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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “That should do it.” Crane didn’t bother to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, as the office door swung shut on the retreating Dudley-Jones.

  “Nice one, boss,” Billy grinned. “A very incisive overview of the situation.”

  Day 10

  Padam awoke to a cluster of black dots hovering in front of his eyes. As he blinked, he saw the mass was growing, advancing across the ceiling and down the walls. He was afraid of what the damp mould was doing to his lungs. Several of his friends appeared to have developed breathing problems, but weren’t able to see a doctor as their paperwork hadn’t come through yet. If only they had all understood the importance of birth certificates. Not having one made things very difficult indeed here in England. Nepal wasn’t big on paperwork when he was born. You were just born. End of story. Or rather, the start of it, depending on which way you looked at things. Padam hoped his story wouldn’t end before he was re-united with his family.

  Fed up with staring at the ceiling, he climbed out of bed, picking his way around the still sleeping bodies of his friends on his way to the bathroom. More mould. The bathroom suite was old and decrepit but still sturdy under the grime. It was a shame they couldn’t afford cleaning products. Shuffling into the kitchen Padam made himself a cup of hot water, wishing there was some tea to put in it. He was hungry but didn’t bother to look in the cupboards for any breakfast. He knew they would be empty. But despite these problems Padam was feeling positive, as today he was going to see the interpreter at the Gurkha Welfare Office about the smudge. And it wasn’t far to walk.

  He was glad to see the kind lady was in the office when he arrived. She looked up and smiled at him, indicating he should once again sit on one of the red plastic chairs. It seemed a very long wait, but Padam amused himself by looking around the office. Brightly coloured posters were plastered on one of the walls. Perhaps conveying information? Padam wasn’t sure. He checked through his plastic carrier bag to make sure he had his important documents with him. If in doubt produce them, he was always told. His eye was caught by a picture of his family. His wife, son and daughter. Their image caught forever on a small glossy square of paper. Waiving him goodbye as he left for England. Would he ever see them again? Somehow he doubted it. But he had to keep hoping.

  His introspection was interrupted by the sound of an old Nepalese man coming out of an office in the corner of the room. The kindly lady called to Padam. It was his turn.

  “Welcome, Padam,” the man greeted him speaking in Nepalese accompanied by a small bow, which Padam returned. “What can I do for you?”

  It was such a relief to tell someone his important news. A fellow Nepalese, the interpreter was much younger than Padam. His name was Unman Bahadur and Padam learned that his father was currently a captain in the Gurkha Regiment. Glossy black hair topped the round happy face prevalent in his race. Padam noted the man was dressed smartly in a dark suit and didn’t look hungry. Unman listened with respect, making notes along the way as Padam hesitantly told the story of the smudge.

  Perhaps because the interpreter was from a family with military connections, he wasn’t perturbed by the fact that Padam had been out on the garrison at night. He agreed that the authorities needed telling and promised to let them know at the earliest opportunity. But that wasn’t good enough for Padam, who refused to move until Mr Bahadur contacted the Royal Military Police. This forced the interpreter to pick up the telephone and have a conversation, which he translated for Padam along the way.

  - “Good morning, this is Unman Bahadur from the Aldershot Gurkha Welfare Office. Could I please speak to someone in charge? Yes, I’ll hold. Thank you.” Mr Bahadur translated whilst he waited to be connected.

  - “To whom am I speaking?”

  - “Good morning, Staff Sergeant Jones. I wish to let you know of a suspicious sighting that has been reported to this office by a Gurkha, living in Aldershot.”

  - “Yes, I do think this matter should be taken seriously.”

  - “What’s happened? Well, it appears that Padam Gurung was on the garrison on July 4th and again on July 7th between Midnight and four am, when he saw a suspicious shadow moving around in the vicinity of the sports centre.”

  - “Yes, on both nights, that’s correct.”

  - “He has been unable to report it to anyone because of the language barrier, Staff Sergeant. He’s had to wait until today, which was the earliest appointment with me.”

