Dead in the Dog

SEVEN

‘Bit of a bloody cheek, I thought! Questioning us as if we were damned suspects.’

Peter Bright sounded indignant as he signed the chit for a beer that Number One held out for him. It was just before lunch in the Officers’ Mess and most of the resident medical staff were sitting in the anteroom with their pre-prandial Tigers or Anchors. Drinking spirits in the middle of the day was not banned, but was felt to be ‘a bit off’ as most members had clinical duties during the afternoon. The old pre-war days of working only in the morning had long gone and even though this was a Saturday, the habit lingered.

The chief surgeon’s complaint was echoed by David Meredith, the dark, moody Welshman. His deep-set eyes were overhung by thick eyebrows, which matched the mop of curly black hair that came too low on his neck to suit Alf Morris’s military mind.

‘Why should Steve Blackwell come to me first, that’s what I’d like to know? At least you were down at Casualty last night, Peter — but I never went near the damn place. First thing I knew about Jimmy Robertson was at breakfast.’ His annoyance brought out a slight Welsh accent, but Tom knew from Alec Watson’s gossip that Meredith had gone to school and university in the Midlands.

Before attending the post-mortem, the police superintendent had made a few calls and with Inspector Tan taking notes, had taken statements from several people about their movements last night, including the surgeon and anaesthetist.

As usual, Alf Morris set out to smooth the ruffled feathers.

‘We’ll all be asked the same things, eventually, so don’t fret that you’re being picked on,’ he said soothingly. ‘He’ll be doing the same at the Sisters’ Mess and amongst the members at The Dog.’

No one was tactless enough to mention that Peter Bright was an obvious early target for the police, given that Robertson’s death had now cleared the way for his pursuit of Diane, if she was still interested.

‘Steve Blackwell wanted to know if I had a gun!’ complained Meredith. ‘He knows bloody well that I don’t. What in God’s name would an anaesthetist want with a gun out here?’

‘The same with me! Damn silly questions these coppers ask,’ added the senior surgeon.

Alf Morris persisted with his placatory role. ‘I suppose it’s what all policemen call “routine”,’ he said. ‘If they don’t ask everybody everything, they can get a rollicking later on.’

David Meredith shook his head sadly. ‘Steve Blackwell’s the nicest chap you could wish for when he’s in The Dog — but he’s a different person in uniform. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde!’

‘Must be difficult for police in a small place like this, having to be “official” with people you know so well socially,’ observed Alec Watson. ‘Conflict of interests and all that.’

‘Yes, it’s difficult for some of us, too — having to hobnob here with you murder suspects!’ brayed Percy Loosemore, stirring things as usual.

Tom Howden sat quietly behind his beer, keeping as low a profile as possible. He also felt in a difficult position, as he was now technically an expert witness in the case of James Robertson and should not divulge anything except to the police and coroner. It soon became obvious that this was a forlorn hope in such an incestuous environment as BMH Tanah Timah.

‘I hear it was a.303 you dug out of Jimmy’s chest,’ stated the brash Loosemore, confirming that the hospital bush telegraph was in excellent working order. Tom immediately suspected Lewis Cropper as the source of the leak, but knew that the lance corporal would plaintively deny it if accused.

Once more, the Administrative Officer tried to come to the rescue.

‘In the circumstances, I don’t think Captain Howden should be asked about details by any of us — the whole affair is sub judice, understand?’

His attempt to save the pathologist any embarrassment was almost immediately doomed to failure. A sudden warning came from Alec, who was sitting facing the open door that had a view of the entrance path.

‘Hell’s bells, here comes the Old Man!’

The rare visit of the colonel to the Mess sent three of the members scurrying through the opposite verandah doors to hide in the toilets at the end of the block, but O’Neill arrived too quickly for the rest to vanish, though it had been known for the CO to find a completely deserted anteroom, with everyone crammed into the bogs.

He stalked in and everyone stumbled hastily to their feet in awkward silence. Dropping his hat amongst the others on the table inside the door, he ignored the assembly and spoke directly to the pathologist.

‘Well, Howden, what did you find?’

Tom looked beseechingly at Alf Morris, but the major evidently decided that capitulation was the better part of valour and gave a tiny nod of his head. The new doctor tried to be as non-committal as he could.

‘Confirmed the obvious, sir. A bullet lodged inside the chest, made a mess of the root of the right lung.’

The colonel stared coldly at him over the steel rims of his glasses.

‘What sort of bullet?’

As the rest of the hospital already seemed to know, Tom decided that its Commanding Officer might as well join them.

‘A three-oh-three, sir, according to the police and the SIB chap.’

‘And the range of discharge?’

‘Hard to say, sir. Certainly not close.’

Desmond O’Neill grunted, then glared around the circle of officers, who still stood awkwardly near their chairs, most wishing they had also made a dash for the toilets.

‘Goes to confirm what I thought. This was a bandit taking a pot-shot at a planter. Enemy action, poor fellow. Ironic he was a civilian.’

The colonel’s staccato style of speech produced a few reluctant murmurs of agreement from his staff, then taking up his usual role of pourer of oil on choppy waters, Alf Morris tried to make the CO more welcome in his own Mess.

‘Are you staying for lunch, sir? Can I get you a drink?’

O’Neill shook his head and stared around disapprovingly.

‘No, thank you. Don’t go along with doctors drinking at lunchtime, slows you down for the afternoon.’

With another of his mercurial changes of mood, he gave a ghastly death’s head grin at them all, then turned on his heel and walked rapidly out of the room, grabbing his cap on the way. A moment later they watched him walking quickly on to the perimeter road with his peculiar springing gait, lifting himself from heel to toe at every step.

Once out of sight, there was a collective sigh of relief in the anteroom, as people sank back into their chairs.

‘What the devil was all that about?’ demanded Percy. ‘He could just as well have phoned you or called you down to his office, Tom.’

Howden shrugged, relieved that he had got off so lightly. ‘Search me, why is everyone so interested in what sort of damned bullet it was?’

This was a question that would be central to the meeting to be held with the police late that afternoon.

It was just as well that terrorist activity had quietened down in previous weeks, as it allowed Steven Blackwell more time to devote to the death of James Robertson. True, there was still plenty of work, but he had three inspectors and half a dozen sergeants to carry on with the other cases, supervising the donkey work of thirty constables working out of Tanah Timah Police Circle. There were the usual run of robberies, thieving being a national tradition in Malaya, as well as a few serious assault cases, mainly among the estate workers. But on this Saturday, the superintendent felt obliged to devote all his time to the only case involving a European.

After leaving the mortuary at BMH, he forsook his lunch to drive with Inspector Tan up the road to Gunong Besar, aware that the first priority was to discover where the shooting had occurred.

