Deadly Duty Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set)

by Wendy Cartmell

  “But, sir, are you sure you shouldn’t err on the side of caution and treat it as murder? There could be a potential threat to the athletes here. Someone could have been staking out the swimming pool and been surprised by Corporal Simms.” Crane leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees.

  “Crane, as I see it I am ‘erring on the side of caution’ as you put it. I am not about to spread panic throughout the Olympic community and the local community, by calling an accident a murder. Imagine the implications.” Captain Edwards shuddered. “No. Sorry, Crane, accidental death it is.”

  “But -”

  “No buts, Sergeant Major.” Edwards rose from behind his desk, as was his habit, showing Crane that he was not only superior in rank, but superior in height.

  Crane stood, but didn’t leave the office. “Major Martin said ‘most likely’ not ‘definitely’. I specifically queried that point.”

  “Crane, that’s enough. I really think you are splitting hairs. I’m going with accidental death.” Edwards moved from behind the desk and opened the door. “That will be all.”

  “Sir,” Crane moved towards the open door. Then stopped. “You don’t think?”

  “I don’t think anything, Crane!” Edward’s voice rang out, causing a passing soldier to stop and look round. “And neither should you. Dismissed.”

  As Crane stalked off he tried to rein in his temper by reminding himself his special assignment was only for just over a month. As of today he was responsible for security on the garrison for forty days and forty nights whilst Team GB and then the Paralympians were on the garrison - so he’d better get on with it.

  Night 1

  The cold seeped into his bones, making him shiver. From his position under the trees, Padam Gurung could just make out the sports centre, ethereal in the dim light, as if the hopes and dreams of all the athletes that practiced there, surrounded it. He prayed their hopes and dreams would not be shattered as his had been, for he knew how important hope was. Without hope there was nothing.

  Shifting his small frame slightly to avoid a sharp branch from the tree he was leaning against, Padam wrapped the army great coat given to him by the Gurkha Welfare Society more tightly around him. His friends back in Aldershot town centre couldn’t understand why he spent night after night outside like this, keeping silent watch over the garrison in general and now the sports centre in particular. But Padam loved to be in the open. After spending a lifetime outdoors, firstly in the British Army and then working his small farm in Nepal, he found the dirty, small flat he shared with five other men, claustrophobic.

  Plus, he needed a purpose and what better purpose than being close to his beloved army? Serving it as best he could, even in old age, by standing guard in the cold, early hours of the morning. He chose the sports centre tonight as he felt it was most vulnerable to terrorist attack. After all, what could you do to an athletic track? Plant trackside bombs that would be found by the regular checks? So a building, particularly one containing an Olympic sized swimming pool, squash courts, gymnasium and badminton courts, needed his protection.

  He couldn’t get inside, of course, to patrol the actual building, nor could he openly patrol the parameter, so he did what Gurkhas do best. Lie patiently, hidden. Watching. Waiting.

  Needing to move, as his old joints were stiffening, he carefully lay face down in the long grass. He wished for a pair of binoculars, although he knew they were of little use at night. But even so they would be better than just his rheumy old eyes. Buying a pair was out of the question, though. He had no possessions to speak of and no money to buy anything with. Lured by the promise that ‘England will look after you’, after the Gurkha Resettlement Agreement in 2009, championed by Johanna Lumley, he had sold everything he owned in Nepal to pay for his visa and flight. His family were now marooned back in Nepal and he was stranded in Aldershot. His hope for a glorious future in the land he had once fought for, shattered by the reality of life in England.

  Glancing up at the sky, he saw the slight lighting that heralded the coming dawn, still about an hour away. He had to be gone at first light. With part of Team GB on the garrison in preparation for the start of the Olympic Games he knew he couldn’t be found, even though his presence was benign. Who would believe him? And anyway how would he be able to explain, with his English limited to basic words such as ‘hello’ ‘goodbye’ and ‘thank you’.

