The Godfathers of London

by M. C. Dutton

  Jazz awoke the next morning with a lot on his mind. He went into Ilford Police Station to start work on the report. God, it was going to be awful to write with so much to write about, and so much that mustn’t be made public. The other teams were on form with, Ash was a jammy git, still alive in your company but only just by all accounts. Jazz was told that there had been a book set up on how long Ash would survive and to date someone had won a bit of it because they had bet on near-death scrapes.

  The book was ongoing, and more money had been put into it by those who had seen what had happened to date to Ash. Someone suggested that instead of a nickname of The Jazz Singer he should be called The Grim Reaper. Actually Jazz laughed at that; they could never know that it was true because Vinnie James was part of the Eddie Grimshaw gang and his sons were the Brothers Grim. He was going to get his leg pulled continually for quite some time. Not all of it was in jest; some thought Jazz was a bad officer who put the lives of others at risk. No one wanted to work with him except Tom Black and he had been warned off.

  Jazz had a job to do for The Bird Man as promised, but before he did that he needed a cup of tea and a 999 breakfast to see him on his way. That would set him up for the day and help take the nasty taste out of his mouth for helping The Bird Man. At least Milly would be pleased to see him.

  In the canteen Milly, as usual, dropped everything to serve him. His 999 breakfast took precedence over all other ordered breakfasts and came to him in minutes. He gave Milly a grateful kiss on the cheek, and cockily blew a kiss to the group of officers who’d been made to wait and were now shouting abuse in his direction. He didn’t make his life any easier with that attitude but he really didn’t care.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Chirpy chirpy cheep cheep

  Jazz had made the call earlier. He rang a Mr Ernest Blower from Maidstone, Kent. He said that he was Mr Blower’s greatest fan and, as a Senior Police Officer in the Metropolitan Police, he would like to buy his latest addition from him. Mr Ernest Blower was a belligerent and tetchy man who upset everyone he came into contact with. He had no time for people, he told Jazz. The only people he liked a bit were the police.

  He had the greatest respect for the police because they’d helped him enormously when his house was broken into many years ago. They’d given him good advice on installing safety features. Mr Blower lived alone and was a confirmed bachelor. The police were the first and last people to enter his home for many years and he liked it that way.

  When he had outbuildings put up in his extensive garden he called the police to ask for help in what he should do to stop anyone breaking into them, and a very nice police officer had come around and introduced himself as a Community Police Officer dealing with home security. They’d had a cup of tea together, and the officer was very helpful and kind. Thus Mr Blower was very pro-police and said he would do anything to help them if he could.

  Jazz made an appointment to visit Mr Blower that afternoon. He wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. It felt strange and wrong, but he’d promised The Bird Man he would do it.

  Mr Blower lived frugally in a bungalow on the edge of a common. He had a large sideway which had a big fence across it. The roofs of the outhouses on the other side of the fence were just visible. Mr Blower let Jazz into a sparsely furnished lounge. It had a dark old-fashioned look to it, like something you would have seen after the Second World War. The furniture was plain but functional, with a dull multi-coloured carpet that had seen better days. The armchairs all faced the tiled fireplace that held a gas fire. Mr Blower made a cup of tea for each of them and brought it into the room and put it on the table. Jazz reckoned Mr Blower wasn’t as old as he looked. He looked about sixty but his skin belied that fact; perhaps he was no more than forty-five. He wore a small droopy moustache and he obviously cut his own hair with the dog clippers Jazz saw on the sideboard. He nearly giggled when he thought that dog clippers were apt, because this man had a hangdog expression.

  He tried to make small talk and chatted about the weather, but Mr Blower wasn’t used to chitchat. Although he professed to like the police he was getting decidedly agitated and aggravated by this officer wasting his time. With no sociable manners and bursting with annoyance, he asked, ‘What do you want, man? I have things to do and I need to get on.’

  Jazz was used to being affable and getting his way by chatting and being sociable, but he had to change tack very quickly because he couldn’t afford to lose Mr Blower’s interest or goodwill.