‘Robertson’s car arrived at the club, but there was no indication of which direction it had come from,’ he said, using the attentive Chinese as a sounding board for his own thoughts. ‘I’m just guessing that he was on this road somewhere.’

The Dog was the last building in Tanah Timah on the road to the Gunong Besar estate, being on the hill just beyond the little bridge that lay a few hundred yards from the junction opposite the police station.

Blackwell told the driver to go very slowly from that point and both of them scanned the track and verges closely as they went. ‘Thank God it hasn’t rained yet today,’ he said, staring at the red laterite dust of the rutted surface.

They stopped a couple of times when one or other thought he saw something, hoping for a spent shell-case. But one was a piece of wrapper from a cigarette packet, the other a lost wheel-nut from some vehicle.

As they drew nearer the rubber estate, their luck improved. As they approached the cutting through the bluff of red rock which rose up fifteen feet above them, Tan, who was sitting in the back of the open Land Rover, suddenly tapped the driver on the shoulder.

‘B’renti sini!’ he snapped in Malay and as the constable jerked to a stop, he clambered over the tailboard to walk the few steps to the left-hand edge of the road, where Blackwell joined him. The inspector pointed to the lush growth of weeds that grew on the edge of the ditch between them and the rock beyond.

‘Surely that is blood, superintendent?’ he said quietly, his forefinger hovering over leaves that carried splashes of brown against the green.

Steven bent down to look at the nearby grasses and weeds and saw more fine blotches. There seemed to be none on the ground, but the adjacent road ballast was gritty and powdered, not offering a good surface for the retention of stains.

‘Let’s have a good look around here,’ he ordered and with the driver, they combed a dozen yards up and down the road for any other signs.

‘There were a lot of police and army vehicles up and down here last night, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘No chance of distinguishing Robertson’s Buick tyres — anyway, he drives up and down here every day.’

‘I’m not concerned with his car, there’s no way we could tell if it was stopped here. But that blood — if it is blood — is all we’ve got.’

He looked up at the tops of the two bluffs, one on each side of the narrow road. They were partly covered in coarse grass, but due to the rocky nature of the outcrops, they were well clear of the trees.

‘Tan, get some men up here to search along a couple of hundred yards on each side,’ he ordered. ‘Tell them to look out for cartridge cases. And we’d better take some of those stained weeds to check if it’s blood — and if it is, whose blood!’

There were some cellophane exhibit bags in the Land Rover and between them, they carefully picked off every leaf and blade that showed some of the brown splattering, and placed them in the bags.

‘I’ll see if that young pathologist can do a quick test, though the stuff will still have to go down to KL with the rest of the samples,’ said Steven.

As they were so near Gunong Besar, he decided to make a quick call on Diane Robertson to check on her welfare, as he suspected that her nonchalant manner at the mortuary was a cover for a later breakdown, but again he was proved wrong.

When they arrived, Inspector Tan went off to interrogate the servants who lived behind both bungalows and Blackwell climbed up to Diane’s verandah, half expecting to find her either in a state of sobbing collapse or half drunk. She was neither, though she had the inevitable glass in her hand as she sat on the settee talking to Douglas Mackay, who sat opposite, primly upright on one of the armchairs grasping a tumbler of orange squash.

Refusing the offer of an early gin and tonic, the superintendent put his cap and stick on another chair and stood looking down at the pair.

‘I just called to see how you are, Diane,’ he began uneasily, for far from being a distraught new widow, the blonde looked her usual glamorous self, as she had done in the mortuary.

‘I’m fine, Steve! Douglas and I were just discussing the future of the estate. He says there’s no problem in his carrying on, at least until it’s decided what’s going to be done with the place.’

The gangling Scotsman nodded agreement. ‘Production can carry on as usual, it’s a pretty routine operation. I’m more worried about Mrs Robertson herself.’

‘In what way, Douglas?’ asked Blackwell.

‘She insists on staying here alone. She could come over to our place — or Rosa could keep her company here, but she won’t hear of it.’

He looked across almost reproachfully at Diane, but she tossed her head so that the mane of golden hair swirled about her neck.

‘I’m quite alright where I am, thank you, Doug. I’ve got my servants here and you’re within shouting distance. I expect I’ll be going back to the UK very soon, though perhaps I’ll take a few days in Penang first. Until then, I’m sitting tight, as long as those damned CTs don’t come calling again!’

The police officer shook his head.

‘I’m sure this awful thing isn’t down to them. It’s not their style to pick off one man like that.’

The manager frowned his disagreement. ‘What about the assassination of Sir Henry Gurney? He was ambushed and killed on the road at Fraser’s Hill a couple of years ago?’

‘With all due respect to James, he wasn’t the British High Commissioner,’ responded Steven. ‘In fact, last night’s tragedy makes me even more confident that the shoot-up here last week wasn’t a terrorist attack. I’m sure the two things are linked in some way.’

Mackay continued to look doubtful, but said nothing. He was always a man of few words, thought Blackwell. They talked for a few more minutes, Diane remaining adamant that she was staying put at Gunong Besar. She had a phone call booked to James’s brother, an auctioneer in Norwich and expected the international operator to get back to her any time now.

‘There’s no way any of the family can get out here for the funeral,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘His father’s dead, my mother-in-law’s got bad arthritis and his brother George will never get a flight in time, even if he wanted to come.’

There was an unspoken understanding between them that in the Malayan climate, burial was necessary within a very few days. Civilian air travel to the Far East was not easy and the propeller-driven planes of BOAC took several days to get to Singapore, even if a vacant seat could be found at such short notice. Further discussion established that the lawyer who handled the estate and presumably also James Robertson’s personal affairs, was the same solicitor in Ipoh who acted as part-time coroner.

‘That’ll make it easier when it comes to releasing the body for the funeral and in sorting out the will,’ observed Blackwell, emboldened by Diane’s resilience into being direct about these practical matters. ‘I’m told this padre chap is back tomorrow. Alf Morris has left him a message to contact you as soon as possible.’

‘He’s a good man, I know he’ll do all he can to make the arrangements go smoothly,’ added Mackay in his soft Scots accent. A regular churchgoer, the manager was familiar with the local religious figures.

Steven picked up his hat and stick and moved towards the verandah.

‘I’ll be up to check again tomorrow. Diane, you’ve got my number if you need anything.’ He turned to the estate manager. ‘Could I have a quick word outside, Douglas?’

At the bottom of the outside steps, they stood between two tropical lilies, their large red blooms standing shoulder-high between spiky leaves. Somewhere nearby, a monkey yelled shrilly in a tree and the ever-present twitter of cicadas formed a background to their conversation. Steven put on his uniform cap to keep the sun from his ruddy scalp.

‘I know my inspector has already taken a statement from you, Doug, but I like to get things straight from the horse’s mouth. You weren’t at The Dog last night, I gather?’

