by M. C. Dutton
The postman who delivered regularly to Wards Road appeared. He was eating his breakfast, which appeared to be a baguette with cheese and tomatoes in it. It was huge and he took big mouthfuls before speaking to them both. It took a few attempts to get an answer they understood out of him. In the end enough was enough and Jazz told him to put the fucking bread roll down and talk to them. He said he had noticed nothing. He delivered about 8 a.m. every morning and never saw anyone. He had seen Alice sometimes but not often. He had never delivered next door to Alice and said he heard nothing because he wore his iPod and played music on his round. He proudly told them his wife had bought it for him for Christmas. The best present he had ever had, he told them. Jazz and Tony were not impressed.
When he had gone, Jazz turned to Tony and said, “He was as useful as a condom in a maternity clinic.” Still, they were excited about Lenny and went back to the station to put together what they had already. A storyboard was being erected for them and they would see what they had got.
Jazz was bubbling, this is what he was good at. Give him a murder and he would solve it. He was going to do this for Alice. The few people in the CID room were interested too and stood looking at the board, with the bits of information Jazz and his team had collated already on there.
Graciously he surveyed them and said, “Gentlemen, if you wish to assist, please do not let me stop you. All information gratefully received.” They muttered something inaudible and shuffled back to their desks.
Sharon came into the CID room with a number plate belonging to a Mercedes. The registration was WP15 SCO. Jazz and Tony looked at it full on and then squinted and stared with their heads to one side. They agreed that yes, I suppose, P15S might look like piss but it was a long shot. Sharon suggested dryly that perhaps they needed to be drunk to see it properly. The clincher, as far as Sharon was concerned, was the fact that it was registered to a company called Tiger Holdings; that had oriental style to it. She had more work to do to find out where Tiger Holdings worked from but she had enlisted the help of a detective who dealt with POCA cases and was used to delving into corporate areas. Jazz needed the information now, time was of the essence and he needed answers by tomorrow. Sharon said the Detective, Stephen Paine, had promised her results by tomorrow. Jazz knew Stephen Paine, he was a miserable bastard who didn’t do favours for anyone.
“So how did you get that bastard to help you?” Jazz asked.
Sharon smiled and looked at the floor. “I have my ways, skip.”
I bet you have, darling, he thought dryly.
Sharon and Tony didn’t know that Jazz had the lowdown on both of them. Sharon had the reputation of an ace slag at Bethnal Green Police Station. To Jazz, it looked like leopards didn’t change their spots. He would watch her, he liked her and life wouldn’t be easy if her previous reputation became local news. He knew men could be two-faced. They never turned down the offer of an easy lay but then suddenly became all holier than thou and sneered at them, calling them slags and slappers when it suited them. It was not fair; it made promotion difficult and cooperation at work difficult too, for women especially, but those with reputations as slags and slappers would find promotion even harder. Equality and diversity had got much better, he thought, but it was always a man’s club in the police force. Women officers had a fairer chance these days of a good career in the police force but networking was still a men only thing which always helped with promotion and working together. If you weren’t liked, life could be difficult. She was a clever girl, hadn’t she worked that one out, he asked himself. Bloody hell, he thought, I’ve got a murder investigation that can be taken away from me if I’m not careful, a DC who looks like she’s happy to hand it out on a plate and I’ve got to watch and stop her from getting a reputation as a slapper again! And I ain’t even got as far as Tony and what he might be doing to arse up this investigation. Jazz felt tired and wanted to go home and sit with a few drinks. He wanted a break from everything just for the evening. Tomorrow was going to be a big day so he said his farewells and went home.
THE FOOD OF THE GODS
Mrs Chodda was waiting for him. He had forgotten about having a cup of tea with her. He inwardly sighed. He was tired and just wanted to sit and watch TV with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. God that sounded bliss but now he would have to be well-mannered and polite and drink bloody tea. He remembered Mrs Chodda had told him she was making homemade pakoras for him to have with a cup of tea. Homemade pakoras were nothing like the ones bought in shops or, in fact, the ones in Indian restaurants. That now put a different slant on things, and he followed her into the kitchen expectantly. She waved for him to sit down at the table whilst she busied herself at the stove. There was no conversation, just a smile from Mrs Chodda; she saw he looked tired and stressed.
