The Godfathers of London

by M. C. Dutton

  Gathering all the evidence to get him to court took a while. John Carpenter had a group of girls that were infatuated with him and Laura was one of them. Jazz found out from the Head of the College that John Carpenter was being investigated, and that he was about to be called to a meeting to discuss his close association with students. The question was always why would he rape and murder Laura. It didn’t make sense; it seemed as if he could have any girl he wanted. What was found out but could not be proved beyond reasonable doubt was that Laura was most probably a virgin when she was raped. Jazz wanted her mother to know that, in this day and age, it was unusual to be a virgin at twenty-two, so all Amanda’s worries had been unfounded until the fateful night.

  What John Carpenter had said in court was something no mother or father should hear about their child. He told everyone loudly and clearly that Laura loved rough sex and she couldn’t get enough of him. The bruising was just how she liked it. He went into details about what she did to him and how he made her climax, seeming to relish the discomfort of Laura’s parents and family. He promised the jury that he would never harm a hair on her head, and that he loved and respected her – and the jury bought it.

  What Jazz deducted had happened was that Laura had hung around John Carpenter, professing love and adoration and making his ego even bigger. She was a beautiful girl and a virgin to boot; she had told Carpenter this. The challenge was to take her but she wouldn’t be taken, no matter how great the persuasion or promise. She’d never had a boyfriend before and seemed very innocent, perhaps because of her upbringing. Jazz believed that Laura had frustrated Carpenter to the point where he just took her. She would have screamed and struggled; the bruising on the legs and arms showed this. When Carpenter had finished he knew she couldn’t go home. She would have been crying and shaking and frightened. The stupid bitch would tell everyone and his life would be over. A man with such a huge ego would have no alternative but to get rid of her.

  Cold-bloodedly, he must have made her sit down, perhaps on sheets he could burn before he hit her hard with something heavy. He’d taken her clothes and the possible sheets, and burned them in the furnace at the college. The investigation found his fingerprints in the boiler room. Of course he had an explanation for this – that he’d recently cleared out lots of old papers from ex-students and, to ensure confidentiality of their work, he burned them in the furnace. The caretaker spoke up for him, saying he was there when Carpenter burned all the papers. The caretaker also confirmed he wasn’t in the boiler room on the night Laura was murdered. Carpenter must have taken her in the dead of night to his car and dumped her. She had been laid out quite poetically which, for an English Literature lecturer, seemed appropriate. When police forensics examined his rooms, odd flecks of her blood were found, but Carpenter explained that could have been from the rough sex. The jury had obviously found this plausible.

  The verdict of ‘not guilty’ was too much for Amanda and James to bear. They left the court devastated by such a decision. John Carpenter must have felt invincible; he walked slowly out of the court smiling and shaking the hands of his team of lawyers. He looked at Jazz and smirked. He hated Jazz. Their paths had crossed many times during the investigation and there was no love lost between them. Jazz knew he was a rapist and a murderer.

  So Jazz was here now, to inform the family that John Carpenter was unfortunately living not far from them. He had left his rooms at the University, having lost his role as lecturer. There was no way they could keep him on with his talk of rough sex with one of the students. He had been stupid. His ego had made him boast about his prowess as a lover. Now he realised he should have kept quiet.

  Jazz didn’t want the family to bump into him on the street. James probably wouldn’t do him any harm, but Amanda was close to madness and capable of anything, and besides he just didn’t want her to suffer any more. It was also his way of saying goodbye to the family he had been in close contact with for a year. He liked them all. They were a decent, hardworking family and this incident had ruined their lives.

  He asked James to leave the sanctuary of his shed and come indoors with him. Nodding, James followed Jazz into the house and into the front room with all those chairs lined up. As they walked into the room Amanda looked up and followed Jazz with her eyes. He said a respectful hello to the grandma, who looked greyer than he remembered, and went to sit by Amanda. Most of the family sat a few chairs away from her; she seemed to prefer it that way. James took a chair near Amanda and they both sat there expectantly, waiting for Jazz to tell them something. They hoped he would tell them that John Carpenter was dead, killed in a horrible, tortuous way, but that wasn’t going to happen.