Mackay shook his head, his sallow features devoid of expression.

‘No, I’m not much of a one for dancing, I only go for Rosa’s benefit now and then. She’s younger and deserves a bit of life occasionally. It’s a lonely place for a wife up here — and I’m afraid she and Diane don’t get on all that well.’

Steven avoided any pursuit of that topic. He knew that Douglas was almost a teetotaller, apart from the odd beer. Keen on classical music, he was a devout man, going every Sunday morning to the garrison chapel, though he was really a Presbyterian, rather than a ‘C of E’ man.

‘So you were at home all evening?

‘Yes, I did the usual last rounds of the sheds and tapper’s lines about six thirty, before it got dark. James was away, gone to Taiping, so he said.’

Steven noted the slight sarcasm in the manager’s voice.

‘Then I went in and had a meal. We listened to the radio for a bit, then Rosa said she was tired and went to bed about ten, I suppose.’

‘Both of you?

‘No, I did some paperwork and made up the servant’s pay packets for this morning. Then I listened to records for a bit and went to bed about eleven, I suppose. Rosa was fast asleep and I’d only just nodded off when you and half the British army descended on us.’

Blackwell nodded, he’d had this already from Tan.

‘What guns d’you have up here, Douglas?’

The manager stared at him. ‘Guns? Well, we’ve accumulated a few since the troubles began. There were a couple here when I came and we’ve added some since. Last week was the fourth attack we’ve had over the years, so we needed them.’

‘What exactly have you got?’ persisted Steven.

Mackay steepled his hands to his chin as if in prayer.

‘Both James and I each have a thirty-eight revolver and a Lee-Enfield rifle. Then there are three twelve-bore shotguns about the place, though they’re mainly for rats and other vermin.’

‘Where are they all kept?

‘The pistols and rifles are locked away with their ammunition in gun cupboards in each of the bungalows. I’m afraid we’re more relaxed with the shotguns, they’re usually stuck in a corner somewhere, though we keep the cartridges in the estate office across the road.’

‘Have any of the house servants or estate workers got weapons?’

Douglas looked shocked. ‘I certainly hope not! You know better than me that it’s a hanging offence under the Emergency laws. Though I’ll admit that occasionally one of the serangs will use a twelve-bore to have a go at the rats that infest the tapper’s lines.’

Blackwell’s experience at other places told him that illicit firearms were not all that uncommon, but he made no comment.

‘Eventually, we may have to test fire all rifled weapons held by estates around TT, just to eliminate them. That’s after we get the ballistics reports on the bullets I’ve sent down to KL.’

Mackay looked dubious. ‘Sure, but it’ll be a waste of time checking ours. James and I had them with us when we turned out to deal with the swine who shot us up the other day. And poor old James didn’t shoot himself.’

The policeman shrugged. ‘Just routine, Douglas. With all the arms held by the garrison, I agree it seems a bit futile just testing the few outside. Yet it looks as if James was hit just down the road, so what with last week’s attack here, we have to eliminate the local weapons.’

The manager’s sparse eyebrows rose. ‘You know where it happened then?’

‘I didn’t mention it in front of Diane, not until we’re sure, but we found what looks like blood just where the road goes through that cutting.’

The manager nodded slowly, his lean face looking even more solemn than usual. ‘Just the place for an ambush, Steven. I’m still not convinced by your argument that this wasn’t the work of the CTs.’

Inspector Tan came across from the curing sheds at that moment and after muted farewells, they climbed into the Land Rover and were driven off, leaving a pensive Douglas Mackay staring after them.

Around five o’clock, a meeting was held in the Police Circle building in Tanah Timah, mainly to discuss the significance of the post-mortem findings. Alfred Morris was sent by the CO to represent the hospital’s interests, as the victim had died there and the pathologist was one of its officers. The Admin Officer drove Tom Howden down to the town in his Hillman, both wearing civilian clothes, as was usual on a Saturday. Their identity cards got them past the constable on the gate and, inside the high-walled compound, Tom saw that it was largely a vehicle park and workshops, with a police barracks at the rear.

The headquarters building itself was typical colonial government — two-storey white cement under a red-tiled roof, with wide balconies running around the upper floor. They went up the steps to the front entrance and found themselves in a large hall with busy policemen behind a long counter. A Malay desk sergeant escorted them up an imposing central staircase and out on to the balcony, which had doors at intervals. Tapping at one, he motioned them in and they entered a bare, high room with the inevitable fan turning below the ceiling. There was a large desk, a table, some hard chairs and walls covered with maps. Steven Blackwell rose from the table, where he had been talking with Major Enderby, Sergeant Markham and Inspector Tan.

‘Come and sit down with us, chaps. We were only gossiping until you arrived.’

They sat down and an Indian servant came in with a tray of opened bottles of cold orange squash and grapefruit soda, each with a straw stuck in the neck. When they had settled down again, the superintendent began the meeting.

‘Firstly, I must thank you, Captain Howden, for so readily agreeing to do the post-mortem. If you hadn’t been here, there’d have been at least a few days’ delay — and in this climate, that doesn’t help to preserve any evidence.’

Tom nodded his appreciation, though privately he knew he had had no choice, with the CO breathing down his neck.

‘I’ve written out a rough draft of the report,’ he said, holding up a thin cardboard folder. ‘Only handwritten at the moment, I’ll get it typed up when the office opens on Monday.’

The major from the provost marshal’s department stopped sucking on his straw for a moment. ‘Fine! We were there, so we know the gist of it. But can you give us your interpretation of the findings?’

The pathologist shifted his bottom uneasily on the hard seat.

‘Look, I’m a pretty junior bloke, you know. I’ve had almost no experience of this kind of thing, all I know is from the books.’

‘Just do your best, Tom,’ said Steven kindly. ‘I’m sure you know a hell of lot more about it than us.’

Opening the file, Howden looked down at the two sheets of lined quarto paper, with the government crest at the top. He had no need to read it, as he already knew every word.

‘James Robertson was perfectly healthy, so death was entirely due to a gunshot wound,’ he began. ‘There was a single entrance wound to the left of centre in the front of his chest. The bullet, which you saw was a.303, was still in the back of his chest cavity, so there was no exit wound.’

Sergeant Markham looked up at this. ‘Thinking about it, sir, isn’t that a bit unusual for a service rifle? I’ve seen a few in my time and most them went in one side and out the other.’

Tom nodded his agreement. ‘From what the books say, it’s very common for a high-velocity projectile from a military weapon to make a through-and-through wound. But here the bullet happened to hit the spine at the back of the chest. It made a hell of a mess of it, completely disintegrated one of the vertebrae, but the thick, hard bone must have stopped the bullet.’

A sudden thought occurred to him and by the look on Blackwell’s face, it must also have dawned simultaneously on him. The pathologist beat him to it in stating the obvious.

