Shrugging away from his hand and uncurling from the settee, she said, “Come through to the kitchen, dinner’s ready.”
Crane followed her in silence, knowing better than to pursue his line of thinking until she’d spoken again and sat down on his side of the table. As she placed his plate in front of him, Tina said, “Lots of people cope with that, look at all the army wives with kids.”
“Okay, but there’s one big difference.” Crane shook salt on his food.
“What’s that? Are they better mothers than I would be?” She stabbed at the meat on her plate with her fork.
“No, they live on the garrison. That way they have a support network.”
Tina fell silent. That was her worst fear, he knew. Living on the garrison. She was proud of the fact that they’d managed to buy their own home, courtesy of his increasing rank and her job at the bank.
They ate in silence, Crane finding it harder and harder to swallow each mouthful, as his stomach tightened. Her carefully prepared meal mocked him. Were those tears he saw glistening in her eyes, or just the reflected candlelight? He had no difficulty with awkward conversations at work, yet when it came to his wife he always seemed to put his foot in it. Realising it was because of the emotionally charged subject matter, he decided to change tack. Placing his knife and fork in the middle of his plate he said, “Okay, Tina, let’s look at the facts.” Ignoring her rolling eyes, he pushed on. “Go and get the budget forecast you’ve prepared. Go on, let’s look at this properly,” he urged.
Whilst Tina was getting the paperwork from their bedroom-come-office, he cleared the table of their half-eaten food, as he for one wasn’t able to eat another mouthful. His clenched stomach had still not relaxed. He also took the opportunity to refill their glasses and dowse the candles, putting on the overhead light so they could read more easily.
They spread the budget sheets across the table and sat side by side to examine them.
“See, I get good maternity pay,” said Tina, running her finger down the income column.
“Mmm,” Crane agreed, “but what about this column?” His finger was placed on the expenditure column, where the figures gradually increased to take into account the extra costs incurred with a baby in the house. “As the outgoings increase, the income decreases – see? Once your maternity pay stops there’s only my salary left.”
“Well, it does get a bit tight, I suppose.”
“Tight doesn’t begin to describe it.”
“Look, I’ve spent hours going over these figures, Tom.” Tina crossed her arms and sat up straight. “The other alternative is that I go back to work after maternity leave and put the baby in a nursery.
“And how much is that going to cost? Most of your salary probably.”
“So what’s your solution then?”
“The only way I can see it working, is that we either sell up, or rent out this house to cover the mortgage and move back onto the garrison. That way we at least halve our outgoings. You know how much cheaper it is to rent an army quarter.”
“No!” As Tina stood, her chair rocked and then tipped over.
Ignoring the interruption, Crane continued, “You’d also have the support network, other wives, welfare, crèche….”
“But,” Tina tried again, flustered now as she straightened the chair.
“And you won’t be so isolated when I’m away.” Crane wouldn’t stop. “I won’t need to worry about you so much, knowing you’ll be safe within the army machine.”
“I can’t do it,” Tina protested, finally getting the chair in front of the table again and sitting on it. “I’d go mad.” She gulped at her wine. “Remember how much I hated living on the garrison when we first got married. All the nosy neighbours wanting to know what you’re up to. The rank system, where I wasn’t supposed to mix with the wives of lower ranks, or the wives of officers.”
“Of course, you’ll also lose your independence,” Crane countered, keeping his voice level, and refusing to be drawn into an argument.
“What?” Tina looked at him, half way through pouring more wine into her glass.
“At the moment,” he patiently explained, leaning back in his chair, “you pretty much do what you want, when you want. See your girlfriends, go to the pictures, have the odd weekend away at the Spa, take an impulsive shopping trip to London.”
“Oh,” a small sound in the silent room.
“You won’t be able to do any of that with a baby. Anyway, let’s face it, you won’t have the money.”
Tina stared at him without speaking. Before either of them could say any more the phone rang.
Returning to the kitchen five minutes later he found her still sat at the table, fiddling with her wine glass. Joining her, he fell into his chair and dropped his bent arms onto the table.
“Tom?”
“That was Captain Edwards on the phone. There’s been another murder and suicide. This time in Catterick. There’s a meeting tomorrow afternoon up there and I’ve got to go, as well as Brown from Colchester. We’re going to compare the cases, see if we could find any similarities between the three. Apart from the obvious one that is.”
“Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. Was it another boy?” Tina covered his hands with hers.
Crane nodded, grateful for her touch. But he couldn’t keep still and rose to pace the kitchen. His mind already elsewhere. Suddenly realising Tina was still in the room, he turned to her and asked, “What will you do? I’ll probably be away over the weekend.”
“Go to the Spa,” she said. “I’ve a lot to think about.”
Chapter Sixteen
Crane nodded to Sergeant Major Brown, who had driven up from Colchester to Catterick and his appearance showed the wear and tear of the journey. His once crisp white shirt was wrinkled down the front and along the sleeves, where they had clearly been rolled up. Tom was sure he looked in the same dishevelled state. The journey north had taken over six hours with stops the majority of the time on, joy of joys, the M1. That motorway never got any better, no matter how many times Crane drove up or down it. Choked with lorries and traffic, populated by overcrowded, overpriced, filthy service areas that charge over £2 for a bottle of water and nearly £3 for a simple cup of coffee. It was no wonder Crane and Brown looked as exhausted as they felt.
