by M. C. Dutton
Reluctantly he opened the door and there stood the young woman he had seen before. She looked embarrassed and hesitant. ‘I am so sorry to disturb you,’ she said in a beautifully deep, rich voice that reminded him of a glass of Baileys. ‘My aunt, er, Mrs Chodda,’ she added, ‘wondered if you might like these.’ She thrust a Tupperware box containing some rice and curry at him. He thanked her and smiled. She smiled back and turned to go. ‘Oh, sorry,’ stammered Jazz. ‘Erm, I am Jaswinder, Jazz to my friends. Erm, we haven’t been introduced, have we?’ She turned and smiled. ‘No, we haven’t.’ She went down the stairs before he could think of anything else to say. He smiled; he liked her coolness. He lingered lost in thought for a second, then pulled himself together. Time for another drink.
He met Ash at 9 a.m. sharp at their desks. He’d spend an hour sorting out his emails and then they would be off to meet and greet and see what was going on out there in the world. Ash had been at his desk since 8 a.m. and was finishing copying his MG11 for Grace’s statement. He’d completed the MG5, and all the MG6 series that went to make up a full set of case papers. Jazz was impressed; he’d worked hard and well. Ash asked Jazz if he’d copied his MG11 for Amanda so the file could be put together. Jazz gave it to Ash and said that, as he was so good at it, perhaps he would like to photocopy his for the file. Ash didn’t mind; it was good working with someone for a change. He was looking forward to today.
Jazz and Ash checked in with Tom Black before they left, to see if there was anything else worth knowing on the John Carpenter case. Up on the board was a forensic picture of Carpenter at the scene before he was carted away. It was the most gruesome picture, beating anything anyone had ever seen before. He had been eaten and was half a man. The maggots had started breeding and anyone with a weak stomach would have retched for weeks. Another picture showed the surrounding area where he’d been found and Jazz muttered that, judging by the state of the undergrowth, the way it was flattened, a herd of something or other had been there. The cigarette butts had been found in the area, confirming that several people had paced around and waited there for a while. Again, the DNAs on the cigarette butts were not known. So far the house to house enquiries had given them nothing to work with, except nailing when Carpenter was last seen, which was over a week ago.
All the girls on the campus who were taught by John Carpenter would be interviewed and it was hoped this would bring something to light. In the meantime Jazz and Ash were off to check out the vigilante theory.
First they went to the Gascoigne Estate in Barking. Jazz wanted to see Charlie Griffiths, a fifty-year-old man who had lived, worked and drunk on the estate. He was now medically retired with his back which didn’t allow him to walk far. Luckily he could see his local pub from his first-floor flat. He spent his days gossiping with the women in his block and his nights gossiping with the men in the pub. He was a mine of information. Jazz knocked on his door and waited. It took a while for Charlie to reach the door, but they could hear him cheerfully shouting that he wouldn’t be long. When the door opened they saw a very dapper man with his white fairly short hair greased down slickly, wearing a white shirt and dark blue trousers; he looked like an office worker on a break. His home was immaculate, everything polished, in its place and hoovered. Charlie made them a cup of tea, using a teapot and real tea leaves. It was all rather quaint and Jazz and Ash sat patiently waiting for the tea to brew. Charlie was quite excited to see Jazz. He hoped he was bringing a nice piece of gossip he could share with his lady friends when they came for tea.
Over tea and some bourbons he had in the cupboard, Charlie asked expectantly what he could do for Jazz. They talked for a bit about the local gossip with the drugs changing hands and how the kiddy gangs were grafitti-ing everywhere, and about who was sleeping with who, and who had just gone into or come out of prison. After Charlie had shared his gossip, he was ready for Jazz to reciprocate. Jazz knew that every word he said would be repeated, exaggerated and whispered around the estate. He picked his words carefully. Of course Charlie knew about Barry Jessop being found in Barking Creek. What no one officially knew was about the Columbian Necktie, and Charlie wanted that confirmed. He leaned forward and asked Jazz outright if it was true that Barry Jessop had been found dead with his tongue pulled through a slit in his throat.
