Power and Control

by Robert H Wilde

  With the meeting concluded, Quince went back to his office. The wine was still on the floor next to his chair, so he picked it up to put back in his desk, looked round and had a cheeky swig. It made him feel like he was a naughty schoolboy pretending to be working class and he grinned as he welcomed the taste. He still had to drive home of course, but the wine from this morning had worn off, and the whole episode with the police had left him feeling silly. So, three coppers had come to ask questions. The church hadn’t been involved in those two deaths and there was no reason for the constables or whatever they were to poke further.

  Feeling happier, he tidied the office, took the folder he wanted, locked up and went into the car park. His car was huge and expensive, and as he unlocked the door with a wave of the key, he heard a voice.

  “Sir, sir!”

  Quince turned, ready to be praised, but his smile dropped.

  “Oh, thank god, I’ve been trying to ring you,” the man said. If you didn’t know he was a builder, you’d have been able to tell from the stained overalls.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well you can pay me, can’t you?”

  “I have explained…”

  “Sir, sir, I’m desperate. I did the work, I did it, and you gotta pay me cos I’m out of pocket so much and the work isn’t coming in and I’m desperate, desperate! I can’t afford food; I’m going to food banks and that kills me it does.”

  “You are always welcome at our evening shelters where we serve food.”

  “But I did the work and you haven’t paid me.”

  “As I have explained, my architect found a series of errors which mean you were in breach of your contract and I don’t have to pay you.”

  “But it’s still there. It’s an extension, you use it, it’s fine, that’s just fine print, the contract was mean, you gotta pay me.”

  “No, I don’t and legally I think you’ll find I’m right.” Quince knew damn well this man couldn’t afford a lawyer, especially after conning him out of tens of thousands of pounds and he felt confident that assertion would never be tested.

  “But… but… sir it’s Christian…”

  Quince blasted back like an annoyed dragon “don’t you ever question my commitment to the Lord. I am a wise and holy man and I hired you out of my Christian duty to my parishioners and you let me down with your shoddy work. You’re lucky you’re allowed here, but you are welcome to our service and can come have your meals. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

  “Then let me fix it and pay me.”

  “I have had the work done by someone else.” Which was a lie, but as God didn’t strike Quince down for telling it, he’d probably got away with it.

  The builder opened his mouth again, but Quince raised a stabbing finger for silence, then got in his car and drove away.

  “Hello there,” she said as the door opened, “it’s DC Grayling again, and my colleagues. I was wondering if we could have another look at your son’s room?” The three were stood on a doorstep with raincoats pulled up over their heads and the weather doing it’s best not to drown them, but to beat them to a bloody pulp.

  “Yes, yes come in, come in,” and soon they were dripping on a previously clean carpet. “I left the room as you asked, left it alone until all this is sorted out.” It wasn’t a malicious lie, the detectives knew as well as the mother that the room wouldn’t be touched for years, if she ever allowed it to be cleared out in her lifetime.

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you like a coffee or a tea or a hot chocolate or…” she’d run out of options.

  “Coffees all round please, but no milk for Susan, she’s an idealist,” Grayling noted.

  “I could find you some brandy. I have… some… medicinal brandy?” Yes, clearly a lot of medicinal drink had been consumed.

  “Not while we’re on duty, but thanks though.”

  They hung their jackets up, took their shoes off and went through into the kitchen, where a cupboard was being emptied by the mother in the search for the nice mugs. Duly retrieved, coffee was served, and the trio went upstairs. Susan found herself standing in the doorway of a bedroom she’d seen before. Maruma sat on the bed, while Grayling stood at the far end.

  “So, what’s the plan of attack?” Susan asked.

  “This is what Sol is good at,” Grayling explained, “gaming the situation. Lots of police have been through this room, as have we, and now Sol is going to find the phone if it’s still here.”

  “That’s confident.”

  “You have to have a little of that or you wouldn’t come in at all. You’d stay in bed. So, Sol, what do you see.”

  “Can’t you just get the details sent over like the other phone?”

  “No,” Grayling explained to the journalist, “not without knowing what phone it is, the details etc, otherwise it’s one of millions.”

  Maruma looked round the room, trying to decode it as if it were all a game, which to him it largely was. When he snapped his fingers, Grayling grinned.

  “There’s a pile of DVDs,” he said, “and a DVD player. There’s a VHS player, but no cassettes…”

  As they all turned and looked at the aged machine he stood, snapped a plastic glove on, and poked open the flap with his finger. It went into where a cassette should be, pulled something, and out came a small but modern mobile phone.

  “And that is the way we do it,” Grayling exclaimed in victory. “Now let’s get our lot examining this.”

  “Let’s finish our coffee first.”

  “Good point Sol, this is the good stuff. I need to get its name.”

  “Well thank you for contributing today,” the leader said. “If I recall correctly, I think everyone was able to say something, which is tremendous progress both as a group and individually.” This was accompanied by a deliberate turning of their head to look everyone in the eyes, and when they got to the far end they locked with Karen, who had spoken for several minutes about her experiences in the mental health system. She probably shouldn’t have mentioned half of it, but the group had begun to feel safe.

