by M. C. Dutton
DCI Radley would miss out on the press coverage and his photo in the national papers. Jazz was going to have to tread very carefully over the next few days but Mr Singh deserved a solemn and respectful scattering of his ashes as was his right as a Sikh .
He squirmed at the thought of the spectacle. There would be the police launch duly borrowed with the ashes, DCI Radley and himself on board. The press would be taking pictures and there would be the usual scrabble and the shouts of ‘Over here, Sir’ for a good photograph for the paper. The ashes would be scattered in a most unceremonious way. He didn’t dare think what sort of speech DCI Radley would have made to the press given the chance. Jazz laughed at the thought. No, it was going to be quiet affair; just him. He still didn’t know why he felt so strongly for this stranger but he did.
The ashes were handed to him in quite a solemn fashion. It didn’t look very much for a whole man. The small box was put in a Sainsbury’s bag so it didn’t scare anyone when he went outside. He would take it home ready for tomorrow. He thought he would have a Chinese tonight. It was good to have a varied selection of food, he thought. First a drink. He found that the nearest pub to De Vere Gardens was the Cranbrook Public House, just 10 minutes from home. It wasn’t a particularly nice pub. Built about 1960, it was worn out. There was no particular style and it certainly had no class, which he thought sounded about right for him. The landlord was a good guy and Jazz enjoyed the banter. He put the Sainsbury’s bag under the table by the window and drank deeply on his pint of Stella.
No smoking in pubs was a bind but he had a bag of crisps and then went out the back of the pub to the yard area where most of the customers were drinking and smoking. They were a good bunch, mainly Irish by the sounds of it. They joked and ribbed Jazz for being so cockney and took bets on whether he was a Paki or an Italian. After much shouting and comments of “Paki, Italian, not much difference between the two”, Jazz shouted back that he was neither. He was a Sikh. He was very light of skin and was often mistaken for someone fom the Mediterranean. He left the smoking area to go home, to the sounds of Irish voices shouting, “They Sikh him here and they Sikh him there, they Sikh the fucker everywhere.” He laughed; he had had a great time and would go back tomorrow. He had now made the Cranbrook his local pub.
With four pints of Stella inside him, Jazz was feeling very good. It wasn’t until he had passed Valentine’s Park that he remembered the ashes. He turned and rushed back to the pub to retrieve them from under the table. As he got there, the landlord picked up the bag and was about to open it. He didn’t want to explain about the ashes, so he grabbed the bag from the landlord with many thanks for keeping it for him. He turned, a tad unsteadily, and went home.
He phoned for some Chinese from a leaflet he had found at the police station. They always had lots of take away leaflets for night duty officers. The canteen closed at 5 p.m., which was mad considering the station was manned 24/7. He ordered far too much but thought it would last him two days. The order arrived one hour later, just as Jazz was finishing his third tumbler of vodka and tonic. He paid the man and stumbled up the stairs. Mrs Chodda wasn’t far away and watched the big bag of food go up the stairs. He didn’t hear her tutting from behind the door.
Jazz woke on Sunday morning at 8 a.m. with a massive headache. It was becoming a regular morning event. He squinted at the remains of the Chinese still on his table. Shit, he thought, he had meant to put it all in his fridge last night so he could eat the rest tonight. He got a fanta out of the fridge and popped a couple of paracetamol. The shower revived him. When dressed, he set about clearing up the Chinese and trying to save the good bits for tonight. He ended up with four cartons, each containing rice, noodles, beef in oyster sauce and prawn balls together with a sticky carton of sweet orange sauce. At this moment, he didn’t think he could face anymore Chinese. He felt sick.
Still not quite with it and feeling distinctly remote, he wondered what he had done with the ashes. He looked around his room and couldn’t see the distinctive Sainsbury’s bag the box of ashes were in. He had a glass of water, he was so thirsty. When his head cleared a little, he looked again. The panic didn’t start until he had searched his room three times. He looked everywhere but no box of ashes in a Sainsbury’s bag. Thinking back, he remembered taking the bag from the landlord at the pub and coming home. He had it, he remembered fairly clearly walking up the stairs with a bag. He couldn’t remember if he looked in the bag to check he had the right Sainsbury’s bag. The panic now flooded through him. What if he took the wrong Sainsbury’s bag from the pub and someone else had the ashes. He searched the room again using the mantra of “fuck, fuck, fuck” to concentrate his mind on the task.
