Dead in the Dog (21 page)

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 said 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.'

Diane shrugged, as she flicked her cigarette ash over the balcony rail.

‘They're a pretty tough bunch, the Robertsons. Hunting, shooting and cussing, that's their style. But George did sound cut up, what little I could make out over the wires.'

She was dressed in the same outfit as she was at the mortuary, a black skirt and crisp white blouse. It was obviously her version of a mourning outfit and Blackwell wondered what she would wear at the actual funeral.

‘This padre chappie was very helpful,' she said calmly. ‘He rang around and fixed the ceremony for tomorrow afternoon, at the English church in Taiping.'

Steven nodded. ‘The coroner is issuing the release certificate in the morning, so I'll give you a driver to take you to Ipoh to collect it and go to the Registrar.'

Diane looked surprised at this. ‘Oh God, do I have to go myself?'

‘Afraid so, you are the only eligible informant. It's only a formality, you'll be back before lunchtime.'

As he moved towards the steps, he turned back to the new widow.

‘We'll all rally around at the funeral, Diane. A few of the people from BMH want to be there, as well as some other members from The Dog. You'll need some support, with no one from his family able to be there.'

Diane murmured some thanks, but Steve felt she was not overcome with gratitude and suspected there were a couple of female faces that she would prefer not to see in Taiping.

As he drove away, his last glimpse was of her in her typical posture, leaning on the veranda rail with a glass in one hand and a Kensitas in the other.

Sunday lunch in the RAMC Mess was something of a ritual, a hangover from the days when many officers were ex-Indian Army and demanded their curry on a regular basis.

Though Meng was nominally the cook, she was assisted by Vellatum, an Indian kitchen ‘boy', though he was actually a wizened fellow in his forties, who had been badly beaten up by the Japanese during the Occupation. On Sundays, Meng took the day off to go on the bus to visit her sister in Kuala Kangsar and Vellatum was given a free hand to prepare the weekly curry.

The general idea was for the residents to eat as much of the eye-watering mixture as they could manage, chase it with a few Tigers, then crawl satiated to their room to pull on a sarong and collapse sweating on to their beds for a few hours. Such a novel Sunday lunch was a new experience for Tom, as Tyneside had yet to see any oriental eating houses. Yet he rapidly took to the fiery concoction that Vellatum served up and happily spooned down the colourful food, alternating with mouthfuls of beer to put out the flames in his gullet.

‘I like all these little bits on the side,' he said, after blowing through his lips that were burning from a shred of red chilli. He pointed to the tray in the centre of the table that held small dishes filled with shredded coconut, banana, mango chutney, cashew nuts and other unidentifiable substances.