Gilded Hate Machine Read online

  He kept writing, and on the board appeared the words “a rapper who can both check themselves and wreck themselves.”

  “And that relates to?”

  “Rap. Classic rap.”

  “Rap’s been around long enough to have a classic era?” Grayling asked.

  “The world has sped up so much I have a list of classic breakfasts from this week.”

  “Fair point.”

  DCI Wick stuck his head round the Bunker door, “Green, with me please.”

  “Sure-thing boss,” he walked out of the room like a model about to go onto the catwalk.

  That was why, when Atkins arrived an hour later, he hadn’t even had time to turn his desk computer on when the pair of Wick and Green could be seen walking towards him.

  For a moment Atkins dreamed he was being asked to do MCU work, his ambition in life, but then he realised they looked concerned.

  “Something wrong sir?” he asked.

  “We need to have a little word. Yes. The thing is detective, Mr Rawal came in first thing this morning wanting to speak to someone senior. The Super was at home, and I was the highest-ranking officer in the building, and, well, I decided to speak to him and…”

  “What have I done wrong?” Atkins asked.

  “Nothing, nothing at all. Problem is, Lucy Rawal is withdrawing her complaint. She says she wasn’t attacked or harassed and that she doesn’t want anything else to happen.”

  Atkins shot up. “But she was injured, there’s video!”

  “Yes, yes there is, but I’m afraid the case is being dropped.”

  “No, no, this isn’t America, we don’t need them to make a complaint, we have video footage.”

  “I have spoken with the Super, and he wants everything dropped. No prosecution.”

  “But…”

  “Here’s the thing detective. Here’s the horrible thing. Lucy does not want to testify. If we were to go ahead with the case, we would be forcing a child to be involved, because you bet the defence will want to speak to her. Maybe we could get away with a written statement. But it gets messy, and we’re not doing it to her.”

  “Then they get away with it,” Atkins sighed.

  “I know. But a lot of people get away with a lot. You mustn’t let it drag you down.”

  “Illegitimi non carborundum,” Green said, but carried on with “of course that’s not real Latin; was invented by British intelligence during the Second World War and Church…” he realised he was being stared at.

  “Right, thanks Caesar,” Atkins said, feeling his great and current affairs friendly prosecution vanishing and with it his chance to join the MCU.

  Wicks patted him on the arm, then he and Green walked away.

  Maruma walked down the street. He was amusing himself by sizing everyone up and pondering what their jobs were. So, while a man in a suit was commonplace, this man didn’t have any bag with him, just a phone in his hand, so Maruma assumed he worked nearby which given the area suggested selling cars. Then a woman in a sari who was hurrying along with twelve pints of milk in her hands, and you didn’t need to be an MCU detective to deduce some sort of coffee shop at this time of day. Maruma felt a twinge he wasn’t up to Sherlock Holmes standards, but then again, he was walking briskly down a street.

  He soon came to his target, a small park, and he went in and sat on a bench. There was a metal plaque on it concerning a tribute to the dead, but Maruma ignored it in favour of checking his watch. He should be on time for what he’d discovered.

  Ah yes, an Indian man carrying the remains of a loaf of bread, popping out from home as he always did if it was dry, feeding the ducks. Mr Rawal walked to the pond and started tearing and throwing the bread in.

  Maruma sidled up to him. “Hello there.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’m DC Maruma,” he said throwing bread he brought along himself. “Not on business. Casual visit. Purely social.”

  Rawal froze, bread in hand. “What do you want?”

  “I’d like, if you’d please tell me off the record, to know what changed your mind?”

  “Is this even legal?”

  “I like to build a picture of what’s happening in Morthern. In my head. A mental map. I’d like to know what’s going on and what happened to you all, in case it happens again.”

  “How do I know you’re not taping this?”

  “Because if I deny taping it, as I just did, we can’t use it.” Which wasn’t the most accurate thing Maruma had ever said. He didn’t even know if it was true, which was unusual for him.

