by M. C. Dutton
Jazz, incredulous by now, just asked, “Why, in the name of God and all that is good in the world, would anyone think you were valuable?”
Mad Pete didn’t like that and Jazz could see he was getting red under his filthy collar. “You know nuffink, Mr Singh. You’ve been away a long time.” It was the sly look Mad Pete gave him that made Jazz slap him. He shouldn’t have done it but it wasn’t the time to play games. A man’s life might depend on what happened today.
“I’ve got contacts all over the place, Mr Singh, and I sold stuff for them on the streets. Never where anyone knew me, but it earned me money and respect. I did little jobs for them. I couriered stuff between houses for them. No one looked at me twice. They were feeding me heroin, and I had just a baby* habit to start with , but the habit got to be a bit king kong*1 and I needed to buy the stuff from the man*2. They paid me good money for not too much work.”
“So how come they got this far and the Triads and Snakeheads didn’t stop them? It doesn’t make sense.”
Mad Pete didn’t know the answer to that. “It’s been kinda strange for the past few years. I didn’t feel scared until now. Things just sort of happened and no one stopped it. They had got I reckon up to 20 cannabis factories set up, scattered throughout Ilford, Barking and parts of East London.”
It seemed unreal and too fantastic to be happening. Jazz knew the Triads and Snakeheads had the area sown up. He knew from Bam Bam that the Viets were being watched and a takeover was due but to allow them to grow so big seemed unimaginable. It had to be they had no idea how big the Viets were getting. Mad Pete had started and he was mumbling on so Jazz turned to catch what he was saying.
“And then that old lady got killed and all hell was let loose. They seemed to know I was involved and they are going to kill me, Mr Singh, I know it. You have got to protect me.” He was getting hysterical now and Jazz knew he needed a fix otherwise he would be totally unmanageable.
“Take me to the place you wanted to show me and then you can have a fix. I presume you have the stuff with you?” Mad Pete nodded. God I would be in trouble if my boss heard me now, Jazz thought. Aiding and abetting a known drug offender was not in the Met Police rule books. “Where are you taking me by the way?” Jazz asked as he realised he hadn’t a clue what was going on in Mad Pete’s brain.
“To their headquarters, Mr Singh. I ain’t going in, but if Tony is anywhere I reckon he would be there. But he is dead, trust me, Mr Singh, he ain’t breathing no more.” Jazz told Mad Pete to shut it.” He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. Tony had to be alive, he couldn’t die just like that for nothing.
The journey didn’t take much longer, but in that time Jazz had a moment to realise that Ilford had changed beyond belief. It had its problems in the past, but not on this scale. Mad Pete was a small-time low life who dabbled in anything easy, and always illegal, that could make him money. Now he was telling him that he was involved in what appeared to be a growing drug syndicate and he was in the middle, helping them. It didn’t make sense. He wanted his old Ilford back. Poor Alice, how did she come to be killed for just being a sweet, dear old lady? He knew the men who had killed Alice and they were dead and good riddence. Now he had to find who had taken Tony. It was gobsmackingly gruesome that any gang in Ilford had the nerve to take a police officer and create the mayhem this would cause. That they felt powerful enough to take on the Met Police defied belief. This had to be sorted and soon.
Following further instructions from Mad Pete, they arrived at what looked like an empty warehouse on the edge of the Gascoigne Estate. It was on an industrial estate that was in decline. Funnily enough, the police were considering building a police station not far from the building they were outside.
“I ain’t going in, Mr Singh. They are all out to kill me now.” Mad Pete was getting agitated again. He was told he could stay put and lock the doors. Jazz was glad to get out of the car. Mad Pete stunk and as he got more agitated, the smell got worse. As he got out of the car, Jazz smelt the sleeve of his jacket; it stunk of Mad Pete. God, he thought, they will smell me before they see me.
