Dead in the Dog

FIVE

Captain Howden’s optimism was premature, as he had hardly slipped under the single sheet of the blessedly cool bed, when he heard the muted ringing of the telephone in the adjacent ward office. A moment later, there was an urgent tapping on the door and the QA corporal put her head in.

‘Sir, you’re wanted in Casualty straight away. Night Sister says it’s very urgent!’

Tom waited until the face vanished before he hopped out of bed, as he was only wearing his underpants. He rapidly threw on his clothes and hurried out, still belting his jacket. Going down the corridor at a trot, he glimpsed figures flitting across the end and when he reached the front, he looked over towards his right and saw the orderly sergeant and the gate guard standing by a large American car, its lights full on and the engine still running. It was on the further side of the vehicle park, outside the Casualty hut and as he jogged across, the dispensary sergeant reached in to turn off the engine.

‘What’s going on?’ puffed Tom, as he passed.

‘Don’t know, sir, but there’s blood on the seats!’

With this cheerful news ringing in his ears, he ran into Casualty and almost knocked over the last person he expected to see there. It was Daniel, the manager of the Sussex Club, whose face was as pale as his Eurasian complexion would allow. Although he looked shocked and agitated, he seemed physically intact as he wordlessly waved a hand towards the other side of the room, where a curtain had been pulled around one of the examination couches. Three pairs of legs were visible beneath it and one pair was instantly recognizable as belonging to the night sister.

Tom pulled the curtain aside and peered in. A still form lay on the couch and a tray of syringes and ampoules rested across his legs. A lanky medical orderly was standing near the man’s head, looking as shaken as Daniel. A QA corporal rested a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and Lieutenant Lynette Chambers completed the tableau, as all three were staring down at the patient with expressions best described as impotent sadness.

‘There was nothing we could do for him, he was dead before he got here,’ intoned the night sister, looking up at Tom with a hint of defiance.

He went to her side and looked down at the body of James Robertson, still wearing the obligatory tie required by The Dog, though the blood-soaked shirt beneath it had been ripped open to expose his chest.

‘He’s been shot, sir!’ muttered the orderly. ‘I did a bit of mouth-to-mouth, then I was going to try cardiac massage, but Sister said that with that chest wound, it would do more harm than good.’

‘We’ve given him nikethamide and coramine, just for form’s sake,’ murmured Lynette. ‘But he was gone before he came through the door. No pulse nor heart sounds, no respirations — and his pupils were fixed and dilated.’

The pathologist had not been away from clinical medicine long enough to forget these signs of death — nor to remember that an experienced nursing sister knew more about dire medical emergencies than he did. He bent to peer more closely at the drying blood on the front of Robertson’s chest and could see a small circular mark partly obscured by a blood-clot on the left side, just above his nipple.

‘Shall I clean it up for you to see, sir?’ asked the QA corporal, the first time she had spoken. She was a solid-looking blonde with a square jaw and in spite of the unexpected drama, seemed quite cool and collected.

Tom shook his head urgently. ‘No, for God’s sake don’t touch anything! He’s a civilian, this will have to be a police matter from now on.’

He stepped back from the couch and pushed his cap back on his head.

‘Do we know what happened?’

‘Not really, Captain Howden,’ answered the sister, now primly formal in the presence of Other Ranks. ‘That car raced up to the gate and Daniel from the club, yelled for it to be opened. I was in Matron’s Office and ran across as he drove in. Mr Robertson was slumped in the passenger seat, bleeding. We got him on to a trolley and brought him in, but as I say, he was already dead.’

‘Has Daniel told you what happened before that?

Lynette Chambers shook her head. ‘It was hardly five or six minutes ago — we’ve been too busy since then, just in case there was a spark of life left.’

‘I’ll have a word with him now. Can we get him a cup of tea or something? He looks a bit shocked.’

As the corporal hurried off to the nearest ward for tea, Tom took the tubby manager by the arm and gently sat him in a chair at the duty desk. He perched himself on the top and looked down at Daniel, who looked pathetically incongruous, still wearing his bow tie above a bloodstained white shirt.

‘I’m Captain Howden, a new man at the club. Can you tell me what happened?’

The steward passed a hand shakily across his high forehead.

‘All members had left, sir, it was just after midnight,’ he explained in his sing-song voice. ‘The boys were clearing up after the dance and I was totting takings behind bar. Suddenly I heard a car outside and then there was a crash!’

He rolled his eyes dramatically and waved a hand in the air. ‘I ran outside and saw Mr Robertson’s old Buick had run into the back of the Ford pick-up belonging to the club. Not badly, but enough to have made that noise.’

Tom waited patiently, as Daniel seemed to have run out of emotional steam.

‘Then what?’ he prompted gently.

‘I ran across to car, captain, and saw him slumped across wheel. I thought he had either hit his head in the crash — or was a bit worse the wear for drink.’ He lowered his voice at the end, as if embarrassed to mention the possibility of James being ‘one over the eight’.