Jazz knew he wasn’t going to get much help if he didn’t confirm what Charlie and his friends already knew. He looked hard at Charlie and asked him not to repeat a word. Charlie whispered that every morsel of information was safe with him, of course. Jazz sat up straight and sipped his tea. Charlie, hardly daring to breathe, licked his lips as he waited for the tasty morsel of information. With great deliberation Jazz put down his cup and whispered that Barry Jessop had been tortured and murdered, and that yes, a Columbian Necktie was what he’d been given. Charlie sat back and sighed deeply. His mouth shaped the word oh as he exhaled. He was thrilled with such a gorgeously tasty bit of information. ‘Now!’ said Jazz. ‘I need your help.’ Charlie was all ears; if he had been a cat he would have been purring. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Singh?’ He hadn’t heard of a vigilante group in Barking at all. If there was one he would surely know about it. He’d ask his lady friends to ask about. He also said the speculation on who had committed the murder of Barry Jessop was still a huge talking point with his ladies and his drinking pals. No one had come up with any concrete ideas. ‘So,’ said a ponderous Charlie, shifting in his seat, ‘Was Barry Jessop dead when they cut his throat and pulled his tongue through?’
Jazz didn’t know but said he was probably alive because that was common in Columbian Necktie murders. ‘And,’ added Charlie delicately, ‘did they shoot him in the head afterwards?’
Jazz didn’t want to get into this. He finished the conversation with, ‘In the back of the neck, Charlie, and that’s all I can say.’ This was enough to please Charlie but there was one more question.
Charlie, as a good gossipmonger, had thought carefully about what Jazz had asked him. ‘So, Mr Singh, when you ask if there’s a vigilante group, it beggars the belief that there has been other cases. When you say vigilante groups, it usually means they’re sorting out other misdemeanors. Am I right, Mr Singh?’ He enquired soothingly. Jazz smiled and said that at present there was nothing to add. He said he would see Charlie tomorrow and he hoped there would be some information by then. They left a very happy Charlie Griffiths. His talk with Mr Singh would be the topic of discussion at this afternoon’s tea session and tonight in the pub.
As they walked down the stairs from the flat Ash asked why Jazz had told such a gossipmonger classified information about Barry Jessop. Jazz explained that Charlie and his cohorts already knew what had happened to Barry Jessop; he was just confirming it. He needed information from Charlie and his lady friends and they would talk of nothing else for a while and then make all sorts of enquiries for him because the gossip would be good. They would be told far more than Jazz could find out. John Carpenter would stay under wraps for the time being. Ash nodded; he was beginning to get a feel for what Jazz was all about and how he worked. He felt uncomfortable in a way because it certainly wasn’t textbook stuff but part of him was enjoying the excitement.
Their next stop was Mad Pete, who lived on the Gascoigne Estate. But he was out and wasn’t answering his mobile. They wandered the estate for a while but there was no sight of him. Jazz said that they would go back to the station for a few hours and see if anything had developed.
Something wasn’t right. Murder had its own way of working. It happened for all sorts of reasons and the idea was to kill. These two murders were something else that didn’t fit the usual modus operandi. Murder used to be a rare occurrence. Now there were gang murders; knives and guns were being used to kill and maim, and there were the domestic violence murders. There were more murders on the street than could be reported in newspapers. Only the unusual murders got into newspapers these days. The John Carpenter murder was about to be reported not only in the local but also
the national newspapers, and on TV. DCI Radley was going to be busy again, thought Jazz.
They would drag up the case of Laura again and he thought he ought to visit the Kents and warn them. Amanda needed watching in case she went on the pill munching phase again. He asked Ash if he wanted to go back to the station and work on the case papers for John Carpenter whilst he went and visited the Kents.
He found all the Kents in their home. Amanda didn’t seem to stray very far these days and Grace was always there to look after her. Again, James was in his shed. Jazz could see their lives had been ruined and perhaps they would never return to normal again. Grace said she would keep a firm eye on Amanda and reassured Jazz not to worry. He thought she was a wonderful woman. Every time he saw her she looked ten years older and he wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t last much longer. It was a depressing thought. He sought out James who still had very little to say and refused to come out of his shed. Jazz had done his job and warned them all of the impending press stampede. He left the Kent home in need of a stiff drink.