  Jazz was there just to finish off the case. Every visit to Amanda and James made him feel as if he was beating his head against a brick wall. There was nothing he could do to help them, and it gave him a sick headache every time he left them. His visits gave them a bit of reprise in their thick, dark and useless days; they liked him, although he would never know that. They were past any emotions that were sociable. His job was to tell them that John Carpenter was still living in the area. The fact that he had lost his job caused the minutest glimmer of interest. James wanted to know where he lived so they would never see him again. Jazz couldn’t give him the address but said it was in the vicinity of Parsloes Park in Dagenham, which was far enough away from Chadwell Heath where they lived. ‘Thank you,’ nodded James. But Amanda sat not saying anything. The usual platitudes about being glad to have helped and to have worked with them didn’t seem appropriate to Jazz, so he got up and left, giving a parting hug to Amanda and a handshake for James. He looked at Grandma and gave her a long hug; clearly the woman was holding in every emotion to help Amanda.

  He left the house frustrated that he couldn’t have done more. He was The Jazz Singher, with a reputation for solving cases, and he could do fuck-all for them. He hated John Carpenter with a passion for what he had done. He had raped and murdered a beautiful, innocent girl; he had made her out to be a slut in court and dashed any hope her parents might have of getting over this. He had left them with nothing. He had ruined so many lives. Jazz was determined to keep an eye on him; if he so much as farted in the wrong place he was going to have him. It wasn’t going to be long before he was talking to the family again about John Carpenter’s murder.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Furry, filth and fuss

  The IBO room, which takes in all the 999 calls and calls from other officers out on beat, was quite dead. There was nothing much happening out there at the moment. A big football match was on this afternoon and it was thought that most of the East End were busy storing up beer cans and crisps for the match. The pubs were full but no trouble yet. Jazz was bored and itching to get his hands on something of interest. He went back to his desk to wait for his weekly meeting with DC Ashiv Kumar.

  Over the year Ash had worked quietly and consistently, and Jazz thought he might have found someone he could work with, although trust was still an issue. He saw Ash regularly to get updates on the jobs assigned him. He had noted that as time went on Ash had got more pleading in their meetings. He was sick of finding stolen bicycles! He kept asking to work closer with Jazz on some of his jobs. He wanted to help with the murder enquiry for Laura but Jazz would have none of it. He didn’t want Ash involved in anything that might smack of publicity or danger; he wanted him safe and unknown. He didn’t realise he was mollycoddling Ash. He said loudly and often that, although they were a small team, their record for solving crimes was higher that anyone else. Darkly Ash suggested that finding stolen bikes and shoplifters on CCTV was not crime-solving to be proud of. In a pompous tone, reminding himself oddly of DCI Radley, Jazz told Ash that every crime was important and solving those crimes meant that their patch was safer and the public would feel safer and prouder of their police force. Realising how he sounded, he made his excuses and slipped away muttering, a tad embarrassed: something about a meeting. ‘Keep up the good work,’ he
told Ash.

  Jazz quickly leaned forward when his phone rang, hoping it was a juicy crime to solve. It was the front desk. ‘It’s Mary again. She heard you were back and she has something of interest to tell you. But she’ll only tell you in person if you go to her house.’ The message was relayed with a hint of mischief. Everyone in the station knew of Mary O’Connor and no one wanted to touch her with a barge pole.

  Jazz knew Mary of old. She had a ‘thing’ for him. He wondered why he seemed to attract all the eccentrics of London. He wanted an Angelina Jolie type to fancy him and call him regularly to her house, but oh no, he gets Musty Mary. To be fair, she wasn’t that bad an old dear. It was the cats that got to him: crawling over him, meowing in his face and smelling of stale fish. He would add smelly mutts to his list of fans, he thought ruefully. But Mary had given him some useful information in the past, and if she said she had something of interest to tell him then that was good enough. With nothing better to do he figured now was a good time to visit Musty Mary. He made his way to Parsloes Avenue in Dagenham to find out what she had to offer.

