Power and Control

by Robert H Wilde

  “I met them. Out. At night. It’s a woman…”

  Sat next to the DI was DC Lindleman, and his eyes twinkled as he replied, “that could mean you’ve joined us in the pride.”

  “That doesn’t mean that,” Grayling replied.

  “You’re heterosplaining me.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Oh, it is. Now.”

  “Grayling,” Wick said taking over, “do you feel, in your judgement, that this journalist might actually be honest?”

  “Well, on a personal level yes.” Grayling turned to Maruma. “Agree?”

  “Yes, she is genuine.”

  “In that case, let’s arrange a meeting.”

  Behind her glasses, Grayling’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Susan was sat in her car again. It was a curious sanctum but had the advantage of being mobile so it could be found outside newspaper offices, her parents’ house and, on this occasion, a ‘unit’. Checking her phone to make sure the time was right she began to smile wildly as she got out of the vehicle and walked up a carefully manicured garden and into reception.

  It was white. The walls, the furnishings, the uniform of the woman behind the desk, even the paintings seemed to be white. Susan went over, put her hands on the counter and said with more nerves than she had been expecting “I’m Susan Edwards, I’m here to collect Karen Edwards.”

  The receptionist’s expression went from a carefully formed but false look of concern, to a carefully formed smile as she tapped onto the tablet computer on the desk. “Ah yes, Karen has been discharged and is packing up her room. I shall just let everyone know you are here.”

  With that the receptionist disappeared through a white door.

  Susan turned and began to pace back and forth. She was happy to have her sister back, she truly was, but what would she say? What did you say? Susan knew she was a journalist and supposed to be good with words, but nothing prepared you for taking your baby sister home from an asylum.

  “Good news Susan,” the receptionist said appearing, and the journalist turned to find Karen with her. The siblings were the same height, both slightly built, but Karen had been unable to dye her hair for several months and had the family blonde which Susan kept hidden beneath, well, currently red. Karen wore a pair of faded jeans and a baggy top, and Susan couldn’t see her nervous face because she couldn’t tear her attention away from the scars running down the left arm where Karen had tried to kill herself.

  But Karen saw where her sister’s eyes were looking. She self-consciously pulled the sleeve of her top down over the marks and looked at the floor.

  “Sorry, sorry, sis, great to see you,” Susan dashed over to give Karen a hug, only to discover once her arms were wrapped round, she received only a minor squeeze back.

  “Hi,” said a worried voice.

  “She is all ready to go,” the receptionist explained, “we just need some forms signed…”

  “Do you have a bag?” Susan asked. “I have the car of course.”

  “I have this,” she said, producing a small rucksack.

  “Don’t you have clothes and letters and keepsakes and stuff?”

  Karen regarded Susan with the look of someone who’d just come out of prison and been told it was Disneyland. “No, I don’t want any memories of here.”

  “Okay, well let me sign this…” A few strokes of the pen later, and Susan picked the bag up and walked alongside her sister out the door into the morning light. Susan then realised she’d carried on walking while Karen had stopped. “You ok?”

  “It’s… it’s odd to be free again.”

  “Yeah, I guess it must be.”

  “Yes, you guess,” Karen tugged the sleeve back down over the scar.

  Susan allowed her. She’d been prepared for Karen to have difficulty going back into the world and society after a year in a psychiatric hospital, but she hadn’t been prepared for this awkwardness between them. They’d never had this before, not even when they’d dated the same guys.

  “You take your time,” but Susan knew as soon as she’d said it that she was being patronising.

  “Still got the same car?” Karen said clearly trying to force normality.

  “Yes.”

  “Still hiding in it?”

  “Also, yes.”

  “I appreciate having somewhere of your own to hide now.” Karen didn’t explain, she just resumed walking and they soon reached the car. Belongings were thrown onto the back seat and they both sat down.

  “It’s…” Karen began, clearly having trouble speaking for emotion, “kind of you to have me stay. Mother is… doesn’t… understand.”

  Oh god Karen, I don’t understand; but Susan forced this down and replied, “whatever I can do to help you, you know that.”

  “Thanks. So, to our new home then?”

  Karen nodded, then paused and raised a hand. “We need to go somewhere to eat.”

  “Oh of course, brunch? Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Take me anywhere, literally anywhere. McDonalds, Burger King, Chicken Fryer, Jimmy John Johns, Dominoes, Ludo, whatever the fuck. I want fast food, I want salty food, I want fat and piles of naughtiness. Then chocolate. I’ve had a year of carefully curated canteen and I want to go crazy.” A pause in which both sisters stared at each other. “Poor choice of words. I want to let the diet loose!”

  “Okay, we can do that.”

  “Also, coffee,” Karen said, traditionally thirsty.

  “Coffee?”

  “They don’t like coffee inside; I want enough shots to make a statue move.”

  “Is that wise?”

  Karen opened her mouth to snap something, then forced it shut and said, “don’t baby me.”

  “I wasn’t, sorry I wasn’t. I just… care, yunno.”

  “I can have a first meal on the outside, I am allowed that.”

  “In which case I have a credit card with some money left on and we will get you a feast. Coffee and all.”

