by M. C. Dutton
Deep in thought he remembered something about Jessop being accused of fraud by taking money from a group of people on a housing estate. They had clubbed together to fund a club for all the residents. It was hoped it would be a community centre that could house a youth club, OAP club and a mother and toddler group. Jessop had been accused of taking their money to invest and keeping it. It had gone to court and been thrown out on a technicality. The residents of the Gascoigne Estate weren’t used to investing money and Jessop had come recommended and worked in the City. The housing association had raised £20,000. It had taken some Lottery money and four years of hard work, tears and time-consuming fundraising. Jessop had promised to double their money in an indecent amount of time and they looked forward to organising the next stage of building the community centre. The papers had slated him but the courts let him off. There didn’t seem much justice in that. The housing association had all but disbanded in debt; disillusioned by the injustice, and now dysfunctional, the well-oiled team of enthusiastic amateurs had gone their own way, leaving a bad taste in everyone’s mouth.
Musty Mary waited patiently whilst Jazz thought. She could see she had his interest and her hands shook with excitement.
‘So why haven’t you contacted the police and told them this?’ asked Jazz.
Mary smiled coyly and said she had only told him because he was always nice to her. ‘Well, Mr Singh, is this good stuff I’ve given you?’
Jazz nodded and smiled. There was much to think about and his mind was going ten to the dozen when he was yanked out of his thoughts by a deep-throated warning wail that he recognised as one of the cats. He needed to get out before trouble started. Promising he would be back later, he left a disappointed Musty Mary who had rather hoped he would stay a little longer.
He was glad of the fresh air. He stuck out his tongue and pulled off stray cat hairs. He would meet up with Tom Black from the Murder Squad, to talk through what he had just been told. He knew for a fact that anyone who had worked on the housing association had nothing to do with the murder. Everyone and anyone who had anything to do with the Housing Association had been checked out. He remembered how it had taken a squad of police officers and more overtime than the Met could afford to prove everyone had a cast-iron alibi. All had surprisingly good alibis but one had the best alibi: the chairman of the housing association had been with the Chief Superintendent at a charity function, for Christ’s sake! They were all good, hardworking people and Jazz was glad they all could prove where they’d been. Another piece in the jigsaw puzzle was needed and perhaps Musty Mary had that piece.
It was the start of a good day, and Jazz felt good. Stale cases were often revived by a smidgeon of new information. He made his way back to the CID office in Ilford Police Station after receiving a call from DI Jack Hardy, a stuck-up candy-arsed knob of the first order who needed his help. A DI requested his help? He smirked at the thought. They must be fucking desperate.
CHAPTER SIX
Fairy light fest
Back at Ilford Police Station Jazz headed for DI Jack Hardy’s office. He had phoned Tom Black on his way back and was told he was out on a job. They arranged to meet later for a chat.
DI Jack Hardy, he of the grey suit brigade. With grey hair, grey suit and no sense of humour detectable in his lined face, his greeting was more of a grunt than a greeting. To be fair, over the years Jack Hardy had seen the worst side of life in the East End. He was the first officer on the scene of a gruesome murder when he was an IPLDP (a raw police officer). Life’s cruel and disgusting crimes seemed to have torn through him and now he was a disbelieving, dried up, disillusioned officer who saw evil in everyone.
Gold was worth a fortune at the moment along with lead, which was being stolen from anywhere and everywhere. It turned out that Jazz was needed because of his ethnicity. The recent crimes on the streets had been the stealing of gold jewellery from Asian women. Jazz had to admit that an Asian woman of standing went out with more bling than a Christmas tree. Gold jewellery was an important part of Asian life. When you married the bride was covered in gold jewellery from the groom’s family: nose chains, necklaces, earrings, bracelets galore, and rings. To be fair, when an Asian woman went out she didn’t wear all of it but she did wear the bracelets, rings and of course necklaces. It was traditional.
