The Singhing Detective

by M. C. Dutton

  It was three months after his mother died that Jazz sought counselling. He never would have touched it with a barge pole before. Along with many officers, he had thought only wimps needed the police counsellor, but the anger that rose in a second to a height of uncontrolled rage had begun to frighten him.

  He had always been a bit of a loose canon, in fact, he took pride in being just a tad off the wall and bucking the system he spent his working life protecting. Jazz was a good officer who 20 years ago would have been perfect, but in today’s politically correct society, he was a concern to all who worked with him. It would be true to say, and Jazz knew it, that he had been fast-tracked through the system. 30 years old was young to have been made a DS. To have an officer from an ethnic minority rise so quickly through the ranks ticked the Metropolitan Police’s diversity boxes. The added bonus was that Jazz was good at his job and deserved his meteoric rise in the police service; it was certainly not a token promotion which was a good result for the Met Police officials.

  The breakdown, when it came, answered a lot of questions about his behaviour over the past few years. Manchester Police officials had wondered why he was seconded to them. They knew of the event that happened in Ilford, but he was such a feather in the cap of the Met Police that to let him go seemed strange. The Manchester Police saw him through his two marriages, his mother’s death and now his breakdown. He recovered quickly with professional help and they seemed to have a good DS back on track. Now the Met Police were claiming him back. There were complaints from the Manchester Police and letters and phone calls flew back and forth for a short while stating that Manchester Police wanted Jazz to stay with them. The Metropolitan Police exerted its mighty muscle and there was no argument. The Met were reclaiming a DS who at last was fit for purpose. Neither force knew the drink problem would stay and grow.

  CHAPTER SIX

  London again

  He didn’t know how he felt about returning to the Met. It raked up memories and events he wasn’t sure he was ready to handle. On the positive side, at least he would be able to watch the Hammers playing live. It had been five years since he had worked in London. He wondered if his contacts would still be there. With a rueful smile, he knew they would be pleased to see him again. He had learned a lot in Manchester and if they thought he was tough back then, they were in for a surprise. He was leaner, meaner and deceptively calmer these days. He had given up women, partying and playing the fool but what occupied a lot of his thoughts was when he could take his next shot of whisky, or have a beer. He woke up thinking about drink and ensuring he was never without a supply; he needed a drink. It was a curse, and he hated the dependence but he needed it to stop the shakes and to get him through the day.

  He had no one now and that didn’t bother him too much. People drag you down and hold you back. He was good at his job and the Met wanted him back. He laughed contemptuously at the thought. They had got rid of him quick enough when everything went tits up and now he was back on form, they wanted a bit of him. He was 40 years old and looking good. He had lost a lot of weight and it was just a bit of a pot belly that showed he drunk too much beer. He shaved his head and it suited him. He had good bone structure with high cheek bones that were highlighted by the dark stubble that never disappeared, however close the shave. He was a handsome devil and he knew it! The sunken dark eyes only seemed to make him more interesting and women were intrigued by him. Jazz was everyone’s friend but actually no one got that close to him. He preferred it that way. Whatever hurt him, whatever he missed in life, no one knew, he kept his own counsel. He was Jazz, full of life, a character, a laugh. He was very astute and sharp and certainly no man’s fool, but this was hidden behind a playful manner that could change in a slight of hand to a menacing demon if you got on the wrong side of him. Villains in Manchester knew him well and his history ensured they never messed with him. London was to find out the same after a few consultations.

  Jazz had to move the same day, which he thought was fucking stupid. It was a hassle, but the guesthouse was easy to leave and it took him 20 minutes to pack his clothes and put them in the car. He lost his home with his last divorce and he walked away with nothing. All he had in the world was his car, a BMW Series 3 Coupe, his pride and joy, and of course the money from the sale of his parents’ house. Jazz tried not to think of that money, it was in a savings account for a time when he was more settled and knew what he was going to do with his life. The Met had arranged for accommodation in Ilford for him and he was expected to report to Ilford Police Station on Tuesday morning at 8 a.m. sharp.

