Gilded Hate Machine

by Robert H Wilde

  “I am flattered,” Maruma said, ignoring the fact that would require normal human emotions. However, he had paused app game development to pursue physical board games, and it was time to test on people. In truth he had wanted to teach the game to one table at a time, get fully engaged, see how it went, but the group had been so excited when he told them they had insisted they all did it as one happy club and who was he to argue.

  “I will help set up,” Grayling said, “tell me what to do.”

  Maruma nodded and placed his bag down on a table. The room was filled with large tables; four people sitting around each one. They had prepared. “Right Grayling, we need one of these boxes on every table, and then we’ll open from there.”

  Maruma looked at his audience. This was it, he had enjoyed games, escape rooms, puzzles of all sorts, he worked in the greatest problem-solving environment he could, and now he had created one of his own and the gaming group were going to try it. Many people might be nervous, but he just came across with the cold confidence of a man who believed he had understood the situation and was going to, in the world of a million self-help books, ‘own it’.

  “Right everyone, when you open the box, at the top you will find a board which if made, will fold out, but which is currently in four parts. Please assemble according to the directions on it. Then you’ll find two decks of cards held by blue rubber bands…”

  “So, what I’d like you to do is fill in a questionnaire about what you thought please?” Maruma said at the conclusion of the games. He’d made plenty of notes as he’d taken questions and assisted play, but he knew true feedback could only come in a private format where people could review as they wished. Once the questionnaires were handed out, he and Grayling packed each table up and let people write away. Soon they were all finished commenting, the bag was ready, and he and Grayling left because he and his colleague really, really needed a nap now.

  They collapsed into the car, and Grayling summoned up her awareness to drive them home. As she did, Maruma looked through the returns.

  They seemed positive.

  He read them again, they seemed very good.

  He nodded to himself, and Grayling saw him and grinned. He had designed a game and people, admittedly a very small amount of people, had liked it. It had gone well. This was good. He should feel good right now. He felt good!

  Well it did, but only a little. He always thought creating his own board game, complete with pieces, taking it to a club and getting their praise would be wonderful but… he thought of work. Of Hume and Villiers, of the people he caught, and having pushed a dream to the first stage he realised it was nothing compared to the engagement, the puzzle, the thrill of the police work he did. He also knew almost no one would be pleased to know he saw it like that, and perhaps that was why Grayling was his closest friend. She got it, or at least she didn’t mind. So yes, games were great, but game design wasn’t going to be his future. He wasn’t going to seek a career change and become the next Jamey Stegmaier. He was going to be the same DC Soloman Maruma.

  “You ok?” Grayling asked. “You’ve got a funny look.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m fine, really fine, answered a few questions actually.”

  “Well it is a questionnaire.”

  “Yes, yes, it is.”

  “So… good evening then?” she checked.

  “Yes, very.”

  “So, when do we start the Kickstarter campaign?” Grayling said laughing.

  “I don’t think we’ll worry about that. If I wanted to look at a chart of statistics, I could get up tomorrow, go into work and keep looking through Monty and Hume’s accounts.”

  “And that is a very good point. Tomorrow just inject the coffee straight into my heart, okay? Cos that’s what it’s going to need.”

  “Sleep is for people who don’t really know what the others are capable of.”

  “You two look like zombies,” Lindleman said as he walked across the office car park. “And not hot zombies either.”

  Grayling locked her car and fired back “what do you mean ‘hot zombies’? Since when has there been an attractive zombie?”

  “Return of the Living Dead Part 3, zombie romance.”

  Grayling narrowed her eyes. “I’ve seen that and you’re messing with me, she’s female.”

  “I might be gay, but I can still appreciate the female form. Especially when it’s kinky as fuck.”

  “I…”

  “And before you reply may I remind you Sharma has banned kink shaming.”

  Grayling shook her head at Rob, “only because someone keeps mentioning kinks.”

  “Someone mention Green?” a new voice said as it tried to get into the chat. Lindleman and Grayling turned to see a carefully coiffured Atkins smiling at them, and they both nodded and turned to head in.

  Atkins watched them go. Did he just get snubbed? It wasn’t that the MCU was a clique, he thought, it’s just that they all work on the same cases and are closer and it’s basically on him that he really wants to join and…

  Okay, chill, he thought, just go into regular old CID and see what’s happening, solve some cases, get your promotion, then you too can join the MCU and tackle the heavy stuff.

  Still, it burned him. In fact, as he watched he saw Grayling, Maruma and Lindleman stop by the door into the station as Sharma pulled up. They waited for her, stood as Atkins also stopped, and when she got close, they formed a close-knit circle and were deep in conversation. Secrets, he thought to himself even though no group of people in Britain had a better reason for having a private chat than a team of detectives, and he fully green-eyed at them and actually turned away. He’d said a joke, he’d tried to join in, he wanted to walk with them to the door and then split off into their offices, but oh no they had to go off on their own and have their little private chat which, a small and now ignored part of him acknowledged was about an actual fucking criminal investigation.

