The Godfathers of London

by M. C. Dutton

  Tom Black was in residence in Ilford Police Station. As Jazz climbed the stairs to the CID office he heard his voice booming his usual profanities. ‘I’m gonna kill the fucking bastard who touched my sodding in-tray.’ The words rang through the air as Jazz went into the murder squad area. ‘Great threats for a murder squad,’ he thought ironically. Clearly Tom Black was not in a good mood and he glanced at Jazz with a cautionary look that said Think carefully before you speak. Jazz was about to turn tail and get the hell out of the area but Tom remembered their conversation yesterday about the canal murder, as it was known. It was a thorn in his side. He knew this murder had been arranged and was some sort of signal. This wasn’t just a drunken murder; this was a gangland killing. What he couldn’t understand was why gangs in London were using the Columbian code of murder. A Columbian necktie had never been seen before in England and it just didn’t compute. Killing someone was one thing but to go to the trouble of cutting his throat and pulling his tongue through the opening in his neck was just too surreal and too fucking pernickety for all the gangs he knew. Yes, there had been tortured bodies found, mutilated bodies, but never something this creative. It was a sign for someone; he knew this, but the frustrating and bollocking thing was who was it aimed at?

  The canal murder was one of ten murders he had on the go at the moment. His team were busy sorting through all of them. Most were what he called kiddy gangland killings. Teenage miscreants who thought they were tough and used a knife and some used guns. Kiddy turf wars, drugs and just plain egos were the main cause of the murders. It was becoming a problem but they knew who had done the murders, or which gangs were responsible, but it was more which member had done the deed. The public didn’t know just how bad things were out on the street. Most murders were inter-gang related so they just murdered each other. The general public was reasonably safe. The canal murder was different.

  He beckoned Jazz over and almost smiled but it didn’t quite make it to his face. Jazz could see Tom had calmed down and was safe to approach. Tom Black was a law unto himself. Jazz knew DI Tom Black was the finest and sharpest detective in the Metropolitan Police. He didn’t fit into the candy-assed Pretty Politically Correct set that was being drummed into every officer. What it meant was his record for solving murders was better than most and at the same time his reputation was barely above sackable level. It was no wonder Jazz and Tom got on so well. They were the two detectives that the Met Police couldn’t do without but sorely wished they could. Neither got any national recognition for their work. They were let out to solve crimes and then pushed under the carpet when the press came sniffing around. Jazz and Tom were the guilty secret of the Metropolitan Police hierarchy. Neither Jazz nor Tom understood their role but neither cared. Getting results was what it was all about and they were both given a wide berth by those wishing to climb the corporate ladder and those wishing to stay out of trouble.

  The two men went outside for a cigarette. Jazz told Tom about his visit to Musty Mary and about Mr Barry Jessop. Tom dragged hard on his cigarette and chewed on the information. Jazz knew bits about the case but he wasn’t working on it so he listened with interest. A good murder enquiry was always something to relish and solve. After a few minutes of thinking Tom murmured to no one in particular, ‘So, he was taken from bloody London and brought to fucking Dagenham. That makes some sort of pissing sense.’ Before Jazz could ask why, Tom turned to Jazz and told him determinedly that he had to be right all along! All the potential killers had rock-solid alibis; the killing was something you watched on a fucking, bollocking Godfather film on the telly. This didn’t happen in East London.

  Jazz knew all the potential people who had a huge grudge against Barry Jessop had rock-solid, gold-plated alibis, but Jessop had been brought to Dagenham of all places, murdered, mutilated and dumped in Barking Creek. A Columbian necktie was what the mutilation was called. It happened in America when gangs wanted it known that there had been a gangland killing. Musty Mary had given them the time and date, although forensics had already told them everything they needed to know about when Jessop was killed, but she had confirmed it. Until now they didn’t know where he was killed; now they had to find out why.