It wasn’t in the room. He would have to go back to the pub and see if it was still there. He was mightily pissed off that this could have happened. He didn’t feel good, he didn’t want to have to explain. He went to the fridge for another fanta; he figured a sugar rush would help him think. It took a few seconds to register but in the fridge was a Sainsbury’s bag with something in it. He pulled it out and there was the box of ashes. He said sorry to Mr Singh. He figured he would have caught pneumonia if he had been alive. One minute he was in a hot oven burning up and the next he was freezing cold and cooling down. This tickled Jazz and he held his head which hurt as he shook from a massive giggling attack. He put the carrier bag with the box of ashes by the door so he didn’t forget to take it with him.
By 10 a.m. Jazz was as right and sober as he was ever going to be today. He dressed smartly in a pair of dark trousers with a shirt and tie. Only his leather jacket gave any hint of being dressed casually. He liked the outfit and thought it suitable for scattering the ashes. He wasn’t sure if he was safe to drive but he felt fine and he wanted to get to Tilbury by noon, which was when the tide turned and was going out to sea.
He arrived in Tilbury and found his way to the front. It was a nice day with lots of people around. He walked a way past the busy end and found an area that was quiet. This was the first time he had scattered ashes for anyone. He remembered a film he had watched in his dim and distant past which showed someone scattering ashes and the wind blew up and the ashes went all over the person standing there. He was adamant it wasn’t going to happen to him. He had a swift look around and all seemed quite empty. He knelt down. He couldn’t get too close to the sea, he didn’t want to wet his shoes as the water gently lapped back and forth over the stones. He carefully tipped the ashes onto the water.
He was considering saying something meaningful to send them on their way but he noticed the ashes were not moving as they should have. To his horror, they seemed to stay where they were on the water’s edge and they covered the surface of the water like a thick blanket. A twinge of panic was rising.
“Bloody hell. What do I do now?” he said to himself.
He didn’t want to put his hand in the ashes to stir them up to get them to move. He was too squeamish to do such a god-awful thing, the thought made him shudder. He knew as the water receded the ashes might just sink onto the pebbles and not go out to sea. That wouldn’t do. He looked around for a stick or something to prod the ashes further out into the sea. He spotted a lolly stick and he used this tiny object to stir the ashes but this had no effect. The damn stuff was just sitting and bobbing as the water moved in and out. Panicking, he watched and noted that, bloody, sodding hell, the ashes stayed put. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet as the water dared to encompass his shoes and for a second he thought the sleeve of his jacket might have touched the water and the ashes, which freaked him out. The panic was going and was now replaced by anger.
“How bloody stupid is this?” he asked himself. He had done his best to be true to tradition for Mr Singh but now he was on his own. “Bollocks to this, I’m off,” he told no one in particular and left.
This event was disappointingly not the majestic moment he had hoped for but technically he had done the deed for Mr Singh. He didn’t allow himself to think that perhaps
the scattering of the ashes on a police launch, even with all the press there, may have been more fitting.
He went back to Ilford and parked his car in De Vere Gardens. He didn’t go indoors but walked to the Cranbrook Pub for a pint of Stella to help clear his head and raise a glass to the memory of Mr Singh. It was mid-afternoon but still lunchtime and Sunday roasts were on the menu. He ordered roast beef and all the trimmings. He was partial to a roast dinner and roast beef was his favourite. He would wash it down with another glass of Stella before returning home to watch some cricket. He needed to take it easy today and get his energy levels back up. He wanted revenge for Alice. Tomorrow was going to be the start of finding out who murdered Alice and dealing with them.
