‘What about the size of the gunshot wound, doc? Can you tell what weapon was used?’ asked Blackwell.
Tom shook his head. ‘I’m not even going to guess, superintendent. I’ve read that the skin can stretch and shrink, so that the diameter is not the same as the bullet. The hole is seven millimetres across, that’s all I can say.’
‘What the hell is that in English, captain?’ asked the major, a khaki handkerchief close to his mouth. Enderby was a burly, red-faced man in middle-age, with a large walrus moustache stained with nicotine. He had trained as a solicitor but on being called for wartime National Service, had stayed on as a Regular in the provost marshal’s department.
‘Just over a quarter of an inch,’ grunted Howden, forgetting to say ‘sir’.
The bloody part of the autopsy began and the three army men abruptly decided to go outside for a smoke.
‘No exit wound, so thankfully the bullet must still be inside him, Tom,’ said the superintendent, now putting them on first-name terms.
‘If it was a rifle, then it must have hit bone, as far as I can understand from the textbooks,’ agreed Howden. ‘Unless it was fired from a great distance, when it may have lost much of its punch.’
‘If it was a military weapon, like a three-oh-three or an FN, it could still kill someone a mile away,’ said Inspector Tan primly, speaking for the first time. He was a mild, reticent man, speaking only when he had something worthwhile to say. Steven had considerable respect for Tan’s intelligence and always listened carefully to his ideas.
A few minutes later, the question of the calibre of the fatal missile was solved, as Tom finally held it in his hand. Mindful of Professor Glaister’s admonition not to damage the rifling marks, he carefully groped around inside the chest with his fingers, to avoid using hard tools which could scratch the missile. He found the front of the spinal column shattered in the middle of the chest and lying alongside was a deformed metallic lump, which he carefully drew out and placed in the palm of his other hand. Going across to the sink, he washed the blood away and with Cropper peering over his shoulder, he offered it to the two police officers. ‘Here we are! One bullet, distorted to blazes.’
They all looked at it as if it was the Holy Grail, a dull metal nodule about the size of a hazelnut. The base was still circular, but the upper part was crumpled, like a witch’s hat that had been folded back, then stamped on.
‘Looks like a standard .303 rifle to me,’ observed Steven Blackwell.
His inspector nodded agreement, but Tom took up a small plastic ruler that he had brought from the laboratory and carefully put it across the base of the bullet. Though slightly out of shape, he could see that it was about a third of an inch across.
‘Better give the army chaps a shout,’ he suggested. ‘That sergeant probably knows most about firearms.’
Tan went to the door to call them in, but the pathologist went to the outer room to show them the trophy, not wanting to subject them unnecessarily to the sights and smells of the mortuary.
Sergeant Markham, a veteran of Normandy and Korea, agreed that the bullet was the same calibre as that used in the standard British rifle.
‘Must send it to the experts, though,’ he advised. ‘Needs to be checked against those you dug out of the wall at Gunong Busar last week.’
Lewis Cropper found a small screw-top specimen bottle and padded it with cotton wool to nest the bullet in, preventing it from rattling against the glass and blurring the rifling marks from the barrel of whatever weapon had fired it. The superintendent carefully labelled, dated and signed it and stowed it away in his pocket.
‘I’ll send it down to KL on the night train – if needs be, I’m sure your army boffins can get it back for any further work on it.’
‘We can get it sent to Singapore – or even flown back to Woolwich if necessary,’ said Major Enderby, his colour now recovered. ‘That’s where all our Ordnance experts hang out.’
‘The cartridge case would be more valuable, if we could find it,’ grunted the big SIB man. ‘The origin of the ammunition could be traced through that.’
Steve Blackwell looked a little irritated. ‘We don’t even know where the bloody shooting took place. Could be anywhere within ten miles of here. That’s one of our first priorities.’
Half an hour later, Tom had finished the rest of his dissection, finding nothing more of significance. He took some samples for Blackwell to send to Kuala Lumpur for blood grouping and alcohol analysis, telling Cropper to get them packed in ice in a Thermos flask for the long journey down-country. The spectators left, promising a conference later that day to discuss the sparse results of the post-mortem, leaving Tom and his corporal to restore the body as best they could. They sewed it up again, washed it, then covered it again with a sheet around which they packed large fragments of ice, broken from the blocks with the hammer from the surgical instrument set.
After washing down the mortuary, Tom doing his full share in unconscious defiance of the Officer–Other Ranks convention, the two laboratory men left James Robertson in peace under a whirling fan and a shroud of melting ice.
SEVEN
‘Bit of a bloody cheek, I thought! Questioning us as if we were damned suspects.’
Peter Bright sounded indignant as he signed the chit for a beer that Number One held out for him. It was just before lunch in the Officers’ Mess and most of the resident medical staff were sitting in the anteroom with their pre-prandial Tigers or Anchors. Drinking spirits in the middle of the day was not banned, but was felt to be ‘a bit off’ as most members had clinical duties during the afternoon. The old pre-war days of working only in the morning had long gone and even though this was a Saturday, the habit lingered.
The chief surgeon’s complaint was echoed by David Meredith, the dark, moody Welshman. His deep-set eyes were overhung by thick eyebrows, which matched the mop of curly black hair that came too low on his neck to suit Alf Morris’s military mind.
‘Why should Steve Blackwell come to me first, that’s what I’d like to know? At least you were down at Casualty last night, Peter – but I never went near the damn place. First thing I knew about Jimmy Robertson was at breakfast.’ His annoyance brought out a slight Welsh accent, but Tom knew from Alec Watson’s gossip that Meredith had gone to school and university in the Midlands.
Before attending the post-mortem, the police superintendent had made a few calls and with Inspector Tan taking notes, had taken statements from several people about their movements last night, including the surgeon and anaesthetist.