  If he didn’t know her address he could have guessed where she lived. Mary had a little two-bedroom council house beside the Parsloes Park fields. It was an adequate size for a small family but far too small for her family of cats. She had a small front garden neatly fenced off and it was full of cats sunning themselves. The front door was open and led straight into the lounge; these sorts of houses were called parlour houses, because they had no hallway. Jazz tiptoed his way past the resting felines, noting at least four of them looked pregnant, as they laid spread-eagled across the path to the front door. He stepped over them carefully. They stared indolently at this trespasser. They were kings and queens of Mary’s house and would not tolerate any disrespect. He knew one wrong move and they would jump up caterwauling and spitting as their claws tried to find flesh to scratch. Past experience told him that these prima donnas were fickle and one minute he was the best thing since sliced bread and the next they would become creatures possessed in an effort to maim and injury him. Timidly, he called out Mary’s name, keeping one eye on the cats.

  Hearing a noise, he looked towards the parlour lounge ahead. The vision of loveliness ahead of him was draped with fur. Musty Mary had a cat lying around her neck, and one on her arm. Both cats looked at him with total disdain. The only things glinting with pleasure were Musty Mary’s eyes at the sight of Jazz. ‘Hello darlin’, come in. You look lovely and oh so tasty in that shirt.’ He wondered if she was taking the mickey but by the way she swanned up to him, giving him her version of a look of sultry sexiness, he feared she was serious. How did she ever make any money as a prostitute? Her look was dirty, her style was tatty and she smelled. ‘Sit down darlin’, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Jazz thanked her and refused point blank, stating that he’d just had a cuppa and was fine. The last time he was here he’d got milk out of her fridge and found a dead kitten in a see-through plastic bag on the fridge shelf. Apparently one of the cats had given birth to a still-born kitten. Mary had stated airily that when she had some spare time she would bury the little mite in the garden. In the meantime, it sat in her fridge with her food and milk. Jazz shuddered at the thought.

  She went off to make herself a cup of tea and left four cats guarding Jazz. He sat uncomfortably as they fought for pride of place on his lap. With every snarl, warning caterwaul, and pacing around his lap and the arm of his chair, he ducked, ready for the four of them to jump upon each other and in the melee scratch and bite his face and hands. He tried to just push them off him but they turned as one on him, biting and lashing out with sharpened talons. So he just waited tensely and patiently for Mary’s return. Only with her cheerful cry of ‘Off you go my little darlin’s,’ did the cats jump down and disappear.

  For a second, left alone with Musty Mary with that glint in her watery eye, Jazz thought he would rather have the cats. He took a good look at Mary. She had declined over the months. She never looked that good but the drugs, the filth, and the laziness had turned her from a shabby, tatty cheap fuck to a dirty, slobby desperate fuck. He realised he was staring and, to break the ice, asked how business was going. She shrugged in disdain. ‘Nah, not good. Most of my customers seemed to have gorn. I think it’s this double-dip recession that’s to blame.’

  Jazz nearly choked at the words of wisdom from the nicotine-stained lips of Mary. ‘Mary Mitchell, where did you get those words from?’ It was no time to crack a joke; she was serious. Truth be told, her customers had left her because she was the last piece of meat a blind and desperate man would go for. There was now a lot of competition in the area for a cheap fuck with all the ‘Stanics’ that were now working in the East End. Romanians, Lithuanians, etc. She looked sheepish, which amazed Jazz. ‘I met this fella who is something in the City.’ By now Jazz was holding his chin to stop his jaw dropping. What sort of man would be interested in Musty Mary, let alone a normal or clean man?

  It transpired that Mary had met a caretaker – well, a toilet cleaner – for one of the big buildings in Canary Wharf. He was Polish, lonely and homesick. He was a cat-lover and had struck up a friendship with Mary. By the sounds of it they were a pair of lost souls that had come together. He lived in Rainham Road South, which was close enough to visit. Jazz was actually quite pleased for her. He liked her and she was just trying to survive.

  The smell was beginning to bother him and he wanted to go as soon as possible so he came straight to the point. ‘Well, Mary, why have you summonsed me here?’

  She liked the way he said that; he always made her feel important. Most people just pushed past her as if she was nothing; even potential clients did that these days. Mr Singh never did that. Again that coy look appeared. Tilting her head towards him, she said in a whimsical way, ‘I may have something interesting to tell you, Mr Singh.’ He sat up, interested. Mary never wasted his time.