Now he was here, standing in front of what on first glance looked like a derelict warehouse, he didn’t know what to do. For a few seconds, he stood there. He couldn’t see any cars or life around to assume anyone was inside. He turned to Mad Pete in the car and through the open car window said, “If you don’t hear from me after 20 minutes, ring 999 and get the police here.” He walked off as Mad Pete started whining, “Mr Singh, don’t leave me here, I ain’t safe, they will kill us both.”
MAD PETE
What possessed Jazz to think Mad Pete would stay in the car would remain a mystery. As soon as Jazz walked around the back and he couldn’t see him anymore, Mad Pete got out of the car and ran. He knew if he was quick he could get to his flat in 10 minutes. He had enough bolts and locks on the door to stop anyone getting in. He would be safe there. He reckoned there were would be more killings before the gangs were done. He knew that if they didn’t think twice about killing a policeman and the fuss that would cause then they would kill anyone. Mr Singh was on his own.
He was a liar, he knew that. He smiled at the thought. He was a damn good liar at that! So he bigged it up to Mr Singh about his involvement with the Viets, it was about time he showed him some respect. The truth was, he toadied up to the Viets when they started up. They treated him like their lapdog and threw him a few scraps. He did a few minor jobs for them, nothing much, and he bought heroin from them. He knew he shouldn’t have started on the stuff again but he felt good now. He gave them street information. If there was one thing he was good at, it was hearing what was happening on the streets. He told the Viets when the Triads were unhappy and looking for dealers on their grounds who hadn’t bought from them. He told them where the Snakeheads hung out and who would be there. They knew that Bam Bam was no worries to them because he didn’t deal in their shit. The Holy Trinity as a group was a worry though and they kept their heads down and laid low so as not to antagonise them. He was useful sometimes to them.
Life had been OK for Mad Pete until the Viets arrived. He got by with his disability pension and his flat paid for by the council. He was on methadone and although he was addicted to it, it was at least legal and he got it for free on the NHS. He bought stolen phones and sold them on and he dealt a bit in cocaine. When the Viets arrived and fed him free heroin, life was oh so warm and happy at the beginning, he felt good. But they started to charge him after a while and he needed more money to survive. He was under pressure to pay for his stuff.
He needed the Viets to earn enough for the heroin. Fencing phones didn’t pay enough to feed his habit. The more he needed the Viets, the more he worried about the trinity. He kept his head down and invested in more locks and chains until his house was nearly as secure as the Bank of England vault. He knew one day they might come looking for him. Today was that day and he was going to hide until it had all blown over. The tit for tat killings were good for him; he hoped that by the weekend they would have killed each other and would all be dead, then he wouldn’t have to worry anymore. He knew he was dead meat if they caught him.
What he chose to forget to tell Jazz was that he had played them all off against each other. He had taken money from them all and ratted on them all too. He knew names and he knew what was happening. He was like a rat in a basement, unseen but all knowing. The Viets, Snakeheads and Triads had realised the common denominator, and Mad Pete was it. He didn’t care who did what to whom, he just wanted money. No integrity, no long-term plan and no sense, he had run into trouble and it was true, everyone did want to kill him now. Everyone thought Mad Pete was low life scum and that he only had the intelligence to do as he was told. He had the temperament of a rat. He was crafty, cunning and clever, without the morals of honour, integrity and loyalty and certainly no hygiene; you could smell him coming a mile off.
He stopped on the way home at the local Spar shop to pick up some bread, milk and a co
uple of frozen dinners. He checked his change and he had enough for some tobacco and fag papers as well. He had no intention of shifting out of his flat for a few days. He looked around to check no one was lurking who might be trouble for him. The shopkeeper served him quickly, glad to see him leave. The air freshener was out and sprayed quickly once the door closed.
He had spent the night avoiding his flat, convinced they would come and find him and kill him. He hadn’t thought he would be safe at his address but now he realised it was the only place he might be safe. Once he had locked all the doors he would sit down, shoot up and relax. He had enough stuff to keep him going for the next few days and by then he hoped the gang fights would be finished and everyone who was after him would be dead.
