Dead in the Dog by Bernard Knight Page A

brayed as he swaggered into the lounge, his big body immediately dominating the room.
    â€˜Sorry, have to get back. I just came up to tell you that we’ve markedly strengthened the patrols up and down the road, as I was just telling Diane.’
    He related the gist of the meeting they had at Brigade that morning and emphasized the theory that the shooting may have been from a single disgruntled person.
    â€˜I asked you before, but can you think of anyone who might have a serious grudge against you or Douglas Mackay?’
    The heavily handsome planter ran a hand through his thick wavy hair and pursed his lips as he gave the question some serious thought.
    â€˜Every employer has a natural turnover of workers. Some get fired, if they’re no bloody good – either lazy or thieving or stirring up trouble with the others. But that’s been going on for years, no more at Gunong Besar than any other estate. In fact, I know that Les Arnold had an actual punch-up with one of his truck drivers a few months back.’
    â€˜I know, we arrested the fellow – he got a couple of months in Taiping jail for assault,’ replied Steven. ‘So you can’t think of anyone who could have done this?’
    The estate owner shook his head impatiently. ‘No! And I still think you’re wrong. The bandits had a go at this place six months ago and that was genuine enough, because you even shot one and he turned out to be a CT. So why the hell should this be any different?’
    Nothing would shift James from his conviction and the policeman felt that the planter was keen to maintain his status as valiant hero against the communist hordes. After some more inconsequential chat, Blackwell took his leave. As the police vehicle drove down the drive, Diane watched from the verandah, chewing her lip as she saw the Land Rover turn into the road and vanish towards Tanah Timah.
    That night, in the twilight before dinner, Peter Bright sat morosely in his room in the Mess, drinking a small whisky from his toothglass. He was no secret alcoholic, but kept a bottle of Black Label in his cupboard for the occasions when he preferred his own company to that of the anteroom across the way. Tonight he was in one of his antisocial moods and slumped in his unlovely easy chair after writing his monthly duty letter to his father, a family doctor in Sussex. His mother had died some years ago and he faithfully kept in touch with the old man, though tonight his letter was not up to his usual cheerful standard.
    With the whisky getting warm in his hand, he glowered at the wall of the spartan room, his eyes fixed on a garish calendar supplied by the Chinese garage that serviced his MG, though the image of the simpering girl in a cheongsam failed to reach his brain. He was thinking of Diane Robertson and of all the unspeakable things he would like to do to that bastard James to get him out of her life.
    As he had done at intervals for the past couple of months, he fantasized about ways of disposing of the husband, from poison to running him down with his car. He had fallen for the blonde very heavily indeed and though their flirting had progressed to energetic consummation, Diane had so far refused to consider a divorce. In fact, she seemed to have cooled off appreciably these past few weeks and the little red devil of jealousy that sat on his shoulder kept whispering that she had found someone else – possibly in the plural.
    Peter threw down the rest of the spirit and unusually for him, got up to pour another. As he walked to the wall cupboard, few of his patients would have recognized their senior surgeon. Usually his major’s uniform was immaculate, with razor-edged creases down the sleeves and legs of his smartly tailored ‘jungle greens’. Tonight, after his shower at the end of the block, he had wrapped a cotton sarong around his waist, a red and white chequered tube that looked like a kitchen tablecloth. With bare