Gilded Hate Machine Read online

  “Fall and drown head-first in the loo.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, are we allowed to drink?” Karen asked as a waiter passed her by holding a silver tray at chest height.

  “Yes, yes we are,” Susan said, taking a glass of what was either white wine or piss, you couldn’t tell from looking at it.

  “Doesn’t your journalistic integrity mean you have to keep sober and observant of everything happening?” Karen replied before taking a drink.

  “Firstly, I can work perfectly while half cut on booze, don’t you worry about that. Secondly, this is Stremps’ announcement he’s standing for mayor, if I did any critical analysis I’d be out of a job and we’d both be on the streets.”

  “I’d make more money then.”

  “Right, yes, of course, prostitution is definitely the time for sibling rivalry.”

  They looked round the room. There were many of the same faces they had seen when the mayor declared his candidacy, and they too were sipping away and waiting for something to happen.

  “Why do they all look confused?” Karen asked, glancing from face to face.

  “Because Stremp hasn’t told anyone besides a few people at the Star that this is his declaration party.”

  “Oh, this is going to be good.”

  “I suspect Stremp delayed his announcement so he could better… is that music?”

  The lights in the room, which had been hired at one of the best hotel’s in Morthern, actually dimmed to a half glow. Then classical music could be heard.

  “It is… what is it? I know this…”

  “Is it the national anthem?”

  “No, but it’s Land of Hope and Glory.”

  “The cheap tart.”

  They watched as a curtain opened, and in a display more theatrical than anything Stremp had done before, he emerged onto the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said in a voice which had been modified from his office speech to dial back the ‘I’m speaking to cockroaches’ effect, “I am here to make a big announcement.” Susan looked at the man next to her and saw he’d already written ‘job losses at Star’, and she laughed. “I believe Morthern has been abandoned by the regular political faces, and that a fresh take is needed. I, Trevor Stremp, will stand as candidate for Mayor of Morthern, free of any political party, free of interference or agenda, I will stand and represent ‘the people’. Those who have read my paper, those who have written into my paper. They have informed me of their worries, and I am ready to respond. We do not need the elitism of the current mayor, and we do not need the hate of the Patriot Party; we need someone like me, a true independent.” He stopped and surveyed the surprised faces, his own turning into something of a glorious sneer.

  Susan looked around and decided to improve her job security by standing and starting a round of applause. Karen followed, and soon half the room had risen, the rest feeling they had to follow, and Stremp bowed to acclaim.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Karen asked as they stepped out of the hotel.

  “We pop into the office, we write this up, then we get back to some actual research work.”

  “Okay.”

  “You say okay like you’re suspicious.”

  “Cos the office is that way, and the cake shop is that way.”

  “A light repast as they say.”

  “In the eighteenth century.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want one?”

  “Of course not.”

  Which was why they sat down for twenty minutes, ate their cakes, drank their coffees and walked into the office, at which point they paused. Across the main room you could see the conference room, where Stremp had beaten them to base and was holding a meeting of journalists.

  “Oh shit, what have we missed?” Susan said running over, throwing the door open and stepping inside. “Sorry, sorry, we didn’t get a message.”

  Stremp laughed, “this meeting isn’t for you Susan.”

  “Oh.” Which was immediately odd because every other journalist working on the mayoral election was in there.

  “Your report is due soon, please finish it,” Stremp said politely, which shocked Susan to her core. She closed the door and stalked back to her desk.

  “So, we write,” Karen said. “Well you write, I just sit here and look crazy.”

  “No, no we do not. Something is up, because…”

  “You should be in that room with the others?”

  “Because Stremp was polite. He’s not polite. The closest he gets is a polite screaming fit. Follow me,” and she took a walk to the water cooler (she wasn’t sure what the UK version of that name even was) and then Karen marvelled as Susan walked in a wide arc which positioned her near, but invisible to, the conference room. Whereupon they listened.

  “I think I need to be clearer,” Stremp said to the assembled journalists. “I am not asking you to report on the mayoral election. I am asking you to go out and destroy the reputations and careers of all the other candidates. I cannot imagine it will be too hard, but I want them unelectable by the time the election hits. I don’t care if you want to claim you have qualms. None of you do. Susan, yes, she would, but I have worked with everyone else here and I know you’ll do what needs to be done. So, get out there and ruin everyone else. I don’t care who stands in the next few days. I don’t care if Mother Theresa actually gets out of her grave and runs, I want you to make people think she’d been having threesomes with Hitler, do you hear me?”

  “Yes sir!”

  Karen laughed slightly so only Susan could hear her.

  “What’s funny?”

  “He actually likes you and thinks you’d stand up for yourself if you had to just write shit.”

  “I would!” Well, she thought she would.

  “I know, but it’s kinda funny he respects that instead of just shouting at you or firing you.”

  “Hmmm. I’m not sure…”

  “…so, I said to him, you should have seen the other guy.”

