Power and Control

by Robert H Wilde

  A man stood topless. He had blood on his hands, and a bloody shirt was laying on a barbecue he was trying and failing to light. He had matches in one hand and lighter fluid in the other and when he saw movement, he snapped his head round, saw the DC, dropped the can of fluid and snatched the knife up.

  It was bloody but seemed so small considering it had killed someone.

  “I’m here to arrest you,” Grayling informed him. “Put the knife down and don’t do anything stupid.”

  The boy stood still, mouth open, all except for the shaking hand and blade. With the suspect and Grayling’s attention on each other it felt like there was a blur at the back of the garden and both saw Maruma appear.

  Tilting his head left and right, reading the attacker, he warned “Be careful, he will stab you.”

  Grayling flicked her wrist and the extendable baton she had in her hand shot out, like a sword. She settled into a careful stance and spoke slowly. “We are here to arrest you. If you’ve done anything wrong, you’ll only make it worse attacking us. Put the knife down.”

  “Fuck,” the killer snarled, at no one and everyone.

  Susan was in the doorway behind Grayling, but she could still see Maruma casually flick his wrist and see a stone arc up into the air and over into a different corner of the garden. When it clattered into the ground the suspect turned to look at it and that was when Grayling surged forward and smashed the baton onto the knife hand. Bones broke, the knife flew, and she and Maruma leapt on the attacker and wrestled him to the ground.

  "Adrian Erwin, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. 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 may be given in evidence."

  “Fuck you.”

  “Including that.”

  Uniformed officers now ran in and took over the suspect. When they were certain things had been handed over Grayling and Maruma sat down in the lounge of a house they’d only seen for mere seconds and took deep breaths.

  “You solved a murder,” Susan said with an excitement that made Maruma pull a wry smile.

  “You sound surprised,” he said.

  “Well…it was very quick.”

  Maruma nodded. “I understand why you’d think that. The big news stories, the big dramas on television have lots of twists and turns, lots of suspects, probably some showboating from a mysterious killer. But here’s the thing Susan. Most people who are murdered are killed by someone they know, who doesn’t do a very good job of hiding. Murder is nasty and brutish and in your house.”

  Lindleman sat nodding his head, headphones tucked into each ear. He was getting so vigorous Sharma stood up and walked round to find out what the music was.

  “Who the fuck is that?” she said looking at the music video and when he pulled the headphones off repeated the question.

  “That is Hardwick,” he said pointing to the man on the screen.

  “Figures. He looks like a sex offender.”

  “I’ll have you know in many gay clubs across the world Hardwick is a legend.”

  Sharma raised an eyebrow. “He’s dancing with half-naked women.”

  “Because he ran out of men.”

  “Well the moustache is appalling.”

  “The moustache is more famous than Hitler’s.”

  A member of the support team leaned into the Bunker and informed them “their lawyer is ready now.”

  Shortly after a door opened and four people walked into a room best described as functional. There was a wooden table, empty except for the recording kit, which would copy everything said to a DVD. There were four of the most basic chairs in the world and DI Sharma and DC Lindleman sat on one side and Ade Erwin sat the other with the lawyer the government made sure he was entitled to.

  As Sharma read out the required speech, Lindleman looked Erwin up and down. His clothing had been taken as evidence, so he had clothes issued at the station. His face was scruffy and unshaven, but that might have been a fashion statement. His hands had been examined and evidence taken, and they now stank of soap.

  “So, Mr Erwin,” Sharma began. “We…”

  “Excuse me,” the lawyer said, “my client would like to submit a prepared statement.”

  “Go on.”

  “My client had an argument with his partner, during which she took a knife and tried to kill herself. Fearing he was going to be framed, he panicked and ran home. His fears have proven to be true.”

  Sharma looked at Lindleman in the manner of someone who’d just heard a child say aliens were under the bed. “That’s your statement?” she said to the accused.

  “No comment,” he replied.

  “You’re claiming she stabbed herself?”

  “No comment.”

  “Well you just submitted it. Let’s start at the beginning. Did you go to the house of…”?

  “No comment.”

  “It helps if you let me actually ask the questions. Did you argue with the deceased?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you carry a knife that day?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you pull a knife on her?”

  “No comment.”

  “Did you stab her repeatedly?”

  “No comment.”

  Sharma hadn’t just been blindly asking questions. She knew Ade had been ordered by the lawyer to ‘no comment’ everything. But she noticed that every time she asked something his replies were getting increasingly terse. Which meant she might be able to get somewhere.

  “Did you then run home and try to destroy the evidence?”

  “No comment!”

  “We have a statement from the deceased’s mother who said, and I quote ‘he’s a livewire, but a coward, we thought a coward…”

  “Fuck her,” Ade hissed.

  “You dispute you’re a coward?”

  “Fuck her, that bitch deserved to die too.”

  “Like the daughter you murdered?”

  “Stop talking now sir,” the lawyer tried.

  “Yeah, fucking c…”

  Sharma nodded. He was done.