DI Hardy went through the list of street robberies and burglaries, which seem to be targeting Asian women on the street. In the last month, there had been a hundred street robberies in an area that ran from Ilford to Bow, and twenty-five Asian houses had been broken into in the Ilford/Barking area alone. DI Hardy didn’t know why certain Asian homes were targeted, but the robbers always seemed to get away with a vast amount of gold. He wondered if Jazz had any thoughts on this. Jazz nearly detected a smile on DI Hardy’s face as he asked Jazz for help, but it was most probably wind.
It was all pretty obvious to Jazz. The house breaking was easy to answer. He asked if the houses broken into were homes of Asians about to have a marriage or a party of some sort. DI Hardy wasn’t visibly impressed by this. He said cautiously that they might have been. Jazz was getting annoyed; a straight answer was all he wanted. He kept his patience as best he could and added soothingly, ‘So, what you need to do, if I may say so…’ Then, close up now, he shouted, ‘… is tell them to take down the fucking fairy lights!’ He certainly had DI Hardy’s full attention now. Calming himself, Jazz took a deep breath. ‘Of course you wouldn’t be aware that at every special event in an Asian family calendar such as weddings, special birthdays, etc, fairy lights are put up outside the house. All special events have gold jewellery given or worn. If I was going to burgle a house, I would burgle an Asian house for the gold jewellery. The fairy lights are an invitation to every burglar – that there is gold in them there houses.’ He added this with a flourish of a bad American accent. Getting back to normality, he stated, ‘You know the house burglars are most probably Asian. The only way you can enlighten Asians is through their temples or their publications. A lot of women still don’t speak English so it would be better to talk to them in their own language. I can visit the Gudwara locally for you, if that helps.’
DI Hardy visibly relaxed. Jazz was an odd one to work with but he was grateful for his easy offer of help. He knew if Jazz said he would do something, it would get done – which was more than he could say for other officers, he thought darkly.
On his way home, Jazz went to the Gudwara (a Sikh Temple) in Seven Kings. He found one of the elders on the committee who look after everything that happens in the Gudwara. The Seven Kings Gudwara was somewhere Jazz had started to gravitate towards. He didn’t know why, but his Sikhism seemed to be more important to him of late. He would go into the Temple and kneel and join in prayers for a while. Then he would go into the community room where the food was prepared and served free to all of those who wished to avail themselves of it. All the food was provided free by Sikhs, while the cooking, cleaning and serving were done by Sikhs voluntarily. There would be the usual clique of gossiping aunties who came every day and prepared and cooked food. They were wonderful women who knew everything that was going on in the community. Without them the Gudwara would not function. They were usually older women who didn’t have so much responsibility at home for bringing up children. Some were very old and Jazz realised their work made them feel welcome, and part of the community. He was beginning to understand how great Sikhism was. It was that they practised what they preached. He did his bit; he would take a cloth and go to the racks where people left their shoes and polish them for half an hour, just to feel part of everything. When visiting a Gudwara it was required that everyone covered their head and removed their shoes. At any one time there could be up to a hundred pairs of shoes in the racks provided.
Deepak was always at the Gudwara. A retired businessman who was recently widowed, he found solace in the Gudwara and enjoyed the companionship there. He now worked as a committee member for the Gudwara. He was a wise man and seemed
to recognise something in Jazz that needed nurturing. They would talk for many hours over a vegetable curry and tea that had fermented in a heated container for many hours with milk and water added regularly. The tea was thick, strong and vile-tasting, but Jazz was getting used to it.
He talked with Deepak about the burglaries and the robberies of Asian gold. Deepak would ensure everyone was made aware. He would advise women when going out to hide their jewellery with a scarf or not wear jewellery when going out shopping. He’d heard of a few women from the Gudwara who had been robbed in the street and the fear this had caused all the women he spoke to. As for not putting up fairy lights, well, he thought that would be difficult. It was traditional, and no one wanted to lose face by not doing things properly. He said he would ask if there was something else they could do. Jazz said he would speak to his team and get someone to be available to visit homes to talk about burglary prevention. He didn’t want to tell Deepak that his ‘team’ consisted of only one man. He left the Gudwara with a hug from Deepak and kind words to take care and keep safe.