‘Hang on a minute, there’s something wrong here! Though he may not have died instantaneously, he must have been totally disabled and almost certainly unconscious from the moment the bullet hit him!’

The three other Army men looked mystified, but Inspector Tan was quickest off the mark.

‘So how could he drive his car to the Sussex Club from wherever he was shot?’

‘Which now seems to be a few miles up the road towards Gunong Besar,’ added Steven Blackwell.

‘Are you sure about this?’ demanded Enderby, leaning forward. Tom was confident about this aspect, however little he knew about firearm wounds.

‘His spinal column was smashed through. There’s a condition called “spinal shock” which even apart from his other internal injuries, would almost certainly make him lose consciousness instantly. And apart from that, he wouldn’t be able to sit up to drive, with a broken back — though that would soon be impossible anyway, with massive bleeding inside his chest from the big arteries and veins ripped in the root of his lung.’

Tom looked a little crestfallen after giving this lecture. ‘I should have thought of this earlier, but I had just accepted the business about Daniel finding him in the driving seat of his car.’

There was a tense silence for a moment.

‘This puts a whole new complexion on the matter,’ snapped Blackwell. ‘There are only two explanations. One is that he was shot in the car park of The Dog — which is patently impossible, as no one there heard a shot. And you can’t shoot a man in the front of the chest when he’s sitting in the driving seat, unless there’s bullet hole in the windscreen, especially in a car with armoured side windows!’

‘And the other explanation?’ asked Alf Morris, though he guessed the answer.

‘Is that someone drove the car there from the murder scene, then buggered off before Daniel appeared!’ completed the major from the garrison. After another brief silence while they digested this, Blackwell spoke again.

‘Whatever else this tells us, it means one thing is definite — this was no terrorist shooting! Killing one man with one shot is damned unusual for them anyway, but it’s ludicrous to imagine a CT driving his victim away!’

There were murmurs of agreement, then the Chinese police inspector voiced the next question.

‘Why would the killer do such a thing? It must have greatly increased the risk of him being seen.’

Steven Blackwell shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. If we’re right in thinking that the blood found near that cutting was where the shooting occurred, he might have wanted to shift both the car and the body well away, to delay discovery.’

‘Because of the increased patrols up and down that road, you mean?’ asked Alf Morris.

‘Exactly! If he could have quietly left the car in a corner of the car park, then it could have been some time before the body was found — perhaps not until the next morning.’

‘But he goes and bashes into the back of a truck and brings poor old Daniel out to investigate,’ said Enderby.

‘Bloody lucky he missed seeing the killer, or he might have collected a bullet as well!’ added the SIB man.

‘Where’s the car now, Tan?’ asked the senior policeman.

‘In the garage down below, sir,’ replied the Chinese inspector.

‘Better check the wheel for fingerprints, though both Daniel and presumably a police officer have driven it since the shooting.’ Blackwell drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I wish we had proper forensic laboratory facilities up here. They can do all sorts of things back home now, looking at the soil from shoes and God knows what.’

‘I doubt if that would help much here — everyone has red laterite on their boots. I don’t think any laboratory is going to crack this one for you, Steven,’ said Enderby.

‘Talking of that, Captain Howden, can you do tests for blood in your lab over at BMH?’ asked Blackwell.

Tom looked dubious. ‘We can easily do a presumptive test for blood, though many other things give a false positive. I can certainly tell you if it’s not blood!’

‘Any hope of confirming it’s human and possibly what group?’ persisted the superintendent.

The pathologist shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know. If it’s very fresh, maybe we could get a group out of it, but it’s way out of my line, dealing with stains rather than fresh blood.’

‘Well, give it a go, there’s a good chap. Tan can give you some of those apparently bloodstained leaves we picked up on the Gunong Besar road. We’ll get a report from KL eventually, but I thought it might help to get a quick answer.’

‘Going back to this post-mortem, Captain Howden,’ grunted Major Enderby. ‘Any idea of the range of the shot?’

‘It certainly wasn’t close, as I said this morning,’ replied Tom. ‘No scorching, smoke staining or powder tattooing on the clothing or skin. The books say that the distance over which that occurs is very variable according to the type of weapon and ammunition, but in any case, wouldn’t happen if the muzzle was more than a few feet away.’

‘So not a very close discharge — but it could be ten feet or half a mile!’ said the major. ‘Any idea about the direction?’

Tom rubbed his chin and looked at his papers while he made time to consider his answer.

‘Anatomically, it was a bit downwards through the chest and slightly from left front to right middle, as it smashed the spine. But of course, it all depends how the deceased was standing or sitting when he was hit.’

‘How d’you mean?’ asked Steven.

‘Well, the books warn against assuming that a downward path means that the shooter was firing from above. If the victim was leaning forward a bit, then even a horizontal shot would incline downwards through the body?’

There was a silence as they digested this. Then the inscrutable Inspector Tan spoke, again picking up something that the others had so far missed.

‘Superintendent, you said just now that a driver couldn’t be shot straight through the front of the chest while sitting at the wheel, especially in an armoured car like that Buick. So that must surely mean he was shot when he was out of the vehicle?’

They all thought about this, but it was Blackwell who responded first.

‘Of course! And it had to be like that, otherwise how could that blood have got on to the grass at the side of the road!’

‘If it is blood,’ muttered Enderby, with typical lawyer’s caution.

‘Let’s assume it is for the moment,’ said Steven, rather impatiently. ‘So why the hell would a man get out of his car on a lonely road late at night, not many days after a presumed terrorist attack less than a mile away?’

‘Because he recognized someone he knew,’ snapped the SIB sergeant.

‘Someone whose own car had broken down — or who pretended it had,’ offered Enderby.

‘But then the killer would have had to leave his vehicle at the scene, if he drove the body down to the club in Robertson’s car,’ objected the implacably logical Chinese inspector.

Steven Blackwell raised a hand. ‘Let’s not get too far in front of ourselves, chaps. At this stage, I don’t think that matters all that much. We’ve learned something very important from Dr Howden, that James Robertson must have been driven to The Dog by someone, presumably the assailant.’

The taciturn sergeant joined in the discussion.

‘I wonder how he got away so quickly? Surely he didn’t drive away, or that manager chap would have seen or heard a car, as he seems to have gone out straight away when he heard the crash.’

‘He wouldn’t have a car there, anyway, if he drove James’s down from the murder site,’ reasoned Enderby.

‘Unless he was someone who was in the club earlier and had left his car there, then footed it up to that cutting. It’s only a couple of miles away.’

Alfred Morris’s observation suddenly brought home the fact that the murderer, now known not to be a terrorist, could quite well be one of their own acquaintances. It was an unpleasant realization, unwelcome to them all. Steven Blackwell sighed, thinking of the difficult work that lay ahead, interviewing people who he knew all too well.