ONCE UPON A TIME
Bam Bam Bamra was a Sikh gang leader. He covered Ilford, Barking, Dagenham, Plaistow and all parts this side of the Thames up to Stratford. He controlled and kept in order a huge area. He vied for top position with the Triad and Snakehead groups, they all had their own areas of business and worked hard not to encroach on each other’s working arrangements. Along with them were all the little people who also vied for work, information and a bit of power. It was not easy to be a top dog, it involved teaching lessons to various people over the years. It was not a problem for Bam Bam, he commanded a fearful respect. There had been quite a few dissidents holding up flyovers through the years, not to mention those minced up and fed to pigs in Essex. Whether these stories were true or not was not the problem, the myth was laid in stone and never challenged. His fingers were in many pies: money laundering, pimping, bodyguards, protection rackets and drugs but never cannabis or cocaine, more Es, crystal meth and amphetamines. The Triads and Snakeheads were the cannabis, cocaine and heroin dealers. He also ran a business providing bouncers for clubs and pubs. It was more that the clubs and pubs could only use his bouncers if they didn’t use him, something nasty happened on their Saturday nights, which was not good for business. Bam Bam had been in the area for many years. Another product of Uganda’s exodus to Britain, Bam Bam came to Ilford and took over a pretty feeble criminal element; it was easy pickings for him.
A few years ago, Jazz, as a new Detective Sergeant, had formed a fleeting and confidential alliance with Bam Bam Bamra. Jazz knew all the important people on his patch and they knew him. One day, when Jazz was getting his usual early morning newspaper, a lad stopped him as he was about to get in his car and handed him a mobile phone. On the other end of the phone was Bam Bam who said he wanted a quiet word, in private, with him. Bam Bam was a cocky individual and his tone was far too sweet and accommodating for Jazz not to be curious so he agreed to meet him. They arranged to meet in the Sikh temple at 6 p.m. that evening. It was a safe place to meet, no CCTV, no microphones and a quiet corner to talk could always be found. Bam Bam was already in the temple when Jazz arrived at 5.40 p.m. He had hoped to just ease himself in and look around before Bam Bam arrived. He figured it must be important for Bam Bam to already be there. Handkerchief on head and shoes removed, Jazz sat down next to him. Jazz watched as Bam Bam, unaccustomed to being on the wrong foot, tried to find a way of starting the conversation. It was quite fascinating to see Mr Confidence so uncomfortable.
“I asked to see you, Jazz, because I know your reputation.” He was looking down at his shoes but his eyes flickered in Jazz’s direction as he spoke. He licked his lips and paused for a moment, staring at his shoes, trying to think how to carry on. Jazz looked at this big man who, by the look of his stomach, had eaten far too many samosas for his own good. He was a big man, at least 5’9” and nearly as wide. He was dressed as usual in a well cut suit which helped cover his multitude of sins. He always appeared immaculate as if he was a real business man. His standards never dropped. He had other men to do the dirty work for him so his hands were always clean. He was wrestling with what to say next and decided that he would just say it. With a deep breath, he looked up and blurted out, “I need your help.” Jazz looked, he couldn’t believe it, was he wringing his hands together? He glanced around wondering who else could see this spectacle. He saw three of Bam Bam’s men all with their backs to them watching the entrance doors and ensuring no one got too close.
Bam Bam, having asked for help, now seemed to be more at ease and got on with what he wanted to ask Jazz. “I have a 20 year old daughter, Sandeep Kaur, she has been away at university. A very clever and beautiful young lady.” Jazz could see the pride in his face as he talked about her. “She was at Canterbury University studying History. I never wanted her to be so far away but its modern times and, well, I agreed she could go.” Bam Bam looked at Jazz and said, “She means the world to me, I want her safe.”
Jazz was intrigued. Bam Bam was asking for help when he was the king of contacts in the area. If Bam Bam couldn’t fix it, what did he think Jazz could do? Jazz was getting seriously worried now. He hoped Bam Bam wasn’t going to ask him to do anything illegal. He would only consider that in extreme emergencies.
