The Singhing Detective

by M. C. Dutton

  STAKE OUT

  DS John William Bleasdale was a great and good man who had a lot to answer for. He was a DS from Ilford Police, and the partnership between him and Jazz was a match made in heaven. He was a bit older, and at 45 years old, John had seen a lot of life and had worked out how to make life work for him. He was reckless, he was brave and he was a bad influence on Jazz.

  He was originally a scouser but had left Wallasey in Liverpool for London after a family incident. He talked lots to Jazz about his family but confessed he hadn’t seen them for years. The man was very proud of his children and Jazz remembered how he always had that look in his eyes when he talked about them. He remembered the sadness. Jazz had learned all the cutting corners techniques from John. DS John Bleasdale was an honest policeman. Jazz admired him and believed John Bleasdale’s deduction skills rivalled Sherlock Holmes’. He was the Detective who always got his man and Jazz wanted to be like him. There was a mutual admiration between them and they watched each other’s back with a loyalty not often seen in the police force.

  That evening had been an utter pain in the neck. The stakeout had not been planned in advance; it was a last minute rush. They were told in no uncertain terms to get their arses over to Ilford Lane and keep watch on a house opposite. There was news of a drugs meeting but no other details had been given. With the address of the flat above a sari shop in their hands, they made their way there. The grumbling got worse when they got there. It was a deserted place with one chair to sit on. They were hungry and thirsty. They had been about to go off duty for a night in the local boozer and instead they were in this godforsaken flat. Jazz had the number of a takeaway pizza place in his phone and they ordered one of the mega feast pizzas and a couple of beers.

  John Bleasdale was fidgety and wanted to know what was going on across the road. He was bored with just watching and he told Jazz he would just take a look across the road and be back in time for the pizza. He told Jazz to stay put, he didn’t want to miss the pizza, he was starving. Jazz argued that he didn’t think it a good idea for him to wander off but John patted him good-naturedly on the shoulder, called him a wooze and told him not to worry. He blew him a kiss as he left the room and Jazz heard him laughing all the way down the stairs.

  Bob had rung to check he was alright and they moaned together about how the bosses messed them around and why couldn’t someone else have done the stakeout. Bob had asked where John was and Jazz said he had got fidgety and had gone to take a look at what was going on. He said he had the important job of waiting for the pizza man to arrive. Bob had laughed and said he would ring again later.

  He didn’t want to remember it. The events of that evening caused his eventual breakdown. It was like watching something in slow motion. One minute John was outside the house across the road and the next time he looked he saw him in an upstairs room. The light was bright in the room and he could see John clearly. He was just standing by a chair and the next minute someone in the room, out of Jazz’s line of vision, shot him and he fell to the floor out of sight. He remembered he just stood looking for a few seconds, unable to believe what he had seen. He had blinked and looked hard because it couldn’t be true. These things just didn’t happen . He had hesitated for a while longer, distrusting himself. John was a practical joker, there were often times when he had caught Jazz unawares with some sort of surprise. Perhaps this was a joke too. No one had said this was a dangerous stake out, in fact they had no information other than it was a meeting to do with drugs. He stood and watched, waiting for John to stand up and poke two fingers up at him. It didn’t happen. After what must have been a couple of minutes, Jazz galvanised himself into action and phoned the police station and reported in what he had seen. Even then, he kept saying he might be going over the top with this and sorry if it was a waste of time.

  It wasn’t a waste of time. The body of John William Bleasdale was found upstairs in the room across the road as Jazz had seen. He had been shot three times, two in the chest and one in the head to make sure. It was a bad night for everyone at the station. Jazz had never got over it. The blame was laid squarely at his feet. It was said many times to him that he should not have let John Bleasdale go out there alone. They were partners and were expected to support each other. He couldn’t tell anyone that he was waiting for a pizza and beer to be delivered. It was against police policy and that John had taken such a flippant and dangerous decision to make food more important than safety was not something Jazz would tell. He would keep DS John William Bleasdale’s memory as pure as he could, he owed him that. He had lived with the guilt and blame all these years and it had eventually caused him to suffer a mental breakdown. The big hole in the world left by John Bleasdale’s death had not been filled. Jazz still missed him and sometimes he could swear he felt his presence around him. He put that down to the nervous breakdown throwing up weird feelings. Still, he remembered that whenever he felt John’s presence, it made him feel good for the moment.

  Now he knew what had really happened, his hatred for Bob was bubbling nicely. If he ever got free he vowed to pulverise Bob to a lump of blubbering, bloody pulp. Being arrested and sent to prison was too good for him. For a policeman to kill or be part of arranging the death of a fellow police officer was unbelievable. Police officers looked after their own, it was instilled in them in training and practised daily as teams networked and covered each other’s backs. It was the most heinous of crimes and Jazz firmly believed that, like those who are traitors to their country, cop killers should be executed.

