Dead in the Dog

by Bernard Knight

  The police officer shook his head.

  ‘I’m sure this awful thing isn’t down to them. It’s not their style to pick off one man like that.’

  The manager frowned his disagreement. ‘What about the assassination of Sir Henry Gurney? He was ambushed and killed on the road at Fraser’s Hill a couple of years ago?’

  ‘With all due respect to James, he wasn’t the British High Commissioner,’ responded Steven. ‘In fact, last night’s tragedy makes me even more confident that the shoot-up here last week wasn’t a terrorist attack. I’m sure the two things are linked in some way.’

  Mackay continued to look doubtful, but said nothing. He was always a man of few words, thought Blackwell. They talked for a few more minutes, Diane remaining adamant that she was staying put at Gunong Besar. She had a phone call booked to James’s brother, an auctioneer in Norwich and expected the international operator to get back to her any time now.

  ‘There’s no way any of the family can get out here for the funeral,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘His father’s dead, my mother-in-law’s got bad arthritis and his brother George will never get a flight in time, even if he wanted to come.’

  There was an unspoken understanding between them that in the Malayan climate, burial was necessary within a very few days. Civilian air travel to the Far East was not easy and the propeller-driven planes of BOAC took several days to get to Singapore, even if a vacant seat could be found at such short notice. Further discussion established that the lawyer who handled the estate and presumably also James Robertson’s personal affairs, was the same solicitor in Ipoh who acted as part-time coroner.

  ‘That’ll make it easier when it comes to releasing the body for the funeral and in sorting out the will,’ observed Blackwell, emboldened by Diane’s resilience into being direct about these practical matters. ‘I’m told this padre chap is back tomorrow. Alf Morris has left him a message to contact you as soon as possible.’

  ‘He’s a good man, I know he’ll do all he can to make the arrangements go smoothly,’ added Mackay in his soft Scots accent. A regular churchgoer, the manager was familiar with the local religious figures.

  Steven picked up his hat and stick and moved towards the verandah.

  ‘I’ll be up to check again tomorrow. Diane, you’ve got my number if you need anything.’ He turned to the estate manager. ‘Could I have a quick word outside, Douglas?’

  At the bottom of the outside steps, they stood between two tropical lilies, their large red blooms standing shoulder-high between spiky leaves. Somewhere nearby, a monkey yelled shrilly in a tree and the ever-present twitter of cicadas formed a background to their conversation. Steven put on his uniform cap to keep the sun from his ruddy scalp.

  ‘I know my inspector has already taken a statement from you, Doug, but I like to get things straight from the horse’s mouth. You weren’t at The Dog last night, I gather?’

  Mackay shook his head, his sallow features devoid of expression.

  ‘No, I’m not much of a one for dancing, I only go for Rosa’s benefit now and then. She’s younger and deserves a bit of life occasionally. It’s a lonely place for a wife up here – and I’m afraid she and Diane don’t get on all that well.’

  Steven avoided any pursuit of that topic. He knew that Douglas was almost a teetotaller, apart from the odd beer. Keen on classical music, he was a devout man, going every Sunday morning to the garrison chapel, though he was really a Presbyterian, rather than a ‘C of E’ man.

  ‘So you were at home all evening?

  ‘Yes, I did the usual last rounds of the sheds and tapper’s lines about six thirty, before it got dark. James was away, gone to Taiping, so he said.’

  Steven noted the slight sarcasm in the manager’s voice.

  ‘Then I went in and had a meal. We listened to the radio for a bit, then Rosa said she was tired and went to bed about ten, I suppose.’

  ‘Both of you?

  ‘No, I did some paperwork and made up the servant’s pay packets for this morning. Then I listened to records for a bit and went to bed about eleven, I suppose. Rosa was fast asleep and I’d only just nodded off when you and half the British army descended on us.’

  Blackwell nodded, he’d had this already from Tan.

  ‘What guns d’you have up here, Douglas?’

