with no hitches.
‘What about the size of the gunshot wound, doc? Can you tell what weapon was used?’ asked Blackwell.
Tom shook his head. ‘I’m not even going to guess, superintendent. I’ve read that the skin can stretch and shrink, so that the diameter is not the same as the bullet. The hole is seven millimetres across, that’s all I can say.’
‘What the hell is that in English, captain?’ asked the major, a khaki handkerchief close to his mouth. Enderby was a burly, red-faced man in middle-age, with a large walrus moustache stained with nicotine. He had trained as a solicitor but on being called for wartime National Service, had stayed on as a Regular in the provost marshal’s department.
‘Just over a quarter of an inch,’ grunted Howden, forgetting to say ‘sir’.
The bloody part of the autopsy began and the three army men abruptly decided to go outside for a smoke.
‘No exit wound, so thankfully the bullet must still be inside him, Tom,’ said the superintendent, now putting them on first-name terms.
‘If it was a rifle, then it must have hit bone, as far as I can understand from the textbooks,’ agreed Howden. ‘Unless it was fired from a great distance, when it may have lost much of its punch.’
‘If it was a military weapon, like a three-oh-three or an FN, it could still kill someone a mile away,’ said Inspector Tan primly, speaking for the first time. He was a mild, reticent man, speaking only when he had something worthwhile to say. Steven had considerable respect for Tan’s intelligence and always listened carefully to his ideas.
A few minutes later, the question of the calibre of the fatal missile was solved, as Tom finally held it in his hand. Mindful of Professor Glaister’s admonition not to damage the rifling marks, he carefully groped around inside the chest with his fingers, to avoid using hard tools which could scratch the missile. He found the front of the spinal column shattered in the middle of the chest and lying alongside was a deformed metallic lump, which he carefully drew out and placed in the palm of his other hand. Going across to the sink, he washed the blood away and with Cropper peering over his shoulder, he offered it to the two police officers. ‘Here we are! One bullet, distorted to blazes.’
They all looked at it as if it was the Holy Grail, a dull metal nodule about the size of a hazelnut. The base was still circular, but the upper part was crumpled, like a witch’s hat that had been folded back, then stamped on.
‘Looks like a standard .303 rifle to me,’ observed Steven Blackwell.
His inspector nodded agreement, but Tom took up a small plastic ruler that he had brought from the laboratory and carefully put it across the base of the bullet. Though slightly out of shape, he could see that it was about a third of an inch across.
‘Better give the army chaps a shout,’ he suggested. ‘That sergeant probably knows most about firearms.’
Tan went to the door to call them in, but the pathologist went to the outer room to show them the trophy, not wanting to subject them unnecessarily to the sights and smells of the mortuary.
Sergeant Markham, a veteran of Normandy and Korea, agreed that the bullet was the same calibre as that used in the standard British rifle.
‘Must send it to the experts, though,’ he advised. ‘Needs to be checked against those you dug out of the wall at Gunong Busar last week.’
Lewis Cropper found a small screw-top specimen bottle and padded it with cotton wool to nest the bullet in, preventing it from rattling against the glass and blurring the rifling marks from the barrel of whatever weapon had fired it. The superintendent carefully labelled, dated and signed it and stowed it away in his pocket.
‘I’ll send it down to KL on the night train – if needs be, I’m sure your army boffins can get it back for any further work on it.’
‘We can get it sent to Singapore – or even flown back to Woolwich if necessary,’ said Major Enderby, his colour now recovered. ‘That’s where all our Ordnance experts hang out.’
‘The cartridge case would be more valuable, if we could find it,’ grunted the big SIB man. ‘The origin of the ammunition could be traced through that.’
Steve Blackwell looked a little irritated. ‘We don’t even know where the bloody shooting took place. Could be anywhere within ten miles of here. That’s one of our first priorities.’
Half an hour later, Tom had finished the rest of his dissection, finding nothing more of significance. He took some samples for Blackwell to send to Kuala Lumpur for blood grouping and alcohol analysis, telling Cropper to get them packed in ice in a Thermos flask for the long journey down-country. The spectators left, promising a conference later that day to discuss the sparse results of the post-mortem, leaving Tom and his corporal to restore the body as best they could. They sewed it up again, washed it, then covered it again with a sheet around which they packed large fragments of ice, broken from the blocks with the hammer from the surgical instrument set.
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