  Lifting his head, as he prepared to crawl back under cover of the trees, he saw a flicker of a shadow out of the corner of his eye. Was it something, or just his old eyes playing tricks? Temporary night blindness, after looking at the lighter dawn sky? From his vantage point he had an uninterrupted view of the front of the building and part of the left hand side. But could see nothing beyond the right corner. Taking great care not to move his body and rustle the long grass, his eyes swept from left to right along the length of the sports centre. Nothing. Slowly peering back along the grey frontage he still saw nothing untoward, until he reached the left side of the building.

  A black smudge. Low against the wall. Padam waited. The smudge waited. The rising dawn called to Padam, urging him to move so he could return to the town centre safely. But Padam knew he must stay where he was. His arthritic knees locked tight and his thigh muscles went into spasm, but Padam still refused to move. Ignoring the cries of pain that were turning into screams. Until his vigilance was at last rewarded. The smudge left the shelter of the wall and ran low and fast towards a clump of trees about 100 yards distant.

  Crawling backwards, stiff legged, into the shelter of the trees, Padam rolled over and began to massage his limbs, slowly coaxing his knees to bend. As he hobbled away in the early light of dawn through the trees towards Queens Avenue, he pondered the thorny question of whom he should speak to about what he had seen.

  Night 2

  Here I stand among you, the mischief makers. Those who attack Islam. I am mired in your society, the modernity and the western influence that is also perverting my country. I am engulfed by your media - television, radio, newspapers and magazines. It sickens me how they try to subvert people, especially the young, with song, dance, fashion, alcohol, drugs, sex and freedom.

  In your towns I see citizens gorging themselves on un-necessary trinkets. Electronic nick-knacks they insist they cannot live without. Bigger, better televisions, radios, mobile phones and computers. All the while worshiping their God - money. This way of life is abhorrent to me.

  I am disgusted by your young people. Boys who think they are men, who have no respect for themselves, their elders or their leaders. They don’t work, just stand around on street corners openly drinking alcohol. And don’t get me started on your women. I have never seen such sights. Acres of female flesh on show. Women degrading themselves, by allowing men to ogle parts of their body that should only be seen by their husband. Jezebels taunting every man who walks past them in the street. At least on the garrison, I am shielded somewhat from their adulterous provocations.

  But even here I cannot escape their tantalising ways. Look here comes one now. A woman serving in your army. A woman who should be at home looking after her husband, children or parents. See how she marches along head proudly held high. The sight is repulsive to me. She should be modestly veiled when in public. By not doing so, she spits in the eye of Muhammad, the Prophet, who is the epitome of all virtue and honour.

  But in truth some of the men I have met are no better than their blasphemous women. Yesterday I happened to meet one of the padres on the garrison. A Christian leader, looking after the spiritual wellbeing of the men and women who serve here. He wanted to engage us in ideological and theological discussion, but I found I couldn’t speak to him. Watching him, a man of religion, quaff alcohol - I tell you it made me feel ill. So I made my excuses and walked away. I couldn’t stand it that you evil infidels in the West think that you can pick and choose which parts of your religion to adhere to. Separating out the bits you don’t want and discarding them. Thinking that it’s enough to
turn up to church once a week and go through the motions.

  For a Muslim this practice is unthinkable. The Muslim world view does not compartmentalise and dichotomise the various areas of life. It is holistic. Our beliefs are incorporated into every area of our daily lives. Our religion tells us how to dress, bathe, eat and pray. No part of a devout Muslim’s life is separate from his Islamic beliefs.

  And so it has become our cause to expel the crusaders from our homelands and re-establish Sharia law. This cause is not without reason. We are following the command of the Qur’an. Look, this is the place. Let me share with you for a moment the words from our Holy Book:

  Fight those who believe not

  In good nor the Last Day,

  Nor hold that forbidden

  Which hath been forbidden

  By God and His Apostle,

  Nor acknowledge the Religion

  Of Truth. (Qur’an 9:29)

  How can you argue with that? You Westerners don’t acknowledge the religion of truth, the Muslim religion. So, for this reason my men and I take part in the struggle. In the jihad. An external struggle against the forces of evil and non-believers. That’s why I am here in your country. In England.