As usual, Alf Morris set out to smooth the ruffled feathers.
‘We’ll all be asked the same things, eventually, so don’t fret that you’re being picked on,’ he said soothingly. ‘He’ll be doing the same at the Sisters’ Mess and amongst the members at The Dog.’
No one was tactless enough to mention that Peter Bright was an obvious early target for the police, given that Robertson’s death had now cleared the way for his pursuit of Diane, if she was still interested.
‘Steve Blackwell wanted to know if I had a gun!’ complained Meredith. ‘He knows bloody well that I don’t. What in God’s name would an anaesthetist want with a gun out here?’
‘The same with me! Damn silly questions these coppers ask,’ added the senior surgeon.
Alf Morris persisted with his placatory role. ‘I suppose it’s what all policemen call “routine”,’ he said. ‘If they don’t ask everybody everything, they can get a rollicking later on.’
David Meredith shook his head sadly. ‘Steve Blackwell’s the nicest chap you could wish for when he’s in The Dog – but he’s a different person in uniform. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde!’
‘Must be difficult for police in a small place like this, having to be “official” with people you know so well socially,’ observed Alec Watson. ‘Conflict of interests and all that.’
‘Yes, it’s difficult for some of us, too – having to hobnob here with you murder suspects!’ bra
yed Percy Loosemore, stirring things as usual.
Tom Howden sat quietly behind his beer, keeping as low a profile as possible. He also felt in a difficult position, as he was now technically an expert witness in the case of James Robertson and should not divulge anything except to the police and coroner. It soon became obvious that this was a forlorn hope in such an incestuous environment as BMH Tanah Timah.
‘I hear it was a .303 you dug out of Jimmy’s chest,’ stated the brash Loosemore, confirming that the hospital bush telegraph was in excellent working order. Tom immediately suspected Lewis Cropper as the source of the leak, but knew that the lance corporal would plaintively deny it if accused.
Once more, the Administrative Officer tried to come to the rescue.
‘In the circumstances, I don’t think Captain Howden should be asked about details by any of us – the whole affair is sub judice, understand?’
His attempt to save the pathologist any embarrassment was almost immediately doomed to failure. A sudden warning came from Alec, who was sitting facing the open door that had a view of the entrance path.
‘Hell’s bells, here comes the Old Man!’
The rare visit of the colonel to the Mess sent three of the members scurrying through the opposite verandah doors to hide in the toilets at the end of the block, but O’Neill arrived too quickly for the rest to vanish, though it had been known for the CO to find a completely deserted anteroom, with everyone crammed into the bogs.
He stalked in and everyone stumbled hastily to their feet in awkward silence. Dropping his hat amongst the others on the table inside the door, he ignored the assembly and spoke directly to the pathologist.
‘Well, Howden, what did you find?’
Tom looked beseechingly at Alf Morris, but the major evidently decided that capitulation was the better part of valour and gave a tiny nod of his head. The new doctor tried to be as non-committal as he could.
‘Confirmed the obvious, sir. A bullet lodged inside the chest, made a mess of the root of the right lung.’
The colonel stared coldly at him over the steel rims of his glasses.
‘What sort of bullet?’
As the rest of the hospital already seemed to know, Tom decided that its Commanding Officer might as well join them.
‘A three-oh-three, sir, according to the police and the SIB chap.’
‘And the range of discharge?’
‘Hard to say, sir. Certainly not close.’
Desmond O’Neill grunted, then glared around the circle of officers, who still stood awkwardly near their chairs, most wishing they had also made a dash for the toilets.
‘Goes to confirm what I thought. This was a bandit taking a pot-shot at a planter. Enemy action, poor fellow. Ironic he was a civilian.’
The colonel’s staccato style of speech produced a few reluctant murmurs of agreement from his staff, then taking up his usual role of pourer of oil on choppy waters, Alf Morris tried to make the CO more welcome in his own Mess.
‘Are you staying for lunch, sir? Can I get you a drink?’
O’Neill shook his head and stared around disapprovingly.
‘No, thank you. Don’t go along with doctors drinking at lunchtime, slows you down for the afternoon.’
With another of his mercurial changes of mood, he gave a ghastly death’s head grin at them all, then turned on his heel and walked rapidly out of the room, grabbing his cap on the way. A moment later they watched him walking quickly on to the perimeter road with his peculiar springing gait, lifting himself from heel to toe at every step.
Once out of sight, there was a collective sigh of relief in the anteroom, as people sank back into their chairs.
‘What the devil was all that about?’ demanded Percy. ‘He could just as well have phoned you or called you down to his office, Tom.’
Howden shrugged, relieved that he had got off so lightly. ‘Search me, why is everyone so interested in what sort of damned bullet it was?’
This was a question that would be central to the meeting to be held with the police late that afternoon.
It was just as well that terrorist activity had quietened down in previous weeks, as it allowed Steven Blackwell more time to devote to the death of James Robertson. True, there was still plenty of work, but he had three inspectors and half a dozen sergeants to carry on with the other cases, supervising the donkey work of thirty constables working out of Tanah Timah Police Circle. There were the usual run of robberies, thieving being a national tradition in Malaya, as well as a few serious assault cases, mainly among the estate workers. But on this Saturday, the superintendent felt obliged to devote all his time to the only case involving a European.
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 Bes
ar, 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.
‘I’m quite alright where I am, thank you, Doug. I’ve got my servants here and you’re within shouting distance. I expect I’ll be going back to the UK very soon, though perhaps I’ll take a few days in Penang first. Until then, I’m sitting tight, as long as those damned CTs don’t come calling again!’
Dead in the Dog Page 14
