The Grid

‘Three young women in as many weeks,’ says DCS Draper,
‘naked,
strangled,
found floating like paper boats
in the canal.’
Superintendent Mercer coughs uncomfortably.
‘Four, sir.
Pulled another out this morning.’
The DCS frowns.
His fingers crabwalk his desk.
‘I see.
Pretty, was she?
I mean,
before the drowning.’
‘As a picture, sir.
She was like the best friend
you dream your teenage daughter ‘ll bring home,
the one with the plump hockey player calves
and the dirty laugh.’
Draper rose. ‘Then it’s decided.’
‘Sir?’
A solemn stare.
‘Activate
The Grid.’

Three men meet in a Westminster basement
simultaneously twisting Mason rings in ignitions
as Big Ben strikes twelve
Shelves rotate
A bronze bust of Palmerstone
separates like an insect’s mouth
to reveal a thumb reader
Passcodes are composed from
tattoos etched between each man’s shoulder blades
and fed into mainframes via punchcards
Finally,
as subterranean turbines whinny,
they sit in a tiny, dim lit room,
eyes fixed on a glowing map
of the British Isles.
Across the country,
pinpricks flick on,
one by one.

In the Dog and Duck
Mick views the Sky News tickertape
beneath a pearler of a free kick
and something clicks
‘Here, Danny, turn it up!’
The distant music of submerged command strings
FOURTH BODY FOUND IN CANAL MURDERS
‘It’s just like that Sutcliffe,’ he can hear himself opining
GIRL, 17, LATEST VICTIM
and already he’s sucking in data
like gack off a mirror,
hypotheses budding and fruiting

And it’s like that all over
Bloaters in boozers
suddenly flattening their red tops across the bar and
perusing the suspects,
crosschecking statements,
tapping the block caps bits
with a knowing smack of their lips,
going:
‘Guilty as sin.’
‘Christ, he looks like a rapist.’
‘It’s obvious –
the mother did it, innit?’
They can spot a lie
like a flaregun fired into a midnight sky
They can spot a lie
through twelve pages of sport
and a brown sauce stain
They can spot a lie
just by the heft of a guy’s last name
or the jaundiced squint in his eye
Beer belly crime labs
return cast iron verdicts
while forensics are still pissing around
on their hands and knees
picking up pubes with tweezers

Criminals cower!
Before the awesome power
of geezers
in pubs
with opinions,
a law and last orders hivemind dipped in honey justice,
fat nodes pulsing with recondite info.

And as another sunset
bleeds into the Thames,
a million tabloid sleuths all
lift an ale and toast the Queen.
The special warmth
of knowing who your friends are.
The snap of judgement,
like a beautiful machine.