‘This means that we will have to concentrate on all weapons that could possibly be involved, both in civilian and military use. A hell of a job, I’m afraid.’

He looked at the two majors. ‘This is going to be bloody difficult! It’s going to be a nightmare testing even the relatively few guns in civilian hands, amongst the planters, let alone the military weapons. The chaps on the estates are not going to take kindly to being deprived of their shooters, even for a short time.’

‘Will they all have to be sent down to the forensic lab in KL?’ demanded Enderby. ‘I can’t see the Brigadier suspending his war for you, even for a murder!’

‘That’s out of the question, of course,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll have to be very specific about what guns we test, to limit the numbers.’

Sergeant Markham chipped in again. ‘Getting a test bullet to check on the rifling marks can be done on the spot. Firing into a tank of water or a big box full of wadding is sufficient. That stops a bullet without damaging it.’

‘Let’s wait until we get a report back on those shell cases from the attack on Gunong Besar, before we start on the rifles,’ advised Blackwell. ‘I’m convinced now that that episode is linked somehow to this killing.’

He turned to his inspector. ‘Tan, you said your constables found no sign of a spent cartridge along the road near that cutting, but we need to find the one that carried the bullet that killed poor James. Send another team up there tomorrow and widen the search, OK?’

After a few more minutes of discussion, which got them nowhere in particular, the meeting broke up and Morris drove Tom back to the hospital. Just before the garrison entrance, a red-capped military policeman held them up as a procession of vehicles streamed out of the gate. Three Ferret armoured cars, four Saracen troop carriers, half a dozen three-tonner Bedford TCVs, two Land Rover ambulances and a radio van lumbered off down the road towards the town.

‘What’s going on?’ asked the pathologist, suddenly aware that he actually was on Active Service and that one man with a bullet in his chest was pretty small beer compared to the potential mayhem in which this convoy might soon become involved.

‘Looks as if the Brigadier has decided on disinfecting some part of the jungle,’ replied Alf, laconically. ‘They’re probably going down the main road to the turn-off for Grik and then going up north for a punch-up.’

Dusk was approaching as they entered BMH and as they parked behind the Mess, a glorious sunset filled the western sky. Streaks of salmon pink and scarlet vied with the blue vault above, masses of cumulus on the horizon being tinged with brilliant gold. Though Tom had seen this almost every evening, he was still spellbound by the sight, so different from the grey haze that hung over Tyneside when he had left a couple of weeks earlier. His feelings of unreality hit him with full force, but he managed to shake them off and follow Alf into the anteroom for a reviving Tiger before dinner.

With his wife away, Steven Blackwell found that one day was much the same as another and that weekends merged into a continuous pattern of work. So though the next day was a Sunday, he found no problem in seamlessly pursuing the enquiry by interviewing the potential witnesses. In fact, it was easier, as most of them were off duty on the Sabbath.

He had an early breakfast in his quarters, which was a bungalow at the back of the police station. It was within the safety of the encircling wall and high fence, but far enough away from the constable’s barracks to be relatively private. With Margaret away, he was looked after by an Indian houseboy and their Chinese cook who came in each day from the town.

He spent a couple of hours in his office dealing with other matters and conferring with the duty inspector about the day’s patrol schedules, then called his driver and was taken in the Land Rover up to Gunong Besar. Here he met his first obstacle, as the Robertson’s servant gravely informed him that his mistress had gone to church. At first, Steven wondered if James’s death had driven her to a return of faith, as to his knowledge, Diane had never before set foot in the garrison chapel. Siva soon enlightened him, explaining that she had gone to see the padre to make arrangements for the funeral.

‘The priest telephoned, sir. He said his Sunday morning duties made it difficult for him to come up here until after lunch, so Missus said she would drive down to see him.’

Though Tan had already grilled all the servants, the superintendent took the opportunity to question Siva, who was an unusually tall man for a Tamil. Politely, but firmly, the servant said that he had heard and seen absolutely nothing out of the ordinary on the night of the murder.

No, there had been no strangers hanging about the estate lately, the only visitor in the past few days being Mr Arnold from Batu Merah, the next plantation a couple of miles further up the road.

Blackwell had no luck at the other bungalow, as the Mackays were also at church, though he half expected this. Douglas was known to be a keen Christian and although his wife was a Roman Catholic, she went with him to the Anglican services on Sunday morning. Steven knew that she also went down each Thursday evening, when a Catholic padre from Sungei Siput came up to say Mass for the relatively few of that faith in the garrison.

Frustrated, he decided to avoid totally wasting the journey, by going up to Batu Merah to talk to Les Arnold, as he knew that there was no chance of the laid-back Australian being in church. Indeed when he arrived at the next estate, he found the owner lounging comfortably in a striped deckchair outside his bungalow, which was very similar to the ones down the road. He had a bottle of beer in one hand, a copy of yesterday’s Straits Times in the other and looked very much at ease.

Arnold lived alone, the gossip saying that he had been divorced before coming up from Darwin soon after Malaya was liberated from the Japanese. Blackwell knew that he had been in the Australian army during the war and had seen service in New Guinea. He had made a real success of running Batu Merah, which was said to be one of the most profitable estates in the valley — probably aided by Arnold’s reputation for ruthless business dealings and his strict control over his workers.

Les hoisted his lanky frame from the chair and as the policeman climbed from his vehicle, yelled at his houseboy to bring out another chair and a beer from the house. Though it was not yet eleven o’clock, Steven Blackwell accepted a sit down and a pewter tankard of Anchor, as the morning seemed even more oppressively hot than usual. Unlike the Robertsons’ place, this bungalow sat in a dip, the rubber closely around it on all sides. Perhaps coming from the tropical Northern Territories, Les Arnold was more used to the heat, but Steven’s bald head was as red as a ripe tomato and his uniform shirt was blackened with sweat. Though he had been out from ‘home’ for years, he knew he would never get used to the oppressive climate and already ideas of early retirement were beginning to germinate in his mind, especially since his wife had gone back for a six-month stay. He took a long draught of the cold beer and sank back thankfully in the chair, then forced himself to attend to the business in hand.

‘Look, Les, this is difficult for all of us, especially me. I’ve got a job to do and I’ll get no thanks for having to pry into people’s affairs — especially as most of them are friends and acquaintances.’

The long face of the planter split in a grin.

‘Don’t worry yourself, mate. We all understand — and those who don’t are just thick! Fire away, I’ve got a clear conscience.’

‘Right, then. I’ve got to ask everyone about their movements on Friday night. I guess you were in The Dog?’

‘Yep, propping up the bar most of the evening. Got there about eight, had a bit of tucker at the buffet at half ten, drove back here around eleven thirty or thereabouts.’

