The taciturn sergeant joined in the discussion.
‘I wonder how he got away so quickly? Surely he didn’t drive away, or that manager chap would have seen or heard a car, as he seems to have gone out straight away when he heard the crash.’
‘He wouldn’t have a car there, anyway, if he drove James’s down from the murder site,’ reasoned Enderby.
‘Unless he was someone who was in the club earlier and had left his car there, then footed it up to that cutting. It’s only a couple of miles away.’
Alfred Morris’s observation suddenly brought home the fact that the murderer, now known not to be a terrorist, could quite well be one of their own acquaintances. It was an unpleasant realization, unwelcome to them all. Steven Blackwell sighed, thinking of the difficult work that lay ahead, interviewing people who he knew all too well.
‘This means that we will have to concentrate on all weapons that could possibly be involved, both in civilian and military use. A hell of a job, I’m afraid.’
He looked at the two majors. ‘This is going to be bloody difficult! It’s going to be a nightmare testing even the relatively few guns in civilian hands, amongst the planters, let alone the military weapons. The chaps on the estates are not going to take kindly to being deprived of their shooters, even for a short time.’
‘Will they all have to be sent down to the forensic lab in KL?’ demanded Enderby. ‘I can’t see the Brigadier suspending his war for you, even for a murder!’
‘That’s out of the question, of course,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll have to be very specific about what guns we test, to limit the numbers.’
Sergeant Markham chipped in again. ‘Getting a test bullet to check on the rifling marks can be done on the spot. Firing into a tank of water or a big box full of wadding is sufficient. That stops a bullet without damaging it.’
‘Let’s wait until we get a report back on those shell cases from the attack on Gunong Besar, before we start on the rifles,’ advised Blackwell. ‘I’m convinced now that that episode is linked somehow to this killing.’
He turned to his inspector. ‘Tan, you said your constables found no sign of a spent cartridge along the road near that cutting, but we need to find the one that carried the bullet that killed poor James. Send another team up there tomorrow and widen the search, OK?’
After a few more minutes of discussion, which got them nowhere in particular, the meeting broke up and Morris drove Tom back to the hospital. Just before the garrison entrance, a red-capped military policeman held them up as a procession of vehicles streamed out of the gate. Three Ferret armoured cars, four Saracen troop carriers, half a dozen three-tonner Bedford TCVs, two Land Rover ambulances and a radio van lumbered off down the road towards the town.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the pathologist, suddenly aware that he actually was on Active Service and that one man with a bullet in his chest was pretty small beer compared to the potential mayhem in which this convoy might soon become involved.
‘Looks as if the Brigadier has decided on disinfecting some part of the jungle,’ replied Alf, laconically. ‘They’re probably going down the main road to the turn-off for Grik and then going up north for a punch-up.’
Dusk was approaching as they entered BMH and as they parked behind the Mess, a glorious sunset filled the western sky. Streaks of salmon pink and scarlet vied with the blue vault above, masses of cumulus on the horizon being tinged with brilliant gold. Though Tom had seen this almost every evening, he was still spellbound by the sight, so different from the grey haze that hung over Tyneside when he had left a couple of weeks earlier. His feelings of unreality hit him with full force, but he managed to shake them off and follow Alf into the anteroom for a reviving Tiger before dinner.
With his wife away, Steven Blackwell found that one day was much the same as another and that weekends merged into a continuous pattern of work. So though the next day was a Sunday, he found no problem in seamlessly pursuing the enquiry by interviewing the potential witnesses. In fact, it was easier, as most of them were off duty on the Sabbath.
He had an early breakfast in his quarters, which was a bungalow at the back of the police station. It was within the safety of the encircling wall and high fence, but far enough away from the constable’s barracks to be relatively private. With Margaret away, he was looked after by an Indian houseboy and their Chinese cook who came in each day from the town.
He spent a couple of hours in his office dealing with other matters and conferring with the duty inspector about the day’s patrol schedules, then called his driver and was taken in the Land Rover up to Gunong Besar. Here he met his first obstacle, as the Robertson’s servant gravely informed him that his mistress had gone to church. At first, Steven wondered if James’s death had driven her to a return of faith, as to his knowledge, Diane had never before set foot in the garrison chapel. Siva soon enlightened him, explaining that she had gone to see the padre to make arrangements for the funeral.
‘The priest telephoned, sir. He said his Sunday morning duties made it difficult for him to come up here until after lunch, so Missus said she would drive down to see him.’
Though Tan had already grilled all the servants, the superintendent took the opportunity to question Siva, who was an unusually tall man for a Tamil. Politely, but firmly, the servant said that he had heard and seen absolutely nothing out of the ordinary on the night of the murder.