  Karen nodded and turned the radio on.

  “You up to date with music?” Susan asked.

  “Oh yeah, I could have a radio, they have televisions, it’s not solitary confinement. Except when it is.”

  “They have solitary?”

  “No, I went a bit loopy.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Fair point. Look this is going to sound off, but do they have any clothes shops near the fast food place?”

  “Yes. I assume you want a fresh wardrobe.”

  “If we could.”

  “I have the space on my card. And a few hours free to browse.”

  “Only a few hours?”

  “I need to see the police later. No, wait, it’s not what you think!”

  Karen laughed, “then what is it?”

  “I’m going to be reporting on them. At least I will be if I pass this interview I’m going to.”

  “You’ll do great. You were always the clever one.”

  “Don’t say that.” Because it clearly isn’t true, Susan thought. You were the clever one, always too clever.

  DCI Wick opened the door to his office and watched who was coming up the corridor. He recognised the officer and assumed he could identify the person walking with her. Five-foot, dyed red hair, a suit that anyone but Atkins would consider well fitted but which seemed to be entirely at odds with both the hair and the calf tattoo you could see even through her thick black tights. This must be…

  “Susan Edwards?” he asked.

  “Yes, hello, pleased to meet you,” she dived forward and thrust out a hand. He shook it firmly.

  She looked him up and down. A man in his late fifties whose hair was grey, and stomach was filling out, he exuded a quiet firmness, not just in the handshake but in general.

  “Come into my office.”

  “Thanks, I’ll, oh…” Susan found a man sat at the desk already, playing with an oversized phone
.

  “Hi there,” he said stumbling up.

  “This is DC Green,” Wick explained, “he’s our office manager and will be sitting in with this discussion.”

  “Oh, yes, a safeguarding thing?”

  “Err, no, just good to gather a range of opinions. So, please sit. Oh, I should offer you coffee…”

  “I had one while I was waiting. It was…” as she paused, she could see both men lean forward, “very nice, surprisingly nice,” and they leaned back pleased. The coffee test had been passed.

  “In that case,” the DCI continued, why don’t you pitch us your idea?”

  “Yes, great, so, I believe the local newspaper is missing some important coverage. Can you believe they don’t have anyone reporting from court anymore? I grew up reading court reports and they’ve stopped. Also, I believe the paper could benefit from having the insight, and let’s be honest excitement that stories drawn from real observations of real policing would create.”

  “Is that… everything?”

  “I have to be candid; I do believe reporting from the frontline of policing would improve my own career.”

  “Ah, yes, I asked you to bring some examples of your current work.”

  “And I didn’t.”

  Wick paused. “You did not?”

  “The local newspaper have me on small stories, often silly stories. They do not show me off. What I have for you today,” she produced a manila folder from her bag, “is my university dissertation on how national police forces face problems when confronted with criminals who now work internationally.”

  Wick nodded and took the folder. “I am immediately impressed. But let me ask you a question. You find the crime reporting at this paper…”

  “Inadequate.”

  “Do you know how I would describe it? Off the record of course.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Hostile.”

  Susan tilted her head in surprise. This was interesting. “Do explain.”

  “The paper has been waging a consistent war against my officers and station. At every turn they print articles which criticise, misrepresent and even act in clear dishonesty. DC Green, how many positive articles have there been about Morthern police in the past two years?”

  “One.”

  “And how many negative ones?”

  “Eighty-three.”

  Susan’s mouth fell open. “How do…”

  Wick explained “DC Green has a photographic memory and a deep attention to detail.”

  “Wow, that’s handy!” Susan exclaimed.

  Green replied “Yes, saves me a fortune on porn.”

  Susan’s mouth fell open and Wick rubbed his temples. “DC Green has a crusading zeal and a strong sense of right and wrong which is unfortunately not connected to his mouth. Which is why he runs the office and doesn’t go near any civilians if we can help it.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “That sense of justice is often turned to the newspapers, especially the one you work for.”

  “I thought you were going to say ‘mine’.”

  “I appreciate there’s a difference. And that, really, is why we’re meeting. I would be happy to have my detectives shadowed by a journalist who is going to report on us fairly. I don’t expect a whitewash, I don’t expect propaganda, what I do want is someone who tells the public what we do and how hard it is to do it. I want someone who will help us fight back against the attacks on us.”

  Susan sat up straight. “I can do that!”

  “I know you can, which is why I invited you here.”

  “You’d already made the decision?”

  “No, I could have changed my mind. But I looked at the resume you sent, I spoke to Grayling and Maruma, both people whose judgement I trust. I’m willing to offer you the chance…”

  “Then yes please,” Susan was bouncing on her seat. “That’s why you introduced me to Gr… DC Green. You wouldn’t have risked it if I might have gone away and done a hit piece.”

  “Exactly. Now, Detective Constable Grayling works in our MCU and…”

  “Like Iron Man?” Susan blurted out.

  “Sorry?”

  Green leaned over to Wick, “it’s also the acronym for the Marvel Cinematic Universe.”