  “A group came to our house,” the dad explained. “All white bastards. Threatened to beat us all if we let it continue. Hurt my kids, my wife, me. Said you can’t get everyone. Only needs one free to hurt us. So… we agreed. We drop the case. They’ll leave Lucy alone and we all pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “You believe them?” Maruma asked.

  “That they’ll leave us alone? Not really. That they’d beat the bones out of us? Oh yes detective, I believe that completely. Now, you have your mental image, please leave my family and I alone and never come back.”

  “Understood, and thanks.”

  “Can I get you anything Lara?”

  It was a softly spoken voice with a heavy accent, but Ekaterina had been working hard at being understood, and Lara always knew what was said. Speaking of Lara, she pulled the cover over her and said, “could I have a glass of cold water with cucumber in it please Kat?”

  Kat nodded and laughed slightly, “that’s a new one, you normally have hot lemon before bed.”

  “I saw it on a daytime programme, apparently it is nice.”

  “Well I’ll go make you one.”

  Leaving her charge behind, Kat moved through Lara’s apartment. The latter was in her eighties and been encouraged by ill health to leave her home and move into what her children called a ‘granny flat’: residential apartments. Lara now had trouble moving but wasn’t on the ground floor as the purpose-built building had several expansive elevators, and Kat went in twice a day to provide support.

  She walked into a kitchen she’d cleaned shortly before and looked in the fridge. There was still some cucumber, so Kat ran the tap while she popped some ice cubes into a glass, filled it and looked at the cucumber. How much were you meant to use? She cut off a big chunk and dropped it in. That would have to do.

  “Here you go,” she said putting it on Lara’s beside table. “Is that everything? If so, I’ll be off.”

  “Yes, perfect thanks.”

  Kat patted the duvet, then went out into the hall and put her coat and shoes on. A quick final check, a shout of “see you tomorrow,” and Ekaterina stepped out into the corridor of the home. It was a short walk down the stairs (she avoided the lifts when on her own), out a front door and into the night air.

  She looked up and marvelled at the stars. Back as a child in Poland she had thought of becoming an astronomer.

  The pain struck her on the side of her head, just behind the ear. She didn’t know what happened at first, she just felt her body twisting round in reaction to the blow, her vision blurred and almost went black and her legs buckled as she dropped to the ground.

  Was someone shouting? Why was the world spinning? She felt sick and tossed around and… a slight return to sense just as someone kicked her in the stomach.

  “Neighbourhood Defence; fuck off back to Europe,” someone shouted, and then to a chorus of laughs she could hear people running away. She curled up, pain lancing through her skull and middle, and she felt pure terror as someone knelt over her, bent down, put hands on her.

  “What happened, what happened?” this figure said, and only after a while did Kat realise the night manager of the home had rushed out to see what had happened and found her.

  She had no answer to what had happened, she just curled into a tight ball until the world went still again.

  “Hello, sorry to interrupt, I’m DC Atkins, do you mind if I come in?” he was leaning
round a door in the hospital, and looking at a woman sat on a bed.

  “D? C?” Kat replied. She’d been asked to lay on the bed, but really felt she should get up, out of here and go home to hide there.

  “Detective constable, the police.”

  “Oh, oh, no, I didn’t do anything!”

  “I’m here to find the people who attacked you?”

  “Oh, right.”

  Atkins stepped into the room and held up a notepad, from which he theatrically pulled a pen. “Can you tell me what happened? We take assault very seriously here in Morthern, and I have been assigned to this case.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone what happened,” she said amazed, “They just bandaged me up and gave me painkillers. I didn’t call the police?”

  “The night manager where you work, he called us, said he found you, and has given a statement. He was very clear you were attacked. I’m happy to hear your side if that’s different?”

  “No, no, I was, I was, yes.”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I was with my client, I stepped outside having finished my shift, and I didn’t see anyone or have an argument with anyone, or anything, but something hit me. In the head.”