No, there had been no strangers hanging about the estate lately, the only visitor in the past few days being Mr Arnold from Batu Merah, the next plantation a couple of miles further up the road.
Blackwell had no luck at the other bungalow, as the Mackays were also at church, though he half expected this. Douglas was known to be a keen Christian and although his wife was a Roman Catholic, she went with him to the Anglican services on Sunday morning. Steven knew that she also went down each Thursday evening, when a Catholic padre from Sungei Siput came up to say Mass for the relatively few of that faith in the garrison.
Frustrated, he decided to avoid totally wasting the journey, by going up to Batu Merah to talk to Les Arnold, as he knew that there was no chance of the laid-back Australian being in church. Indeed when he arrived at the next estate, he found the owner lounging comfortably in a striped deckchair outside his bungalow, which was very similar to the ones down the road. He had a bottle of beer in one hand, a copy of yesterday’s Straits Times in the other and looked very much at ease.
Arnold lived alone, the gossip saying that he had been divorced before coming up from Darwin soon after Malaya was liberated from the Japanese. Blackwell knew that he had been in the Australian army during the war and had seen service in New Guinea. He had made a real success of running Batu Merah, which was said to be one of the most profitable estates in the valley – probably aided by Arnold’s reputation for ruthless business dealings and his strict control over his workers.
Les hoisted his lanky frame from the chair and as the policeman climbed from his vehicle, yelled at his houseboy to bring out another chair and a beer from the house. Though it was not yet eleven o’clock, Steven Blackwell accepted a sit down and a pewter tankard of Anchor, as the morning seemed even more oppressively hot than usual. Unlike the Robertsons’ place, this bungalow sat in a dip, the rubber closely around it on all sides. Perhaps coming from the tropical Northern Territories, Les Arnold was more used to the heat, but Steven’s bald head was as red as a ripe tomato and his uniform shirt was blackened with sweat. Though he had been out from ‘home’ for years, he knew he would never get used to the oppressive climate and already ideas of early retirement were beginning to germinate in his mind, especially since his wife had gone back for a six-month stay. He took a long draught of the cold beer and sank back thankfully in the chair, then forced himself to attend to the business in hand.
‘Look, Les, this is difficult for all of us, especially me. I’ve got a job to do and I’ll get no thanks for having to pry into people’s affairs – especially as most of them are friends and
acquaintances.’
The long face of the planter split in a grin.
‘Don’t worry yourself, mate. We all understand – and those who don’t are just thick! Fire away, I’ve got a clear conscience.’
‘Right, then. I’ve got to ask everyone about their movements on Friday night. I guess you were in The Dog?’
‘Yep, propping up the bar most of the evening. Got there about eight, had a bit of tucker at the buffet at half ten, drove back here around eleven thirty or thereabouts.’
‘Thereabouts? You can’t be a bit more exact?’ asked Blackwell.
‘Jesus, no! I’d had a good few beers, as always. Even had a bit of a dance, before and after the grub. Do you want to know who with?’
His tone was bantering, a half-amused smile on his face.
Steven shook his head. ‘You saw no one on the road from Tanah Timah, I presume? It would help if you knew the time you came up, so that I could try to place where James Robertson was then.’
Arnold took another mouthful of beer and tried to look more serious.
‘Just can’t be that exact, mate. Time doesn’t mean a hell of lot in a place like this, getting the date right is hard enough. But I think I got to bed about midnight, give or take a few minutes.’
‘And you saw nothing on the road?’
‘Damn all, Steve.’ He looked quizzically at the superintendent. ‘Why this interest in this road? Was that where it happened?’
It was inevitable that everyone would soon hear about the blood on the grass, so he made no attempt to avoid the question.
‘I’m not absolutely sure, Les, but I think the shooting happened near that cutting just below Gunong Besar.’
The Australian shrugged. ‘That’s a long way from here. I wouldn’t hear any shots this far off. I didn’t even hear when they blasted the place a couple of weeks ago and that’s almost a mile closer.’
Blackwell took a long swallow of his beer, imagining that he could feel it come out as perspiration on his forehead as soon as he drank it.
‘This is the awkward bit I have to ask people, Les. We’re sure this wasn’t a CT attack, it was more personal, so we need a motive. How did you really get on with James and Diane?’
Again a crooked grin appeared on the planter’s face. ‘What d’you expect me to say, for Chrissake? Jimmy Robertson was a pain in the arse, but he was harmless.’
‘And Diane?’
‘Come on, Steve, you’ve got eyes and a pair of balls! She’s bloody gorgeous and I could do her a good turn any day of the week – though I’d have to join the queue!’
‘And did you?’