  Tom thanked Jazz for the info and gave him a heavy-handed pat on the back that sent him flying. Tom left saying he would talk to Musty Mary’s bloke and recheck the alibis for the Gascoigne Residents Association members who had been duped out of hard-earned money and Lottery donations to make their estate better. It was interesting that it looked like the men who had taken Barry Jessop mentioned his victims. Tom was tempted in his excitement to say, ‘The game is afoot,’ but he resisted the Sherlock saying and just said, ‘This is the best fucking lead for a sodding long time – I owe you one, my fine fucking friend.’

  For now, Jazz was going to check up on Ash to see what he had been up to since yesterday and to talk about the Asian burglaries. He had to make out a report on his teamwork. For the past year or so he hadn’t had a lot to do with Ash. Still giving him baby jobs, he just checked up on what he was doing. If nothing else, he knew he had kept him safe. He wasn’t going to lose another officer on his watch. The bonus to this way of working was that Ash cleared up all his jobs and their team record was high. With so many small jobs cleared up the numbers were good. The other CID teams were jealous of his clear-up results and, with Jazz doing well with his jobs, on paper they sat pretty high in the statistics. It wasn’t fair and it didn’t represent the types of cases other teams had, which took time and legwork to clear up, but as far as the Chief Supers were concerned Ash and Jazz were riding high.

  Jazz was unaware of what Ash was about to say and he arrived at the meeting in a state of bored optimism. It wouldn’t last; Ash was about to make him sit up and take notice.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The worm turned

  DC Ashiv Kumar had enough of the situation and he was going to change it. Jazz might have thought he was in control, but no more! Ash had done everything asked of him but he wanted to be a Detective Constable working in the CID. He didn’t want to be this namby-pamby joke of a detective working continuously on cases that even the rawest, newest of police officers would be overqualified to deal with.

  He was sick of the mickey-taking. He found a Pampers disposable nappy on his desk one morning. Thank god it was clean! But he understood the inference and wondered what he had done to deserve being given such embarrassingly little crimes to solve. He solved them all; he should have felt proud but they were so easy it didn’t take much brainwork. Even the youngsters in the area were taking the mickey out of him. They could see he worked alone and only on bike and shed robberies. Kids in the area were streetwise and knew everything to do with law and police. They knew a normal CID officer didn’t spend that much time on kiddy crimes. He was known as Dumb and Dumber Kumar. Although no one had ever said it to his face, nevertheless, he had heard what his nickname was and now CID officers were using it. He’d had enough of it.

  Jazz and Ash met in the canteen as arranged to discuss the Asian burglaries and follow up on yesterday’s meeting. Milly, the legendary canteen lady, was waiting for Jazz. ‘Hello darlin’, what can I get you?’

  As usual, Jazz replied, ‘How about excited?’

  Milly giggled, blushed, and went to get him a special cup of tea, newly brewed especially for him. She had been working in the canteen for more years than anyone remembered. She was past retiring age – it was thought she must be going on for seventy – but she loved the work in the canteen. She got to chat and joke with such lovely young officers and she ruled the roost there. She had her rules of tidiness and courtesy and she made the officers adhere to it. All, that is, except Jazz. She had a very soft spot for him. She hovered for a while just making sure he had everything he wanted. ‘I have some lovely fresh buns, darlin’, if you fancy,’ she ventured. When he had said no to all the cakes and biscuits on offer, she left them, but only on the promise that if Jazz needed anything at all he was to call for h
er. Ash tried to hide a smile at this very unusual and inappropriate flirting.

  Jazz outlined what had been happening with Asian burglaries and street robberies of Asian gold jewellery. He wanted Ash to be available to visit Asian families to discuss what they could do to make their homes safer and what to do with the gold jewellery they all possessed. Ash grimaced. This was a job for a community police officer, not a Detective Constable, and he said as much. Jazz was shocked and affronted. Ash had never complained before. It occurred to him that perhaps most of their conversations were one way: his way. Having been so busy with the murder of Laura, and any other interesting job that came up, he hadn’t given Ash much quality time.

  Now Ash had started, he was determined to continue. He saw he had Jazz’s full attention, and he was determined and desperate to show him how much he had learned. The information he was about to give him should clinch his position as a good sidekick. With an excitement Jazz hadn’t seen before, Ash showed him the list of burglaries of Asian homes within the last three months. The jewellery was worth at least £1,000,000 but if melted down and used as gold the worth would be less, but still a good haul with the gold market running so high. Furthermore, someone had to fence the stuff and to be capable of shifting the huge amount. Gold was worth a small fortune these days and along with lead and iron it was the preferred metal to steal and sell.

