Dead in the Dog

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.