Lurching to my feet, I crossed the office and swung open the hinged window. Standing at the counter was a chubby East Indian, face wreathed in an obsequious smile, perspiration beading his forehead.

"What can I do for you, squire?" I asked.

"Please, I am wanting to acquire your assistance in a matter of grave importance to me." All this delivered in a singsong accent. No wonder they call them the Bombay Welsh!

Oh shit, I thought, this is going to involve fraud, deception and a tissue of lies. "What seems to be the problem then?" I asked him.

"Well, my name is Sirdar D.B. Singh and I am the owner of a house in Burlingham Terrace which I rent it out to these, these... black people."

Christ, that's good coming from you, I thought. Burlingham Terrace was an area of run-down Georgian houses, sub-divided into flats and rented to a large number of our West Indian population. Known for its drug-trafficking, prostitution and gambling, it was a "hot" area.

"Go on, sir," I prompted.

"Well, these people have not paid the rent for many weeks and I cannot get them to pay me the monies they owe me. It is most distressing and causing me a great deal of anguish." Now, he was wringing his hands and tears were coursing down his cheeks.

"This is not a matter for the CID, sir, this is entirely between you and your tenants. If you rented the property as furnished, you may give them one week's notice to quit and then serve a court order on them."

"Well, you see, the property was originally rented as furnished, but they have chopped up all the furniture and used it as firewood, so now I am believing that it is unfurnished. If you were able to provide me with your professional assistance, I would be grateful and could give you important information regarding terrible criminal activity that takes place in Stapleford Road."

Now he had my attention. Stapleford Road was a notorious area in our neighbouring city and I had a good mate on the Regional Crime Squad who would do a trade off for good bully on stuff in that area.

"Well, you realize that this is unofficial, but I do believe I have someone to see in Burlingham Terrace, so why don't we take a ride up there."

I ushered him down the stairs and out through the Charge Room. The Station Sergeant, a former Detective grinned at me and said, "I knew you'd be able to help him."

"Fuck you," I mouthed behind my client's back.

"Please, is it permitted that we ride in my vehicle. It is over there." He pointed towards a gleaming black Mercedes parked in a spot reserved for police cars. If we left it there it was going to get ticketed, so I said, "OK, let's go."

The vehicle was almost brand new and smelled of good quality leather, though it had overtones of garlic and curry. Within minutes we were in Burlingham Terrace. Sirdar pointed to the run-down building and said, with a hint of pride in his voice, "That's mine."

It was four storeys, a Georgian terraced house that had, in its heyday, housed the gentry. Now relegated to being chopped into flats, it ragged, dingy and grubby, garbage littering its pathway to the front door. From the basement came the clatter and raucous laughter of the occupants and the vivid language and music of the Caribbean.

"Ok, let's see what's up," I said, heading towards the basement steps. Sirdar hung back, reluctance shading his face and he stammered out, "No, no, I'll wait for you here."

I opened the basement door and was assailed by the smell of cooking. The basement had been turned into a communal kitchen, with four stoves ranged around the room. All four were blasting away and the occupants were cooking up a storm. The air was redolent with the smell of spices and sweaty bodies.

Someone noticed that there was a stranger in the room and yelled out: "There's a copper, here."

Immediately silence descended on the room and a semi-circle of dark faces and gleaming teeth confronted me.

"Detective Constable Roberts," I announced loudly. "There's been a complaint about some of you buggers trading ganja out of here and I thought I'd call in to see what's going on."

"You don't have a warrant, man," came the sing-song reply from the biggest man of the group, as he came over to stand in front of me. He was obviously the leader of the group and could be a problem if I didn't take precipitate action. I sighed and then kicked him hard just below the kneecap on his left leg. As he went down I smacked him open-handedly across the face, twisting him around onto his back.

"Fuck, man, there's no need to be aggressive. We be law-abiding people who don't do nobody any harm. We all got jobs at the Rubber Works, so we don't need to trade ganja."

"Then why can I smell that shit, even over the cooking," I demanded, standing over him prepared to bop him again. "I've also heard that you buggers don't pay your rent on time. Now, if you don't want me to come back here with the Police Rugby team for a bit of kicking practice you'll square things up with the landlord and quit selling that shit to the local kids. Right?" A gentle boot to the ribs accompanied this.

"OK, man, OK. I get the message. I'll see everything is squared off and all these people pays their rents." He struggled to his feet and turned to his silent audience. "You heard what the man said, now you be going to your rooms and getting the money for the landlord otherwise we never be free of the po-leeee."

