Dead in the Dog by Bernard Knight Read Free Book Online Page B

best salute and whipped off his hat.
    â€˜Captain Thomas Howden reporting for duty, sir.’ He thought this sounded about right for the occasion.
    The colonel looked up at him impassively. He was a trim, stiff-backed man of average height with dark short-cropped hair, greying at the temples. His face was thin, the skin stretched tightly over his high cheekbones. Darkly handsome in a horrible sort of way, thought Tom. As a keen cinema-goer at home, he immediately compared the CO with either Stewart Granger or Michael Rennie, the sardonic heroes of many an adventure film. But it was the eyes that made him uneasy, piercing pale globes that never seemed to blink, the kind that inept police artists drew on wanted axe murderers. The colonel now covered them with a pair of steel-rimmed glasses to stare at his new officer.
    â€˜Pathologist, is that what you claim to be, Howden?’
    The harsh voice had a strong Ulster accent.
    â€˜Yessir, one year’s experience as a Senior House Officer in Newcastle.’
    Tom had hoped for some kind of welcome to the new unit, but it seemed that O’Neill was above such pleasantries.
    â€˜Well, you’ll have other duties here as well – take your turn as Orderly Officer, act as the Hygiene Officer and run the blood transfusion service. That means you also have to act as the medical officer to the MCE next door, that’s where you get your blood.’
    This was one acronym he’d not come across yet and he had no idea where he was to get his blood, but had the sense not to query it from this peculiar man.
    â€˜Yessir, of course, sir.’
    O’Neill continued to glare at him, his narrow lips compressed into a thin line. Then he spoke again, the Belfast accent strange to Tom’s Geordie-tuned ears.
    â€˜Short-Service man, aren’t you? Well, you’ll have to be a good example for these National Service fellows! Smartly-dressed, strict discipline, understand? Then you’ll not fall foul of me too often.’
    He sat with his hands on his empty desk, fingers flat on the wood, with an immobility that reminded Tom of a snake, ready to strike. The new arrival stood stiffly, unsure whether to make any response, but the decision was made for him.
    â€˜Right, Howden, dismiss. Daily Orders at eight fifteen, every day except Sunday.’
    The skull-like face gave a jerky nod of dismissal and Tom managed one of his salutes again, which he had been practising before the mirror in the washroom – ‘hand furthest way up, shortest way down’, as they had been instructed in the Depot at Crookham.
    He swivelled to his left and marched out, closing the door behind him. Outside, he sagged against the adjacent wall and took off his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow, generated both by the heat and the stress of meeting the man who theoretically had the power of life and death over him for the next few years.
    â€˜Good morning, captain, are you our new pathologist?’
    A gentle voice came from behind him and he turned to find that he had been leaning against the edge of the open window of the next office.
    Inside, standing against a table on which she was arranging bright tropical flowers in a vase, was a large woman dressed in grey-blue QARANC uniform with a triangular headdress of starched white linen hanging down her back. Her scarlet shoulder tabs carried a Major’s crown, so this must be the Matron, he thought. Uncertain of protocol, he slapped on his cap and gave her a salute, but she smiled benignly.
    â€˜Only need do that when he’s around,’ she hissed in a stage whisper, jerking her head towards the office he had just left. Coming to the low window sill, she offered her hand.
    â€˜Welcome to the madhouse. Hope you’ll be happy here. Keep your sense of humour and you’ll survive.’
    He shook her hand and introduced himself, glad to find someone who made him feel welcome. She was almost motherly in her manner