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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Well, so much for Captain Edwards’ theory. This lot couldn’t steal a box of tissues and carry them home, never mind sacks and boxes from the Aspire Defence stores.”

  “It makes me want to take pictures of ...that…that… debacle out there and then throw them in Edwards’ face.”

  “Apart from the fact that you’d lose your job.”

  “I suppose so,” Crane managed a grin. Straightening up he said, “I’ve got to ask the question. Anything of use so far?”

  “Not a dickey bird. Nothing suspicious at any of the squalid boxes unscrupulous landlords call flats. And not one of the Gurkhas has seen or heard anything about thefts, or been offered that type of stolen goods. Not that they could afford to buy them even if they were.” Derek threw a selection of reports at Crane.

  “What are they saying then? They must be saying something, there’s a lot of noise in there.”

  “Let me see. What about, ‘how can I get a job?’ ‘How can I get any money off the welfare state?’ ‘What do these documents mean?’ ‘Can you translate these papers for me?’ ‘Where do I go to get my rent paid?’ Do you need me to go on, Crane?”

  “No.” Crane stood.

  “What are you going to do now? Aren’t you going to help with this lot?”

  “Sorry, Derek got an urgent appointment with Captain Edwards, although he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Be careful, Crane,” Anderson warned.

  ***

  During the drive back to the barracks, Crane fumed whilst on the phone to Tina. He damned Edwards to hell and back for wasting his time, the resources of the Aldershot Police and the Royal Military Police. Then he went on to damn his Officer Commanding for giving him the job of babysitting. Overseeing perfectly good Royal Military Police staff sergeants who had their own chain of command. But most of all, for hindering his investigation of two murders. Well, one possible and one definite as Tina pointed out. Crane also told Tina that Edwards had vetoed the general circulation of the artist’s impression of the foreign looking soldier seen leaving the cemetery. Restricting it to Royal Military Police circulation only. Even the lads on the barrier had no idea Crane was looking for a mystery soldier, nor what he looked like. How the hell was he supposed to do his job properly with that idiot in charge he wanted to know?

  By the time Crane arrived back at the barracks he had cooled down and decided to heed both Anderson’s and Tina’s warnings to be careful. Standing to attention he made his report in a purely professional and unemotional way. He finished with, “Unfortunately, sir your excellent idea of actively investigating all the Gurkhas in the immediate vicinity has regrettably come to naught.” Zero, zilch, nil he added in his head.

  “Very well, Crane,” Edwards reached for a document on his desk. “In that case, let me know how you intend to proceed with the investigation into both the untimely deaths and the thefts. By tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

  Crane just about managed to hiss, “sir,” before fleeing the building for a cigarette.

  Once in the car park, Crane decided to go for a walk around the open playing fields to clear his head. As he walked he tried to clear his mind of all the negative feelings and thoughts about the current investigations in general and his Officer Commanding in particular. Lifting his eyes from the ground, he watched the disabled athletes train.

  In previous weeks the ground was littered with discarded clothing from the able bodied Olympic athletes. Track suits, shoes and shirts. This time Crane saw discarded wheelchairs, prosthetic legs and running blades. A sight that was at once both heart-breaking and inspiring.

  He watched the Paralympians for a while as they trained. Their determination clear from their decisive movements. He watched efforts made with a smile, despite the pain written on their faces and sweat running down their bodies. The entire endeavour topped with euphoria when a movement or race went well. Quite a number of the athletes were ex-forces personnel who had been injured in Iraq and Afghanistan and were forging new lives from the wreck of their old one, as disabled athletes. Crane felt humbled in their presence. And a bit of a twit, if he was honest. Here was a field full of people triumphing over adversity and all he could do was whinge.

  After another circuit of the field, he strode back into the barracks to make a couple of phone calls.