A large plateful of pakoras was put in front of him. She knew he would love them. He took a mouthful and closed his eyes. They reminded him of his mother and his youth. They tasted magnificent. They felt soft in his mouth but with a resistance that made the chewing exciting. The undercurrent of mild chilli and spices caused his senses to explode with delight. It felt sensual and sinful and he enjoyed every mouthful. The potato, onion, and yes he savoured, sweetcorn perfectly cooked and held together with a secret recipe of the lightest batter that all the best cooks shared only with their successor and no one else. He felt like he had died and gone to heaven. Mrs Chodda watched this spectacle of pleasure and smiled. This was what he needed, homemade good Indian food to remind him of who he was. She said nothing while he ate all on the plate. It took him 20 minutes of indulgence and she could see the calming effect it had on him. He had two cups of tea whilst eating the pakoras. He was full but sad that he had finished the “food of the gods” as his mother called pakoras.
He licked his fingers as Mrs Chodda filled his cup again from the big teapot she kept warm by the cooker. He hadn’t realised before how comfortable and Indian her kitchen was; the jars of dried spices on a shelf and all the saucepans battered with age and darkened with use were stacked up on another shelf. Her kitchen was warm and smelt of curry and it so reminded him of his mother’s kitchen and the time he spent sitting with her as she busied herself cooking yet another dish for the family. It had been a happy time when his father had been alive, his mother seemed to cook all the time. She didn’t seem to bother so much when he had gone. He never went without but it wasn’t the same.
Mrs Chodda caught sight of his faraway sad look and she put on the table the coconut sweetmeats for him to finish his tea with. She started to talk about her family and how they were all in the Punjab, except for those in England, of course. She asked him where his family were. They talked together about the Punjab. It would have seemed a strange conversation to an outsider. Neither of them had been born in India. They were both born in Uganda, but home would always be India and the Punjab. They both had relatives in the Punjab. Mrs Chodda said she had relatives everywhere, including America.
Their conversation was gossipy and warm and easy. With the warmth of the kitchen and the food in his belly, Jazz was feeling more and more tired and keeping his eyes open would soon be a problem. Mrs Chodda saw this and said that he must come and sit with her more often and she would make sure she had pakoras and other home cooked food for him. He told her he got an upset stomach if he ate too much curry. He actually felt quite ashamed to tell her that but he didn’t want a gippy stomach again, especially now when there was so much going on. He felt he could be honest with her. She was a nice woman.
He had sat with her for nearly two hours and all he wanted to do now was go to sleep. He thanked her very much for a wonderful time and left to climb the stairs to his room. He had actually really enjoyed his time in Mrs Chodda’s kitchen. She was a lovely cook and a really homely woman; it made him realise that he had missed being made a fuss of and mothered in that way. It was also a bonus that she hadn’t tried to palm him off with any female relatives.
That night he had on
e drink and went to bed. He slept through until 7 a.m. The nightmares hadn’t visited him and he awoke feeling refreshed and raring to go. It wasn’t until he had showered and brushed his teeth that he realised he didn’t have a headache and his mouth felt OK, not that disgusting taste he usually endured in the morning. He felt fresh, rested and raring to go. Then he thought about Alice.
Today was the day and didn’t he just know it! The tension was in the knot in his stomach. He could feel the adrenalin bubbling but as yet there was nowhere to project it. It all had to come together before lunch. He set off for the police station on foot. He liked the walk, it calmed him and gave him thinking time. As he walked, he took his mobile phone out and began to work. He phoned Sharon, who said she would have the information for him by 9 a.m. Tony was arranging the mug shots for Lenny from the post office and he was coming in at 10 a.m. He rang Bam Bam and was told to meet him at the temple at 9 a.m. He arranged to meet Sharon and Tony in the CID office at 11 a.m. and pool all their information. He hoped it was good. At 2 p.m. he had to face DCI Radley and keep this case. He told himself he lived on pressure and it always brought the best out in him. But the pressure was about to rise to unacceptable levels.
