“Your fingerprints were left in the fresh blood of your neighbour, who’d been killed shortly before.”
“They were?”
“Yes.”
Wells turned to the lawyer, “they can’t lie, can they?”
“I would caution you not to say anything else,” came the reply.
“Nah, nah, I’ll say. Yeah, I killed him. Cut his throat, tried to make it look like suicide.”
Maruma and Grayling exchanged surprised looks. This was not typical. In fact, Wells had gone from seeming scared to exuding a powerful confidence.
“Why did you kill him?”
“Cos he’s foreign, Polish int-he.”
“Why would that matter to you?”
“I hate these Polish people coming here, taking our houses, and jobs and stuff.”
“What’s your employment?”
“On Jobseekers.”
“Right. And that’s it?”
“I listen to the news, I see the politicians, telling me the truth. BBC and all that selling us a conspiracy. St. George knows, he tells it like it is, all these foreigners. And those lads the other day, heroes, hit that woman from, wherever the fuck it was, eastern, so I went one better, I got rid of one of these rats, these cockroaches, from our streets yeah.”
Grayling leant forward. “Do you know what I think? I think thugs like you always want a justification, and you feel better about it, cos of this bullshit.” Grayling felt Maruma’s hand gently press on her arm, realised she was overstepping and pulled back. “So, you’ll give a full statement saying you did it and plead guilty then?”
“Oh yeah, I’m a fucking hero now, a fucking hero. Patriot Party will look after me in prison, yes they will.” He smiled, absolutely unrepentant, the peace of the zealot.
“It’s kind of beautiful,” said Green, and when he’d finished everyone turned and stared at the office manager.
Grayling and Maruma had been adding the details of the recent murder to the hate crimes white board, tying in the fact it had all escalated to murder, but the office manager had come in and dropped his comment.
“What?” Grayling asked him.
“The way you’ve written it all up and structured it, it’s kind of beautiful.”
Everyone else in the office looked at the writing and back to Green again.
“Have you considered psychiatric help?” Lindleman asked from where he was sat.
“Or art classes,” Green replied.
“Do you have any other great insights,” Sharma asked Green, “or are you just passing through?”
“Going for a wander.”
Sharma nodded and looked at Grayling and Maruma’s faces, then she made a decision. “Right, office break time, everyone sit down I have cake to crack out.”
“Ooh.”
Lindleman scooted over on his chair and Maruma and Grayling came back to the middle of the room. Sharma opened a bag and proceeded to hand out…
“Doughnuts!” Green had also sat down and was given a treat, so he continued “what flavour are they?”
“Half are strawberry jam, half are chocolate, no requests, Russian roulette.” The doughnuts themselves were huge globes drenched in sugar. “Right,” Sharma continued, “does anyone have a discussion topic?”
Lindleman stuck his hand up like he was at school.
“Go on.”
“There’s a petition,” Rob began, “to get Britney to play a gig in Manchester.”
“Britney Spears?” Grayling asked.
“Yes, but she’s just known as Britney, she is the Britney,” Rob explained, “like Pele or Madonna.”
“And why do we want her to play Britain, let alone Manchester?” As soon as Sharma had finished Lindleman made a show of gasping.
“Because it’s Britney bitch!”
“I’m going to assume that’s a lyric and not an HR issue.”
“Yes Inspector.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re a fan of Britney?” Sharma asked.
“A fan? I ran our school’s Britney fan club. Queers for Spears.”
“No.” Sharma put her head in her hands, “No, no, no, you did not.”
“I did.”
“It was not called that.”
“Google it.”
Lindleman and Sharma locked eyes for a few seconds before Sharma caved, “oh fuck you probably did.”
“So, sign the petition and we can all go and see her.”
“I think you’re vastly overestimating our interest in team outings,” Grayling noted.
“I’ll pay,” Lindleman shot back.
“I might be slightly interested then,” Grayling conceded.
“Imagine if we could get Christina too,” Lindleman said drifting off mentally.
“Perri? Milian?”
Lindleman replied to Sharma “Aguilera!”
“I should have guessed. She is not known by one name.”
Grayling turned to Maruma, “you’re being quiet, not into 90’s pop stars?”
Rob jumped in faster. “Britney should not be dismissed as a 90’s pop star, she had hits through the noughties and is still very much a current artist.”
“Face it Lindleman, you’re past it,” Sharma bit into her doughnut, then leapt forward so the jam could explode over a napkin.
“These are very nice,” Green said through mouthfuls.
“I have news,” Maruma said.
“Yes, save us from pop music, tell us some serious news,” Sharma said.
Licking some sugar from the corner of his mouth, Maruma said “there’s a sign that’s gone up around the corner from us.”
“Go on.”
“Strip club?” Green asked.
“Moving on from him.”
“A new twenty-four-hour café,” Maruma revealed. “Really close too. A minute’s walk at most.”
“Ooooooh. Tell all.”
“Well I looked up the planning applications and managed to have a word with the people inside putting the finishing touches to it.”