‘I called to him. He didn’t answer, so I opened the door — and he fell out against me!’ These last words came out in a rush, as the mild little man recalled his moment of horror. ‘There was blood all over his front — that’s when this rubbed off on me.’ He picked agitatedly at his own soiled shirt.

‘Did you think he was dead then?’ asked Lynette, who had come across to stand at Tom’s side.

Daniel shrugged and turned up his hands. ‘I didn’t even think about it, I just wanted to get help. One of the mess boys had come out to see what was going on and between us we pulled Mister Robertson across bench-seat to the passenger side. I jumped in, the engine was still running and I drove as fast as hell down here, five minutes away.’

‘Did he move or show any signs of life during the journey?’

Daniel shook his head vehemently. ‘Nothing at all, sir, he just lay against the side door, his head on his chest. As I left, I yelled at Nadin, the mess boy, to telephone hospital to say we were coming.’

The QA corporal confirmed that, as she brought mugs of tea.

‘The guardroom switchboard put him through here, I took the call. But the car arrived almost as soon as I put the phone down.’

The club manager had nothing more to tell them about the incident and as he gratefully sipped the sweet tea, Tom wondered what to do next — or at least, in which order of priority he should raise the alarm?

‘What about his wife? Any idea where she might be?’ he asked, thinking that perhaps Diane should be top of the notification list. Daniel looked as abashed as when he ventured the possibility of the dead man being drunk.

‘Missus Robertson went home earlier — or at least, she left earlier.’ He corrected himself with an almost visible squirm. ‘They seemed to be having disagreement in the empty dining room after the buffet. I just happened to walk in, but I left damn quickly when I heard them arguing.’

‘What time was that?’ As he said it, Tom wondered why he asked such an irrelevant question, but Daniel answered it without hesitation.

‘Just before eleven o’clock, sir. Then she went out and they drove off in her Austin. Mr Robertson left a few minutes later.’

‘They? Who were “they”?’ He seemed stuck in a Sherlock Holmes mode.

The steward gave another embarrassed wriggle. ‘An officer from the garrison, I can’t quite recollect his name,’ he added evasively.

Tom sensed that the night sister was looking at him rather impatiently and pulled himself together.

‘Right, you sit there quietly and have your tea. I’m sure other people will want to talk to you before long. I’d better get on the phone now.’

He backed off and took Lynette’s arm to guide her across the room.

‘Better not let anyone in here, unless we get another casualty. Keep the curtains drawn around the body and don’t let anyone touch him. I’m going over to the guardroom to phone, it’s a bit public in here.’

Leaving Casualty in her capable hands, he strode outside and found the orderly sergeant waiting by the armour-plated Buick, both its front doors wide open.

‘Best leave one of the chaps here, Sarge. Tell them no one must as much as breathe on it until the police come.’

The pharmacist nodded and yelled for the soldier on sentry duty at the gate to come across. Tom passed him in the other direction and went into the hut alongside the red-and-white striped barrier inside the outer gate. Here he found a corporal sitting behind a bare table, a small switchboard on the wall to one side. The soldier jumped up as he came in.

‘You logged the time of that call from the club just now?’

‘Yessir. . twelve-oh-seven, sir.’

The pathologist threw his hat on to the table and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Of all the bloody nights to be stuck with OMO duty, he thought!

‘Right, I’ve got to make some calls — and quick. I’d better tell the CO first.’

As the corporal swung around to his old-fashioned switchboard, Tom added under his breath, ‘I don’t want to risk a bollocking from old Death’s Head for not telling him first.’

The corporal pulled up a couple of cords and plugged them into the board, then cranked a handle vigorously. Tom waited impatiently, but nothing happened and the soldier wound his bell generator energetically a couple more times, holding one half of a pair of headphones to his ear.

‘No reply from the colonel’s quarters, sir. Shall I try someone else?’

‘Shit! Now what?’ muttered the pathologist. Aloud he said ‘Ring the Officers’ Mess, get whoever answers to call Major Morris and tell him it’s vitally urgent to get down to Casualty. Then ring the guardroom in garrison HQ and tell them that I want to speak to the most senior officer who happens to be on duty, OK?’

He was moving back to the door as he spoke, suddenly feeling like a real army officer, confidently giving orders.

‘I’ll be in the RSM’s office, with the orderly sergeant, so put it through there — and don’t take any messing from the other end, this is pretty desperate!’

He went off at a trot across the car park, heading for the light streaming from the room where Staff-Sergeant Crosby was lodging. The pharmacist met him at the door, waiting anxiously for orders.

‘I’ve sent for the Admin Officer and I’ve got a call going through to garrison,’ snapped Tom. ‘If this is another terrorist shooting, then I expect they’ll want to get troops up to Gunong Besar at the double.’

As he spoke, the phone rang on the RSM’s desk and he pushed past the sergeant to grab it. On the other end was a captain from the First Battalion Royal Australian Regiment, who was that night’s Orderly Officer for the Brigade. In a few words, Tom Howden explained what had happened and with a laconic Aussie acknowledgement, the infantryman rang off, leaving the doctor ticking off his mental list of things to do.

‘Will he tell the police, sir?’ asked Crosby, as a gentle reminder.

