CHOGM Pt. 01

"Where's what man?"

"The hash that you've been smoking."

"Don't know what you mean. He picked up the bottle of beer from the floor beside him. "We're having a little party and all we're doing is drinking beer." He took a swig to emphasise the point.

"Don't give me that bullshit! One of your friends is on her way to hospital and there is a fair chance that she might not make it," He had no knowledge of her condition but decided that a little leverage wouldn't go astray. "And you sit there trying to convince us that you are a little drunk. We have been around long enough to see through that. Now tell me where it is."

"I haven't got any stuff."

"Look, I'll give you one more chance. If you tell me where it is I won't bust you, but if I have to search for it I will. Is that clear enough for you?"

"Sure, but we don't have anything."

"Okay, we search." The two policemen started to look in the more usual hiding places, on top of wardrobes, taped to the underside of toilet cistern lids, behind wall clocks, aware that while they searched they were no closer to finding the stash.

It wasn't until the leader reached up and took the curtain from the window and peered down the rod that they got any reaction from the others. Blowing the rod he ejected a small foil wrapped parcel from inside it. Picking it up, he opened it and looked at the contents.

"What have we here? If I'm not mistaken it's part of a block of Thai Gold. Now how do you suppose that it got there?"

"How would we know man?"

"Cut the crap! One of you got this from the Texas Tavern over the last two days. It is just as well we found this because if we hadn't you might have just found yourselves in hospital just like your friend. Now I have to go to the trouble to bust you."

"Can't we talk this over man?"

"You had your chance and blew it! Look, if you tell me who sold you this stuff I might let you off, okay?"

"I don't know his name."

"What does he look like?"

"About your height and weight, short hair, clean shaven, looks just like a cop."

"Not a Yank?"

"No way man. He is Australian."

"Would you be able to point him out to us if we took you down there?"

"I would but I won't."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to end up dead."

"Why would that happen?"

"You don't know this guy. He has rubbed out people before."

"If we could make it so that he won't know it was you that put us onto him would you do it?"

"If I do this you won't bust us?"

"That's right."

"All right."

"Let's go."

"Now?"

"No time like the present."

They drove to a street that was a hundred metres from the Texas Tavern and walked the rest of the way. Instead of entering by the front door they entered through the kitchen and were soon seated at the rear of the club looking out at the patrons from behind a scrim curtain that allowed them to see out but no-one to see in.

"There he is." His finger pointed to a man seated on his own at a table. As they watched a young girl came over and sat down. The two talked for several minutes before she produced a packet of cigarettes from her bag and lit one. He also took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, placing the packet on the table beside hers.

They talked for several more minutes before she got up and, picking up his cigarette packet from the table, left.

He picked up the other packet and removed the money from it and put it in his pocket before taking a small package from another pocket and putting it into the packet that he placed in his pocket. He was ready for his next customer.

"You had better shoot through." The young man needed no second invitation.

"What do we do now?"

"What can we do?"

"How much do you value your life?"

"More than my job."

"My sentiments exactly. I think that it's time to look for a new career. I for one am not going to be tarred with that particular brush and if we blow the whistle on our colleague there we will not live long."

Amsterdam February 1969

The police were used to this task and were no longer sickened by the sight of addicts who died of overdoses of heroin. What concerned them was the spate of marijuana users who were now being found suffering the symptoms of heroin use.

For some time the controlled use of soft drugs had ensured that fewer users felt the need to move on to hard drugs and those that did were supplied with controlled quantities of uncut smack ensuring that they didn't suffer from the impurities like arsenic, often used to cut the drugs.

The patrol that was called to the usually vacant warehouse building overlooking a canal was confronted with a disturbing sight. Sprawled around the large room were several semi-comatose bodies. In the centre of the room was a large water pipe beside which was a foil package containing a block of resinous brown material.

Peter Van Gammeron picked it up and sniffed it. It didn't smell like any hash he had smelt before and in the back of his mind he knew that he had stumbled on the solution to the problem that had bothered him over the last three weeks.

