Dead in the Dog

‘As I said earlier, sir, anybody can do anything. Doesn’t take much strength to pull a trigger, even on a Lee-Enfield.’

Enderby tapped the table impatiently.

‘Let’s get back to brass tacks,’ he demanded. ‘As it’s possible that military personnel might be involved, I’ve had a word with the Adjutant and he’s spoken to the Brigadier. It’s agreed that we can divulge any Service records and even Confidential Reports to the police, on a strictly “need-to-know” basis.’

He slapped his hairy hand on to a pile of folders lying on the desk.

‘I’ve had the records pulled of everyone who had anything to do with the Robertsons – and quite a few others besides.’

Steven’s eyebrows climbed up his sun-reddened forehead. The provost marshal’s office had certainly been busy.

‘Does that include people from BMH?’ he asked.

‘Include? They’re the main customers, Steven!’

That night, Tom Howden was again Orderly Medical Officer and sat abstemiously in the Mess after dinner, drinking grapefruit soda while his fellow officers replenished their body fluids with Anchor or Tiger.

A violent thunderstorm was going on outside and rain lashed down like the proverbial stair rods. As Tom looked out through the open doors of the anteroom, he could see a row of regularly spaced cascades pouring vertically from the edges of the corrugated roof into the deep monsoon drains at the edge of the verandah. One of the frequent flashes of lightning showed a figure dashing from an Austin K2 ambulance for the shelter of the covered way. A moment later, Eddie Rosen came in, the shoulders of his green uniform shirt black with rain.

He called to Number One to rustle up some food, as he had missed the regular evening meal, then dropped into a chair.

‘Been assisting the Great Surgeon with a compound fracture, an Aussie who lost an argument with a three-tonner,’ he announced. ‘Peter’s still down in theatre with the gasman. We started late, as Blackwell of the Yard turned up to give the third degree again to the other two fellows.’

Percy Loosemore leered across from the depths of his chair, where he had been studying an old copy of Men Only.

‘They must be the prime suspects, then. Wonder which one of them did it?’

Alfred Morris put down his airmail copy of the Daily Telegraph and frowned at the speaker. ‘That warped sense of humour will get you into trouble one day, Percy,’ he said severely.

‘I wasn’t trying to be funny, Alf! Did you lot know that Dave Meredith was a crack shot? When he was a student, he was in the University of Liverpool’s Small-bore Rifle team and competed in Bisley.’

No one asked him how he came by this nugget of information, but neither did anyone challenge his news. However, Robbie Burns couldn’t resist some sarcasm. ‘And I suppose you’ll tell us that Peter Bright was an Olympic gold medallist with the Bren gun!’

The pox doctor sniggered, determined to get the last word.

‘No, but Posh Pete was a dab hand with a shotgun. I heard him bragging once about how often he went murdering pheasants in Sussex with his father and his fancy Tory pals.’

The Admin Officer rattled his newspaper irritably.

‘That’s enough, fellers! This affair isn’t something to joke about, so let’s drop it.’

The somewhat awkward silence was broken by Eddie Rosen.

‘Tom, if you’re OMO, keep your eyes peeled for the CO. He’s been acting strangely lately.’

‘Nothing new about that! When was he ever normal?’ The quartermaster’s nasal Scouse tones sounded bitter, as he suffered more than most from the colonel’s eccentricities.

‘No, I mean really odd,’ said Rosen. ‘I was OMO last night and on the way to the arms kote, I saw him prowling around the hospital with a flashlight. Later, I caught a glimpse of him shining the torch into the windows of one of the barrack blocks . . . and I think it was where the QA Other Ranks sleep.’

A few eyebrows were raised at this – the antics of their Commanding Officer were always fertile ground for gossip.

‘Dirty old bugger!’ said Percy Loosemore. ‘That’s what comes of his wife buzzing off back to Blighty – he’s gone randy.’

With a sigh, Alfred Morris put down his newspaper and came to the rescue of his colonel’s reputation. ‘If you must know, he’s been concerned about security lately, especially since the murder and the attack on Gunong Besar. Now there’s been this bank hold-up in town, and he’s got into his head that we should all be more security conscious.’

‘Funny place to start, the QA’s dormitory,’ grunted the quartermaster.

‘He’s been trying doors and windows, to see if they’ve been locked at night, that’s all,’ said Alf defensively.

‘What, is he afraid that Chin Peng is going to nick the ashtrays from the Sergeants’ Mess?’ asked Alec Watson. ‘I saw him snooping around there after midnight when I was duty officer last week. Then he went up to the armoury and started yelling at the poor little Malay corporal through the door.’

‘What was that about?’ asked Alfred, curious in spite of his ingrained loyalties.