Hashtag

by David Wake

  The Inspector believed Westbourne was behind the Peters case, Chen thought, and the Fletcher and the Oscart and–

  “Sooner or later,” said Jellicoe, “we’ll find something that he is connected to, and then I’ll have him.”

  Sir, thought Chen.

  The Inspector didn’t react: perhaps he wasn’t following them. It was hard to say. Perhaps he drifted in and out adjusting who he was following all the time, but his eyes didn’t flicker like someone changing their mind.

  “He’s done people in, for sure,” Jellicoe said. “Sooner or later, he’ll make a mistake.”

  “But how does he do people in?” Chen asked.

  “It’s a right Chinese Puzzle, all right,” said Jellicoe. “I’ve seen enough James, let’s take this Detective Constable home.”

  The area around Oliver’s apartments was paved in bricks with bollards to stop any vehicle ruining it. Chen dropped him off at the corner.

  Thanks Chen, Oliver thought. “Sir,” he said aloud.

  “Braddon,” said Jellicoe, and then “home James.”

  I’m not James, Chen thought, how many times?

  As the car pulled away, Oliver saw the damage to the bonnet of the Panther Elite.

  Nasty dent there, he thought, and then Oliver wondered where Jellicoe lived: Probably in a museum.

  You’re not far wrong, Chen thought, although whether he was referring to the dent or Jellicoe’s home wasn’t clear.

  Standing between the bollards, wearing a sandwich board topped off with a silver hat, was a crazy man, shouting at the passing cars.

  “They control your mind!” he yelled, gesticulating to slow the traffic down. One car swerved dangerously to avoid him. “Mind control!”

  The front board had the legend: ‘The End of the World’ and when he turned, Oliver saw that the reverse had ‘Fight the Thought Police’.

  Despite the tin foil headgear, Oliver recognised him as ‘Daniel’, and a noodle revealed that he’d once been a city trader who had suffered a nervous breakdown.

  You don’t say, Oliver thought.

  Aye, Daniel thought, they got to me with their mind waves… they’ll get to you.

  Not me.

  You… my friend, Oliver, because… you’re one of them, one of the Thought Police.

  Me, Thought Police – you’re the one in my mind.

  And you’re not in mine.

  Oliver shook his head and walked away: foil hat brigade, unbelievable.

  “There’s one, there’s one,” the man shouted.

  People looked and stared, but not at him, or if they did it was out of pity for someone being picked on by a nutter.

  Oliver thought at the outer door of the complex and it buzzed as it unlocked. Finally, up the lift and through his own buzzing door, he was in his own space. He dumped his jacket over the sofa. He thought about the lights and then made his way to the kitchen. It was late: he noodled what he had in the fridge and cupboards, and when he remembered, he noodled what was easy to make. He remembered that he could make a ham sandwich. The instructions were easy to follow, although he had to noodle where he’d left the pickle, and he selected a beer from the fridge. Back in the lounge, he sat down.

  His flat was sparse, minimalist, with all the seating arranged in a square. He tended to choose his armchair as he could put a plate on the armrest and he wasn’t distracted by the view.

  He flicked down his Thinkerfeed, tracking along to see what he’d missed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted his girlfriend back. He ended up in Mindstore perusing the latest cerebrals: special thoughts and he deserved to feel special. There was Soulmate or Corinthian: a chance to have the thoughts of ardent lovers thinking sweet nothings into his brow. Or various Rock Star options with devoted groupies or Secret Agents, who get the girl.

  Sweet nothings, he thought and blinked himself back to his Thinkersphere Home: Keep it real.

  He took a bite from his sandwich.

  At Jasmine, he thought, I’m sorry, it was work. Can we do something?

  He found his favourite podcast and let the thoughts wash over him as he ate. There were a few intrusions from Hasqueth Coffee, but not enough to break the law, technically.

  I am too, Jasmine thought back.

  He was tired, rubbed his forehead and eyes, getting crumbs into the latter. He thought the podcast off.

  What was it, Jasmine thought.

