Bernard Knight - Dead in the Dog

These were the annual Physical Efficiency tests that all Service personnel were supposed to pass, otherwise they could have their pay and allowances docked. Percy Loosemore had told Tom that these were something of a farce, held in the garrison athletic ground, where they had to climb a rope, jump over some boxes and perform a few other innocuous feats of strength and ability. In addition, there was a three-mile run part-way up the Kerbau road and back, that had to be completed within a certain time. Percy had alleged that last year, several of the officers had arranged for a taxi from Tanah Timah to pick them up as soon as they were out of sight and take them to The Dog, where they sat drinking beer until it was time for them to jog the few hundred yards back to the garrison. But now their increasingly malignant colonel seemed to have other ideas.

‘You may be doctors, but first and foremost, you are soldiers!’ he barked. ‘You’ve gone soft, lolling about the Mess, drinking and going off on pleasure weekends like a lot of suburban bank clerks!’

Glaring around, he dropped his bombshell. ‘Tomorrow morning and on alternate mornings for a month, you will parade at six thirty in full kit on the hospital car park. I have arranged for a drill sergeant from the garrison to give you an hour’s exercises, which will include three full circuits of the perimeter road.’

With his narrow jaw jutting forward, he delivered his final broadside. ‘This applies to all of you, with no exception unless you have urgent clinical duties. I will be there personally to make sure there are no backsliders. I’ll make soldiers of you yet, even if it kills you!’

Mutiny was in the air that day, as the medical officers digested this latest dictat from their leader.

‘The bugger’s flipped completely,’ muttered Percy Loosemore, whose idea of exercise was walking from the car park of The Dog as far as the bar. Appeals to the Admin Officer brought no relief, as Alf Morris confessed that he could do nothing with the CO when he was in this mood. After leaving O’Neill’s office, the others clustered around the notice board at the bottom of the main corridor and read Part One Orders, a typed sheet of paper pinned up every morning which gave details of duty rosters and events for the day. Sure enough, there was the command to appear fully kitted at the crack of dawn, an order which had the Other Ranks smirking all day at the discomfiture of their officers.

‘Funny business, sir!’ grinned Lewis Cropper, as he brought Tom his pallid mug of mid-morning tea. ‘If you can’t find all your kit, let me know and I’ll scrounge some for you.’

The day after the pathologist’s arrival at BMH, the quartermaster sergeant had dumped a collection of pouches, green webbing and a water-bottle on Tom, together with a steel helmet. He had stuffed them into the bottom of his wardrobe and hoped that they were still there.

At the Mess before lunch, more disgruntled discussion took place, with the physician John Martin being pressured to get the Commanding Officer certified before he could wreak any more havoc. This plea fell on deaf ears, especially as the major had a cast-iron excuse to avoid the threatened parade, as he had to be in BMH Kamunting the next morning to hold a special clinic.

As it happened, the object of their disquiet was at that moment himself being interrogated. Steven Blackwell had telephoned for an appointment and Desmond O’Neill had grudgingly agreed, for the superintendent had made a point of reminding him that the garrison commander, Brigadier Forsyth, had sanctioned the questioning of all military personnel. The colonel did it with ill grace and sat stiffly behind his desk, glowering at the police officer.

‘This is highly irregular, Blackwell,’ he snapped. ‘The civil police have no jurisdiction over Her Majesty’s Forces, you know.’

Experienced copper that he was, Steven knew when to come on as a hard man and when to tread lightly.

‘Indeed, sir, I’m sure that if any serviceman was charged with this offence, he would be tried and sentenced by the Army. But as this is a civilian death and your SIB are collaborating fully with us, then the actual investigation is well within the ambit of the Federation Police.’

O’Neill snorted, but he had no valid argument against something sanctioned by the Brigade Commander. ‘What d’you want to know, then?’ he grunted sourly.

‘I have to record the movements of everyone, even those only peripherally involved, sir,’ Steven began diplomatically. ‘I gather that the first you knew of this death was when you arrived back here, some time after James Robertson had been certified as dead?’

‘The place was like a madhouse, people milling about the front of my hospital as if it was a fairground. I soon cleared them out, they had no business bringing a civilian corpse here, anyway!’

‘With respect, it wasn’t known that he was dead, until your doctors had confirmed that. But what time did you arrive, sir?’

‘About twenty to one, I believe — not that it can matter in the slightest! I found a messenger at my quarter, telling me what had happened, so I drove down here.’

‘They failed to contact you earlier by telephone at your house, I believe. Could you tell me where you had been, colonel?’

Desmond O’Neill scowled at the superintendent. ‘What the devil has that got to do with anything?’

‘All part of the routine, sir. You may have seen something or someone which might complement the rest of our evidence.’

The skull-like face looked balefully at Blackwell. ‘I had been to the AKC cinema in the garrison, if you must know. They were showing The Way Ahead , a wartime favourite of mine, if you need to check on my alibi!’ he added sarcastically.

‘The AKC show always finishes by ten thirty, colonel. May I ask where you were between then and the time you arrived at your quarter?’

O’Neill’s sallow face developed a slight flush. ‘I consider that question impertinent, Blackwell. I didn’t rush off from my billet as soon as I had the message, you know.’

Steven remained polite and impassive. ‘But the attempts to phone you there were not made until after midnight, sir. You couldn’t have been home by that time.’

The CO jumped from his chair and stood ramrod straight, glaring at the police officer. ‘Dammit, are you accusing me of anything?’

‘I just want answers about timing, colonel, that’s all. It’s essential to know where everyone was, and at what time that night.’

O’Neill subsided into his chair. ‘I drove around for a while to get some air, if you must know. The cigarette smoke in that damned cinema was so thick you could hardly see the screen. I had a headache and smarting eyes, so I went and sat in the car up on the Sungie Siput road for a while and looked at the valley in the moonlight.’

Blackwell managed to avoid raising his eyebrows at this unlikely tale. He had thought it unwise to bring his inspector on this particular interview, so he had his own notebook at the ready and as he jotted down the colonel’s words, he wondered how much air O’Neill had needed to keep him out alone in his car for almost two hours in the middle of the night.

‘You met no one during that time, sir?’

‘Are you doubting my word, officer!’ snarled O’Neill.

‘All policemen have to seek corroboration for everything, colonel,’ said Steven imperturbably. ‘I take it the answer is “no”?’

‘I saw no one and spoke to no one!’ snapped the other man. ‘Now if you have no more sensible questions, I would like to get on with my work. We are fighting a war here, you know!’

He spoke as if he were General Sir Gerald Templer, not the administrator of a small hospital. Considering that the police superintendent had more than once been personally involved in a shoot-out with the CTs, his remark bordered on the offensive. However, Blackwell let it pass and after a few more unprofitable questions, he left the irate colonel to become more bad-tempered as the day went on.