Dead in the Dog

‘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.