Turning to his partner he said, "Klaus, I think we should have this analysed and if my hunch is right we should then try to find out who is bringing this into Holland."

Klaus Dolman had also seen this before and shared Peter's fears that something was happening that was taking the fight against the uncontrolled use of hard drugs out of their hands.

They called in for an ambulance to come for the victims and while they waited they thoroughly searched the room. They found the usual paraphernalia that accompanied the lifestyle of the typical user, the posters, records scattered around the record player and piles of clothing in various stages of decomposition.

The cooking area of the room was also in the same condition as the rest of the place. There were cans with some of the contents still remaining in them, bottles half filled with stale milk and containers that had once contained hamburgers and other take away foods.

The bathing area was to all intents and purposes non-existent. A shower cubicle had a promising fungi farm around its walls while the track left by the dripping tap had carved its way eventually to the floor outlet.

The air in the room hung heavy with a cloying combination of body odours, incense and Patchouli oil. The smoke clouds were still hazing the air making it difficult for the police photographer to get clear shots of the scene. The use of a flash gun was out of the question as it only intensified the smoke in the air.

Having done as much as they could for the time being Peter and Klaus packed it in and drove back to the headquarters of the Drug Squad. They didn't go straight in to the squad room as was normal, but first called in to the laboratory where they presented an assistant with the remains of the block of hash. "How long will it take you to check for traces of Heroin in this?" Peter asked.

"I can have it for you in half an hour."

"Good, that will give us enough time to have a cup of coffee and get rid of the taste of that place from our mouths."

When they returned thirty minutes later their worst fears were confirmed. "I don't know where you got this from but it is potentially lethal."

"Heroin?"

"In large doses. This block contains around thirty percent heroin."

"What devil could be putting this stuff on the street?"

Peter and Klaus both went back to the Squad Room where they approached the Inspector. "Sir, we have discovered something that you should know about."

"What is it?"

"Someone is selling some bad hash on the streets."

"What is bad about it?"

"It is thirty percent heroin. I think that we should forgo any other inquiries for the present to concentrate on finding out who is doing this."

"I'm afraid that that is a decision that neither you nor I can make. I will put it to the Captain and get back to you in the morning."

"Very well." Peter had a feeling of foreboding.

His feeling was confirmed when the Inspector announced that the Squad was not well enough staffed to allow them the luxury of having two men following up a hunch.

"Why do I get the feeling that someone up there doesn't want us to stop this?" Peter asked.

"That is not the situation at all. We just do not have enough staff to carry out this investigation."

***

London, 17 March 1969:

The unmarked police car turned into the entrance of the alley and stopped. The two men sat for a few minutes looking through the windscreen at the scene before them. The rain swept pavement reflected the intermittent flash of the camera as the photographer worked quickly to capture the details at his feet. The two men pulled up the collars of their overcoats up as they got out and sloshed their way down the rain soaked alley.

A cat sheltering behind a dust bin spat at their passing feet, its wet fur forming a black mat over its thin body. Slumped among a ragged pile of soggy cardboard was a pile of rags.

"Well Constable, what do you have for us this time?" The voice was strong, a reflection of the position and power of its owner.

"It's one of your regulars and it looks as if she came into some heavy shit."

"What do you mean?"

"Look for yourself."

The tall man pulled away some of the rags to reveal an untidy collection of flesh covered bones. "Miranda, what has the fool done this time?"

"As far as you knew did she use anything stronger than hash?"

"No. I've known her now for three years and in that time she has never, to my knowledge used anything else." He stooped and pulled back the sleeve of her soggy coat, there were no needle marks on her arms. "It doesn't look as if she used heroin."

"Then how do you explain this?"

"What actually happened here?"

"It appears as if she was at one of your normal pot parties and it got a little out of hand. We haven't yet worked out how she came to be here but from the little sense that we have been able to get from the other freaks upstairs, she wanted to fly."

