Dead in the Dog

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.’

‘Thereabouts? You can’t be a bit more exact?’ asked Blackwell.

‘Jesus, no! I’d had a good few beers, as always. Even had a bit of a dance, before and after the grub. Do you want to know who with?’

His tone was bantering, a half-amused smile on his face.

Steven shook his head. ‘You saw no one on the road from Tanah Timah, I presume? It would help if you knew the time you came up, so that I could try to place where James Robertson was then.’

Arnold took another mouthful of beer and tried to look more serious.

‘Just can’t be that exact, mate. Time doesn’t mean a hell of lot in a place like this, getting the date right is hard enough. But I think I got to bed about midnight, give or take a few minutes.’

‘And you saw nothing on the road?’

‘Damn all, Steve.’ He looked quizzically at the superintendent. ‘Why this interest in this road? Was that where it happened?’

It was inevitable that everyone would soon hear about the blood on the grass, so he made no attempt to avoid the question.

‘I’m not absolutely sure, Les, but I think the shooting happened near that cutting just below Gunong Besar.’

The Australian shrugged. ‘That’s a long way from here. I wouldn’t hear any shots this far off. I didn’t even hear when they blasted the place a couple of weeks ago and that’s almost a mile closer.’

Blackwell took a long swallow of his beer, imagining that he could feel it come out as perspiration on his forehead as soon as he drank it.

‘This is the awkward bit I have to ask people, Les. We’re sure this wasn’t a CT attack, it was more personal, so we need a motive. How did you really get on with James and Diane?’

Again a crooked grin appeared on the planter’s face. ‘What d’you expect me to say, for Chrissake? Jimmy Robertson was a pain in the arse, but he was harmless.’

‘And Diane?’

‘Come on, Steve, you’ve got eyes and a pair of balls! She’s bloody gorgeous and I could do her a good turn any day of the week – though I’d have to join the queue!’

‘And did you?’

Arnold’s expression hardened a little, the smile fading. ‘Look, Steve, you’re sitting in my place, drinking my beer. Do you seriously think I’m going to admit to you that I was knocking off Jimmy’s wife?’

Blackwell carefully put his empty tankard on the ground alongside his chair.

‘Is that a “yes” or a “no”, then?’ he asked.

‘It’s a “no comment”, and that’s all you’re getting, Stevie boy,’ he grunted. ‘It’s got bugger all to with this affair, anyway. I’ll admit I fancied her something rotten, as did every red-blooded chap within ten miles, but that’s sweet Fanny Adams to do with Jimmy getting killed.’

The planter uncoiled his six feet from the chair and Steven sensed that he would get nothing more from him at present. Not wanting to antagonize people with whom he had to associate – and who he would no doubt have to return to question yet again – he decided to retire gracefully while he was still ahead.

After a few rather stilted platitudes, the social temperature having dropped somewhat, the police officer climbed back into his Land Rover, wishing the air temperature would do the same.

When they got back down the road as far as Gunong Besar, Steven Blackwell saw that a black Ford V8 Pilot was just turning into the manager’s driveway. A quick glance up to the Robertson house showed him that there was no sign of Diane’s Austin under the bungalow, so he told to his driver to follow the Ford. As they drove up to the front of the bungalow, Douglas and Rosa were just getting out of the V8, stopping to stare at the police vehicle as it pulled up. The Scotsman wore a rather creased linen suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat, Rosa being as neat as usual in a blue-and-white flowered dress with a wide skirt. She had a small blue hat on the front of her raven hair and even carried a pair of white gloves, obviously her formal churchgoing outfit.

Leaving his driver with the vehicle, Steven got out to greet the manager and his wife and was invited up into the bungalow, a slightly smaller version of the one next door. In the wide lounge, Douglas invited the police officer to sit down, after a rather apprehensive Rosa took off her hat and sat opposite, perched stiffly on the edge of a settee.

‘I’ve only a beer to offer you, I’m afraid,’ said Douglas softly. ‘We’re not great drinkers here, you see.’

Blackwell waved away the offer, but accepted Rosa’s suggestion of a fresh lime. She rang a small brass bell that stood on a coffee table between them and gave an order to a silent Chinese amah who glided in from the back of the house.

‘What can we do for you, Steven?’ asked Douglas. ‘More questions, I expect.’

He said this without rancour and sat alongside his wife, looking expectantly at the superintendent.

‘Sorry about all this, but I’ve got to start doing the rounds of everyone who had more than a passing acquaintance with poor old James. I’ve just been up to talk to Les Arnold.’

Douglas Mackay gave a slight sniff at the mention of his neighbour. Steven recognized that though Douglas was a most Christian soul, full of compassion and forgiveness, he was not overly fond of the Australian, a cynical, hard-drinking and sometimes aggressive fellow.

‘How did James get along with Arnold?’ asked the policeman. ‘We all saw them together often enough in The Dog, but that doesn’t really tell me much.’

Douglas looked down at his wife’s smooth features, then warily raised his eyes to his visitor.

‘I’m not much given to gossip, Steven. People’s affairs are their own. But as this is a police matter, I have to say that they were certainly not bosom pals. Arnold used to needle James quite a bit, sort of sarcastic leg-pulling. I felt he thought James a bit of a “pommie snob”, to be honest.’

‘Anything more than that?’ persisted Steven.

Mackay hesitated and again looked across at Rosa, who sat impassively alongside him. ‘I think he used to get