10
Crane and Anderson sat disconsolately in the DI’s office in Aldershot Police Station. The Monday morning blues had never seemed more appropriate. Crane kept wondering if the attack wouldn’t have happened if he’d gone over to talk to Kim. If the lad really was in the army, perhaps seeing Crane and Anderson would have put him off approaching her. But that was assuming he was in the bar at the same time as them, of course.
Added to that, Crane’s guilty hot pin was poking him yet again. It was late in the evening when he’d returned home yesterday. He was off again, as usual, just before 08:00 hours this morning, needing to catch up on some paperwork before he met Anderson. He was still fearful about Tina being able to cope. At the moment he wanted to be at home as often as he could to help her, but as usual, work kept getting in the way.
Shrugging away his worries, he said, “Alright, Derek, let’s go over this lot one more time, starting with Blond Streak from Saturday night.”
“Blond streak?” Anderson laughed for the first time that morning, spluttering over the mouthful of tea he’d been drinking. “I suppose you mean the lad Simon?”
Smiling in response, Crane admitted, “Yes, that’s him. Sorry, can’t get past his hair.”
“Yes, well, the description he gave loosely fits that given by Becca Henderson’s girlfriend. They both describe the attacker as tallish, pale skin with blond hair. Simon said he didn’t remember ever seeing the lad in The Goose before that night. After what happened on Sunday afternoon, I called round to see Simon on my way home, this time with a picture of Kim. Simon said he remembered her as well. Apparently Kim stood out because she seemed quiet most of the night, not joining in too much with her friends. He described her as acting ‘a bit cold and stuck up’.”
“That sounds like Kim,” Crane smiled. “I often wonder if she ever manages to relax. She’s always so focused on her career. I can see how she would come over as detached and different from the rest of the girls.”
“It’s the description of the bloke Kim was with that’s bothering me, though,” Anderson confessed, picking up Simon’s statement. “He said she was with a tallish dark-haired chap, again someone he doesn’t remember seeing in the pub before.”
“That ties in with Kim’s statement as well,” Crane said. “How come the descriptions of the rapist are so inconsistent? He was firstly blond-haired and then dark.”
“Buggered if I know,” grumbled Anderson. “Kim’s statement isn’t reliable as she was under the influence of Rohypnol. At least that’s what the Doctor thinks she was given until we get the toxicology results. Come to think of it, Becca’s girlfriend isn’t a reliable witness as she was pretty drunk at the time.”
“Hmm, but Simon wasn’t drunk, nor under the influence of drugs.”
“Maybe he’s got it wrong.”
“Let’s hope so. Mind you, if he was wrong we’re dealing with a serial rapist. If he’s right, we’re dealing with two rapists.”
“It doesn’t really matter either way though, does it, Crane? At the moment we’ve got no bloody forensic evidence to tie anybody to either incident.”
Anderson pushed away his cup of tea in disgust and Crane fiddled with his scar. As there was not really much more to say, Crane left, returning to Provost Barracks to see his Commanding Officer, Captain Edwards.
***
Crane relayed their unfortunate lack of progress to the Captain. After taking the anticipated bollocking on the chin, Crane left the office and clattered downstairs to find Billy.
“Billy,” he called as he passed his young sergeant’s desk. “My office, now! Bring all the information from the computer searches and don’t forget my coffee.”
Crane was still angry from the derogatory remarks settled firmly on his shoulders by Captain Edwards. “You were there on Saturday night; how come you didn’t spot anything?” was one of the worst. “Get out of my office and get a result,” was the final shouted order.
As Billy settled himself, Crane asked, “How’s Kim, sir? Bloody nasty that. But who’d have thought our Kim could actually let her hair down in the first place?”
“I spoke to her this morning. She’s very shaken, as you can imagine.” Crane was slumped in his chair, blowing on the fresh mug of coffee Billy had brought with him.
“So what did she look like, boss?” Billy leaned forward. “You know, all done up. Is she a bit of a looker?”
