Power and Control

by Robert H Wilde

  Damn those cursed boys, how selfish to take their own lives.

  So, what to do? Edward Quince hadn’t become what he was without reaching out and making a difference, so he picked up the mobile phone on his desk. It was filled with numbers, from every corner of the church, and he called one of them. He ran this place. He could easily affect action.

  It rang. He did wonder if he was doing the right thing, but the fear of being destroyed overcame things like, plucking something at random, Christian teaching.

  It was answered. “Eddy, mate, how you doin?”

  “Hello Stuart. How are you?”

  “Oh, you know Eddy, trying not to be naughty. Trying not to have a drink. Walking away, turning the other cheek, not having a fight. Staying with Jesus. All the stuff you told me.”

  “And how is that going?”

  “Still sober. Still no sniff. No trouble with cops. Not since I came to you. Prison in the past.”

  “Good, good. Now Stuart, if I needed help, would you be willing to assist me? In confidence, of course.”

  “Course Eddy, course. I’d jump off a bridge for you.”

  Well, that wasn’t required immediately, but it was the kind of loyalty he needed. Time to bring in the guard dogs. “In that case, there have been police poking around the church. They’re suspicious of our good work. I want you to research them. I suspect you know people who can help…”

  “Hey, Rob, you busy?”

  In reply to Grayling’s shout, DC Lindleman looked up from the computer and peered his head round. “Yes, I am, but that question normally means come and help and you know I’m hungry for a break.” Susan expected him to walk round like a normal person, but he instead scooted the whole way on his chair like a crazy slalom. “So, what can I help you with?”

  “We’ve just found these…”

  “Yeah, no need to recap, I was listening. I might have heard the words self-loathing gay and been itching to come over and join in.” Rob turned to Susan. “I’m the Elton John of the Bunker.”

  “You were better in the 70s?”

  Lindleman laughed. “All the gays come to me for advice. I am totally self-confidant and I spend a shit load of money that I don’t remember when sober.”

  “He also doesn’t take himself too seriously,” Grayling explained.

  “Hey, there’s nothing I love more than locking people up. Except my husband. And the dog I’m not allowed to have. But when I get one, it’ll be second.”

  “Aww, why no doggie?”

  “Well Susan, I work for the police, my gorgeous husband works in a casualty unit, and together we’re only rarely at home. So, it would be unfair to a pupper. Also, my neighbour would steal it.”

  “Oh wow, a doctor?” Susan asked.

  “No Susan, he cleans the floor, that’s why he works fourteen-hour shifts.” But Lindleman finished laughing again.

  “I see what you did there,” noted the journalist.

  “So, you want my advice. What’s the situation?”

  “Do you know what CT stands for?”

  No one was expecting Lindleman to turn and actually spit into a waste bin.

  “I guess this isn’t going to start well,” Maruma sighed.

  “In my community, CT refers to conversion therapy, aka the bullshit practice of fucknuts telling people they aren’t actually gay, that it’s something you can be converted out of. They cause massive damage psychologically and it doesn’t surprise me one bit there’s been a suicide if they’re attending CT. Bullshit!”

  Susan was a little confused. “Why isn’t that big news?”

  Lindleman spent most of his time joking, but Susan now discovered he could become righteously angry and glare with the best of them. “Because it’s legal. No one ever banned it. Politicians too suspicious of us to fucking bother protecting us, they probably reckon it’s a genuine process.”

  “It’s legal?” Grayling said looking at the screen. That made things problematic. “Right, look, Lindleman, we’re going to need your help. These two boys are dead. Their texts and diary show a clear mental collapse. Someone’s at fault here. But if we’re investigating something legal… this might get swept away by the need to chase prosecutions.”

  “I’ll keep my ears open to what you’re doing and advise.”

  Susan looked around, “and what can you do?”

  Lindleman laughed, “For a start, if there is CT happening, I will find it and report back. I have connections. Also, I’m not the only one with friends in the media,” he winked, “but my lot are a little less traditional. And not paid. Let’s ignore that.”

  “Hi, Stevie, it’s Rob” Lindleman said as he spun round on his chair. The wheels got a lot of use, more than all the others in the Bunker combined.

  “Oh, hey man, what’s up?”

  “Well, I’ve got some questions to ask you.”

  “He definitely said he was old enough.”

  Lindleman put his head in his hands. “I forgot to say my colleagues can hear this call.”

  “Oh, hi coppers, just kidding, I’m all about the bears.”

  “Right, yes, look, if we can keep this on track…” Rob tried.

  “You rang me.”

  “Well you’re on speakerphone.”

  “Now you know what it’s like talking to you.”

  “Fair point. So, I’m ringing to talk about conversion therapy.”

  “Dude, you’re definitely gay, you’ve known that since you were ten.”

  “Speakerphone.”

  “Oh, right, cop business, someone else doing CT?”

  “Yeah, we’re investigating someone linked to it. Anywhere doing it?”

