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

by Wendy Cartmell

  His shout of, “Tina!” died on his lips, as he spied his wife and son fast asleep in the large double bed. Walking into the room, he saw a note on the bedside table from Tina. ‘Sorry, so tired. Wake me up when you get home’.

  Crane looked down on his sleeping wife, waiting while his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. I have to get her some help, he realised as he kneeled by the bed and woke her by kissing her face and stroking her hair, careful not to disturb Daniel. As she blinked awake, she muttered, “Tom? Is that you?”

  “Yes, love.”

  “Sorry, is it that time already, I’ve slept longer than I meant to, I’ve got to get up, I need to make something for dinner, sorry.” Tina struggled to sit up with Daniel still in her arms.

  “It’s okay, I’ll take Daniel.” Crane lifted the baby and put him over his shoulder. “I’ll put him in his cot as he’s still asleep. Why don’t you have a shower while I cook dinner? I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.”

  He left the room before Tina could refuse his help. She had been doing a lot of that lately, refusing his help. But Crane could see by the pallor of her skin, the dark smudges under her eyes and unwashed hair, that she was clearly not coping. The baby stirred once in his arms and then settled again and Crane managed to get Daniel back into his cot without waking him. A quick sweep of the nursery confirmed that it needed tidying again, so muttering under his breath, he did just that. A few minutes later, as Crane clattered down the stairs, he heard the water running in the bathroom.

  With Tina and Daniel sorted, Crane opened the fridge, ready to try out his non-existent culinary skills. But the contents didn’t look promising. A wedge of old cheese, a couple of eggs, some left over vegetables and a litre of milk. Not enough ingredients to make a cheese omelette for two, which was his usual attempt at a meal. So Crane grabbed the phone and ordered a large take-away pizza to be delivered. He then went through the house, turning on lights, turning up the heating and opening a bottle of wine.

  By the time Tina came down, he was sipping a beer, with the pizza keeping warm in the oven.

  “Did I just hear the doorbell?” Tina asked.

  “Doorbell? No I don’t think so. Here sit down; I’ve poured you a glass of wine and dinner’s ready,” Crane said producing the pizza with a flourish, still in the Domino’s Pizza box.

  “You silly bugger,” Tina laughed and held up her glass. “Do you think I should drink this as I’m still breastfeeding the baby?”

  “Tina, I’m sure a small glass of wine won’t hurt.”

  Taking a sip of her drink, she said, “Mm that’s nice, thanks, Tom.”

  “Oh it was nothing, I only had to pick up the phone and place an order.”

  “You know what I mean. Thanks for helping and I’m sorry…”

  Crane cut in. “That’s enough of that. Normally it’s me saying sorry. Don’t you get into the habit as well; otherwise we’ll never get anywhere.”

  They managed to eat most of the pizza before the baby monitor squawked. Daniel telling them it was his turn to eat.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Tina, as she rushed out of the room.

  Crane sat alone for a while finishing the last slice of pizza and thinking about Tina for once, rather than work. As he did so, he unconsciously rubbed the scar under his beard - a red angry souvenir from shrapnel in Afghanistan, which he had collected whilst training members of the Afghan Police Force. Surrounded by an empty pizza box, empty beer can and half-drunk glass of wine, Crane came to a decision and picked up his mobile phone.

  5

  The following morning, DI Anderson was waiting for Crane, as he ran up the wide concrete steps fronting the shabby Victorian house.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Derek,” Crane said as he wrapped his dark coat around him against the cold wind, taking care not to bend the large brown envelope he was holding.

  “It’s okay, I know how you like to view the scene and anyway, a fresh pair of eyes can’t do any harm.”

  “Don’t know about fresh,” Crane sighed, rubbing his eyes to make his point, stopping just short of a yawn.

  “For goodness sake, pull yourself together, Crane. You’re not the only man in the world with a new baby in the house.”