“For God’s sake Billy, this is Sgt Weston you’re talking about, not some tart from your local pub.”
Crane banged his mug down on the desk, nearly spilling the contents all over his files.
“But she must have been up for it, boss, to go out all dressed up with a crowd of giggling girls, sat in The Goose. It’s renowned that place. I’ve been there a few times myself to see what’s on offer.”
“Shut the fuck up, Billy and let’s get on with the job of finding her attacker.”
“Sorry, sir,” Billy looks suitably contrite.
“I should bloody well think so. Now, what did the searches I requested last week throw up?”
Crane pushed his coffee and some files out of the way, to clear a space on his desk.
“Well, sir, here’s the print out.”
Billy lifted a mountain of paper from the floor and it hit Crane’s desk with an ominous thud. There was a piece of paper sticking out of it and Billy used this to separate the print out into two piles.
“This left hand pile is soldiers on Aldershot Garrison who fit the dark-haired description,” he said. “The one on the right I did this morning, it’s of soldiers who fit the blond-haired description.”
“Shit,” Crane shook his head and frowned.
“Exactly, boss. Just to make sure the search was thorough, I looked for my name and there I am nearly at the end of the list, my surname being Williams.”
“I’m well aware of your surname, Billy.”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir.”
“Have you any other gems of information for me?”
“Not really, other than we’d tie up all of SIB and the RMP trying to interview this lot.”
“Yes, you’re right,” sighed Crane. “How about narrowing both searches to those soldiers who were off-duty that night and take out officers and higher ranks. I reckon our suspect was probably no higher than Lance Corporal, mostly because of his age. Do that for both the dark-haired and blond-haired searches and don’t forget the dates are different.”
“Of course not, sir, what do you take me for?”
“A fool when it comes to computers.”
Crane had obviously hit a nerve, as Billy’s face suffused with colour.
“Let me have the results as soon as you can.”
“Of course, sir, probably tomorrow morning.”
“Very well. Oh, while Kim’s out of the office, you’ll just have to use Sally to help out with any admin tasks. It’s been approved by Captain Edwards. Sally may not be too happy about it though, it’s doubling her work load, so tread carefully and only use her when absolutely necessary. You’ll also have to help with the more routine tasks, so you better get started on the incident boards while the computer’s doing its thing with the searches. Dismissed.”
***
Crane needed to see Staff Sgt Jones of the Royal Military Police. But before he walked the short distance to Jones’ office, he diverted to the car park where he had a quick cigarette. As he smoked he thought about Billy’s observations about Kim and the girls in general who frequent The Goose. He could see Billy’s point of view, one that he held himself, if he was perfectly honest, especially after his experience that first Saturday night in the town centre. But the generic description of the girls who frequent The Goose, just didn’t fit Kim. From what Crane could remember, her clothes were similar to those the other girls were wearing, but there was no stomach on show, no tits thrust upward, no acres of thigh on display. So why was she chosen? Why didn’t the rapist pick on some one less subtle? For the moment, Crane couldn’t ma
ke head or tail of it all. But he would, given time. It was his personal promise to Kim.
11
Staff Sergeant Jones wasn’t as helpful as Billy, but then he was more of an equal to Crane than Billy was. “You want me to what?” was his reaction to Crane’s demand, rather than request.
“Interview the RMPs who were out in Aldershot town centre the last two Saturday nights. See if they remember seeing a tallish, dark-haired squaddie or a tallish blond-haired squaddie helping an intoxicated girl,” Crane repeated his request.
“Helping her do what exactly?” Jones shook his shaven head. He was another man who was going bald and had decided to hide the fact by taking off his remaining hair. Being Royal Military Police and not SIB, Jones was dressed in uniform, the buttons of his tunic glinting in the overhead fluorescent lights. His cap was placed carefully on top of a filing cabinet and his desk was lined with baskets of paper, in the otherwise small empty office.
