by M. C. Dutton
The good news is, we are going to show the lot of them that we are good and better than they are. Whatever I am perceived as here, I am a good DS with a shit load of experience. You want to know anything, just ask. I expect, and I know, you are going to work your balls off because together we are a team that’s going to be unbeatable and you had better believe it.” Bloody hell, he thought. He was thirsty now. They took a break for a coffee and a chance to digest what he had just said and came back into the CID room to continue.
It seemed stupid to run a team with only two DCs but he would give it a go.
“So what’s going on in my area?” Jazz asked the two DCs. They had files at the ready to discuss. The cases were boring ones given to newbies only. A few garden sheds had been broken into, there were shoplifting cases as usual and a fight outside the Red Cow pub on Saturday night. Nothing he was interested in. They exchanged mobile numbers and Jazz sent them off to investigate their cases. It was arranged that they would meet up in the briefing room at 3 p.m. with updates. He went off to see what else was going on in his manor.
CID had a whole floor in Ilford Police Station and Jazz took a look around and introduced himself. There were a few who he knew and remembered. He bantered and moved around, joking and chiding and making contact. The welcome from them wasn’t exactly warm but they acknowledged him and that was enough. He shook hands with a few who knew more about him than he realised. Ilford was going to take time to settle back into and it made him feel a bit depressed and unwanted. Not a feeling he enjoyed but time would tell; he hoped it would improve. It was too early for a drink, but God, he could do with a swig of something.
He hung around the IBO room (Integration Borough Operations) waiting to see if anything interesting was coming in. It was busy as usual. The East End had a high crime record and something was always going on somewhere. A call came in that caught his attention; someone had been found hanging from a tree in Valentine’s Park. He grabbed the details and laid claim to it. Grabbing a CID car, he called to Sharon and Tony, who were chatting by the door, to move their arses quick. The blue light was put on and they drove the mile to Valentine’s park in record time.
The male had been cut down and lay on the floor waiting for forensics and the body bag to arrive. The PC who was standing guard until Jazz arrived had shown him to the body.
“Who cut him down?” Jazz asked the small crowd huddled together by the tree.
A park ranger stepped forward. “I did. I couldn’t leave him up there, it wasn’t right.”
Jazz understood but was very put out that the scene was not undisturbed. “Have you moved anything else?”
The park ranger, obviously in shock and finding it hard to think, screwed his face in thought. “No didn’t touch anything else. It was horrible to see him, I climbed the tree and cut him down.” Near to tears, he continued, “I tried to hold him but he was too heavy and he fell. If he wasn’t dead already, the fall would have killed him.” Jazz stifled a giggle, this wasn’t the time to see humour in this.
Marshalling his thoughts and working with what he saw, he called his two newbies and said, “I know what happened but for your development, tell me what see and what you think happened.”
Horrified that he would make them work this scene in public, they both thought.
“Is this a foot fetish thing skip, a sexual pleasure thing?” asked Sharon. Again Jazz stifled a giggle; what are they like he thought, no idea at all. He looked at Tony, Sharon had dug herself a hole, it was time he did the same.
Realising he needed to say something, Tony added, “It looks like one of those sexual gratification things that went wrong. The silk scarf looks like a fetish thing.”
Jazz knew he had his work cut out with these two, but he did have more knowledge than they did on the dead man.
“Look and learn,” he said. “First of all, see the saffron scarf our man hung himself with? He is a Sikh, and for the uninitiated, a saffron scarf is a Sikh symbol. Look at his shoes, keys, letters, passport neatly placed in a plastic bag by the tree. The passport says he is new into the country with a six month visa. What that means, my little newbies, is he would be used to climbing a tree back home with no shoes on, so he took them off. Not a fetish, just practical. Until I know better, a sexual deviant practice is not on the cards. Why come to a park to get your rocks off when you can do it at home in private and comfort? This man meant to hang himself, we need to find out why. Far be it from me to become Sherlock Holmes,” the heavy sarcasm was coming into play now and Sharon and Tony could hear it. “But I suspect this letter is a suicide letter so it should tell us everything we need to know.” In that moment he felt sorry for Sharon and Tony and put an arm around each of their shoulders and walked them away from the crowd. “It’s all a learning curve for you. We will get this one worked out and solved.”