  “Does anyone have anything they want to close with?” the leader asked.

  “Yes,” Karen said so suddenly she didn’t realise she’d done it.

  “Okay?”

  “Err, yes. Yes!” She now felt she did, welling up inside her. “When the NHS, and the CMHT and a dozen other acronyms sent me here, I felt they’d washed their hands of me. I mean yeah, I see the news, I know they got no money and everyone’s mental health is getting worse but… it’s still being pushed out, yunno? Still the government giving up on you. But… now I’ve been here I’m finding it very helpful. I found a community I never did outside before. So, thanks to you all.” She realised she was crying at the end. She only cried in front of people she trusted…

  “Thank you, Karen, thank you. What is a church if not someone to take care of the people society has overlooked?”

  “I feel the same,” added another member of the group.

  “Me too.”

  “That’s great to hear from all of you. Let us close with a prayer.”

  Hesitant when they first came, all now bowed their heads and willed God along. Then everyone was standing and going back out into the world.

  “Could I have a word Karen?” the leader said, laying a hand on her shoulder.

  “Of course,” and they walked into a corner of the huge hall.

  “You’re doing very well in the group, very well, and I wonder if you’d like to take things further?”

  “How so?”

  “Currently we meet once a week in the church, but there’s a social group of people who meet outside. All Christians, of course, with experience of surviving mental health. We meet at each other’s houses, nothing like pubs! But you’d be welcome to come join us. Make some friends who understand, but who have moved on from this group.”

  “I…”

  “I know you still need the group, of course. But the church ha
s a lot of social units, as it were, and I think you’re ready to meet one of ours.”

  “That’s so kind,” said Karen, who was used to the orders of a mental ward. “I’d love to come.” What else, really, would she say?

  “Brilliant. Let me text you my number and we can go from there. Sound good?”

  “Yes, yes please. I can bake.”

  “Oh, you can bake?”

  “No, no, I’ve just got excited, but I’ll run with it and see how far I get.”

  Atkins looked at the desk in front of him. He had a pen and a pad of paper, because it was rude to type while asking questions over the phone. He had a mug of coffee and he had his mobile in case he needed to check the scores. Okay, he was ready. He picked up his desk phone and dialled.

  “Hello?” said the voice of a man annoyed anyone would dare ring the house without appearing on his caller ID as a friend.

  “Hello there, I’m DC Atkins from Morthern CID and I’m ringing to ask you a few questions about the house your mother used to live in.”

  “What are you saying I’ve done wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all, these are enquiries about an issue the new residents are having that you might be able to shed some light on.”

  A pause. “So, I can help you with your enquiries?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s great. Go on.” Atkins nodded. They weren’t always that happy to hear from CID.

  “I believe your parents bought that house in 1972?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “It was a family home, the children have all moved out, and your mother has lived alone since your father passed on eight years ago?”

  “This is true.”

  “The family who bought the house from you. How did that sale come about?”

  “I suppose you want me to be candid?”

  “Yes please.”

  “My mother was in no condition to live in that big house anymore. She pretended she was, but we knew, so we talked her into selling it and moving into special accommodation. Twenty-four-hour support, you know the drill. We put it onto the market, people visited, this family made a good offer. Not a lowball, not a negotiation, a straight up we’ll pay the asking price. So, it went ahead. Is it time for me to ask a question?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “The family who’ve moved in received a threatening letter and I’m trying to find out who sent it. It reveals someone is aggrieved by your mother moving out. Do you have any idea if any neighbours might do that?”

  “They received one too then; silly bit of fluff wasn’t it.”

  That made Atkins snap upright. “Did you say… you got one as well?”

  “Yes. Yes, probably still got it on my pile of recycling.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Oh, blamed me for the sale, some nonsense. Can’t be done anymore with those old arseholes, pardon my French.”

  “Can you find it please, and I will come right round and get it.”

  “I live two hours away from Morthern.”

  “I am very keen.”

  “Okay, I will retrieve it. You can collect it. But no blue flashing lights please.”

  “They’re only for emergencies.”

  “Well you do sound very excited.”

  “I love a breakthrough.” This was as good as winning a bet. Which reminded him, might be full time on that match in Japan…

  Susan was back in the Bunker. To be precise she was in the toilets in the Bunker and when she’d finished and come out, she found DI Sharma standing in the corridor.

  “Oh, sorry, were you waiting?” was Susan’s immediate response, even though she knew there was room for several people.

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you. Or to be precise, I wanted to offer you the chance to talk to me.”

  “Yeah, err, what?”

  “I kept my distance from you at first, but after seeing the article on the murder arrest, I’m happy to answer any questions you might have about the MCU, my career, any of that.”

  Susan might only be starting out, but she already knew when someone had something to say. “Please, any time you want.”

  “I am free now,” so they walked into the spare conference room and sat down in a corner.

  Susan had no idea where Sharma wanted to go with this, so started with “why did you join the police?”

  The fact Sharma smiled proudly told Susan she’d asked the right thing. “I didn’t, not at first. I came out of school and joined the military. I can tell from the widening of your eyes you’re surprised. I know Indian women don’t have a great visibility in the British army, but I joined it alright, and I served in Afghanistan.”

