A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set)

by Wendy Cartmell

  At first Mrs Barnes denied killing her husband. She stuck to her story about being at her sister’s for the day and finding the fire on her return.

  It was only when they started asking questions about the rumours of her having a lot of ‘accidents’ that she became agitated. She asked for some water and sat without speaking until it was brought in. After a few gulps, she admitted that her husband had physically abused her throughout their marriage. She explained that he usually hit her so that any bruises or injuries weren’t noticeable, but every now and again he got it wrong. Once he had thrown her down the stairs and her wrist had become caught in the banister and broken. Mrs Barnes hugged herself and rocked slowly from side to side.

  Crane had to ignore her distress and press on, confronting her with what the RMP had found in her garage. After that, she was ready to tell them what had really happened.

  Hiding behind her curtain of long dark hair, Mrs Barnes admitted to feelings of dread as she returned from a lovely day out with her sister. The freedom she had enjoyed for just one day had been liberating. No violence, no shouting, no one putting her down. As she got closer to home she decided, on impulse, to try to free herself from her tyrannical husband. She parked her car on the edge of North Camp and managed to walk to the back of her house and slip into the garden without being seen by the neighbours.

  “I could see him in the kitchen, making a cup of tea,” she explained. “I went into the garage, poured some petrol into a jug and walked up the garden path. When I opened the back door, he looked at me and demanded to know where I’d been. He wanted to know why I wasn’t at home preparing his dinner. He called me a lazy slut and told me I’d get what I deserved later. I… I…” Mrs Barnes faltered and fell silent for a moment. No one spoke. Into the silence she whispered, “If only he’d been nice to me, asked me if I’d had a good time, wanted to know what we’d done.”

  “So what did you do?” Crane asked, no longer the demanding investigator, finding some sympathy within him for the woman and her plight.

  “I threw the jug of petrol in his face. While he was recovering from the shock I pulled a box of matches from my pocket and went to light one. He looked at me in horror and wanted to know what the bloody hell I thought I was doing. He told me to stop being so bloody stupid and to pull myself together.”

  Pausing to take a deep breath, she then continued. “You can’t imagine the feeling of power I got from holding that box of matches,” she confessed. “For once I was in charge, not him.”

  Raising her head and looking straight at Crane she said, “He fell to his knees and begged for mercy, but I decided he didn’t deserve it. So I struck the match and threw it at him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Crane’s latest call to Brown in Colchester provided little in the way of encouragement. He had sent Sergeant’s clothes to forensics as promised and was still awaiting the results. However, there seemed to be no connection between John Sergeant and the local church in the pamphlets. No one had any idea where he got them from or when. If he had attended the Church, no one was admitting it.

  Even though Captain Edwards was extremely pleased with Crane and Billy for solving the mystery of the fire on the garrison and the death of Sgt Barnes, he told Crane to once more keep the case of Lance Corporal Crooks on the back burner. Determined to continue with the investigation, albeit not in a direct way, Crane tried again to enlist the help of the Chaplain.

  Padre Symonds was happy to meet, but as he explained on the telephone, he could shed no new light on the matter. They met on the playing fields, where the Padre was taking his ‘morning constitutional’. The weather was sunny, but blustery and cold, with gusts of wind tugging at their clothes and hair.

  “I really have tried, Sergeant Major,” Symonds told Crane. “But Elias assures me there’s no connection between the Church of Jesus is King and Lance Corporal Crooks.”

  “I know, sir, but just because he said so, doesn’t mean it is so, if you get my meaning.”

  “Quite. But I really don’t think it’s my place to interfere further.”

  Crane ambled alongside the Padre, alternating between kicking the ground in frustration and looking up at the wide expanse of sky for inspiration. The playing fields were quiet. All Crane could see was the odd dog walker and a solitary kite flyer, trying desperately to keep his convoluted contraption in the air when the wind was up. But the blustery gusts caused the kite to crash to earth in a tangled heap. Crane wondered whatever happened to the old fashioned simple triangular kites with bows on their tails.

  “It’s just so… oh I don’t know. There’s something there, a connection of some sort. I just can’t see it yet. It’s those children. It shouldn’t have happened,” Crane said.

  Symonds remained silent.

  “I just wish I could find a way to infiltrate the Church somehow. Find out what’s really going on.”

  “That’s your military training coming to the fore,” Symonds said with a smile, stopping and looking at Crane. “Why are you so suspicious of it?”

  “Must be in my nature, I suppose,” Crane replied after mulling the question over for a few moments. “Maybe that’s why I’m in SIB and not in a tank regiment. I like a good puzzle. But I have to win, you know?”

  Taking a seat on a bench overlooking the rugby ground and the main road beyond, Symonds gestured for Crane to join him. After a few moments of reflection, the Padre asked, “Is that what is most important to you, Crane, winning?”

  “No, I don’t think so, sir. Justice is equally important. I want whoever is behind these killings to pay.” Crane stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and stretched his legs out, thinking about Mrs Barnes. She’d clearly felt her husband had to pay for what he’d done to her and meted out her own particular brand of justice. But in turn, she would have to pay for what she did to him.