‘Thereabouts? You can’t be a bit more exact?’ asked Blackwell.

‘Jesus, no! I’d had a good few beers, as always. Even had a bit of a dance, before and after the grub. Do you want to know who with?’

His tone was bantering, a half-amused smile on his face.

Steven shook his head. ‘You saw no one on the road from Tanah Timah, I presume? It would help if you knew the time you came up, so that I could try to place where James Robertson was then.’

Arnold took another mouthful of beer and tried to look more serious.

‘Just can’t be that exact, mate. Time doesn’t mean a hell of lot in a place like this, getting the date right is hard enough. But I think I got to bed about midnight, give or take a few minutes.’

‘And you saw nothing on the road?’

‘Damn all, Steve.’ He looked quizzically at the superintendent. ‘Why this interest in this road? Was that where it happened?’

It was inevitable that everyone would soon hear about the blood on the grass, so he made no attempt to avoid the question.

‘I’m not absolutely sure, Les, but I think the shooting happened near that cutting just below Gunong Besar.’

The Australian shrugged. ‘That’s a long way from here. I wouldn’t hear any shots this far off. I didn’t even hear when they blasted the place a couple of weeks ago and that’s almost a mile closer.’

Blackwell took a long swallow of his beer, imagining that he could feel it come out as perspiration on his forehead as soon as he drank it.

‘This is the awkward bit I have to ask people, Les. We’re sure this wasn’t a CT attack, it was more personal, so we need a motive. How did you really get on with James and Diane?’

Again a crooked grin appeared on the planter’s face. ‘What d’you expect me to say, for Chrissake? Jimmy Robertson was a pain in the arse, but he was harmless.’

‘And Diane?’

‘Come on, Steve, you’ve got eyes and a pair of balls! She’s bloody gorgeous and I could do her a good turn any day of the week — though I’d have to join the queue!’

‘And did you?’

Arnold’s expression hardened a little, the smile fading. ‘Look, Steve, you’re sitting in my place, drinking my beer. Do you seriously think I’m going to admit to you that I was knocking off Jimmy’s wife?’

Blackwell carefully put his empty tankard on the ground alongside his chair.

‘Is that a “yes” or a “no”, then?’ he asked.

‘It’s a “no comment”, and that’s all you’re getting, Stevie boy,’ he grunted. ‘It’s got bugger all to with this affair, anyway. I’ll admit I fancied her something rotten, as did every red-blooded chap within ten miles, but that’s sweet Fanny Adams to do with Jimmy getting killed.’

The planter uncoiled his six feet from the chair and Steven sensed that he would get nothing more from him at present. Not wanting to antagonize people with whom he had to associate — and who he would no doubt have to return to question yet again — he decided to retire gracefully while he was still ahead.

After a few rather stilted platitudes, the social temperature having dropped somewhat, the police officer climbed back into his Land Rover, wishing the air temperature would do the same.

When they got back down the road as far as Gunong Besar, Steven Blackwell saw that a black Ford V8 Pilot was just turning into the manager’s driveway. A quick glance up to the Robertson house showed him that there was no sign of Diane’s Austin under the bungalow, so he told to his driver to follow the Ford. As they drove up to the front of the bungalow, Douglas and Rosa were just getting out of the V8, stopping to stare at the police vehicle as it pulled up. The Scotsman wore a rather creased linen suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat, Rosa being as neat as usual in a blue-and-white flowered dress with a wide skirt. She had a small blue hat on the front of her raven hair and even carried a pair of white gloves, obviously her formal churchgoing outfit.

Leaving his driver with the vehicle, Steven got out to greet the manager and his wife and was invited up into the bungalow, a slightly smaller version of the one next door. In the wide lounge, Douglas invited the police officer to sit down, after a rather apprehensive Rosa took off her hat and sat opposite, perched stiffly on the edge of a settee.

‘I’ve only a beer to offer you, I’m afraid,’ said Douglas softly. ‘We’re not great drinkers here, you see.’

Blackwell waved away the offer, but accepted Rosa’s suggestion of a fresh lime. She rang a small brass bell that stood on a coffee table between them and gave an order to a silent Chinese amah who glided in from the back of the house.

‘What can we do for you, Steven?’ asked Douglas. ‘More questions, I expect.’

He said this without rancour and sat alongside his wife, looking expectantly at the superintendent.

‘Sorry about all this, but I’ve got to start doing the rounds of everyone who had more than a passing acquaintance with poor old James. I’ve just been up to talk to Les Arnold.’

Douglas Mackay gave a slight sniff at the mention of his neighbour. Steven recognized that though Douglas was a most Christian soul, full of compassion and forgiveness, he was not overly fond of the Australian, a cynical, hard-drinking and sometimes aggressive fellow.

‘How did James get along with Arnold?’ asked the policeman. ‘We all saw them together often enough in The Dog, but that doesn’t really tell me much.’

Douglas looked down at his wife’s smooth features, then warily raised his eyes to his visitor.

‘I’m not much given to gossip, Steven. People’s affairs are their own. But as this is a police matter, I have to say that they were certainly not bosom pals. Arnold used to needle James quite a bit, sort of sarcastic leg-pulling. I felt he thought James a bit of a “pommie snob”, to be honest.’

‘Anything more than that?’ persisted Steven.

Mackay hesitated and again looked across at Rosa, who sat impassively alongside him. ‘I think he used to get annoyed at Les flirting with Diane — but Les did that with every woman he met, it doesn’t mean that it was at all serious. Though perhaps James may have thought it was — he wasn’t the most perceptive of people. But one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

The amah brought a tray of drinks, tall glasses with a crush of heavily sugared limes. They each took one and rattled the ice with the straws before gratefully sucking down some of the delicious pale green juice. Then Blackwell went over once again their movements on the night before last, this time in meticulous detail, though nothing new emerged.

‘I’ll have to borrow your rifle in the next few days, Doug — and the one that belonged to James. A damned nuisance, I know, but every.303 in sight will have to be test-fired, just as a routine. We’ll only need them for a day, the Ordnance guys in the garrison can do the business.’

Mackay’s fair eyebrows rose at this. ‘How the dickens can you do all of them, Steven? There must be hundreds down in the Brigade!’

The superintendent shrugged helplessly. ‘I know, it’s almost impossible. We’ll start with those in civilian hands, like yours, then gradually work selectively through those which must have been in the garrison both on Friday night and when your bungalows were shot up the other day.’

‘Will the army let you do that?’ asked Douglas.

‘They’re very cooperative. There’s an SIB chap working with the provost marshal’s office. I think they may be afraid that the culprit may turn out to be in the military.’ Steven said this in a neutral tone, but they all knew that the possibility was that an officer was involved.

The superintendent sighed to himself. He felt he was getting nowhere fast in this investigation

‘And there’s been no trouble recently between James and his workers, has there?’ he asked.