“That is fine police work right there,” Sharma pointed out.
“So, family firm, open twenty-four hours, hot food served at all times although the daytime menu is larger, all the drinks and all the syrups. Also, ice-cream-based milkshakes.”
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Grayling confessed, “I mean obviously I want to support small local businesses, but we do have our regular coffee shops so do we want to change to a new one? We have a lovely machine in the Bunker too. But it is around the corner and we are supposed to be helping the community.”
Lindleman laughed, “that’s some middle-class guilt right there.”
“And you’re happy moving to a new place?” Grayling shot back.
“Love ‘em and leave ‘em.”
“What’s wrong with the coffee here?” Green asked while chewing.
“Nothing, it’s just that some of us have to go out and solve crimes and move around and all that shizzle,” Rob finished with a wink.
“Yeah but I’m like the spider in the middle of the web.”
“Green, you might want to rethink that metaphor. Also, I like the fact we’re all pretending that we go to the cafes for coffee and not the selection of cakes, which is the one thing we don’t have on tap here,” Grayling took a celebratory bite of her doughnut.
“I wonder if we could get pizza delivered here?” Maruma mused.
“What?” everyone else reacted like a Dead Sea Scroll had been translated.
“Well they deliver right, and people like to be seen as community minded…”
“Grayling does.”
“So, I wonder if during our late nights we could actually get a pizza delivered to us?”
“I bet we could. We’re the same as any other address. Except the driver would have to be not stoned.” Sharma pulled out a pen, “let me look into this.”
“By ‘look into this’, do you actually mean ring up and order one?”
“Yes, yes I d
o.”
Grayling’s phone rang, so she picked it up with a sugar free hand.
“DC Grayling.”
“Hello Rebecca, it’s reception. We’ve got a lady here asking to speak to you, she’s called Jessica Villiers.”
Grayling waved her hand around in excitement, “Maruma and I will be right along.”
“Something exciting?” Rob asked.
“Hopefully.”
Grayling saw Jessica as soon as the former had opened a door and got sight of reception.
“We meet again,” Grayling said.
“Hello detectives, I was wondering if we might have an off the record chat.”
Grayling nodded. “There’s a new café around the corner, let’s go there and speak,” which was why the three walked around the corner and came to a sudden stop.
“When you told me about this café,” Grayling said to Maruma without taking her eyes off the sign, “you neglected to mention something.”
“What?”
Jessica started laughing, “he didn’t tell you it was called Good to See Brew.”
“No, he did not, and now I feel like a twat. Oh well, we’re here.”
They went inside a very modern and clean building full of fresh paint smells and newly brewed coffee and went to the counter. Their standard drinks order was fulfilled here, plus what Jessica requested, and then they went and sat down.
“So, Jessica, what do you have to say?” Grayling asked.
“I’m guessing you’ve looked me up?” she asked in return.
“Yes.” Grayling reeled off what Susan had reported. “You’ve worked for national media but now mostly curate your own investigation into hate crime, leveraging your work via social media to appear in the Guardian and Channel 4 News among others.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re in Morthern.”
“I think you know why.”
“Tell us anyway.”
Jessica nodded at Grayling’s instruction. “The same strategy I have seen around the country is now happening here. You have websites pushing click-hate, gaining them money and twisting people’s thoughts. You have right-wing extremists presenting themselves as politicians and using immigration and other tactics to mainstream themselves. In Morthern it’s Morthern.Info and St. George. I’ve seen this elsewhere. It’s a wave, crossing Britain, and it is up your shores.”
“So, you followed us because we’re investigating hate crime?”
“Yes. And because you are having an election in which Rupert Hume is neck and neck in the opinion polls. He might win, and that puts a fascist in power, although, by the time people realise he’s a fascist, it’ll be too late. No one’s out there thinking ‘I must vote fascist’, but they still will.”
“So, what, you’re offering us your help?”
“I want to tell you what I know, if you’ll be interviewed. I know you can’t ‘keep me updated’,” she did quotes with her fingers, “but I hoped I could question you from time to time. If you see what I mean.”
“And what do you know?”
“Some interesting things.”
Grayling sipped her drink. The coffee was genuinely very nice here. “I’d be better disposed if you’d come to us straight away instead of following us about to be honest.”
“Well… I do have to work out what questions to ask you, don’t I. And if you must run off to a murder just as I arrive and pique my interest…”
“Hmm.”
“Look, think about it, talk about it, and get back to me. We can meet up in private and have a free for all discussion. I’ll pay for the take-away.”
Jessica stood, finished her coffee and left.
Grayling turned to Maruma. “Okay, what do we make of her then?”
Atkins pointed to the recording equipment and his colleague turned it on and gave the speech, at which point everyone’s eyes turned to the young man sitting opposite. The room had four people in: Atkins, a fellow DC, a lawyer and the suspect, who sat in a baggy tracksuit with his skin terribly pale.