  “Do you know what?”

  “No.”

  “The night manager said he found a bloody rock, I’ve got uniform to collect it and it’ll be fingerprinted, the blood DNA tested; I’m positive it’s the right thing.”

  “Yes, could be a rock, I didn’t see it, just felt pain. Then I collapsed, and someone kicked me.”

  “Yes, did you see them?”

  “Outlines. Ghosts. White boys.”

  “White as in skin colour or ghosts?”

  “Skin.”

  “Did they say anything?” Atkins asked.

  “Yes, horrible things, they told me to go back to Poland, said they were Neighbourhood Defence.”

  “Okay, what happened then?”

  “The night manager found me; he must have…heard. I don’t think I screamed, I hope I didn’t scream, maybe I screamed.”

  “He said… well not a scream. A shout of pain,” Atkins replied smiling and warm.

  “Okay. Will you catch them? Do you catch them?”

  “Oh yes, we catch lots of people and I already have some individuals in mind to check out about this. We have what the night manager told us, and we will search CCTV… plenty to look at.”

  “Good. Good. But… what do I do now?”

  “Oh right, well we have a team to help victims of crime,” which just about operates despite the fact we’re forced to cut it to the bone, “so they’ll be in contact, in fact a WPC will be along soon to start.”

  “A W? P? C?”

  “A lady cop.”

  “Ah, good, thanks, that is kind. Will she give me a lift home?”

  “We will arrange that.” Right, he thought to himself, who do we know who likes to throw rocks and racist insults around? First thing to do is see if they have alibis for this, and then… his phone beeped. A message to come into the office.

  Maruma knocked on a door which bore the sign DCI Wick and below it ‘(always open even when closed)’. The DC had never tested this pledge until today, but shortly after knocking the door opened and Maruma found his DCI standing there.

  “Hello Soloman, what can I help with?”

  “I have a proposal. Well, a request.”

  “Okay come in, take a seat,” both men went inside and assumed their positions; Wick in charge behind the desk, Maruma the other side at an angle.

  “Have you heard about the case Atkins is working on?” Maruma asked.

  “Not in much detail, I believe there was an assault and it’s being treated as a hate crime.”

  “Yes, that is the current situation.”

  “Spoken like someone who would like to change the situation…” The DCI hoped this would prompt his junior to get whatever it was off his chest.

  “I want us to take over the case.”

  Wick’s eyes widened slightly. That was a surprise. “On what basis?”

  “I want it approached as an attempted murder, which would let us handle it. Racially aggravated of course.”

  “How was she assaulted again?” the DCI checked.

  “Someone struck her in the back of the head with a stone.”

  “Hmm. Could go either way I suppose on that one, but why are you keen to handle this?”

  “CID have seen an increase in the number of hate crimes. It started with swearing and shoving, bullying basically, but is escalating. A child gets cut by a thrown stone; a woman gets smashed in the head with a rock. What’s next? Someone getting killed! I feel this needs to be stopped before it spreads.”

  “Is this a reflection on Atkins?” Wick asked.

  “Not at all, not at all. But I’m a detective paid to investigate, and the attackers mentioned Neighbourhood Defence. Is that a name? Is that a group we don’t know about? Or did they just describe their actions? I want to know.”

  Wick leant back. While Maruma was one of the best detectives the DCI had ever met, he wasn’t normally pro-active in what cases he was given. He wasn’t emotional either, he played the games given to him. While he still wasn’t showing any emotion here, this was certainly unusual for the man. He’d found a game he wanted to play.

  Wick put a hand to his chin. There were limited resources of course, but if Maruma and Grayling had a gap they could be put onto this.

  “Have you spoken to Atkins?” Wick asked.

  “No.”

  “He’ll be disappointed.” A reply which didn’t produce a flicker of emotion from Maruma.

