Dead in the Dog

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Yet we can’t shrug it off completely,’ said Steven Blackwell. ‘The planters are entitled to all the protection we can give them. Someone has to grow the bloody rubber and one of Chin Peng’s objectives is to damage the economy in Malaya.’

  The colonel nodded abruptly. ‘I couldn’t agree more! I’m damned if I’d like to sit out in some lonely bungalow with my wife and be shot at by some murderous bastards.’

  ‘But the point is, sir,’ growled the SIB man, ‘which lot of murderous bastards was it?’

  The Intelligence officer, Captain Preston, wiped some sweat from his pink forehead with a khaki handkerchief.

  ‘That’s what we must try to decide, isn’t it? Was this a CT escapade – or some local Johnny banging away with a three-oh-three?’

  ‘So you tell us, Willy,’ retorted the colonel, rather shortly.

  ‘There’s nothing to indicate that any of the known Commie cells is active around here at the moment, though of course, that can change overnight. The sods can trek through the hills and appear next day twenty miles away from where we last spotted them.’

  The police superintendent added his own knowledge.

  ‘The last activity I know of through police channels was a fortnight ago near Sauk where they tried to blow up a sub-station on the hydroelectric grid coming down from Chenderoh dam. Otherwise, it’s been pretty quiet up here for a couple of months. They seem to be concentrating more down south in Johore and Negri Sembilan.’

  ‘The point is, gentlemen, am I to recommend to the Brigadier that we send patrols out into the hills beyond Gunong Besar? He won’t like that, as he wants the West Berkshires and the Gurkhas to get prepared for this push up around Grik. The alternative is to write this off to some local thuggery and let it ride?’

  ‘With some extra protection up around the estates, I would hope,’ cut in Blackwell. ‘I’ve increased the police presence along the road, but there’s only so much I can offer with the manpower I’ve got.’

  The Director nodded curtly. ‘We’ve promised that already – and we’ll certainly keep it in place for a number of weeks. I’ll get some of these dozy soldiers off clerking and painting flagpoles and truck ’em up and down to Kampong Kerbau every few hours.’

  The raw-boned sergeant joined in, to justify his drive up from Ipoh.

  ‘If it’s not the CTs, sir, what’s the alternative? Why should any local Malay or Chinese want to shoot up a couple of bungalows?’

  ‘Or an Indian, as it could be a disaffected tapper or latex worker,’ Blackwell reminded them. The two policemen began a dialogue, leaving the Army men out of it for the moment.

  ‘There’s no suggestion that any of the workers at Gunong Besar have been sacked or victimized lately,’ replied Blackwell. ‘Though the owner certainly isn’t loved by one and all up there, I’ll admit.’

  ‘No possibility of any Europeans having it in for him, is there, sir?’

  The superintendent smiled rather wryly. ‘There might be a few who’d like to take a swing at Jimmy Robertson, but I doubt they would want to shoot him!’

  Colonel Flynn’s laugh was more like a bark.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Steven! But spraying two bungalows and the workers’ lines with bullets is hardly an effective way of going about an assassination!’

  ‘What about these bullets, sir?’ asked the humourless SIB man, who had a craggy face with a lantern jaw. ‘Have they been identified? And what about the cartridge cases?’

  They looked at the local police chief for information.

  ‘We’ve got them all, they were all standard three-oh-three to fit either Lee-Enfields or Brens, but I don’t see what they can tell us, with no chance of getting any weapon to test. I’ve sent some of them, together with bullets that my inspector dug out of the woodwork, down to the Government Chemist’s place in Petaling Jaya, just in case.’

  This was the nearest they had to a forensic laboratory, in the suburbs of Kuala Lumpur.

  ‘Maybe the Ordnance Corps boffins could tell us when they were manufactured or issued,’ suggested the Intelligence Corps officer.

  ‘They’d probably have to send them back to the UK for that, but it’s worth trying,’ said the sergeant. ‘Trouble is, there’s so much of that stuff knocking around. The CTs have stolen some and a lot is still left over from when they were fighting the Japs.’

