The Singhing Detective

by M. C. Dutton

  Bam Bam was frustratingly quiet and calm. He looked disinterested and bored with being there. Now he had finished the cakes, he looked like he wanted to leave. Quietly, Jazz said, “I need something more.” Bam Bam looked at him sharply. “I have done more than enough for you, it’s dangerous out there and there is only so much I can find out.” This wasn’t a conversation, it was a statement. Bam Bam rose to leave. “We are quits now. Don’t bother me again, this is at an end.” With that, his henchmen came forward and walked him out of the Gurdwara.

  He had been gone 10 minutes and Jazz was still seated in the Gurdwara. He kept asking himself what the fuck that was all about. He went over each word and came up with nothing. Something had changed but Jazz didn’t know what it was. Bam Bam was now not interested in any of this and certainly not interested in helping him. The information was total shit and meant nothing. Any idiot knew the names of Freddy Chow and Charlie Wong. Time was getting on and he needed a lead.

  He finished his coffee and decided that he would pay a visit to that low life, filthy, cowardly vermin – Mad Pete. He hadn’t forgotten he had left him at the warehouse and just scuttled off like the stinking rat he was. He hadn’t finished with him yet. He knew more than he was telling him. He vowed that by the time he had finished, Mad Pete would tell him anything and everything he knew. He got up and made his way to his flat on the Gascoine Estate, Barking. Time was of the essence, he needed something concrete today.

  ENOUGH’S ENOUGH

  The landings stunk of urine and cabbage. Jazz could never figure out why it stunk of cabbage because to the best of his knowledge no one ever cooked in these stinking flats. All were on benefits and were the dregs of society. The council, in their infinite wisdom, seemed to put all the dregs of humanity in the same place. They used their money for drugs, booze and the bloody 42” plasma screen TVs they all seemed to possess. No wonder Mcdonald’s, Kebabish, and chicken takeaways always sprung up on these sorts of estates. He knew of babies who were fed Mcdonald’s at a very young age. Mothers would chew it up and then give to their babies. David Attenborough should come and inspect the wildlife of the Gascoigne Estate sometime, he thought.

  After banging on Mad Pete’s door long enough to make his hand sore, he shouted threats that would make any self-respecting torturer shake in their boots. The noise had woken Pete’s neighbours from their comatose sleep, it was only 11 a.m. after all. Raised voices could be heard telling Mad Pete to open the fucking door and let the mad bastard in and give them some peace. This seemed to do the trick and Mad Pete shouted through the door, “Don’t touch me, Mr Singh, and I’ll open the door. You got to promise not to touch me.”

  Jazz, riled beyond belief, took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. His hands were shaking with the exertion and the depth of the anger that had risen shocked him. He had to get a grip and yes, if Mad Pete had opened the door earlier he would have punched the lights out of him. Now, he needed to know what Mad Pete was keeping hidden. “I won’t touch you unless you provoke me, that’s a promise,” was the sensible answer shouted through the door.

  Jazz took out his hip flask and took a long shot of vodka. He closed his eyes for a second and felt the fire slip down his throat and soothe his senses. It took Mad Pete many minutes to open the door. “How many fucking locks and chains have you got on this door?” shouted Jazz. He could feel himself getting riled again and that wouldn’t do. He didn’t need Mad Pete to go into one of his druggy hysterics, he would get nothing out of him.

  “Only one more, Mr Singh, I promise,” was the response.

  Mad Pete opened the door with just the door chain on. He wanted to check how Mr Singh looked before he let him in. Jazz gave a grimacing look that wasn’t quite a smile but it was the nearest to amenable he could manage. Mad Pete’s eyes flicked from his face to his hands, still not sure if he was going to beat him up or not. Jazz whispered, “Look, Pete, are you gonna let me in or not? You don’t want to bring to the attention of your neighbours that you are a grass for the police, do you?” He nearly laughed at such a stupid thing to say to Mad Pete. The whole fucking neighbourhood must have heard the shouting and banging that had just gone on, but it didn’t register with Mad Pete.