I had obviously picked the right man, for the kitchen was soon empty. I moved right into him and said, "Now, squire, you and I are good friends from here on in. When I come calling I expect to get a bit of information on what's going on in the other houses. As long as you pay the rent, I won't be looking too closely at what else is going on, get me."

He nodded slowly, accepting the contract that has been established between us. It hadn't been a bad day's work, two informants guaranteed, now to see to Sirdar. He was sitting in his Mercedes, glancing nervously about him. When I went over to the vehicle he wound down the window, a worried frown on his face. "What happened Mr. Roberts, what happened?"

"You stay here, Sirdar, and they'll bring out the money to you. I don't think you'll have my trouble for a while. Give me a telephone call tomorrow with some good information. Keep in touch, eh!" I strolled off down the street, knowing full well that I'd get some good bully from him in the near future.

The following afternoon I was sitting at my desk, banging away on the typewriter to reduce the pile of Crime Reports that lay festering in my in-basket when George, the other detective on our shift answered the strident ring of the phone in the corner. "For you, Taff, some bloody wog by the sound of it."

"This is Sirdar D.B. Singh, I am calling to provide you with information regarding terrible people who are committing crimes in this city. There is a house in Stapleford Road, number 407, where it is to be owned by Mrs. Gwladys Barter. A lot of people go in there with suitcases but come out without them. It is very suspicious and I think you should know about it."

"Thanks, Sirdar, I'll look into it."

My next step was to call Detective Sergeant Tony Brent of the Regional Crime Squad. He was, as usual, up to his eyeballs in unsolved crime and was presently tied up looking into a major outbreak of shoplifting in the large department stores in the city. I gave him the background on Sirdar and his obligation to me and he promised that he would make a few enquiries.

A week or so passed and I had forgotten all about Sirdar's call when into the office strode Tony Brent, a wide grin on his face.

"Taffy, you bastard, you've got a good snout there. I ran Gwladys Barter on the system and she came up as a retired hooker who was into shoplifting. I got a couple of the lads to keep tabs on the place from an old van parked down the street and they recognized two of the visitors as lifters. We snagged a quick warrant and kicked the door in. Shilt, you should have seen the stuff—floor to bloody ceiling in three rooms. We got the old bag herself and the two lifters coughed their guts and gave us seven, bloody seven, others involved. We rolled them up last night and recovered even more property. It'll run into the thousands, mate, and I think a letter of appreciation would be coming your way, via your Chief, of course."

"Good one, Tony, that's worth a pint—on you of course."

He punched my arm and we clattered down the wide stone stairs to the exit at the back of the station and across the courtyard to the Empress pub, the nearest watering hole and a hang-out for coops. Our celebration was a long, and ultimately painful one for the next morning.

Sirdar chalked up several more victories for me over the next couple of years and garnered me more than a few Letters of Appreciation to pad my file. They covered offenses ranging from drug dealing to fraud by motor dealers, wholesale theft from the docks to a kinky sex ring. Thank Christ they balanced off the letters of complaint that had come in, mostly from housewives who complained about me doing my job.

Like all good things it had to come to an end. One Sunday morning I was pecking away at the typewriter and caught a phone call. It was from the Station Sergeant and he was irate. "My boys have got a bloke up in Burlingham Terrace who is screaming blue bloody murder at being arrested and is yelling your name all over the place. You'd better gut up there and sort it."

"What's it all about, Sarge?" I asked.

"Can't stop to explain, just get up there and sort it. I've got the Chief on the line wanting to know why his Sunday papers haven't been delivered yet, now piss off." With that the phone went dead. I grabbed my coat and hat and ripped down the stairs two at a time, my mind racing. It had to be Sirdar, but what the hell would the uniforms have arrested him for; I hadn't heard from him in a few weeks and pondered this as I drove to the scene of the crime.

Sure enough, it was Sirdar. He was pinned against the railings outside his slum palace by a burly beat cop. His partner had a hacksaw in his hand and was talking to a wildly gesticulating West Indian. In the background were several Westies, their faces a sickly shade paler than usual. Off to one side was a truck from the local Gas Company with a crew of two unloading their tools.

"Alright, boys, what's this all about," I said in my best Dixon of Dock Green voice.

"Better let this prick tell you," said the burly minder of my soon-to-be-ex-informant Sirdar, giving him a dig in the ribs to animate him.

Sirdar cringed and adopted an obsequious tone of voice, "Well, you see, Mr. Roberts, Sir, it has been a very bad time for me and you have been so good to that I did not want to trouble you with my little problems. These people have not paid the rent for a long time now and I decided that if they were not going to pay me, I would cut the gas off," this delivered with a triumphant, beaming smile.

"Only trouble is," said his minder, "he was using a bloody hacksaw to do it."