Inspector Abdullah, then, while in Anti-Corruption, had been able to ignore the more damaging information concerning Ricketts’s knowledge of what had happened, and lose the records of the ample commissions he had received from the rice firm. And thus in turn Bob Stewart, in charge of the investigation, had been able to find Ricketts merely negligent, but not guilty: the honour of the Service, the Force, and everyone who mattered, had been preserved, to the great relief of all except the lorry company manager, who did not matter.

And now Inspector Abdullah was in Todak.

‘Awful mess, Abdullah.’ Bob Stewart’s technique was to browbeat and bully. He employed it in his interrogations. First bully, then cajole, then suddenly look terrifying again. Most effective at three a.m. under strong lights on a Chinese merchant deprived of cigarettes and sleep for the past twenty-four hours.

‘Tuan.’ Abdullah stood, a rock of confidence and efficiency from his shining head to his shining boots, in his spick and span office, his quiet voice and great dignity.

Bob’s voice lowered immediately. ‘What I mean is, damn it, Abdullah, there’ll be no medal or promotion for you, I’m afraid …bad show, you know …’

‘Mr Uxbridge was killed far away from Todak, Tuan, on his return from Singapore, after the curfew was already down. He was dragged here, Tuan, a distance of three miles across the swamp. My men have already found this out.’

‘Really.’ Bob was impressed.

‘My men have also found the car.’ Quiet triumph was in Abdullah’s eyes. ‘It was driven into the jungle, from the road. May I point out to the Tuan that, from the position on this wall map which I have prepared, the ambush occurred well outside the limits of my district of Todak. Information from the Malay villages was followed up by my men and the car is being guarded by some kampong people, since my men are not allowed outside of my district.’

‘Good show,’ said Bob, and bit his lip.

Abdullah stood full of dignity, and in injured silence.

Che Ahmad came in quietly. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said to
Bob Stewart.

‘Good morning, Ahmad. How’re things?’

‘Mr Davis is still down in the swamp. He is meeting you at the coffee shop later.’

When they were alone Che Ahmad sat peaceably with Inspector Abdullah, proffered cigarettes; Inspector Abdullah refused with his hand on his heart. They exchanged brief news about their kampongs, Malay villages, and Inspector Abdullah’s eldest son who had failed the entrance examination to the College. He was a good boy, even-tempered, but rather prone to romancing. Abdullah was marrying him off in a few months’ time. ‘It is better to marry them before they go to England.’ Ahmad agreed.