  ‘These were all single shots, according to the witnesses,’ continued Blackwell. ‘So it’s unlikely they were fired from a Bren. Someone had to keep pulling a trigger and working a bolt, which seems a bit odd, with about fifteen shots fired.’

  ‘That’s if it was one person, sir,’ observed the sergeant, cussedly. ‘It could have been twenty persons firing one shot each – though that’s bloody unlikely, I know.’

  The discussion went on for some time and the eventual conclusion was what the colonel wanted, which was to avoid a major hunt through the many square miles of hills beyond the rubber estates on the Kampong Kerbau road. When they eventually broke up, the SIB man drove his own vehicle over to the police station to collect a couple of the empty shells that Inspector Tan had retrieved, to send to the Army ammunition experts. After he had gone, the superintendent decided to take a trip up to Gunong Besar to reassure the Robertsons about the increased patrols on the road.

  As he sat in the Land Rover’s passenger seat for the fifteen-minute drive, he absently watched the clean, straight lines of the rubber trees passing by and like so many expatriates and military, wondered what it was like back home now, just before Christmas. He came from Derbyshire and nothing could be more unlike the winter-cold heathland and crags of the Peak District than this steamy, lush land of padi, rubber and jungle-covered mountains. His wife had gone home in October, on a six-month visit to be with their eldest daughter, who was having her first baby in the New Year. Steven Blackwell had been in Malaya since the end of the war, taking the chance of promotion from a sergeant in the Manchester force to Inspector in Malaya, helping to re-establish the police after the Japanese occupation. Now forty-five, his ability and dedication had pushed him up to Superintendent and if he could stay alive for another five years, he would be eligible for a good pension and the chance to start another career back home. Wryly, he thought that though he had been exempt from military service during the war, he was now as much soldier as policeman, a large part of his duties being anti-terrorist, especially this liaison with the military.

  As the heavy tyres whined on the hard-packed earth of the track, he wondered what the locals thought of their country being turned into a battlefield for year upon long year, for ideological reasons. Maybe they would have been just as contented – or discontented – under the Communist Party of Malaya as under the imperialist British? He doubted that, as though the Malays were generally a placid people, there was little love lost between them and the Chinese, who held the commercial power in the country. There had already been bad riots and plans for independence were well advanced. Blackwell stole a look sideways at his driver, a smooth-faced, amiable Malay and suspected that he was not too bothered about who ruled in Kuala Lumpur. He had regular pay, his family was housed in two rooms in the police compound, he had a nice uniform and he could drive around all day – the acme of ambition for many Malays being a job as a syce, a chauffeur.

  Steven sighed, maybe all the Europeans should just bugger off home and leave the natives to get on with it – what business was it of ours, anyway? Another disastrous war had not long finished in Korea, but there was little sign of Chin Peng giving up here, though he was slowly being forced back by measures introduced by the stern genius of General Sir Gerald Templer, who had recently returned to Britain to become Chief of the Imperial General Staff.

  Blackwell threw off his attack of introspection as they were coming through the cutting on the last lap before Gunong Besar. These moods must be from living alone since Margaret went home, he thought irritably. As they came in sight of the knoll on the right, his driver pulled ov
er to let a Ferret armoured car pass them in the opposite direction, one of the frequent patrols that the Army had promised. With a wave to the driver just visible behind his protective flap, his driver turned up the slope and climbed to the flat area in front of the larger bungalow. As he climbed out, he could see Diane come to the rail of the verandah above, attracted by the sound of their vehicle.

  He touched the peak of his cap in greeting. ‘Hello there! Is James about?’

  The blonde waved a glass and Steven realized that he had rarely seen her without a drink in her hand.

  ‘He’s around somewhere. Come up and have a stinger.’

  Though he rarely took a drink in the daytime, it was approaching lunchtime, so he climbed the steps and accepted a small gin and tonic, which Siva brought, along with another larger one for the ‘Mem’. She was looking as desirable as usual in a slim green linen dress and the police officer had no difficulty in appreciating why she caused so much man-trouble in the area.

