Singapore 52 Page 5

  There was a phone in the room but it was only connected to the desk clerk. If I needed to make a call he’d call the operator and my phone would be rung when the connection was made.

  I checked the time. It was half past eight in the evening. That meant it would be one-thirty in London.

  I asked the clerk to place a call to Whitehall, the Department of Energy. I gave him my father’s name.

  A few minutes later the phone in my shared office clicked and then rang.

  “Connecting you now,” a voice said.

  “Ash?” a woman asked. “It’s Sam Duffield, here.”

  My father’s secretary.

  “Is he there please Sam?”

  “He’s at lunch I’m afraid. So you made it to Singapore all right?”

  “Yes,” I said and then asked when he’d be back. She informed me his diary was blocked out for the whole afternoon. He was a man in demand it seemed.

  “I’ll pass on a message, if you’d like.”

  “Sam?” I said realizing something. “How did you know I was in Singapore?”

  “You needed to leave the Middle East fairly quickly.”

  “Yes.”

  “You asked your father for help…”

  And then I understood.

  “He had you sort out the travel for me.”

  I could almost sense her smiling down the phone.

  “He may have the connections, but… you know how it is… behind every good man…” And then she stopped herself finishing the sentence. My father and mother hadn’t spent much time together during the war. In fact she’d virtually brought me up alone. After she died I had taken her surname. I’d never met Sam, but wondered at that moment whether she was more than just his secretary.

  I shook the thought from my mind.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Thanks for sorting the transport then.”

  “Your father cares about you Ash.”

  “That’s the reason I rang.”

  “Oh?”

  “Who did he tell I was coming?”

  Again I sensed a hint of pride in her voice. “He sorted out a job for you. I put him through to someone in the embassy there and also a general called Gaskin or something.”

  Not the embassy. He’d spoken to someone in the government. “Was the embassy man called Coates, by any chance?”

  “Yes that’s the name.”

  I thanked her and ended the call. That explained everything. That explained why Secretary Coates knew so much. My father probably thought he was getting me a little civil service role. A job to make sure I wasn’t footloose in Singapore. I don’t know what my father had said, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d even told the man I was in trouble. Maybe they’d cooked up the whole plan between them. To make sure I took the job. He was a military strategist. Maybe brilliant and with good intentions, but he was naïve when it came to politics.

  I was also no politician and I went to bed resolved to play along. I would find out what had happened to Tom and then get the hell out.

  In the morning, I dressed in my shorts and shirt. I wore the standard belt but, since I would have no side arm, I didn’t bother with the cross-strap. I attached the captain’s epaulets that I never imagined I’d wear again. And that was as far as I would go. It may have been childish but as an act of rebellion I wasn’t going to wear the hat. After all I was officially SIB and had been plain-clothed for more than half of my time in Palestine.

  I discovered my office was shared by all the officers although that just meant me and Lieutenant Robshaw at present. He was with Hegarty in the common room when I arrived.

  They insisted I call them Hedge and Robbo and I instantly liked them both. They were open and friendly. The lieutenant was tall with blue eyes and straw-blond hair that wasn’t as short as most of the lads’. Hedge later confirmed my suspicion that he was a bit of a lady killer.

  The sergeant himself was more relaxed with me than he had been the day before. He used his Welsh accent and bushy eyebrows to comedic effect and seemed to relish working with a captain without the need for formality.

  “How did it go with Vernon?” Robbo wanted to know after introductions and tea brought in by a cha-boy.

  “All right.”

  “He’s a royal pain in the arse that chap,” Hedge said. “Acting CO—you’d think he had been promoted to God the way he acts. Off the record—” he dropped his voice “—Vernon is a stickler for punishment.”

  “Don’t you mean rules?”

  Hegarty waggled his eyebrows to tell me he meant what he’d said. “There have been more men on jankers this past month then Lieutenant Colonel Ambrose had in the last two years.”

  “So where is Ambrose?”

  “On compassionate… Back in England to look after his wife. He was only expected to be gone a couple of months but it’s been four with no news of his return.”

  The officers’ quarters had four rooms and only Robshaw and I were there. “What about the other two OQ rooms?” I asked.

  “Vernon has taken a house off base,” Robshaw said, “And Lieutenant Cole is on R and R. He’s taken two weeks in Penang.”

  “And your Special Investigations Branch? Are they based here?”

  Robshaw nodded. “We have two officers: Green and Jenkins. Do you know them?”

  I didn’t. I had been in SIB Three Company and these guys would be in Two Company.

  Robshaw ran a hand through his straw-coloured hair. “They’re based out of the Bras Basah HQ but they’re up in Malaya. No one knows what they’re working on. As far as I know, they’ve not been back for a while—maybe five or six weeks.”

  “But they report to Vernon?”

  “Yes.”

  So Vernon knew what the SIBs were doing but didn’t share it with his other officers. I wondered if they knew anything about arms coming into Singapore but then I would have expected them to have a presence here. I made a mental note to try and find out what they were working on.