Bam Bam continued, “She has been kidnapped by a sect down in Dover. She has left the university and set up with them. She is asking for money from me to fund them. They won’ let her out to see me and they won’t let her use the telephone. She is brainwashed and thinks I am pure evil.” Jazz nearly laughed; they were right about that. “I have no contacts down in Dover and don’t know what to do. I can’t jeopardise her safety by going in there and getting her. Besides, she would never forgive me and I couldn’t bear that.” Jazz thought Bam Bam looked nearly human as he mopped his brow and brushed away tears. “Her mother is beside herself and will never forgive me if anything happens to her.” Bam Bam was confessing more than he ever should.
The emotion in front of Jazz was making him quite uncomfortable. This was a side of the man Jazz had never seen before and was not likely to ever see again. He hoped, in the future, when Bam Bam had calmed down, that he wouldn’t hold it against him that he had seen the great Mr Bamra so vulnerable.
THE SAVING OF SANDEEP KAUR BAMRA
Jazz hated the fucking sects. He had contacts and after getting all the details possible from Bam Bam, he had left promising to have news in a few days. It had been tricky but his contact John Smith, well maybe that wasn’t his real name but it was the one he used, had done this many times before. Sandeep was found; after a week of surveillance, she was kidnapped from the sect’s big manor house just outside Dover and taken to a safe house.
Jazz kept Bam Bam informed and said he couldn’t see his daughter until she had been cleaned mentally. It was to take nearly eight months before a dutiful, compliant and loving daughter could be returned to Bam Bam’s home in Chigwell. When Bam Bam was told she had been rescued from the sect and was safe with people who specialised in returning sect slaves to normal lives, overcome with emotion, he forgot himself and clasped Jazz to him and thanked him. This was certainly not the Bam Bam everyone knew. Bam Bam owed Jazz and promised him that if there ever was anything he could do for him, he was just to ask. It felt good to have one of the top gang leaders owing him a favour. Shortly after, Jazz was seconded to Manchester and the favour had to wait. It was unfinished business that would be remembered by Jazz.
Bam Bam would never renege on the deal. There was, of course, much more to the story than anyone knew. Bam Bam never mentioned the real truth. To say such things would make it too real and that couldn’t happen. It was unsaid knowledge between them and that made the debt a matter of honour. Jazz and Sandeep developed a closeness; they shared a life changing secret that could never be told to anyone else.
John Smith knew of this sect, if you could call it that. It wasn’t one of the religious sects as such although its clarion call to the young and stupid, which were Jazz’s words, not John Smith’s, was, “Make a difference in the world.”
The kidnap of Sandeep had gone well. John Smith was an expert at such things. He carried out surveillance on the house where she lived and watched the comings and goings for a few days. There was a routine to the lives of the young
women. He noted it was all young women there, no young men.
Jazz visited every week for an update on how Sandeep was doing. It would be three months of treatment before Jazz had a face-to-face meeting with Sandeep at the safe house. She was in a bad way and not fit for visitors. John made it clear that she would see no one except his team who were there to help her.
After the first week, Jazz met John at the safe house. Sandeep was kept upstairs in a large locked room. His team of a nurse, minder and psychologist were there and would stay and get her back to as near normal as possible. It was always going to be expensive but Jazz knew Bam Bam could afford it so the cost was never an issue. In muted tones, John explained that it would take a long time to get Sandeep fit enough to re-enter polite society. Examinations found she had been sexually abused; her body would heal but the mental scars would take longer. She had been brainwashed into believing what she was doing was right and just. She was addicted to crack cocaine and it would take time for her to come off it. The sect had introduced her to crack cocaine, it made her totally dependent on them. It was a sombre thought, and there was a moment’s silence as the horror of coming off crack cocaine dawned on Jazz. They both knew how addictive the drug was and that she was in for a rough ride. John Smith added, almost as an afterthought, that she was two months pregnant.
Jazz gasped, this was even worse; a Sikh girl would not be marriageable with a child. John jumped in and said not a problem, she would have an abortion. He added that this had been organised already and a private clinic close by had been booked. For Jazz’s benefit he said that the abortion needed to be dealt with as soon as possible before the full treatment and de-programming started. It was all said in a very matter of fact tone. John had done this many times before. It left Jazz knowing he could not and would not tell Bam Bam the full extent of what had happened to Sandeep.