  “There’s one openly doing it, not in Morthern but just over the border. We got their details on file, do frequent protests. If you mean local to you, there’s nothing obvious, but there’s been rumours over the years that New Hope Church was running conversion classes in secret.” A pause. A very long pause. “Why have you all gone silent? Are you all looking at each other or something?”

  “You have touched our special place,” Rob replied.

  “See,” Steve began, “you are like that all the time.”

  “Got any references for this?” Lindleman replied.

  “Yeah, there’s a journo, manages to get a story in the papers every few years. Never got any hard evidence, never got it to stick, they deny it all, but hey, smoke and fire, although I guess that’s not a helpful police adage.”

  “No, but thanks. That is just what we wanted to know.”

  “I’ll forward you the articles, I can ring round and see what else I can find?”

  “Thanks,” Rob said, “but that’s what I’m doing now. I started with you of course. Bye.”

  They sat there and looked at each other.

  Finally, Susan spoke. “The church…”

  “Yes,” Grayling replied. “So, what’s the next step?”

  “That would be speaking to me.”

  They turned to find DCI Wick standing there. He’d sneaked in while they’d been focused on the call.

  “Hi sir.”

  “So, the situation, as I hear it, is that your investigation shows the two suicides were caused by a secret relationship and the psychological damage of a controversial therapy.”

  “Looking that way.”

  “Which, I am forced to confront, doesn’t involve anything illegal. But we currently have three officers involved in progressing it.”

  “Rob’s just helping, he has contacts.”

  “Even so, can we justify this use of resources? What’s left to find? How much further can we go?”

  “Really?” Susan exclaimed.

  Rob spoke. “If a faulty form of therapy is driving these men to their deaths, we absolutely have to gather the evidence and hope the coroner decides to push the issue. It might not be illegal, but it should be, and we need to ‘progress’ that.”

  “I appreciate your interest Lindleman, I do. But I fear we’re getting
sucked into this. Two DC’s is already pushing it. The use of the MCU is pushing it further. Perhaps if we moved the case over to a CID officer like Atkins…”

  “I’ll do free overtime if needed,” Lindleman added.

  “Maruma and I,” Grayling explained, “are well versed in this case. We’ll have it wrapped up quickly, to the victims and others’ benefit.” Which, she felt, didn’t actually make sense but it sounded good.

  “Okay, another couple of days, then we discuss it again.” Wick paused, “Susan, do you want a word?”

  “Yes please.”

  The two walked into his office. “I expect you think I’m being harsh, trying to shunt this case into a corner.”

  “I was surprised.”

  “I don’t want to. I want every injustice made good. But we only have so much money and time, and both are getting less every year. If we had more officers, we’d have more time, but we have no money for that. The MCU is major crimes and if I don’t keep it focused it runs out of budget and bigger cases suffer. It’s money.”

  “Sharma said she feels like the government are as big a problem as the criminals.”

  “I echo her thoughts. I swear the politicians think as long as the rich are safe the rest of us don’t matter. When I joined everyone from the Home Secretary down acted like they wanted to stop crime and punish criminals. Now the Home Secretary just wants press calls, the budget wants us operating on peanuts, and the criminals are better funded.”

  Susan opened her mouth to say, “I understand,” realised she couldn’t begin to, so said “I’m starting to understand.”

  “It takes a toll on my staff,” Wick explained. “Do you think Grayling, or Maruma, or Lindleman want to be told to slow down, move over? Every-one we can’t catch, every-one we have to hold back on, even the successes, they all take a toll. Mental health is getting worse and all the time there’s campaigns for better mental health, to talk mental health, to share, but no one’s paying for my staff to get better, or take the pressure off them. Quite frankly Susan policing is now a twenty-four-carat nightmare. You might have wondered why we have a lot of DC’s and less sergeants and inspectors than you might have expected?”

  “Why?”

  “DC’s are cheaper.”

  “Ah.”

  “I try and shield my team as best I can. The Super is more focused on numbers; they have to be. I do my best, but I know they are feeling squeezed and I increasingly can’t stop it.”

  “You hope my reports will persuade the public more money needs to be spent.”

  “Yes, yes I do.”

  “Now I hope so to. I guess my paper has been turning people against you for…”

  “Years. Green would know precisely.”

  “Yes, yes he would.”

  “Okay, serious time over, go see what Grayling and Maruma are up to.”

  “Will do.” Susan stood, turned, and asked, “should I call you sir?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  When Susan got into the corridor, she pulled her phone out and began putting down notes. She had her own combination of short-hand, text speak and quick note taking, and she knocked out a series of quotes that were exactly what Wick had said. With that piece of work done she walked into the Bunker, where everyone was at their desks and working. Then Wick appeared behind her.

  “Grayling, Maruma, I want you to take a night’s rest on this case and resume tomorrow for a final push. I heard you worked all of Sunday…”

  “So much for anonymous sources journo,” Maruma called out, winking at Susan.

  “Lindleman, as you’re connected take the night off too, and take Sharma with you. You all need a break.” There was an unspoken ‘and you won’t be getting one when you solve this case, because it’s not a case’.”

  “Alright,” they all groaned reluctantly.

  “Hang on,” Rob said, standing up to be deliberately theatrical. “We know what happens when we’re all free at the same time!”