  Day 26

  Crane saw Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones hesitate at the door so called, “Come in, Lance Corporal, we won’t bite!” The ‘we’ being Crane, Billy and Kim. The gangly young man made his way to the conference table, placing his files on the Afghan officers on it, then perched on the edge of a chair.

  “Right,” Crane said. “I’ve called this meeting because it’s about time we got a handle on the Afghan officers on the base. Thanks for bringing your files, Dudley-Jones.”

  “Haven’t you been reading my reports, sir? The information I have on the officers was all in there.”

  “Really? Then in that case I must have missed something. What do you think, Kim? You’re the office manager. You’ve read all the reports and background information on the officers as well. Have I missed something?”

  Kim merely smiled at the question. Or rather, just turned up the corners of her mouth. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her pristine uniform as usual accentuating the coolness of her demeanour.

  “That’s what I thought. So,” Crane turned back to Dudley-Jones, “as I see it there are several questions to be answered.”

  “Are there, sir?” Dudley-Jones had turned that peculiar puce colour again.

  “Yes son and you are just the person to answer them for me, or get the answers I need. Kim, would you put the questions up on the board as we go?”

  Crane nodded at Billy.

  “Right, sir,” Billy said. “Firstly I think we need to know who is in overall charge of the group.”

  “Good place to start. What do you think, Lance Corporal?” As the Lance Corporal stayed silent, Crane prodded. “Come on, Dudley-Jones, please join in. This is a group brainstorm, not a witch hunt.”

  With some gentle and not so gentle persuasion, Crane’s list was made. He wanted answers to information such as: who was in charge; who had the officers been meeting with; were any splinter groups forming; anyone seeing each other covertly; anyone acting suspiciously; anyone not where they should be sometimes. Unfortunately, there were very few answers to the questions.

  “Right then, so, what’s the best way of getting the rest of the answers?” He asked all of them, but it was Dudley-Jones who answered, “Um, me, sir?”

  “Excellent, Lance Corporal. Glad you’re volunteering. I know you’ve been around the Afghan officers before, but this time I want you to focus your energies. Look at the demographics of the group. Just because one man is the senior officer, doesn’t mean he’s the one these people look to for support. A bit like in the British Army where the men look to an experienced Sergeant Major over an inexperienced officer, don’t you think?”

  Dudley-Jones looked stricken, as though just realising his mistake of possibly over estimating Captain Edwards and most certainly under estimating Crane. Kim merely turned up the corners of her mouth again and Billy went to get more coffee. “Kim,” Crane continued, “I want you to get itineraries for the group as a whole together with any differences for individuals. Since they arrived on the barracks, mind. Back dated information is as good as forward planning. Go over them tonight and leave a report for me to look at in the morning. Billy?”

  “Boss?”

  “When you’ve finished your coffee, pop over to the Sergeants’ Mess. See if you can hook up with anyone who has had even the slightest dealings with any of the Afghans.” As Billy beamed, Crane added, "Don’t forget you’re on duty, coke only please.”

  “And you, sir?” asked Dudley-Jones.

  “And me what?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Walk you outside, so I can have a cigarette.”

  The puce colour on Dudley-Jones face, brought on by
his latest gaff, had faded somewhat by the time the two men were outside.

  “I, um, that was, sir…” Dudley-Jones mumbled. Deciding for once to keep quiet, Crane waited for the young man to speak again. “It’s just that you seem rather good at this.”

  “Why thank you, Lance Corporal.” Crane took a drag of his cigarette to mask his smile.

  “I thought you hadn’t understood this intelligence stuff, but you do don’t you?” As Crane nodded, Dudley-Jones warmed to his theory. “All those questions that need to be answered about the Afghan Officers’ movements - that’s the sort of thing they do on the ground in Afghanistan.” Again Crane just nodded. The young man rushed on. “So I was just wondering, sir, why you’re not in the Intelligence Corp?”

  “Because, Lance Corporal, here in the Special Investigations Branch, we are hands on. We do. We don’t report stuff so others can do things. We actively investigate, not just watch over things. How can I explain? It’s a bit like that old adage, ‘those that can, do – those that can’t, teach’.”

