblatt, head of policy and campaigns at the Breast Cancer Campaign, said she was “hugely disappointed” by the decision but recognised that Nice had “no option” but to reject Kadcyla at its current price.

Mother country: the harrowing truth behind ‘fertility tourism’

Independent on Sunday, 3 August 2014

A surrogate Down’s syndrome baby, abandoned by an Australian couple, exposes the First World’s double standards

The websites show state-of-the-art equipment and laughing parents with babies. The couples are white, without exception, for the websites are aimed at Australians and Europeans who want to have fertility treatment in Thailand. The services on offer include not just IVF but treatments which are illegal in many developed countries, such as commercial surrogacy and gender selection. ‘Women in Thailand are the perfect candidates to become surrogate mothers’, promises one website, suggesting that clients might even like to combine treatment with a holiday. A ‘vacation with benefits’ is how the clinic describes it, but critics use harsher words. They call it ‘fertility tourism’.

According to an organisation called Families Through Surrogacy, there are usually about 20 Australian couples awaiting the birth of their child in Thailand at any one time. Surrogacy is legal in Thailand only when a married couple ask a blood relative to carry their baby but the law has not been widely enforced. The country has become an attractive destination for Australians who are unable to have children, including same-sex couples.

Last week, the result of one such arrangement between a Thai woman and an agency – not the one mentioned above – made headlines around the world, even though the details have not been independently verified. Pattaramon Chanbua, who lives about 60 miles from Bangkok, told reporters that she was struggling to look after a seven-month-old baby with Down’s syndrome after his Australian parents abandoned him. She said the couple took the boy’s twin sister, who was healthy, but left him behind when they returned home to Western Australia.

The circumstances of Chanbua’s pregnancy and its aftermath, as she tells them, are certainly harrowing. She is poor, works on a food stall and, at the age of 21, already has children aged six and three. She agreed to act as a surrogate for the Australian couple only because she needed money. She says: ‘I asked the agency, did I have to sleep with the man? The agent told me, “We are going to make a glass tube baby”, but I didn’t understand. My husband agreed because we didn’t have money to pay our debt and I didn’t need to have sex with another man’.

Her throwaway remark about preferring surrogacy to prostitution is telling. Thailand is notorious for its sex trade, which draws tourists from all over the world, as well as acting as a hub for trafficked women and girls from nearby countries. Sex tourism has now been joined by fertility tourism as a way for poor women and girls to make money, although it isn’t presented like that by the agencies which offer it. They paint a rosy picture in which surrogates ‘are mostly middle-class women, which [sic] view surrogate motherhood…as a way to safely and comfortably earn extra money’. The clinics present commercial surrogacy as a free choice, assuring potential clients that surrogates lead a healthy lifestyle and live in ‘ecologically clean neighbourhoods’.

It is disconcerting to hear young women described as if they were racehorses or pedigree dogs, but there is an occasional burst of candour; one clinic acknowledges that ‘the main focus of this medical clinic is of course the European customers’ who are attracted by the ‘affordable prices’. No wonder that little thought seems to have been given to the impact on young women of carrying a child to term, handing it over to strangers and never seeing it again. In this latest case, the Australian parents have remained anonymous and we don’t know why they took the extraordinary decision to separate twins.

This is not the only case in which a baby has been rejected by biological parents on grounds of health or disability, a circumstance which confirms the mercantile nature of the trade. Thai officials have now cracked down on illegal surrogacy, saying that anyone who tries to remove a child to another country without permission from the government is violating Thailand’s human trafficking laws. This may seem harsh to people who can’t have children but it puts the surrogacy business in a wider context, highlighting the way in which impoverished south-east Asian women are regarded by some foreigners simply as a useful resource. It is one thing for a woman to agree to carry a child for a close friend or relative, but quite another when the parties don’t know each other and there is an imbalance of wealth.

Many wealthy families in the Gulf States and Europe don’t give a second thought to employing Filipina women as domestic servants or nannies, assuming that they will leave their children at home to be cared for by relatives. I’m not sure that renting the womb of a young Thai woman is any better, but both practices say a great deal about the first world’s double standards towards motherhood.