  - “Yes, Padam can be contacted through this office. I’m sure he would be happy to talk to you through me. We could do that now on the telephone if you like.”

  - “Oh, I see. Yes, please do call me at any time on Aldershot 774302. If I’m not here a member of staff will be able to contact me straight away.”

  - “Yes, thank you, goodbye.”

  Throughout the telephone conversation, Padam interrupted, telling the interpreter that he would go to the RMP that very minute to tell them what he had seen. But as the conversation went on, he became deflated, realising that wasn’t going to happen.

  After replacing the receiver, Mr Bahadur explained that Staff Sergeant Jones was very interested in what Padam had seen, but unfortunately had to go and deal with another equally pressing matter. But Padam could be sure the RMP would be in touch with him, through the Welfare Office, very shortly, and someone would take a statement from him. After taking Padam’s address, the interpreter said that he himself must get on as he had other people to see this morning, but he was confident he would see Padam again quite soon.

  Collecting his carrier bag Padam shuffled out of the office, smiled goodbye to the kind lady and went back to the wasteland of his life.

  Night 10

  You might ask what I’m doing here? How I came to be here? Well I am one of the lucky but small contingent of officers deemed to be ‘brilliant’. The ones with the most potential. The ones with leadership qualities that will ensure we become the highest ranking officers of our army. The happy chosen few.

  But what you stinking infidels fail to realise is that I come from an affluent, already powerful family. Because of this privilege I have been educated and am comfortable in elite social circles. Your leaders don’t understand that my family always intended that I join the military. That I was groomed from childhood to play an important role in the running of our country. We already have politicians and religious leaders in our extended family. But there was no one in the military. Until now.

  I have learned my lessons well. I can be suave and sophisticated if needed, yet a ruthless leader of men when required. Bringing fear into their eyes, ensuring their utter devotion to me and our glorious cause.

  The soldiers I lead are mostly from poor backgrounds. They have little or nothing of their own. In many instances they are illiterate. They do not have electricity or running water in the hovels they live in. Therefore, it falls to people like me, their leader, to shield them from the modernism of the western ways. To ensure they are immersed in the teachings of the Qur’an as well as in the ways of basic fighting. So when the time comes there will be fighting forces all over our country that will be ready, willing and able, to rise up against the infidel invaders. To claim back our country in the name of Allah and expel the evil force that is poisoning our land.

  Therefore, my task here is twofold. Firstly, to learn from your precious army. To learn all your ways, so that I may understand you better and therefore be able to outsmart you in battle. Secondly, to strike a blow against you unbelievers. Thirdly to do so without harming myself. For I am destined to be an important leader. A call I cannot ignore, nor would want to. For I am the chosen one. And as such am invincible.

  Day 11

  The crash from above had Crane racing up the stairs.

  “Tina!” he called as he took the stairs two at a time, following the sound to the bathroom door. “Tina, are you alright?” he called again, pushing the door.

  Nothing. No reply from Tina and no movement from the door. It remained solid in its r
igid frame. An innate object, oblivious to Crane’s concern for his wife.

  “Tina, for God’s sake!”

  This time he heard a slight moan, muffled by the pine.

  “What the hell did you lock the door for?”

  He rattled the door knob, although he knew it was useless. The door was locked from the inside by a small bar, pushed across from the door to the lintel. He would have to break in.

  Taking a few steps backwards, he hesitated. He daren’t shoulder the door open, God knows what damage it would do to the weakened bone. Luckily the landing wasn’t wide and so supporting his back and hands on the railing he gave a well-placed flat footed kick to a point just above the door knob. Three times. The door gave way, causing some damage to his foot in reprisal.

  Crane burst into the room finding his wife dazed and confused in the bath, entrenched in slimy water. Grabbing her arm, he tried to lift her out, only to find she was as slippery as a piece of cod from the fishmongers in the High Street. Her arm flopped out of his grasp and slithered back into the water.