  Jazz listened, wondering what was coming next. He got a little worried; Ash was working off the radar. He wasn’t supposed to do this. Ash took the silence to mean he could go on. He saved the best bit until last. ‘I’ve looked through intelligence and deduced who is fencing this stuff and it’s Barry Bentall.’ He waited for the praise. After all he’d worked all day and night on this, and it was a pretty good deduction.

  Trying to keep calm, Jazz asked, ‘So have you made an enquiries out on the streets to find this information out?’

  Ash nodded. ‘I’ve spoken to a few groups out there and I’ve built up some contacts through my work, and they confirmed Barry Bentall is fencing a huge amount of gold. He’ll know who is robbing these houses.’ Again, he waited for praise and got silence.

  After what seemed like ages, Jazz spoke quietly. Tight lipped and steely-eyed, he told Ash he was the biggest fucking idiot in the Met Police. ‘Your kiddy gangs have set you up.’

  Ash looked around and up at the ceiling, trying to put into place the words buzzing through his head – the only word that came out was ‘But, but…’

  Jazz saw his face and felt sorry for the poor sod. It came in a blinding flash and he wished he never learned things in this way but he saw he had let Ash down. ‘Look, Ash, it’s my fault. I suddenly realised I have left you alone for far too long. I thought I was keeping you safe but I bloody well let you get into more potential trouble than any newbie would get into. You’ve now set yourself up for a slapping or something worse so we’ve got to make it right. Mr Barry Bentall is the Bird Man of Barking and someone you just don’t mess with. He knows everything that’s happening in his town and you can bet your bottom dollar the fucking kids have set you up and told him what you are doing. Yes, he is a dangerous man and yes, he could be fencing the gold but we don’t have any clear evidence of that. Until you have clear and chargeable evidence you don’t mess with the Bird Man of Barking. He’s a nasty piece of work and there has been talk that he was responsible for various other miscreants of the first order being knee-capped, beaten to a pulp or given concrete slippers for paddling in Barking Creek. There are teams of officers watching him but he’s squeaky clean and covers his arse very well. He doesn’t care who he hurts – police, villains, Joe public – he isn’t fussy if they get in his way.’

  Ash went from bright red to funeral-parlour-slab white. Before he could answer Jazz added vehemently, ‘Jeez, you’re not going to be Number Three on my list.’ He got up from his seat so violently, scraping and pushing the chair so hard, that everyone turned around. Milly came rushing over, thinking Jazz had hurt himself. He smiled, raised his hands in a placatory way and said his goodbyes to all who were still seated there staring. He gave Milly a peck on the cheek and told her nothing was wrong. She watched him with concern as he grabbed Ash’s arm and briskly walked him out of the canteen and the station. Once outside he told Ash to stay put while he made an urgent phone call.

  Mad Pete heard his mobile ring but couldn’t find where the fuck it was. His council flat, given to him in a pristine condition by his social workers, was now a cesspit of stink and filth. He moved papers, clothes, a shoe, and a mouldy plate and finally found the phone. It was Mr Singh, announcing he was coming round and telling him to make sure he was in. That was a bummer; he knew a visit from Mr Singh meant he had to do something or get something, and he couldn’t be arsed at the moment.

  Mad Pete and Jazz had a longtime uneasy relationship. Mad Pete was a smalltime fence who seemed to know what was happening in the East End. Of service to various gangs, he was used for running errands, fencing mobile phones, and small jobs like that. When pushed, he gave pieces of information to Jazz and in return Jazz protected him from getting arrested. The kiddy gangs loved him and treated him like a hero. He gave them the odd bit of cannabis and bought stolen mobiles off them. He was an ex-heroin addict but was now addicted to the legal alternative, methadone, given to him by doctors. When excited, nervous or worried he could plunge into a druggy fit which made him uncontrollable. Jazz knew how to handle him.