  “The Smoking Monkey!”

  Susan turned to Grayling. “What the fuck is that?”

  “And here, Susan, is the Smoking Monkey.”

  It was a restaurant, that was certain, because there was a small glass panel on the outside with a menu on it, although it was fading in the sunlight. The place looked in need of a paintjob, and a clean, and when they pushed the door it fought back. For some reason, although the menu was clearly full of Indian food, the name Smoking Monkey was written in gold letters above the once red paint.

  Inside was a small room packed with tables. Whereas outside had looked run down, now Susan could see a place which was immaculately kept and laid out. The smell of cooking filled the air and a man of Asian descent approached. He had on a suit as smart as the restaurant’s interior, but the welcoming smile on his face fell as he approached the quintet.

  “The pigs are here again,” he said in an accent halfway between continents.

  “Hi, it’s good to be home,” Lindleman said.

  “I suppose you want a table.”

  “We have money, money is always good, right?”

  “And you have corrupted a new one. Hello new pig.” Susan didn’t reply. She was in utter shock. “You might as well sit where you usually do. I’ll get you all the cheap lager you uncultured swine’s.”

  “Thanks mate.”

  Susan watched as everyone sat down, so she joined them.

  “You have an open mouth Susan,” Maruma pointed out.

  “He just… and then he said…”

  “Yep.”

  “And you… haven’t… done anything.”

  “Oh, no, we love it here.”

  “He called you pigs!”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t actually know it’s insulting. He thinks the police really are also called pigs. I mean yes, he does get insulting, but it’s hilarious. We love it.”

  “He’s like our very own Basil Fawltey,” Grayling explained. “No matter how bad the world has got, we come here, and he thinks he’s a Michelin star chef and we’re going to do him for hiring illegal immigrants.”

  “This is crazy.”

  The detectives all laughed. “You mean you don’t go somewhere awful for fun?” Sharma asked without wanting a reply.

  “Here are your lagers,” said a waiter. “And your menus.”

  The owner appeared again. “I assume you will all be having your usual’s, as you are lacking in originality and adventure.”

  “Yes please.”

  “What will you have piglet?” he asked Susan, who put her hand in front of her mouth to stop from dissolving into hysterics.

  “She’ll have what I have,” Grayling told him.

  “Another boring one.”

  “This is literally the best worst place ever,” Maruma opined.

  A front door opened, closed, and a pair of shoes were kicked off. Then a man came hurtling into a living room, jumped bodily over the back of a sofa and landed onto it. It took a special type of upholstery to deal with this, and the sofa had indeed cost a lot. Which the married couple who lived here always thought was strange given how little time they spent in the flat.

  Sixty seconds later the door opened again, and a voice called, “home.”

  “Ayooo,” Rob called back, and he turned and saw his husband walk into the lounge. Joseph Lindleman liked being in the gym, but the demands of being a doctor meant he merely looked athletic and trim now, rather than pumped. He had in his hands the fish and chips he’d picked up from around the corner.

  “You’re home!” Joseph exclaimed with genuine surprise. He was too tired to realise the shoes in the hallway gave everything away and just called out home every time he came in out of habit.

  “Yeah, we got the evening off, so I checked your schedule and made sure I was home in plenty of time.”

  “Aww. You only just made it didn’t you.”

  “Yes. My shoes will still be hot.”

  “Right, we’re both home at the same time,
so you know what that means.”

  Rob laughed, “I suspect our parents will assume it means sex, whereas we know there is a better thrill called Xbox.”

  “Let’s relieve our stress by shooting Canadian kids via the medium of graphics.”

  “Anyone die at work today?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s have beer while we shoot.”

  They unwrapped the fish and opened some beers, a pair of large forks were retrieved because the controllers must never get greasy, and the couple sat down in front of a huge television.

  “Do you think people would think we’re sad for how we spend our rare nights indoors?” Joseph asked.

  “My parents used to sit and read different parts of the same newspaper, in silence, in bed. We are at least interacting. And ruining some kids’ day. Shall we turn the mics on?”

  “Ooh, feeling naughty?”

  “Always.”

  “Turn the mics on.”

  “Right then internet, prepare to be smooshed. Proper smooshed.”

  Karen was reading.

  This wasn’t unusual. Karen had read a lot in her short life, from the years when she was considered precocious for the complexity of the material she read, to becoming a teenager when you were considered pretentious over the complexity of the material you read. She’d read a lot in the ward because there was little else to do, but now she was reading a bible.

  She’d never actually read it before, although most of the key stories had been explained in school, first in assemblies and then after a cultural shift in religious education classes alongside all the rest.

  It was an unusual experience, because the book could be understood in so many ways. There was the approach she would have taken even a few weeks ago, which was to analyse and pick away at it all. Then there was the approach she had now been taught, to read it all in a way that glazed over the cake of problems to leave a glossy, nice finish, and right now she really needed it glossy and nice so she went with that. The book was giving her comfort. She’d been given an order to read the books which began with the disciples and left Leviticus for last with an air of embarrassment.