On the way home he rang Ash and asked him to make himself available to help with burglary prevention for Asian families. Ash wasn’t happy. Again, these stupid jobs! He’d become a DC to do real detective work, not this sort of stuff. He promised himself again he would talk to Jazz about letting him work more closely with him on the next case. He was fed up working alone and realised other teams were taking the mickey out of him for the baby roles given to him. He was not a happy bunny and Jazz didn’t realise that if he wasn’t careful Ash would put himself in danger just to get an exciting job.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The best laid plans
On the way home Jazz was buzzing. He would meet with Tom Black tomorrow, as he wasn’t available today. He had spoken to Ash who was now busy visiting Asian homes. He wanted to go and see Mad Pete for some business he wanted to get done. But for now he would go home, sit down and watch some TV. He really wanted a drink. He’d fought the need for a drink for a while but now it didn’t seem so important. Perhaps just one drink this evening, he told himself. He didn’t think he would go back to how he was before. He’d worked hard, he deserved some relaxation, and a tipple always helped him relax. He tried to find a reason not to buy a drink but his heart wasn’t in it. He gave in far too quickly and stopped at Sainsbury’s, where he bought a bottle of vodka: a full bottle, because the half bottles were a waste of money, he told himself. He wrapped it in two carrier bags so it wasn’t visible and bought some crisps to fill out the bag. The walk to De Vere Gardens would do him good. He quickened his pace, wanting that drink. By the time he arrived home, he was salivating at the thought. It had been so long since he had his last drink and he remembered that wonderful taste as it slid down his throat, and how every tight muscle in his body relaxed and let him feel wonderful and powerful. He smiled at the thought.
He had just put his foot on the first step and his hand on the rail when Mrs Chodda opened her kitchen door. Those words of, ‘Oh, Jazz, have you a minute please?’ filled him with dread. He wanted to say no, and to tell her to leave him alone, but good manners didn’t allow him to talk to her in that way. With a sigh he smiled and followed Mrs Chodda into her kitchen.
Since he first began boarding with Mrs Chodda she had seen him as an excellent husband for one of her relatives; some had been very distant relatives indeed. She’d seen how successful he was in the police force and what good prospects he had. Over time, she’d become quite fond of him and wanted to see him happily settled with a good Sikh virgin who would cater for his every need. She’d tried to ignore his drinking, but then again, Sikh men enjoy a good drink and it never did them any harm. So, regularly and without notice, she would arrange for suitable female relatives who were available for marriage to be in her kitchen when Jazz arrived home. It was good traditional manners to never offend and Jazz could never be rude to Mrs Chodda; she was like an auntie to him, and he had taken to using this Sikh endearment when addressing her. He had got very comfortable with Mrs Chodda but the string of young women and their mothers was getting on his nerves. He had laughed, in private of course, at the beginning as he understood her motives, and his manners always contained his irritation as time went on. Now he was getting fed up with the interference. He presumed, unkindly, that he had already seen all the girls worth seeing and now they were scraping the bottom of the barrel.
As he expected, there was an older woman staring disconcertingly at him as he entered the kitchen, with a rather gorgeous girl beside her. This vision of loveliness smiled shyly and looked at the floor as is becoming of a virgin bride in the making. He really didn’t want this tonight. The thought of not being able to sit quietly relishing a drink depressed him intensely. ‘Good evening, Auntie,’ he said warmly and respectfully to Mrs Chodda. Mrs Chodda introduced her cousin’s husband’s sister-in-law Pali, who had brought her beautiful, single and intelligent daughter Amrit to visit. Jazz nodded courteously to Pali, and smiled and nodded to Amrit. Apparently Amrit was a budding lawyer. She was studying hard at university for her degree. Jazz’s interest was sparked a fraction as they talked about her studies. Amrit continued to look down at the floor in a demure fashion. They were all encouraged by Mrs Chodda to sit at her big heavy table which dominated the kitchen, and take a cup of tea with a selection of her home-cooked samosas and pakoras.