Arnold’s expression hardened a little, the smile fading. ‘Look, Steve, you’re sitting in my place, drinking my beer. Do you seriously think I’m going to admit to you that I was knocking off Jimmy’s wife?’
Blackwell carefully put his empty tankard on the ground alongside his chair.
‘Is that a “yes” or a “no”, then?’ he asked.
‘It’s a “no comment”, and that’s all you’re getting, Stevie boy,’ he grunted. ‘It’s got bugger all to with this affair, anyway. I’ll admit I fancied her something rotten, as did every red-blooded chap within ten miles, but that’s sweet Fanny Adams to do with Jimmy getting killed.’
The planter uncoiled his six feet from the chair and Steven sensed that he would get nothing more from him at present. Not wanting to antagonize people with whom he had to associate – and who he would no doubt have to return to question yet again – he decided to retire gracefully while he was still ahead.
After a few rather stilted platitudes, the social temperature having dropped somewhat, the police officer climbed back into his Land Rover, wishing the air temperature would do the same.
When they got back down the road as far as Gunong Besar, Steven Blackwell saw that a black Ford V8 Pilot was just turning into the manager’s driveway. A quick glance up to the Robertson house showed him that there was no sign of Diane’s Austin under the bungalow, so he told to his driver to follow the Ford. As they drove up to the front of the bungalow, Douglas and Rosa were just getting out of the V8, stopping to stare at the police vehicle as it pulled up. The Scotsman wore a rather creased linen suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat, Rosa being as neat as usual in a blue-and-white flowered dress with a wide skirt. She had a small blue hat on the front of her raven hair and even carried a pair of white gloves, obviously her formal churchgoing outfit.
Leaving his driver with the vehicle, Steven got out to greet the manager and his wife and was invited up into the bungalow, a slightly smaller version of the one next door. In the wide lounge, Douglas invited the police officer to sit down, after a rather apprehensive Rosa took off her hat and sat opposite, perched stiffly on the edge of a settee.
‘I’ve only a beer to offer you, I’m afraid,’ said Douglas softly. ‘We’re not great drinkers here, you see.’
Blackwell waved away the offer, but accepted Rosa’s suggestion of a fresh lime. She rang a small brass bell that stood on a coffee table between them and gave an order to a silent Chinese amah who glided in from the back of the house.
‘What can we do for you, Steven?’ asked Douglas. ‘More questions, I expect.’
He said this without rancour and sat alongside his wife, looking expectantly at the superintendent.
‘Sorry about all this, but I’ve got to start doing the rounds of everyone who had more than a passing acquaintance with poor old James. I’ve just been up to talk to Les Arnold.’
Douglas Mackay gave a slight sniff at the mention of his neighbour. Steven recognized that though Douglas was a most Christian soul, full of compassion and forgiveness, he was not overly fond of the Australian, a cynical, hard-drinking and sometimes aggressive fellow.
‘How did James get along with Arnold?’ asked the policeman. ‘We all saw them together often enough in The Dog, but that doesn’t really tell me much.’
Douglas looked down at his wife’s smooth features, then warily raised his eyes to his visitor.
‘I’m not much given to gossip, Steven. People’s affairs are their own. But as this is a police matter, I have to say that they were certainly not bosom pals. Arnold used to needle James quite a bit, sort of sarcastic leg-pulling. I felt he thought James a bit of a “pommie snob”, to be honest.’
‘Anything more than that?’ persisted Steven.
Mackay hesitated and again looked across at Rosa, who sat impassively alongside him. ‘I think he used to get annoyed at Les flirting with Diane – but Les did that with every woman he met, it doesn’t mean that it was at all serious. Though perhaps James may have thought it was – he wasn’t the most perceptive of people. But one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’
The amah brought a tray of drinks, tall glasses with a crush of heavily sugared limes. They each took one and rattled the ice with the straws before gratefully sucking down some of the delicious pale green juice. Then Blackwell went over once again their movements on the night before last, this time in meticulous detail, though nothing new emerged.
‘I’ll have to borrow your rifle in the next few days, Doug – and the one that belonged to James. A damned nuisance, I know, but every .303 in sight will have to be test-fired, just as a routine. We’ll only need them for a day, the Ordnance guys in the garrison can do the business.’
Mackay’s fair eyebrows rose at this. ‘How the dickens can you do all of them, Steven? There must be hundreds down in the Brigade!’
The superintendent shrugged helplessly. ‘I know, it’s almost impossible. We’ll start with those in civilian hands, like yours, then gradually work selectively through those which must have been in the garrison both on Friday night and when your bungalows were shot up the other day.’
‘Will the army let you do that?’ asked Douglas.
‘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 sa
id 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.’
Dead in the Dog Page 16
