“Is the manager in, love?” he enquired of the little old lady within.
Edna Timmins looked the sergeant over for a moment before dismissing him as a creature of minimal intellect.
“No, he’s out,” she replied. She lifted a black bin bag and emptied the wastepaper basket into it. “I’m the cleaning lady. There’s no-one else here yet, but didn’t the doorman tell you that?”
“I think he had other things on his mind,” added the sergeant.
“Can I take a message?” asked Edna T.
“Just tell him Sergeant Terse was looking for him.”
“Was there anything else?” she asked.
“Only that if he doesn’t call me back today I may have to pay him another visit when the club’s open. Oh and you’d better phone for an ambulance, there’s an injured policeman outside. I don’t know; these young coppers are very accident prone.”
She lifted the phone and called for the ambulance. There was more to him than she had first thought. Oh yes, he was certainly stupid, but brave and dedicated for all that.
Anyone who could get the better of Fat Larry was no slouch with his fists either. She was going to need to up the stakes from now on.
Part Thirty-Three
Ray Decca was always in a bad mood after an interview with Sergeant Terse. The man was simultaneously an incorrigible idiot and the best man he had on his team, and he could never decide which of the two had the upper hand from one minute to the next.
Give the man a routine enquiry and there would be bodies piled up everywhere in no time. The episode at Leptospirosis was just the latest in a long list of examples. Yet give him something difficult to do and he would sail through it like a small child programming a DVD recorder. It was this eternal contrariness that drove Decca mad.
The phone on his desk started ringing.
“Decca.”
“Morrison here. Can you spare me a minute? I have Charlie Chow of the Organised Crime and Triad Bureau in my office. I thought you should hear his briefing at first hand.”
“Ordinarily sir I’d be delighted, but I’ve rather an important domestic matter to sort out first,” said Ray Decca, apologetically.
“Domestic matter? Poppycock man! I need you in on this one, Decca.”
He could see that it wasn’t going to be easy. “To be frank sir, it’s Sheila.”
“Sheila?”
“My wife, Sir,” explained Decca.
“Ah, yes.”
“We’ve been going through a rough patch lately, what with all the overtime on the Scarlatti case. I’ve got an appointment at the Marriage Guidance Council this afternoon. Sheila is counting on me being there.”
“I sympathise, Decca, but you must appreciate that this is a unique opportunity to talk openly with a specialist in Triad operations. I won’t order you to attend but I’ll take a pretty dim view if you choose not to. I’m sure you can rearrange your appointment.”
“I’ll speak to Sheila, Sir.” Even as he said it he knew he wouldn’t; that he couldn’t face her. Whatever it said on his marriage certificate, he was married to the job.
Chow was a slightly built Hong Kong Chinese who smoked something that smelt like dope, but couldn’t be, surely? It was all part of his public persona.
Decca offered him his hand. “Ray Decca, Inspector CID.”
“Pleesed to meet yu, Inspector Sid, Charlie Chow, Ho Cee Tee Bee.”
It sounded like gibberish until he realized that Chow was referring to the “OCTB” or Organised Crime and Triad Bureau.
“No, Decca, Ray Decca.”
“Charlie was just telling me about the Ho Wop Do, Decca.”
It sounded like a doo-wop number from the 1970’s and reminded him of the last time he and Sheila had been dancing together.
“Ho Wop Do, Sir?”
“Apparently, the name of the Triad operating in the Cheltenham area.”
“So our sources were correct,” said Decca.
“Sauces hinspector?” queried Chow, thinking of lunch.
“Oh, just some local reports, Charlie.”
“Eddie Hu asked me to give you a bliefing Chief Sluperhintendent Mollison,” said Chow, like a parody of himself.
“A bliefing?” queried Morrison.
“Solly Sir, I must get these dentures flixed,” explained Charlie Chow.
“It would appear, Decca, that Cheltenham is in the control of the Ho Wop Do. They moved in and took over all the illegal rackets going, and set up a few that weren’t,” said CS Morrison, gravely.
The diminutive Mr Chow affixed a piece of blu-tac to the back of his dental plate, re-inserted it and continued:
“That’s better. The Ho Wop Do or “Hodo” was set up in Hong Kong by a mysterious figure called Leslie Chang, commonly known as ‘the Baron’. No-one knows for sure what he looks like, although his code name in Hodo is King Prawn as he’s very partial to seafood. As you know, when Hong Kong reverted to China in 1997 many of the Triads relocated to the USA; San Francisco, Los Angeles, even San Diego. The Baron went to Cheltenham.”
