‘Just before eleven o’clock, sir. Then she went out and they drove off in her Austin. Mr Robertson left a few minutes later.’
‘They? Who were “they”?’ He seemed stuck in a Sherlock Holmes mode.
The steward gave another embarrassed wriggle. ‘An officer from the garrison, I can’t quite recollect his name,’ he added evasively.
Tom sensed that the night sister was looking at him rather impatiently and pulled himself together.
‘Right, you sit there quietly and have your tea. I’m sure other people will want to talk to you before long. I’d better get on the phone now.’
He backed off and took Lynette’s arm to guide her across the room.
‘Better not let anyone in here, unless we get another casualty. Keep the curtains drawn around the body and don’t let anyone touch him. I’m going over to the guardroom to phone, it’s a bit public in here.’
Leaving Casualty in her capable hands, he strode outside and found the orderly sergeant waiting by the armour-plated Buick, both its front doors wide open.
‘Best leave one of the chaps here, Sarge. Tell them no one must as much as breathe on it until the police come.’
The pharmacist nodded and yelled for the soldier on sentry duty at the gate to come across. Tom passed him in the other direction and went into the hut alongside the red-and-white striped barrier inside the outer gate. Here he found a corporal sitting behind a bare table, a small switchboard on the wall to one side. The soldier jumped up as he came in.
‘You logged the time of that call from the club just now?’
‘Yessir. . twelve-oh-seven, sir.’
The pathologist threw his hat on to the table and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. Of all the bloody nights to be stuck with OMO duty, he thought!
‘Right, I’ve got to make some calls — and quick. I’d better tell the CO first.’
As the corporal swung around to his old-fashioned switchboard, Tom added under his breath, ‘I don’t want to risk a bollocking from old Death’s Head for not telling him first.’
The corporal pulled up a couple of cords and plugged them into the board, then cranked a handle vigorously. Tom waited impatiently, but nothing happened and the soldier wound his bell generator energetically a couple more times, holding one half of a pair of headphones to his ear.
‘No reply from the colonel’s quarters, sir. Shall I try someone else?’
‘Shit! Now what?’ muttered the pathologist. Aloud he said ‘Ring the Officers’ Mess, get whoever answers to call Major Morris and tell him it’s vitally urgent to get down to Casualty. Then ring the guardroom in garrison HQ and tell them that I want to speak to the most senior officer who happens to be on duty, OK?’
He was moving back to the door as he spoke, suddenly feeling like a real army officer, confidently giving orders.
‘I’ll be in the RSM’s office, with the orderly sergeant, so put it through there — and don’t take any messing from the other end, this is pretty desperate!’
He went off at a trot across the car park, heading for the light streaming from the room where Staff-Sergeant Crosby was lodging. The pharmacist met him at the door, waiting anxiously for orders.
‘I’ve sent for the Admin Officer and I’ve got a call going through to garrison,’ snapped Tom. ‘If this is another terrorist shooting, then I expect they’ll want to get troops up to Gunong Besar at the double.’
As he spoke, the phone rang on the RSM’s desk and he pushed past the sergeant to grab it. On the other end was a captain from the First Battalion Royal Australian Regiment, who was that night’s Orderly Officer for the Brigade. In a few words, Tom Howden explained what had happened and with a laconic Aussie acknowledgement, the infantryman rang off, leaving the doctor ticking off his mental list of things to do.
‘Will he tell the police, sir?’ asked Crosby, as a gentle reminder.
‘He didn’t say as much, so we’d better make sure.’ He rattled the receiver-rest of the heavy black instrument and told the guardroom operator to get through to the Police Circle. ‘Get Superintendent Blackwell if you can — if not, the most senior copper.’
As the pair waited for the phone to ring again, there was the sound of a car engine coming fast around the perimeter road and Alf Morris’s Hillman pulled up with a jerk. He was wearing a hastily donned plaid shirt and flannel trousers and from the look of his tousled hair, had just got out of bed.
‘What’s going on? The guardroom made it sound as if Chin Peng was banging on the gate!’
‘Not all that far wrong, Major!’ Tom rapidly explained what had happened. ‘I’ve tried to get the CO, but there’s no answer at his house. I’ve notified Brigade and I’m just waiting for a call from the police.’
As if on cue, the phone rang again and the Staff Sergeant picked it up and held it towards Tom, who shook his head and motioned it towards Alf Morris.
‘I think you should take over now, as senior officer.’
Thankful that he had passed the buck, he left the major talking urgently down the phone and made his way back to Casualty. He wanted to check that James Robertson had not unexpectedly come back to life and to offer any further help to Daniel and the staff — not that the competent Night Sister seemed likely to need any support. All was quiet there and after a quick glance behind the curtain at the still figure lying on the couch, the pathologist turned to the trio sitting around the table on the other side of the room. The QA corporal, a reassuring figure in her no-nonsense blue-grey uniform, was resting her hand solicitously on Daniel’s shoulder as he sat hunched in his chair, shivering slightly in spite of the all-pervading heat. The RAMC orderly, a National Service private straight from sixth form, sat in awkward silence, but hopped to his feet as the officer came across. The QA looked up at Tom, her homely face as calm and efficient as that of her nursing officer.
‘Sister Chambers has gone up to the Mess to tell the Matron, sir. She thought she ought to know what’s going on.’
He nodded and turned to the club manager. ‘Sorry to make you hang about like this, Daniel, but the police will be here very soon and they’ll need to talk to you. Is there anyone you want to phone to tell them where you are — your wife, maybe?’
The rotund steward shook his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but no, I’m not married. I live in club, they know where I am.’
Things began to happen then at an increasing tempo and Tom began to wonder how much of this he’d have to report to the colonel at Morning Prayers. First, Alfred Morris came across and wanted to see the body. Tom had a lurking suspicion that he wanted to make sure that his new Orderly Medical Officer was not having hallucinations or was playing some awful practical joke — but the sight of Robertson’s bloody body soon reassured him. Alf was no stranger to blood and mangled bodies, having served in Field Ambulances in both North Africa and Normandy during the war. The oak leaves on one of his medal ribbons showed that he had been mentioned in dispatches, so a single shooting was unlikely to faze him. He went across and sat with the club steward for a few moments, reassuring him in a low, calm voice. They knew each other well, as Alf had been a club member for more than two years. ‘The police are on their way, Daniel. Mr Blackwell is coming himself, so you’re among friends.’
As he spoke, there were more engine noises outside and when the two officers hurried to the door, they saw a Land Rover and a three-tonner, both with the 21 Brigade insignia, turning in through the main gates, which the sentry had opened for them after hurrying across from where he had been guarding James’s car. The newcomers drove across the front of the hospital, homing in on the lights from the Casualty Department. A tall major from the West Berkshires uncoiled himself from the smaller vehicle, followed by a lieutenant wearing an Airborne beret. Two military police, a red-capped Warrant Officer and a corporal, got down from the Bedford truck and four squaddies hopped out of the back.