by M. C. Dutton
Mad Pete had calmed down now. Going to his mother’s flat had done nothing good for him. If he was a nervous wreck before, at his mother’s he became psychotic, almost ready to jump off her balcony. He was relieved and even a little tearful that Jazz had come and confronted his mother. It wasn’t quite the scenario Jazz intended but actually Mad Pete felt closer to Jazz than most other people he knew and that was going to work in Jazz’s favour. It could be that as long as Jazz didn’t think too deeply about it, perhaps Mad Pete was one of only a few people that he felt comfortable with. Both would argue that they had nothing but contempt for each, but that was not quite true.
They ate the McDonald’s which had gone a bit cold by now. The chips had gone rubbery but were still full of flavour for the discerning, and the coffee was hot. They both lit cigarettes and enjoyed the after-dinner feeling of inhaling deep into the lungs and then blowing smoke out of the nose, giving that satisfied feeling. Mad Pete’s smoke was a spliff but Jazz let that pass. Relaxed and quiet now, Jazz asked where the DVD had been filmed. He said he knew who had filmed it, but he didn’t know why. He knew Mad Pete was the biggest eavesdropper in the world and if there was anything to hear he was always in the right place at the right time.
Glad to be warm, fed and enjoying a spliff, Mad Pete was almost ready to talk. Jazz gave him assurances he was safe, that no one would know he’d told him anything. Begrudgingly Mad Pete agreed and, with the further incentive that Jazz would stick a taser up his arse if he didn’t speak soon, he sat forward and in whispers told him everything he knew.
He had been in The Pig and Poke. Freddie Link was partial to the good shit and Mad Pete knew where to get it for him. He’d been on an errand and was looking for Freddie in the pub. Freddie was in the back room away from prying eyes. The pub was closed so Mad Pete made his way around the pub looking for him. Outside the back room he heard voices. He knew it was The Bird Man; everyone knew the sound of his voice. He got a bit scared but the conversation got interesting.
He heard something about a fucking bastard who was to be whacked and then something about taking him to a place called Piddlesham. ‘I had to get out of the way, Mr Singh, I could hear them moving in the room. I went into the bar and sat in a corner until The Bird Man left. Then I went to find Freddie in the back room to give him his shit but he wasn’t there. I did find the DVD just sitting on a table so I took it and left. I could see Freddie another time.’
Jazz knew it was unusual to get a connection between The Bird Man and one of his men, especially Freddie who was a particularly nasty piece of work. ‘Where the fuck is Piddlesham?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure he said Piddlesham?’
Mad Pete looked nonplussed. ‘Dunno, it ain’t in Barking, Mr Singh, that’s for sure.’ With what was almost a sense of humour surfacing, he snorted, ‘All the pissheads, piss takers and piss artists must come from Piddlesham.’ He rocked with laughter for a few moments until he realized Jazz wasn’t laughing with him. Jazz told him to stay put, he was off to find out where Piddlesham was. Before Mad Pete went all panic-stricken he added that no one would know he’d told him anything and he was safe here in his flat. Mad Pete was scared but realistic; he nodded and told Jazz to get it sorted and keep him safe. As he left, Jazz heard the multitude of locks on Mad Pete’s door being shut and bolted. He knew he would be safe in there for a while.
It was very late now. Jazz rang Tom Black and told him about Piddlesham and how The Bird Man and Freddie Link were involved. Tom Black said he would check on the internet to see if he could find such a place. Jazz was on his way into the police station to do the same. It was 11 p.m. when he got there and Tom was having no luck. They decided to look for coastal and riverways fairly close to Barking, reckoning the men wouldn’t have gone too far. After painstaking searching the only place they came up with was Paglesham. It sounded a bit like Piddlesham, and it was on the River Roach in Essex, quite close to Rochford. When they zoomed in on it on Google Earth they could see barges there. It was close enough to London and even though they were tired and wanted to go home, they felt sure this must be the place. They arranged to meet the next morning and travel to this strange place out in the far reaches of Essex.