"Is there anything to suggest that her aerial ambitions had been assisted?"

"Who knows? Even when that lot comes down from their collective cloud I doubt if they will remember any of what has happened."

"Lead us to this gathering."

The constable led the way to a side door and together they ascended the rickety stairs to the upper floor loft where they found about twenty hippies lying around in advanced stages of drug induced euphoria.

"I see what you mean. Who is in charge of this place?"

"Miranda's friend Jasmine rents this place as an artist's studio and several of these things use it to create their alleged masterpieces."

"Which one is Jasmine?"

"The blonde sitting over there with the Guru." He indicated a slim blonde who despite her dazed state was still a very attractive person.

The scene that confronted Detective Sergeant Bryan Jamieson was one to which he had become inured. He found early on in his stint with the Drug Squad that it didn't pay to become too close to any of those involved. His mind drifted back to the loss of his first "regular", who also happened to be an attractive blonde girl. He had thought that she had so much going for her, she was a sometime model who had just won a recording contract on the strength of her beauty and the fact that she could actually sing.

She had begun using heroin when the pace of her hectic life had started to get the better of her. The industries to which she belonged were a ready source of drugs and she soon became totally dependent on it.

Her short life was foreshortened by an overdose of stronger than normal smack. Her supplier was arrested and charged but never stood trial. His life was also cut short but not by the drug that he so readily sold. His death had every appearance of an execution designed to remove from others the temptation to implicate any party in the trafficking of drugs.

Jamieson's thoughts returned from the sense of loss and wasted life that he felt at the time, to the present. Something told him that he would need to find some of the drug that had been used here tonight and have it analysed. He had never seen so many people so far under the influence of marijuana or hashish. This stuff was much stronger.

Searching among the scattered cushions that littered the floor was made more difficult by the bodies that sprawled over them. "Why don't you call the ambulance service and get them to send over a fleet to take this lot to hospital. I'll call this in and arrange for a friendly doctor to be on hand to monitor their progress. I want to interview the first one that surfaces and all of them before any of them are released. Also, I want a lid kept on this. The Press is not to find out, is that clear?"

"A bit late for that." The police turned around to find a woman standing in the doorway.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" Jamieson asked.

"My name, which by the way is on this Press Card, is Jane Symonds. I am by way of occupation a Freelance Feature Writer. I have been doing a piece on this artists' commune that Jasmine is running here. The reason that I am here is that about half an hour ago I received a call from her that something was wrong. Who might you be?"

"My name is Jamieson, I am with the Drug Squad. How well do you know this Jasmine?"

"We were at school together. Our families are friends so you could say that I have known her all my life. Having said that, I have not been all that close to her over the last couple of years until I bumped into her in the middle of a Harrods sale a month or so ago and she told me what she was doing and hoping to achieve here. I thought that it would make a good feature piece so I sold the idea to the Editor of one of the weeklies that has syndication contacts overseas. I thought that if it was good enough I would become famous."

"How many times have you been here over the last week or so?"

"A couple, and then only during the day. I am more interested in the artists that use this place than what happens after hours. I guess I don't really approve of what was happening."

"What was happening?"

"Oh the usual Hippy stuff, drugs, casual sex. Jasmine was quite open about it. She asked me if I was interested. I wasn't."

"Where did she get the money to run this 'commune'?"

"Her father owns the building so she gets it rent free. He was going to pull it down but she somehow talked him into letting her use it. As far as the cost of food and such, I think that all of the 'artists' are on the Dole so there wasn't that much of a problem there."

"But the Dole wouldn't be enough to buy the drugs that they are using. Do you have any idea how they could afford them?"

"I got the impression that they were dealing. I guess you know the usual story, they get some drugs in and cut it for their own use and sell the rest to make enough money to buy the next supply."

"I suppose that it would be asking too much for you to be able to tell me who they were buying from?"

"Yes it would."