  Nothing, just… Oliver couldn’t even remember and didn’t care enough to noodle it. Nothing.

  Miss you, Ollie.

  Miss you too, Jas.

  Thanks.

  What can we do to make it up, Oliver thought, anything you want?

  Anything?

  Anything.

  I’d like to go to the theatre.

  “Pa–pah! Pa–pah!” he said aloud. That would be great, he thought.

  OK, Jasmine thought, I’ve taken a tablet, so… tomorrow then.

  Tomorrow, he thought back, and best I go to bed too.

  Sweet dreams, Mithering thought.

  He thought the shower on, dropped his clothes on the floor on the way to the bathroom, and after that, he finally got into bed.

  He couldn’t sleep: his, and a lot of other people’s thoughts, seemed to circle in his head. The iBrow charger made his head feel warm and clammy.

  Who killed the woman?

  Who was she?

  How could they not know?

  Sleep tight, Mithering thought, or perhaps he just imagined it as he drifted off. His iBrow registered unconsciousness and his thoughts, if he had any, were his own.

  TUESDAY

  The next morning, back at the police station, his colleagues had already brought in suspects for formal identification and charging. They divided into the two usual groups: those full of false bravado and those tearfully racked with guilt and regret. Lawyers chimed on about the right to remain silent. There wasn’t any talking, but the appropriate hashtags of the Thinkersphere hummed. They were caught, that was all there was to it, and their confessions, which were their own contemporaneous thoughts, were a matter of public record.

  There was some movement, when Oliver came in, as people recognised him and noodled that he was something to do with the body in the car park. Oliver didn’t bother following it.

  Mox stood against the wall, idling tapping his baton against his gloved hand. Whenever he detected any arsey thought, he’d glance in their direction.

  “This the brick thrower?” the Desk Sergeant asked.

  Oliver was puzzled before he realised that it was a formal request for the records. He looked, but obviously he’d not seen the man clearly; however, after noodling, he remembered the suspect’s thoughts at the time: Take this, you Tepee bastards!

  “Yes, that’s him,” he said.

  “OK, matey, in the cell with you.”

  At Ollie, where are you, Freya thought.

  On my way.

  Woo hoo, Chen thought, and it jumped to the fore.

  Oliver looked quizzically at Mox. He’d not recognised Chen since coming into the station.

  One of them ran, Mox thought back, and Chen’s chasing him.

  In the fast car?

  Mox nodded: Oh yes.

  Oliver laughed imagining Chen zooming around the city in the Panther Elite, noodling the fugitive’s location to every panicked thought from the desperate runner. It was ludicrous, but every now and then someone ran. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had ‘got away’, perhaps no–one ever had.

  Oliver found his way up to the first–floor offices. Chief Superintendent Turner’s was at the far end with prints of landscapes on the walls.

  Go straight in, Max thought even before Oliver had reached the PA’s desk.

  Hi, there, Oliver thought, but Max had a vague look and was probably doing some complicated analysis.

  Oliver knocked formally.

  Oliver, Freya thought.

  Freya.

  Oliver went in. Freya signalled to a chai
r. It was comfortable, a grey upholstered bucket shape held aloft by thin steel tubes. Freya’s desk had an executive toy, a Newton’s cradle, and a picture. Oliver had only ever seen the back of the picture, black with a fold out stand. There were several pieces of paper in a neat pile, which always amused Oliver. The word ‘paperwork’ now referred to something quite unrelated to ink stained white sheets. She also had a tablet computer currently acting as a paperweight. Behind him was a set of wooden shelves with a set of hardback books and a framed photograph of an extremely youthful looking Freya graduating from Police College.

  Tea?

  No, thank you Ma’am.

  “Freya!” No Ma’am, please.

  Oliver bowed slightly: Freya.

  When’s your Sergeant’s Exam? A formality, I know, but we can’t fast track you to Inspector without it.

  The no–noodling one’s Thursday, day after tomorrow.

  That’s the beast.

  What’s the point?