  He had mixed feelings about London. He couldn’t think about that event all those years ago, he wasn’t ready yet. Five years ago, the Met Police were a different kettle of fish from today. He smirked when he remembered that anything that happened that had a slightly ethnic background caused a panic in the Chief Supers office and he, Jaswinder Singh, was wheeled in as the ethnic expert.

  When the Commissioner for Bombay, now called Mumbai, arrived in East London, no one at Chief Super level knew what to do with him. The knock on his door made Jazz look up from his desk and he saw in front of him a pristinely dressed Indian Commissioner of Police and Jazz’s Chief Superintendant. He knew the look in his Chief Super’s eyes; he was not best pleased at the mess before him. Jazz absentmindedly apologised for the mess and quickly pushed away the Mcdonald’s cartons containing a half eaten burger and cold chips, and threw the polysterene cups of cold coffee into the bin. There was two days worth of food and cups on his desk he hadn’t got round to moving. He wiped his hands down his trousers and stood with hand outstretched to welcome the Indian Commissioner of Police. The introductions were strange and the only inkling Jazz had of what was expected of him.

  “Yes, well, Commissioner.” The Chief Super was trying to make the best of a bad job. “This is our rising star, DS Jaswinder Singh, who will be most happy to help you with any information you may require.” The awkwardness of the introduction was only paled into insignificance by the bluster and speed with which the Chief Superintendant left the room.

  Jazz smiled and cleared a chair of files for the Commissioner to sit down. A cup of tea was offered and accepted and this allowed Jazz to leave the room to think. In the tea room, he told a DC who was minding his own business and hoping for a few minutes peace that “yet again I am a fucking patsy for the Met Police. This Commissioner hasn’t been offered any courtesy car, driver or special attention. All he gets is an overworked DS who is expected to babysit this poor guy. It isn’t fucking fair on him or me.” The DC nodded but offered no words of consolation. The tea was made and a few biscuits were found. Feeling a bit better, Jazz went back to his office to see what he could do with this man.

  Whilst drinking the tea, the Commissioner broke the silence. “What is in that box?” the Commissioner asked, pointing to an over spilling box of cards which looked in some sort of order.

  Jazz, glad to have something to say, told the Commissioner, “They are Prominent Nominals.”

  The Commissioner, nonplussed, asked, “What does that mean?”

  Jazz was surprised at his lack of knowledge but with good will stated, “They are people who are prolific in committing crime and come to our attention. Dev Noms (Developing Nominals) they are people who are just starting out in crime and have just come to our attention.” Well into his stride now, Jazz went on to say, “And of course, there are Agency Nominals; they are people who are of interest to this borough as well as of interest to other boroughs. Of course, this is coupled with the repeat offenders.” He noticed that the Commissioner looked very confused by all of this and wondered how on earth they worked in India. This man knew nothing of policing.

  The Commissioner put down his tea cup and thanked Jazz. He said he had needed a decent cup of tea. Wondering what on earth to do with this man now, Jazz asked if perhaps he would like to look in the custody suite. He could see the look of relief on the Commissioner’s face. The poor bastard was bored rigid
. Bob was the Custody Sergeant and was introduced to the Commissioner as the most experienced Custody Sergeant in London. Bob could see he was being soft-soaped and realised he was expected to escort the Commissioner and Jazz around his custody suite.

  “Luckily, Sir, we are not too busy at the moment so it will be a pleasure to show you around,” was Bob’s gracious response. What was not heard by the Commissioner was Bob’s urgent whisper to Jazz of “You fucking owe me for this, I’m not your bloody errand boy.”

  Jazz laughed and said, “No darling, you are far, far more special than that.” With a kiss blown in Bob’s direction, Jazz walked up to the Commissioner, who was studying a list of dos and donts on the wall. “Bob is ready to show us his domain, Sir, if you are ready.” Bob walked them both through the procedure of when a prisoner is brought into custody by the door from the yard. They looked through the grill and could see a few police cars parked there. He showed them the custody desk and the cameras which were constantly monitoring the custody suite. They walked and looked into various interview rooms with tape recording equipment and cameras; one was in use so they looked through the spy hole. Then there was the room where fingerprints and pictures of suspects were taken. The cells, of which there were eight, were shown to the Commissioner and he was told how each cell with a suspect in was monitored regularly by camera and by the custody officer who would inspect each cell personally. The bank of screens for all the cameras sat behind the custody suite desk. It was noted that four cells were in use at the moment and Bob expected to have another cell in use when a paedophile living in north Ilford was arrested and brought in. After the inspection, Jazz thanked Bob and suggested to the Commissioner that they retire back to his office.