On his way home he popped by the Gudwara and said hello to Deepak. All was going well with his talks with the Indian ladies and their jewellery. He did say the fairy lights were another matter and he was having no luck with that. What was a worry was Sikhs were asking male members of the family to stand guard during festivals and special occasions when the fairy lights were out and gold jewellery was in abundance. Deepak said he hoped it didn’t turn into a problem. Jazz stayed at the Gudwara for a little while. It was beginning to feel comfortable and the gossiping aunties made sure he ate something before he left. Deepak always had time for him and they chatted about this and that and business in the area. He went home feeling better.
The key in the door of De Vere Gardens attracted Mrs Chodda. Again, before he had got halfway up the stairs, she came out of the kitchen. She reminded him that on Sunday he was going to a family wedding with her as he had promised. He had forgotten all about it. In truth, he had only agreed to attend with Mrs Chodda just to get away from her. He didn’t want to go but perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea. There would be a bit of good food, conversation and a dance or two which sounded actually quite good. He lied that he hadn’t forgotten and that he’d see her Sunday morning all suited and booted. It was going to be held in the City Limits banqueting suite. He had been there before and if he got bored he could go downstairs and play tenpin bowling. Sounded good to him! The food at weddings would be the best of the best and there would be chips for the children which would suit him well. The drinks always flowed liberally. Yes, he would go just to keep Mrs Chodda company.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Retribution
He had kept himself to himself. No need to go out much, he told himself. Since those women had found him in the supermarket and surrounded him and frightened him, he had to be moved again. The police, Social Services and the Council were liable for his security and they moved him to Barking. He was now on the Gascoigne Estate.
This huge sprawling estate full of high-rise flats and a selection of lower blocks of flats were crammed into the area designed in the infinite wisdom of the architects. All in all, when empty, Gascoigne Estate looked boringly and coldly functional. Now, full of various families and single people with infinite problems, it was a heaving mess of misery, criminality, and resentment. It would be wrong to say that everyone on the Gascoigne Estate had problems. There were many families struggling to bring up children in an area with so many temptations. Gangs, drugs, drink, and criminality was rife. The Council in their wisdom saw the Gascoigne Estate as a dumping ground for all the problems in the area. No one would move there by choice. Johnny Peters was a huge problem and he had been ceremoniously dumped in a one-bedroom flat on the top floor of a high-rise block on Gascoigne Estate after he was recognized and chased by women shoppers in Asda in Romford.
They called him a paedophile: a horrible name. He was just someone who loved children. Johnny related better to children. His favourite age was seven. He liked boys as well as girls. Children were sexual beings, he knew that. All the clever people in the world and they didn’t know this? He knew they were lying. His home was child-friendly. He had lots of sweets, an X Box with all the latest games, and a selection of Sylvania Family for the girls to play with. His home was a fun place to be. He liked to film his play time and had cameras slightly hidden, so the children didn’t feel self-conscious in the lounge, bedroom and bathroom. He had a camera in the bathroom to watch them pee. He liked that.
He had been utterly miserable. He dare not make any new friends for a while. The police had warned him that he was being watched and he didn’t want to be chased again by those awful women. He didn’t deserve it. He had been in Gascoigne now for about six months and he had found a new friend.
The time in court was really terrible. The child wouldn’t go to court and the parents wouldn’t go to court which was a relief. The things said by the prosecuting counsel and the police made it sound so basic and terrifying. They said nothing about the love of a child and the reciprocation that love gives. He had loved that child and he missed her dreadfully. He used to call her seven-year-old Sally, known as SS. He had laughed at that. Yes, of course she was a little scared. Real love is scary but he was kind and gentle when he made love to her. How it was thrown out of court he never understood. All he remembered was the rush to get him out of court and hidden away before the baying crowd got hold of him. They had found his homemade DVDs and they took them away from him. He couldn’t even have some comfort in watching them. But it was a relief he didn’t have to go to prison.