  “What the hell?”

  Pulling the plug to let the water out of the bath, Crane reached up to the shelving above the toilet, grabbing the first large towel he could find. Wrapping this around Tina’s back and under her arms, he managed to lift her to her feet holding her as she stepped out of the bath. Throwing the now sodden towel to one side, he watched as she wrapped herself in a towelling dressing gown and shuffled from the bathroom to the bedroom. Leaving her there to rest, he went downstairs to make a cup of tea and tried to calm down. Bloody stupid woman, what the hell did she think she was doing? It was probably some sort of home beauty treatment he thought, knowing Tina.

  “My hero!” she grinned as he returned to the bedroom, two mugs of tea in his hand. His with three sugars in for the shock.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Crane sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Just fancied a bath,” she smiled tentatively, her damp hair hanging round her face, sticking to her neck and shoulders. The precious bump barely contained by the bathrobe.

  “What the hell did you put in the water? I still can’t get the grease off my hands,” Crane rubbed them together to prove his point. “And I’ll have to change my shirt.”

  He looked down at his grease splattered white shirt that more than likely needed throwing away.

  “Baby oil,” Tina answered. “I read somewhere that if you put it in your bath water, it helps to keep your skin supple so you don’t get stretch marks.”

  “Jesus, had you put the whole bloody bottle in? Can you stick to showers in future, Tina? Please? If it means having you in one piece but with stretch marks, then so be it. And don’t lock the door! Understood?” Crane’s fear made him shout.

  “Understood, Sergeant Major,” Tina grinned. “Now shouldn’t you be getting to work? Sorry I’ve made you late.”

  “It’s okay,” Crane replied, but glanced at his watch all the same. “Look, why don’t we go out for dinner tomorrow night. I know I haven’t been able to spend much time at home lately, but I’ll make sure I can get away on time tomorrow. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now bugger off,” and she sank back on the pillows cradling her mug of tea.

  Crane was, in fact, quite glad to bugger off, although he was accompanied by the guilty hot pin poking his brain as he drove to work. He felt guilty for not spending more time with Tina, who was alone during her maternity leave from her job at the bank, not only during the day but well into the evening on most nights. The scan had gone well and she’d begrudgingly shown him the photographs, carefully pasted into the ‘Our First Baby Album’. He hadn’t expected his business like independent wife to be so soppy, but it looked like becoming a mother was changing her.

  He also felt guilty when he went off duty, worrying something would happen on the garrison whilst he was away. He’d be glad when the athletes went. Still, the thefts from Sergeant Major Dunn’s stores had been sorted out. It turned out to be a couple of opportunists from the civilian staff, who were now spending their time going to the Jobcentre Plus instead of peeling potatoes. The thefts of jewellery still hadn’t been solved, but the undercover WPC was in place and hopefully ingratiating her way into an unsuspecting, thieving group of cleaners.

  Crane was fed up of feeling guilty. Was this a forerunner of things to come he wondered? Will he spend the rest of his army career feeling torn between his family and the army? Probably, he decided as he swung into the car park in front of his barracks.

  Unfortunately, his day didn’t improve, as the first thing he saw when he entered the office, was the sallow face of the Intelligence Operative.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Major,” Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones called standing to attention. “I wonder if I might have a word.”

  “Very well, Lance Corporal, wait in my office and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Crane took his time making his morning coffee. Then had a quick look through the memos and lists left by Billy and Kim from last night and checked if the forensic report had come in on Lance Corporal Simms. It had. So he read it. Only then did he go into his office, lean back in his seat and look at the Intelligence Operative.

  “Right, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir. There’s been a fair amount of chatter on the airwaves over the past couple of days.”

  Crane closed his eyes, bloody hell this was all he needed.

  The Lance Corporal continued, “We have reason to believe the talk was about a plan to be implemented soon.”

  Crane opened his eyes and fixed them on the Intelligence Operative.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Um, at the moment that’s a bit vague.”

