Hashtag

by David Wake

  One impossibility replaced by another impossibility, Mithering thought.

  A drunk person, Draith suggested.

  No, Oliver thought back, they’d have to think to the Desk Sergeant and that was you.

  Not me, Draith thought, you can check my thoughts. Perhaps someone else on duty?

  No, because there’s someone here all the time: Mox, Chen, whoever, on duty and he’s not allowed to leave the desk.

  Dead end then, Draith thought.

  Oliver noodled Draith’s thoughts anyway, but they fitted the analysis. Of course, they did. The analysis was based on his, and everyone else’s, thoughts. The man was nervous now, worried that Oliver suspected him. Oliver did the same with Mox, who was still thinking about his cerebral even if he wasn’t playing it, and then Chen, Mike, Maxine, Zack, Bob and finally, feeling guilty and disloyal, Freya. He noodled the morning’s Duty Roster: Nancy, who he’d not met, Tim Too, Rose and Tim.

  No thought seemed to involve tape, locks, doors, Tasers or any euphemism that might relate to them.

  It just doesn’t work, Oliver thought.

  That’s the worry, Draith thought.

  On his way back to his desk, Oliver noodled about scalping, his other potential line of enquiry, and remembered that it had been used by the Ancient Scythians to create war trophies that they then used as napkins. Shame Noodle didn’t have a forget function. These were all references to the removal of the hair and skin, not the forehead as the word meant now. Oliver skipped ahead to the modern entries. Scalping, the removal of brow technology was an activity briefly ascribed to anti–cyborg groups. Oliver thought it made the plot of the last ever movie, but a noodle reminded him that it wasn’t. Cyborg Serial Killer gained one star on the movie summary according to Noodle and it was about a cyborg who killed three or more people rather than someone who killed cyborgs.

  Ollie, Mithering thought, why are you thinking about the last movie?

  Just trying to figure out why the victim was scalped.

  Surely to hide their identity.

  It could be as a trophy or a protest though.

  I suppose.

  Though surely if you wanted to stop people implanting brows, then half a dozen deaths isn’t going to make much difference.

  And pointless if you hide the fact.

  Oliver hadn’t realised that before.

  You’re welcome, Mithering thought back.

  You’re not hunting a cyborg killer, Chen thought, are you?

  Might be.

  Did you have the glowing dagger?

  What?

  The glowing dagger, Chen thought, it was part of the merchandising for the film.

  This took Oliver by surprise: Why are you noodling the film?

  I’m not, I had one as a kid.

  Was it good?

  I broke it.

  I had a pair of Heads–up glasses, Oliver admitted.

  No way.

  Yes, it used to show text boxes in front of you to tell you what you were looking at.

  And you had to read these?

  Yes.

  Oliver remembered the text balloons floating in front of him as the various hints appeared depending on his view. He wondered what happened to the device. It was probably in the loft at his parents’ house.

  I’ve just found a glowing dagger for sale, Chen thought.

  Oliver followed the link and felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. Other people had bought the magic orb, the pyjamas and the electronic gun. Oliver shuddered, although a gun that lights up and makes strange noises was not the same as a Taser, the similarity was disturbing.

  Mithering’s thought interrupted them: Perhaps we should focus?

  Good point, Oliver thought as he remembered that Heads–up glasses could be bought in presentation boxes for £9.99 from Vintage Tech. Others who bought it went on to purchase tie–in t–shirts and the director’s cut on download. It had 4.5 stars from 158 reviews.

  Focus!

  Sorry Mithering.

  Chen thought: Who’s Mithering?

  Someone following the case, Oliver thought back. Now, let’s review.

  Oliver noodled the case notes.

  It’s a puzzle all right, Mithering thought.

  “A Chinese Puzzle,” said Oliver to himself: Chinese Puzzle, Jellicoe had said that outside Westbourne’s house. He’d heard it before, of course. No, Carl Jürgens, that stalker, had said Chinese… something. Oliver noodled through Jürgens last two days of thinking for anything Chinese. Maybe by focusing on rooms, boxes and whispering, he’d missed something.