‘He didn’t say as much, so we’d better make sure.’ He rattled the receiver-rest of the heavy black instrument and told the guardroom operator to get through to the Police Circle. ‘Get Superintendent Blackwell if you can — if not, the most senior copper.’

As the pair waited for the phone to ring again, there was the sound of a car engine coming fast around the perimeter road and Alf Morris’s Hillman pulled up with a jerk. He was wearing a hastily donned plaid shirt and flannel trousers and from the look of his tousled hair, had just got out of bed.

‘What’s going on? The guardroom made it sound as if Chin Peng was banging on the gate!’

‘Not all that far wrong, Major!’ Tom rapidly explained what had happened. ‘I’ve tried to get the CO, but there’s no answer at his house. I’ve notified Brigade and I’m just waiting for a call from the police.’

As if on cue, the phone rang again and the Staff Sergeant picked it up and held it towards Tom, who shook his head and motioned it towards Alf Morris.

‘I think you should take over now, as senior officer.’

Thankful that he had passed the buck, he left the major talking urgently down the phone and made his way back to Casualty. He wanted to check that James Robertson had not unexpectedly come back to life and to offer any further help to Daniel and the staff — not that the competent Night Sister seemed likely to need any support. All was quiet there and after a quick glance behind the curtain at the still figure lying on the couch, the pathologist turned to the trio sitting around the table on the other side of the room. The QA corporal, a reassuring figure in her no-nonsense blue-grey uniform, was resting her hand solicitously on Daniel’s shoulder as he sat hunched in his chair, shivering slightly in spite of the all-pervading heat. The RAMC orderly, a National Service private straight from sixth form, sat in awkward silence, but hopped to his feet as the officer came across. The QA looked up at Tom, her homely face as calm and efficient as that of her nursing officer.

‘Sister Chambers has gone up to the Mess to tell the Matron, sir. She thought she ought to know what’s going on.’

He nodded and turned to the club manager. ‘Sorry to make you hang about like this, Daniel, but the police will be here very soon and they’ll need to talk to you. Is there anyone you want to phone to tell them where you are — your wife, maybe?’

The rotund steward shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but no, I’m not married. I live in club, they know where I am.’

Things began to happen then at an increasing tempo and Tom began to wonder how much of this he’d have to report to the colonel at Morning Prayers. First, Alfred Morris came across and wanted to see the body. Tom had a lurking suspicion that he wanted to make sure that his new Orderly Medical Officer was not having hallucinations or was playing some awful practical joke — but the sight of Robertson’s bloody body soon reassured him. Alf was no stranger to blood and mangled bodies, having served in Field Ambulances in both North Africa and Normandy during the war. The oak leaves on one of his medal ribbons showed that he had been mentioned in dispatches, so a single shooting was unlikely to faze him. He went across and sat with the club steward for a few moments, reassuring him in a low, calm voice. They knew each other well, as Alf had been a club member for more than two years. ‘The police are on their way, Daniel. Mr Blackwell is coming himself, so you’re among friends.’

As he spoke, there were more engine noises outside and when the two officers hurried to the door, they saw a Land Rover and a three-tonner, both with the 21 Brigade insignia, turning in through the main gates, which the sentry had opened for them after hurrying across from where he had been guarding James’s car. The newcomers drove across the front of the hospital, homing in on the lights from the Casualty Department. A tall major from the West Berkshires uncoiled himself from the smaller vehicle, followed by a lieutenant wearing an Airborne beret. Two military police, a red-capped Warrant Officer and a corporal, got down from the Bedford truck and four squaddies hopped out of the back.

The major saluted Tom’s uniform, not knowing that Morris was senior in rank, but the pathologist rapidly made the introductions and stepped back smartly to let Alf carry on. As Morris explained the situation and took the infantry field officer for a quick look at the deceased, Tom saw that the MPs were looking curiously at the armoured Buick and pointing at the prominent blood staining visible inside by the light of their large torch. The four soldiers were stood at ease in front of their truck, wondering what the hell was going on.

At that moment, the developing jamboree was further enlarged by the arrival of another Land Rover, this time a blue one. It raced up to the now open gate and swerved across the car park, its daredevil Malay driver squealing to a halt alongside the three-tonner. Steven Blackwell emerged, dressed in mufti, as he had been at The Dog that evening and unlike Alf Morris, had not yet gone to bed.

Once again, the RAMC major recounted the little that was known. As soon as he had finished, his counterpart from the garrison decided that ‘something must be done’.

‘Like the last attack on Jimmy Robertson, this sounds bloody unlikely for a terrorist attack,’ growled the officer from the West Berkshires. ‘But we can’t ignore the possibility.’

What he really meant was that he had no intention of carrying the can if the affair went pear-shaped and they missed the opportunity to nail a few CTs.

‘The deceased is a civilian, so investigating it is down to me,’ added the police superintendent. ‘But chasing bandits is both our jobs, so I’d be grateful if you’d kick-start that. We need to know where this happened and whether Gunong Besar has been attacked or is under threat.’ A new thought dawned on him.

‘And where the hell is Diane Robertson?’