  “I see. Who was this chatter between?” When he got no reply, Crane tried again, “Is it from any of the Afghan officers on the garrison?” Dudley-Jones was beginning to try his patience.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Not exactly?” By now Crane was very pissed off.

  “No, sir, none of them were involved as far as we know.”

  Crane got up and walked into the main office with the Lance Corporal trotting behind him and stood by the large scale map of the garrison. Taking a deep breath, he tried out his foundling diplomatic skills.

  “So, as I understand it, Lance Corporal, you are warning me that there is increased activity on the airwaves, which may or may not indicate that there is a terrorist plan afoot.” Crane’s fists were clenched at his sides.

  “Exactly right,” the Lance Corporal beamed. But with his sallow skin it looked more like a Halloween leer.

  “This may or may not involve one or more of the Afghan officers on our garrison.”

  “Indeed, sir.” The leer was still in place.

  “However, as I also understand it you have not one piece of physical evidence or any witnesses to support this.” By now Crane’s jaw was clenched as well as his fists.

  The leer started to wobble. “Well...”

  “Just as I thought. The thing is, Lance Corporal, I am just a simple detective working with dead bodies, victims, forensic tests and witnesses.”

  Crane put his hand out to stop the other man speaking.

  “In other words, physical things. Things I can hold in my hand, evidence I can see and people I can talk to. These are the tools of my trade, if you like, just as Intel is yours.”

  Crane stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked around Dudley-Jones.

  “So, you are telling me that perhaps something may be happening, either shortly or in the distant future. Is that right?”

  He stopped and stared at Dudley-Jones who nodded in agreement. At least Crane thought he did. It was difficult to tell as the young man had his head on his chest, staring at the floor. Crane picked up the file containing the forensic tests on Corporal Simms.

  “The difference between us is that I can tell you that someone was definitely with Corporal Simms on the night he died. Simms had a jet black hair on his should
er. Which is all very well, you might say. Until I also tell you that Simms was blond and none of the other soldiers who were on patrol with him that night had jet black hair.”

  The Lance Corporal didn’t speak.

  “So, as a number of the Afghan officers currently on the garrison have jet black hair, I wonder if it may be a better use of your time to get back undercover and see if you can hear any ‘chatter’ from them.” Crane put quotation marks in the air around the word chatter. “And, don’t forget to pick up any stray black hairs you may find. Dismissed.” Crane emphasised the final word by shouting it.

  Watching the Lance Corporal’s back as he left the office, Crane mulled over the conversation, feeling that his diplomatic skills still needed work, as they were more akin to sarcasm. He rubbed his beard, fingering the scar. Dear God, he thought, still twenty-nine days left.

  Night 12

  Crane’s guilty hot pin had been working overtime, meaning the day had been full of additional tension, as he was determined to get away on time and not let Tina down. Eventually he rushed into the house, had a quick shower and changed into clean clothes, whilst Tina waited on the settee, pretending to be absorbed in the local news. She had on her best maternity dress and to Crane looked absolutely wonderful, her skin glowing and her hair a shiny, soft curtain falling down her back.

  As Aldershot was not noted for its plethora of fine restaurants, Crane had opted for El Pic, the Spanish tapas restaurant near the Atrium, in Camberley. Thinking that something different would make it an extra special evening. As long as the food was good. And they could get a table. Maybe he should have booked? And so the worrying went on as he negotiated the back roads though Camberley’s leafy suburbs that he knew Tina aspired to live in.

  Crane’s worries were unfounded. When they arrived at the restaurant, he felt they had stepped into another world. Crane saw Tina’s eyes widen as she took in the ambience of the Spanish restaurant. Dark wooden bar, dark wooden round tables and chairs, authentic Spanish memorabilia on the walls and Spanish guitar music playing softly in the background. The only thing Crane wasn’t sure about was the Spanish flag bunting strung around the bar, which to him struck a slightly garish note in the otherwise authentic atmosphere.