Douglas shook his head. ‘Nothing at all lately. James was always a little brusque with the men — some would say overbearing and rude, but I was usually able to smooth down any ruffled feathers. We had better labour relations than Les Arnold, that’s for sure!’

After a few more rather futile questions, Blackwell finished his drink and rose to leave. As they walked out on to the verandah, he heard a car changing gear and crunching up the drive next door.

‘That must be Mrs Robertson,’ said Douglas. ‘I was told she’d been into the garrison to see a padre about the funeral.’

Rosa nodded. ‘That would be John Smale, one of the Anglican chaplains. He’s a very nice man.’ A mention of the priesthood seemed to draw her out of her usual reticent manner.

The pair watched him clatter down the steps and walk away through the bushes up towards the Robertson bungalow, waving to his driver to take the Land Rover around into the other driveway.

As they turned to go back into the lounge, Douglas put his arm around his wife, who began weeping quietly, burying her face in his jacket.

When Steven learned from Diane that James’s burial was to be the next day, he abandoned his intention of questioning her more rigorously, until the funeral was behind them. Declining her offer to join her in an early gin, he stood with the blonde on her verandah, saying that he couldn’t stay, but only wanted to check that she was alright.

‘Have you heard from James’s family yet?’ he asked solicitously.

‘His brother phoned back late last night — lousy line, I could only just hear what he was saying.’ From her tone, Steven guessed that she had little affection for her in-laws.

‘How did his mother take it?’ he asked. ‘Must have been an awful shock for the family. And being so far away, they must feel helpless.’

Diane shrugged, as she flicked her cigarette ash over the balcony rail.

‘They’re a pretty tough bunch, the Robertsons. Hunting, shooting and cussing, that’s their style. But George did sound cut up, what little I could make out over the wires.’

She was dressed in the same outfit as she was at the mortuary, a black skirt and crisp white blouse. It was obviously her version of a mourning outfit and Blackwell wondered what she would wear at the actual funeral.

‘This padre chappie was very helpful,’ she said calmly. ‘He rang around and fixed the ceremony for tomorrow afternoon, at the English church in Taiping.’

Steven nodded. ‘The coroner is issuing the release certificate in the morning, so I’ll give you a driver to take you to Ipoh to collect it and go to the Registrar.’

Diane looked surprised at this. ‘Oh God, do I have to go myself?’

‘Afraid so, you are the only eligible informant. It’s only a formality, you’ll be back before lunchtime.’

As he moved towards the steps, he turned back to the new widow.

‘We’ll all rally around at the funeral, Diane. A few of the people from BMH want to be there, as well as some other members from The Dog. You’ll need some support, with no one from his family able to be there.’

Diane murmured some thanks, but Steve felt she was not overcome with gratitude and suspected there were a couple of female faces that she would prefer not to see in Taiping.

As he drove away, his last glimpse was of her in her typical posture, leaning on the veranda rail with a glass in one hand and a Kensitas in the other.

Sunday lunch in the RAMC Mess was something of a ritual, a hangover from the days when many officers were ex-Indian Army and demanded their curry on a regular basis.

Though Meng was nominally the cook, she was assisted by Vellatum, an Indian kitchen ‘boy’, though he was actually a wizened fellow in his forties, who had been badly beaten up by the Japanese during the Occupation. On Sundays, Meng took the day off to go on the bus to visit her sister in Kuala Kangsar and Vellatum was given a free hand to prepare the weekly curry.

The general idea was for the residents to eat as much of the eye-watering mixture as they could manage, chase it with a few Tigers, then crawl satiated to their room to pull on a sarong and collapse sweating on to their beds for a few hours. Such a novel Sunday lunch was a new experience for Tom, as Tyneside had yet to see any oriental eating houses. Yet he rapidly took to the fiery concoction that Vellatum served up and happily spooned down the colourful food, alternating with mouthfuls of beer to put out the flames in his gullet.

‘I like all these little bits on the side,’ he said, after blowing through his lips that were burning from a shred of red chilli. He pointed to the tray in the centre of the table that held small dishes filled with shredded coconut, banana, mango chutney, cashew nuts and other unidentifiable substances.

‘What are these things?’

‘That’s Bombay duck,’ answered Eddie Rosen. ‘Little dried fish, actually.’

Tom shook his head in wonderment at the strange ways of the East, as he accepted some more rice, the Indian coming around the table with a tureen filled with the fluffy white grains. When the curry was finished and they were waiting for their dessert, the conversation inevitably turned to the dramatic events of the weekend.

‘The CO’s in an unusually benign mood,’ announced Alf Morris. ‘He’s said that anyone whose duties allow, should attend James Robertson’s funeral tomorrow. We should try to get there to give some support to Diane, as she’ll have no family there at all.’

There was a murmur of agreement around the table.

‘Is our dear colonel going himself?’ asked Percy Loosemore, managing as usual to inject sarcasm into his voice.

‘No, he says he’s too busy, with the ADMS coming up from Singapore next week — though I can’t see what that’s got to do with it,’ added Alf, with a rare hint of disloyalty to his senior officer. Tom had already added ‘Assistant Director of Medical Services’ to his compendium of acronyms.

‘We’d better work out a travel plan,’ suggested David Meredith. ‘No point in everyone taking a car to Taiping.’

‘Especially those who don’t have one,’ said Eddie. ‘Tom and I will need a lift from somebody.’

‘I can’t go, I’m afraid,’ said Peter Bright, stonily. ‘I’m on call and Roger Lane says he can’t stand in for me tomorrow.’ Most of his colleagues around the table assumed that this was a tactful gesture to avoid seeing off the man they suspected he had been cuckolding.

‘Is this going to be a funeral procession all the way?’ grunted the sardonic Percy. ‘Who’s taking the corpse — and how? On a gun carriage or in the back of a three-tonner?’

Alec Watson made a noise suspiciously like a giggle, but the Admin Officer glared at Percy.

‘He was a civilian, remember?’ said Alf. ‘A hearse is coming up from Ipoh in the morning. The only Western-style undertaker in Perak. We’re all to meet up with him in Taiping at three thirty.’

‘And that’s at the Anglican church, not the military cemetery!’ added Clarence Bottomley sternly. Montmorency had little sense of humour and Percy’s waspish tongue got up his long aristocratic nose.

‘Everyone in civvies, not uniform,’ commanded Alfred. ‘The colonel was insistent on that.’

Vellatum came in with a tray of glass dishes containing gula malacca, the traditional dessert served after a curry. Tom found he liked this as well, a sweet, sticky mound of sago swimming in palm sugar and coconut milk. After they had all ingested this antidote to the cook-boy’s culinary dynamite, the talk went back to tomorrow’s excursion.

‘Is it a men-only affair or are the ladies attending?’ asked Clarence.