  For the time being I am forced to wear a mask. No one must know what lies behind it. My real thoughts and feelings. I will play my part. All the while looking for an opportunity to strike, to teach you, the infidels, a lesson you will never forget.

  Day 3

  Crane imagined he saw the face of Captain Edwards reflected back at him in the mirror and his curled fists itched to smash it to smithereens.

  “Bloody Edwards,” he turned and said to his wife, “this is his way of getting back at me, because he doesn’t like my methods when it comes to investigating. Tosser. He likes the solutions though.”

  Crane’s fingers fumbled with the mess of his tie, so he gave up and tried to rip it off.

  “Come here, Tom, and let me do that for you.”

  Moving over to the bed, he sat next to his wife, Tina, and allowed her to put right the chaos he had created, calming slightly under her slow languid movements.

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting,” she said, her dark eyebrows arching.

  Crane felt the pressure of her hands on his shoulders, an attempt to stop him rising from the bed.

  “Captain Edwards has great respect for you, Tom, and anyway, what could be more important than protecting Team GB as they prepare for the Olympic Games on Aldershot Garrison?”

  “Solving crimes, not babysitting. For fuck’s sake, Tina, Special Investigations Branch doesn’t do babysitting, especially not warrant officers. This is a job for the Royal Military Police.”

  Crane jumped up and began to comb his short dark hair, that didn’t in fact need any combing. He carefully inspected his face in the mirror, checking to see that his beard, that he’d had to get special permission to grow, covered most of the scar that ran across his cheek. A souvenir from shrapnel in Afghanistan. Chucking the comb back on the dressing table, he returned to the bed and couldn’t help smiling at Tina lying there looking like a beached whale. Albeit a glowing one.

  “Anyway, enough of that.” Crane pushed his anger and frustration to the back of his mind and continued, “How are you and the little man doing this morning?”

  “Fine, I think, although he’s a bit stuck at the moment, see?”

  As Tina pulled back the duvet to expose her swollen stomach, he saw a large bump close to her extended belly button. Reaching over, Crane massaged his son’s extremity until the baby shifted slightly and the lump disappeared. It worked every time and every time it amazed him.

  “Are you staying in bed?”

  “No, I think I’ll get up if you’ll just give me a hand and I’ll come downstairs for a cup of tea.”

  After helping Tina, Crane ran downstairs, collected his briefcase from just inside the front door and slipped his suit jacket over his white shirt. As Branch Investigators don’t wear army uniform whilst on normal duties, Crane had found a uniform of his own. Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. The white shirt close fitting to emphasis his stocky muscular build. Placing the case on the large pine table in the kitchen, he checked through the files to make sure he had everything he needed. He was looking through the Strategic Security Review as Tina joined him.

  “Are those the security arrangements?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she tied back her long dark hair.

  “Yes, Staff Sergeant Jones seems to have done a good job. I’ve really no idea why I need to oversee it. God knows what Edwards was thinking of.”

  “For goodness sake, stop grumbling, Tom. It’s not for ever. It’s just a temporary arrangement.”

  “I know, but it’s still over a month.” Glancing down at the calendar stapled to the inside cover, he said, “Thirty-seven days to be precise.”

  “And nights, don’t forget, if you’re going to be that pedantic,” Tina replied.

  ***

  Those phrases rattled around in his head as he drove from his semi-detached Victorian house in Ash, towards the Royal Military Police Barracks on Aldershot Garrison. Forty days and forty nights. His own personal wilderness. Until he could get back to his real job.

  Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn’t get away from the feeling that this was part of his punishment after the last big case he investigated. A few days ago, Captain Edwards explained it was just a way of easing Crane back into active duty after nearly four months of sick leave after being shot twice. He was also careful to stress that it was an important role that needed an experienced man. What a knob, Crane thought, shaking his head. If I believed that bullshit, then I’d believe anything.

  As far as Crane was concerned he’d emerged from the whole ordeal fitter, lighter and raring to go. After spending the previous month on light duties, helping to shape the security plans, with a gradual return to full time hours, he had grown in confidence and frustration in equal measure. He should have been leading his investigating team by now, not overseeing security.

  But still, it was an unusual situation on the garrison Crane had to admit. And with no major crime for him to investigate, as Edwards was insisting the young dead soldier hadn’t been murdered…well he supposed it made some sort of weird sense. And even if it didn’t, whatever his frustrations, he knew he had to obey orders.

  Crane shouted ineffectually at a motorist in front of him, who was taking too long to turn right at the T-junction. The man couldn’t hear him, but must have been able to see the abusive gestures that accompanied the words. Ignoring Crane’s outburst, the man placidly remained stationary. Clearly waiting for what he considered to be the right moment, despite Crane’s frantic bursts on the horn, before eventually crossing the road during a break in the flow of traffic. Crane took the opportunity to follow, his tyres squealing as he raced away, narrowly missing a car coming up the road on his right hand side.

  Crane was on the back route today from Ash to Aldershot, so he entered the garrison via Government Road. A little way up on his left he could see the new St Omer Barracks that had risen from the debris of the demolished concrete tower block. A new complex of single soldier accommodation, constructed in just less than four months. Crane had watched the barracks take shape when the modular blocks were delivered to site complete and then fastened together. To Crane St Omer Barracks now looked more like student accommodation, or an office block, rather than a traditional army building. But he knew he had to move with the times, despite his fondness for army tradition, history and architectural heritage.

  The new modular units were now the home of the Olympians, who had arrived a couple of days ago to much local fanfare. Crane was unhappy about that as well. In his opinion the less people knew about the whereabouts of Team GB the better. But the army was keen to publicise their involvement with the athletes who were carrying the pride of the nation on their shoulders. Also the local mayor was panting for any conceivable opportunity to get his face on the front page of a ne
wspaper – any newspaper local or national. Crane grimaced as he glanced at the front page of a tabloid newspaper on his car seat, showing the mayor’s grinning face in its pock marked glory.

  As he passed the barracks, Crane saw armed soldiers at the entrance, carefully checking each vehicle, oblivious to the long line of cars awaiting entrance to the complex. Soldiers were also patrolling the perimeter, some with guns, and others with dogs. He hoped it wasn’t putting off the athletes. The last thing the army wanted was to make them feel like they were in prison. But it was better to be safe than sorry. Each athlete, coach, PR, liaison, dietician and myriad of hangers on, no doubt providing essential support, had been photographed, recorded and background checked. The army and Crane left nothing to chance.

  As St Omer Barracks wasn’t Crane’s destination, he continued around the garrison to Provost Barracks, where Staff Sergeant Jones was in the operations room taking the morning briefing. Crane slipped into the room and leaned against the back wall, quietly observing the tall, bald headed man in his pristine uniform double checking that the security details were in position on each barracks and running through the order of the day for his RMP. As Aldershot Garrison was the main thoroughfare for civilians from Aldershot to North Camp along Queens Avenue, the decision was taken to provide extra security around each barracks, leaving the wider garrison open to civilians as far as possible. The hope was that the added traffic caused by the athletes and their entourages, not to mention the press, would create traffic jams which local people would rather avoid if possible and so stay away.

  As the briefing finished, Crane looked at Jones and inclined his head towards the outside of the building. The resulting grin and nod of the head meant his message was received and understood.

  Outside, the two men lounged against the mellow red brick wall of the barracks, basking in the early morning July sun. Although Crane was the higher ranking of the two, they were friends as well as colleagues and when alone didn’t adhere to the formal use of titles.