After washing down the mortuary, Tom doing his full share in unconscious defiance of the Officer-Other Ranks convention, the two laboratory men left James Robertson in peace under a whirling fan and a shroud of melting ice.
SEVEN
‘Bit of a bloody cheek, I thought! Questioning us as if we were damned suspects.’
Peter Bright sounded indignant as he signed the chit for a beer that Number One held out for him. It was just before lunch in the Officers’ Mess and most of the resident medical staff were sitting in the anteroom with their pre-prandial Tigers or Anchors. Drinking spirits in the middle of the day was not banned, but was felt to be ‘a bit off’ as most members had clinical duties during the afternoon. The old pre-war days of working only in the morning had long gone and even though this was a Saturday, the habit lingered.
The chief surgeon’s complaint was echoed by David Meredith, the dark, moody Welshman. His deep-set eyes were overhung by thick eyebrows, which matched the mop of curly black hair that came too low on his neck to suit Alf Morris’s military mind.
‘Why should Steve Blackwell come to me first, that’s what I’d like to know? At least you were down at Casualty last night, Peter — but I never went near the damn place. First thing I knew about Jimmy Robertson was at breakfast.’ His annoyance brought out a slight Welsh accent, but Tom knew from Alec Watson’s gossip that Meredith had gone to school and university in the Midlands.
Before attending the post-mortem, the police superintendent had made a few calls and with Inspector Tan taking notes, had taken statements from several people about their movements last night, including the surgeon and anaesthetist.
As usual, Alf Morris set out to smooth the ruffled feathers.
‘We’ll all be asked the same things, eventually, so don’t fret that you’re being picked on,’ he said soothingly. ‘He’ll be doing the same at the Sisters’ Mess and amongst the members at The Dog.’
No one was tactless enough to mention that Peter Bright was an obvious early target for the police, given that Robertson’s death had now cleared the way for his pursuit of Diane, if she was still interested.
‘Steve Blackwell wanted to know if I had a gun!’ complained Meredith. ‘He knows bloody well that I don’t. What in God’s name would an anaesthetist want with a gun out here?’
‘The same with me! Damn silly questions these coppers ask,’ added the senior surgeon.
Alf Morris persisted with his placatory role. ‘I suppose it’s what all policemen call “routine”,’ he said. ‘If they don’t ask everybody everything, they can get a rollicking later on.’
David Meredith shook his head sadly. ‘Steve Blackwell’s the nicest chap you could wish for when he’s in The Dog — but he’s a different person in uniform. It’s like Jekyll and Hyde!’
‘Must be difficult for police in a small place like this, having to be “official” with people you know so well socially,’ observed Alec Watson. ‘Conflict of interests and all that.’
‘Yes, it’s difficult for some of us, too — having to hobnob here with you murder suspects!’ brayed Percy Loosemore, stirring things as usual.
Tom Howden sat quietly behind his beer, keeping as low a profile as possible. He also felt in a difficult position, as he was now technically an expert witness in the case of James Robertson and should not divulge anything except to the police and coroner. It soon became obvious that this was a forlorn hope in such an incestuous environment as BMH Tanah Timah.
‘I hear it was a.303 you dug out of Jimmy’s chest,’ stated the brash Loosemore, confirming that the hospital bush telegraph was in excellent working order. Tom immediately suspected Lewis Cropper as the source of the leak, but knew that the lance corporal would plaintively deny it if accused.
Once more, the Administrative Officer tried to come to the rescue.
‘In the circumstances, I don’t think Captain Howden should be asked about details by any of us — the whole affair is sub judice, understand?’
His attempt to save the pathologist any embarrassment was almost immediately doomed to failure. A sudden warning came from Alec, who was sitting facing the open door that had a view of the entrance path.
‘Hell’s bells, here comes the Old Man!’
The rare visit of the colonel to the Mess sent three of the members scurrying through the opposite verandah doors to hide in the toilets at the end of the block, but O’Neill arrived too quickly for the rest to vanish, though it had been known for the CO to find a completely deserted anteroom, with everyone crammed into the bogs.
He stalked in and everyone stumbled hastily to their feet in awkward silence. Dropping his hat amongst the others on the table inside the door, he ignored the assembly and spoke directly to the pathologist.
‘Well, Howden, what did you find?’
Tom looked beseechingly at Alf Morris, but the major evidently decided that capitulation was the better part of valour and gave a tiny nod of his head. The new doctor tried to be as non-committal as he could.
‘Confirmed the obvious, sir. A bullet lodged inside the chest, made a mess of the root of the right lung.’
The colonel stared coldly at him over the steel rims of his glasses.
‘What sort of bullet?’
As the rest of the hospital already seemed to know, Tom decided that its Commanding Officer might as well join them.
‘A three-oh-three, sir, according to the police and the SIB chap.’
‘And the range of discharge?’
‘Hard to say, sir. Certainly not close.’
Desmond O’Neill grunted, then glared around the circle of officers, who still stood awkwardly near their chairs, most wishing they had also made a dash for the toilets.
‘Goes to confirm what I thought. This was a bandit taking a pot-shot at a planter. Enemy action, poor fellow. Ironic he was a civilian.’
The colonel’s staccato style of speech produced a few reluctant murmurs of agreement from his staff, then taking up his usual role of pourer of oil on choppy waters, Alf Morris tried to make the CO more welcome in his own Mess.
‘Are you staying for lunch, sir? Can I get you a drink?’
O’Neill shook his head and stared around disapprovingly.
‘No, thank you. Don’t go along with doctors drinking at lunchtime, slows you down for the afternoon.’
With another of his mercurial changes of mood, he gave a ghastly death’s head grin at them all, then turned on his heel and walked rapidly out of the room, grabbing his cap on the way. A moment later they watched him walking quickly on to the perimeter road with his peculiar springing gait, lifting himself from heel to toe at every step.
Once out of sight, there was a collective sigh of relief in the anteroom, as people sank back into their chairs.
‘What the devil was all that about?’ demanded Percy. ‘He could just as well have phoned you or called you down to his office, Tom.’
Howden shrugged, relieved that he had got off so lightly. ‘Search me, why is everyone so interested in what sort of damned bullet it was?’
This was a question that would be central to the meeting to be held with the police late that afternoon.
It was just as well that terrorist activity had quietened down in previous weeks, as it allowed Steven Blackwell more time to devote to the death of James Robertson. True, there was still plenty of work, but he had three inspectors and half a dozen sergeants to carry on with the other cases, supervising the donkey work of thirty constables working out of Tanah Timah Police Circle. There were the usual run of robberies, thieving being a national tradition in Malaya, as well as a few serious assault cases, mainly among the estate workers. But on this Saturday, the superintendent felt obliged to devote all his time to the only case involving a European.
After leaving the mortuary at BMH, he forsook his lunch to drive with Inspector Tan up the road to Gunong Besar, aware that the first priority was to discover where the shooting had occurred.