  ‘Siva will go out and look for his lordship,’ she said with scarcely veiled sarcasm. ‘He’s probably down in the sheds with Douglas, doing whatever they do with that stuff.’

  Her dismissive description covered what Steve knew to be a complex process that needed large open sheds for coagulating the raw latex with formic acid, then rolling it into sheets before drying in the smoke sheds, ready for export. However snooty she might be about it, it kept her if not in actual luxury, at least in new dresses, shoes and gin.

  ‘Did you see the new patrol go by just now?’ he said encouragingly. ‘They’re using an armoured car now, as well as the usual Land Rovers.’

  ‘Great! I wish they’d park one right outside. What happens in the hours between patrols? We could be shot dead five minutes after they’ve passed!’

  The superintendent sipped at his gin, which was still stronger than he wanted at this time of day. ‘I don’t think you need worry too much, Diane. I’ve just come from a meeting in Brigade with Army Intelligence and the SIB. We’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t any organized CT gang. The best money is on it being someone with a grudge against the estate. That’s why I’ve come to have a word with James.’

  ‘There’s quite a few people with a grudge against my dear husband, some not very far from here. In fact, I’m one of them, but I didn’t shoot the swine, much as I might like to sometimes.’

  Blackwell couldn’t think of a suitable response to this, but thankfully he was spared the task, as the crunch of tyres outside heralded James’s arrival in the mud-encrusted Series One Land Rover that he used around the estate.

  ‘Staying for lunch, old chap?’ he brayed as he swaggered into the lounge, his big body immediately dominating the room.

  ‘Sorry, have to get back. I just came up to tell you that we’ve markedly strengthened the patrols up and down the road, as I was just telling Diane.’

  He related the gist of the meeting they had at Brigade that morning and emphasized the theory that the shooting may have been from a single disgruntled person.

  ‘I asked you before, but can you think of anyone who might have a serious grudge against you or Douglas Mackay?’

  The heavily handsome planter ran a hand through his thick wavy hair and pursed his lips as he gave the question some serious thought.

  ‘Every employer has a natural turnover of workers. Some get fired, if they’re no bloody good – either lazy or thieving or stirring up trouble with the others. But that’s been going on for years, no more at Gunong Besar than any other estate. In fact, I know that Les Arnold had an actual punch-up with one of his truck drivers a few months back.’

  ‘I know, we arrested the fellow – he got a couple of months in Taiping jail for assault,’ replied Steven. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who could have done this?’

  The estate owner shook his head impatiently. ‘No! And I still think you’re wrong. The bandits had a go at this place six months ago and that was genuine enough, because you even shot one and he turned out to be a CT. So why the hell should this be any different?’

  Nothing would shift James from his conviction and the policeman felt that the planter was keen to maintain his status as valiant hero against the communist hordes. After some more inconsequential chat, Blackwell took his leave. As the police vehicle drove down the drive, Diane watched from the verandah, chewing her lip as she saw the Land Rover turn into the road and vanish towards Tanah Timah.

  That night, in the twilight before dinner, Peter Bright sat morosely in his room in the Mess, drinking a small whisky from his toothglass. He was no secret alcoholic, but kept a bottle of Black Label in his cupboard for the occasions when he preferred his own company to that of the anteroom across the way. Tonight he was in one of his antisocial moods and slumped in his unlovely easy chair after writing his monthly duty letter to his father, a family doctor in Sussex. His mother had died some years ago and he faithfully kept in touch with the old man, though tonight his letter was not up to his usual cheerful standard.

  With the whisky getting warm in his hand, he glowered at the wall of the spartan room, his eyes fixed on a garish calendar supplied by the Chinese garage that serviced his MG, though the image of the simpering girl in a cheongsam failed to reach his brain. He was thinking of Diane Robertson and of all the unspeakable things he would like to do to that bastard James to get him out of her life.

  As he had done at intervals for the past couple of months, he fantasized about ways of disposing of the husband, from poison to running him down with his car. He had fallen for the blonde very heavily indeed and though their flirting had progressed to energetic consummation, Diane had so far refused to consider a divorce. In fact, she seemed to have cooled off appreciably these past few weeks and the little red devil of jealousy that sat on his shoulder kept whispering that she had found someone else – possibly in the plural.