  Okay, he said to himself, don’t go into work angry. Go for a walk around the block, get a coffee at the new place, then go in all smiles and happiness. He patted his pockets and started walking. Not enough time for a bet, because he really did need to show up and get some work done, be on time and all that good colleague stuff. Maybe he could get some sort of team thing going with the people he currently worked with, they were always off doing things together, but his sights were set on the MCU. It did occur to him, for just a second, he’d got all this the wrong way around, then he ignored it and went back to anger, because nothing was easier than giving into that emotion.

  “So, what have we got planned for today?” Sharma asked as she and her colleagues walked into the Bunker. It wasn’t really a polite piece of conversation; it was working out where everyone’s resources were allocated.

  “We’ve got a fun day looking at numbers,” Grayling explained, “and I’m not being sarcastic because Maruma loves looking at lists of numbers for stuff, whereas if the dentist rang, I’d rush round there right now till he’d finished.”

  “Something, something, drilling,” was all Lindleman could contribute.

  “Sounds like good hard grinding,” Sharma noted to Grayling.

  “Now that was filthier than me, I was being a good boy.”

  “Shut up Lindleman,” his inspector told him.

  “What are you doing?” Maruma asked.

  “Oh, just the other crimes,” Sharma sighed, “sadly the world won’t wait for us to nail those fascist arseholes, we’ve got to deal with the hundred and thirty-six other arseholes in the queue.”

  “That’s oddly specific,” Lindleman noted.

  “Coming from the man who will make up literally anything for a joke.”

  “I’ll have you know Inspector that a man in a Pinky Pie costume did genuinely blow me. Before I met my husband.”

  “Okay, I’m including you on the list of arseholes.”

  The foursome had reached the Bunker and filed in.

  “That’s a good point,” Grayling noted,
“we’re all set on looking at these bank accounts but if anything comes in, we’ll have to go.”

  “That reminds me,” Lindleman began, “I’ve got a terrible food allergy.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes, whenever I eat it makes me shit.”

  “Sit your ass down and file some reports.”

  “Yes Inspector.”

  “You know,” Sharma began, “some police departments have cameras follow them around and they make fascinating documentaries out of it. We’d be like the Office only with murderers. We’d all be fucking sacked, by which I mean you’d be fucking sacked Lindleman, I would be fine because I’m the only one in this double act with any sense.”

  “You say that, but I haven’t had any kids.”

  “He’s a got a point,” Grayling noted.

  “When did your uterus fall out?” Sharma replied, “Defend the sisterhood.”

  “No can do.”

  “Right, then, Grayling, you can make us all the first cups of coffee and we will begin. Point one, someone order us a fucking toaster so we can eat up in here.”

  “We’d need bread…” Maruma wondered aloud.

  “You know you can make more than hot bread in a toaster, right?” Sharma replied.

  “I think it’s called toast,” Lindleman noted.

  “He’s got you there,” Grayling added.

  “You can all shut up until someone has same-day delivered me a toaster to have in here. It doesn’t have to be one that fries eggs as well, but if it is, I might forgive you faster.”

  “They… can… no f’ing way.” There was the sound of three constables googling.

  “Oh yes, yes they really can. Egg sarnies here we fucking come, Prime me that goodness.”

  “She’s not wrong.”

  Sharma’s phone went off.

  “Hello, DI Sharma?”

  “Hi, we’ve just had a call, a 999 call, someone is reporting an assault. We’ve dispatched uniform obviously but we’re coming right to you, cos… they’re saying Rupert Hume hit them after they protested outside his house. With a hammer.”

  “Oh, we are on our way, give me the address please.” Sharma grabbed a pad and pen and wrote it down. “We’ll be there asap, tell uniform to hold it down.”

  Sharma waved the paper at Grayling and Maruma, “work on that for as long as you can, no doubt there’ll be another call for you soon. Lindleman, with me,” and with that the pair exited the Bunker.

  Grayling and Maruma turned and looked at each other. They stayed that way for more than a few moments, before Grayling said, “it’s wrong, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Grayling nodded and grabbed he radio. “Rob?”

  “Yes? Sharma’s driving so…”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re walking into, Hume isn’t an idiot. He’s clever and controlled. The chances of him smacking someone with a hammer outside his home are low. Be fucking careful.”

  There was a murmuring sound and Lindleman replied, “the inspector says, yes, working towards the Fuhrer.”

  “Exactly,” said Maruma.

  A car pulled to a halt, and Sharma and Lindleman jumped out. A woman was sitting on a pavement as a paramedic bandaged her head, and another of the emergency medics came over to the detectives, along with the two uniformed constables who had attended.

  “DI Sharma, MCU, looking into hate crime. We have what exactly?”

  “Well for a start she won’t sit in the ambulance,” said a paramedic who had bags under his eyes so large he looked both in urgent need of sleep and an appearance on a Panda mating programme.

  “Caucasian female,” a police constable began, “here with a group of two other people, one male, the other female. They say they were walking round the outside of the property in a circle motion, when Rupert Hume came out and started swearing at them. They have this on camera, on a phone. Then the phone footage ends, and they claim Hume went back into the house and emerged with a hammer, which he hit one of the women with.”

  Sharma nodded. “The phone footage ends before the attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, question for you,” she said to the paramedic, “what’s happened to her head?”

