by M. C. Dutton
THE FUNERAL
Thursday was the day he would sort out the Sikh man’s funeral. There was no one to take charge of it. He didn’t know why, but he felt an affinity with this guy. He must have felt so alone and depressed to have taken his own life in that way. OK, Jazz had experienced that feeling and perhaps that was what it was. He would hope someone would officiate at his funeral when it happened. He had no one at present he could ask.
Unfortunately, he needed to speak to the fucking graduate about the funeral. Sikhs are cremated and their ashes are thrown into running water. Ken Livingstone, a little while back, as Mayor of London, had organised a part of the Thames where ashes could be scattered on the water. This could only happen as the tide was going out and had to be properly organised. He needed his DCI’s permission to go ahead with this.
DCI Radley said to come to his office at 10 a.m; he was in a meeting before then. So at 10 a.m., Jazz knocked on his office door. Again, he entered only when he heard “Come in”. DCI Radley didn’t look up from the document he was reading. Jazz thought it fucking bad manners to make him sit there and not even acknowledge him. On second thoughts, it looked like one of those power games. It didn’t bother him. He sat and looked at the pictures on the wall. They were all of groups of cadets and certificates that the DCI had obtained on his meteoric rise in the Metropolitan Police Force. There was one with him shaking the Commissioner’s hand and another standing to attention with the Queen walking past him. This chap had a very great sense of his own importance but so far Jazz wasn’t sure he was going to show he had any common sense as a police officer.
After a long two minutes, DCI Radley put down his paper and nodded to Jazz to speak, Jazz presumed. He explained about the hanging and that the man was Sikh. He told him he had no relatives that could be found in this country and he asked, as a Sikh himself, if he could officiate at the temple and organise his funeral. He added the bit about ashes in running water and that Ken Livingstone had allowed the scattering of ashes in the Thames. DCI became quite animated and thought it was an excellent idea. Of course Jazz could go ahead and make arrangements at the temple. He would personally organise the documentation that would allow for the ashes to be scattered in the Thames. Jazz was relieved to hear he would not have to make a song and dance about getting it done.
He thought their conversation was for the time being finished because the DCI was sitting quietly thinking. Jazz was about to get up and go, thinking he was finished with him, when the fucking graduate spoilt it by saying, “I will arrange for the Commissioner’s launch to be made available to you for scattering the ashes, that seems very appropriate. I will, of course, come with you.” DCI Radley was on a roll and could see more and more the benefits of a Sikh funeral. “The press should be told about this charitable act. It will make a good story and show the Metropolitan Police have a multi-cultural heart. Come back and see me on Monday when I shall have all the information and dates and we can then organise a press release. Photographers will of course be there so a suit please, DS Singh. Of course anything the press need to know should come from a senior officer.”
Jazz asked, “Would that be you, Guv?”
A little modesty tried to inject itself into DCI’s voice. “Well I suppose, yes, that would have to be me.”
“OK, Guv, I will come back on Monday with the details,” was all Jazz could manage to say as he left the room.
He was now on a mission of speed. From Ilford Police Station he went to the morgue to check if Mr Singh was ready for cremation. He was told he was. From there he went to the temple and organised a service and the cremation service. It was Thursday and they could, at a pinch, organise it for that afternoon provided all the necessary papers were ready. He was told that otherwise it would have to wait until the following week. That was too late for Jazz. He arranged for the cremation to happen at 4 p.m. that afternoon and he would bring all the necessary papers. The ashes would be ready Saturday late afternoon for collection and that was rushing it.
Jazz spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon rushing around and getting all the necessary papers from the coroner’s office to the Births and Deaths Department and the undertakers. He went home, put his suit on and was back for the cremation at 4 p.m. As the surrogate son, he was asked to press the button that sent the coffin to the flames. He was invited into a room to watch as the flames consumed the coffin and the body. As a mark of respect, he sat and watched the flames and hoped Mr Singh’s soul was at rest. Surprisingly, his duo turned up and sat with him in the main area of the crematorium and waited until he emerged from the private room. He was actually very touched by that. He decided not to return to the temple, which was traditional. He knew the gossiping aunties there who made and served the food would do justice to the feast prepared for after a cremation. He decided he would rather be with his team and he took them all to the pub for a drink.
