The Godfathers of London

by M. C. Dutton

  Charlie would be pleased to hear the information that Johnny Peters was dead. Jazz could see him drooling over it. The afternoon tea with the local ladies was going to be full of details and conjecture, something Charlie would savour. Jazz couldn’t tell him at this stage just how Johnny had died. It was going to take time to find out what sick bastard had thought this up and carried it out. For now no one knew where the hell Johnny had been murdered, by whom, or why.

  Tom Black took a picture of the finger with a ring on it. It was a bit blurred but the ring was quite striking, with what looked like raised swords on it and a diamond in the middle. He sent it out to all officers in the hope it was recognized. Again, it didn’t take long before a reply email came through, which rendered Tom Black almost speechless. Then, with a tirade of profanities, he called Jazz to the computer again, and showed him the picture of a heavyweight man in a black suit with his hands crossed in front of him, as if he was protecting his testicles. There on his right hand was a ring that looked very similar to the slightly blurred DVD picture. The email told them it was Freddie Link, who was a close associate of The Bird Man of Barking. What the hell was going on? They were on dodgy ground here. No one took on The Bird Man without authority from the top people in the Metropolitan Police.

  Jazz knew there was an undercover operation going on watching The Bird Man. It was hands off to every officer and detective who looked in at the Bird Man. He was Teflon-coated: a known villain but nothing stuck. All information was to go to the special unit set up. As far as Jazz knew, this special unit had been in operation for over a year and so far there had been no arrests or charges put to the Bird Man. No way did he want to give this information to a special unit that had done diddly squat! He argued with Tom Black that until something more concrete had been found out they should keep schtum. Tom Black was as far off the politically correct scale as Jazz; he agreed far too readily and without caution. Both were setting themselves up again for a car ride to Epping Forest and a shallow grave.

  For an East End boy with little education The Bird Man had risen in the ranks of the London gangs through his fighting and his ruthlessness. He would do anything to get what he wanted. In his younger days, before DNA testing, CCTV and mobile phones, he could kill off rivals with ease, undetected. The 1960s had been his time when there was stuff out there for grabbing and there was time to build his reputation. It was also the time of motorway building and many bridges including the Bow Flyover and Charlie Brown’s roundabout flyover allegedly contained more bodies in the upright pillars and foundations than could be good for the structure. The Bird Man had made his mark and systematically rid himself of all rivals. There were many gangsters who were as ruthless as the Bird Man but his edge was that he also had a very fine and cunning mind.

  Today there were many gangs – Asian, Chinese and Romanian – working the East End. More laidback these days, The Bird Man seemed to have settled, allowing others to work on what he considered his turf. He never got into selling drugs like other gangs; he was a bit old-fashioned for most gang leaders but he did have his area of work.

  He had many strings to his bow. His main front business was his transport company, a haulage firm called B4 Transport that had become one of the country’s biggest haulage companies. The Bird Man even advertised on the TV and there was talk of a TV show about his lorries travelling the country. Although he enjoyed the fame, he put his foot down regarding a TV show. He couldn’t afford to have those nosey little bastards checking out what he did and where he went. Even the police didn’t have such access to him and there was no way he was going to allow the bleeding media to bugger up his business interests.

  Some would say that The Bird Man didn’t do anyone any harm if they were honest and law-abiding but that wasn’t true. Jazz had looked at his M.O. and he was a nasty piece of work. It was true that he had calmed down a bit over the years, perhaps because he had his work and his area tied up neatly and he didn’t need to fight dirty anymore. But they said the same about the Krays and they were no angels either.

  There had been gang-related murders in the East End attributed to The Bird Man. Paddy McDowell had got lippy and, in an East End pub, had declared that he could take on The Bird Man. But he was a drunk and no one listened to a drunk. Paddy McDowell was one of those little pipsqueak villains, always looking for something to sell or buy or steal. He was pretty redundant these days. He spent his time making a nuisance of himself fuelled by too much drink.