  Hesitantly, Mad Pete unclipped the door chain. As soon as the chain was off, the noise and speed of Jazz kicking the door and barging into the flat stunned Mad Pete and nearly knocked him off his feet. He ran to his kitchen and tried to close the door but Jazz was too fast for him and as he kicked the door open, it caught Mad Pete on the head. The kitchen was small and there was nowhere to hide. Mad Pete stood with his arms across his face and whimpered, he was waiting for the fist to strike him. He flinched and cowered as Jazz grabbed his arms and made him face him. The gash on Mad Pete’s forehead had started to bleed and blood was trickling down his face. “You bloody idiot! Have you got a clean cloth?” Mad Pete nodded and opened the kitchen drawer. A tea towel was produced that was supposedly clean but he wouldn’t put money on it. Jazz snatched it from Mad Pete’s hands and proceeded to pat his forehead. “You took a nasty blow there, Pete. Got a bleeder going here.” He patted it until the bleeding stopped.

  “Fank you, Mr Singh,” was all Mad Pete could say. His eyes were darting, waiting and wondering what was going to come next.

  The momentary calm allowed both of them to relax a fraction and start again. “So, Pete, what’s with all the locks and bolts on the door?”

  Mad Pete gave him a furtive look and then looked down at the floor. “It’s dangerous out there, Mr Singh.”

  Jazz laughed scornfully. “Tell me about it.” Mad Pete started to get agitated and was fidgeting and uncomfortable. In a moment of anxiety, he blurted out, “I’m sorry I left you, Mr Singh. It’s just that I was really scared, they are bad people and they would kill me if they could.” He raised his head a little to look at Jazz and sheepishly added, “I’m sorry you were nearly killed.” Jazz looked at him and wondered how he seemed to know what had happened in the warehouse after he left. Where did he get his information from?

  His place stunk of everything imaginable. There was sweat, feet, festering mould, smoke and the sickly smell of cannabis, but the overpowering smell was of a toilet that hadn’t been flushed for a long time. “How about we go out and get something to eat? We could go across the road to McDonald’s.” Anything to get out of here, Jazz thought, he was beginning to feel sick. Mad Pete was making noises that eventually came out as him being too frightened to leave his flat in case someone was out there to get him. Jazz reminded him that he was a police officer and he was safe with him. Mad Pete replied by shaking his head and raising his eyes to the sky. Of course Tony’s death made that seem a pretty stupid statement to make. Eventually food and a hot drink won. Mad Pete hadn’t had anything to eat for the last day, and perhaps Mr Singh was right, no one in their right mind would touch him in public. He left his flat on the understanding that he would be escorted to McDonald’s and escorted back to his flat afterwards. With this agreed, they went across the road to get some food.

  Most of the food purchased from McDonald’s was taken away so the place was fairly empty. Jazz found a table in the corner near the back of the restaurant. He needed a quiet place to sit and talk to Mad Pete. The order of big macs, fries and milkshakes took only minutes to come. In no time they had munched their way through a couple of big macs each and chips. Mad Pete burped his appreciation. Feeling full and comfortable, he sat back and relaxed for the first time in days. It felt safe at the back of McDonald’s. Through the massive front windows, they could see who was walking their way and the place was still fairly empty. On this estate, most people didn’t get up until lunchtime.

  Jazz wanted a cigarette but with Mad Pete so relaxed, it wasn’t the time to go off and smoke. He needed some information now. Mad Pete knew more than he was telling and for the life of everyone in the police force, no one knew what the hell was going on or why. Jazz knew it was to do with the Vietnamese but this was a massive takeover w
ith more murders in 24 hours than East London was used to. It didn’t make sense. The Holy Trinity knew that it paid not to rock the boat. Now the police were all over them and wouldn’t let go, it was just the sort of thing they had avoided for years. Business is never good if you have the Police breathing down your neck the whole time. Even their parking tickets were being looked at and if they put one toe out of line, they would get pulled in. This was all very bad for business.