“I don’t know, Jones. Perhaps helping her into a car, into a taxi or just walking along the road. Someone somewhere must have seen Becca Henderson or Kim being led away by their attacker. Or attackers.”
“Well which is it, one attacker or two?”
“I wish I bloody knew, Staff. For the moment, let’s treat it as two different men.”
The scar on Crane’s face got yet more attention.
“Look, Crane, I’ll do what I can, but I’ve not got much to go on here. Any chance of a better description or an artist’s impression?”
Jones jotted down a couple of notes on his pad.
“How the hell am I supposed to get one of those, Jones? Becca is dead and Kim remembers very little due to the drug. We’ll just have to work with what we’ve got, which is pictures of the two girls.”
Crane’s mobile interrupted their conversation.
“Hang on,” he asked Jones, fishing it out of his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID before accepting the call. After agreeing with the caller and closing the phone, Crane said, “Right, Staff, got to go. Billy needs me. Do what you can, eh?”
“Of course, but remember it’s as bad as looking for a needle in a haystack. Don’t hold your breath for any results.”
“Any more clichés for me?” Crane laughed and ducked as Jones sent a ball of paper flying his way.
***
The next meeting Crane attended was a more sombre affair. The call to Crane’s mobile was Billy saying the young soldier who was raped had agreed to a meeting. But it had to be now and at the venue of his choice.
The place he had picked was the cafeteria in the local Tesco supermarket. Crane pulled up in the car park, got out of the car and rummaged around in the boot. Satisfied with his selection he quickly took off his jacket, white short sleeved shirt and tie, replacing them with a casual black high necked jumper and baseball cap. He couldn’t do anything about his trousers, or his beard, but took a pair of glasses from the glove box, which had plain glass lenses.
As he entered the cafeteria, he saw Billy and another man sitting in a corner of the teaming cafe. It seemed the victim thought there was safety in numbers. The idea being to blend into the background, Crane supposed, a form of camouflage. He stood in the queue of the self-service café, with a number of Aldershot’s finest. Women were calling to each other over the general hubbub. Those saving a table shouted their orders to those who were waiting in line. Children whined for the last sticky bun, favourite chocolate bar or large bag of crisps, whose mothers bought the items just to shut the kids up.
At last Crane got to Billy’s table, putting his cup of coffee down and staring at it with distaste. The weak greasy brew looked particularly unappetising. Lifting his head, he nodded to Billy and then looked at the victim. He saw a young soldier who looked much like any other. The lad’s hair was cut very close to his head, so he looks bald at first glance. His physique was lean and fit and he didn’t appear to have any distinguishing marks that Crane could see. In any event, there were no tattoos on his arms, which were poking out of a short sleeved tee-shirt.
The only difference separating him from any other squaddie was his eyes. Haunted was the description that sprang to Crane’s mind. Crane also noticed that he was fiddling with his plastic beaker of cold drink. Turning it round and round and frequently glancing down at it.
“Seb, this was the man I was telling you about,” Billy said, obviously being careful not to use military language, so Crane followed suit.
“Pleased to meet you,” Crane said, but stopped short of offering his hand to shake, nodding his head instead. Crane wasn’t prepared to suppress military conventions to that extent.
Turner didn’t speak, just nodded back at Crane.
“I wonder if you could reassure Seb about our discretion, um, when it comes to, um… matters like this,” Billy finally spat out, the tips of his ears going pink.
“Sure.”
Crane relaxed back in his chair, not wanting to give other customers the impression that some sort of secret meeting was going on. Even though that’s what it really was.
“If you decide you want our help, I can assure you that anything you say will be completely confidential, until such a time as we have enough evidence to, um,” Crane wanted to say ‘press charges’ but settled for, “deal with it. Only then will any action be taken and even then, not without your consent. At no time will your identity be public knowledge, although it may be better in the long run to transfer you into another, um,” Crane looked around to make sure no one was obviously listening to their conversation and finished with “sector,” in lieu of Regiment.