  He explained that he knew of Mr Blower as an experienced shower of budgerigars, and that he had consistently had the Best Show in the National and World Show. Jazz explained that his dear old dad was an amateur keeper of budgerigars and, although he didn’t show them, he prized them beyond belief. Mr Blower nearly smiled at this. He understood the love of budgerigars. He loved his birds and would sit in the shed with them just listening to them sing and chirp. He told Jazz he had over three hundred birds in his sheds outside if Jazz cared to look at them. Enthusiastically, Jazz said he would love to.

  The sheds took up most of the garden. Mr Blower explained he had his aviaries but he also had his breeding cages and the cages where he reared the chicks, and then he noted them on cards and tagged them. Yes, it was a fulltime job and he had a small disability pension, but his inheritance allowed him to indulge in his hobby.

  Having now got the measure of Mr Blower Jazz reckoned he knew what his disability was: his lack of personality and social behaviour. Mr Blower was used to living alone so it never occurred to him that you don’t burp and fart as you discuss, in company, the finer points of keeping birds.

  Now, to the point of Jazz coming here – which Jazz needed to handle very delicately and carefully. ‘Mr Blower, I have come to you to ask a very special favour. My dear old Dad, who will turn seventy next week, has always longed for a potential winner amongst his budgerigars. He doesn’t want to show them, just love and adore them. My dad was a police officer for forty years and he served his country and district well – I would love to give him a potential winner as a birthday present.’

  He looked at Mr Blower to see what response he was getting and noted he was getting nothing back. Undaunted, he continued. ‘Mr Blower, you are the best in the land for breeding beautiful and magnificent budgerigars. I couldn’t go to anyone else. I’ll pay whatever it takes to own one of your beautiful birds. I want to make my dad happy. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have him and I want the memory of his face when I give him this wonderful present.’ He was surprised to see tears glistening in Mr Blower’s eyes.

  Mr Blower, wiping away a tear, seemed quite overwhelmed by such a love for birds; he asked which bird Jazz would like for his dad. Jazz asked if it was possible to have one of the chicks from last year’s winner. He almost winced at asking such a huge thing. It was common sense that a chick from a winner would be very expensive. But Mr Blower was very amenable. He said he had bred several batches and had a few rather good-quality birds with beautiful spots, and the potential to be winners. ‘I have a male and female from two different winners that your father might be interested to breed from. They are, of course, not my best birds – they are for the next competition – but they come from the best stock.’

  Jazz, amazed that he’d been offered two, was very grateful indeed. He asked how much the chicks would be and Mr Blower said very warmly he was happy to help the police, so it would be a gift from him. He put the birds in two boxes and Jazz thanked him again and went on his way. God, he thought, he was the dog’s bollocks as far as The Bird Man was concerned. He’d got what he wanted and another bird to boot!

  He went straight to The Bird Man’s house. He was expected; The Bird Man knew where Jazz had been and was waiting impatiently for him. Jazz presented the two boxes and The Bird Man scuttled away like a child with a new toy. Jazz had never seen this side of the bastard before. Almost singing as he took the boxes, The Bird Man said he would be back in a moment. Jazz waited in the litt
le shed for what must have been nearly an hour. He was beginning to wonder if he should have gone when the door burst open, startling him.

  The Bird Man was very pleased indeed. The birds were wonderful, and good stock. The fact that Jazz had been given a male and a female was unheard of. ‘You don’t give breeding pairs away like that,’ Jazz was told. How had he done it? When Jazz had told his story, The Bird Man laughed and suggested that perhaps he could find an opening for Jazz in his organization. He could do with someone who could work outside the box. Jazz declined the invitation.

  He was curious, though. He asked The Bird Man why he hadn’t gone to get the birds himself. He was powerful enough to scare most people into giving him what he wanted. The Bird Man explained that Mr Ernest Blower was a cantankerous old bastard who was very strange and lived alone. He wasn’t clever enough to be frightened of anyone. In fact, if he thought he could piss someone off he would do it for the hell of it. He didn’t have any associates or friends and was unapproachable. He knew The Bird Man of Barking wanted one of his chicks and he’d done everything in his power to make sure he never got one of them.