“COME INTO MY PARLOUR,” SAID THE SPIDER
TO THE FLY
Jazz walked slowly round to the back of the old building. It was never going to win any prizes. A pile of old brick defiantly held together in a box shape. The windows were high and glazed in places with the odd broken pane, it looked like what glass had survived was held together with dirt and pidgeons’ droppings. He would have said the place was abandoned but he passed the loading bays and the newness of the shuttered doors stood out. The shutters that would be pulled up to open and accept a container lorry full of goods sparkled with a newness that showed up the shabbiness of the rest of the building. He supposed years ago it was used as a storage depot for goods en route to London. It was close to the canal and in those days goods were ferried up the canal from ships moored at docks near Tilbury. The new doors made Jazz realise it was in use again, but by who, he wondered. This old industrial estate was in a state of disrepair and due for demolition in the next few years, but someone was working here.
As he turned the corner towards the back of the building, a chilling wind seemed to stir up and blow his jacket open. He shuddered with discomfort. Looking around, he realised no one could see him. The thought crossed his mind that this would be a good place to kill someone, they wouldn’t be found for years. He pulled his jacket close to his chest and tried to shake off the feeling that he shouldn’t be here alone. Impetuous they called him, and he conceded that perhaps they were right; ‘they’ being his colleagues and his bosses. He was here now and he needed to do something to find Tony. This looked an ideal place to set up business and if Mad Pete was right, the Viets had this place. He stopped by the corner of the building and took out his hip flask. He needed a drink. He took a long slug and felt so much better. It was long overdue with everything that had been going on today. He could think clearer now.
The day was drawing to a close and the air had that nip in it that made you want to go inside. It had a muted feel, the birds were settling down and the traffic didn’t sound quite so loud, even the breeze had quietened down. He had to get into the warehouse before it got really dark. Of course he didn’t have a torch with him and he cursed himself at the thought. With everything that had been going on, it was only now that he realised this might be dangerous and that possibly he was a prize idiot for being here with only a heroin addict for backup.
There was a small door at the back and he tried the handle; it moved and gently he pulled on the door. It was opening. He waited a second and pulled it just enough to see through the crack. He checked if there was anyone standing in front of the door; it looked empty. He listened for a moment and thought he could hear voices but they were muffled and seemed a little way away. With a deep breath, he opened the door enough to squeeze in quickly and close the door behind him. His breath was urgent and far too loud. He saw a box and squatted behind it to give himself a chance to gain control of the trembling feeling, get his breathing under control and become more calm. He looked around, his eyes darting from one side to the other. He knew this was stupid and he felt a fear that was not going to be helpful. He needed to get a grip. To be impetuous you need to be brave as well and Jazz wasn’t feeling very brave at all at this moment. To creep out again quickly and go and get help seemed the best option and he was considering doing just that. He had no radio, no weapon, he was alone, no one knew he was here and this gang appeared to have no respect for the lives of police officers. He was stark staringly bonkers to be here and he realised he was the biggest fucking idiot in the whole of the Met Police Force. He was scared out of his head and had to think what to do next.
The gunfire should have sent him scurrying for the door but it had the opposite effect. Galvanised like a runner after hearing the starting pistol, Jazz ran to an area further into the warehouse and hid behind some boxes stacked carefully in the middle of the huge cavern like interior. He couldn’t see anything yet. There was a lot of noise with tables overturning and chairs scraping the floor. The shouts were in another language, some sounded Punjabi and he understood they were instructions to look round; he picked up the words get him. Then there was a medley of what he thought were Vietnamese words shouted excitedly and urgently. In the end, he couldn’t understand anything. The sound level had risen to deafening heights that echoed around the warehouse. The gunfire started again with a vengeance and Jazz just ducked and held his breath for it to stop. He really should have got out and ran for backup, but he didn’t. He stayed where he was and prayed to all the gods in heaven to make it stop.