  The shouting alerted the gang playing cards and they jumped up and ran to the door. Jazz could hear Mad Pete having one of his druggy panics; they would have to knock him out to restrain him. He could hear the scuffling and swearing going on outside the room. After a few minutes, there was silence and Mad Pete was dragged in unconscious.

  Bam Bam had obviously only overseen the foray because he looked in pristine condition, which was more than could be said for several of the gang members. Some had nasty scratches and one had a ripped shirt. Mad Pete had put up quite some fight until one of the men had punched him on the chin, at which point he had gone out like a light and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Jazz looked around for Bob. He might not be able to touch him but by God he wanted to see the bastard.

  Bam Bam looked at Jazz and lightly told him in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “Oh yes, I expect you want to know where your friend Bob is. Bob had to get back to the station. He is on duty after all.” Jazz hoped he lived long enough to see Bob in a bloodied heap on the floor after he had given him a good kicking.

  Mad Pete stirred and struggled as he felt the rope holding his arms and legs tight. They had left him in a heap on the floor, no courtesy of a chair for him! Bam Bam seemed to know what Jazz was thinking and said it wasn’t worth putting him on a chair. In a short while they were both being bundled into the car and taken on a ride. Jazz knew what that meant.

  Another drink was passed to him by Bam Bam. He gratefully drank it. His hands were shaking so much, he wasn’t sure if the glass could reach his mouth without him spilling most of it. Experience counts, and he managed to down it all and closed his eyes as the soothing nectar slid down his throat and warmed his chest. There was nothing he could do. His ace card was lying on the floor and now they would both die. Mad Pete, quiet now, looked up at Jazz with real fear in his eyes. Jazz tried to think of something calming to say to him but failed.

  FINALE

  All good things have to come to an end and it was time to move. Bam Bam nodded to the biggest member of the gang. “Jamal, you take this one,” he said, pointing to Jazz. He smiled at the young men in the corner. “And you three take Mad Pete. The rest just follow us and make sure everything goes smoothly. See you back here,” he hesitated and looked at his watch, “in an hour, so don’t waste time. Your flight is at 11 p.m. and I want you all gone.”

  They scrambled out of their chairs and grabbed Jazz and Mad Pete. Jazz had his arms tied tightly bef
ore they moved him (they were taking no chances on him trying to escape). Jazz looked round at Bam Bam and in a tight voice asked him to reconsider what he was doing. He had murdered enough people, he lamely stated. Bam Bam left the room without answering and thern was no one to plead with. The gang were doing their job and couldn’t care less why Jazz and Mad Pete should live or die. They wanted to get it over with and get on the flight back home. They had made good money in England and were looking forward to spending it in Pakistan. It all felt hopeless and Jazz felt like a lead weight. He had given up.

  They were bundled into a van outside. Even Mad Pete was silent. He was trussed up tightly and the gag harshly tied across his mouth ensured he said nothing coherent. He too seemed to have given up the fight and sat slumped against the side of the van, which was cramped with all eight of them tightly packed in. All Jazz’s senses were heightened and it seemed to him that he could hear a pin drop and see everything in the dark. His sense of smell was also heightened and the smell of curry, cigarettes and sweat was overpowering. He shook with the fear, knowing that there was nothing he could do to save himself or Mad Pete.

  They waited patiently for the big gates to open to allow the van to move out. They spoke in Punjabi and Jazz listened. The conversation was inane, mainly about home and girlfriends and wives. Normal conversations in an abnormal situation, it was very surreal. One started to discuss another job they had been commissioned to do but the others shouted him down and said they had had enough of work and wanted some relaxation after they got rid of these two. It was chilling to realise that they were already dead meat as far as these men were concerned.

  The car started moving as the huge gates opened. They had just turned onto the road that would take them to Epping Forest when a bang could be heard. The driver swore and said it sounded like a tyre had blown. He stopped the car and got out to look.

  It all happened in slow motion and was so unbelievable that Jazz would never quite comprehend what happened. It was the dogs, the men, the shouting and the guns. He was punched in the face and kicked in the stampede of bodies trying to get out of the van and those trying to get in.

  Eventually he recognised the blue of the Met Police uniforms and almost fainted with relief. He was bundled out of the van and untied and wrapped in a blanket. He was shaking from head to toe. Someone was talking to him but it was as if he was deaf. He heard the voices but not the words. He was taken to hospital and manhandled and checked and given an injection. It was said by the doctors that he was in deep shock. It was the next day that the interviewing started.

  He heard DS Tom Black before he reached his room in the hospital. “Where the fuck have you put him?” was the dulcet tones that rose over the sounds of the bustling hospital bustling. After a few moments, Boomer burst into his room shouting joyously, “So there you are, you fucking bastard, skivving on the job as usual.”

  Jazz smiled and retorted, “Missed you too, darling.” Boomer laughed, a loud raucous sound, and plonked himself on the side of the bed, just missing Jazz’s legs. After eating the grapes someone had left for Jazz and sampling the bottle of coke left to one side, Boomer got down to work.