  Paddy McDowell had a smouldering grudge against The Bird Man. Some years ago he had upset The Bird Man, who had made it known that no one on his turf should use Paddy McDowell. All Paddy’s work dried up and he lost out on money, women, and friends. His burning hatred of The Bird Man had been kept under wraps until now, but the drink was making him more and more dangerously verbal. One day he went too far and announced to everyone in the pub that the Bird Man was a fucking poofter.

  If you saw The Birdman you would see he was 6’3” of rippling muscle with a granite chin and hands the size of a digger bucket and just as hard. He was famous for his one-punch putdown. No one had stayed upright with a punch from The Birdman. One man was out like a light for 30 minutes, most found themselves laid on the floor not knowing what had hit them. Paddy was getting more and more frustrated at no one taking him seriously. He had it in his head he wanted everyone to listen to him and he pushed and pushed his luck by shouting in the faces of known associates of The Birdman that The Birdman of bleeding Barking was a stark staring raving poofter.

  Paddy McDowell was found days later, shot dead in Barking Park. The killer was definitely The Bird Man but nothing could be proved. Everyone knew and everyone kept quiet. The police had this on record and were biding their time.

  The beauty of most villains is they are pretty stupid. There are not that many Raffles about so mistakes often happen and it’s the stupid mistakes that the police pick up on and catch the villains. The Birdman was not stupid and so far had carried on his business without the police getting anything on him. He was sitting pretty and he worked hard to ensure it stayed that way.

  With this new barge murder, the questions were frustrating. What the hell had The Bird Man got to do with it and why? It occurred to Jazz and Boomer that this was the third murder that was unusual and tortuous. Perhaps, suggested Jazz, there was a connection? But what it was neither knew at the moment.

  Perhaps there was something going on in The Bird Man’s patch that he didn’t know about. That thought was stupidly outrageous but perhaps his men were working off piste so to speak. There was a lot of work to do and Tom Black was off to have a root around the area and see what he could dig up.

  In the meantime, Jazz was off to find Mad Pete. There was more to find out from that little devious, filthy load of slime. There were a few places he might find him and when he found him there were going to be answers given. Mad Pete knew what Jazz might be capable of and he had hidden in fear in the only place he was sure Jazz would never find him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Something’s brewing

  Ash was thinking far too much. He should have thought about sharing the information he had and getting help but he wanted the glory. He was determined to get the evidence, present it to Jazz and Tom Black, and amaze and astound them. He was feeling good and powerful. Yes, by himself he was going to crack this case. Stupidity is blind.

  He made his way to The Pig and Poke. It was getting late in the day but if this worked out then he was ready to reveal all and make an arrest. First, he needed to talk to the pub’s landlord.

  The landlord had always made a point of being there in the evenings. George Phillips was a seasoned landlord and had worked for many brewery-owned public houses but The Pig and Poke was a free house and he could do what he liked. His record was good, and there had never been any trouble at his pubs. No one knew that the money to buy The Pig and Poke, his first owned pub, was provided by a secret sponsor from the East End. George had worked in many L
ondon pubs; he had good bar skills and knew how to keep his mouth shut. His loyalty was recognized and rewarded with the money to buy The Pig and Poke. Rumours were always rife in the East End but no one knew it was The Bird Man who had loaned George Phillips the money. He owed The Bird Man big time.

  It was a shame Ash didn’t know this, it could have saved him from the terror that was about to happen.

  The affray that had happened with the Northern builders was unexpected and uncomfortable for George. His clientele expected a quiet drink with no trouble and no police. His reputation was very important to him and he cursed the builders every day for giving the police the opportunity to come into his pub. Having a lot to prove to The Bird Man, he was anxious to get the pub back to its normally calm state. He was on his way to achieving this but now when he saw DC Kumar entering the pub, he wasn’t happy at all.

