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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “What makes you think Zechariah is here?”

  “Because this is a church, Derek, a holy sanctified place. Where better to stage the finale?”

  “What finale?”

  “I think Zechariah could be instigating a mass murder suicide. Right here. This afternoon. With all the members of the father and son group.” With that he grabbed the drain pipe and began to climb, using the crates as purchase for his feet.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Of course, breaking in wasn’t as easy as Crane hoped. He stretched out his right hand to the window, grasping and unfastening the stay, locking it into place so it wouldn’t rip down his back, and then held the window open. He considered trying to get in feet first, but then again gymnastics had never been his thing, so his only option was to go in head first.

  Letting go of the window, Crane decided to climb further up the drain pipe, so his middle was in line with the bottom of the opening. The old iron drain pipe creaked and moved under his weight. He wiped his hands one by one on his trousers. Pieces of gritty burnt ochre rust covered his hands, making it difficult to get a firm grip, a testament to the drainpipe’s age. Crane could only hope it would hold out long enough for him to push off against, as he propelled himself towards the window.

  “I’m calling for back up!” Anderson shouted.

  Crane put his thumb up and took a deep breath. He reached for and grasped the bottom of the open window with his right hand and pushed with his feet. The iron drainpipe, weakened by many years of rain and sun held for a moment, then crumbled. Pieces of rust and metal fell to the floor below. Knowing there was now no way back, Crane’s left hand reached for the bottom of the open window as he clung on with his right. But he couldn’t seem to get his hand through, grazing knuckles and breaking finger nails as he tried to get his hand inside. By now he was dangling precariously by one hand, ten feet from the ground.

  He scrabbled around the wall with his feet, at last finding the narrow window sill. Balancing as best he could on his toes and ignoring the burning pain in the muscles of his right arm, he lifted the window open with his left hand and finally got his head through. Placing both hands firmly on the bottom of the window he pushed upwards and forwards, forcing his body inside, coming to rest half in and half out of the window.

  Taking a few seconds to get his breath back, he looked at the inside of the room. He found his assumption was correct and he was in the toilets. Or rather hanging around in the open window of the toilets. But he was not in a cubicle, where he could have used a cistern or toilet bowl to break his fall. He was in the middle of the room, with stalls at one side and sinks on the other. There was nothing for five feet below him.

  “Oh shit,” he exclaimed dropping forwards, landing on his hands and executing a parachute roll.

  As Crane stood and brushed himself down, his hands left streaks of rust and grime on his once pristine white shirt. But he seemed unhurt, apart from a few bruises. Shaking his right arm to try and loosen the damaged muscles, he looked around, but the toilets were empty. So far so good.

  The exit was opposite the window and he crossed to it, opening the door just a crack. He could neither hear nor see any movement outside, so he slipped through it and took a few moments to consider his position.

  He was in an empty corridor. He knew he was more or less in the middle of the building, so really it didn’t matter which way he went. Being right handed, he naturally gravitated to that side and moved forward, hugging the wall as he went. After a few yards he came to an opening on his left. A sign screwed to the wall said ‘Stalls’ with an arrow indicating up the stairs. The entrance was covered by a dark coloured curtain.

  As Crane touched it, he felt thick heavy velvet and the disturbance caused a musty smell, which tickled his nose and threatened to make him sneeze. Holding his breath, he pushed the curtain completely to one side and climbed the stairs. But his nose had been irritated by the dust motes released from the curtain and try as he might, he couldn’t stop the sneeze. He put his hands around his nose and mouth and turned his head away, back towards the stairs, muffling the sound as best he could. Praying he hadn’t been heard. He then turned to look into the cinema.

  From his elevated position at the top of the stalls, he could see rows of seats stretching down below him to a barrier resplendent in red velvet with a brass rail on top. It had obviously been lovingly polished, as the lights in the auditorium roof reflected off it.