  What no one except Boomer knew was that Jazz had asked for a microphone to be hidden on his body. Jazz had said that he didn’t know if he was making a mountain out of a mole hill, but it was possible Bam Bam was more involved in the gang killings than first thought. Tom Black was a big loud man but Jazz could trust him and when it counted, he was a damn good officer. He asked that it be kept between themselves unless something occurred. They both knew they would never get a search warrant based on the ramblings of Mad Pete.

  After he had left Bob and Mad Pete in the custody suite, he had rushed to find Boomer, who he grabbed and took outside to urgently tell him about Mad Pete and what he had told him about Bam Bam. In answer to the question from Boomer, he distractedly confirmed that Mad Pete was safe in custody until he got back. He trusted Boomer to watch his back and knew he would be decisive and game for such unorthodox surveillance. Jazz said he would take all the blame if it went tits up and this was the clincher for Tom Black.

  It had been arranged extremely quickly, the microphone had been tested but not for the length of time that was normal. He had to hurry, Mad Pete could only be held in custody for a short while before someone started complaining. They could only find a survelliance kit that had a radius of six miles and that would mean that Boomer would have to be laid up somewhere quite close with the receiver and the tape recorder. It was too short notice to get the more sophisticated kit; it was the best that could be organised in such a short time. Jazz went into the grounds not knowing if he was being received or not. Foolhardy, stupid, unprofessional and dangerous were the words used by DCI Radley at the debrief.

  To find out that Bob was an informer for Bam Bam and had been for many years was a shock that no one expected. Boomer had heard everything and got it all down on tape. He had rung DCI Radley immediately and a team of SO19s were assembled ready. It had been decided it would be safer and easier to wait until the van with the gang and Jazz on board left the house to waylay them. A marksman had shot out the tyre to stop the van and the rest was history.

  Boomer told Jazz to lie low for a bit. There was going to be trouble with the way he had worked. The hospital were keeping him and Mad Pete in for a day or so just for checks. He added that he thought Jazz had done a fucking grand job in single-handedly capturing the bastards. Jazz thought that was a bit over the top, but he appreciated the sentiment. Boomer was not usually given to compliments.

  Jazz, burning with the knowledge of what Bob had done, asked Boomer what had happened to Bob. The response, in true Boomer style, was, “Fuck the fucking fucker’s fucked.” After that was digested by Jazz, he added he was under arrest and at present was sporting a very black eye where someone had accidently punched him in the face when he was resisting arrest. That would do Jazz for now.

  It was a feather in the cap of DCI Radley and DS Tom Black’s murder squad. The gang of murderers had been captured and the success of the daring rescue was the main headline on every radio and TV news programme. It was in all the papers with a picture of DCI Radley looking quite regal in his ceremonial uniform on the front page. He had modestly stated that his teams had done all the work and he was very proud of them. There was no mention of DS Jaswinder Singh.

  Mad Pete left his room in the hospital and found Jazz alone watching the news. It was the only news worth watching on TV. He stood there looking cleaner than Jazz had ever seen him, with his hairy arse hanging out of a hospital gown; it was not a pretty sight. Mad Pete had strode determinedly into Mr Singh’s room and now stood at the end of the bed looking unsettled and aggrieved. He said there was no mention of Mr Singh or himself in anything on the news and he thought that was very bad.

  He told Mr Singh he had done a great job and the fuckers would have been nowhere without his information. He wanted to know why no one had interviewed him, Mad Pete, the saviour of the capture and rescue. Jazz just raised his eyebrows and wondered where the ego had come from. He mumbled a few words of what Jazz took to be thanks for saving his life. Mad Pete had heard later about the microphone and officers waiting to rescue them. He added venomously that the fucking pigs could have told him what was going down. He asked incredulously, “Didn’t they realise I could have died of a heart attack? I was so scared they were going to kill me.” Jazz smiled at the logic of the man but in an unusually polite tone thanked him for his views on the rescue. Mad Pete couldn’t hear the sarcasm in the words, which usually accompanied anything remotely civil said to him. He wondered if Mr Singh was right in the head after all the argy bargying that had gone on.

  As Mad Pete left the room, he turned and hesitated for a moment. Looking straight at Jazz and with much contained emotion, he uttered, “Don’t care what the others say; you are the big man in my book, Mr Singh.”

  Jazz waved his hand in the direction of the door and sent him on his way with a
“Fuck off”. Mad Pete closed the door and smiled. He was alright, Mr Singh was back to his old self again.

  Tomorrow was another day. Jazz had a burgeoning nervous breakdown to tackle, a revenge to organise and a desperate need for a drink to satisfy. He was Jaswinder Singh, the Jazz Singher to his friends and enemies. He had to pick himself up and go on. He would never let anyone get close again. No one could be trusted. He was a loner and that was the safest way to be.

  *An alcoholic drink, generally any IMFL, is almost always called a ‘peg’ in India only

  *baby means minor heroin habit – *1King Kong means big habit –*2The Man – Dealer

  *IPLDIPS is a raw recruit uniformed officer- Initial Police Learning

  Development Programme