  Crane ground his cigarette out under his foot and made for the door. Then he stopped and turned back to Dudley-Jones. “And rest assured, Lance Corporal. I have every intention of ‘doing’.”

  Crane’s idea of ‘doing’ involved knowing exactly where the Afghan officers were at the moment. Kim quickly looked up the information.

  “They’re in the Officers’ Mess, sir. Gathering for a formal dinner in their honour.”

  ***

  Crane made his way to the mess. The hum of chatter and clatter of knives and forks reached Crane as he entered the mess, by the back door into the kitchen. A Sergeant Major can’t enter the Officers’ Mess, unless by invitation. Each rank has their own mess as no soldier could be seen fraternising with someone of a higher or lower rank. Yet another clear example of the army’s rank structure. Crane stood at the swing doors from the kitchen into the dining room. None of the staff paid him any heed, his dark suit and ID around his neck signalling him out as SIB and no one was brave enough or reckless enough to draw attention to themselves. The head chef clocked him of course, but merely nodded.

  As the guests were all enjoying what appeared to be their main course, there was a lull in the comings and goings of the waiting staff through the swing doors. So Crane was able to stand there for some time, looking though the round glass covered holes cut into the top of the doors. The Afghan officers were easily identifiable just by their looks, let alone their different uniforms. Crane was searching for someone who fitted Padam’s description of dark skin, dark moustache and dark hair. To his dismay he found at least six of the twelve looked like that. The rest were either clean shaven or had full beards. From his vantage point he was unable to see if the clean shaven ones showed signs of paler spots on their faces, where a moustache or beard had been removed. All the officers seemed relaxed and able to understand a modicum of English, being engaged in conversation with their fellow diners. Even though he was officially off duty, Crane decided to sit outside in his car for a while, to observe the Afghans as they left the mess.

  Unfortunately, a Ford Focus wasn’t the most comfortable car to sit in for prolonged surveillance and after a while Crane became restless and uncomfortable, deciding to conceal himself outside. As he hid in the shadows of some trees, he saw a group of four Afghan officers emerge from the mess. They seemed to be deep in conversation. Crane watched as the group whispered to each other. They then each hugged one man in turn, before he peeled away in the direction of the sports centre. Just as Crane made the decision to follow the lone officer, his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. Looking at the caller ID he saw the call was from Tina.

  “Tina?” he hissed. “Are you okay?” He knew something must be wrong. They’d already agreed she would only phone tonight in an emergency.

  At first all he heard was panting, then, “Tom?” gasped Tina. “I think the baby’s coming!”

  Shit, Crane thought, but said, “Are you having contractions?”

  “No, I always bloody sound like this!”

  “Alright, Tina, calm down. I’m on my way. Have you called the hospital?”

  More panting. Then, “Yes. For God’s sake, Tom hurry up!”

  After taking one last lingering look at the fleeing Afghan Officer, Crane ran for his car.

  Day 27

  Crane arrived home, waking up most of the street with his screeching tyres as he pulled up in front of the house. He sprinted indoors, leaving the car engine running. He wanted to make sure he was ready to get away as quickly as possible, so the baby wasn’t born in the house or, dear God, on the back seat of his car. As he burst into the sitting room, tie askew and shirt tails hanging out, he found her relaxing on the settee, seemingly having recovered both her composure and control over her body. Her hair was still damp around her face from sweat, and as he folded her into his arms as best he could around her large bump, her breath against his neck was still fast and ragged.

  “Sorry, Tom,” she whispered into his shirt collar. “False alarm. A combination of Braxton Hick’s contractions and panic.”