He checked in at Ilford Police Station. He nodded to the other CID teams who had taken a sudden interest in what he was doing. Tony was busy in the ID suite getting pictures together. Sharon hadn’t appeared yet. He grabbed a cup of tea from the marvellous Milly in the canteen and downed it quickly; the hot water scalded his tongue. He left the station and headed towards the temple. He wanted to be early and wait in peace and quiet until Bam Bam arrived. He prayed he had something of use for him. The other leads were fantastic but Bam Bam was the key to getting this finished quickly and making an arrest. If Bam Bam couldn’t find out who had done this, then there was no hope for anyone. With that thought in his mind, he walked with a determination and optimism that today was going to be his day.
He arrived at the Temple early. The gossiping aunties, as the ladies who cooked were affectionately known, were there already. He put a hanky on his head and took his shoes off at the door. He found a corner away from all the women talking above each other and making quite a din this morning. The temple echoed with their talking and calling to each other. They looked as if they were cooking a feast today. Feeling depressed for a moment, Jazz hoped it wasn’t another funeral. There was too much going on at the moment. He had to think about Alice and her funeral. Who else would bother, he asked himself. He would contact the morgue this afternoon and find out what was happening.
At 9 a.m. precisely Bam Bam’s entourage entered the temple. The two front men looked around and saw Jazz in the corner and turned and nodded, which was obviously a sign for Bam Bam to enter. He was followed by two more men. Who the hell does this bugger think he is? Jazz asked himself. He was acting like the President of the United States. Jazz knew Bam Bam’s entourage would be tooled up but he wasn’t going there. He rose respectfully as Bam Bam walked over to him.
Again, the ladies were summoned to make tea and bring cakes, which they did respectfully and quickly. After a few minutes of settling into his seat and waiting for his tea, Bam Bam nodded to Jazz and said he had news. Patience wasn’t one of Jazz’s virtues but it was tested to boiling point as Bam Bam graciously accepted the tea from one of the ladies and proceeded to drink it slowly. The cakes arrived a few seconds later and he availed himself of the selection. He looked as if he was going to make a day of it and Jazz was doing his best to keep still and keep his cool. He picked up his tea and tried to drink it. Every sip of tea caused a stifling heartburn in his chest. He couldn’t eat a cake, it would have stuck in his throat. The entourage were positioned around them, looking outwards towards the door. After what seemed like an hour, Bam Bam put down his cup, wiped his mouth with a paper serviette thoughtfully provided by the ladies and looked about to speak. Jazz looked at him expectantly and held his breath.
“This is a difficult matter, Jazz,” was the first response he heard. Bam Bam shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked up and smiled. “I wont be a moment,” he said and left to be escorted to the toilet in the temple.
Jazz thought he would burst with tension. This would never happen in a movie, he told himself. You have the meeting and you get told things and then the film moves towards its conclusion. In real life the bloody villain goes to the toilet. How bloody fucking pathetic is that! He could feel the stabbing pain above his left eye and he knew it would spread into a god-awful migraine if he didn’t calm down. He sat and tried to breathe calmly whilst rubbing his forehead. He felt hot and his shirt was sticking to him. He waited silently until Bam Bam returned.
Bam Bam arranged his huge self on the chair and leaned back.
“So, Jazz, I have that information for you.”
Again, Jazz sat up straight and looked expectantly. The story was long but fascinatingly compelling. Bam Bam had to go back nearly a year to explain what had happened in the East London area. He told Jazz most of it but he wasn’t going to give him blow by blow accounts of his working life. He might owe Jazz but he was still a police officer and Bam Bam Bamra never told anyone everything. He was alive today because of his cunning and his intelligence and no favour would change that.