The office was in Beachhead Lines Barracks, named after the World War II Normandy Landings. Most of the other barracks on Catterick Garrison were named after historical British Army battles, many of which took place in northern France during the First World War. The garrison itself was basically a group of barracks situated in a wider area that had in effect grown into a town in its own right. It was recognised as such when it first sported a Tesco supermarket and then a McDonalds. Yet more nuggets of army history Crane had found in his thirst for knowledge.
Crane and Brown looked at Sergeant Major Keane who was moving to sit behind his desk. Crane put Keane in his late forties, his weary face showing every twenty or so years of his service. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair and Keane’s white shirt was losing its sheen. As he settled in his chair his tie went the same way as his jacket.
“Right,” he said his tone as weary as if he himself had just driven over 200 miles to the meeting. “Where do you want to start?”
“I think the first thing Brown and I need to do is to familiarise ourselves with your case and you with ours, of course.” Crane rummaged in his briefcase, produced his file on Solomon Crooks and Brown did the same with the file on John Sergeant.
Looking at the still immobile Keane and placing his file on the desk, Crane prodded, “You do have copies of your file for us, detailing your investigation so far on the murder/suicide by Corporal Fisher?”
“What, oh yes, it’s just being copied now. Ready in a few minutes I expect.” Keane washed his face with his hands, but the motion did nothing to refresh the man.
“Okay,” said Crane still in charge. “Then I suggest Brown and I go to the scene and then go over t
he file in the Sergeants’ Mess, while you read ours. First thing tomorrow we can go through similarities and differences.”
“If you really want to, I suppose that’s alright.” At the quizzical look from the two men, Keane hastily added, “Look at the scene, I mean.”
“I think so,” Brown chipped in. “Crane here has been to the previous two, so it makes sense for him to see the third as well. He’ll be the only one of us who has seen all three.”
There was a knock at the door and after being invited in, a young sergeant appeared with copies of the file. Keane ordered him to take the two SIB investigators to the scene of the crime and they agreed to meet again at 08:00 hours the following morning.
***
Corporal Peter Fisher’s house was in a four storey building that looked like a block of flats, but was actually a two storey maisonette on the ground floor with a garden and another two storey maisonette above. The Fisher’s was the ground floor property and the small garden was crammed full of children’s toys, a swing and small slide. The first thing Crane noticed as he went in was the muddle and confusion. The kitchen was located at the front of the property and was a symphony of disorder, with dishes in the sink and on the drainer. It seemed that every piece of work surface in the small room was covered with some item or another of clutter.
The small lounge cum dining room wasn’t much better, with toys all over the floor and magazines on the furniture. The throw over the settee was askew and wrinkled.
“Who’s in charge here would you say?” Crane asked Brown.
“The wife. What a bloody mess.” Brown looked around the room, frowning in disgust. “But is that relevant?”
“Could be. At least this time we’ve got a wife to interview. Come on,” Crane called.
The two men climbed the stairs that led from the living room to the two bedrooms and bathroom. The main bedroom was at the back, overlooking the garden and was large, running the width of the property. One half was a mess with clothes strewn on a chair, on the floor and in an overflowing wardrobe. The other half was neat and tidy and when Crane opened the wardrobe door he found what he suspected. Peter Fisher’s wardrobe was the complete antithesis of his wife’s.
The child’s bedroom was at the front of the property, half the size of the main bedroom, as it shared the remaining space with the bathroom.
Pushing open the door with his foot, Crane entered the bedroom, leaning against the open door, so Brown could see in from the doorway.
“Jesus,” Brown whispered as he looked at the blood stains on the carpet by the side of the bed and those on the mattress. “The amount of blood, you know?”
“Mmm,” agreed Crane, distracted by papers lying on the floor under the window. Stepping further into the room, he picked them up. It was a colouring booklet, with images of Jesus smiling down on little children. It was partly complete.
“Let’s go and see Mrs Fisher,” said Crane, putting the booklet into his jacket pocket.
Carol Fisher was staying with friends further along the street. She raised no objection to seeing them and it was soon clear why.
“What do you lot want this time?” she demanded not rising from the settee, where she was surrounded by magazines, cigarettes, lighter and a full ashtray.
“Just a few questions, Mrs Fisher, and then we’ll leave you in peace.” Crane motioned for Brown to sit at the nearby dining table, while he took the easy chair in front of her. “We’re very sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Yeah, right. The only thing you lot are sorry for was that it happened on your bloody garrison.” The hard words matched the hardness in the woman’s face. There were mascara stains under her dull eyes and her dried pinched lips had traces of red lipstick still sticking to them. Her jet black hair was tied back but gave the appearance of a bird’s nest perched on the back of her head. She sucked loudly on a lit cigarette and deliberately blew the smoke into Crane’s face.