  Oblivious to everything Ash went straight up to George. It was obvious that if a landlord wanted to keep his licence he had to please the police and help in any way he could. It made sense to Ash to take George to one side and have a little chat with him. The place was full and it felt as if everyone was staring at him. But he walked tall and strode firmly; he wasn’t going to be shaken by their looks. For a split second he did wonder if he should have told someone where he was but he dismissed that thought. What the hell could happen in a pub full of people, he asked himself.

  George had already glanced over to the corner of the pub and the men sitting there idling away time with beers and whisky chasers nodded almost indiscernibly. It was a dark little corner with a high-sided wooden bench that prevented anyone from watching closely what went on. Ash noticed that they were smoking, which was no longer allowed in public houses. But perhaps this wasn’t the right time to bring this to the landlord’s attention. He sensed the tension in the room and didn’t want to cause any problems that might erupt into a fight.

  The landlord had picked up a cloth and was busily cleaning a glass when Ash got to the bar; cheerfully George asked if he could get him a drink. Sounding rather pompous, Ash said no, because he was on duty. Suddenly it felt as if he shouldn’t be here, that this was the wrong place at the wrong time and he needed to get out, but like a runaway train he couldn’t stop.

  George was very amenable indeed. When Ash said he needed to talk to him in private, George, all smiles, led him to the back room where it would be quieter and more private. Relieved to be out of the bar and away from the staring eyes, Ash followed George towards the back of the pub. The door there was locked and it took George a few minutes to unlock it, smiling all the time. Ash was looking uncomfortable by now, but George pointed out this was a pretty secure place to keep his stocks of spirits and cigarettes, and money from the till: that was why he kept the door locked. Again Ashiv was offered a drink and he turned it down. He thought George was very affable and he hoped he could get this bit of information sorted so he could go home.

  Once inside the storeroom, settled and seated, a still smiling George asked, ‘So what can I do for you, DC Kumar?’ Ash liked George’s politeness. He asked about the night of the fight with the Northern men and the people who were drinking there that night. George thought for a moment and said that it had been a really busy night and he wasn’t sure exactly who was in at the time. The Northerners had kept him so busy that night, he’d scarcely noticed anyone else. Ash wanted to push him a bit more; he asked if George had seen Mickey Span and Freddie Link that night. George sucked in his teeth and, after a few seconds, said hesitantly, ‘I can’t say that I did. I get confused, DC Kumar. That night was really stressful for me. We never have fights at this pub. We’re a clean and safe pub and that night was quite a shock for me.’

  This put Ash on his guard. Whoever heard of an East End landlord who got fazed by a fight in his pub?

  They talked for a further half an hour, with George cheerfully vacant and distracting. What Ash got from the conversation was that George had actually seen nothing and knew no one. This was highly frustrating; as naïve as Ash appeared, even he knew it was all bullshit. Just as he was about to give up and leave, George had one of those golden moments. He laughed to himself and then, with a mournful look of apology, said he remembered now. Of course Mickey Span was there that night, and he also seemed to remember someone called James Kent was around. He asked himself how he remembered Kent’s name and, like a light-bulb going on, his eyes lit up. ‘Ah yes, DC Kumar, I remember now. James Kent introduced himself to me. I remember saying I hadn’t seen him in the pub before. A nice chap, as I remember. Is that of help to you?’

  Ash felt he was getting somewhere at last. Just as he was about to ask more, George got up and said excitedly, ‘I saw my friend Jimmy in the bar tonight, and he was speaking to James Kent. I’ll go and get him, and ask him to talk to you. Would that be helpful?’ Ash felt things were really moving at last and he said he’d like to talk with Jimmy.

  George said he would only be a few moments. Ash nodded and, as suggested, helped himself to a can of Fanta from the shelf beside him. He sat back comfortably waiting. Perhaps his visit hadn’t been a waste of time after all. He was unravelling a ball of string and he was going to get to the bottom of this. As he pulled the ring on the can of Fanta and heard the hiss of the gas he missed the sound of the key being turned in the lock of the storeroom. He would sit there for some time before he ventured towards the door and found he had been locked in.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mirror, mirror on the wall

  Jazz had spent hours looking for Mad Pete in all the dark and dirty corners he usually inhabited. He was nowhere to be found but there was one place still to look. It was the only place Mad Pete would never go unless things were so bad he had nowhere else to go.