The letter was to this man’s wife Surjit . He had come to England to join his wife who he found out was working as a prostitute. He hung himself out of shame. There was an address on the letter and a name, Kalia; this was the man accused of pimping his wife. Jazz found it interesting that a mobile number had been put on the letter saying it was Kalia’s mobile number. Jazz figured he wanted this guy caught. There was no answer when he rang the number.
Jazz took Sharon and Tony to the address in Green Lane, Ilford. It was one of the big imposing houses that fronted the busy street. When the door was answered by an Asian man, Jazz introduced himself and went inside. He found that there were at least six men living in the house and no one knew where the wife had gone or who Kalia was. The six men were sitting drinking and they asked if Jazz wanted a peg*. He said no, he wanted the whole bottle thanks and they laughed. The terrible two sat quietly watching and listening in the corner. It was early to be drinking so intently, they thought.
The Asian man who had answered the door seemed to be the only one wanting to talk to Jazz. He introduced himself as Ravi. He confirmed again he had never heard of Kalia didn’t know where the woman was and had never heard of a husband looking for his wife. Jazz asked for Ravi’s mobile number in case he needed to contact him again. Ravi hesitated and Jazz, with a reassuring smile, said “Just routine sir.” He got the number and after thanking all for their hospitality, Jazz left.
When they got back to the car, he asked Sharon and Tony what they thought. They had watched and said the drinking men were of no consequence but they both thought Ravi was far too talkative and interested in the suicide not to know something. Jazz was impressed. They were right, Ravi was very keen to know what was happening. A thought struck him and he checked the mobile number on the letter and the one Ravi had given him.
“Guess what?” he roared triumphantly to the two of them. “Ravi and Kalia might be the same person.”
He wanted to see Ravi alone so the two DCs were sent back to Ilford nick to check out the intelligence on the house, to see if anything was known. They were instructed to ring him with the information when they got it. They took the car to get back to Ilford nick; he didn’t need it.
He badly needed a drink. Across the road was a small pub and he popped in for a beer to give him a chance to think on what he was going to do. Ravi couldn’t be charged with anything to do with a suicide although he was partly to blame, along with the wife who had done a runner. He hoped he would eventually find her. For the time being, he had the pimp but what could he do with him? It was something to think through. He stayed in the pub longer than he intended. Two hours had gone by when his mobile rang. Sharon told him they had nothing on the house. No one there had come to the attention of the police. That confirmed there was nothing on Ravi, aka Kalia, so now it was down to Jazz to sort out.
Why he didnt just walk away, he couldn’t answer. He could prove nothing and the suicide should just be written off as that, no sinister intentions or malice. So why did he feel a link between him and the Sikh. It seemed personal and he wanted to do right by this man. He had left his country and journeyed to England in t
he hope of settling down to a good life with his wife. The house was a boozy hole and no self-respecting Sikh would feel comfortable in those circumstances. Life wasn’t fair, he knew that, but perhaps he could even up the score a little.
The four pints of beer had made him think very clearly indeed. He knew what he was going to do with this bastard. He went back to the house intent on sorting out the pimp. Ravi answered the door and welcomed Jazz into the house. Ravi was slightly the worse for drink, he had obviously joined the others in the house in the drinking session going on. With a slap on the back, Jazz said it would be good to have a drink with Ravi. The others in the room were not bothered about them; three were asleep and the other three looked close to passing out. After two or three pegs, Jazz took out his mobile phone and rang the number on the suicide letter for Kalia, the pimp’s phone. Ravi’s phone rang.
“Go on,” Jazz nodded encouragingly, “answer it.”