  The manager stared at him. ‘Guns? Well, we’ve accumulated a few since the troubles began. There were a couple here when I came and we’ve added some since. Last week was the fourth attack we’ve had over the years, so we needed them.’

  ‘What exactly have you got?’ persisted Steven.

  Mackay steepled his hands to his chin as if in prayer.

  ‘Both James and I each have a thirty-eight revolver and a Lee-Enfield rifle. Then there are three twelve-bore shotguns about the place, though they’re mainly for rats and other vermin.’

  ‘Where are they all kept?

  ‘The pistols and rifles are locked away with their ammunition in gun cupboards in each of the bungalows. I’m afraid we’re more relaxed with the shotguns, they’re usually stuck in a corner somewhere, though we keep the cartridges in the estate office across the road.’

  ‘Have any of the house servants or estate workers got weapons?’

  Douglas looked shocked. ‘I certainly hope not! You know better than me that it’s a hanging offence under the Emergency laws. Though I’ll admit that occasionally one of the serangs will use a twelve-bore to have a go at the rats that infest the tapper’s lines.’

  Blackwell’s experience at other places told him that illicit firearms were not all that uncommon, but he made no comment.

  ‘Eventually, we may have to test fire all rifled weapons held by estates around TT, just to eliminate them. That’s after we get the ballistics reports on the bullets I’ve sent down to KL.’

  Mackay looked dubious. ‘Sure, but it’ll be a waste of time checking ours. James and I had them with us when we turned out to deal with the swine who shot us up the other day. And poor old James didn’t shoot himself.’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Just routine, Douglas. With all the arms held by the garrison, I agree it seems a bit futile just testing the few outside. Yet it looks as if James was hit just down the road, so what with last week’s attack here, we have to eliminate the local weapons.’

  The manager’s sparse eyebrows rose. ‘You know where it happened then?’

  ‘I didn’t mention it in front of Diane, not until we’re sure, but we found what looks like blood just where the road goes through that cutting.’

  The manager nodded slowly, his lean face looking even more solemn than usual. ‘Just the place for an ambush, Steven. I’m still not convinced by your argument that this wasn’t the work of the CTs.’

  Inspector Tan came across from the curing sheds at that moment and after muted farewells, they climbed into the Land Rover and were driven off, leaving a pensive Douglas Mackay staring after them.

  Around five o’clock, a meeting was held in the Police Circle building in Tanah Timah, mainly to discuss the significance of the post-mortem findings. Alfred Morris was sent by the CO to represent the hospital’s interests, as the victim had died there and the pathologist was one of its officers. The Admin Officer drove Tom Howden down to the town in his Hillman, both wearing civilian clothes, as was usual on a Saturday. Their identity cards got them past the constable on the gate and, inside the high-walled compound, Tom saw that it was largely a vehicle park and workshops, with a police barracks at the rear.

  The headquarters building itself was typical colonial government – two-storey white cement under a red-tiled roof, with wide balconies running around the upper floor. They went up the steps to the front entrance and found themselves in a large hall with busy policemen behind a long counter. A Malay desk sergeant escorted them up an imposing central staircase and out on to the balcony, which had doors at intervals. Tapping at one, he motioned them in and they entered a bare, high room with the inevitable fan turnin
g below the ceiling. There was a large desk, a table, some hard chairs and walls covered with maps. Steven Blackwell rose from the table, where he had been talking with Major Enderby, Sergeant Markham and Inspector Tan.

  ‘Come and sit down with us, chaps. We were only gossiping until you arrived.’

  They sat down and an Indian servant came in with a tray of opened bottles of cold orange squash and grapefruit soda, each with a straw stuck in the neck. When they had settled down again, the superintendent began the meeting.

  ‘Firstly, I must thank you, Captain Howden, for so readily agreeing to do the post-mortem. If you hadn’t been here, there’d have been at least a few days’ delay – and in this climate, that doesn’t help to preserve any evidence.’

  Tom nodded his appreciation, though privately he knew he had had no choice, with the CO breathing down his neck.