  The coyness left her and she sat down beside him. With a sense of urgency, she pulled out a newspaper from behind the grubby cushion. Jazz grimaced as she brushed a splodge of brown off the paper; he hoped it was cat food. ‘Look at that, Mr Singh,’ she said, pushing the paper towards his face. He pushed it away and asked her what was he supposed to look at. An article on the front page told of a man found dead in Barking Creek, with his throat cut.

  Jazz knew of this case. He wished it had been his, but the murder squad got it and Tom Black had been on the case. What the public didn’t know was the victim, Mr Barry Jessop, an insurance broker in the City, had been killed in what was believed to be a gangland murder. In the East End of London it wasn’t unusual to see a gang killing, but to have your throat cut and your tongue pulled down and out through the slit leaving it hanging down your neck like a tie was very unusual. Abroad it was well known as a Columbian gangland murder, but it was a rarity in England and had never been seen by Jazz or DS Tom Black. The pictures of the deceased were on every Met police officer’s Aware computer. It was still the most talked about case, and the pictures were regularly scrutinised by all officers who were fascinated by such an unusual murder. DS Tom Black was still working on the case and getting nowhere.

  Musty Mary could see Jazz was interested. ‘I’ve got some juicy information for you on this, if you want to know it,’ she said, going all coy again. He wanted to ask how on earth she had any information on a case like this. Musty Mary was not Pussy Galore or any kind of femme fatale who would have access to anything this big or interesting. Usually she had information on street-corner drugs, street robberies, fencing, etc: low-life stuff, but always useful. She licked her lips in anticipation of his question, waiting eyeball to eyeball for his reaction. ‘Okay, Mary, what do you know on this case?’ It was as if a starting gun had been fired. She jumped up and tried to close the front door. The angry screech of a marmalade tomcat made her apologise and shoo the offended creature out. The door now closed, she almost ran back and sat on the settee. In a rush of whispers she told him everyt
hing she knew.

  ‘Yen, that’s not his full name, but it’s full of z’s and j’s and I can’t pronounce it properly, Mr Singh. Well, he’s my friend and he works in the toilets in Canary Wharf. He was working late one night. He was actually in a cubicle about to have a fag when in comes Mr Jessop. He had the door closed but Yen said he knew it was him because he always worked late and he always went to the lav before he went home. He could smell his aftershave, which was very strong. Yen thought he stunk of B.O. and that’s why he wore such strong aftershave. I said it never got rid of the smell of B.O. but Yen said it did.’

  Jazz was getting impatient, he could see Musty Mary was going off track. ‘Okay, Mary, what happened then? I presume something did.’

  She looked impressed. ‘Hey, you are so right, Mr Singh, something did happen then.’

  ‘And?’ said Jazz encouragingly.

  ‘And the men came in. Yen thought he heard lots of them. He could hear scuffling and pushing and Mr Jessop crying out. Yen said it sounded like they punched him and he gave a funny sound and he thinks he fell to the floor.’ Musty Mary was getting into this and she could see Mr Singh was hanging on her every word. She liked that.

  ‘Yen said he was scared to breathe, he could hear them talking to Mr Jessop. By now it sounded like they had taped up Mr Jessop’s mouth because he sounded all muffled. Now this is the bit, Mr Singh, that made me think. Yen said the man said to Mr Jessop that they were taking him back to the place where he had deflated his vitamins. Now I just laughed when Yen said that to me but his English ain’t the best it could be and I thought about it, especially when I saw this in the papers. The dates are about right for when they found Mr Jessop. Yen said they left with Mr Jessop. It was about twenty minutes before Yen left the cubicle, he was too scared to come out in case the men were around but they had gone. I think it’s possible that what that man said to Mr Jessop was, ‘they were taking him back to where he had defrauded his victims.’ It makes more sense than deflated his vitamins, don’t you think, Mr Singh?’ Triumphant and proud of herself, Musty Mary lit a fag in celebration of her cleverness. She added, ‘I could be your sidekick, Mr Singh.’ He avoided answering that.