“So why did this guy Prawn Cracker or whatever choose Cheltenham?” asked Morrison
“He’s a racing fanatic and a big-time gambler. The other rackets; the drugs, the pornography and the rest were all run to secure funds for his gambling obsession.
Men like him live to gamble and as his favourite race was always the Gold Cup he made the customary donations to the Labour party and set himself up there in a luxury Regency apartment.”
“Tell us more about the rackets they run. What are they up to?” asked Decca.
“Who, the Labour party?”
“No, everyone knows about them, I mean the Ho Wop Do,” said Decca.
“What aren’t they up to would be nearer the mark. I wouldn’t put it past them to try to fix the Gold Cup itself, by any means possible.”
“What, nobble the favourite?” queried Morrison, aghast.
“Certainly. Then there are the betting scams, kidnapping, horsenapping, catnapping and washing dirty money.”
“You mean laundering?” asked Ray Decca.
“Yes, that too. And, of course, there’s dentures,” continued Chow.
“Good God man! They haven’t infiltrated the British Dental Association! Is nothing sacred?” Chief Superintendent Morrison was by now in a state of high anxiety.
“Dentures is the codename for drugs, Sir,” added Decca.
“Of course. I knew that, Ray, what do you take me for?”
“So this King Prawn character, what front is he using in Cheltenham? Presumably they also run legitimate businesses?” asked Decca.
“Oh, the usual stuff, Chinese restaurants, Chinese laundries, a hotel or two and the casino.”
“And in Prestbury Park itself?” queried Morrison.
“You can be sure he has an inside team, especially on race days,” confirmed Chow.
“Who’s in it?” Ray Decca had already forgotten his appointment with Sheila.
“It could be anyone; the bookies, the jellied-eel sellers, the catering franchise holders, the bar staff, you name it.”
“Can you give us the names and modus operandi of any members of the Ho Wop Do operating in the area?” asked Decca.
“I’ll gladly share my files on those suspected of being in the UK,” said Charlie Chow.
“Thanks, Charlie,” said Decca. “It seems to me the immediate concern is the stable yards in the run up to this year’s Gold Cup. Do the Triads run their own?”
“For sure, inspector, but we can watch them, the bigger challenge is what they get up to in other people’s yards.”
“They bribe trainers and stable-hands then?” asked Ray Decca.
“They own them,” said Chow, simply.
It looks like my overtime costs will be going through the roof again this month, thought Decca, irritably.
Part Thirty-Four
“I’d like sausage, eggs, bacon, toms, mushies, beans, oh and some fried bread.” said Mi
ke.
“And to drink?” asked the waitress.
“Tea with four sugars.”
“And you…?” She had been about to call him ‘sir’ before she caught sight of Hymie and decided you could only stretch a point, or a word, so far.
“The same, but with black coffee,” he said.
The waitress turned back to the serving hatch.
“Two cardiac specials, Harry!”
They sat in the Black Kat after what seemed like days of travel on public transport.
“It’s good to be home…or nearly home anyway,” said Hymie. “I thought we’d better get some grub before returning to the office, Mike. I can’t face ancient Rome at this time of day on an empty stomach.”
“Know whatcher mean, H. Things haven’t been too rosy lately have they? I don’t half miss being a bouncer. I’d wake up around noon, have a full English breakfast and do nothing for the rest of the day until it was time to check in at the club. Then I’d get a bit of exercise chucking people out and before you’d know it, it was time to go home again. Even the traffic was lighter on the graveyard shift.” A wistful look, flitted across his granite features.
“Don’t you start, Mike! People are forever prattling on about the good old days. Take the Sixties. They reckon if you can remember them, you weren’t there, as if that sounds impressive. What a load of garbage!”
“Oh I dunno, the music was better then,” said Mike, defensively.
“Are you kidding? It’s collective brainwashing. Cliff Richard? The Stones? Absolute tosh. As for the Beach Boys, I’d rather have a heap of manure dumped on my swivel chair than listen to another track from “Pet Sounds”. It’s all dreadfully overrated and I really object to still having to listen to the geriatric perishers just because the only people who can afford to go to concerts and buy CD’s any more are middle aged,” said Hymie, incensed.