  ‘I’ve written out a rough draft of the report,’ he said, holding up a thin cardboard folder. ‘Only handwritten at the moment, I’ll get it typed up when the office opens on Monday.’

  The major from the provost marshal’s department stopped sucking on his straw for a moment. ‘Fine! We were there, so we know the gist of it. But can you give us your interpretation of the findings?’

  The pathologist shifted his bottom uneasily on the hard seat.

  ‘Look, I’m a pretty junior bloke, you know. I’ve had almost no experience of this kind of thing, all I know is from the books.’

  ‘Just do your best, Tom,’ said Steven kindly. ‘I’m sure you know a hell of lot more about it than us.’

  Opening the file, Howden looked down at the two sheets of lined quarto paper, with the government crest at the top. He had no need to read it, as he already knew every word.

  ‘James Robertson was perfectly healthy, so death was entirely due to a gunshot wound,’ he began. ‘There was a single entrance wound to the left of centre in the front of his chest. The bullet, which you saw was a .303, was still in the back of his chest cavity, so there was no exit wound.’

  Sergeant Markham looked up at this. ‘Thinking about it, sir, isn’t that a bit unusual for a service rifle? I’ve seen a few in my time and most them went in one side and out the other.’

  Tom nodded his agreement. ‘From what the books say, it’s very common for a high-velocity projectile from a military weapon to make a through-and-through wound. But here the bullet happened to hit the spine at the back of the chest. It made a hell of a mess of it, completely disintegrated one of the vertebrae, but the thick, hard bone must have stopped the bullet.’

  A sudden thought occurred to him and by the look on Blackwell’s face, it must also have dawned simultaneously on him. The pathologist beat him to it in stating the obvious.

  ‘Hang on a minute, there’s something wrong here! Though he may not have died instantaneously, he must have been totally disabled and almost certainly unconscious from the moment the bullet hit him!’

  The three other Army men looked mystified, but Inspector Tan was quickest off the mark.

  ‘So how could he drive his car to the Sussex Club from wherever he was shot?’

  ‘Which now seems to be a few miles up the road towards Gunong Besar,’ added Steven Blackwell.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ demanded Enderby, leaning forward. Tom was confident about this aspect, however little he knew about firearm wounds.

  ‘His spinal column was smashed through. There’s a condition called “spinal shock” which even apart from his other internal injuries, would almost certainly make him lose consciousness instantly. And apart from that, he wouldn’t be able to sit up to drive, with a broken back – though that would soon be impossible anyway, with massive bleeding inside his chest from the big arteries and veins ripped in the root of his lung.’

  Tom looked a little crestfallen after giving this lecture. ‘I should have thought of this earlier, but I had just accepted the business about Daniel finding him in the driving seat of his car.’

  There was a tense silence for a moment.

  ‘This puts a whole new complexion on the matter,’ snapped Blackwell. ‘There are only two explanations. One is that he was shot in the car park of The Dog – which is patently impossible, as no one there heard a shot. And you can’t shoot a man in the front of the chest when he’s sitting in the driving seat, unless there’s bullet hole in the windscreen, especially in a car with armoured side windows!’

  ‘And the other explanation?’ asked Alf Morris, though he guessed the answer.

  ‘Is that someone drove the car there from the murder scene, then buggered off before Daniel appeared!’ completed the major from the garrison. After another brief silence while they digested this, Blackwell spoke again.

  ‘Whatever else this tells us, it means one thing is definite – this was no terrorist shooting! Killing one man with one shot is damned unusual for them anyway, but it’s ludicrous to imagine a CT driving his victim away!’

  There were murmurs of agreement, then the Chinese police inspector voiced the next question.

  ‘Why would the killer do such a thing? It must have greatly increased the risk of him being seen.’

  Steven Blackwell shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. If we’re right in thinking that the blood found near that cutting was where the shooting occurred, he might have wanted to shift both the car and the body well away, to delay discovery.’

  ‘Because of the increased patrols up and down that road, you mean?’ asked Alf Morris.