  “Always assuming there is somebody.”

  The Padre’s words broke into Crane’s thoughts.

  “Oh, I’m sure there is,” Crane replied. “It’s too much of a coincidence, two murder/suicides within a few weeks of each other, both with connections to evangelical churches.” Sitting up and turning sideway to face the Padre he continued, “You see, broadly speaking, there are two different reasons for murder and then suicide. Firstly, revenge borne out of anger and secondly, altruistic which is a result of misplaced love.”

  “You sound very knowledgeable on the subject, Sergeant Major.”

  Laughing, Crane had to admit, “No, sir, not really, just a bit of research on the internet.”

  “So, which category do these murders fit into?”

  “Well, I believe they are altruistic. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest that they were done out of anger. Neither family had a history of unfaithfulness by any party. There were no financial difficulties or history of gambling or alcoholism. Ergo, nothing to get angry about. That leaves the altruistic path. Misplaced love of some sort.”

  “Umm, saving the family from some shame that could befall them in the future you mean?” the Padre’s round features creased in thought.

  “Well, saving them from something. Which is where the religious angle comes in. But at the moment it’s all going round and round in my head with nothing concrete to fix my thoughts to.”

  The two men stood and Crane held out his hand.

  “Thanks for your time, Padre. Sorry to disturb your walk, but I just wanted an opinion from a religious expert.”

  Padre Symonds replied, “No problem, Crane. I was glad of the company. I’m just sorry I can’t be of any help.”

  “So am I, sir, so am I.”

  Crane turned and left the Padre to continue his constitutional and walked back to his car, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets, keeping his head down and allowing his jacket to flap around in the gusts. Just before getting into the Focus he looked over at the playing fields. Symonds was still walking, looking pensive, oblivious to his surroundings. Suddenly, the Padre looked up and seeing
Crane, waved and ran across the field.

  Pleased, Crane waited by the car.

  “Glad I caught you,” Symonds puffed, as he struggled to take in air. “Not as fit as I should be,” he conceded placing his hands on his bent knees and taking a few moments before straightening up and speaking again.

  “Cults,” he finally managed to gasp.

  “Cults, sir?”

  “Yes, what if the soldiers were involved in some sort of religious cult?”

  “But there’s no evidence to suggest they were involved in any religion, apart from a few pamphlets, let alone a cult. Also they lived hundreds of miles apart,” Crane said, for once playing devil’s advocate.

  “Maybe not, but that would be an explanation for the murder/suicide.” Symonds’ face was animated.

  “You mean brainwashing?”

  “Well, some people think cult leaders use brainwashing techniques, whilst others think the leaders are just plain mad, who attract followers that are just plain mad as well.”

  “Sorry, but this isn’t my field at all.”

  “No, but I was thinking it might be more mine, as I’m supposed to be a religious expert.” Symonds laughed at the label. “Let me see what I can find out.”

  “Pleased be careful, sir,” Crane was beginning to doubt the wisdom of manipulating the Padre, albeit ever so subtly.

  “Of what, Sergeant Major? Anyway what harm can a little research do?”

  “I don’t know. But remember there are two families dead already. I don’t want anyone else added to the list.”

  “Don’t worry, Sergeant Major. Just leave it with me,” Symonds said as he turned and walked away down Queens Avenue, in the direction of his Church. A new purpose in his stride. At the sound of his mobile phone, Crane pulled his attention away from the Padre and back to more pressing cases.

  ***

  The next morning Crane was surprised to find an email in his inbox from the Padre.

  TO: tcrane@sib.org.uk

  FROM: padresymonds@mod.org.uk

  SUBJECT: Research

  Sergeant Major,

  I thought I would follow your example and do a bit of research on the internet. It appears there have been many cases of cults forming since the early 1990s across Europe and America, some of which have practised murder/suicide. These include the obvious one of WACO, but interestingly there are others including:

  The Order of the Solar Temple, spanning France, Switzerland and Quebec, a new religious movement drawing on the Western esoteric tradition.

  Aum Shinryi Kyo, a new Japanese religious order, an idiosyncratic Buddhist movement.

  Heaven’s Gate, a UFO religious movement based in California.

  The Movement for the Restoration of the Ten Commandments of God, a fringe Catholic group in Uganda.

  Therefore, the cult tradition is still alive and well in our times. As I explained yesterday there are differing theories for people joining cults and the persuasiveness of cult leaders. Firstly, brainwashing and secondly, out and out madness of both the leader and his followers.

  I don’t believe our soldiers are out and out mad, despite the awful duties that befall our brave men these days, so I am erring on the side of brainwashing. The questions are, who was brainwashing them and why?

  I am delighted to be of some service in my so called ‘area of expertise’ and will continue my investigations this end.

  Regards

  Padre Symonds

  “Bloody hell,” was Crane’s reaction to the email.

  “Sir?” asked Billy, as he was passing the door.

  “Come and look at this, Billy,” Crane swivelled the monitor to face the other side of the desk. “Looks like the Padre thinks he’s some sort of religious detective now, after not wanting to get involved.”