On the way home Jazz picked up a bottle of vodka from the 24-hour Tesco close by. He needed a drink badly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Life on the dark side
Ash sat quietly waiting but it had been thirty minutes now, and he was getting a bit concerned. He didn’t really want to go back out into the pub; it had been quite worrying to be watched so intently. Hesitantly he tried the door, intending to peek outside. Nothing happened. He tried again, this time turning the handle quite frantically and pulling at the door; it was definitely locked. For a moment panic set in. He was about to bang on the door and shout for someone to open it, but he contained himself. His breathing sounded shaky as he thought about what he could do.
Of course, his mobile was in his coat! He dialed Jazz’s number and waited. Nothing happened. ‘Damn it,’ he thought; there was no signal in the room. He looked around and realized he must be in a type of Faraday cage. The windows had bars on them; it was, after all, a pub storeroom full of cigarettes, spirits, and petty cash. He noticed that the door was metal and he presumed it was impossible to pick up any signal with lined metal shelves around the room.
He banged again on the metal door and shouted, ‘Is there, erm, anyone there?’ He got no response and he realized he actually couldn’t hear anything. The pub had been full of people, chatting and shouting, but Ash couldn’t hear any of it. He presumed the metal door was lined as well, perhaps to stop someone breaking in.
He didn’t know why he’d been locked in and the more he thought about it, the angrier he became. How dare they do this to a member of the Metropolitan Police and a Detective Constable to boot? He was making plans to arrest the publican for imprisoning a Met Detective when he heard a key in the door.
The first thing he saw was George Phillips’ affable, smiling face. He was full of apologies for leaving Ash for so long. He told him that Jimmy had just left the pub when he’d gone out to look for him. A friend of Jimmy’s who was there said he was just down the road, so George had gone looking for him.
Suddenly George developed a very Irish lilt to his affable talk. He looked at Ash and, with a sincerity that had to be seen to believed, said, ‘God love yer, DC Kumar, I was just trying to help you and got carried away looking for Jimmy.’ Ash, still mad, asked why the hell he had been locked in and left for so long. George’s face was a picture of disbelief and then horror. ‘Oh jeez and God help and forgive me, DC Kumar, I locked you in?’ Before Ash could answer he went on, ‘I lock the door as habit always. God, these people are thieving bastards and I never leave the door unlocked. Oh Mother Mary and all that is good, what can I do to make it up to you? I know, I’ll buy you that drink in the bar. You can’t be on duty any longer, right? It’s so late.’ Stroking his chin, he added, ‘I am gonna find you that Jimmy if it’s the last thing I do. I gotta make it up to you.’ Good-naturedly he put his hand on Ash’s back and walked him towards the door. ‘There’s someone in the bar I think you might want to speak with.’
Ash allowed himself to be pushed along, unable to get a word in edgeways. Feeling that he was being helped, he willingly and stupidly allowed himself to be trapped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The only way is Essex
Tom Black arrived early, and immediately got on the phone to Eddie Willoughby at Essex Police Marine Unit based in Burnham. A harassed Eddie listened to the tale about a barge that had run over a man in ‘Piddlesham’, and could he help find the place. Eddie laughed; Piddlesham was most probably Paglesham, just around the corner from them, near Rochford and Southend. He added that there were also barges moored there. Tom sighed with relief. Just as he was about to ask for help, Eddie told him that, as much as he would like to help, it was impossible at the moment.
Before Tom could add a but, Eddie liste
d his problems. He had not only Essex to cover but Kent as well, not to mention the Olympics in London and the Counter Terrorism team they were working with. Taking a breath he added that he was short-staffed and had only eight men working for him; if you took holidays, sickness, and training days into account he was down to so few he could hardly cope with the work in hand.
Tom asked what he could do to help and Eddie suggested he contact Gary Nunn, the boatman based at Paglesham. Nunn was a font of all knowledge for the area and if anyone could help he could. Eddie added as a cautionary tale that Gary was his best contact but he was a wily old devil and as slippery as a handful of eels in a bucket of snot so Tom should beware: Gary could always be found at the Plough and Sail pub at lunchtime.