A year ago, the Holy Trinity that ran the east side of London and the Thames became aware of an intruder on their territory. It wasn’t something Bam Bam worried about. Apparently it was a Vietnamese gang who were opening up cannabis factories like they had gone out of fashion in houses dotted around Dagenham, Barking and Romford. Most of the cannabis factories run by the other arms of the Holy Trinity were more inner East London but they dealt drugs in all the areas.
Bam Bam expanded this bit of information by saying that he wasn’t that worried about the infiltrators because he didn’t deal in these drugs; his business was elsewhere. Of course infiltrators could not be tolerated so he watched how the Triad and Snakeheads were dealing with the situation because they would sort it out eventually. There had been a lot of drugs pushed in the area lately, which had knocked the price down on the streets. That was never going to be tolerated for long. There were moves about to be made to stop them but then the bastards killed an old lady, which threw the spotlight onto them all. Everyone had retreated.
What he didn’t tell Jazz was that the Triads and Snakeheads had formed an alliance that was going to take all the working cannabis factories for themselves. There was a lot of money out there and they wanted it. They had sat back and watched the Vietnamese develop all the cannabis factories; it took money and time to set each one up. They watched to see how secure and functional each factory was. They watched the police to see if they had any idea of the number of factories there were in the area. Then they were going to orchestrate a mass take over. They were spitting blood that the old lady had been killed and the Police were now swarming around and asking questions they didn’t want asked.
Jazz asked where that left him in finding the killers. Bam Bam laughed. “You have more helpers than you need with all of us. We want this finished so we can get on with our business.”
Bam Bam put his hand up and waved for another cup of tea and cakes. They were duly brought over by the ladies, who seemed to be just waiting to attend to him when he called. Jazz could see the power Bam Bam Bamra had in the community. Whilst he was occupied getting his tea and cakes, Jazz looked at the bling on the man. He had huge gold rings and signet rings on three fingers on each hand. The watch had to be gold, Rolex of course. Around his neck were three thick gold chains. He also wore two Sikh bangles on his left wrist. Jazz suddenly realised how noisy it was when Bam Bam moved, all the bling clashing and rattling.
He went on to tell Jazz the names of the two men who had killed Alice. They were Vietnamese and their names were Giang Nguyen and Tho Luong.
“You can take the names to your DCI Radley this afternoon at 2 p.m. for your meeting and this should keep him happy. Soon I will be able to tell you where to find them.”
Jazz sat for a minute wondering what on earth had happened there. He had the names he needed but how did Bam Bam know about his meeting? He looked at his watch and saw that, with all the messing around, it was already 11 a.m. and he needed to get to the station quickly for his catch up meeting. Having waited so long for the information, which was then given quite casually in the conversation, he now had two names. He knew Alice’s killers! It took a few moments but it was finally dawning on him and he sat back to let the fact sink in. He had two names to take to the DCI and that was just brilliant, more than brilliant, it was fantastic. He forgot for the moment that Bam Bam seemed to know what his movements were and he forgot to question how and why. He got up and raced back to the station buzzing with a thrill and determination he hadn’t felt for a long time. He had names to give to his DCI, the case had to stay with him now. Life was getting good but the dark clouds were not far away.
As he entered the busy front office of Ilford Police station, Bob called out to him and asked if all was OK. Jazz shouted that he was in a hurry and he would catch him later. Bob smiled and shrugged. Jazz instantly regretted his throw away comment. Bob was the only real friend he had in the police and he didn’t want to lose his friendship. Jazz shouted that he’d meet him in the Cranbrook at 6 p.m. Bob was going to shout back OK but all he could see was Jazz’s back as he ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He smiled, this was typical Jazz when he was all fired up on a hot case. He would wait for him in the Cranbrook and see if he turned up at 6 p.m.