Dead in the Dog

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.