  After Crane had made a cup of sweet tea and found a blanket to cover her with, she explained to him all about Braxton Hicks contractions. Not that she’d remembered about them in her panic. It was the maternity ward at the hospital who made the diagnosis. As Tina calmed down under the soothing voice of the midwife on the other end of the phone, she found that, as predicted, the contractions became less strong and less frequent. After sipping most of the tea she seemed to suddenly remember what she had interrupted.

  “Oh my God, the Afghans! What happened?”

  “Nothing much, I kept watch for a while, but didn’t see anything suspicious. So it looks like we both had false alarms tonight,” Crane had laughed.

  ***

  But he didn’t feel very jovial the next morning. His head a tangle of thoughts, as he tried to figure out what the lone Afghan officer could have been up to. Feeling claustrophobic in the office, he gave up trying to read Kim’s report and decided to go to the sports centre. The large grey building was in stark contrast to the older mellow red brick of Provost Barracks and the nearby New Mons and Clayton Barracks. Crane first took a turn around the outside of the building, missing the company and sharp eyes of Billy. He stopped at the grey metal door the mystery smudge disappeared into and out of. He closely examined every inch of the door, but couldn’t see signs of anyone trying to force the lock. Unless, of course, it had been picked. And as it was a door for maintenance personnel, it was rarely used.

  Deciding to take another look at the spot where Corporal Simms was found dead, Crane went back to the front of the building making his way through the busy complex, showing his pass several times along the way. He collected a maintenance man to unlock the doors, so he could explore underneath the swimming pool. It wasn’t possible for the two men to have much of a conversation, as the noise from the pumps, pipes, water, and muted shouts and screams from the athletes above their heads in training sessions, drowned out their voices. Try as he might, Crane learned nothing new from his walk around the cavernous space and reluctantly made his way back to the office, where he wanted to look up the details of the men on guard duty at the complex that night. At the very least he needed to check their reports and get one of the team to talk to them again to see if they had seen anyone or anything incongruous during their time on duty at the sports centre, not just around the time they lost Corporal Simms.

  He was also wondering where Padam Gurung was. No one had seen anything of him since the rounding up of the Gurkhas at Aldershot Police Station. Crane thought that after a grilling from the Royal Military Police and then the Aldershot Police, it was no wonder the man was lying low.

  Another layer of worry to add to the clutter of his thoughts was Tina. There was no way he wouldn’t have gone home last night he reassured himself. And he had been free to leave the garrison as he wasn’t on duty. But as it turned out to be a false alarm, he now wished he co
uld have stayed and watched the Afghan Officer. But that made him feel guilty all over again. Would he really put the job before Tina? Crane hoped not. But there was always that niggling doubt. He guessed, of course, that’s what Tina realised. That one day Crane would have to choose between the army and his family. If that time came, which way would the sword fall? Either option was fraught with problems. Jump one way and he could lose his job and the other way possibly his family. By the time he arrived back at the Royal Military Police Barracks, Crane’s head was spinning.

  Night 27

  I am beyond rage. Every fibre of my being is on fire with hatred for the infidels. The kaffir. Do you know what they wanted my Muslim brothers and I to do? To attend a church service! Can you believe it? The impudence. The effrontery. The audacity of these people. They said it would foster love, tolerance, integration and understanding of other religions. I have no need for any of that.

  The Prophet decreed that you must show no sign of love or affection in your heart for a kaffir. That love, fornication and freedom are not allowed for Muslims. The only guidance I need is the Holy Qur’an. The word of God which is written to guide mankind forever. The Holy Prophet Muhammad is the perfect model of Islamic teachings, whose example shall be forever binding on every Muslim to follow.

  We believe that, as the principles and teachings of religion reach perfection and completion in the Holy Qur’an and the example displayed by the Holy Prophet, it follows that the Qur’an is the final Book of God and that Muhammad (may peace and the blessings of Allah be upon him) is His Last Prophet, after whom no other Prophet can appear. The Qur’an requires Muslims to follow in these footsteps. To develop the highest personal attributes and moral virtues and display these qualities, even at the cost of their own individual or even national, interest.