  The Commissioner was not ready to go; he had a further question. “Where is your beating room?” Jazz begged his pardon and asked what he meant. Bob tried to look busy but was intrigued by the question and although his hands were working hard to look like he was organising a list of something or the other, his interest was fully on the Commissioner. The Commissioner, surprised by such a response, licked his lips and slowly said, “The beating room, of course, is where you beat your prisoner.”

  Jazz shook his head. “No, we don’t have beating rooms in England.”

  The Commissioner breathed in deeply and, with eyes to the ceiling as if registering this comment, tapped his chin in thought and, nodding knowingly, said, “Aah, that answers my question.”

  “What question is that?” asked Jazz tentatively.

  The Commissioner explained, “I couldn’t understand why you had so many repeat offenders. We don’t have such people in my country.” Jazz laughed. He liked this man very much. Bob turned his back and opened the filing cabinet behind the custody desk and laughed. Jazz thought for the moment that perhaps India had the right idea. A beating room at Ilford? No, he wasn’t going to let that thought take hold. It made him smile to think of it, especially when Ricky Daniels, a prolific shoplifter who was the bane of all shops that sold alcohol in Ilford, was brought in struggling, effing and blinding, and causing his usual commotion when he was caught.

  On the way back to his office, Jazz asked, “Do you think I could get a job as a police officer in India?”

  The Commissioner looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. With a smile, he replied, “No, you would never make a police officer in India, you wouldn’t have a clue about how to take bribes.” Jazz liked him even more. This man had pulled him along, allowing him to think he was stupid. The Commissioner of Police for Bombay was a very shrewd chap and had quite a tongue in cheek sense of humour. They now understood each other.

  “Ok no more bollocks, what would you like to do, Sir?”

  The Commissioner, who now introduced himself as Omar, said he was dying for something to eat. No one had offered him any food for hours. Jazz offered the Indian restaurant across the road but Omar asked, “Can we go to McDonald’s? I don’t have it often and I am particularly fond of a big mac and fries.” Laughing, they left Ilford Police Station for the McDonald’s across the road.

  Jazz added, “Good choice, the curry would have been shit.”

  Jazz built a good friendship with Omar. When he next came to England, times had changed and he was treated like the distinguished person he was. He had a driver and a car at his disposal. Jazz was in Manchester by then but Omar kept in contact and they spoke on the phone.

  Jazz wondered if the same people would be still at Ilford. He hoped Bob, the Custody Sergeant, was still there. He had a great time with him and they worked well together. He laughed to himself as he remembered that time with the burglaries. He was hot then and an ace crime solver.

  There had been a spate of burglaries in pubs in the East End. They had seen the chap on CCTV in one of the pubs but no one knew who he was. The bugger was fleecing the pubs of their takings after a busy night and he was getting away with it. There were at least eight burglaries that were thought to be him. Most pubs didn’t have him on CCTV but a couple of pubs had a grainy picture of the same man. Jazz had looked at his MO and realised that the burglar had to do a recce of the pubs to see if the takings were worth having. Jazz had sat in a few pubs over the weeks, just waiting and looking and hoping to see this guy walk in. The Unicorn was having one of its quiz nights and there was usually a big turnout for it. Jazz sat in the corner watching and in walked a chap who looked very much like the picture Jazz was carrying from the CCTV footage. He watched him walk in, get a beer and survey the pub. He was sure it was him.

  He wasn’t going to let him get away this time. He walked up to the chap and arrested him. He was handcuffed and a police car was called to take them both to Ilford Police Station. The chap was shouting and protesting and struggling but Jazz knew it was him, ok, the picture was not that good but it was good enough.