‘As the widow is the only official mourner, the Matron suggested that it might show some feminine solidarity if a few of the QA officers went along as well,’ said Alfred Morris. ‘Maybe someone could give them a ring later and see if any want transport, as only a couple have cars.’

Tom’s thoughts immediately fell to hoping that Lynette might be going, especially if she could come in the same car and resolved to hint to Alf that he offer them space in his Hillman.

Coffee was next on the agenda before everyone crept off to their pits to sleep off the meal, but in the anteroom next door, the disgruntled anaesthetist brought up the murder once again.

‘Has the local Gestapo been around you all yet?’ Meredith asked sourly. ‘Steve Blackwell was almost rattling his handcuffs when he came to see me yesterday.’

All except Peter Bright denied being interrogated, giving Percy the chance to tactlessly claim that obviously the surgeon and his gasman were the prime suspects.

‘The superintendent told me that he would be around later today and again in the morning,’ announced Alfred, whose ‘Admin’ job made him the official contact with the outside world, which included the police. There was a groan from several of them and Eddie rattled his cup back into its saucer and stood up.

‘In that case, I’m off to my scratcher now, to get a bit of kip before the constabulary come to beat the truth out of me.’

As he stumbled across the coarse grass towards his room, he was followed by a straggle of bloated and sleepy medical officers.

It was early evening before Steven Blackwell arrived at the hospital and most of the residents were dragging themselves from under their mosquito nets to wash and dress ready for dinner. A few were sitting writing letters home or having a beer on chairs dragged out on to the concrete verandah, where they could enjoy the glorious sunset.

Alf Morris, in his usual role as organizer and go-between, asked several officers to go over one at a time to the empty anteroom to talk to the policeman.

‘He realizes it’s bit near dinner, so it won’t take long,’ he said reassuringly. Steven had brought Inspector Tan with him, who silently recorded the interviews in his notebook, to turn into statements which the witnesses could sign after they were typed up back at police headquarters.

Eddie Rosen ambled over first, still in his gaudy red-and-white check sarong that he wore in bed. He had little to tell Steven, other than he was fast asleep in bed from ten thirty on Friday evening and knew nothing of the tragedy until breakfast.

‘He could be an obnoxious so-and-so, could Jimmy Robertson,’ observed Eddie ruminatively. ‘A top-class snob was James and a bit thick with it. But I’m appalled that someone has topped the poor devil. There must be a woman at the bottom of it somewhere, surely. That was his only interest in life, apart from booze. He didn’t even play golf!’

The superintendent thanked him and mentally wrote him off as a suspect. The little doctor was hardly a heart-throb and Steven knew he had left a wife and two babies back in London, making him an unlikely candidate for a crime of passion.

He felt much the same about the next interviewee, Alec Watson. The Scot looked more like a schoolboy and Blackwell had difficulty in believing that he must now be at least twenty-five to have qualified and done his house-surgeon time in Edinburgh. Like Eddie, he claimed to have been tucked up in bed at the material time and Steven had no reason to doubt him. Though he was an inveterate gatherer of gossip, Alec was a canny-enough Scot not to offer Blackwell either his opinions or his scraps of tittle-tattle about James and various ladies, so the interview was short and sweet.

The next man was Lieutenant Clarence Bottomley, who was rather pompous and formal with the policemen. Far from being in a sarong like Eddie, he was gorgeously arrayed in full mess kit, as he announced that he had been invited over to a Mess Night at the West Berkshires. A starched white monkey jacket sat stiffly above his dark blue ‘Number One’ trousers with their cherry-red strip down the outside of the legs. A matching cummerbund around his waist contrasted with a gleaming white shirt, which displayed small gold studs and a carefully tied black bow.

‘This goes against the grain a little, superintendent,’ he complained, as he sat erect on the edge of the chair opposite the policeman. ‘We’re officers on active service, y’know. Shouldn’t be chivvied around by civilians like this.’

Steven, who was almost old enough to be his father, sighed but held his tongue. ‘Just routine, doctor. As for being a civilian, I think you may find that your own military police may be taking an interest in this matter before long.’

This brought Montmorency up short and he had no answer to offer. Steven went through the same questions, asking where Bottomley had been when James Robertson was shot. This time he got a different answer to being in bed, as the others had claimed.

‘I was out with a couple of chaps in Ipoh, as it happens. Fellows I knew at school, actually.’

It seemed that a subaltern from the Rifle Brigade and another from 22 SAS had joined up with Clarence to visit a new nightclub in Ipoh. The superintendent ruminated on this as Inspector Tan painstaking wrote down all the details that Steven drew from the reluctant lieutenant. Quite a number of these rather seedy joints had appeared in the towns of North Malaya, depending heavily on the military for their clientele. The usual venue was a large house, with a dimly-lit bar, a minute dance floor and a record player. The patrons were a mixed bag, as although most of the men were officers, there was also a number of Chinese and Indian businessmen. Malays were uncommon, mainly because they eschewed alcohol. The usual shortage of European women was made up for by ladies from the same two races and although the clubs were far from being houses of ill repute, certainly many a liaison was contracted before the evening was out.

Steven had no interest in pursuing Bottomley’s activities in Ipoh, but wanted to know what time he arrived back at Tanah Timah.

‘Must have been about two, I suppose,’ said Montmorency airily. ‘I dropped my chaps off at their messes in Sungei Siput and then drove home.’

He made no mention of any activity around the Casualty Department at BMH, but Steven supposed that most of the panic must have died down by two in the morning.

‘You drove back alone?’

The tall, thin officer looked indignant at this mild enquiry.

‘Of course! Look, what is this? Am I under some sort of suspicion or something? Can’t you take the word of an officer?’

Steven felt that Montmorency had almost said ‘officer and gentleman’ and hastened to smooth his ruffled feathers.

‘Just routine, Clarence! We have to know where everyone was at the material time, you see. And to get corroboration where possible.’

‘Well I was in my jolly old Riley at the material time, miles from here,’ he snapped crossly. Then he stood up, deciding that the police had had enough of his time.

‘And I have to be at the Garrison Mess in five minutes. Dashed rude to turn up late, the Brigadier will be there tonight.’

With that, he nodded curtly to them and stalked out.

‘Cocky young devil,’ muttered Steven, but Tan kept a discreet silence.

The senior policeman looked at a list on a sheet of paper and ticked off a few names. ‘No point in bothering Dr Howden or Major Morris — we know well enough where they were on Friday night.’ He dabbed his face with a handkerchief, wondering if another nine years in this country would finally acclimatize him to the heat. ‘Right, let’s call it a day, Inspector.’

‘What about the lady nurses and the colonel, sir?’ the Indian reminded him softly.

‘Tomorrow morning, Tan. They’re not going anywhere.’