  Billy leant over the desk to get closer to the monitor. After a few moments of reading in silence, Billy wanted to know why the Padre was off on this tack. Crane realised he had kept the Padre’s involvement quiet, so he recounted their meeting yesterday.

  “Surely no harm can come of it, though, sir,” Billy said, taking a seat in front of Crane’s desk. “After all he’ll probably just approach it from an academic point of view, rather than a ‘hands on’ one. It seems to me he’s relishing the thought of doing some research to help, that’s all. And let’s face it, it may mean something to him, but to be honest phrases like ‘the esoteric Western tradition’,” Billy placed air quote marks around the words, “don’t exactly mean a lot to me. How about you?” he grinned at Crane.

  “No.”

  “So there you go, this is probably just appealing to his academic side.”

  “I hope you’re right, Billy. And I hope I’m wrong,”

  “About what, sir?”

  “I hope I’m wrong about there being a darker side to these murders.”

  Peter

  08:55 Hours 9th October

  It was nearly time. Just five minutes to go. Peter could hardly contain his excitement. His wife had left about half an hour ago for work, leaving him alone in the house with his son, Ryan. He was glad he had persuaded her to take the Sunday job at the local supermarket a few months ago, after he returned from his posting in Afghanistan. Since then it had just been the two of them every Sunday, free to worship without interference.

  Oh and how she would interfere. He knew that. That’s what she was, an interfering old cow. It was always the same whenever he came back from a posting. He felt an outsider in his own home. ‘That’s not the way we do it,’ she said constantly. Or, ‘I’ve had to manage without you all this time, so leave things alone. Let me do it.’ Even worse was, ‘Ryan has his routine, we can’t change things just because you’ve come home.’ Well, he was in charge now and leaving her out of it for a change.

  He thanked the Lord every day that he’d found the church. And thanked him even more that he was encouraged to take his son along, forging a new bond with the boy that he’d never had before.

  And now he was going to forge the strongest bond of all, for he was going to save his son. Save him from the awfulness of this world, from the senseless fighting, misery and poverty. Give him a better future than he’d ever thought possible.

  After making sure the house was secure, he took a few minutes to prepare himself. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, he removed his knife from the sheath clipped to his belt and the pumice stone from his pocket. Wetting the stone with spit, he began to sharpen the knife. Repeating his mantra, “Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to Heaven. Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to Heaven.”

  Caught up in his hypnotic chant, his body moved backwards and forwards as he sharpened the knife. The grating cadence filled the air as the stone ran along the blade. First one side, then the other. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Long drawn out strokes, dipping and swooping like a bird of prey.

  Prepared, he climbed the stairs to Ryan’s bedroom. Pausing at the door he looked down at his sleeping son. Earlier he’d slipped a sedative into the boy’s breakfast orange juice, so Ryan wouldn’t panic at the last minute. He didn’t want the glorious moment spoiled.

  After removing the knife from his pocket and placing it on the floor, he lifted the boy from his bed. Holding him in his arms he sat on the floor, propped up against the side of the bed, with his son in his lap. Ryan stirred in his sleep, his arms winding themselves around his father’s neck before he settled once more.

  Peter reached for the knife and pulled his son’s head to one side exposing the delicate white skin of his neck, where his pulse was visible. With a swift left handed movement, he slit the innocent throat. A small smile played across his lips, as he lifted the blade to his own neck.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Crane returned home that night, he found the lights down low, soft music playing and the table in the kitchen laid for dinner, compete with candles.

  “I’ve poured you a beer,” called Tina from the kitchen. “Settle yourself down on the settee while I f
inish up in here.”

  Inwardly groaning, Crane realised he had forgotten that tonight was the night of their ‘big talk’. The one he had been successfully avoiding for the past few weeks. Shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it in the hallway, he took off his shoes and swapped them for slippers. Tina always teased him about the old fashioned image of slippers, but after a day pounding around the garrison, it was bliss to get out of his shoes or boots and let his feet breath and move around in the comfort of a well-worn pair of slippers. He just hoped that piece of information wouldn’t find itself widely known in the barracks.

  He sat down on the black leather settee and took a long draught of the beer, whilst wiggling his toes and stretching his feet. Emerging from the kitchen with a glass of red wine in her hand, Tina kissed him hello and settled down beside him, leaning in against his arm. Just then, the Grover Washington Jnr CD changed tracks to ‘Just the two of us’, which Crane found rather ironic.

  “So, you want to talk about changing from ‘Just the two of us’, to ‘Just the three or more of us’,” he quipped.

  Smiling, she nodded. “Oh, Tom, I don’t know, maybe it’s just my biological clock. You know, I must start to have kids now before it’s too late. At other times I just want company when you’re away. Then again, I want lots of little Cranes running around. A continuation of us, maybe. Someone to prove that we were here, after we’re long gone.”

  He could see the raw emotion on her face and he said softly, smoothing her hair down with his hand, “I do understand, sweetheart, but you mustn’t look at this with rose tinted glasses.” As she stiffened against him, he continued speaking and stroking her hair. “What about how hard it could get if you were alone with a small baby for prolonged periods of time? You know I could get posted overseas again. How would you cope then?”