  A murmuring lilt rose up from the bowels of the building. He moved one step at a time, down the stairs towards the sound. As he reached the barrier, he crouched down, placed his hands on the rail and slowly raised his head, looking under the brass rail, like a sniper surveying the landscape.

  The scene below took his breath away. A blow to the head took his sight away.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Crane had always hated wasps and bees. Probably because he’d trodden on a queen bee when he was a boy, walking through a field in bare feet. He’d ended up with paralysed toes and an equally paralyzing fear of the small stinging insects. It didn’t matter if it was a bee or wasp. Either one was equally feared.

  Now there was a wasp trapped in the pocket of his trousers. The bloody thing wouldn’t go away. It was buzzing and vibrating against his leg, clearly trapped in his trouser pocket. Convinced he was about to be stung at any moment, he lifted his hand to try and liberate the bug from the fabric. But there was no response. His hand remained firmly clamped against the arm of the chair he was sitting in. He willed his hand to move once again, but it disobeyed the instruction from his brain.

  “What the hell?” Or at least that was what he tried to say. It actually came out as “Ot uugh el?” Had he already been stung and this time been paralyzed all over?

  When he looked down to see why his hand wouldn’t work, he realised he was sitting in semi darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Crane remembered where he was. In the converted cinema belonging to the Church of Jesus is King He closed his eyes as the memory of what he’d seen over the railing of the stalls came back to him. Men and boys, sat huddled together on the auditorium floor, swaying and chanting in unison. The men all holding knives.

  Desperate to get up and save them, he tried to get out of the seat, but this time his back seemed glued in place. Clenching his fists in frustration he looked down again. This time, he could make out that his wrists were bound to the arm of the seat by duct tape. Lifting his legs showed him that they were bound together. Struggling to free his body he surmised the tape had also been placed around his shoulders and chest, running around him and the seat. There was more duct tape around his mouth, the adhesive tasting foul as he ran his tongue along the inside of his partially open lips.

  Shit, Crane thought, this stuff was going to be a bastard to get off, but get it off he must. He guessed the easiest to remove, would be the tape around his wrists, so he started pushing his arms backwards and forwards, as far as they would go. Which wasn’t far enough. In fact, not far at all. The hairs on his arms and backs of his hands seemed to scream as they were wrenched backwards and forwards. They stuck firmly to the adhesive and pulled free of his skin with each movement. Once the hairs were off his skin, the adhesive rubbed like sandpaper across his hands and wrists. After a while it became agony, but he bit the inside of his cheek and carried on struggling to break free.

  Then the bloody wasp started up again. Crane grinned when he realised it was his mobile phone. He’d put it on vibrate just before he climbed through the window into the cinema. Someone needed to get hold of him. Probably Anderson, but there was nothing he could do at the moment and even if he could, he couldn’t risk talking. Not after a sneeze had clearly given him away.

  He wondered if he squirmed in his seat enough he could loosen the tape around his body, but gave that idea up as the rattling of the old seats would alert his attacker to the fact that he was conscious.

  Taking a short break from pushing his hands backwards and forwards, he
lifted his head to look over the railing. It was difficult to see the floor of the auditorium from this angle, but he could see a figure on the stage and he could still hear the chanting from the assembled men and boys.

  He continued rubbing away at the duct tape, but now in time with the chanting from below. He couldn’t quite hear the words, but could follow the beat and that spurred him on. If they could keep chanting, he could keep rubbing. Luckily it was dim where he was sitting, so he couldn’t see if there was any blood seeping from the back of his hands. Still if there was, he reckoned that would help loosen the adhesive.

  Crane became lost in the rhythm himself. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. He focused his mind on the fact that he needed to help the innocent children, in an effort to ignore the growing pain.

  After a while, he realised his right hand was moving further forwards than the left. Looking down he saw the tape had bunched up and stretched so much, his hand was now loose under the binding. He pulled it free and grabbed at the tape tying his left hand to the seat. Once he had both hands free he tore at the tape around his chest and shoulders. Soon he’d ripped it from his legs and then turned his attention to the strip at his mouth.