It was all a bit of a disappointment. Tom had fancied riding in one of the patrol boats, which apparently could reach 70 mphand that sounded pretty good. Before he said goodbye he gave it one more try. He asked if there was a chance that one of their patrol boats, Alert VI, Vigilant or Watchful, were in the area; perhaps they could thumb a lift? ‘No chance, matey,’ laughed Eddie and he hung up.
Bleary-eyed and feeling a tad on the sick side of healthy, Jazz arrived in Ilford Police canteen at 9 a.m. to meet Tom Black. Both were in need of a strong black coffee. The lovely Milly brought it over to them along with a bacon sandwich for Jazz. Tom had to queue for his sandwich, which made Jazz smirk.
Tom had arranged an undercover car to take them to Paglesham. It took another ten minutes to find it on a map. Paglesham was a village set away from Rochford, near Southend. It was a village in two parts, Paglesham Church End and Paglesham East End, separated by farmland.
After a few sips of coffee to help their brains, it was decided that it would take about an hour or so to get there in the daytime traffic. The A13 was always a bloody nightmare during the day.
On the way, guided by the Satnav, they tried to work out why The Bird Man might have wanted Johnny Peters murdered in such a way. He wasn’t usually that creative and what the hell was the link between the two men?
The traffic on part of the A13 was moving very slowly; fed up and wanting to get there, they put the blue lights on. This always worked and it wasn’t long before they reached Sadlers Farm, another nightmare with all the road works. Once past Sadlers Farm it felt as if they were in another world. There were fields and winding roads and blue skies. They speculated that a village so far out of London must be full of six-fingered inbreds. They laughed at the thought of who they might have to talk to and if the interviewees would understand London English. This was way out of their radar and league.
They reached the Plough and Sail in good time for lunch. The pub was what they had expected: quaint, little, and old, with locals sitting outside amongst flowers in pots. It was a pretty place, they’d give it that. Tom Black was more familiar with the countryside than Jazz who, Tom realised, had never ventured far outside of London. Jazz had seen Manchester but that was a lot like London. Motorways let you see countryside but you don’t ever get close to it. Paglesham was real and it didn’t feel comfortable. Jazz understood towns and city people but this was different.
Both Jazz and Tom, in dark glasses and looking tired and mean, could have been mistaken by the locals watching them for a pair of villains as opposed to Met detectives.
They went inside the pub and Tom asked if Gary Nunn was about. At the mention of his name, a weathered man looked up from his glass and asked who was wanting Gary. Tom and Jazz sat down beside him. They couldn’t quite figure out his age; he looked pretty old but they could see the strength in his hands and back. Perhaps he was about forty, but his weather-beaten skin made him look twenty years older.
After introducing themselves, Jazz asked Gary if he knew anything about a group of men coming to Paglesham Boatyard one night within the last few weeks. He said there would have been lights flashing and muted voices, perhaps screaming and the sound of a barge engine. Obviously Gary wasn’t someone who spoke quickly; he considered his comments for a long time before he spoke. After a pregnant pause he moved, making Tom and Jazz sit up expectantly, but Gary was just reaching for his beer.
‘Well,’ he said, and then there was silence again. Jazz was getting impatient now; he wondered if this man was a cretin or a comedian. It felt a little like he was having them over. ‘Have you any comment at all, sir?’ asked Tom Black.
Gary looked up slowly and grinned. ‘Well, it’s like this, sir, we have some funny goings-on down here in Paglesham. What you described could have been the Canewdon Witches Coven meeting by the water’s edge. They do this every now and then. It don’t do to be out and about when the Canewdon Witches are casting their spells.’
Jazz looked agog. ‘Really?’
Gary leaned a little closer and whispered, ‘Oh yes, really, sir. Paglesham Boatyard has been cursed many times by the Witches, you know.’ At another time Jazz and Tom would have gone into good-cop bad-cop mode to encourage Gary into co-operating, but it didn’t seem appropriate here. They weren’t sure what to say.