They exchanged bits about themselves, which was very interesting to all present. Sharon Day started. Jazz thought she had more balls than most men. Sharon, a sturdily built natural blonde, lived in a small flat she had got after her divorce. She was married to a policeman who was based in Kingston. She moved to this side of the water so they wouldn’t meet again. She made it clear to Tony and Jazz that the last person on earth she would date would have anything to do with the police force.
What she didn’t tell them was she had been based in Bethnal Green Police Station after her divorce. She had been studying for her DC exams but she still had time to date and bed most of the police officers within her area and when she left Bethnal Green Police Station, her reputation was known far and wide and she was called the slag of Bethnal Green. She didn’t know why she acted like she did. She just reckoned for two years she went mad and wild and treated every police officer as a sexual adventure. If she had been a man she would have been called a womaniser with grudging respect. Ilford was a new start for her and she hoped information about her wouldn’t get to Ilford. When she changed Met areas, she also changed her name back to her maiden name so everything about Ilford was a new start. Bob, the Custody Sergeant, had already told Jazz about her busy past. Bob was the font of all knowledge, but it would appear that he hadn’t told anyone else in Ilford Police yet about Sharon.
Tony Sepple was the next. Jazz thought some of Sharon was rubbing off on him, he was getting more confident as the days went on. Tony, a slight built man with short legs which barely allowed him to reach 5’7”, lived at home still. He hadn’t got a long term girlfriend, and no he wasn’t gay, he added. Jazz reckoned he had been asked this before. Tony had been based at Romford Police Station before he was made a DC. Bob told Jazz that he was known unkindly as Nancy by his fellow officers at Romford. Apparently he had a pretty bad time there but he stuck it out and got his DC exams. Jazz thought his perseverance showed he was a strong, motivated character and someone to lean on when under pressure.
What no one knew was there had been a point when Tony had been contemplating suicide. Every day was a difficult day for him. He still hadn’t worked out who he was, all he really knew was that he had made DC and he was going to be the best DC in his unit. He told himself he was celibate and that kept all his sexual feelings under control. He knew he was a ticking bomb but that was his secret never to be shared with anyone. This was a new start for him.
They now looked to Jazz for his contribution. He found it quite difficult to know what to say. He told them he was fast-tracked through to DS and that he was seconded to Manchester Police for quite a few years. He bullshitted about how wonderful Manchester was and what he had done whilst there. He concluded with the fact that the Met Police had asked for him back and that was why he was here today.
They both knew there was more to it but he was their skipper so they couldn’t ask for more information. Jazz looked at his small team and was happy with what he had. He told them that they might be new but they had proved their enthusiasm and he had all the skills they would need to learn. He rais
ed his glass and predicted that by the end of the year his team would be considered the best at Ilford and they both cheered and raised their glasses in affirmation.
Sharon and Tony looked at their watches and decided enough was enough and left Jazz still drinking after two hours. They had homes to go to. Jazz thought they were a great little team to have. The two DCs left wondering if their skipper had a drink problem.
Now they had gone, Jazz started on double vodkas. As he told the barmaid, his team were the best and he was going to toast their success. He toasted them for a further two hours and five double vodkas before deciding it was time to go home. He rang for a cab to take him home but it was going to be 10 minutes before it arrived so he went into the off licence next door to the pub and bought a bottle of vodka.