  “Why is Vernon so upset with the police?” I asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago there was a bit of a balls up,” Hegarty said. “We had a tipoff that a corporal from Tanglin Barracks—Webster—was trying to deal in drugs. He was spotted making contact with a Chinaman.”

  “Chinese,” the lieutenant corrected.

  Hegarty shrugged. “The Chinese man was believed to be an opium and heroin dealer.”

  “The day before, Webster spent time in the dock’s backstreets before withdrawing a large sum of money from his General Post Office account. We think he was checking out a rendezvous before getting the money. Anyway we had a unit there who followed him back to the docks and saw him enter a building. Before we could move in, there were gunshots.”

  “Coppers were already there,” Hegarty said. “Messed up the whole thing.”

  “No one was hurt but when our boys got inside, there was no sign of the drug dealer or the money. And Webster’s not talking.”

  I asked, “What did Inspector Rahman have to say about it?”

  “He agreed we should have coordinated efforts. But they were investigating the Chinese dealer and didn’t know about Webster.”

  Robshaw handed me a piece of paper. “Almost forgot. You had a call yesterday. The telephonist didn’t know what to do with the message so just left it with the general messages and post.”

  It was a typed note, the record of a phone call. Pope for Ash Carter it said. There was a telephone number for me to return the call.

  “Pope?”

  Hedge raised his eyebrows. “Only one of the wealthiest people in Singapore. You must have noticed the Kelly and Pope Building in Commercial Square…”

  “Why would he want to speak to me?”

  “The disturbance you interrupted at the market. He’s connected in some way I think, being the big trader in Japanese goods that he is.”

  Robshaw winked at me. “You also had a phone call from someone else.”

  I held out my hand expecting a
note.

  “No message, I’m afraid. All I know is the desk clerk said it was a woman and she sounded Chinese. She wouldn’t leave a name.”

  TEN

  Likely-lad, Hegarty turned out to be my designated driver although I knew this was more for Vernon’s benefit than my own. He wanted someone close, keeping an eye on me. I wasn’t going to keep Vernon fully informed and I guessed Hegarty was his contingency plan. The sergeant had a comfortable chatty way about him and Vernon probably thought I would tell him everything.

  I asked Hegarty to take me to Tanglin Barracks and he didn’t disappoint. Like a tour guide, he pointed out and explained the most mundane things.

  When we turned off Orchard Road, I noticed large houses festooned with pink bougainvillaea and Hegarty told me that Pope lived in one of these although he didn’t know which one.

  On the approach to the barracks, we heard church bells peeling for Sunday worship and soon passed St Georges. Hegarty pointed and said, “It doesn’t look much now but apparently it used to have the most beautiful stained glass windows you can imagine.”

  “What happened?”

  “In the war. The story goes that they were buried to protect them.” He laughed. “Trouble is, no one knows where, although one theory is that they are under Changi. Anyway it’s remained windowless since.”

  We reached a long dirty-white wall that ran parallel to the road for almost half a mile ending in a sentry gate with pill boxes either side of the barrier. As the guard moved in, Hegarty said, “Remind me to tell you about the holes in the wall when we leave.”

  With a quick scan of our credentials, the guard retreated and raised the barrier.

  “Which is the quartermaster’s office?” I asked as we trundled past him.

  The soldier pointed to the right hand side. “Beyond the parade ground. You’ll pass the Officers’ Mess. Then it’s the second building. Block K, sir.” The MP also indicated where we should park.

  The main British camp on the island, Tanglin Barracks was the furthest from the centre and, unlike Gillman, had few redeeming features. I noted the small patches of grass were sun-scorched and a handful of trees appeared stunted and struggling to survive. Compared to the lush greenery of the jungle close by, this was a stark contrast, like the exact opposite of a desert oasis.

  Hegarty continued into the complex and parked where instructed. Like many pre-war bases, most of the quarters were ship-built wooden slatted huts. They were arranged in clusters of five known as spiders. Every now and again there was a modern concrete hut. Same design, just newer: grey with flat, yellow roofs. The Officers’ Quarters was a superior block, still single storey but with some consideration to design and aesthetics—but only a little.

  We walked across the parade ground towards the Officers’ Mess. A few squads were marching up and down, square bashing. That would be over shortly. Before midday it would be too hot for marching in the sun and the parade ground would be deserted until late afternoon.

  Block K had a large wooden sign in front with equally large white lettering: “Stores”. The door was open and I could see a soldier standing behind a long wooden counter, his head down and his eyes half closed. The noise of two men entering made the man start, look up, see the MP uniform and register panic on his face. He snapped to attention and saluted.

  “At ease, soldier,” I said. “Where can I find the QM?”

  He looked from me to Sergeant Hegarty and back, clearly trying to assess who I was since I didn’t have a red cap.

  “The quartermaster?” Hegarty prompted.

  “Round the side, second door, sir,”

  We left him wondering who I was and whether we’d noticed him sleeping on the job and followed the directions. Again the door was open and I realized it was necessary for these rooms without fans.

  Inside there were two men sitting at desks. They looked up as we stepped over the threshold.

  “Captain Carter,” Hegarty announced as we walked into the room.