  DI Sharma walked across the office and tapped Grayling on the shoulder. She’d been rereading statements relating to the suicides but smiled when her superior waved a phone. “The CPS are going to prosecute Erwin, easy call, so congratulations, job done. As we normally do in these circumstances go home and rest for a few hours.”

  Grayling pulled herself up. “Thanks boss,” she said, and raised the thumbs up when Maruma and Susan came walking in from an explanatory tour of the cells.

  “We’ve got him, we have the rest of the day off.”

  Susan looked confused, “it’s four-thirty anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Grayling explained, “we don’t have enough bodies, no, let me rephrase, officers, we rarely go home when we’re meant to, let alone early.”

  “Oh, right. So, what do you to do in these situations?”

  “Got to unwind, right?” Grayling said.

  “Awesome!”

  “Well it’s not a dancing night if that’s what you mean. We’ll just pick up some treat food and watch nonsense on Netflix. You’re welcome to come with us?”

  Susan returned a smile. “I’ve got to go and write my first story. You’ll never guess what it’s about…”

  “Minor shoplifting?” Maruma dropped in.

  “Yeah, definitely that.”

  “Tell you what,” Grayling said, “come with us for a drink, we can answer any questions, then you can go work and we can watch cookery shows.”

  “Aww, yeah thanks. You hang out a lot then?”

  “Tell her,” Lindleman’s voice boomed out from across the office.

  “Stop listening in,” Grayling shot back.

  “I’m a detective, I listen to the people in a bus queue. But tell her.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Nothing,” Grayling replied.

  “Oh,
ashamed of me, are we?” Maruma interjected.

  “Are you two a couple?”

  “No Susan, we are not. What Mr Lindleman…”

  “Detective!”

  “… is alluding to is that Soloman and I have flats that are literally side by side.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s very handy,” Grayling said in her defence.

  “That’s so sweet,” Susan replied leaving everyone to wonder if she was being serious.

  “Anyway, let’s go grab a drink and we can start the chilling.” Susan turned, “Lindleman, I hope you’re here for hours more.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Actually, a question.”

  “Yes Susan.”

  “What’s a gym nonce?”

  “Ah,” Lindleman began, “it’s someone who only goes to the gym when the schools kick out to see all the kids.”

  “Kids go to the gym?”

  “Yes.”

  Maruma coughed loudly and when everyone was looking said “how exactly do you know that Lindleman?”

  “Err…moving on. Have a nice drink.”

  The cell might have been small, but your average medieval prisoner would have loved it. Enough space to pace back and forth, an actual bed with a mattress, and a small area off from the rest where you could go to the toilet. It was also built to repel attacks and be easily cleaned, as you would not believe how many drunk and angry people decided to wipe their shit across the walls. In theory they had been designed to prevent suicide attempts, which was why people weren’t allowed in with shoelaces, belts and cords you could pull out from your waistband.

  The newly arrested Ade Edwards was pacing all right. The newly charged Ade Edwards was in a state of panic which, truth be told, he’d never come out of. He knew he’d stabbed her and he knew he was going to prison for a long time, cos you couldn’t be found not guilty when the mother had seen you doing it and the cops had caught you covered in it. So, what to do… In his fevered mind there seemed only one option and that was to end himself too. But there were no knives in here, no ropes, and banging your head repeatedly against a wall took too much effort.

  But Edwards was oddly creative. He pulled off the clothes the custody officer had given him and began to stuff them into his mouth. Manic by panic. He forced the fabric down his throat and even as he began to choke and suffocate, he pushed harder. The human mind and body could ignore great distress when it was already under it, no matter how much it might deserve it, and the suffocation began.

  Outside the cell, a custody officer looked up at the CCTV and did a double take. She leapt up, smashed an alarm button with her hand and went running. By the time she reached the cell door two more officers were with her and they unlocked the door, threw it open and charged in. Two grabbed an arm each and pinned him down, then pulled the fabric from his throat. When it was gone, Edwards’ body took issue with Edwards’ mania and decided to start breathing again.

  As another officer arrived, someone in a nearby cell began to shout.

  “What’s going on? What’s going on?”

  “You hush up now,” said the new arrival.

  “Someone trying to top themselves?”

  “I said hush.”

  “Why don’t you just let them die?”

  The constable turned to the door and angrily said, “we’d be for it then. This isn’t just about them you know. They can ruin our lives too.” Then he rushed in to help. But Edwards was saved, ready to appear in court, even though they really wouldn’t have lost any sleep if he’d dropped down dead of natural causes.

  Susan was sat in her car but this time she wasn’t nervous. Instead she was tapping her hands to the music which pounded all around her because, you bet she bought a car with a fully functioning sound system. It had still been cheap of course, because people didn’t appreciate music like they once had, or that’s what she told herself when the engine decided it didn’t want to start and would rather sit there moaning. But when the song finished, she decided to go inside, enjoying the moment so much it felt like she floated through reception – a hello and a wave of her credentials – and into the office. Her bag was dumped at her desk and she sat lightly down knowing the call would be coming soon.