Ravi wasn’t sure, he thought something was going on but he wasn’t fully clued up so he tentatively answered his phone.
“Hello Kalia.” The smooth tones came not only from the phone but from across the room. He had been found out but before Ravi, now Kalia, could run out of the room, Jazz made a dive at him and ushered him none too gently into the kitchen.
Jazz grabbed Kalia’s left arm and found the metal bangle of truth that all Sikhs wear. He pulled it off and put in on the cooker. Holding Kalia close to him, and with his face inches from Kalia’s face, Jazz menacingly stared for a second. The utter contempt he felt for this worm of a man was on full display. Again, he could feel his temper suddenly rising into his throat and nearly making him choke. Unable to keep quiet any longer, he goaded Kalia and shouted that he was a liar and that he had helped cause the death of an honourable man. Kalia had nothing to say, he kept quiet. The drink had made him incapable of thinking straight and he couldn’t see what was going to happen.
Jazz had worked himself into a cold fury. He kept pushing Kalia, asking what kind of Sikh was he to wear such a bangle when all he had done was dishonourable and shameful. Jazz was sweating now, the exertion of his consuming rage took every ounce of his energy. There was only one thing to do now and in a flash, before Kalia knew what was happening, Jazz had picked up the bangle from the cooker with a cloth and pushed it over Kalia’s wrist and up his arm. It stopped just before the elbow. Almost spitting the words, Jazz, through clenched teeth, told him, “There is your bangle of truth and now you wont ever forget its message.” Kalia hadn’t noticed Jazz turn on the cooker and the bangle was glowing by the time it went on his arm. It took three seconds for Kalia to feel the red hot bangle burning and searing into his skin and then the screaming started
Jazz ran the cold tap and put the plug in the sink. It took a minute or so to fill and then he plunged Kalia’s arm into the blissfully cooling water. As he turned to leave, his parting words stayed with Kalia: “You make me sick! Your Bangle of Truth has paid you back.”
He shouldn’t have done it, but it was too late for regrets now. There were no witnesses, the other men were pissed out of their heads so no trouble there. The air outside helped cool his temper and his body. He realised his flash temper was raising its ugly head again, but he regretted nothing. The bastard was as good as a killer. He may not have put the noose round the Sikh’s neck but he tied the knot with words and deeds that made the Sikh’s life intolerable. Kalia deserved everything he got.
Jazz headed back to the station to find out what his team had been up to. He was later than 3 p.m. but it would do them good to sit and wait for him. Tomorrow he would go and find some of his old contacts on the street. He was sure they would be pleased to see him.
The Jazz Singer had only been back in London for one day and already he had gone far too close to the edge of reason. He knew he was going to ruffle quite a few feathers and he would have to watch his back. He didn’t want another breakdown, he promised himself he would never to go down that route of demons again. Next time they would put him away in a mad house and that wasn’t going to happen.
The day finished on a boring note. He listened to Sharon and Tony relating their shed cases and the shoplifting cases and any other problems they had. With more good grace than he felt, he listened, gave bits of advice when asked and said tomorrow they would tackle the cases and get them cleared up. For now, he wanted out and to go back to his room in De Vere Gardens. He aimed to put his feet up, watch a bit of telly, relax and have a drink. He stood up and in a loud, theatrical voice, wished everyone on the CID floor a good night and he would see them all tomorrow. Not many heads looked up from the desks to acknowledge his fond goodnight. They could all tell by his loose demeanour that he had a few two many that day and it was whispered that it was par for the course.
Jazz looked at the disinterest and just couldn’t give a damn; well that is what he told himself. With a disgust that made him feel better, he vowed to himself that he was going to be the top Detective in Ilford and they had better believe it. The last laugh would be on the bastards in the CID room. He swaggered out, making sure everyone in there knew he didn’t give a fuck what they thought and took himself off to his new home.