  “Regimental Sergeant Major Sinclair,” said the senior of the two with a salute. He walked around his desk and shook my hand. “This is my assistant, Staff Sergeant Cooke,” he nodded towards the other man who was now also standing. “How can we help you, Captain?”

  I explained that I was working for the government and with the 200 Provost. I handed him my papers as a formality. He glanced at them and handed them back.

  “The question remains. How can I help?”

  “I’d like to look over the inventory.”

  “Of course. Billy here will give you what you need.”

  Cooke pulled a four inch-thick ledger from his desk drawer, placed it on his desk and spun it around. There was a tab that he used to open the ledger at specific page.

  “Anything missing?” I asked after flicking through twenty or so pages of current inventory.

  Sinclair smiled. “Not on my watch,” he said with pride.

  “No knives and forks? No kettles?”

  “Not a one.”

  “No blankets, buckets or billycans?”

  “I know it’s unusual,” he said, “but I run a tight ship here. Everything is logged in and everything is logged out.”

  I nodded.

  “Most of the problems occur due to not checking the goods when they arrive,” he said. “Doesn’t happen here. Everything is opened and counted and noted in the ledger.”

  Cooke pointed to an entry. “See this for example.” He went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a sheet. An army delivery note for eight-hundred buckets. He pointed out the reference number in the ledger was the same. The number of buckets however said seven-hundred and eighty-nine. “Eleven short,” Cooke said unnecessarily. Behind the delivery note was attached a pink slip. This noted the discrepancy and had three signatures including Sinclair’s. The goods came in, Sinclair’s men counted them and any discrepancy was double checked and signed off. Then Sinclair signed it before the actual number was entered into the ledger.

  “Guns,” I said, “Stens, Brens, rifles, handguns, anything… I’d like to see any pink slips you have on those.”

  Sinclair and Cooke exchanged glances.

  Cooke said, “We’ve never had any issue there.”

  “Never?”

  Sinclair said, “Not on my watch.”

  “Would you mind if we went through the ledger and cross checked?”

  “Be my guest. Can you tell me why… why guns in particular?”

  “Just a concern.”

  “Based on?”

  “Based on a concern.”

  Sinclair nodded. “Rightho, I’ll leave you in Billy’s capable hands. If you need me I’ll be in the Mess.”

  We spent almost an hour in that stuffy office, finding an entry, pulling the delivery note and checking the number of items. When we’d finished with the current log, I had Cooke work backwards so that we covered all the stock of guns that had moved within the past year. At the end I had a summary note of the movement in and out and balancing stock.

  “Let’s go and kick the tyres,” I said to Hegarty who blinked sweat from his eyebrows.

  “Boss?”

  “Let’s count the actual stock of guns.”

  The three of us trooped back to the Stores. The private behind the bench lifted it to let us through. The room was shallow with multiple shelving like you see in some libraries. There wasn’t much on the shelves, just everyday stuff that a Tommy might need. We slipped past these to a door behind. Cooke produced a key and opened it. The heat immediately blasted out at us. There were no windows and the air was hot and stale, like old blankets.

  “Only RSM Sinclair and myself have keys,” Cooke said in answer to my unasked question. He switched on the lights.

  The room beyond was a long storage unit again with shelves although these were deeper and taller. We walked past these to another locked door.

  “Same security?” I asked.

  Cooke nodded and opened it with a key. Inside were lockers and crates con
taining arms and munitions. He gestured for us to begin and stepped back. He leaned against the door, arms folded watching us.

  Everything we counted, matched the figures in the ledger. Not a thing missing.

  “OK,” I said.

  Cooke waited and I just looked at him. Eventually he said, “Is there anything else?”

  “Maybe, but let’s get some air.”

  Cooke looked uncertain. He hurriedly locked the door and caught up with us as we walked out.

  “All the stock is accounted for,” he said trying to prompt me.

  “Yes.” I smiled. “But what’s not accounted for?”

  “I don’t know…” he began, but by then I was heading for the jeep with Hegarty scurrying after me.

  As we pulled out I glanced back. Cooke was standing at the office door watching us. I nodded at him but the man didn’t respond.

  “What?” Hegarty asked as we drove under the secur-ity barrier.

  “Later,” I said. “Tell me about the holes in the wall.” I was referring to damage to the barracks perimeter wall that Hegarty had mentioned as we had driven in.

  “It’s where a soldier was executed for mutiny. At least that’s the story.”

  “The story?”

  “I heard it was on the second day of the invasion. A man showed cowardice and was shot as an example to the others. The irony is that the war was over a few days later. To be honest, I don’t know the detail. If you’re interested, one of the lads back at Gillman is an expert on the war.”

  We drove in silence for a while before Hegarty said, “Run a tight ship. It’s another old navy expression.”

  I thought it was obvious but he continued to explain anyway. “A tight ship referred to the rigging. If it was slack the sails wouldn’t be in their optimum position.”

  “Like sailing close to the wind?” I said.

  He looked over at me. “Not at all.”

  “I know.”

  I could see the cogs turning in his mind. “You don’t think Sinclair was being straight with us?” he asked.

  I said nothing.

  He said, “Cooke was uncomfortable.”