  In fact, when approached the first time by The Bird Man and asked if he would sell one of his prize chicks, Mr Blower had gone out of his way to be as belligerent and unhelpful as he could. The Bird Man could have had him maimed and his birds taken, but he was in the legitimate area of showing budgerigars and he didn’t want to ruin his reputation. Everyone in those circles knew everyone else’s business and he didn’t want to get into any of that by sorting out Mr Blower. He proudly said he had a good reputation in the budgerigar showing world.

  He reminded Jazz that he had been told about Mr Blower’s deference to police and to use it. He was impressed Jazz had used it so well. He’d repaid his debt with interest. Jazz turned as he left, and said that one day they would lock horns again and this time he would win. The Bird Man laughed and told him he was kidding himself. He shouted down the path, ‘Try and keep this DC alive for a bit longer.’ Jazz flinched but didn’t turn around.

  It was getting late now and he didn’t want to go straight home. He went to the Gudwara. He felt at peace there. The eating area was known as ‘Langar’. Every Sikh was expected to perform ‘Sewa’, a selfless serving of others in the community. Deepak had instilled this in Jazz as a Sikh. There were three different parts of Sewa:

  Tan: physical service, e.g. working in the langar and helping to look after the gudwara

  Man: mental service, e.g. studying the Guru Granth Sahib Ji and teaching it to others

  Dhan: material service to other people, e.g. giving money to charities or giving time to help people who are in need

  Jazz wasn’t sure what he was doing here but he wanted to do something. Coming to the Gudwara and helping in the langar made him feel better and of use. Deepak wasn’t there but he picked up a tea towel and started to dry up in the kitchen. Others there just nodded hello and got on with it. Some were washing up, and others serving the food as people arrived for worship and then came into the langar to eat, or just came to sit and eat and talk. The gossiping aunties were sitting on the floor of the langar and cutting up onions by the sackful for the next dal dish (which is lentil curry, to the uninitiated).

  Jazz felt at peace to be doing something good. Today hadn’t felt right. He’d conned Mr Blower with a story that wasn’t true to get a good breeding bird for The Bird Man. This was the only way he could think of to make some sort of amends. Whilst he was at it, he should probably do something to make amends for how he’d got Ash into so much trouble. Okay, he argued with himself, the idiot got himself into trouble – but Jazz should have watched him. Nevertheless, Ash was alive and going to be all right.

  Jazz stayed at the Gudwara for an hour and left to go home feeling a bit more like a Sikh, having done something selfless.

  He got home and went quietly up to his room. He had picked up a pizza. He could have eaten at the Gudwara but what they had there would have made him sick; he didn’t like dal. He watched a bit of cricket that was being played in Australia, while drinking a few glasses of vodka and orange. For the first time in what felt like an age, he was relaxed and enjoying being off-duty and doing his own thing. Life had been hectic and he was glad of a bit of empty time. Tomorrow he should find out if his plan had worked.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Retributions and regrets

  He had to go and talk to that shit head Mad Pete. There were going to be lots of things to sort out with that two-faced rat. One: was he in cohorts with the South London Gang? He was too much in the right place at the right time and there had been talk of someone blabbing to Eddie Grimshaw about the Barge Murder. He knew Mad Pete was a slime ball but he was his slime ball, and he wanted to make sure he never talked about his work to anyone. But that would have to wait. There was something else he needed to check. He rang Mad Pete and said he was on his way and he had better stay put in his flat until he arrived.

  Mad Pete was waiting for him. He said he had to go out soon, that he had work to do. Jazz bit his tongue. He knew Mad Pete’s ‘work’, as he called it, was supplying drugs and fencing mobile phones and iPads and anything small and electronic. He didn’t want to think about that now. He’d brought coffees and two breakfasts from McDonald’s. They sat and ate in silence, enjoying the sausage and egg McMuffins.