  This was going to be a bastard. It was taped across his face, which meant it was taped across his beard. Oh well, he never liked the beard much anyway, he thought, as he gritted his teeth and pulled.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As soon as he was free, Crane once more crouched by the barrier in the stalls and peered through the gap, under the brass railing. Now he had an uninterrupted view.

  The man on the stage was dressed in beautiful gold and green robes. His black skin gleamed in the lights and his deep bass voice had a lyrical quality. He had long Rastafarian dreadlocks. Zechariah. The men were set out in lines, sitting on the floor of the auditorium, facing Zechariah. Each had a small boy next to him. There must be over twenty pairs of men and boys Crane calculated.

  As he watched, each boy moved to sit in front of their parent. The men’s legs opened and the boys settled themselves in the gap leaning back against the chest of their father. Neither child nor man made any sound and no one appeared to be frightened. There was no frantic struggling, just calm. Each man had a knife in his hand, the blades glinting in the lights of the auditorium.

  Zechariah’s voice rose as he began delivering his rhetoric. Now Crane could hear him clearly.

  “Jesus is the saviour, a fountain, whose blood covers the sins of all who come to Him for salvation.”

  Bloody hell, here we go, thought Crane.

  “Do you want to live in eternal damnation for your sins?” Zechariah paused and looked at his followers. Locking his eyes with theirs. “Do you want your sins to be passed onto your sons?” he demanded.

  Crane looked at the backs of the men. Then he saw what he was looking for. The familiar shape of Billy’s broad muscular back and his short, blond hair.

  “I can show you the way. ‘I am the light,’ said Jesus. And I, as his prophet can shed that light and show you the steps you can take to reach Heaven,” Zechariah continued, his voice rising and falling, mesmerising in its depth and cadence.

  “There is no time to lose. There will be rivers of blood. But at the same time, there will be rivers of healing blood, blood that brought salvation to the true followers of Jesus.” Zechariah was cranking it up now and the loud voice rang out strong and true in the auditorium.

  Crane realised what Zechariah was leading up to. Fuck. Rivers of blood. Jesus Christ they’re going to kill the children and them themselves. Crane turned and ran up the steps of the stalls, not caring this time if anyone saw or heard him.

  “Are you ready to be redeemed in a fountain of blood, covering your sins and the sins of your children?” Zechariah’s voice followed him, taunting Crane as he tried to think of a way to stop this horror. He needed to break the trance, hypnosis, or whatever it was. As Crane reached the top of the stairs he was grateful that Zechariah was relishing this part. His speech had slowed, giving emphasis to each word.

  “This is the only way to eternal salvation!” he screamed.

  Crane practically pulled down the velvet curtain as he grabbed it to help stop his fall and scanned the corridor.

  “Drench yourself in the blood!”

  Crane knew what was coming next from the emails they retrieved from the computers and needed a major, never mind minor miracle, to stop it. Sending up one of the arrow prayers that Padre Symonds told him about during one of their frequent conversations, Crane called upon God for help. He turned left and ran around the corridor.

  “And drench your sons too…”

  Crane knew he couldn’t let Zechariah finish his sentence. And that’s when he saw it. A fire alarm, as old as the cinema. In the cabinet was a fire axe. Fumbling with the catch, Crane opened the glass door, grabbed the axe and smashed the fire alarm glass.

  “So that we all may be saved.” Zechariah finished his hypnotic rhetoric, but it was too late. His final words were drowned out by the shrill fire alarm.

  Running back up the stairs to the stalls, still with the axe in his hand, Crane this time leaned over the edge of the balcony. A wonderful sight met his eyes. The men and boys were now standing up, looking around, shaking their heads as if to clear the fog in their brain. Some were looking at the knives in their hands as if they were alien objects and clearly had no idea why they are holding them.

