Dead in the Dog

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?’

SIX