“Like yourself you mean? only with cash, obviously,” said Mike, smiling. “I was forgetting you’re such a cool dude, H., but I don’t think any of the Sixties legends you’ve got it in for will lose much sleep over it; they’re laughing all the way to the bank.”
“Even the food was worse then,” continued Hymie. “No choice of takeaways at all; it was chips or nothing, no Kentucky Fried Chicken, no McDonalds, and if you’d asked for a pizza, they’d have said ‘piece of what, mate?’ No, the Sixties should be sealed in a lead canister and buried somewhere with instructions not to be re-opened until after I’m dead,” Hymie concluded.
“That soon, H.? Well, I don’t care what you say, I quite liked that Livin’ Doll”
Hymie looked at him in disbelief.
“Yeah and people were friendlier and there weren’t so many ruddy foreigners in London,” continued Mike, getting on his metaphorical soapbox.
“You’re kidding, right? London’s always been full of foreigners,” said Hymie. “Who else do you think would be daft enough to live here? Besides, I suppose Murphy’s an old Cockney name eh? I expect your granddad came over to avoid the potato blight.”
“What, in 1953?”
“Researched your family tree have you, Murphy?”
“’Ere Goldman, just watch your mouth. This is my home town and I won’t hear you or anyone else badmouthing it. Got it?”
“It’s mine too, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it, Mike. Maybe if we were rich we’d enjoy living here, but as it is, it’s just a relentless battle against insurmountable odds. I’m gonna make my pile and get out. Somewhere warm and sunny with lots of scantily clad women in skimpy grass skirts.”
“Dream on, H.”
The cardiac specials arrived and the conversation ended momentarily as they restored their cholesterol and carbohydrate levels.
“You can’t beat a good fry up,” said Hymie, tucking-in.
“You won’t get an argument on that, H.”
Shortly afterwards they arrived at the luxurious offices of JP Confidential, full of beans and ready for whatever life had in store. As usual it was a toss-up between raining stones and hailing daggers; an eviction notice had been nailed to the door, while inside on the mat lay several days worth of final reminders, free papers and a postcard from Australia.
“He’s only gone and flown out to Australia, the pillock!” cried Hymie, aggrieved.
“Who?”
“Benny Baker, that’s who.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? It looks like a great place on all the holiday programmes,” said Mike. “Have you seen this card? “Greetings from Bondi Beach.” Just look at that lady lifeguard; she can save me any day.”
“What’s wrong is, he’s gone out to visit his brother Syd,” said Hymie.
“So, I’m not with you?”
“He hasn’t got a brother Syd. It was me. I went to see him in Edgware General and had to tell them I was his brother, visiting from Australia, to get in to see him. Only he was in such a state that he actually believed me.”
“I don’t buy it, H. I reckon he’s just using that load of old pony as a cover story for taking his favourite waitress out on a long-haul jolly.”
“And who might that be?” queried Hymie.
“Susie Parker, of course; the blonde with the forty-inch bust.”
“I can’t say I’ve noticed,” said Hymie, with a far-away look in his eyes.
“Prepared to take a lie detector test?” asked Mike.
“No chance. So what does he say on his card?” he said, changing the subject to spare his blushes.
“He says he hasn’t managed to find Syd yet.”
“No kidding,” said Hymie.
“That he’s having a marvellous time with Susie and that he may not come back,” concluded Mike.
“Never?” Hymie’s world seemed to wobble on its very foundations at the thought of life without Benny’s mouthwatering pizzas.
“And he goes on to say you can have first refusal on Benny’s Bakery; when it’s re-built that is.”
“He’s selling up eh? Well, I won’t deny I’ve always fancied myself in catering; but more as a restaurant manager than a chef,” confided Hymie.
“Your real forté is as a consumer, H. Stick to what you’re good at: eating.”
“You’re probably right, Mike. At least that’s more in my price range.”
Mike opened the front door and removed the eviction notice. “What are we going to do about this, partner? Without the money we could well find ourselves out on the street. According to this notice we have seven days to cough up £5,000 plus interest. In fact, H. it was dated two days ago so we actually only have five days.”
“Seven days? Five days? It’s all the same; nigh on impossible. Is there anything left worth taking or shall we just do a runner now?” asked Hymie. “I expect I should take the oil lamp for old time’s sake, but it’s hardly likely to be worth anything.”
The Golden Pig Page 20