Jazz tried to start a conversation with Amrit and she looked up at him and smiled. Her smile was gruesome; she had tombstone teeth that she had hidden very well. Still, he thought, he shouldn’t be so shallow and go for looks. With great interest he asked what part of her course she enjoyed the most. Her voice seemed to boom at him with a thick Brummie accent that locals in Birmingham would have difficulty understanding. When demure and still she looked like a goddess; when speaking and animated, she was scary. Once unleashed, she didn’t stop talking. She went on and on about something he had no idea about. Her accent was strong and her voice, he thought rather unkindly, sounded like a foghorn. Even Mrs Chodda looked like she was developing a headache. Amrit would never make a lawyer with that voice. This torture went on for an hour. Jazz marvelled at the fact she hadn’t stopped talking. Thank God there were no questions! He wouldn’t have known what she was asking. He just nodded and smiled and tried to look interested. He sipped the tea and ate the samosas, which were at least hot and tasty. When there was a suitable gap, he explained he had to be up early in the morning for a meeting. With good grace he thanked the ladies for their hospitality and wished Amrit well.
As soon as he escaped to his room, he poured a triple vodka. Well, he deserved it after that. Jeez, what was Mrs Chodda trying to do to him? After a couple of glasses of vodka he giggled about the fact that even Mrs Chodda was surprised at the girl. That will teach her to set me up, he thought. The vodka felt so good. He didn’t want to go to bed. He just wanted to sip and enjoy the warmth of the liquid slipping down his throat and the bonus of a hot surprise as he swallowed. Relaxed and at peace he sat smiling; he had missed the after-feeling of peace, joy and contentment vodka gave him when he was chilling out. At this moment all was well with the world and there was cricket on the TV. It couldn’t get better than that.
Again, he promised himself he would have a word with Mrs Chodda and tell her he didn’t want a new wife. Every time this happened his manners never let him say anything. But every time he promised that next time he would make Mrs Chodda stop doing this. A part of him was flattered that she was so committed to marrying him off, but he really didn’t have time for all of this socialising and having to be nice and polite with these dragged-in Sikh virgins with their straight-faced mothers. Nothing ever seemed to happen afterwards so he presumed the mothers didn’t approve of him. This hurt his ego a little but hey, he wasn’t interested and was in no mood to court any woman at the moment. Again, this was all in his head and the conversation with Mrs Chodda was never going to happen. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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Hi ho and off to work we go
He woke the next morning with a thick tongue and a head that wasn’t quite right. You never get a hangover from vodka but you can feel a bit muzzy. He thought it might have something to do with the fact he had only three hours sleep. He looked at the vodka bottle and was a little dismayed to see it had only enough left in the bottle for a single shot. He had drunk the lot in one evening after being off drink for a long time. He promised himself that he wouldn’t do that again. Next time, he would have only a small amount and would make a bottle last him a week. He nearly laughed at such an absurd thought; he knew he would never be that focussed.
The shower made him feel better and more in control. He was on his way to see Tom Black to tell him about Musty Mary’s lead. He liked Tom Black very much and he was the only person he almost trusted in the police service. Bob had done a lot of damage, but in thinking about him Jazz had to smile. The bastard was damaged goods himself. His legs would never be the same again after the beating he took in prison. It had cost Jazz a lot of money but it was money well spent. That bastard would never have an easy life after what he did to get DC Tony Sepple murdered. Villains are bad enough but one of your own being a turncoat and helping cause the death of an officer should be a death sentence as far as Jazz was concerned. The beating had been so bad that apparently it was touch and go if Bob would recover. Jazz still rued the day that he did recover but at least he would never be the same again with broken legs, arms that would never be right and a smashed face that would scare his mother; it was a small consolation.