  “You must be well aware,” she said, “that sometimes we have to do things the old–fashioned way.”

  Point taken.

  They’re like the old no–calculator exams in Maths.

  Oliver noodled this and remembered what she was talking about, although it was hard to believe people once had to press buttons to add up numbers.

  How are things, Oliver, the case?

  Everything’s fine, Oliver thought, Jellicoe has taken me under his wing with the murder enquiry.

  “Murder!”

  Yes.

  And you’ve not solved it.

  No, we can’t identify the victim.

  A non–brow?

  That’s the problem, the victim’s iBrow was removed – scalped.

  Freya’s nose wrinkled at this: Unpleasant.

  Very.

  Jellicoe looking after you, though?

  Yes, but he’s a little… old fashioned.

  “Ha!”

  I’ll get used to him.

  Freya took a moment to look out of her window at the white clouds scudding along, waved on by a flapping English flag. Oliver followed her example and thought that it was a nice day.

  It is, Freya thought, tapping her desk with her index finger.

  Oliver straightened in the chair and thought: Anything else?

  No, so I guess that counts as our one–to–one.

  It does.

  One–to–one with DC Oliver Braddon, concluded today at… Freya closed her eyes momentarily as she checked: …nine twenty–two.

  Thank you, Ma’am.

  Less of the Ma’am, if you don’t mind.

  Oliver got out of his chair, always unsure of how to leave such a meeting, and then made his way past Max.

  Oh, at Ollie, one more thing, Freya thought to him before he was half way down the corridor. That police murder allegation in the car park – anything in that?

  No, it’s just some conspiracy nonsense.

  Just the same, keep an eye on it.

  Will do.

  Briefing at ten, isn’t it?

  That’s right.

  The rethinking around the station was about the runner. Chen had caught him on some waste ground. Oliver missed the arrival and processing, but apparently, he looked like a half–witted dork. He’d been wearing a balaclava even when he knew the police were onto him.

  Once we were following his thoughts, Chen thought, what was the use of hiding his identity? Unless he doesn’t even know who he is.

  Oliver smiled, liked it and rethought it.

  Several others liked it straight away.

  It was strange how these disguises kept on appearing, almost like a uniform, when all you had to do was put your forehead within recognition distance to know who they were, and from there you could surf their entire life history on Noodle. But still the balaclavas, Guy Fawkes disguises and dead president masks kept appearing.

  There was no–one in the meeting room at 10:00, when Oliver glanced in, and the discussion was held in the Thinkersphere. Or rather not. Oliver, like all the police, skimmed Maxine’s thoughts and noodled the results. There were no comments. It had been called by Maxine, and everyone knew what that meant. She enjoyed the drama. Oliver met the others in the parking area at the back of the station at 10:15.

  There was the usual group: Mike, Zack, Mox, Bob, Chen and Oliver. DS Mike Milton was nominally in charge, but they all waited for Maxine.

  Chen was ready to drive again. The dent in the bonnet of the Panther Elite was still there along with churned up mud stains around the wheel arches.

  Oliver tried to think about his case, noodling in different ways to see if he could identify the victim, but it came out the same every time. He was getting heartily fed up of it and Maxine’s lecture, which they had to follow. She went on about how sick and twisted some individuals were. At least he wasn’t in the same car as the police psychologist herself, so there was no need to nod and smile.

  They pulled up outside a terrace in Donald Street. There was no rush, DS Mike Milton had been following the suspect and knew that the man had no idea what was about to hit him.

  Oliver ended up at the front.

  He rang the doorbell.

  There was no answer.

  Chen rethought something from the suspect about beans, and it gave Oliver his identity. Oliver followed him and then thought at the man directly: At Jürgens, Police, open up.

  Oh shit, my stuff, the man thought.

  The light in the frosted window changed as a figure inside ran past.

  Mike responded: In, upstairs, go, go, go!

  Oliver, get out of the way, thought Zack.