  Realising he’d get no sympathy from Anderson, who was a father of two girls, Crane looked around the area. The terraced houses were on a street which had been an affluent area when the houses were first built. Now they were too large and expensive for families to buy and maintain and had therefore mostly been broken up into flats and bedsits. Looking over the railing of the steps, Crane saw a basement flat instead of a garden. Tilting his head back, Crane realised the houses were three storeys, a basement, ground and first floors.

  Anderson fished around for the bunch of keys, patting each of his pockets before finding it. He pushed a key into the lock on the large, scratched and scuffed green front door, opening it into a small hall area. On their left hand side was a door marked Flat 2. Anderson unlocked this, easily pushing open the flimsy plywood door and stepping back. “This is the one,” he said, rather unnecessarily.

  “Thanks, give me a minute, would you?”

  As Anderson turned and wandered back outside, Crane stepped into the small flat and pushed the door closed behind him, muffling, but not cutting out completely, the noise of the traffic filtering through from outside. Actually ‘flat’ was a generous description, Crane decided. Bedsit was more like it. As he looked around the room, the double bed dominated, drawing the eye. Opening the envelope he was holding, Crane removed large photographs of the crime scene. The bed dominated these as well and they showed a young girl lying on top of it.

  Crane took a few steps to the bed, fanning out the photographs on the now empty mattress. He placed them in order. The first was a close-up of Becca’s face, eyes open wide, staring, yet sightless. Eye makeup smeared. Lips faintly stained red from lipstick. The second photo showed her neck, bruised from the hands that throttled the life out of her.

  Carefully placing the third one in position, Crane looked at Becca’s bare breasts. Caught underneath her body, the remnants of the top the killer had ripped from her could just be seen. The fourth showed a close-up of her from her waist to the tops of her legs. Her short skirt was bunched up around her waist. Below that she was naked, bare legs splayed.

  The two remaining glossy pictures were of each leg, one of them was dangling off the edge of the bed. She was still wearing her shoes.

  Leaving the pictures in place on the bed, Crane straightened up and looked around. A large bay window was covered by curtains that were closed and underneath it was a small TV and digital receiver. The bed split the room in two and over on the far wall was a small kitchen area. Rounding the bed Crane walked over and saw another door. Pushing it open he revealed a small bathroom. The toilet, sink and shower were all covered in black fingerprint powder. Returning to the bed, Crane stood still and listened. The only sound was the slight humming of a small fridge in the kitchen.

  Crane tried to imagine this small space alive with a young girl getting ready for a night out with her friends, but found it impossible. The killer had sucked the life out of the bedsit as surely as he had sucked the life out of Becca.

  Collecting the photographs, Crane opened the door and joined Anderson in the hall.

  “No useful forensic evidence?” Crane asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “Not a bloody thing. No finger prints, no hair, no semen. Just traces of lubricant from a condom. No wrappers, cigarette butts, empty glasses he drank from. No hairs in the sink, down the plug holes or in the drain pipes. No…”

  “Alright, Derek, I get the picture. The forensic team have done a thorough job and came up with nothing.”

  “That’s about right.”

  Anderson closed and double locked the door to Flat 2. Moving through the front door and standing on the steps he said, “The only thing we’ve got is the witness who swears the bloke was a squaddie.”<
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  “Well that link is a bit tenuous to say the least.”

  Crane joined Anderson on the steps and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his coat. His new tactic, aimed at stopping him lighting a cigarette.

  “Why? Because you don’t want it to be one of your lads?” Derek patted down his hair, which was being blown about by the cold wind.

  “Not at all, Derek,” Crane walked down the steps. “It’s because it’s such a generic description. Your so called witness can’t really help with colour of hair, eyes, height or build, can she? And she was drunk at the time. And it was in a crowded pub with dim lights and blaring music.”

  “Well, as it’s the only thing I’ve got at the moment, I’m running with it. So on Saturday night I’ll be going around the bars talking to doormen and taxi drivers. I need to find anyone who saw Becca last week. Why don’t you come too? Maybe then we can start filling in some of your blanks.”

