‘This means that we will have to concentrate on all weapons that could possibly be involved, both in civilian and military use. A hell of a job, I’m afraid.’
He looked at the two majors. ‘This is going to be bloody difficult! It’s going to be a nightmare testing even the relatively few guns in civilian hands, amongst the planters, let alone the military weapons. The chaps on the estates are not going to take kindly to being deprived of their shooters, even for a short time.’
‘Will they all have to be sent down to the forensic lab in KL?’ demanded Enderby. ‘I can’t see the Brigadier suspending his war for you, even for a murder!’
‘That’s out of the question, of course,’ said Steven. ‘We’ll have to be very specific about what guns we test, to limit the numbers.’
Sergeant Markham chipped in again. ‘Getting a test bullet to check on the rifling marks can be done on the spot. Firing into a tank of water or a big box full of wadding is sufficient. That stops a bullet without damaging it.’
‘Let’s wait until we get a report back on those shell cases from the attack on Gunong Besar, before we start on the rifles,’ advised Blackwell. ‘I’m convinced now that that episode is linked somehow to this killing.’
He turned to his inspector. ‘Tan, you said your constables found no sign of a spent cartridge along the road near that cutting, but we need to find the one that carried the bullet that killed poor James. Send another team up there tomorrow and widen the search, OK?’
After a few more minutes of discussion, which got them nowhere in particular, the meeting broke up and Morris drove Tom back to the hospital. Just before the garrison entrance, a red-capped military policeman held them up as a procession of vehicles streamed out of the gate. Three Ferret armoured cars, four Saracen troop carriers, half a dozen three-tonner Bedford TCVs, two Land Rover ambulances and a radio van lumbered off down the road towards the town.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the pathologist, suddenly aware that he actually was on Active Service and that one man with a bullet in his chest was pretty small beer compared to the potential mayhem in which this convoy might soon become involved.
‘Looks as if the Brigadier has decided on disinfecting some part of the jungle,’ replied Alf, laconically. ‘They’re probably going down the main road to the turn-off for Grik and then going up north for a punch-up.’
Dusk was approaching as they entered BMH and as they parked behind the Mess, a glorious sunset filled the western sky. Streaks of salmon pink and scarlet vied with the blue vault above, masses of cumulus on the horizon being tinged with brilliant gold. Though Tom had seen this almost every evening, he was still spellbound by the sight, so different from the grey haze that hung over Tyneside when he had left a couple of weeks earlier. His feelings of unreality hit him with full force, but he managed to shake them off and follow Alf into the anteroom for a reviving Tiger before dinner.
With his wife away, Steven Blackwell found that one day was much the same as another and that weekends merged into a continuous pattern of work. So though the next day was a Sunday, he found no problem in seamlessly pursuing the enquiry by interviewing the potential witnesses. In fact, it was easier, as most of them were off duty on the Sabbath.
He had an early breakfast in his quarters, which was a bungalow at the back of the police station. It was within the safety of the encircling wall and high fence, but far enough away from the constable’s barracks to be relatively private. With Margaret away, he was looked after by an Indian houseboy and their Chinese cook who came in each day from the town.
He spent a couple of hours in his office dealing with other matters and conferring with the duty inspector about the day’s patrol schedules, then called his driver and was taken in the Land Rover up to Gunong Besar. Here he met his first obstacle, as the Robertson’s servant gravely informed him that his mistress had gone to church. At first, Steven wondered if James’s death had driven her to a return of faith, as to his knowledge, Diane had never before set foot in the garrison chapel. Siva soon enlightened him, explaining that she had gone to see the padre to make arrangements for the funeral.
‘The priest telephoned, sir. He said his Sunday morning duties made it difficult for him to come up here until after lunch, so Missus said she would drive down to see him.’
Though Tan had already grilled all the servants, the superintendent took the opportunity to question Siva, who was an unusually tall man for a Tamil. Politely, but firmly, the servant said that he had heard and seen absolutely nothing out of the ordinary on the night of the murder.
No, there had been no strangers hanging about the estate lately, the only visitor in the past few days being Mr Arnold from Batu Merah, the next plantation a couple of miles further up the road.
Blackwell had no luck at the other bungalow, as the Mackays were also at church, though he half expected this. Douglas was known to be a keen Christian and although his wife was a Roman Catholic, she went with him to the Anglican services on Sunday morning. Steven knew that she also went down each Thursday evening, when a Catholic padre from Sungei Siput came up to say Mass for the relatively few of that faith in the garrison.
Frustrated, he decided to avoid totally wasting the journey, by going up to Batu Merah to talk to Les Arnold, as he knew that there was no chance of the laid-back Australian being in church. Indeed when he arrived at the next estate, he found the owner lounging comfortably in a striped deckchair outside his bungalow, which was very similar to the ones down the road. He had a bottle of beer in one hand, a copy of yesterday’s Straits Times in the other and looked very much at ease.
Arnold lived alone, the gossip saying that he had been divorced before coming up from Darwin soon after Malaya was liberated from the Japanese. Blackwell knew that he had been in the Australian army during the war and had seen service in New Guinea. He had made a real success of running Batu Merah, which was said to be one of the most profitable estates in the valley — probably aided by Arnold’s reputation for ruthless business dealings and his strict control over his workers.
Les hoisted his lanky frame from the chair and as the policeman climbed from his vehicle, yelled at his houseboy to bring out another chair and a beer from the house. Though it was not yet eleven o’clock, Steven Blackwell accepted a sit down and a pewter tankard of Anchor, as the morning seemed even more oppressively hot than usual. Unlike the Robertsons’ place, this bungalow sat in a dip, the rubber closely around it on all sides. Perhaps coming from the tropical Northern Territories, Les Arnold was more used to the heat, but Steven’s bald head was as red as a ripe tomato and his uniform shirt was blackened with sweat. Though he had been out from ‘home’ for years, he knew he would never get used to the oppressive climate and already ideas of early retirement were beginning to germinate in his mind, especially since his wife had gone back for a six-month stay. He took a long draught of the cold beer and sank back thankfully in the chair, then forced himself to attend to the business in hand.
‘Look, Les, this is difficult for all of us, especially me. I’ve got a job to do and I’ll get no thanks for having to pry into people’s affairs — especially as most of them are friends and acquaintances.’
The long face of the planter split in a grin.
‘Don’t worry yourself, mate. We all understand — and those who don’t are just thick! Fire away, I’ve got a clear conscience.’
‘Right, then. I’ve got to ask everyone about their movements on Friday night. I guess you were in The Dog?’
‘Yep, propping up the bar most of the evening. Got there about eight, had a bit of tucker at the buffet at half ten, drove back here around eleven thirty or thereabouts.’