The silence was loud. It felt like everyone had died and he wondered if that was possible. Perhaps they had shot each other and they were all dead but that was wishful thinking on his part. After a moment of silence, he moved cautiously along the line of boxes that were stacked high enough to conceal a six foot man. When he reached the last box, he stood pressed against the stack of boxes and fought a momentary panic rising from his stomach. With two or three deep breaths, he got down on all fours and cautiously looked around the box to see who was still alive and who had a gun.
In front of Jazz was a perverted pageant of bodies lying at obscene angles with more blood on the floor than a blood bank would hold on a good day. Jazz quickly counted eight men; there may have been more, but he was more concerned about the three living men holding guns standing to the right of the blood fest. They were talking in low, quiet terms in a dialect that sounded familiar but not one he knew personally. He couldn’t understand what they were saying but he hoped they would not hang around for long. Having killed so many people it seemed prudent to get the fuck away, he thought. He felt overwhelmed by the sight and smell of what was before him. The coppery smell of the blood invaded his senses and the cordite from the guns tickled his nose, making him want to sneeze. He felt sick at the sight.
He watched the three men intently. They were not arguing but there was a strong discussion going on. He thought they looked more South Asian than Chinese and wondered where they came from. In a flicker of an eye, one of them caught sight of something moving by the boxes and ran towards Jazz. With nowhere to go and in a state of blind panic, Jazz watched in slow motion one of the men running towards him with his gun ready to fire. “Oh shit and bollocks and fuck everything, I’m a gonna.” He cursed under his breath. Any thoughts of action were wasted as the gunman was on him before he could think. His body had gone stone cold and he felt like he weighed a ton. He was dragged into the arena of death and kicked in the back to make him move. In English one of them asked who he was and he told them he was a police officer and his backup was on the way. The third one had gone outside and seen his car, empty. They frisked him and there was no radio on him. He hadn’t used his mobile, they checked calls made. Jazz double cursed himself. Why the hell hadn’t he rung the station? They smiled at his threats.
No one was coming to save him, they told him and they laughed. One went outside whilst the others tied him up and sat him on a bloodied chair they had retrieved from the floor. They goaded him and prodded him. They laughed scornfully and told him they liked killing police officers and they liked to hear them pleading for their lives. One stuck the gun in his ear and said that would be too quick. They pushed it into his stomach and said that would be much more painful
and a slower death. They said they would toss for it, to see who would be the one to kill him. They pushed their faces into his and told him with curried breath that they hated the fucking police.
He asked them if they had killed Tony. They laughed and said if he meant the poof then yes they had. They told him how he begged them to let him live and how he had promised to be a good boy. He had cried and cowered and was a big Jessie they were glad to shut up. They shot him in the head. Jazz’s breathing was rapid and he was going into shock. Tony was dead. Oh God, he thought and he asked, “Why kill him? He was a nobody.” They smiled and said that it was for them to know and him to find out. They promised he could ask Tony himself because it was going to be his turn to die very soon.
They left him for a moment. The third one who had gone outside was gesturing to them to follow him. He knew they were going to kill him. In the two minutes before they returned, he went to hell and back in a tormented fog of pain, recriminations and prayer. He didn’t want to die like this, alone and forgotten. One of them came back and told him he was very, very lucky that he had a guardian angel. His senses were heightened and the panic was bubbling through his body. It felt like a reprieve and it made him swoon. They seemed to all have left him. In the silence, amidst the carnage around him, Jazz just sat in shock, suddenly not knowing what they meant and if they were coming back to kill him.
He was dizzy with the panic and fear and knowledge of Tony’s death. He knew they were telling him the truth. He looked at the carnage around him. A table was overturned and on the floor were scales and all the paraphernalia of a drug factory. There were small plastic bags scattered everywhere. He counted the bodies he could see again and there were 10 in his sight; he didn’t know if there was any more. He had never seen so many murdered people in one place before and it stung his senses to look at them. He tried to free himself but nothing moved. They had tied him so tight he could feel the rope cutting into his wrists and the rope holding his arms felt like his blood was being cut off and his fingers tingled with numbness.