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 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.
TWELVE
That Monday turned out to be an eventful day in BMH Tanah Timah, even apart from the colonel’s worsening mania. Lunch in the Officers’ Mess was brought to an abrupt end by the almost simultaneous ringing of telephones and the clatter of an approaching helicopter. Grabbing their caps and belts, the medical staff reached the landing pad just as a three-ton Bedford ambulance lumbered up the perimeter road to disgorge half a dozen medical orderlies. The RSM was with them and told the reception party of doctors and QA sisters, that the casualties were coming from an ambush and a firefight up near Grik, towards the border with Thailand. Tom recalled seeing the long convoy of vehicles leaving the garrison several days earlier and assumed that this incident was the result of the new operation to attack the CTs in that area.
As soon as the Westland Whirlwind dropped from the sky on to the whitewashed circle on the ground, the orderlies ran forward to pull out three stretchers while the rotor blades were still whirring over their heads. Peter Bright and Eddie Rosen hurried to make a quick examination of the wounded men and then motioned for them to be loaded into the first ambulance as it backed up nearer the helicopter. Three other ‘walking wounded’ clambered to the ground, two with arms supported in bloodstained slings, the other with a bandage around his chest. All were wearing jungle kit, with green lace-up boots and floppy wide-brimmed hats. They were helped solicitously into the large box-like ambulance, as the flight crew handed out their weapons to the RSM, who carefully checked their safety state before sending them to the arms kote. Before the senior surgeon clambered aboard the Bedford himself, he called out to the pathologist.
‘Looks as if we’ll need blood pretty soon, Tom. Can you get cracking on that?’
As the big ambulance lurched over the monsoon drain to get back on to the perimeter road, the pathologist hurried down to the laboratory, feeling for the first time that he really was in the army, rather than on a long tropical holiday.
As he marched off down the corridor, he could hear the whine of the helicopter rise to a higher pitch as it rose off the pad and curved away to go back to the battle area.
He could do nothing until the surgical team sent up samples for blood grouping, but he put his technicians on alert so that they could get all the kit ready. As soon as he had the groupings, he could check them against his prisoner list, then get some eager donors brought over to the transfusion basha.
The rest of the afternoon and early evening went in a flurry of activity, as the X-ray department and the operating theatre worked efficiently to deal with the wounds, dealing with fractures, digging out bullets and even screws and nails, as the terrorists, short of proper rifles and ammunition, had home-made weapons that fired these random metal fragments.