  At the police station he was read his rights and Jazz asked Bob to put him in a cell. An initial interview with him was a no comment interview and he gave no details of his name or where he lived. Jazz could see he was a drug addict. The eyes and the gaunt, grey skin were dead giveaways. This cocky guy, who said the police had nothing on him and he was being fitted up, could just sit and wait as far as Jazz was concerned. He had other things to do and first he was off to find a bag of VHS videos; there were stacks of them waiting to be used as and when necessary. He asked the jailor to tell the prisoner he would be back in 10 minutes and then after an hour, to go back in and tell him he would be back in another 10 minutes. Bob said the prisoner was getting fidgety. Jazz reckoned he would be climbing the walls after three hours, by which time he would need a fix badly.

  Jazz had the highlights of the cricket tour to catch up on. It was on the sports programme, so he went off and got a kebab and settled down for two hours of cricket in his office.

  Bob knew how Jazz worked and just waited. The PACE clock had many hours to go so that wasn’t a problem.

  The Inspector came down to do a review of who was in custody. On hearing all the commotion coming from the drug addict’s cell, he asked Bob what all the hollering was about.

  “That is Jazz’s prisoner, Sir.”

  The Inspector was none too impressed. “Why hasn’t Jazz interviewed him yet, why the fuck is he still in custody? Where is Jazz?” By now, the Inspector was shouting and he realised he needed to calm down. Jazz always had this effect on him. Tomorrow, he would call him before him for explanations on his procedures.

  Bob tried to calm the situation and lied, “He is out on enquiries, Sir.”

  The Inspector was having none of that and said quietly to Bob, “If I find out there is cricket on the TV tonight, there is going to be trouble. You can pass that on.” He left the custody suite and his final words were, “I will be back in an hour or so and I expect to see that prisoner dealt with.”

  Jazz always sailed too close to the wind, but Bob covered his back. His timing was immaculate and Jazz walked into the custody suite just after the Inspector left. “Is he cooking nicely
my man?

  Bob smiled, “Mate he is well done. Any more and he will tell you where Lord Lucan is. He is crawling up the wall for drugs.” The time was right.

  “OK, offer him a cup of tea and put half a cup of sugar in it. I reckon it’s going to be a full hands up, don’t you, skip?” Jazz was flying now. He knew the sugar would give the prisoner a high which would allow him to concentrate and talk about all the burglaries.

  The gaoler had been listening and after Jazz went off to interview the prisoner, he asked, “What is a full hands up, Serg?”

  “It’s a confession” was Bob’s response.

  This young gaoler was perplexed. “But he won’t even tell us his name, so why would he confess?” He was now carried away with righteousness. “Is Jazz going to beat it out of him? I know they do things differently in his country. I have to tell you, Serg, that if he does, I will have to report him to the DPS.”

  Bob was already fed up with this young whippersnapper who was doing everything by the rule book and messing up his tidy custody suite.

  “It’s not Jazz to you, its Detective Sergeant Singh to you. Go make the tea and wash out all the cups and give me a break!” The gaoler was just about to add something when Bob stopped him in his tracks and said, “While you are about it, I want you to give me an inventory of what is in the stores and don’t forget to count all the pens. I need to know how many red pens and how many black pens. This is an important task; according to the manual for working in a custody suite, we must have a good supply of pens.” The gaoler, excited by the importance of the role, thanked Bob and disappeared. Bob watched him disappear and in despair at the stupidity of the man, said under his breath, “Fucking graduates.”

  The interview went well. Alan Bilter, who lived in Ilford Lane, wanted to get out of the cell as soon as possible. Jazz brought in the bag full of VHS videos and then a small television and VHS player. He made a fuss of setting the television in the right place and rummaging through the bag of videos. With a sigh of let’s sit back and enjoy, he said to the now very jittery Alan, “Right, we have all night to look at these to see if we can recognise you on them. Now some are from pubs but they got a bit mixed up with some other videos of pubs not relevant but, as I said, we have all night to look at them”.