Dead in the Dog

A Selection of Titles by Bernard Knight

The Crowner John Series

THE SANCTUARY SEEKER

THE POISONED CHALICE

CROWNER’S QUEST

THE AWFUL SECRET

THE TINNER’S CORPSE

THE GRIM REAPER

FEAR IN THE FOREST

THE WITCH HUNTER

FIGURE OF HATE

THE ELIXIR OF DEATH

THE NOBLE OUTLAW

THE MANOR OF DEATH

CROWNER ROYAL

A PLAGUE OF HERETICS

The Richard Pryor Forensic Mysteries

WHERE DEATH DELIGHTS

ACCORDING TO THE EVIDENCE

GROUNDS FOR APPEAL

DEAD IN THE DOG

Bernard Knight

AUTHOR’S NOTE

None of the characters portrayed existed in real life and every effort has been made to avoid suggesting the identity of people who were in North Malaya in the nineteen-fifties. In particular, the portrayal of characters in the Armed Forces, especially the Royal Army Medical Corps and Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps, is utterly fictitious. The three years the author spent there as an Army doctor were the most interesting of his whole career, but none of the events in this novel actually took place. However, he hopes that he has captured some of the ambience of the last years of the British military presence in that fascinating country.

The campaign against the Communist Chinese insurgents led by Chin Peng, in which 519 British and over 1,300 Malayan troops and police lost their lives, was one of the longest on record, lasting from 1948 until 1960. It was also the only successful one, thanks to the painstaking efforts of British and Commonwealth forces in fighting the terrorists virtually hand-to-hand in the jungle. Yet in spite of more than a decade of strife, few now remember this vicious ‘Forgotten War’, without which modern Malaysia would not exist.

The Federation of Malaya was not known as ‘Malaysia’ until 1963 and place names are given here as they were in the nineteen fifties – ‘Melaka’ was ‘Malacca’, ‘Pulau Pinang’ was ‘Penang’ and so on.

PROLOGUE

Perak State, Malaya, December 1954

The shoe flew across the room, its high heel catching James hard on the side of his neck, leaving a red mark on the skin.

‘You bitch, what d’you think you’re doing!’

With a roar he launched himself at his wife and caught her a resounding smack across the face that made her teeth rattle. James was a big, powerful man and the imprint of his fingers immediately began to appear across her cheek. But Diane was a woman of spirit and instead of collapsing into a sobbing heap on the rattan settee, she hopped on her one bare foot, trying to pull off the other shoe to throw at him.

‘Bastard! You dirty, rotten bastard!’ she screamed. ‘I’ll tell Douglas! I will, this time!’

To avoid more shoe-throwing, he grabbed her bodily and threw her down on to the cushions.

‘Look, cut it out, you silly fool! I doubt it’ll be any surprise to Douglas, so you can save your breath.’

Suddenly aware that she had no chance against his physical strength, Diane began to cry, though they were more sobs of frustrated rage than real distress. She held a hand to her face, which was stinging from his blow.

‘I’ll have a bruise there now, you swine!’ she blubbered. ‘Everyone at The Dog will know that you’ve been knocking me about again.’

‘Then put some more Max Factor over it, you daft cow! You wear so much, a bit more won’t be noticed!’

He turned and stalked out of the lounge on to the verandah of the bungalow, then clattered down the steps outside. She heard a car door slam, then the Buick started up and with an angry roar, accelerated away with a crunching of gravel. The blonde rocked back and forth on the settee, hissing through the fingers that were held across her aching cheek.

‘You bastard, one of these days, I’ll kill you!’

ONE

He was hot, tired and slightly bewildered. His fibre suitcase, lashed with a strap that had once been his father’s belt, was in the back of the Land Rover. Alongside it was the new holdall that he had bought in Singapore to carry the overflow of his belongings. They said that the cabin-trunk he had packed so carefully in Gateshead wouldn’t arrive for another six weeks.

Tom had come by air-trooping, four days’ flight from Stansted Airport, cooped up in a Handley-Page Hermes that seemed only slightly faster than the Wright Flyer. His heavy baggage was allegedly on its way by sea, but as he slumped in the passenger seat of the olive-green vehicle, he had his doubts whether he’d ever see the trunk again.

Tom Howden was a pessimist by nature, as he had learned that it was the best way to avoid disappointment. Still, as he was going to be stuck out here for years, he supposed he had to make the best of it. He wondered for the hundredth time, what temporary insanity had led him to sign on for three years, when he could have got away with two as a National Serviceman? Was an extra pip on the shoulder, better pay and the promise of a three hundred quid gratuity at the end, worth another twelve months in this saturated sweat-box?