  Mad Pete was the only person Jazz truly trusted. Why? Because he knew Mad Pete and what he was capable of, so there were no surprises. Mad Pete would, if pushed, sell Jazz down the river for two pence; his help was certainly anything other than altruistic, more based on fear of what could happen to him. Yes, their relationship was uneasy but true, and it had an honesty about it that most of polite society would never recognize.

  Jazz and Ash arrived quite quickly. Mad Pete had just enough time to clear away the odd spliff and various pills for recreational use. Mr Singh knew he had these habits but there was no point in drawing his attention to them; you never knew how Mr Singh was going to react. With a wide sweep he pushed all the papers and dubious bits off his settee and offered them a seat.

  ‘Bloody hell, Pete, when did you last do any spring-cleaning?’ were Jazz’s first words of disgust. Pete shrugged and pushed a greasy strand of hair behind his ear. He didn’t go in for much preening. He seemed to shave with a blunt razor and his T-shirt was always the same one, just with more stains on it. He walked with a stoop, giving the impression he couldn’t be bothered to stand straight. His social workers were hoping that, through rehab and social security, he might learn to be a model citizen and even an asset to society. But Mad Pete had the life he wanted. He got by quite happily in filth.

  No introductions were needed; Mad Pete knew who Ash was, of course – he knew most things going on in the streets of East London. This was Dumb and Dumber Kumar, whom the lads out there laughed about. He looked quite contemptuously at Kumar. Okay, he had made quite a few arrests but he only got the Referral Order youngsters and that didn’t mean anything. They just got a slap on the wrist and a community order: nothing much in anyone’s books. The gangs had run rings around him and taken the piss when he wanted information. Now, Mr Singh was a different kettle of fish and he wouldn’t mess with him.

  Jazz didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to so he got on with it. ‘Okay, Pete, what’s out there about DC Kumar. Is the Bird Man of Barking involved?’

  Mad Pete sucked in his nicotine-stained teeth, shook his head and, in a smug voice, began, ‘Now, Mr Singh, where do I start and what do you want to know?’ In a flash movement that made Ash jump, Jazz grabbed Pete by his stained T-shirt and pulled him forward until he could smell his foul breath. He pushed him back in disgust. ‘What on earth have you been eating to get breath that foul?’ he asked. Not waiting for a reply, he carried on with gritted teeth, ‘Now don’t test my patience, you lump of shit, tell me what I need to know and stop pussyfooting ar
ound.’

  Pete put his hands up in a placatory way and apologized quickly. You didn’t mess with Mr Singh when he was in one of his moods.

  ‘Look, Mr Singh,’ he started in a diplomatic way. ‘It ain’t good. Him…’ he pointed a nicotine-stained finger at Ash, ‘…is in big trouble. The Bird Man is spitting nails. His good name has been disparaged by a little erk and you know how he protects his reputation?’ Ash was about to step forward and take umbrage at being called a little erk when Jazz put a cautionary arm across his chest. Not wanting to spook Mad Pete, Jazz asked gently, ‘So what is The Bird Man planning to do?’

  Mad Pete almost laughed, but thought better of it. ‘He’s gonna stick him like a stuffed pig is what I heard.’

  Bloody hell, thought Jazz, the man was capable of it too.

  ‘He has to show everyone that he ain’t taking no flack from no one,’ added Mad Pete.

  ‘Okay.’ Jazz was thinking on his feet. ‘Can you contact him and ask for a meeting? For me and DC Kumar,’ he added, in case Mad Pete didn’t understand. It was important to cap this before there was more trouble.

  Mad Pete thought about asking what was in it for him but he saw Mr Singh’s face and his eyes told him not to get cocky. ‘Okay, Mr Singh, I’ll see what I can do.’ As an irresistible parting shot , he turned with a smirk to Ash. ‘You gonna be Number Three in Mr Singh’s hit list of dead DCs? No one lives very long when they work with him, you know. Even me – I nearly got killed, didn’t I, Mr Singh?’ Unable to help himself he burst out laughing, but the warning look on Jazz’s face made him contain himself. He looked at his feet and mumbled something about how he would contact him soon.