Keeping up the pretence of a casual meeting between friends, Crane lent forward and lifted his coffee to his lips and managed to take a sip of the weak cup of mostly hot water without grimacing. He wondered if Turner was going to be brave enough to go through with this as at the words ‘deal with it’, what little colour he had in his face, drained away.
“We only want to help, Seb,” Billy said, playing with his own plastic beaker. “Don’t let the bastard get away with it,” he hissed. “Try and fight back.”
Billy’s words had such an impact that Turner’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times before he crushed his empty drinks beaker with more force than necessary, stood and hurried out of the cafeteria.
Taking their time, Crane and Billy cleared the table and left the cafe, not saying anything until they were standing by Crane’s car.
“That went well then,” said Crane.
A Letter to Sgt Major Crane
Sir,
I wanted to thank you for taking the time to come and meet me yesterday. I feel ashamed now that I didn’t even have the decency to speak to you. Not one word. Instead I turned tail and ran way.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot, my running away. Not just physically from you, but running away from my problems, not being able to turn and face them. Turn and face the bastard who has ruined my life.
It’s as though I’m in limbo. Torn in two. Half man, half wimp. Half soldier, half coward. I’m just so bloody confused and so ashamed.
I think I need to be more like ‘the mouse who roared’. You know the kid’s book where a mouse is so timid and frightened of everyone. But he discovers that he can roar like a lion and tricks everyone into thinking he is this great big angry beast that all the animals are frightened of. An outward persona of the King of the Jungle, but inside, still a small trembling mouse.
So give me just a bit more time then I’ll slip on my lion’s costume and be ready. Ready to roar at the top of my voice, ready to make the ground shake under my violator’s feet, ready to see him quake in fear when he meets me face to face in court.
In time.
12
Crane suddenly found the red flock wallpaper in Kim’s parents’ house rather interesting. As he minutely examined the repeat pattern, Kim’s sobs subsided and he could hear her trying to control her breathing, every now and then hitching over a held back sob.
“I’m
sorry, sir,” she said.
Crane looked at her, sitting on the black settee, eyes, nose and mouth red and swollen from her emotional outburst, as though garish, outlandish makeup had been applied with a less than steady hand. A WPC was sitting next to her, holding a box of tissues. Crane and Anderson were sitting in separate armchairs, facing Kim.
“Sorry? Whatever for, Kim?” he asked.
“For all of this,” she spread her arms, palms upward. “I should be at the Garrison, on duty, running the office for you and Billy, not sat here snivelling on the settee. It’s my fault. Everything’s my fault.”
Crane’s mouth opened and then closed again. He just didn’t have the words, didn’t know what to say to this fine young soldier who was falling apart in front of him.
Derek Anderson stepped in and saved him, leaning forward and saying, “Of course it’s not your fault, Kim. It’s the fault of that, that, monster,” Anderson spat out the last word. “Look, if you think you can manage it, the best way to help us is by trying to remember what he looked like. We need a description. We’ve got nothing.”
“I’ll tell you what,” the WPC said, “if I stay here and hold your hand, could you just close your eyes and think back to Saturday night.”
“Okay, I’ll try,”
Kim grabbed the WPC’s hand, her breathing becoming slower as her body went limp and she relaxed back against the cushions.
“What’s the first thing you remember?” the WPC asked.
“Um, being in The Goose.”
“What was it like in there?”
“Busy, hot, noisy.”
“Can you remember being approached by him?”
Crane noticed Kim flinch, but then she took a deep breath and continued.
“Um, yes, I noticed him up at the bar. He caught my eye but I turned and looked at one of the girls at my table. I wasn’t really interested in finding a boyfriend, so I ignored him. When I looked back at the bar, he’d gone. But then he seemed to come out of nowhere and the next thing I knew he was sitting next to me.”
Deadly Duty Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 46
