Dead in the Dog

By midnight, he was back in his own bed, as the air-conditioned ward was occupied by a gunner with malaria. As he stared up in the gloom at the dim wraith of his mosquito net, he thought of the coming weekend. Visions swam into his mind of nubile maidens in grass skirts dancing on a palm-fringed moonlit beach – and they were all wearing the starched headdress of the Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps.

NINE

The next meeting of the investigators into the killing of James Robertson was held in the Police Circle building, partly because Steven Blackwell wanted to emphasize that this was primarily a matter for the civil police, rather than the military. The same people attended halfway through Thursday morning, gathering over Fraser & Neave grapefruit sodas in the superintendent’s room upstairs. Inspector Tan was present, sitting in his usual self-effacing way with an open notebook on his knee. This time it was Blackwell who sat behind his desk as chairman and he opened the proceedings by pulling a sheet of paper from the now slightly thicker file on Robertson’s murder.

‘The first thing is another report from the lab at Petaling Jaya,’ he announced. ‘The blood on those leaves from the road up to Gunong Besar was the same blood group as the dead man’s. It was a moderately common group, but I see no reason to think that it was anyone else’s but his.’

He shuffled out another sheet and laid it on his desk.

‘Perhaps more significantly, there is report on the bullet that the doctor here removed from James’s chest.’

There was a palpable silence as the faces opposite waited for the result.

‘It was not fired from the same weapon as that which peppered the estate buildings the previous week.’ He emphasized the negative, to impress the fact on the others, who broke into a confused murmuring.

‘So where does that leave us?’ demanded Enderby, the major from the provost marshal’s section.

Steven shrugged. ‘Either the same guy using a different rifle – or two different villains!’

‘Pity we don’t have the shell-case from James’s shooting,’ offered tubby Major Preston, the Intelligence Officer.

‘Wouldn’t help much,’ retorted the SIB sergeant. ‘The ones from the previous shoot-out were a complete mixture of ammunition from after 1948. Unless this one was a cordite-filled shell which greatly pre-dated the others, we couldn’t say it was from a different source.’

‘And it still wouldn’t tell us who fired the damned thing,’ added the superintendent, wearily.

Tom kept quiet through the ensuing silence, as the others digested this latest unhelpful information. He felt that after carrying out the post-mortem, he had nothing more to offer these professionals.

‘So what’s the next move?’ asked Alfred Morris, mindful of the questions that Desmond O’Neill would be barking at him when he got back to the hospital.

‘I’ve now got statements from virtually all the people who might either be involved or might know something useful,’ said Steven Blackwell. ‘These, together with the information kindly provided by the garrison on the military personnel, will have to be gone though with a fine toothcomb. We need to know who was where and when they were there, on that night.’

Morris stroked his bristly moustache in a gesture of concern.

‘That’s a hell a wide net to fling, Steven. Theoretically, it could be any of us – even me! I was in bed, but I can’t prove it. Captain Howden is the only one of us who has a cast-iron alibi!’

Tom pushed his chair back, grating it on the concrete floor.

‘Maybe I should leave now, if you are going to discuss colleagues of mine,’ he offered.

Blackwell waved him down. ‘I wouldn’t be concerned about that, Tom. We’re hardly likely to accuse anyone this morning! And we may need your advice if anything crops up about the actual shooting.’

Having made his point, the pathologist settled back, admitting to himself that he was intrigued by this business of detection. Maybe he would take up this forensic game when he went back home. The senior police officer shuffled his papers once again and picked out one to lay on top.

‘I’ll go through each of the people in turn, just to lay out the basic plot. The first is Major Peter Bright, your senior surgeon. He says he went to the usual Friday night dance at The Dog, left about ten forty-five and drove downtown to the Rest House, where he sat alone and had a few beers, before driving back to the hospital soon after midnight. He arrived in time to see all the action outside the Casualty Department and we know that he came in at that point.’

Blackwell raised his head and looked enquiringly around at the others. Again Tom kept his mouth shut, but the staff sergeant felt no such inhibitions about an officer unknown to him.

‘Why leave the club and go drinking alone in a local bar late at night?’