  6

  Crane’s superior officer, Captain Edwards, was not happy. Actually, Crane thought that was an understatement. Edwards was furious. And all Crane had done was to tell him about the two rape cases.

  “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” Edwards said tersely, standing behind his desk and peering down at Crane, who was sitting on the other side. “You’re firstly telling me that a young girl, Becca Henderson, was raped and murdered last Saturday night and Aldershot Police thinks a squaddie was the culprit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Crane replied just to get up Edwards’ long nose.

  “And secondly,” Edwards continued, ignoring the interruption, “Billy has reported a conversation with one Private Sebastian Turner, who has confessed to being raped by a fellow soldier.” Edwards pushed his straight black hair from his deep forehead.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dear God, whatever is the British Army coming to?” Edwards fumbled behind him, grabbed his chair and sank into it. “There is nothing I hate more than rape cases. Very sensitive issues involved and they can be very hard to prove. So, over to you, Crane, I think. Tell me what you’re going to do about them.”

  Crane once again noted Edwards’ trick of demanding answers without offering any investigative insight.

  “Well, sir, I’m going out with DI Anderson again on Saturday night, this time to question the doormen at the local pubs and the taxi drivers. To see if we can find anyone who saw Becca that night or, more importantly, saw her rapist.”

  “What’s his description?” Edwards leaned forwards to listen.

  Crane opened his folder and read from a witness statement. Actually the only witness statement they had so far. “A witness described him, and I quote verbatim, ‘He was, like, tallish. I think his hair was blond, or blondish. I reckon he was a squaddie. After all, The Goose is a squaddie pub, innit?’ I’m not altogether sure if that last bit about The Goose was a question or a statement, sir.”

  “Come again?”

  Crane began to read the statement once more.

  “Shut up, Crane,” Edwards interrupted. “Is DI Anderson really taking this witness seriously?”

  “At the moment, sir, I don’t think he has much choice. It’s the only thing he has. No forensics at all I’m afraid. No finger prints, blood,”

  “Yes, yes, Crane, I know what forensics are, thank you.”

  Crane hid a surreptitious smile behind a coffee cup he put to his lips.

  “What about the other case?” Captain Edwards leaned so far back in his chair that Crane thought he was in danger of falling over backwards. It was as if Edwards was trying to get as far away from the cases as he could.

  “Well, sir, at the moment there’s very little I can do. Turner hasn’t made a formal complaint, but Billy is pretty sure he will. Until then, we just have to wait. I was thinking about doing some background checks, sir.”

  “Background checks on Turner you mean?”

  “Yes, sir, but also the other men in his Company, especially his superiors. If anything, it’s more likely a Corporal or Lance Corporal that’s doing this to him, someone with authority over him.”

  Edwards sat up straight. “I think you’re right on that one, Crane,” he said. “But you can’t go around doing background checks until a formal complaint is made. So keep that line of enquiry until Turner spills the beans. Understood?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Very well, dismissed.”

  ***

  Crane took the stairs down to SIB two at a time. Banging through the double doors, he called for Kim to join him in his office.

  “Right, Kim, a job for you on the Turner case. I want to make sure we’re prepared for when he makes a formal complaint.”

  “Sir,” Kim acknowledged, opening her notebook.

  “I want the records for the other Privates in his Unit and his immediate Corporal and Lance Corporal.”

  “Very well, sir. Whose authority do I log as granting permission for retrieving the information?”

  “Why, Captain Edwards, of course,” Crane managed to say with a straight face.

  A Letter to Billy

  Dear Billy

  This time I can start a letter properly, but you don’t need to know about that. This is a thank you letter really. I wanted to say thanks for listening when I blurted out my problems and for not running away as I confessed to what was happening to me. But as I recall, it was me that ran away wasn’t it? I know I’ll have to stop that if I want this thing to come to an end - running away that is. But I’m not sure if I have the courage yet to go through with giving you the name of my violator. The man who has crashed into my life and taken it over. The one who reduces me to a gibbering wreck. The person who has made me afraid of my own shadow.