“I can assure you,” Brown began but was cut off by a hysterical laugh.
“Assure me, assure me.” Mrs Fisher’s hand waved in the air. “The only thing you can assure me of is that the army will get me out of here as soon as they can. They’ve already told me they plan to issue an eviction order to get me out of my quarters and my boy’s only been dead a few days.” Her eyes glinted, but with rage not tears. “Not that I could ever go back in there again,” she added looking from one man to the other, “but they’re making me bloody homeless!” she finished.
“I’m sure it’s just standard procedure,” Brown tried.
Before Mrs Fisher could blow up again, Crane decided to intervene, having had enough of, what to him, was a pointless conversation.
“Have you seen this before?” he asked Mrs Fisher, handing her the colouring booklet.
“Of course, he was obsessed with it,” she handed back the booklet as though it had scorched her fingers.
“Sorry?”
“My boy got that from the local Sunday school. He insisted on taking it with him every week so they could do the next page.”
“Did you take him?”
“Not bloody likely,” Mrs Fisher replied. “I don’t hold with that sort of stuff myself. His dad took him every Sunday while I was at work.”
“So who was obsessed?” Crane wants to know.
“Both of them, as bad as each other. Now if there’s nothing else, I need to get on.”
Unsure as to what she had to ‘get on’ with, Crane and Brown nevertheless left.
When they arrived at the Sergeants’ Mess at Cambrai Barracks, Crane and Brown decided to have a nose around first, as both were keen to see the newly built premises. The official blurb said the intention was to create a ‘modern but not austere residence with sufficient formality to accommodate traditional mess activities without compromising on comfort for the occupants’. Crane personally thought that was a load of PR bollocks, but admitted that the mess was light, bright and comfortable, yet with traditional features such as wooden panelling, reproduction furniture and a range of large comfortable sofas and armchairs. Sinking gratefully into the pair of well plumped feather filled armchairs nearest to them, they ordered a beer and studied the menu. The agreed plan was to eat together first, then go their separate ways to study the files before meeting again the following morning. They didn’t discuss the case until they were sitting in the dining room.
“Thoughts?” Crane asked Brown as they ate.
“The obvious initial one of a religious connection.”
“Exactly. It’ll be interesting to see how far Keane has investigated that. What did you make of Mrs Fisher?”
“Hard cow.”
Crane agreed. “Looks like they were as different as chalk and cheese, Fisher and his wife.”
“The worst type of army wife that one. Just along for the free ride if you ask me.” Brown finished his food, placing his knife and fork together in the centre of the plate.
“Maybe. Either way he’d not have got very far up the ladder with her.”
“Thank God for decent army wives, that’s what I say,” and the two men raised their glasses in a silent toast to their wives.
Crane phoned Tina later that evening, but got the answer machine and guessed she’d been as good as her word and gone away to think.
Chapter Seventeen
At the meeting the following morning, Crane still couldn’t decide whether Keane was an ineffective investigator, just biding his time until he’d completed his 22 years, or if it was because he was badly affected by the case. Either way, Crane had to take the lead, as he had yesterday. The three men agreed to Crane’s proposal that each take their own case and report under various headings to compare each with the other.
“Okay, let’s start with the most obvious, religious activity,” Crane began after they settled in Keane’s office. “We know that Solomon was drawn to the Church of Jesus is King in Aldershot, but we don’t have any evidence to put him inside the church yet, only that he was in possession
of the pamphlets.”
“The same here,” agreed Brown. “Sergeant was in possession of religious tracts, but again we found no evidence of him actually attending the church. In both cases the wives were also killed, so we don’t have any evidence from them to support this theory.”
“Keane?” enquired Crane.
“Oh, what? No, nothing here.” Keane absently leafed through a few pieces of paper. Keane looked worse today than yesterday, with the air of a man who needed a cold shower to wake him up. His complexion was grey and his eyelids drooped, almost completely covering his eyes.
“Sorry?”
Crane and Brown looked at each other in astonishment, Brown going rather pink around the ears, as though remembering his earlier blunder when up against Crane in Colchester.
“No mention in the file of Fisher going to a local church,” Keane clarified, closing the file to make his point.
Crane looked at the older man and made the decision that he was a pathetic excuse for a SIB investigator after all and not a man badly affected by the horrors of the case. Therefore his initial reaction was anger.
“Bloody hell man, didn’t you examine the scene yourself?” Crane exploded as Brown hid behind his paperwork, raising the file in front of his face as if to shield himself from Crane’s diatribe.
“No, I sent a couple of the lads,” was the weary response, muffled by the hand Keane placed over his face.
“Well then, they were clearly following in the ineffectual footsteps of their Sergeant Major then weren’t they? Because they missed this!” Crane threw the colouring book onto Keane’s desk.
Lowering his hand, Keane’s face crumpled as he looked at the front cover of the booklet, which had the words, ‘Christ our Savour’ emblazoned across the top.
Unable to sit still, Crane stood and paced up and down the width of the office, waiting for a reply from Keane, which never came.
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 9