  “Wow, and what did he say to that?”

  “Well, that’s kinda the problem, he said I have, it’s all over Facebook, I know you’re talking bollocks.”

  The receptionist’s finished this part of their conversation by nodding at each other sagely, and then turned to look at a door opening. An old woman and a young man came in and walked at her speed up to the counter.

  “Hello again,” the receptionist said, recognising the mismatched pair.

  “We are from the Morthern Media Watch,” one said.

  “We have come to make a complaint.”

  “Yes, if I remember correctly, DC’s Grayling and Maruma are working on your issue, but if you wish to complain about them, I have to call…”

  “No young man,” the old lady said, “we have no problems at all with those nice young detectives.”

  “But…”

  The young one took over. “We wish to make another complaint about someone else causing hate in our community.”

  “Oh right, well, in that case I’ll call Grayling and you can chat to them.”

  Which was why both DC’s arrived a few minutes later and were greeted with “hello again, it’s Morthern Media Watch.”

  “Yes, yes I remember you. If you’d like an update, we can explain what we have been doing and…”

  “We wish to make a further complaint!”

  “Okay,” Grayling said, “what’s Hume done now.”

  “No, we wish to complain about Trevor Stremp, the editor of the Morthern Star and current mayoral candidate.”

  On the one hand, Grayling felt she was being lectured at, on the other she was surprised, “he’s standing for mayor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, I don’t see the news do I,” she sighed.

  “He announced it two hours ago.”

  “Okay now I don’t feel so bad. What’s the complaint?”

  “His newspaper is encouraging hate!”

  “In what way?”


  The young man pulled a book from his bag and opened it.

  “I haven’t seen a scrapbook in years,” Maruma noted.

  “Where shall we begin?” the young man said. “A letter, written by him and published on his letters page, in which he calls us Morthern Moaning Martyrs who need to get out and have some sex.”

  “I see. Quick question, is this complaint linked in any way to the mayoral announcement? Because that’s a big scrapbook of articles you’ve been collecting.”

  “Now he is standing for mayor the situation has become dire!”

  “Okay, well, as before, we will take a full account of your complaint, and we’ll need to look at your book…”

  “I have a complete replica,” the man said.

  “Yes, of course you do, which we can keep?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, can my colleague here…”

  “Hi,” Maruma said.

  “…get you any coffee or tea?”

  “Do you still not have Earl Grey?”

  “We can run off to the office and look. By we, I mean…”

  “Hello everyone,” said a voice which instantly caused the Bunker to start to groan and then swallow it hard. They didn’t need to turn to know the Morthern PCC had entered the room. Seemingly oblivious, Theresa McGovern continued “I would like to borrow DC Maruma for a moment please.”

  Lindleman turned and made a face like a little boy who’d found someone was in trouble, and Maruma saved the file he’d been writing and followed the PCC out. Grayling followed close behind.

  “Now detective,” McGovern began to explain, “I’d like you to speak to a journalist who’s hoping to cover diversity in Morthern’s police. She’s particularly keen to talk to you.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but good answers which show us in a good light please.”

  Maruma wanted to ask which she’d prefer, good or honest, but kept quiet. Maruma followed the PCC as she walked again, and he and Grayling soon found themselves in an interview room, this time being used casually. The pair sat, and a journalist came in with a coffee.

  Just the one coffee.

  Maruma and Grayling rolled their eyes and sized up who they were dealing with. A woman about five foot four, dreadlocks tied up behind her head, covered in rings and other jewellery.

  “Hello there, I’m Jasmine, and you’re DC Maruma?”

  “Yes.”

  Jasmine looked at Grayling with the gaze of someone who wanted to eject an intruder but did not know how given they were the police. She turned back to Maruma.

  “I’d like to ask you about your experiences as a black man in authority. Everything you say will be recorded but will not have your name attached, and any quotes will be anonymous.”

  “Go on,” Maruma said, curious.

  “I believe you went to Cambridge University?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How did you find it being black at Cambridge?” she asked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well…I guess to speak candidly did you have any problems with racism?”

  “No.” he replied.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Jasmine was not convinced “you went to Cambridge and didn’t see racism? Everyone else of colour I’ve interviewed has, and my own experience was…”

  “Look,” Grayling said jumping in, “I need to explain about Soloman. Here’s the thing: he doesn’t see the world like you, or I do. He sees people as character sheets in Dungeons and Dragons. He breaks situations down into structures and moving parts. If someone’s racist to him, he doesn’t think ‘oh I’m a victim of racism’ he just moves the number values on the stat sheet up and down. Maruma probably did come across racism, but it’s all elements of the game. He didn’t have a problem, because he rarely gets upset with anything, he just sees options for moving forward.”

  “That sounds,” Jasmine was grasping for the word, “robotic.”

  “Perhaps,” Grayling agreed “I don’t want you to think he’s cold or blind, but he is cold and aware in a different way. It works for him and we solve lots of cases.”