  He’s very clever. He knows it’s the uncertainty that I find so frightening. The uncertainty that makes me jump if I hear a deep voice in the corridor outside my room. Is that him? Is he coming tonight?

  I used to stay around people as much as I could, safety in numbers and all that. But now I’m sure they can tell. I’m sure that they know, somehow, that I am less of a man than them. So now I shy away from my colleagues, which, in turn, makes me more isolated and vulnerable.

  I am trying hard to get a grip on my emotions. When I do, I’ll be strong enough to name him and face my shame. But I’m just not there yet.

  Sorry.

  7

  Saturday night found Crane back on duty in Aldershot town centre with DI Anderson.

  “We must stop meeting like this,” Anderson quipped as they took the short walk from the car park to the centre of town.

  For once it was Anderson marching along and Crane lagging behind. The cold night air bit after the warmth of the car, making Crane even more fed up.

  “Bloody hell, Derek, how come you’re so happy to be in Aldershot on a Saturday night?” he grumbled.

  “Oh stop being so grumpy, Crane. What’s the matter with you now?” Anderson stopped and waited for Crane to catch him up.

  “Sorry, it’s just that I don’t like leaving Tina too much at the moment. At least not more than I have to.”

  Crane stopped to light a cigarette, giving into the craving. Sod putting his hands in his pockets, he thought.

  “By the way, thank Jean for her visit, will you?” he asked once he’d taken that first all-important drag.

  “It did the trick then?”

  “Did it ever. At least now Tina isn’t trying to kill herself by breastfeeding the baby all the time. She took Jean’s advice, that there’s no shame in not producing enough milk for a three month old and has started bottle feeding Daniel. He just wasn’t satisfied by the amount of milk Tina was producing. So now I can take my turn giving him a bottle. It’s definitely made a difference to her. Well, to both of us, actually.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Anderson. “So can we get on with the job now?” and he picked up his pace again, heading for the plethora of bars clustered around Victoria Street.

  The ‘job’ involved talking to doormen, bouncer
s and taxi drivers, to see if anyone remembered Becca from last week. Anderson had managed to get a good head and shoulders photograph of Becca from her parents, so they didn’t have to show a picture of her dead. Always a plus, thought Crane, looking at the shot of Becca smiling into the camera, taken on a day out somewhere on the South Coast.

  As they strolled up the street, avoiding the debris, swaying girls and staggering boys, they stopped at each pub in turn including Yates and the Queen Victoria and talked to the doormen. Unfortunately, they got the same response everywhere.

  “No, mate, sorry not seen her before.”

  “They all look the same to me, pal.”

  “She’s not here tonight. Could you move along; you’re putting off the punters!”

  Crane decided that most of them were as thick as their biceps. When they got to The Goose, they flashed their badges and went inside.

  “Oy, you,” Anderson called to a young man working behind the bar, “over here.”

  Anderson put his credentials and the picture of Becca on the bar, under the young man’s nose.

  “Did you see this girl last Saturday night?”

  “Sorry, never seen her before.” The lad’s words come out slurred because of the tongue piercing he was sporting. His face was flushed from the heat, not only from the bodies crushed inside the pub, but also from all the chillers behind the bar. There were gleaming glass upright fridges lined up against the wall, filled with equally gleaming bottles of alcho-pops, in all colours of the rainbow, each one more enticing than the last. Pieces of fluorescent coloured card encouraged their binge drinking clients to buy, proclaiming ‘TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!’

  “Think about it,” Crane urged, wanting to bat the barman around the head to encourage his co-operation, but restraining himself. “Are you sure you didn’t see her last Saturday?”

  “I don’t need to think, mate, I wasn’t here.”

  “Well, who the bloody hell was?” Crane shouted, firstly from anger and secondly to make himself heard over the thumping music.