  “Okay,” Wick knew Maruma was already fully aware what this Defence League was. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. You and Grayling can handle this, but I want it wrapped up quickly, and if god forbid anyone gets murdered, you’ll be moved to that, okay?”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll get it solved.”

  Wick nodded. He had no doubt these two would ‘get it solved’, he was just a little unsure of what had happened. It was like someone had made a movie from a part of the book he’d never seen before. If a criminal had done this, he’d be worried.

  Atkins parked his car in the back row and walked briskly inside. He’d been asked to come in because someone wanted to speak to him, and further research (well, he called in to headquarters) revealed it was the DCI. The same DCI Wick who headed up the Major Crimes Unit. Was this his big break? He’d been lucky enough to be called in to help on cases before, so maybe that was happening, or maybe he was getting the nod to apply for it full time. Either way Atkins was happy as he walked into the building, through the corridors, past the Bunker to a door which said DCI Wick, and below it ‘(always open even when closed)’. He wondered if anyone ever took the DCI up on that offer, whether he should go in and just ask how to get promoted?

  A knock, a pause, and Wick opened the door. Atkins wondered why he didn’t just shout for people to enter like he’d have done and soon found himself sat opposite the DCI across a table.

  “What’s up sir?” the younger man asked.

  “This is a courtesy meeting really,” Wick began, “we’re moving you off the recent hate crime assault. I suppose more accurately we’re moving the assault, because it’s now going to be treated as an attempted murder and the MCU will be tackling it.”

  “What?” Atkins sounded hollow.

  “My detectives have reviewed the case and believe this woman was in considerable danger; a blow to the head with a hard stone, and we are approaching it as something potentially lethal.”

  Wick could see the disappointment written across Atkins face. “Will I be helping?” the latter said.

  “No, but there is plenty for CID to be doing, your time will not be wasted, just redirected to a different crime. Any questions?”

  “No, no I understand,” and without waiting to be dismissed Atkins rose, walked outside and closed the door behind him. Then he balled his fist up and swung it at th
e wall, only just stopping before the wood and remembering he was in a police station, on duty, and he had certain standards to meet. So, he walked outside the building, got into his car, slammed the door shut and put the stereo on loud. Louder, and he hit the wheel in frustration. One prosecution stopped before it had begun because a witness drops out, now another case taken off him for no good reason. How was he going to impress and get promoted at this rate?

  Okay, maybe a quick bet would calm him down, distract him, technology would save him and blunt his anger. It’s not like he could sneak off and have a drink, he might be angry, but he was still a professional who knew when to step outside for a moment and compose himself. No booze, no shouting at colleagues, no one realising he was annoyed, just the safe cocoon of the car and a little bit of distraction. A therapist would be proud.

  Susan waved her pass at reception and started the walk to her desk, when the receptionist raised a hand to halt her.

  “The editor wants to speak to you,” she said in the tone of a judge sending you to the gallows. The good news was no one would need to wonder if Susan was given a bollocking by the editor, because the entire office would be able to hear it. In a strange way it cut down the Chinese whispers part of gossip because everyone could hear the screaming.

  That put a dent in Susan’s otherwise good morning, so she didn’t stop to put her bag down or even turn her computer on, she just went right to the editor’s door and knocked. Good thing I moisturised, she thought, because my skin is about to get blasted.

  “Come in,” Stremp shouted, although Susan couldn’t discern if this was his normal contemptuous call in or a sign of his annoyance. She hoped the former.

  “Hello sir,” she said.

  “I’ve read your account of the mayor’s party,” he said as if nothing more needed to be mentioned and Susan would now commit ritual suicide as punishment for her many crimes against journalism. Not that the editor engaged in real journalism.

  “I’m guessing you’re not that pleased,” Susan replied.

  “No, no I’m not. It was a very nice,” and he sneered, “article, which contained no criticism of the mayor. None at all. I could have sent any idiot to report this, the mayor himself could have submitted it. Where are your critical faculties!”