The Rose of Singapore by Peter Neville Page A

man’s voice from the kitchen. The next moment the office doorway was blocked by a huge hulk of a man wearing an RAF police uniform, a service revolver in a white holster slung at his hip, and on each sleeve of his khaki drill (KD) jacket a grey armband with the letters SP written on it in big white letters. Flight Sergeant Cameron was a man to be reckoned with. Not only was he a tough rugby player, a judo expert and the station boxing champion, he was also the chief of the RAF provost police in Singapore; a twenty-two year man serving his last five. His only health problem was that he suffered from ulcers. Instead of eating in the dining room, he often frequented the cooks’ domain in the kitchen where he enjoyed a meal of lightly boiled eggs or milk pudding before going on duty patrolling the red-light districts of the city. “About what?” he repeated, propping himself up in the doorframe and pushing his square, granite-like face menacingly forward as if ready to tackle the first person who opposed him.
    With no more than a glance in his direction, Sergeant Muldoon answered, “Oh, nothing important, Jock.”
    â€œG’morning, Flight,” greeted Peter Saunders, momentarily putting Wee Lim from his mind.
    â€œWhat’s so good about it?” asked the flight sergeant.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? Your ulcer playing up again?” asked Sergeant Muldoon.
    â€œNo, touch wood,” answered the flight sergeant. He entered the office and tapped the wooden desk with giant, vice-like fingers. “But having the wife and kids out here gives me more headaches than I need,” he said.
    â€œOh! Come on, Jock! You don’t mean that. How are they, anyway?” asked the sergeant.
    â€œOh, they’re all fine,” replied the flight sergeant. “Flossy is settling down to the life out here. Slowly, mind you. She’s still a wee bit scared when I’m on nights. And she’s still complaining of the smells.”
    â€œShe’ll get over that,” said Sergeant Muldoon. “How about the kids?”
    â€œOh, they love it here,” the flight sergeant answered. “The heat doesn’t bother them like it does their mum, and there’s lots for them to do.” Then turning to Peter Saunders, he said, “That reminds me, Cookie, there’s something I want to ask you.”
    â€œDon’t try pinning anything on me, Flight,” laughed Peter. “I ain’t done nuffink,” he joked.
    The flight sergeant’s stony face lost some of its hardness to actually crease into a smile when he said, “I probably could pin something on you if I wanted to, but this is something personal I want to ask you.”
    â€œYou want me to cook you something special.”
    â€œNo. It’s nothing about food.”
    Puzzled, Peter said, “Then what?”
    â€œI’d like you to do me a favour.”
    More puzzled than ever, Peter said, “Me do you a favour? A favour for the provost police chief? What is this, Flight? What are you getting me into?”
    â€œI’ll ask you later. It’s nothing so dreadful, nothing to do with police work, and nothing to do with the RAF. So don’t look so concerned.” He turned to the catering sergeant. “Changing the subject, did your leave pass go through, Paddy? Or did the old man turn it down?” he asked.
    â€œIt’s still down at the catering office. The Warrant Officer (WO) in charge of catering turned it down. He’s got a bee in his bonnet. The Command Catering Officer is coming to inspect all messes at Changi next month. The WO said he didn’t think he could spare me until after the inspection.”
    â€œThat’s tough. So there’ll be a lot of bullshit going on around here for awhile, eh?”
    â€œYou can bet on that,” answered Sergeant Muldoon. “By the way, how’s the banana situation with you? Do you need any? An issue arrived