  “I do not understand that reference,” Wick confessed, “Anyway, Susan, it’s our acronym for Major Crimes Unit, which handles rapes, murders, major cases. The sort your readers will find interesting and the sort which best shows off our dedication, hard work and the good we do.”

  “Thank you!”

  “DC Grayling is usually paired with DC Maruma. We have found pairs a very effective way to work. To that end, you’ll also need to pay attention to DI Sharma, and DC Lindleman. We’ll have you national in no time.”

  Susan nodded then narrowed her eyes. “The way you said that…”

  “Oh, the police don’t just need allies at a local level. We need the media to help us against the government. You’ll see. Spend some time with us, see what we do. Maybe you will share our frustration.”

  “Yes, I will. Thanks. So, you’re like the head of the MCU? The big crime solver?”

  Wick laughed, the calmness on his face falling away and a mischievousness coming out. “Oh, I’m not very good at solving crimes.”

  “What?”

  “Well, maybe I am, but I tend to regard my team as the people who do the work. I see myself as an organiser. I bring my officers support, guidance, comfort, I put my team in the best place to succeed. I’m not a DCI who’ll be out there at the front unless anything hideous happens. I’m behind them, keeping their heads and hearts in once piece.”

  “Is that a problem?” Susan asked. “I guess that’s a problem.”

  “I’m fine!” Green said raising his hand, phone still in it.

  “You’ll see the considerable stresses my team are under. That we’re all under. I think you, not everyone, but you will come to understand. That’s where you can explain to others.”

  “Thanks for the chance,” Susan grinned.

  “Any questions?”

  “Yes,” Susan turned to Green, “who actually pays for porn.”

  DI Sharma looked up from the paperwork she’d been going through and let her eyes roam over the office. It was a large square room where everyone in the MCU had a desk, but the days of borders and cubicles had gone and now it was a sea of paper and files in which people clung onto an edge and a keyboard. Everyone was deep into their work and had been so for a while, so Sharma took a decision.

  “Alright, cookie time,” she said, pushing her chair back and opening a drawer to produce a brown paper bag filled with baked goods, which she passed round. There were four people working inside at that moment; Sharma, Lindleman, Grayling and Maruma, and they all hungrily took one.

  Lindleman raised a finger into the air. “I have something to discuss.” They took it in turns to lead the five-minute pause in work Sharma and the DCI felt was important.

  “Go on,” the DI told him.

  Lindleman grinned, “Would you rather go to Club Tropicana or the Copacabana?”

  “Easy,” Sharma shot back. “There’s music and laughter at the Copa.”

  Grayling, “But at the Club drinks are free.”

  “I’d go to the Copa because there’s a murder and that could be very interesting.” When Maruma finished everyone turned and shook their heads.

  “We will not go to the Copa,” Sharma informed them, “we will have the night off.”

  "Okay, I have another one.”

  “Shoot, Lindleman.”

  “The Jungle or Paradise City?”

  “Hang on, that’s not a choice.” Sharma’s hands were getting animated. “The whole point of the Jungle is it’s bad. The whole point of Paradise City is it’s fucking paradise.”

  “Ah but think about it. The opening of Paradise is the grass is green. Literally the opening salvo, the grass. It must be boring.” By now Lindleman was nodding safely.

 
Sharma replied with “but the next line is the girls are pretty.”

  “I don’t care about that. Do you care about that?”

  “No.”

  “You?”

  “No.”

  “Maruma?”

  “Nope.”

  “He doesn’t count,” Grayling said. “He’s odd.”

  “Right, so the rules of this game are you take two places mentioned in song?” Maruma liked to get the rules checked.

  “If you want to get clinical about it, Sol, and you always do, then yes.”

  “Alright, Strawberry Fields or Penny Lane.”

  “What?”

  “Ooh good one.”

  “Octopus’ Garden,” Grayling replied.

  Maruma began ticking off on his fingers. “One, that’s not the rules, two, you’d drown.”

  “Not in a yellow submarine.”

  The door to the office opened and a head stuck in; ginger hair and the glow of a mobile phone on the plump cheeks. “Did you know Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane were both on a double a-side?”

  Sharma replied to DC Green “that’s very impressive Mr Google, I think you deserve the cookie you are angling for.”

  “Yes! Chocolate please.”

  “Meanwhile we had better get back to work. Check your crumbs people, check your crumbs.”

  The police car drew to a halt outside a line of terraced homes. You couldn’t tell by looking which one they were heading for, as all had the uniformity of faceless industrial drones, despite the resident’s attempts to brighten the tiny front yards with an assortment of plants. But the two PC’s knew they were heading for number twelve, and it was PC Koralova who reached the door first, with PC Kane just behind her. There was no doorbell, so she knocked hard on the peeling paint, and most people might have jumped when the door was almost torn open immediately.

  “Hi, we’re from the police, we had a call?”

  “Oh, thank god, oh thank god, come in, come in,” the constables were ushered into a small hallway which smelt of fish, in the presence of a small woman whose face was red, and tear stained. “I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know what to do. I thought ambulance, but it’s too late for that, and I thought undertaker, but maybe I call the police, right?”

  “If you could just explain what’s happened? The call said your son was in trouble?”