  Crane searched the crowd looking for Billy. He found him in the centre of the crowd and screamed his name. Standing up and waving his hands, now empty of the threatening axe, Crane tried to get Billy’s attention. Finally, Billy looked up and saw Crane. His eyes cleared with recognition.

  “Get everyone out, Billy,” Crane gestured wildly to the front of the building. “Out. Now!”

  Billy waved in response and grabbed Shaun’s hand, moving towards the exit, encouraging those around him to follow.

  “Hello, Sergeant Major Crane.”

  Crane whirled round at the sound of his name, expecting to meet the mad man called Zechariah face to face. Instead he found himself looking at Elias.

  “Thank God. Am I glad to see you,” Crane shouted above the noise of the fire alarm. “We need to go downstairs and get these people out. Then I’m going to look for Zechariah.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The fire alarm suddenly stopped it’s insane clamour and Crane fell back against the brass rail. The ringing in his ears still making hearing difficult. He could see Elias’ mouth moving but couldn’t hear the words. He looked up at the Church Elder, who was standing on the steps leading to the back of the stalls and the exit and shook his head to clear his ears.

  “I said, I don’t think so, Sergeant Major.”

  “Don’t think so, why the hell not, man?” Crane pushed himself upright in his indignation.

  “Because you’ve caused me quite enough trouble as it is. I don’t intend to let you cause me anymore.”

  The words and the deep basso voice caught Crane’s attention and he looked closely at Elias’ face. As he examined it in silence, he saw plumped up cheek bones and wide nostrils. But no Rastafarian hair, just a bald pate. No robes, just a sober black suit. Crane’s eyes travelled downwards and saw the gun in the Church Elder’s hand.

  “How could I have been so stupid?” Crane questioned himself rather than Elias.

  “Understandable, my dear Sergeant Major. Did you like my disguise?” Elias put his hand in his mouth and removed two large plastic wedges from his cheeks. He then put a finger up each nostril in turn and poked out a piece of plastic.

  “Latex,” explained Elias. “Works rather well. I particularly like the hair and robes though, don’t you?”

  Crane actually nodded before he realised what he was doing. Agreeing with this madman. “Was it you who hit me over the head?”

  “Yes, rather stupid of me not to kill you then.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Keeping the gun pointed at Cra
ne’s chest, Elias explained, “I suppose I wanted an audience. A witness to my total control, my triumph. Then I was going to kill you.”

  “Weren’t you going to kill yourself when your ‘followers’ or whatever you want to call them, killed the children and then themselves. Your contribution to the ‘rivers of blood?”

  “Oh no, Sergeant Major. I need to continue God’s work.”

  “God’s work? Is that what you call killing innocent men and children?”

  “But I didn’t kill them!” Elias shouted, the gun wavering in his hand. “They sacrificed themselves and their children, so they could enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “But this lot haven’t.” Crane nodded towards the auditorium.

  “No,” Elias’s deep bass voice became a growl, “but your soldiers did.”

  Crane said nothing. He was incapable of speech.

  Elias broke into a grin. “I was rather proud of them, actually. A simple phone call and the control words, ‘Steps to Heaven’ was all it took to trigger the inevitable.”

  “Why my soldiers?” Crane demanded, shaking with rage.

  “That’s simple. Because they were easy to manipulate, Sergeant Major. How could you ever hope to keep men sane after what you and your precious army put them through? Day after day thinking they were going to be the next one to die, lose a limb or their eyesight. Watching their friends being blown to smithereens before their very eyes. Not really understanding why they were there, or what they were trying to achieve. Oh yes, Sergeant Major, you and your superiors contrived to give me the perfect subjects. The only slight flaw was Peter Fisher. He was supposed to kill his wife as well, but the stupid man decided on his own that she wasn’t to be part of it. If he hadn’t hated her so much, maybe we wouldn’t be in this position now. But still, there’s no point worrying over spilt milk, wouldn’t you agree?”