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 turning 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!’