When he got back to his lodgings, Mrs Chodda came immediately out from the kitchen to speak to him. She was most anxious to make him welcome and had prepared a mini feast of curries for him to sample that evening. It transpired that he was their only lodger and they wanted to look after such a distinguished man. The policewoman who had checked out the lodgings for headquarters had said that Jazz was a Detective Sergeant who had come back from Manchester. They were very pleased to have such a person staying with them. Mrs Chodda, during the day, had called her mother, two aunts, her three sisters from Hackney and all her six nieces and they were in the kitchen waiting to meet Mr Singh.
Jazz, tired from the first day at Ilford, wanted to go to his room, put on his TV and have a drink. Manners overcame his annoyance and he followed Mrs Chodda into her big kitchen diner. Buckling under the weight of more curries than a restaurant could offer, sat hot dishes full of everything imaginable from meat, fish, vegetables, samosas, nan breads, rice and goodness knows what else waiting to be sampled. She must have cooked all day and night to prepare these, Jazz thought. He heard a chair scrape beside him and looked over to a straight line of chairs in two rows. He noted the older women sitting at the front and the younger, quite nice looking girls, sitting on the back row. He had worn a good shirt and trousers for his first day at work. Usually he wore a tee shirt and jeans. He was glad he looked fairly smart. The saris in front of him were magnificent in colour and style. It wasn’t only the curries that would have taken all day to get ready; these women looked immaculate. He was very flattered by the attention. They sat and stared at him in silence, which was quite unnerving and he sobered up immediately.
For a few seconds, everyone was held in a frozen tableau. No one moved and it was as if everyone was holding their breath. Jazz broke the silence by going up to the oldest woman and, with great deference, introduced himself to her. The women each smiled and nodded their approval at this gesture. They liked his easy and respectful manner. The mother spoke no English but she was pleased when Jazz spoke to her in a dialect she understood. The young girls all blushed and eyed him up closely when he wasn’t looking at them. They insisted he eat and he made a big production of choosing a little of everything and praising Mrs Chodda for her cooking skills. She was actually an excellent cook. Everyone was happy and enjoyed the gathering, except Jazz. He knew they were looking at him as a prospective husband for one of the back row girls.
Mr Chodda entered the kitchen about 8 p.m. and brought some light relief. The older women made a fuss of him and brought him food and drink. By 9 p.m. Jazz thought he had been dutiful enough and with a great display of thanks and the pleasure it had been to meet such lovely ladies, etc. etc., he made his escape. He was going to have to move from this guest house. He had a horrible feeling this could be a regular occurrence and that was
just not going to happen if he could help it. He needed a drink badly.
RENEWING OLD ACQUAINTANCES
He woke the next morning with a dry mouth. His stomach was growling and he knew he was going to pay dearly for eating so many different types of curries. Yesterday felt good, getting back into the thick of things at Ilford, but he still felt apprehensive about going into the police station. He could feel a sense of animosity there; it hung above his head like a black cloud threatening to drench him with accusations.
Wednesday morning started with meeting his team, all two of them, in the CID room. He had figured out that he had real newbies. Except for him, no one had any experience in CID and the two that were to arrive later had even less than the two he had now. He thought he would have been given at least one experienced DC. He knew no one wanted to work with him and that thought burrowed deep and hurt. Every team always had a mixture of experienced and new in it. It made sense. He looked at the two DCs before him, Sharon and Tony. He thought, bloody hell what was he going to do with them. With a resigning sigh, he told them they were going to work with him today. He wanted to sort out the shed burglaries.
Sharon and Tony had been round to the private houses and spoken to the victims and examined the sheds. Their conclusion was that with a walkway at the back of the gardens, it gave a burglar good access and getaway and all the sheds had been cleared in a night. Six sheds had been tampered with and various lawnmowers and bikes had been stolen. They didn’t have fingerprints and there was no CCTV in the area. Nothing much of interest there but Jazz thought it might be good to introduce them to a few old acquaintances of his. He figured they would still be around. Nothing much changed in that part of Barking.