Bernard Knight - Dead in the Dog

Of course, Alec knew them all — and probably all their business — and after a while, went off to dance with one, so Tom recklessly asked Lynette if she would like to take the floor. He was an indifferent dancer, but in the confines of the tiny space, now filled with shuffling couples, there was little harm that he could do to her feet. He acquitted himself fairly well and thoroughly enjoyed it.

The ice broken, he danced with a couple of the others and even offered himself to Doris Hawkins, who tactfully declined on the grounds that she had a bunion. At that moment, a gong was hammered by one of the club servants to announce that the buffet was served and everyone began streaming towards the dining room next door. Standing back to let the ladies through first, Tom found Alfred Morris behind him.

‘Fast workers, you Geordies!’ he chaffed. ‘A nice little girl, that Lynette.’

‘I suppose I’ll be the target for gossip tomorrow,’ grinned Tom.

‘Tomorrow? It’ll already have started, lad.’ The Admin Officer suddenly stopped and Tom noticed his head jerk round, then swing back.

‘We’ve got company, son.’ As they shuffled towards the dining room, they were overtaken by a lean figure shepherding a spectacular blonde. The men stood aside to let Diane Robertson through, Desmond O’Neill following closely behind, a fixed grin on his saturnine face.

‘Where the hell did he find her?’ muttered Alec Watson.

‘Maybe that’s why his wife went home in a huff!’ hazarded Tom.

The young Scot glared at him pityingly. ‘Come off it, he’s old enough to be her father. Even the fabulous Diane wouldn’t touch old Death’s Head.’

When they got inside the other room, they saw that their Commanding Officer had ushered the blonde over to her husband, who was vigorously attacking the sandwiches, chicken thighs and curry puffs. James did not seem to be particularly excited at the delivery, giving his dearly beloved a grunt as he handed her an empty plate and serviette.

‘Does the colonel come here a lot?’ Tom asked Alf Morris, who he found alongside him as their turn came to pile their plates with food.

‘Plays bridge quite a bit and uses the pool, but he only started coming to the dance night since his wife went home.’

The pathologist looked across at where their lord and master was picking at his food. Though almost all the other men just wore shirt and tie, O’Neill had a rather old-fashioned cream linen jacket over his, contrasting strongly with the wide red, blue and gold stripes of the Medical Corps tie that hung down from his collar. It reminded Tom of his grandad, who used to wear a similar jacket with a straw hat when he went to play bowls in Gateshead Park.

After they had all eaten, the music began again, but to Tom’s disappointment, the depth of which surprised him, Lynette had been commandeered by a lanky officer from the Gurkhas. The bar was less crowded now, as James had vanished and his audience had dispersed.

Tom got himself another beer and signed his chit, wondering what sort of a hole his bar bill would make in his pay at the end of the month, both here and in the Mess. By the sound of it, pretty soon he would have to scrape together enough for a second-hand car — especially if he was to fully enter into the social life, for which a wide back seat seemed to be essential.

The heat seemed to hit him again, the air being an almost palpable mixture of damp, perfume and curry fumes, so he ambled with his glass out through the open doors on to the terrace above the swimming pool, which was a large concrete-walled tank with a sloping floor.

The tables just outside the lounge were occupied with couples gazing into each other’s eyes, so he walked to the far end, overlooking a badminton court. As the club was built on the slope of a hill, the court was set a dozen feet lower than the terrace. Normally it was lit at night by fluorescent tubes, but on dance nights, it was dark and deserted. At least, no one was playing badminton there, but as he stood quietly with his beer listening to the still-novel sounds of insects chirruping and frogs burping, he could see two shadowy figures and hear their voices. The figures came closer together in the gloom — very close indeed, until he could see only one larger shape in the dim light from the open doors of the lounge.

‘When can you get away, say for two days? I’ve got to go to KL, to see about some machinery. .’

Suddenly feeling guilty at eavesdropping, Tom moved away, back towards the doors, but his guilt somehow evaporated sufficiently for him to sink into a vacant chair just inside and accidentally still be there when Lena Franklin walked in, still spectacular in her slinky blue dress. She gave him a glowing smile as she passed on towards the Ladies’ Room near the entrance. A moment later, James Robertson stalked in and plumped himself down at the bar, no doubt determined to enlarge once again on the story of his escapade the previous night.

The anxious disc jockey came to the end of his rumba and was being importuned by one of the nursing sisters, who was grasping Montmorency by the hand as if saving him from drowning. As they negotiated with the Tamil for a cha-cha, Alec Watson was abandoned by the girl he had been dancing with and he came across to collapse into the chair next to Tom.

‘Too bloody hot for these energetic sports!’ His shirt had arcs of dark sweat beneath each armpit.

‘Was that one of the QAs you were with?’ He had been dancing with a very thin girl, who looked no more than seventeen.

‘No, that was one of the daughters of the Commandant of the MCE.’

The pathologist frowned at yet another set of initials.

‘That’s this mysterious place I’ve got to go to on Monday morning, where I get my blood from, apparently. What the hell is it?’

‘Military Corrective Establishment — the chokey, the hoosegow, the jail!’ explained Alec. ‘The RMO of the West Berkshires has been filling in since your predecessor went home last month, but it’s traditional that the pathologist does the sick parades over there, as that’s where you get your blood donors.’

He explained that the prisoners were only too willing to exchange a pint of their blood for a bottle of Tiger — in fact, they fell over themselves to offer and their donations had to be strictly rationed, for fear of them exsanguinating themselves in return for a few beers. Light dawned upon Tom, as this explained why he hadn’t seen a Blood Bank refrigerator when he walked around his lab for the first time that day.

‘I see, so the blood is kept “on the hoof”, so to speak?’

‘Sure, it’s kept sterile and at body temperature — and it never gets out of date!’

Their haematological discussion faded as they watched Diane Robertson come in from the dining room and join a group of men at the bar, Peter Bright amongst them. She was worth watching, thought Tom, her shoulder-length fair hair contrasting with a low-cut dress of black Chinese brocade. Diane seemed to have got over her terror at the previous night’s shooting and was laughing and flirting with her attentive escorts, one of whom was Les Arnold, though her husband pointedly ignored her.

‘How the devil did she manage to arrive here with O’Neill?’ he asked Watson, who Tom now looked on as the fount of all knowledge.

‘Percy Loosemore said he arrived in the car park just before them. Apparently she turned up in a taxi, as it doesn’t look as if she’s speaking to her husband and her own car has been shot up. The CO arrived at the same time in his Armstrong Siddeley and gallantly shepherded her inside.’

Tom didn’t know that TT had any taxis, but learned later that there were two battered Wolseley 6-80s and a Ford Consul run by a Chinese garage owner behind Main Street.