  Oliver stepped smartly to one side and DC Zack and DC Mox came up the path with the heavy ram. They smashed into the lock section causing the frosted glass to crack and their second charge smashed it completely. The door hung at an angle on the hinge, and still connected by a chain, but Oliver used his baton to clear the glass. Zack and Bob went in, upstairs as directed by DS Mike.

  Oliver followed.

  They all went up into the back bedroom.

  When Oliver reached the squad, the man was held down on a single bed by Zack. The grubby carpet was awash with photographs, most badly focused and blurred, but clearly all of the same woman. A few had been used to jam a shredding machine.

  Someone nudged Oliver forward and he went in.

  Maxine stood at the door in her designer suit.

  “You pervert,” she said aloud, “you rapist, you piece of shit.”

  I didn’t do anything, the man thought.

  You wanted to. We’ve your thoughts on record, Maxine thought, category five, planned sexual offence.

  I didn’t do anything.

  Officer, do your duty, Maxine thought.

  DS Mike Milton stepped up smartly and thought: Carl Jürgens–

  “Aloud!” said Maxine. “I don’t want any legal cock–ups.”

  Mike coughed, then spoke aloud, “Carl Jürgens, I’m um… arresting you on suspicion of stalking and category – let’s see – five, planned sexual offence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say or think may be given in evidence.”

  Thank you, Mike, Maxine thought.

  Carl Jürgens thoughts were insistent: I didn’t do anything.

  The man was on his knees, his wispy long hair combed over his baldness fooling no–one, and his cardigan was buttoned–up askew.

  “Look, mate,” said Mike aloud, “you’ve been following this woman’s thoughts, stalking her, taking pictures and imagining all sorts of weird shit, so best get you down to a clinic for a little re–education.”

  I didn’t do anything, Jürgens thought, you fucking Thought Police!

  “Now, now.”

  The Chinese Box, oh God no, Jürgens thought. He glanced at his wardrobe.

  Zack and Bob hauled the man to his feet and marched him off down the stairs.

&
nbsp; Mike responded: What did he mean by the Chinese Box?

  Dunno, Oliver thought, but he looked over here.

  Where?

  Oliver went over to the wardrobe and opened it: Here.

  There were some sad shirts hanging there, shoes littering the base and a smart black case.

  No box here, Oliver thought.

  My door! You bastards, Jürgens thought, I didn’t do anyth–

  Oliver stopped following the prisoner and instead knelt down to help Mike collect the pictures.

  Oliver wondered about the victim: Does she know?

  No, thought Mike, so we can’t do him for mental assault.

  She’s attractive.

  I’ll get jealous, Mithering thought.

  I have a girlfriend.

  Mike looked at Oliver: What?

  Someone else, Oliver thought waving his hand by his forehead.

  Mike nodded without thinking.

  Oliver found a flat box under the bed that still had some photographs in it, and then gathered it all together. They double–checked they had everything and then they looked over the house. The man didn’t clean, the only things they found with any gloss were the photographs they took with them.

  “What do you know about Westbourne?” Mike asked aloud.

  “Er…”

  “Without noodling.”

  “Without noodling – er… bugger all,” Oliver said; Why are we talking?

  “Just tell me.”

  “Inspector Jellicoe has a thing about it, probably he got a ‘case that haunts because he was the one that got away’ complex.”

  “Careful of Jellicoe, more likely to hold you back than help you forward.”

  “I will.”

  Downstairs and back outside, they met two WPCs from uniform, who had arrived to guard the premises until it was secured. Oliver recognised Laura and Zoe when they walked up.

  Zoe saw him first: You catch the bastard?

  Oliver nodded.

  “Yay!”

  Hope they castrate the pervert, Laura thought.

  Zoe liked this.

  Oliver stopped: Pardon?

  In a liberal, reforming way, Laura thought back, while strung up by the goolies.

  Zoe laughed and lolled.

  Others started liking this too.

  Oliver left them to it.

  Chen had stayed in the car the whole time noodling music by the sound of his hand beating a rhythm on the steering wheel. They had to tap the window to rouse him to think about unlocking the doors.