  “Susan!”

  The editor’s bellow was so loud he didn’t need to move his corpulent form to call her, or anyone. She stood, floated across and entered the office confident in herself.

  “You’re due to report to me today.”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Well where is it?”

  “I emailed it this morning. You have it.”

  Many people might have been embarrassed at being caught not even bothering to check, but the editor was not one of those. “I have to say, you’re going to have to be pretty impressive to get into my paper.”

  Susan nodded and did not reply, like missing dogs; instead she said, “I saw a woman die and a murderer caught.”

  “What?” came the splutter.

  “It’s all in my account. She stopped breathing and I ran with the detectives who caught the killer, still covered in blood.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. I’ll have to testify in court. Why don’t you read it?”

  “Sit the fuck down.”

  A fat hand moved and clicked a few times, then heavy eyes began their run down the twelve-point font of the article which had been sent in. The expression on his face did not change for a moment until he looked up at her. “Is this true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can prove it?”

  “Oh, a court is going to be told it yes.”

  Eyes back to the screen, eyes up to Susan. “Congratulations, you’ve got your first front page.”

  “What? Sorry, pardon sir?”

  “I can’t deny how good this is. We’ll increase circulation by thirty per cent.” He might be a bastard with an agenda, but Trevor Stremp also knew when a story was going to explode, and this would bring people in.

  “Well thank you sir.”

  “Also, this is now a weekly column. Confirmed. I don’t expect you to catch people murdered every week, but I do want you to solve some mysteries for us.”

  Susan didn’t catch the subtle way he had drifted back his agenda. She certainly would have said something if she had. Instead she just nodded and walked back into the office grinning and soaking up all the praise her colleagues were sending her way with shocked smiles, although it was mostly mixed with jealousy and resentment, but you didn’t worry about that in your triumph.

  Elsewhere in Morthern, there was a small gathering around DCI Wick’s monitor. He was in the chair, while DI Sharma stood next to him, and behind in a semi-circle were the DC’s. They were reading the text Susan had sent them, of the finished article.

  “Well, what do we think?” the DCI asked.

  “Actually oddly, surprisingly…” Sharma seemed amazed, “it does us proud.”

  “It does, doesn’t it,” said Grayling, feeling it.

  “I hate to say it,” the DI continued, but you were all right, this might actually make people appreciate us a little fucking more.”

  “A good start,” Maruma agreed.

  “Start? Yes, yes,” Sharma realised, “just a move of a pawn, right?”

  “Indeed.”

  “So, we can let her stay then?” Wick asked, not really expecting any opposition.

  “Yes, she can stay.”

  “Another nod for yes.”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Good.” Wick noted. “Who says we need a PR department.”

  “That idiot PCC who takes our budget,” was Sharma’s answer.

  “Well besides her.”

  “This New Hope Church you mentioned, can they pray for her to get a fridge dropped on her?”

  “A bit niche Lindleman, even for God.”

  “Welcome to New Hope Church. Thank you all for coming tonight and I want you to know, whether you like this group or not, we are alway
s open for you, whether you want to come to a service or you want nothing to do with that and just need a chat and support.” The smile was radiant, white teeth which had obviously been worked on, contrasting with the skin, which was heavily tanned, although in truth none of the people sat round could tell if it was a very good spray or the result of a holiday. They were in a hall which dwarfed them, sat in a circle in one corner. Two church leaders sat together, the tanned woman with the teeth and a man who thought a suit without a tie counted as casual and welcoming. Around them were seven people, including Karen, who nervously looked at the floor.

  “This is, officially, called the Surviving Mental Trauma Group. We won’t call you patients, or service users or any of that, we will call you survivors, because you are survivors, and you all have plenty in common even if you feel like you’re alone. We have some ground rules, of course, which is that if anyone feels triggered, they just have to tap their legs three times and we will intervene, but no one is in trouble if that happens. Also, we urge you to contribute, but we draw the line at critical speech. Everyone is to be accepted here. Colour or creed, although we are, of course, Christians. Now, we open with a prayer, but you don’t have to join in, and we end with one but if you wish to stay quiet that is fine. I shall begin.”

  Karen watched the two people who ran the group bow their heads. She expected them to shut their eyes, but no one did, which surprised her. The prayer was short. Karen was no expert, but it sounded like pretty standard stuff. Then it was back to talking.

  “Shall we go around the group and ask everyone for their names?”

  Soon it was time to say “Karen.”

  “Now, everyone here has been inside the local unit and we in no way wish to prolong those memories. So, instead I will read out some quotes I have about moving on from that. First…”

  Karen looked at the faces around her. They all seemed curious, like she was. It was strange really, how being sat in a warm circle with strangers who offered you a hot drink and a meal and then said nice things to you could provide comfort. But in a world where her past seemed cut off and her family and friends were awkward, New Hope Church and their group was welcoming and friendly and something she felt a small part of. Perhaps it was good to come here. Perhaps it really was. Maybe it would even help her.