The cab arrived on time and it was 10 p.m. when he opened the front door to his lodgings. Mrs Chodda immediately opened the kitchen door to greet him. She said she had curry and rice for him for his tea if he would like to come into the kitchen. Jazz thanked her and asked if he may eat it in his room as he was very tired. Any other time, Mrs Chodda would not have taken no for an answer but looking at him standing there swaying a little, she thought that perhaps he was a bit drunk. Reluctantly she agreed to bring a plate of curry upstairs in five minutes for him. It took him a while to walk up the stairs and he heard a strange female voice in the kitchen. He wondered if she had invited more young female relatives for him to see. He was glad he got out of that meeting, he was not up to socialising tonight.
He was quite right. Mrs Chodda had her niece by her husband’s brother’s sister-in-law who had come to visit for the day. Mrs Chodda, on seeing Jazz’s condition, had decided not to invite him into the kitchen to meet her niece. She would arrange it for another day when hopefully Jazz was less tired, as she preferred to call his condition.
He put on his TV, poured a vodka and ate the curry given to him on a tray by Mrs Chodda. Life wasn’t so bad. His team were coming along nicely and he reckoned he would surprise all those people who gave him what they thought was a no-hoper team. He felt quite comfortable in his room and the curry was very nice and not too hot. Tomorrow was another day and there were people he still needed to visit. He didn’t realise that his life would get busier and more involved tomorrow. His team was set for a rollercoaster ride with Jazz.
ANOTHER DAY ANOTHER DOLLAR
Jazz woke the next morning with a dry mouth and a thick headache that made his eyes scream for darkness as soon as he opened them. After a shower and several cans of fanta with a few headache tablets, he thought he could face the day. He noted that the vodka bottle was half empty. He had quite a few yesterday and decided he would watch his drinking a bit more. Drink made him relax and he enjoyed it but it was a little worrying that he needed it so much. Well, today, he told himself, he would prove he didn’t need so much of it. He filled his hip flask with vodka just in case. He had no intention of drinking it during the day but he felt better knowing he had it in his inside pocket.
When he got to Ilford Police Station, he found his team sitting in the incident room waiting for him. They had sorted out the cases of shoplifting and had got the files ready for CPS advice. One case had already been sent back to Tony from CPS saying there was not enough evidence for a conviction. After a brief look through the file and talking to Tony, Jazz took himself off to the CPS room to have a word with the Duty Prosecutor. It was Mary Fellows on duty and she was never easy to argue with.
She seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Mary Fellows was a bright young Prosecutor who had been in private practice for the first part of her career. After working as an agent for CPS cases, she was headhunted to join the organisation. She found private practice was a cut-throat business and private firms expected you to work every hour and more in a day to make money for the company. She was fed up with the work involved and, if she was honest, she was fed up of defending clients and getting more not guilty verdicts than most of her clients deserved. The CPS was an honourable organisation and was there to work within the Director of Public Prosecution’s code.
She found working in a charging centre in a police station was cutting edge stuff and she saw it as one of the most important roles a DP could have. If you got the charges right at the beginning, it helped ensure a swift walk through the courts and most of the time a guilty plea to start with. If you have someone banged to rights with the correct charge, they had nowhere to go and often pleaded guilty when officially charged by the police. It was her role, as a lawyer independent of the police, to ensure that whatever the police brought to her for charging complied with the code of practice in the CPS. This ensured it would not be thrown out of court for lack of evidence. This caused quite a few heated discussions with police officers who were very involved in their cases. They might know the suspect was guilty but it had to be proved and there lay the division between the police and the CPS. She loved her job and could take on any police officer. The woman was not for turning unless you gave her the evidence she needed for a charge.