  “She’s been hit. Hundred percent. But no clue as to what with.”

  “She’s talking a lot?” Lindleman said.

  “Yeah, she’s been threatening to call the newspapers but wants to talk to you first.”

  “Alright, thanks, okay everyone we will now go and interview.”

  Sharma and Lindleman approached the victims. “Hello there, I’m DI Sharma and this is a DC, and we will be taking over. Can you please tell me, in your own words what’s happened?”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ve been protesting and we have signs and it’s all peaceful, and then the gates open and Hume comes out swearing at us, using all sorts of horrible words, including the C word, and then he goes back in, his security stood around, and then he comes out and he swings a hammer and hits me in the head. I’d show you but they insisted on bandaging it but when the photographers get here, I’ll take this off and you can all see.”

  “And your two friends were witnesses?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Hit you with a hammer!”

  “Yes!”

  “So why were you protesting?”

  “Hume’s a racist and a fascist and can’t be mayor!”

  “Okay, okay, yeah, right.” Sharma stopped talking, took a deep breath, looked at the sun and then turned to Lindleman. He nodded full support. She then began speaking. “It’s a great thing the attack happened here, because we know Rupert Hume has CCTV covering all the entrances and exits to his property because he’s paranoid about attack. We’ll now take action to have that footage handed over to us.”

  “He what?” the protestor said.

  “This whole area is covered,” Sharma replied with the full honesty of an inspector who’d checked this the first time Hume had been a wise ass with her colleagues.

  “We were probably outside this area when he hit me,” the protestor claimed. Nerves could be heard in her voice.

  “How far outside?”

  “What?”

  “Not to pin you down, but as we’re here and it just happened and you have witnesses, where were you when Hume hit you?”

  “Err… right over there.”

  “Okay, so that’s different to before.”

  “Err…”

  “Right,” Sharma said pinching her nose. “I am only going to say this once. If you are so desperate to shame Hume out of this election that you’re making this up, then fuck off now and never come back. Because if I go in there, see CCTV of this whole area and find that you are not getting hit with a hammer, that you’re being hit on the head with that rock that’s sat under your fucking car over there magically with red smeared on it, I will not be very happy and it will be you that’s in trouble and him that has the publicity victory okay? And if I sound annoyed it’s because it’s hard enough to do my job without people making shit up, do you fucking hear me?”

  “I… well… I… we better be off home.”

  “Aye, you better be.”

  Sharma crossed her arms and watched them drive off, as did open-mouthed constables and paramedics.

  “Waste of our fucking time,” one paramedic noted sadly, waving his hand in a gentle punch of frustration.”

  “Honestly,” Sharma began, “this whole election is making people crazy, now even the people who’d normally be right are fucking shit up and it’s not even remotely fucking funny. Jesus! Also, Rob, tell Grayling we’d have worked it out anyway but she’s still right, so we owe her extra ribs next time we have a meal.”

  “Does she even like ribs?”

  “That’s not the point, they’re available, give them or take them.”

  “Will do boss.”

  “I think my eyes have gone wonky,” Grayling said squint
ing. “I think I’ve looked at so many numbers I’m just seeing a random scrolling like in the Matrix titles. It means nothing to me. I don’t even know if this is a set of accounts or a Chinese takeaway order, or even some random game you’ve come up with.”

  “My game is a lot more engaging than just a chart with numbers. I am not a child of the eighties design wise.”

  “I’m sure that makes sense if you know the context.”

  “Rules used to be charts leading to charts, with a side salad of charts.”

  Grayling clicked her fingers, “yes, that is definitely how I fee…” she was stopped by a ringing. “Saved by the phone. Please can this get us out of the office.”

  A button pressed and “hello there, DC Grayling, how can I help?”

  “We’ve just had a call to our hotline.”

  “999?”

  “No, the number you gave out when you asked for people who’d seen Jessica’s car. Are you okay?”

  The question had come in response to Grayling spluttering. “I am f’ing great. Did they want to give us some actual intel?”

  “They apologise for the fact they’ve been on holiday but believe they have something to show you.”

  “We’ll be round, we’ll go to them, we’ll come now. Make them, wait!”

  “Sounds like good news?” Maruma sort of asked.

  “We have a lead on Jessica!”

  “Game on!”

  Thirty minutes later they had navigated to a village and parked on the back end of a gravel drive. They’d experienced many welcomes during the years, and a good many people telling them to fuck off, but they’d never been greeted halfway down the drive by a man with a tray of coffees.

  “Hello there, thank you for coming so quickly,” he said, a man in his sixties, if not seventies, with white hair and visible veins.

  “Oh, thanks for ringing; we should thank you for being available,” Grayling told him.

  “I took the liberty of making you drinks.”

  “Excellent,” the constables both took a heavy mug.

  “Now,” the man said as he waved them inside, the tray now in one hand by his side, “I was driving down the road you mentioned in your appeal, at the time you pinpointed. I was away on holiday when the appeal was made but a friend saw it and mentioned it, so I had a look at my dashcam. I have it to lower my insurance, and it captures what’s ahead of me, and I think you’ll find this interesting.”