  Jürgens had had a Chinese takeaway, another Chinese takeaway, more takeaway, and then he remembered that he’d threatened Maxine in the cell with the Chinese Room. Luckily, this was in his thought stream in the Thinkersphere and not in one of the numerous gaps caused by all the talking and shouting.

  Chinese Puzzle. Chinese Room. Chinese Box… There weren’t any Chinese associated with this – were there?

  What about Chen, Mithering thought.

  Chen’s from Slough.

  I am, Chen thought, so what?

  There was a Chinese quarter in town, nowhere near Chedding, that was called Chinatown. There were a few intersecting streets that had the right architecture and design to give it an exotic flavour. There were restaurants and shops, so if you wanted a Chinese Puzzle or a Chinese Box, then that would be a good place to go to find something authentic. There would be Chinese Rooms aplenty too.

  Or it was code, a mechanism to obscure your thinking.

  In which case, Mithering thought, the Chinese Room could be anywhere and not even a room.

  That doesn’t really make sense: the Chinese Box was a Chinese Box, lacquered and red with traditional scrawls on the lid.

  Oliver fished it out from his drawer and put it down in front of him.

  It was beautiful and, when he examined it, he was impressed by the craftsmanship. The catch opened easily and… nothing. It was painted black inside, a gloss finish that caught the light.

  Chinese Puzzle, Jellicoe had said.

  A man has died to hide this, so it has to mean something.

  There was a maker’s mark on the base, so Oliver noodled it and remembered that it was a Chinese Box, on special offer via Amazon, that they came in three sizes and they were eligible for free delivery. Others who thought about it also thought about Chinese Lanterns, Chinese Firecrackers and Chinese Fortune Cookies. So the box itself really wasn’t worth killing over. It wasn’t an antique or a collector’s item. You could get them on a three–for–two offer.

  “Maybe… hmm….”

  Oliver turned it over and examined every surface. He touched the inside and outside, felt the distance and eventually came to the conclusion that it hadn’t been altered. There were no hidden compartments or false bottoms.

  Perhaps the box itself was the puzzle?

  A box was a kind of small space, so a Chinese Box might represent the Chinese Room. It could be, say, a particular room with red on the outside and black on the inside. But why not just think the address?

  What address?

  It was empty: was that the clue?

  What’s the clue?

  The box is empty, Oliver thought conscious that Mithering was still following him.

  Was there something in it?

  No.

  Maybe a direct approach.

  Jellicoe had mentioned something about… Oliver had to noodle it: Zhaodi and the Peking Duck.

  Chen, Oliver thought at Chen, can you take me to Chinatown?

  Only too happy, Chen thought, get me away from the station.

  As they drove along, Chen asked him about the case.

  No progress really, just trying one of Jellicoe’s mad schemes.

  Chen thought: And the latest game is?

  Some contact in Chinatown of all places.

  It comes out when?

  Sorry?

  Hang on, Mox, Chen thought, Oliver, I was asking Mox about the latest cerebra
l.

  Sorry.

  Oliver stared out of the window, soon letting Chen and Mox’s conversation skip past. Other thoughts intruded.

  If he was thinking about eating Chinese, perhaps he should consider the Palatine’s new menu.

  Hasqueth’s Finest for that special taste, so good.

  Don’t you deserve a special thought this weekend?

  Hash Charlie and hash Foxtrot, beer and skittles, now 7:30 today – that’s today!

  There was a crowd of people across the street when they reached Chinatown and the car slowed right down. People bumping and knocking the car as Chen inched it along. The dashboard warned about pedestrian proximity.

  As if I didn’t know, Chen thought. This is ridiculous.

  I’ll get out here, Oliver thought.

  OK.

  Chen thought at the car and the lock clunked. Oliver eased the door open and slipped out into the throng. His going was much easier on foot as he simply let the crowd move him along.