  ‘Exactly! If he could have quietly left the car in a corner of the car park, then it could have been some time before the body was found – perhaps not until the next morning.’

  ‘But he goes and bashes into the back of a truck and brings poor old Daniel out to investigate,’ said Enderby.

  ‘Bloody lucky he missed seeing the killer, or he might have collected a bullet as well!’ added the SIB man.

  ‘Where’s the car now, Tan?’ asked the senior policeman.

  ‘In the garage down below, sir,’ replied the Chinese inspector.

  ‘Better check the wheel for fingerprints, though both Daniel and presumably a police officer have driven it since the shooting.’ Blackwell drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I wish we had proper forensic laboratory facilities up here. They can do all sorts of things back home now, looking at the soil from shoes and God knows what.’

  ‘I doubt if that would help much here – everyone has red laterite on their boots. I don’t think any laboratory is going to crack this one for you, Steven,’ said Enderby.

  ‘Talking of that, Captain Howden, can you do tests for blood in your lab over at BMH?’ asked Blackwell.

  Tom looked dubious. ‘We can easily do a presumptive test for blood, though many other things give a false positive. I can certainly tell you if it’s not blood!’

  ‘Any hope of confirming it’s human and possibly what group?’ persisted the superintendent.

  The pathologist shook his head. ‘I honestly don’t know. If it’s very fresh, maybe we could get a group out of it, but it’s way out of my line, dealing with stains rather than fresh blood.’

  ‘Well, give it a go, there’s a good chap. Tan can give you some of those apparently bloodstained leaves we picked up on the Gunong Besar road. We’ll get a report from KL eventually, but I thought it might help to get a quick answer.’

  ‘Going back to this post-mortem, Captain Howden,’ grunted Major Enderby. ‘Any idea of the range of the shot?’

  ‘It certainly wasn’t close, as I said this morning,’ replied Tom. ‘No scorching, smoke staining or powder tattooing on the clothing or skin. The books say that the distance over which that occurs is very variable according to the type of weapon and ammunition, but in any case, wouldn’t happen if the muzzle was more than a few feet away.’

  ‘So not a very close discharge – but it could be ten feet or half a mile!’ said the major. ‘Any idea about the direction?’

  Tom rubbed his chin and looked at his papers while he made time t
o consider his answer.

  ‘Anatomically, it was a bit downwards through the chest and slightly from left front to right middle, as it smashed the spine. But of course, it all depends how the deceased was standing or sitting when he was hit.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’ asked Steven.

  ‘Well, the books warn against assuming that a downward path means that the shooter was firing from above. If the victim was leaning forward a bit, then even a horizontal shot would incline downwards through the body?’

  There was a silence as they digested this. Then the inscrutable Inspector Tan spoke, again picking up something that the others had so far missed.

  ‘Superintendent, you said just now that a driver couldn’t be shot straight through the front of the chest while sitting at the wheel, especially in an armoured car like that Buick. So that must surely mean he was shot when he was out of the vehicle?’

  They all thought about this, but it was Blackwell who responded first.

  ‘Of course! And it had to be like that, otherwise how could that blood have got on to the grass at the side of the road!’

  ‘If it is blood,’ muttered Enderby, with typical lawyer’s caution.

  ‘Let’s assume it is for the moment,’ said Steven, rather impatiently. ‘So why the hell would a man get out of his car on a lonely road late at night, not many days after a presumed terrorist attack less than a mile away?’

  ‘Because he recognized someone he knew,’ snapped the SIB sergeant.

  ‘Someone whose own car had broken down – or who pretended it had,’ offered Enderby.

  ‘But then the killer would have had to leave his vehicle at the scene, if he drove the body down to the club in Robertson’s car,’ objected the implacably logical Chinese inspector.

  Steven Blackwell raised a hand. ‘Let’s not get too far in front of ourselves, chaps. At this stage, I don’t think that matters all that much. We’ve learned something very important from Dr Howden, that James Robertson must have been driven to The Dog by someone, presumably the assailant.’