  “Wow, that’s impressive.”

  “I certainly had to try harder than most to succeed. But I did.”

  “That’s great.”

  “No, no it wasn’t great. The government abandoned us. We were keen, we signed up. But they cut every corner they could to have us fight on the cheap. We felt in a constant battle against the people controlling us from London, as much as a battle with the enemy on the ground. If you’re going to ask us to risk dying, to die, at least value us.”

  “So, you were disillusioned?”

  “Not yet. I still loved it even though I fought in battle and saw people I knew die. I thought I was doing a great thing, serving my country. Then I came home on leave and found four houses in my street had been burgled and my elderly neighbours beaten. I’d left my family, gone to Asia, fought with people who didn’t pose anywhere near the threat the people who lived here did. I thought, being in the army meant I protect people at home. It didn’t. I protected the interests of a political elite. How many people have been killed by terrorists in Britain? How many people get killed by their neighbours? So, I left the army, as quickly as I could, and I joined the police immediately. PC, CID, MCU, I poured my life into helping people here. And you know what Susan? Every day I feel I am helping, really helping; something I never felt before.”

  Susan nodded throughout. “That’s great.”

  “No,” the DI said sadly, softly, “it isn’t. Because the other enemy is still here. Throughout my time in the police, the government have betrayed us. Hacked our budgets, hamstrung our work. They don’t value us or the average person. This is what it’s like Susan. There are two sides and they’re pushing us for every last drop of our souls. Criminals and Government. Sometimes the circles cross. I don’t want you to report this little rant, but I want you to be aware that’s what we face. I have given years of my life to the military and the police. I still want to help people. But the government have let us down.”

  “I understand,” Susan replied, noting the DI’s white knuckles. “I will get this across.”

  “Thank you.” Sharma nodded and walked back into the Bunker like nothing had happened, and Susan followed a few steps behind reeling. But nothing drags you back to reality like seeing the two people you’re meant to be shadowing sitting on their seats like Father Christmas was coming.

  “Are… are you two bouncing up and down?” Susan asked.

  “Yes, yes we are.”

  “Explain…”

  Susan yanked her chair over and the three huddled.

  “We have,” Grayling said, pointing to the normally unexciting computer screen, “received the details from Jonathan’s hidden phone.”

  “Oh boy,” Maruma added to build tension, but failed.

  “The phone only ever contacted one number. A phone we are unaware of. Phone calls. Sexts.”

  “Sexts?” Susan exclaimed.

  “There is wang,” Grayling confirmed, “my eyes are burning. But also, a complete series of text messages in which Jonathan and Kofi explicitly refer to each other by name. And explicitly the other way.”

  “The dead men were sending their cocks to each other?”

  “Oh yes Susan,” Maruma confirmed, “the text messages reveal an entire romantic rela
tionship between the pair.”

  “To be honest,” Grayling opined, “I’m not sure I’d agree with romantic. More like sexual.”

  A voice called out from the other side of the office. “Dickmatized!”

  “Shut up Green.”

  “Can I see?” Susan asked.

  “Yes, sure, here you go.”

  ‘Fuck man, I want to be with you again so bad. When can we meet?’

  “But,” Maruma said, “we expected this. Didn’t we? We did. Anyway, we did, but now we also have a reason for the suicide.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sort of.”

  Grayling continued, “look at this section.”

  ‘I can’t do it anymore man. I can’t do CT anymore. Maybe I’m meant to be gay. Maybe this is it.’

  ‘Don’t say that, we’re getting help, we are.’

  ‘Maybe it’s you and me bro, maybe it’s you and me.’

  ‘We’ve got to focus man. We’ve got to focus. We’re Christian, even if we give in to the enemy.’

  “Oh fuck,” was all Susan could say.

  “Indeed. We have two men in a homosexual relationship who think that’s evil. God knows what CT stands for, but we need to find out. Their texts are riddled with the initials but no explanation. Their entire mental states are in collapse. Massive self-loathing and we assume the church are pushing it.”

  Paranoia was a funny thing. You could feel bulletproof one minute and the next you were sliding down a slope steep enough you could see your feet and splatting hard onto the imaginary floor. Plenty of people suffered that fall, but Edward Quince had a different problem… it wasn’t paranoia when you had something to genuinely hide.

  He sat in the office of his large home. A place purchased with a substantial wage and plenty of leverage from the church, extended and decked out. His office was a shrine to conspicuous consumption, which he wasn’t wrong in thinking was in the tradition of the Catholic church, just not the morals behind it. He had more wine in a glass and as he worked his way through the bottle, as he looked at everything he had gathered, he grew afraid.

  The church hadn’t killed two men. It hadn’t killed any men. But it would be fair, if you were making a calculated assessment, to say that all the elders were engaged in that sort of light manipulation which didn’t feel like law breaking, which the world had dubbed white collar. That all of them would be in, to use the vernacular, serious shit if a light was shined. The sort of light two detectives might find, and the more you have gathered for yourself, the more you rejoiced in it, the more vulnerable you felt to losing it all. These police… they could end his church, his position as elder. They could find… all of it.