  A banging noise started up, drums and cymbals, a clattering noise and then a smattering of distant gunfire.

  Panicked, Oliver went around the corner and met an extraordinary spectacle. A huge, angry dragon weaved through the crowd, its majestic face picked out in gold and its long fabric body rippled sinuously above a multitude of feet. The crowd held lanterns above them, and musical instruments competed and added to the cacophony. Another batch of firecrackers went off, showering sparks and causing those nearby to jump, squeal and giggle.

  The parade made progress impossible, so Oliver just stopped and enjoyed it, letting the colours and vibrancy wash over him. Once the main feature had turned the corner, the crowd began to move on. Cordite drifted on the breeze, but it was soon replaced by the smells of Chinese cooking.

  The Peking Duck was constructed in wood and looked authentic to Oliver’s untutored eyes. He climbed a few wooden steps and went inside. It was dark, but there was enough light from the flickering flames for him to see the clientele. They were oriental, which he believed was always a sign of a good Chinese restaurant, and he recognised nothing but Chinese names. They were hunkered down with small bowls and chopsticks, clicking away as they ate.

  A waitress, dressed in traditional garb, took a flurry of small steps to approach. “Table for one?”

  He recognised Jade as she showed him the restaurant’s hashtag on a wooden plaque fixed to the wall. Oliver linked in.

  “I’m joining someone,” he said. “Er… Za–odi.”

  “Zhaodi!”

  “Zha…”

  The knowledge was so clear in his memory, but he realised that he’d never said it aloud.

  Zhaodi, he thought at her.

  Are you expected?

  No.

  Please to wait.

  She bowed and shuffled off.

  So, you get to commit crimes for points, Chen thought.

  Thoughts had been chuntering in the background, but it jumped out to Oliver. Oliver tried to ignore it, it was like they were spamming. He flicked through his own collected thoughts: Jasmine’s friend was having a party on Saturday, Dartford wanted to know why he’d gone to see Jürgens, the Beer and Skittles was tonight – it’s Friday today!

  Oliver thought at Dartford: I considered it might be pertinent to the Chedding murder case.

  Dartford’s response came straight back: Why?

  There were thoughts about a Chinese Box.

  Did it come to anything?

  Oliver glanced around the Peking Duck.

  Not yet, he thought.

  Let me know if it does.

  Jade, the waitress, returned: Please to follow, she thought with a bow.

  Oliver bowed and accompanied her, trying to modify his longer stride to avoid bumping into her. She took him through the steaming kitchens, full of smells and noise, and then into another eating area. This one had no tables and chairs, and the patrons looked up from the floor suspiciously.

  Please to remove shoes, the waitress thought.

  Oliver did so, placing them on a rack provided. He felt foolish walking across in his socks with a jacket and tie on.

  The waitress took him to the far end where there was an area set aside, raised and demarcated with fancy lattice screens. Oliver was surprised to see an old woman sitting in the alcove on a bench behind a table. Shockingly, despite the obvious close proximity, he didn’t recognise her.

  “DC Braddon,” Oliver said aloud showing her his card. He held it waiting for an acknowledgement thought, but instead the imperious woman waved it away.

  “I know who you are,” she said. “Sit! Sit!”

  “Thank you.”

  Oliver sat on the bench in front of the table. He still felt tall.

  Oliver jumped: the woman had clapped her hands twice, loudly. She was surprisingly quick for such an old person.

  “Tea,” she said.

  Oliver turned round to ask for a coffee, or perhaps a beer if there was no Hasqueth, but the waitress was already hastening away.

  I’m drinking tea then, he thought.

  When he turned back, he saw that the woman was scrutinising him, tilting her head to one side and frowning as she did so. Oliver noticed with a horror that her forehead didn’t crease properly, the familiar faint outline of the iBrow didn’t appear. She was one of the thoughtless. This was why he hadn’t recognised her. He felt slightly nauseous as if he’d met someone with body odour.