  He needed to keep Mad Pete calm and unspooked to get the answers he needed. “We have worked well together over the years, haven’t we?” asked Jazz. Mad Pete nodded. He was about to mention negative things like being kicked and roughly handled at times but Jazz didn’t want that to come into the conversation. “So, I help you and you help me?” was the follow up. Before Mad Pete could answer with negative comments, Jazz added, “You can’t go on being frightened to open your door. So let’s get the bastards who are scaring you and I’ll get them put away for a long time.” For a second, Mad Pete looked interested but then the panic started to kick in. Jazz could see him getting worked up and into panic mode.

  With a voice as smooth as silk, Jazz added, “You know you and I are friends. I’ve gotta look after you. I want you to feel safe in my town.” Just as Mad Pete was going to retort grumpily that it was Jazz who had caused most of his fear by interfering with things he shouldn’t have gone near, Jazz added that there might be a reward for information given which helped capture the gang who had caused all of this. He wanted Mad Pete to be the recipient of the money on offer. There had been no mention of a reward yet, but Mad Pete didn’t know that.

  He sat up and looked very interested and alert. “How much reward?” he asked. Jazz said he wasn’t sure yet, but he reckoned it would be a nice little sum for the right person. It seemed to make a difference and Mad Pete asked what he wanted to know. He added hesitantly, “That’s if I know anything of interest of course.”

  This was all a game to be played. Jazz needed to be careful. He didn’t want to spook Mad Pete. Once spooked, he would go off on one of his drug-induced frenzies and he would get nothing out of the man. He asked quietly, “Who is at the back of all the killings, Pete?”

  Something clicked in Mad Pete’s brain and the beginnings of paranoia fuelled the start of the hysterics. “Nuffink, I know nuffink, Mr Singh. Don’t ask me. I’m dead meat. I wanna go home.” The words were almost a chant and the signs of madness were creeping into the conversation. “Slimey snakes and evil toads. I wanna be left alone. The river of blood is at my door.” Jazz was getting concerned now. Mad Pete was certainly living up to his name; he was going mad. What the hell had caused such an outbreak? It was obvious that Mad Pete knew something that had scared the hell out of him.

  “OK, Pete, no worries. We will go back to your place.” He hoped this would calm him down. Perhaps back in his flat he would feel safer and more sane. He had to find out what Pete knew without making him go off his trolley. The short walk across the road to Pete’s flat was fraught, with Mad Pete spooked beyond belief and jumping at his own shadow. A boy on a bike whizzed past them and Mad Pete, in a moment of hysteria, almost climbed over Jazz to get away. If he was frightened that someone was watching him, the noise he made would have alerted anyone within a one mile radius anyway. The whole of Gascoigne Estate knew where Mad Pete was at that moment. Jazz had never heard a man scream like that before. He grabbed Mad Pete by the arm and dragged him to the door of the flat. Shaking and by now almost crying, Mad Pete took a while to open his door, he shook so much he couldn’t get the key into the lock. Jazz took it from him and opened the door and pushed Mad Pete into the flat.

  From being quite civil and normal, Mad Pete had turned into a screaming nutter and it had well and truly spooked Jazz, who by now was feeling quite shaky. He asked himself what the hell had gone on there. He had found himself looking around to see if anyone was watching them. He had that feeling that crawls up your backbone when you think someone is behind you and about to stab you in the back. Whilst Mad Pete went to get a fix in his bedroom, Jazz searched his pockets for his flask. God, he needed a drink now. He swigged a mouthful and let it glide down his throat; he closed his eyes and felt the firey golden liquid relax his mouth and throat; it sent soothing signals to his brain. The warmth had spread to his fingertips and he felt calm. All the nerve ends that had been tingling in his body felt stroked and he was at peace. He waited patiently for Mad Pete. He was thankful he didn’t have Pete’s problem of needing a drug fix to survive.

  After what seemed ages but was in fact 15minutes, Mad Pete made an appearance and looked calm. Time was getting on and Jazz tried to hide his impatience. He had to handle this right. A bottle of Becks came out of the cupboard. Mad Pete showed a bottle to Jazz, who shook his head and declined the offer. In silence they sat opposite each other and Jazz waited for Mad Pete to empty the bottle in small swigs. With a deep breath, Jazz uttered, “So!” Mad Pete looked up at him and waited expectantly.