  Mrs Mad Pete was a woman and a half. She weighed twenty stone and most of that was mouth! She had the biggest, vilest and nastiest mouth in the country. Mad Pete wasn’t fussy but even he was embarrassed by his mother. She lived in Beckton in a high-rise flat. She lived by herself because no sane person would live with her. She didn’t care that her neighbours ignored her, that the local shops banned her or that the local Community Police avoided her.

  Jazz knew what he had to do but he didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t want to meet Mrs Mad Pete again. Last time she had thrown him out of her flat, shouting from her sixth-floor balcony that he was a fucking, bleeding, sodding pig and everyone should shoot him. The gangs in Beckton didn’t need her rally call to want to sort out Jazz. He had a reputation for nicking gang members and he steered clear of the estate as much as possible when on his own.

  He knocked on her door. As she opened it the waft of rancid fat and bad eggs caught him in the face and he nearly retched. He could see where Mad Pete got his homeliness from. There before him was a vision of loveliness, three double chins wobbling, a fag in her mouth, with a top lip stained nicotine brown and a bottom lip with black hair appearing cheekily in the dip before the chin. Her hair was scraped up in a ponytail and it needed a good wash. He could have sworn she was still in the same stained shell-suit grey bottoms he remembered from last time; the stains looked familiar along with the ‘Frankie Goes to Hollywood’ vest that had seen better years.

  ‘What do you want, you fucking bastard?’ was her opening line. He marvelled that she could sneer and speak so clearly whilst keeping the roll-up cigarette in her mouth. He was mesmerised by the fag ash on the end of the cigarette; it was threatening to break off and roll into her ample but gruesome bosom.

  He didn’t bother to charm this one. It would have been a waste of words. ‘I want to see Mad Pete now,’ was all he said. She looked at him as if he was something she had scraped off her shoe and went to shut the door. Quick as a flash he pushed his way forward and pushed past her, even as she loudly and angrily shouted accusations at him about incest, bestiality and strangely religious defamation. All he said as he passed her was, ‘I can see you’ve been reading my profile on Facebook!’ He heard her roar and moved quickly into
the lounge, just missing the lunge of her huge hands. He found Mad Pete cowering in the corner. Was he cowering away from Jazz or the murderous harridan behind him?

  He grabbed Mad Pete and pushed none too nicely past the foul-mouthed bitch who was looking for something hard to hit him with. She couldn’t move that fast. Twenty stone was a hell of a lot of weight to move through all the cardboard boxes, piles of newspapers, and stacks of clothes that were strewn across the lounge floor. As Jazz dragged Mad Pete out he heard a crunch but didn’t stop to see what he had trodden on under the rags he’d just walked over.

  Thank God the lift was working and before long they were out in the fresh air, away from Mrs Mad Pete. They could hear her on her balcony telling the world how that fucking DS Jaswinder Singh had stolen and kidnapped her fucking son. What the fuck was anyone going to do about it? Kill the bastard! Jazz got to the car quickly and threw Mad Pete in. He was snivelling, not knowing what was to become of him. He told Jazz in a pitiful voice, ‘I know nuffink. Mr Singh. I ain’t a bad guy. They’ll kill me if they find me and I don’t wanna die.’

  Jazz knew a really scared Mad Pete when he saw it. He also knew it didn’t take much to scare him but to go to his mother’s was something he would never do unless petrified.

  They drove back to Mad Pete’s flat, picking up two drive-through Big Mac meals on the way. As they reached the flat and got out of the car Jazz gave Mad Pete a slap just for good measure and for making him go and find him at his bloody mother’s. For the first time, he realized that perhaps Mad Pete’s flat wasn’t the worst place on God’s earth; his mother had beaten him hands down. Almost affectionately he pushed the filthy cups off the cupboard to put the McDonald’s down.