  This woman, he thought, can’t know anything about the world, not truly. Her horizons were limited to what she saw and heard and, maybe, read, but printed matter or ebooks were, by their very nature, out of date. She was living in the past in a very real way. At this moment, she knew only what was in this oriental room and nothing else. She was like someone truly locked up. He felt pity, but he was simultaneously repelled, like seeing someone with a severe disability, and he felt guilty about this.

  The tea arrived in a pot on a tray. Also present were two small bowls and a variety of strange implements. The woman took hold of these in a perfunctory way and moved the items around like chess pieces until she was satisfied with the arrangement.

  Finally, she poured the tea.

  When she nodded at him, Oliver took a sip. It was scalding.

  “Madam er… Za–odi–”

  “Zhaodi, yes?”

  “Inspector Jellicoe sends his regards.”

  “Does he? He is a friend of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, please to tell to him, if I see him again, I shall cut his tongue out and have it fried in sauce.”

  “…right.”

  “And as you are his friend, then I shall do what I can for you, but him–”

  She motioned with a long nail across her crinkled neck.

  Oliver couldn’t come up with anything to think, let alone say.

  “Your question?”

  “Question?”

  “Policemen love questions: what happened to this man’s watch, what happened to this lady’s purse, what was in those bags you flushed down the toilet? And always, always, when they cannot read your mind: what have you got to hide?”

  “What have you got to hide?”

  “See, I was right, jerk of the knee reaction, prejudice… your question please.”

  “I’m seeking the Chinese Room.”

  The woman laughed, “I am also seeking – Zhaodi.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My name, ‘Zhaodi’, it means ‘seeking little brother’,” she said. “It is the sexism, Chinese family always prefer male offspring.”

  “Ah, the one child policy.”

  “China was the first nation.”

  “Yes.”

  “But even before, men have always preferred male children. Your Spartans exposed their infants on hillside.”

  “I’m not really a Spartan.”

  “Women have always been locked away, kept from light. You know this?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver, without noodling. He’d re
vised it for his exam. “Sexism, completely wrong.”

  “Pah,” she waved the whole idea away. Oliver saw that her hands were like claws, bent and twisted.

  The waitress, Jade, returned, placing a bowl in front of each of them and a woven basket with a lid in the middle of the table. She bowed to the old woman and retreated.

  “Help yourself,” the woman said.

  Oliver opened the basket and saw a variety of strange morsels on a bed of steaming string.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  The woman laughed, more a cackle, and pointed to her forehead: “Noodle, noodle.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Oliver struggled, but managed to extract some noodles and various pieces of meat and vegetable. As he did so, he noodled the restaurant’s menu and was relieved to remember that everything seemed to be made of conventional animals.

  The woman took her own chopsticks and quickly filled her bowl. She ate without slurping, something Oliver’s experiment didn’t achieve. He’d been to Chinese restaurants before and he’d used chopsticks, even considered himself an expert, but this woman made him feel naïve and clumsy.

  “Why should I help you?”

  “It’s your duty.”

  “You are policeman. You affect business.”

  “I’m not on the drugs squad.”

  “Drugs, we no do drugs.”

  “Of course,” said Oliver. Likely story, he thought.

  “Counterfeit goods. Good quality. No rubbish. You want. I give you sample.”

  “Er… no, best not. It would be corrupt.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “So, will you?”

  The woman considered, again her forehead betraying her. Oliver tried to smile and somehow convey trustworthiness, but he felt his face was letting him down. Without thought, he was as inept as he was without a knife and fork.

  “I help you because they take our business: racketeering.”

  “Who are they?”

  “We don’t know. Maybe Westbourne, maybe Westbourne’s son, maybe another.”

  “How can they operate without their thoughts giving them away?”

  “We know not. Perhaps they have brainless wonders too.” She tapped her own forehead. “How would I know? I am not cyborg.”