  Jazz licked his lips and started. He had thought about it and now was the time to lay out in detail what he wanted and why it was best for Mad Pete to tell him what he needed to know. Mad Pete watched him closely and waited. The drugs had made him feel normal and settled.

  “From my point of view,” Jazz started, “I need to know what’s going on in my town and who is responsible.” He saw Mad Pete shift uncomfortably in his seat and quickly went on. Soothingly he said, “And from your point of view, Pete, you need to feel safe and protected.” Jazz looked at him and thought that seemed to do the trick for the moment. Mad Pete was calm and listening.

  He tried to smile, but smiling at Mad Pete was difficult. The man was a walking municipal tip! The same tee shirt from years ago was still on his back and didn’t look as if it had been washed in that time. Most of the historic stains had merged into one shiny black mess. He looked as if he had tried to shave at some point in the last week but the effort wasn’t worth much. An undergrowth of hair was fighting with bits of stubble and scabs and jeez, scraps of food were caught up in the hair! Mad Pete was the tramp who always appeared either drunk or drugged, a man you never looked at when you walked down the street. You knew he was there but no one would make eye contact with him or allow their eyes to rest on him for more than a fleeting second.

  It occurred to Jazz in that split second that he was looking at a man most people never saw. Mad Pete could walk the town and no one would remember him unless he did something to bring himself to their attention. He had his gang of young followers who seemed to admire him but in that moment, Jazz could see how Mad Pete could know things others wouldn’t. Who would notice him in a busy place? Who would care what this no good low life saw? He didn’t have the brains to remember anything, he was a druggy with an addled brain. Jazz knew they were wrong on that count. Mad Pete, in his own little world, was doing very nicely. He made money from the mobiles he fenced and the little running jobs he did. Someone had made a big mistake in underestimating his abilities.

  “The way I see it, Pete, you’re fucked if you do and you’re fucked if you don’t. You’re the fucker who fucked the others, fucked up and are now fucked, am I right?” Mad Pete nodded. He warmed to the fact that Jazz totally understood his position. “So what are we going to do about it?” It wasn’t a question Jazz needed Pete to answer. He was going to tell him the answer to that. “You’re gonna let me help you, that’s what your gonna do.”

  Mad Pete thought for a moment and then reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna have to do that, Mr Singh,” was his considered reply. “First, how will you protect me? I ain’t got nowhere to hide. They would kill me if they knew.” After thinking about it, he added, “They’re gonna kill me anyway. They don’t know what I know but they will kill me in case I know anything.” Sprawled in the chair looking at his feet, Mad Pete was considering his options. He looked up at Jazz and asked what he was going to do for him.

  This was going well and Jazz picked his words carefully. “First, I
will ensure anything you tell me is kept secret. If it goes to court, I can arrange for closed door talks with the judge so your identity is never known in open court. This is standard stuff, Pete, we do it all the time.” It was not that common but he wasn’t going to tell Pete that. “As an informant we have ways and means of looking after you. Apart from that, I will look after you. We have history, Pete, and I always look after those who help me, you know that from the past, don’t you?” Mad Pete nodded. Jazz had always looked after him. He was a bastard at times but an honest bastard, he acknowledged. He didn’t trust anyone else, but he trusted Jazz.

  He had a lot to weigh up. He knew they would get him at some point. He knew most of those who had been killed. He knew about the police officer they murdered. He knew everything and they had his name in their pockets and at some point in the not too distant future they would come and get him. He hated the bastards who had done this, it was unnecessary and had caused the East End to now be under the spotlight and Mad Pete lived his life out of the spotlight. He figured that if the gang didn’t kill him then the police would arrest him because they would be pissed off and arresting every person they could find who was a little bit out of order just to show the public they were doing their job. Besides, he was scared. More scared than he had ever been. Up until now, no one gave a tart’s toss who he was, now his name was blazoned out there and there was most probably a bounty on him. The Indian gang were ruthless and cold-blooded murderers. He stood no chance. He had to get away.

  “I’m not staying ’ere if I help you,” Mad Pete blurted out.

  Jazz looked up sharply. “OK, not a problem. I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t want to stay here either. The place stinks!”