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, Mr Singh,’ said Mad Pete.

  ‘I thought you might have.’ Jazz had been expecting this and he waited comfortably.

  ‘I just heard from my contacts that Bam Bam committed suicide last night in prison,’ said Mad Pete. In response to Jazz’s really! he looked sharply at Jazz. ‘You knew that, didn’t you, Mr Singh. I can tell.’

  Jazz said nothing. He just asked how it happened.

  Incredulously Mad Pete answered, ‘Well, it’s strange, Mr Singh. Bam Bam dived head first from the top floor of the wing onto the cheese grater about thirty to forty feet below.’ (A cheese grater is a wire mess netting fastened tightly across from balcony to balcony that stops missiles thrown from above hitting anyone on the ground. It usually sits about fifteen feet above the ground floor). Mad Pete went on, ‘He must have meant it because if he had fallen on his back or stomach he would have bounced and although a bit messy he would have lived. But the silly bleeder landed head first and that just mashed him up.’

  Jazz asked why they thought it was suicide and Mad Pete said because there was no one with him at the time; although there were cameras, they went off in a power cut for a short while and it was during the cut that this happened.

  Mad Pete was thinking, which was something he shouldn’t do. ‘Mr Singh, has this got anything to do with the Triads I contacted for you? It just seems such a coincidence.’ Jazz shrugged and said that coincidences do happen. He reminded Mad Pete that there were questions he would ask him in the near future about his association with Eddie Grimshaw in South London. He said pointedly that Mad Pete should remember coincidences can happen at any time.

  Mad Pete nodded furiously and said he was good for anything Mr Singh needed, no worries. It was enough to keep Mad Pete where he should be: frightened, nervous of Mr Singh, and deferential, just the way Jazz liked him.

  As for The Bird Man of Barking, he was going to keep an eye on all the aggregate being taken by barge to Wallasea Island in Essex to protect the birds for the RSPB project. Jazz knew The Bird Man had buried a lot of bodies over the years in that aggregate, and The Bird Man knew that Jazz had worked it out. It made Jazz smile to knowing that The Bird Man would always be on tenterhooks, wondering if Jazz was going to do anything. It put him in the firing line to be topped but The Bird Man would have known Jazz would put that information somewhere safe in case he was got rid of. They would live in an uneasy relationship and that suited Jazz down to the ground. One day he was going to get The Bird Man banged up and there would be no mistakes on that one. He could wait.

  Everything was going well. He had waited for the right time a
nd now Bam Bam was dead. He had a confidential word with the Triad. He’d given them an idea of what Bam Bam had done to them, stirring it well with lots of suggestions of disrespect and grassing them up. You didn’t mess with the Triad, and it seemed to have had the desired effect. The meeting had been strange; he had talked and they had listened, looking inscrutable. He had left hoping his words had sunk in and had made them mad enough to do something about Bam Bam. They were never going to tell him what they thought or what they would do, but Jazz knew they wouldn’t let such disrespect go unpunished. Bam Bam was dead. It had made Jazz’s day. The bastard had got what he deserved and he raised his flask to the memory of DC Tony Sepple.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  I’ll tell you a story

  He spent the day in Ilford Police Station trying to put together the patchwork of what had happened over the last few days. It wasn’t easy but with the help of his trusty flask and a little imagination he wove a very convincing story that ended with a murderer being found. He bigged up Ash’s part in the story, making him into a hero, which he hoped Ash would live up to.

  He still got the jibes of ‘cop killer’, and they were back to the old chestnut of They seek him here, they seek him there, they can’t find that bloody Sikh anywhere. But his back was broad and strong and he lived with the jibes and even laughed at some of them.

  He was Jaswinder Singh, the Jazz Singer, and this was his manor and he was going to stay put and sod the lot of them!

  CHAPTER FORTY- SIX

  Later

  That night he went home relaxed, knowing Ash had been returned to his family intact and was being made a fuss of. He would start his treatment at Goring by Sea in a week’s time. Bam Bam was dead, so all was well with the world.