Gary added that on the night of the full moon lights had been seen for about three hours in the boatyard. No one would venture there in case it was the Canewdon Witches; they never took well to being watched. His brow wrinkled as he remembered that a barge engine had been heard that night; the sound had travelled through the night air. The screams had been put down to the call of the foxes. Jazz asked if he could take them to the boatyard so they could see the barges. Gary Nunn nodded. ‘First,’ he said, ‘would you like to sample a Wallasea Wench? You just can’t come here and not do that.’
Jazz tried not to laugh. Was this a local custom? In a suitably controlled voice he thanked Gary kindly for the offer but said he preferred to pick his own women. Gary laughed heartily. ‘It ain’t a woman, it’s a beer.’ Tom and Jazz declined; they really needed to get on and would like to go now.
But Gary wouldn’t be rushed. He added that to get to Paglesham Boatyard they would need to travel there by boat. ‘What? Where the fuck is this pissing boatyard then?’ Jazz was getting seriously fed up with all this mucking about.
Gary, taking all this in his stride, told them it would take a while to get there but if they came now while the tide was coming in, he would get them there. ‘But I ain’t going nowhere without payment,’ he added. ‘It’s my boat and it costs.’
Tom Black, also fuming, tried to control his temper and asked how much it would cost.
‘It will take a while,’ said Gary, ‘and my day rate is £240.’
In unison Tom and Jazz said, ‘No way are we paying that sort of money.’
Gary looked at them calmly and said he would give them a discount because they were police, so it would cost them £195.
Jazz smiled. ‘We don’t carry that sort of money on us so we can’t pay.’
‘Then give me your credit card number and details,’ said Gary. ‘I can do the payment on my phone. You’ll get expenses when you get back.
At last they were all in Gary’s old rusty Vauxhall Estate heading to Wallasea, a fifteen-minute ride away. Wallasea had a huge marina with beautiful yachts moored there. They walked along a pontoon that seemed to go on for ages, past many Fairline Luxury yachts, which Gary said were known locally as gin palaces. Tom and Jazz looked open-mouthed at row after row of dazzling white and sky-blue modern luxury yachts they’d thought you only saw on the telly in places like Monaco and Cannes. Gary saw how impressed they were and grumbled, ‘Half of ‘em haven’t a clue what to do. They just go up and down the river towards Burnham-on-Crouch and annoy the seals that congregate on the island. And most are drunk.’
At the end of the luxury line-up of yachts, they found the smallest, rustiest and ugliest tug boat they had ever seen. Gary pointed proudly and said, ‘Welcome to Nancy, she knows what she’s doing and will give you a good ride.’
Jazz whispered to Tom, ‘Is everything sexual with this man?’ They both laughed.
Nancy was wet, slimy and chilly. She had no
cabin so they sat at the rear, feeling cold. Gary untied her ropes and turned the engine. She caught with a loud roar and they could feel her power. ‘Does she go very fast?’ Tom enquired expectantly. ‘She goes pretty good and her ride will be pretty smooth,’ was all they were told.
They set off past Wallasea Island and on to the River Roach. As if they were on a guided tour, Gary told them about what was happening on Wallasea Island. Apparently the RSPB was going to transform the island back into a magical inter-tidal coastal marshland. Jazz hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, but Tom was actually quite interested. He had a great love of the countryside but down Dorset way was his haven. The Wallasea Project was to raise the lowland level. It had started in early 2008 when they were approached by Crossrail, the company that was building a major new railway connection under Central London. Crossrail was looking for a beneficiary to reuse the clean soil from their tunneling. It was going to transform 1,500 acres of tidal wildlife habitat. It would take billions of tons of aggregate. The project was long-term and continuous.
At this point Jazz got interested and asked how the soil was transported from Central London to Wallasea; he was hoping to hear it was with B4 Transport, The Bird Man’s Company which would be a result. Gary didn’t have to think. ‘It goes by barge from London down the Thames to Southend, chuck a left when you reach Foulness Sands, round the Maplin Edge to the Whittaker Beacon and bung a left at the Beacon into the Crouch. Watch out for the seals at the Buxey Buoy. Piece of cake!’