He had walked by the local school but he had to be careful. The police might have been watching him but they could do nothing at the moment because he’d been found not guilty. During his first three months on the Gascoigne Estate he had watched and seen Little Tommy, who was a latch key child. Tommy lived across the road in another block of flats. He was a quiet boy and didn’t seem to play with other children. Johnny felt sorry for him. His mother didn’t get home until 7 p.m. and he had to play by himself from 3.30 p.m. until 7 p.m. Johnny said if he wanted he could come and play on his X Box. He had the Star Wars game. He told Tommy that it was for twelve years and upwards, but he thought that Tommy, at eight years old, would smash it.
Now Tommy came to him straight from school. Johnny waited in anticipation every school day. He had taken it slowly. He had romanced and flirted with Tommy. It was a month before he made any real advance. It had been awful with Tommy, scared, crying, and shouting, trying to run out of the flat. Johnny didn’t understand what had gone wrong. He knew Tommy wanted him too. He was frustrated and angry now. All this time in courting Tommy and he acted in this way? He had given him everything he wanted. He didn’t have a lot of money but he’d spent it on Tommy, who had taken everything. He found his hands around Tommy’s neck, squeezing. It wasn’t long before Tommy was still and Johnny kept him there for hours just looking at him and touching him. He was a slip of a lad and it didn’t take much to put him in a shopping trolley that was hanging about the hall by the lifts; he had a bin liner to put him in, and he put boxes over him and wheeled him down the road to Barking Creek. It was dark and quiet by Freshwharf and he pushed the shopping trolley into the black waters of Barking Creek.
It took only a day for the police to find Tommy. They knew it was him but they couldn’t prove it. They tried their best and said they would get him eventually and that he was being watched. So now he sat in his flat and didn’t dare go out. Someone had let it be known who he was and he had to have all his food delivered by Tesco because he couldn’t go out. The Council were looking to move him again but nothing had happened yet. He was considered to be reasonably safe in his top-floor flat. His door had six locks on it and every now and then someone would bang angrily on his door and he would hear vile things said. He didn’t have a letterbox in the door and he covered the bottom of the door so nothing could be posted through to him. It was scary and he hoped he would
be moved soon. He felt bad about Tommy. He didn’t want to kill him; he’d just wanted to love him.
He was getting stir-crazy. He had been in his flat for two months since Tommy died. He still couldn’t go out and the Council hadn’t done anything for him. He rang them every day but they said he was reasonably safe where he was and they were looking for safe accommodation for him. He flicked the TV on but there was nothing he wanted to watch. It was dark outside and he used to quite like looking at the lights spread out across London but nothing excited him any more.
The phone call was late but it was a Council worker saying they had found him a new place to live that would be very safe. The only thing was they had to move him now. People in the area were watching out for him so a night move was imperative. He protested that he needed to pack, he wasn’t ready, and why hadn’t they told him earlier. The answer was crisp and clear. He had to go now for his own safety. They implied there was going to be trouble from the residents. With that he agreed and they said a knock on the door in five minutes would be his cue to open the door. He agreed, scared now at the thought there might be a lynch mob around the corner.
He got his coat, wallet and cigarettes and waited nervously for the knock on the door. When it came he opened the door to four big burly men waiting for him. The front man smiled but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The two men behind looked around nervously and the other man stared hard and straight at Tommy. It didn’t feel right and he was about to argue he wasn’t ready. He wanted to close the door on them. The front man said soothingly that they had heard about fifty residents were amassing around the corner to come and beat his door down, so they had to get him away urgently. The blanket over his head as they frog marched him to the lift was for his own safety. He understood that and went with them willingly and fearfully, his feet barely touching the ground as two of them took an arm each and rushed him to the lift. They told him to be quiet because his voice would be known. He stayed quiet, almost scared to breathe. He was bundled into a car and as he tried to take the blanket off his head he was tasered. The shock was enormous; he found it hard to breathe and then thankfully he went unconscious.