Behind Closed Doors

Sunday Times, 27 July 2014
A terrific debut set in an isolated town in the Ozarks opens our crime round-up
The Ozarks are an area where some of America’s most isolated communities live,
and Laura McHugh’s first novel, The Weight of Blood (Hutchinson £9.99/ebook £9.49), is set in a small town there similar to the one where she spent part of her childhood. McHugh felt like an outsider in a place where everyone was related, and she was horrified when she heard the true story of a girl who was sexually exploited for years behind closed doors.
McHugh’s protagonist, Lucy, is a teenager from Henbane, Missouri. She has never felt she belongs, mainly because of the conspiracy of silence surrounding her mother. Lila was an orphan who arrived in Henbane to take a job on a farm owned by a local man. Soon after, she married his brother, had Lucy and disappeared. When one of Lucy’s friends is murdered, she begins to wonder about this small town where bad things happen to women. The Weight of Blood is an outstanding debut.
Hakan Nesser’s Inspector Van Veeteren novels have always been humane and intricately plotted. These days, Van Veeteren has given up being a detective to run a bookshop. But one case still haunts him and it returns with a vengeance in The G File, translated by Laurie Thompson (Mantle £16.99/ebook £10.99). Fifteen years earlier, a woman hired a detective to follow her husband, known as G to the police. Days later, she was dead. G was tried and cleared of her murder, but now, all these years later, the private detective disappears, leaving a note hinting he knows how G got away with murder. This is the final book in the series, but Nesser resists a showy finale, allowing his detective nearly to be outsmarted by an immensely clever criminal.
Stuart Neville’s Belfast detective, DI Jack Lennon, inhabits a world where corrupt cops are on the take from former paramilitaries and sex traffickers. In The Final Silence (Harvill Secker £12.99/ebook £7.99), Lennon is on sick leave, when an ex-girlfriend contacts him about a gruesome discovery at her dead uncle’s house. In a locked room, the man kept a scrapbook of trophies from people he seems to have murdered. When his ex takes Lennon to the house, the book has gone. But she gives him another souvenir, a photo of her father posing with paramilitaries. Shortly afterwards, she is battered to death and Lennon becomes the prime suspect. This plot twist is hardly novel, but Neville is a good enough writer to carry it off.
Deon Meyer made his name writing fast-paced murder mysteries set in post-apartheid South Africa. His latest, Cobra, translated by KL Seegers (Hodder £18.99/ebook £9.99), begins with the murder of two security guards at an isolated guest house. The man who hired them is missing and Meyer’s detective is called to investigate. Not long after, five more guards are shot dead and the plot threatens to turn into a blood bath. This is a departure for Meyer, taking him into the realms of international conspiracy, and it is lacklustre compared with his earlier novels.
Gary Disher is one of Australia’s most admired novelists. The main character in Bitter Wash Road (Text £10.99) is a smart, likeable detective banished to a rural outpost after blowing the whistle on corrupt cops in Adelaide. Hirsch has barely arrived when the body of a teenager is found, apparently hit by a truck. His investigation is hindered at every turn by colleagues who hate him, and Disher turns out to be a superb chronicler of macho cop culture.

Ed Miliband isn’t weird. But the press is mostly hostile

Independent on Sunday, 27 July 2014

The public has been softened up to believe any old nonsense about the Labour leader

I’ve just looked up the word “weird” in a dictionary. The meanings it offers are “strange, queer, incomprehensible”, none of which I’d apply to Ed Miliband. But here is the Sky News website, reporting Miliband’s speech (one of the most important he’s ever made) two days ago: “The Labour leader effectively conceded he was ‘weird’ – and at times appeared to encourage people to vote for David Cameron.” I was in the audience for the speech and I didn’t hear him say either of these things. But they are further examples of how the public has been softened up to believe any old nonsense about Miliband.

I’ve known him since he was first in Parliament and I don’t always agree with him; I still think he was wrong last year about military intervention in Syria. But almost nothing I read or hear about him accords with the warm, funny, intellectual human being I know. During last week’s speech he was relaxed, self-mocking, and articulate; he didn’t use the word “weird” but he did make jokes about his resemblance to Wallace and an unfortunate photo of himself eating a bacon sandwich.

Miliband admits he doesn’t always photograph well and he knows he can’t win an image contest against Cameron. He also knows, but didn’t say, that his enemies in the press delight in choosing pictures that show him in an unflattering light. Like most Labour leaders, he is operating in a hostile environment and now he’s embarked on a huge gamble, appealing to the public over the heads of political correspondents and the Westminster lobby.

It’s no surprise that some of them didn’t like it, reacting like children who’ve had their toys taken away when he demolished his image as a humourless policy wonk. They didn’t get his point about “photo-op politics” either, even though it was made in the context of a critique of the Prime Minister’s broken promises and image manipulation. According to Miliband, Cameron “hugs a husky before an election and then says ‘cut the green crap’ after it”.

It’s part of the day-to-day hypocrisy of sections of the media that they demand arresting pictures of politicians, then complain when they get them; if Miliband hadn’t been snapped with the US President last week, the story would have been “Obama snubs Labour leader”. The only way Miliband could satisfy this inability to distinguish between a “photo-op” and a “photograph” is never to appear in public again.

Miliband will have to meet an awful lot of people before the election if this tactic is to work. But he said something hugely significant on Friday, promising to fight for ordinary families against the banks, the energy companies and Rupert Murdoch. It was brave to name the media tycoon, but also smart. Most of the press hates Labour but ordinary people are outraged by the phone-hacking scandal. They may warm to a leader who refuses to be cowed by powerful editors and proprietors.