Jazz sat down and gave her back the file on O’Brien, which she had sent back to Tony. Jazz knew he was in for a fight but O’Brien was guilty, any fool with half a brain and a ticket in the human race could see that. He was trying his luck with Mary, but it was worth a go. O’Brien was a known shoplifter for Christ’s sake! He was obviously guilty. They argued for 30 minutes with Jazz insisting that O’Brien was guilty as hell and Mary saying prove it. There was no CCTV to incriminate him, the bottles of whisky were in the pram of his girlfriend not in his bags as they walked out. The discussion became more heated when Jazz insisted that of course he put them in the pram and Mary again said prove it. He watched her as she went through the lack of evidence and all the evidence she needed to prove his guilt. God she was a beautiful woman. Her cheeks were red with effort and her long black hair hung beautifully and elegantly to her shoulders. As she pushed home her conclusions and told Jazz to go away and do some more work on the case, a breakaway sheath of hair strayed across her forehead and eyes. As she pushed the strands from her eyes and settled them behind her ears, she looked across at Jazz and for a second their eyes met in a moment of recognition of something left unsaid from their past. A blink of an eye and it was gone. Begrudgingly Jazz agreed they needed CCTV to prove O’Brien took the whiskey and he would get one of his team to investigate where it was. He didn’t want to leave, but they both had work to get on with. It might have been an argument over work but Jazz had enjoyed the encounter. Mary always made him feel good, even when she was putting him in his place.
As he got up from the chair, Mary hesitated, only for a nano second but the delay was picked up by Jazz, and then she asked if he was OK. He smiled and nodded. Both wanted to say more but it was not appropriate. With an intake of breath, he wished her a good day and as he opened the door to leave, he murmured, with more feeling than he intended, “It’s good to see you again, Mary.” This wafted towards her and she sat and savoured the comment left hanging in the air as the door closed after him.
He went back to Tony, threw the file on the table in front of him and told him to go and find the relevant CCTV, adding none too quietly that it should have been on file already.
The morning was getting on and Jazz went to the IBO room to see if there was anything interesting happening that he could get his teeth into. He had got the feeling that he and his team were at the bottom of the list for any jobs of interest and would be given the crappy jobs of shoplifting and sheds. He was having none of that. It was a Friday morning and he hoped something good had come in that he could pinch for his team. It was always a busy room but this morning there were voices shouting over each other with emergencies and calls for officers to attend addresses. He discounted most of them, they were petty break-ins or domestics, nothing very meaty.
He had left his team going through their files for the shoplifting cases to ensure they were fully compliant for CPS advice. The CCTV was paramount and all were working on phon
ing shops to ensure the CCTV was made available. They had found that half of Ilford’s small shops were using CCTV that was not compatible with anything the police had. Some dodgy salesman had done the rounds and sold cheap CCTV equipment; yes, it worked, but no, it was impossible to put onto any system known to any of the services. It would cause them all a headache but it would do them good to work out how to gain evidence useable for CPS and the courts.
Hanging around the IBO room was not Jazz’s idea of fun but he needed a decent job to work on. He tried to banter with the operators in the room. He figured they would give him jobs eventually either because they liked him or because they wanted to get rid of him. Either way, he just wanted something meaty to work on.
Tomorrow he would collect Mr Parmiter’s ashes and take them to the Thames on Sunday. He found out the tide was going out at 1.30 p.m. and he decided he would scatter the ashes at that time by Tilbury Docks. He knew that on Monday the fucking graduate would go ballistic when he knew what he had done, but that was Monday and he would worry about it then. Mr Parmiter was not going to be the vehicle to get DCI Radley in the newspapers for doing Jack shit! He wanted him to have his ashes scattered in a symbolic and respectful manner as befits a Sikh man, not a press frenzy of flash photography and newspaper men with DCI Radley hogging the proceedings. It was the least Jazz could do for this badly-served Sikh.
He had got to know some of the team in the IBO room and by now he was gasping for a fanta; he needed a sugar rush. They promised that if anything good came in they would save it for him. He went off knowing they meant none of it and he hurried to get his drink and return so as not to miss anything interesting. He popped his head in on his team and told them to be on standby. They didn’t know what that meant and neither did Jazz, but it was good to keep them on their toes; this thought made him smile and he quickened his step to the IBO room. He had a feeling something good was going to come in soon and he wanted to be there to make sure it was his to deal with.