  Peter threw down the rest of the spirit and unusually for him, got up to pour another. As he walked to the wall cupboard, few of his patients would have recognized their senior surgeon. Usually his major’s uniform was immaculate, with razor-edged creases down the sleeves and legs of his smartly tailored ‘jungle greens’. Tonight, after his shower at the end of the block, he had wrapped a cotton sarong around his waist, a red and white chequered tube that looked like a kitchen tablecloth. With bare chest and feet, he looked like some desert-island castaway, but the waved blond hair and the classical features made him look more like a Hollywood Tarzan than Robinson Crusoe.

  He took his drink over to the desk and sat on a hard chair to drum his fingers restlessly on his writing pad. In two months’ time, his three-year tour in the Far East would be over and he had been promised a posting to the Royal Army Medical College at Millbank. After ten years in the army and having endured the first half of this tour in Korea, it was likely that after London, he would be promoted to lieutenant colonel and either given a senior post in the surgical hierarchy or even offered command of a hospital. But two months from now, he would be five thousand miles from Diane and all chance of securing the beautiful and passionate woman for a wife would be lost for ever. He deliberately thrust away any niggling doubt that she might no longer want him for a husband and concentrated on what action he could take.

  Throwing down the last of the scotch, he made his decision.

  Something drastic must be done or he might regret it for the rest of his life.

  As the surgeon was mentally beating his bare breast and cudgelling his brains in the Officers’ Mess, his surgical teammate, anaesthetist David Meredith, was sitting in the stifling heat of a cinema in the garrison compound across the fence from the hospital. He was in the inflatable auditorium of the AKC – Army Kinematographic Corporation – which looked like the top half of a silver barrage balloon tethered to the ground.

  With no air conditioning, the fug from a hundred sweating bodies, most of them smoking their free-issue ciggies, was almost unbearable, but his discomfort was balanced by the fact that he was holding hands
with Lena Franklin in the near darkness. The QA sister had wanted to come to see this particular film, rather than go down to Ipoh where there was one air-conditioned picture house. The attractions of Humphrey Bogart in Beat the Devil outweighed the near-asphyxia of the AKC and the dark-haired Lena was gazing with rapt attention at the screen where ‘Bogie’ was romantically chatting up Gina Lollobrigida, to whom Lena bore more than a passing resemblance. In fact, her absorption in the film worsened David’s gnawing concerns about her feelings towards him, as although his moist palm was enfolding her fingers, she made no effort to respond, not even an occasional squeeze. The gasman was almost oblivious of the flickering screen and of the scratchy soundtrack that could just be heard above the chugging of the air-pump that kept the bulbous structure inflated. His mind was on Lena’s fading interest in him, at a time when he was becoming so infatuated with her that he had been getting ready to pop the big-M question to her. A month ago, they had managed a weekend away at a beach hotel in Penang and two nights of passion had convinced him that come hell or high water, she must be his soulmate for the rest of his life. Then the rot seemed to set in and though she was still willing to go out with him now and then, he felt that something had changed. Her eyes roved elsewhere when they were together and his hyper-acute senses, inflamed by jealousy and injured pride, told him that Jimmy-bloody-Robertson was behind it. Ten days ago, he had been desperate enough to follow her in his car, when he saw her setting off in a taxi from the Sisters’ Mess. She had been dropped at the further end of Tanah Timah’s main street where she made a show of inspecting rolls of silk in one of the Chinese fabric shops. Within minutes, an armoured Buick had rolled up and whisked her off in the direction of Ipoh.

  Now he sat in the gloom with her hand in his and a leaden feeling in his chest, as he felt her interest in him melting like snow in the sun. Until that bastard from Gunong Besar had decided to become predatory, life had been wonderful – now it was ashes in his mouth. As he felt the unfamiliar burn of hatred glowing inside him, he knew he must think of some way to sabotage this passing infatuation with that arrogant sod, even if it meant some really drastic action.