The arrival of several ambulances heralded a period of activity. As the semi-conscious bodies were carried from the loft, Jamieson asked Constable Roberts to begin the search for any of the drugs.

"I may need to talk to you again," he asked Jane, "Where would I be able to reach you?"

"Actually I was just thinking that if it was alright with you I would like to stick around while you go about your investigation. I feel that this could be an even bigger story than the commune one."

"I will have to get permission for you to do that but that won't happen until the morning. I will let you stay here for the present on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Nothing, and I mean, not one word of what has happened here tonight will be released until you get a clearance from Scotland Yard. Understood?"

The last victim removed Jamieson and Roberts quickly and expertly carried out a systematic search of the premises, looking in all of the usual hiding places without success. There were traces of Hashish in the bowl of a large four pipe hookah which Jamieson scraped out and placed in a plastic bag. There was no trace of any marijuana or unsmoked hashish to be seen.

"This is odd."

"What is Miss Symonds?"

"See these old paint tubes, see how they are cut open?"

"Yes, but wouldn't a poor artist do that to get as much paint out of the tube as possible?"

"And leave some paint in the tube? No, look at this new tube. If you squeeze it, it feels hard in the centre."

Jamieson took the tube and squeezed it between his fingers. She was right it did feel hard. Taking a palette knife from an easel he slit the tube. Inside it was a small parcel wrapped in plastic. "Bingo! Thank you Miss Symonds."

"Will you stop with this 'Miss Symonds', the name is Jane."

"Alright Jane, thank you. What made you look at the paint tubes?"

"The fact that they had been split open and there was quite a lot of paint left to harden in them. Poor artists would not allow that to happen."

"I wonder where they buy their paints."

"Do you think they actually buy these? Wouldn't it be a safer bet that whoever sold them the drugs took legitimate paints, opened them up and inserted the packages of drugs, re-sealed them and passed them on to these people."

"You know a lot about this sort of thing."

"I know more than most journalists, but this is pure guess work on my part."

"I would say that it is a pretty good guess." Gathering up all of the paint tubes around the loft and sending Roberts to search for any cupboards that might contain further supplies, Jamieson turned to the PC who first led them to the scene, "Would you arrange with your station to send some men over here. I want this place locked up so tight that the rats will need a clearance to get in."

"Yes Sir." He replied. Taking out his walkie talkie he contacted his station with Jamieson's request.

"Well that's it for now. Can we drop you off anywhere?" He asked Jane.

"If it is not too much trouble you could drop me off at my flat. I caught a taxi to get here."

After dropping Jane off at her flat in Mayfair Jamieson and Roberts drove to Scotland Yard.

"I want you to take this stuff down to the lab and have it analysed. I want a complete breakdown of what is in this stuff and if it doesn't show that there are large traces of heroin in it, ask the lab people to check it again." Jamieson's voice had a hard edge to it that Roberts had only noticed a few times before and that was when he had witnessed what he described as a tragic waste of talented people.

"Yes sir." Roberts hurried away.

In the Squad room Jamieson started on the laborious task of writing up his report of the night's activities and when Roberts returned he was dispatched to the Hospital to make sure that the security arrangements were in place and that the Doctor in charge knew exactly what was required of him.

"Bryan, a word, if don't mind." The Detective Chief Inspector looked around the Squad room to see if there were any other police officers in the room before sitting in a chair at Jamieson's desk. "What did you find tonight?"

"Not a lot really. A young lady tried to fly off the roof of a building without a lot of success. We found a room full of semi-conscious 'artists' who were suffering from a surfeit of hashish which may or may not have been doctored. It is still too early into our investigation to be sure, but we are proceeding with all possible speed."

"That's just what I wanted to talk to you about. While I want you to move heaven and earth if necessary to trace the source of the drug, I would appreciate it if you do not mention in your report the names of the victims."

"May I ask why?"

"Let us just say that people in high places are involved."

"I see. I will investigate this matter fully and submit my report to you. What you do with it after that is up to you."