“Could you explain to me where you were that night please?” Atkins asked.
Leaning back, arms around his stomach, the boy said, “no comment.”
“Did you get onto a bus that evening?” Atkins asked.
“No comment.”
“Did you get on a bus in the early hours of the morning?”
“No comment.”
“Do you recognise this cash card number?”
“No comment.”
“It belongs to an account in your name, doesn’t it?”
“No comment.”
“This card was used to buy bus tickets that night. Was that you?”
“No comment.”
“This card hasn’t been reported lost or stolen and was in your possession when we arrested you.”
“No comment.”
“Look at this photograph I’m holding up, is that you?”
“No comment.”
“The person who looks like you, has been filmed getting on the bus. I am convinced you were on this bus. Do you want to change your approach to this interview?”
“No comment.”
“Did you verbally abuse two women because of their sexuality that night? On that bus?”
“No comment.”
“We have footage of someone who looks exactly like you, on this bus, crowding round these women, and we have footage of a person you are with punching one of them in the face. The footage also shows you all laughing and running away. Do you have any comment on that?”
“No comment.”
Atkins turned to look at the lawyer. “I think we’re done here.”
“Can I go home now?”
“Oh, you can say different words! No,” Atkins told him, “you will be taken to the cells and I expect that you will, shortly, be charged with a series of crimes. However, if you do have anything that you’d like to say about those, I am all ears.”
The suspect looked at his lawyer, and back to Atkins. “No comment.”
“I thought that would be the case. Interview ended.”
Soon Atkins and his colleague were emailing the information the Crown Prosecution Service needed to decide if a charge would be made. Atkins was calmly confidant that CCTV footage of an assault, complete with clear ID’s and the card purchase would be enough, but you never really knew, so he sat in his car for a bit of play while he waited. He supposed the rest of CID might think him a bit off for sneaking away, but hey, everyone likes to relax differently.
Then he got the call: they would prosecute. Atkins punched the air, looked around, and wondered how he could subtly mention this success to Wick. But he didn’t have to be subtle did he, Wick had sent him here, so time to go and tell his, hopefully, one day boss.
The police car pulled to a halt, in a petrol station car park. The constables inside looked out, and saw a woman running over to them, so they got out and welcomed her.
“Hello, I’m DC Koralova, are you the lady who called 999?”
“Yes, yes that’s me,” said a woman who was obviously concerned.
“You spotted something on the road? If you could describe it for me, please.”
“Back up there, to the north, a minute’s drive away. There’s a car parked on one side of the road with the door open, and I’m sure someone was lying on the ground. But I didn’t wanna stop yunno, cos I’m on my own so I came here and rang you straight away.”
“You did the right thing,” Koralova assured her, “so we’re going to go up there now and take a look. If you can stay here please, we’ll speak to you again soon, we need to check this out. Do you have a make and colour?”
“Blue Ford, yeah metallic blue.”
“And a number plate?”
“No, sorry.”
“That’s okay, we’ll go and look.”
Koralova and Kane got back into their car and began driving up the north road. They went slowly, so as not to hit anything parked or moving because who knew wh
at they’d find, and just when they thought they were getting close they turned a corner and there it was.
A blue Ford parked slightly to the side at a strange angle. The driver’s door was open, and the lights were on. Both constables got out, readied their torches and walked cautiously round to it. There was no one in it, but the ground leading away from the vehicle was heavily marked, and as they moved their torches up, they could see someone laying having clearly crawled away from the vehicle. A second later and Koralova and Kane were checking the person, but they found a dead body. The face had been badly beaten and the skull was noticeably caved, blood covering the face, and the hands were smashed up too.
Neither Koralova nor Kane did a double take or felt ill. They were uniformed police, they saw everything, and it was a simple calculation to conclude the victim had survived the attack long enough to try and escape then died here.
Behind them, in the car, a phone beeped loudly. Kane stood and went to find it, peering in the car. Koralova started looking for some identification on the body, but then stood and began to call the scene in on her radio. Might as well get people here and this checked and moved as quickly as possible.
Kane finally found the phone, in a footwell. He picked it up and did a double take.
“Koralova,” he called out.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Do you have any idea why DC Grayling would be texting this woman?”
Grayling had received a call from Sharma to assemble, but there was no detail as to why, so she’d got Maruma and they’d come out. To where exactly they weren’t sure, but they followed the sat nav to the location the DI had given and were soon looking at a crime scene. One side of a road and the land alongside had been taped off, and there was a uniformed constable directing traffic. Lindleman and Sharma were stood in conversation, and the SOCO were in numbers going over everything.
“Looks like a murder,” Grayling noted.
“I guess the white sheet covering something body shaped would be a clue,” Maruma dryly replied.
The pair got out and went over to their colleagues.
“Hail!” Lindleman called with his hand in the air.
“You got more work for us then?” Grayling asked.
“Sort of,” Sharma replied. “There’s been a murder, and I want you to look at the body.”
Gilded Hate Machine Page 11