  Jasmine turned to Maruma, “and do you agree with this assessment?”

  “I feel its accurate. I know I see the world differently.”

  “How do you think that went?” Maruma asked as they drove though Morthern.

  “I think she was disappointed you couldn’t fill out her article with quotes. That said you did have a lot of interesting things to say about policing… I just don’t think they’ll make it into print. She needs to do a different article to cover your insights.”

  “I wonder what the PCC will do next?”

  Grayling parked up outside the offices of somewhere they’d heard a lot about, and then they walked into reception.

  “Hello there,” said Grayling to the lady on the desk. “We’re detectives from Morthern CID and we’d like to speak to Trevor Stremp, who we believe works here as editor.”

  “He is currently taking a break from work,” came the practiced reply.

  “To run for mayor?” Maruma checked.

  “Yes.”

  “We believe he is in the building though…”

  “Well that’s true yes.”

  “So, as we’re police, can you tell him we’d like to see him.”

  The receptionist nodded, picked the phone up and tapped a two-digit extension. “Hello sir, two police officers here to see… of course.” The phone was put down and attention turned back to Grayling. “He said he is always free to help he police. Follow me.”

  They were led through the building, into a large open plan office, and that’s when they saw someone waving at them. They nodded at Susan and were then being ushered into an office.

  Stremp looked to Grayling like Toad of Toad Hall had grown up, developed an interest in anger and takeaways, and ran a newspaper.

  “What can I do for you?” he barked without standing.

  “We’d like to ask a few questions. We’ve received a complaint about statements you’ve made in public and in print.”

  “Ah, the Morthern Media Menopausal’s,” he said spit flying, “I wondered how long it would take before they went to you.”

  “Yes and…” but Grayling was talked over.

  “Go through everything I’ve said. With as fine a comb as you want. You won’t find anything you can charge me for. I’ve got decades of writing and editing experience and I know the law. Good luck searching.”

  “You called Muslim women in head coverings ‘scary’,” Grayling said.

  “Yes, and so did a very senior Conservative MP and he wasn’t charged, so I guess you’d have to take him on as well as me if you dislike that one. Also, I can find you ten people who are scared, for better or worse, genuinely scared. What else have you got?”

  “If you’re willing to co-operate, we would like access to your archives to check that the material we have been given is true.”

  “Not only can you do that, I’ll have an intern operate a computer for you. You’ll get everything sorted in no time, then you can realise this has been a waste of your time and can resume solving crimes. Okay?”

  Stremp’s confidence was the sort which gave Maruma and Grayling motivation to continue. But they did wonder what the odds were of Stremp crossing the line with his experience when St. George had managed to avoid it on a far more ranty level.

  Wick looked at the muffin. His father had been very clear on these matters growing up, informing a young Wick that ‘you must never, ever, consume anything juniors give to you. If someone says, “here’s a pie”, say no. If there’s a spare mug of tea, back off’. The DCI had always presumed his father had developed this fear during his time as an officer during the war and had always made Wick think that the people who he’d commanded must have been arseholes. Or perhaps his father had been. All of which was a long way off getting back to his point, which was that he trusted his team in the MCU
more than anyone, and so he bit into the delicious blueberry delight.

  Most people knocked on doors, but now Wick’s opened without warning and a man stepped in. Normally this would be a gross breach of protocol, but as it was the superintendent looking furtive Wick simply put his muffin down and said, “yes sir?”

  “I’d like a private chat,” was the reply, in a manner stating they were already having it.

  “What about sir?”

  “Your staff are working on two hate crime cases.”

  “Yes, complaints about Rupert Hume and Trevor Stremp.”

  “How far have we got with them?”

  “My constables have collected a large set of material from both men, and are going through it, as well as checking what can be proved to have been said. They have conducted preliminary talks with both, and Stremp answered questions while Hume point-blank refused to and said we would need to arrest him.”

  “Yes, that’s what I heard had happened,” the Super walked over and sat down. “What I want to know is, how far have we got?”

  “We won’t be charging anyone imminently.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Is that a good ‘hmm’ sir?” Wick asked.

  “I want these cases dropped, wind them up with some convenient lack of detail.”

  “What?”

  “Both these men are standing for Mayor of Morthern. If we charge one, or both, or even if we keep investigating, we run into influencing the election, and I am coming under a lot of pressure from above that we don’t do that.”

  “Sir, the public made a complaint…”

  “At the worst possible time for us and the accused. I am asking you Wick to bury this now and keep us out of the election. Then everyone will be happy.”

  “Except Morthern Media Watch,” Wick pointed out.

  “Oh, they’re only happy when they’re complaining anyway.”

  “I suppose you want me to break this news to Maruma and Grayling?”

  “Yes. Say whatever you want, except what I told you.”

  Which, Wick felt, put him right in the middle of the problem. He didn’t want to be complicit in this at all. “How far up is this coming from?” he asked.