A stroke of luck had also added to his sense of wellbeing. Being part of the unseen and ignored section of society, those unfortunates that most people give no more thought to than the litter on the street, meant that the cast-outs tended to band together. It was through such an encounter that Padam and his friends had been introduced to Tesco. Being the largest and most popular supermarket in the area it meant there were opportunities for free food.
Two days ago, Padam was sat on the grassy knoll overlooking the supermarket’s overflowing car park, waiting for his new homeless friends. Watching the greedy customers grab empty trolleys, snarling at people who got in their way. Once the customers had their plunder, barely contained by the groaning trolleys, it became a race against time. They rushed to stow away their booty, eager to be gone. To consume their spoils in private. Driving their cars at break neck speed out of the car park, leaving abandoned trolleys in their wake.
It was explained to Padam in a mixture of pigeon English and a great deal of pointing, that not all the fresh food in the food store was purchased each day. Anything out of date and unsold was thrown away each evening. At nightfall therefore, the Nepalese were persuaded to climb inside the high waste bins scattered around the back of the store. Being smaller and lighter it was an easy enough task for them to get in and root around in the rotting vegetables, to find packets of sandwiches, cakes, pies, pasties and other such gems.
Whilst being amazed by a society that could afford to throw away good food without a second thought, Padam was nevertheless grateful. Now he could focus his attention on his sentry duty, without the distraction of hunger.
Hearing a faint rustling of leaves behind him, Padam’s breathing became slow and shallow. He was confident that even on close inspection he would be seen as a lump of rock, covered by fallen leaves and twigs. The human brain being programmed to see what it expected to find in any given location. Once again his army greatcoat had come in handy and was draped over his body to help with the camouflage. Moving just his eyes, he scanned the area directly in front of him.
He almost missed the smudge as it ran towards the side of the sports centre and settled into the shadow of the wall. Ignoring the tickle in his nose from the mouldy undergrowth, Padam concentrated on what he could see. The smudge. Edging slowly along the wall, away from the front of the building and stopping half way down. A leaf dislodged itself from the pile above Padam and came to rest on his eyelid, making him blink several times. When he once again focused on the wall, the smudge had disappeared. Mentally turning the area into a grid system, he slowly scanned it, but found nothing.
His inner clock estimated it was at least thirty minutes before he saw the smudge again. Appearing at exactly the same point it had disappeared from earlier. Seemingly morphing from a wall into a smudge. After another incessant wait, the smudge disengaged itself from the wall and ran towards Padam.
Day 8
Crane was reading, yet again, the file Kim had opened on the accidental death of Corporal Simms. She had also logged the initial details onto the REDCAPS computer system, filing away the detailed statements taken from all the soldiers on duty with him that night, the post mortem results and finally Captain Edward’s press release. The only thing missing was any forensic evidence that would come in over the next couple of days. The various tests they had to undertake in the laboratories using materials gleaned from the scene of crime, or during the post mortem, took as long as they took. Not even Crane could persuade a machine to hurry up; although he always tried to make sure his evidence was first in the queue.
Closing the file, Crane got up and wandered across the office. He was studying a large map of the garrison that Kim had put up on one of the walls of their large communal office, showing the location of Corporal Simms’ unfortunate demise, when she walked past to go off duty.
“Kim,” he called. “Just a minute.”
“Sir?”
“What are all these pins you’ve put on the map of the garrison?”
“Oh those,” Kim moved to stand next to him. “I decided to plot the location of each battalion on the map. I don’t know why really. I just thought it was interesting.”
As Crane continued to study the map he scratched the scar beneath his short beard.
“Sorry, sir.” Kim spoke into the silence.
“No, no, it’s alright. It’s just that...”
“What’s up, boss? I told Kim that was a waste of time,” Billy said appearing at Crane’s side with alacrity.
Standing back and looking at them, Crane said, “No, Billy, I don’t think it was a waste of time. Kim why are there two pins in New Mons Barracks? Is that an error?”
“No, sir.” Kim strode to her desk her uniform skirt rustling and picked up a piece of paper. “Here,” she held it out to Crane. “A routine memo came through last week, it was sent to the RMP though, not us. I got a copy of it last night when I was talking to one of them. It advises that a group of Afghan officers will be the guests of the 1st Battalion The Coldstream Guards for the next month. I didn’t know how to classify them, but I thought they should be on the map. Especially as New Mons Barracks is directly opposite the sports centre, just on the other side of Princess Avenue.”
Billy whistled.
“Exactly, Billy. Good work Kim. Yet again.”
***
“I was just wondering when you were going to tell me about this...” Crane waited a beat before adding, “sir.” The tone of Crane’s voice more suited to finding something disgusting on his shoe, than addressing his Officer Commanding.
A minute ago, anger had made him push past the soldier waiting outside the Captain’s office and walk in uninvited.
“What now, Crane?” Edwards seemed to treat the implied insubordination with boredom rather than outrage, as he indicated Crane should sit. Wrong footed, Crane complied, some of his irritation dissipating.
“Purely through the good work of Sergeant Weston, I’ve found out that there are Afghan officers training on Aldershot Garrison.” Crane said throwing the memo onto the Captain’s desk, sitting back and crossing his arms.
“And?”
“And, don’t you think this could have some bearing on Corporal Simm’s death, sir?”
“No, Sergeant Major, I don’t,” Edwards sighed. “But I expect you were going to tell me why it should.”
“You mean you don’t see them as a potential threat?” Crane muttered several expletives under his breath.
“Potential threat? What on earth are you talking about, Crane? These are perfectly respectable Afghan officers, who are here at the invitation of the Coldstream Guards. After working with them in Afghanistan, their Commanding Officer thought it would be beneficial for the Afghans to come and see for themselves how our training works in situ.”
As Edwards warmed to his political speech, he leaned forward across the desk.
“They will see first-hand what the attitude of our lads is. How they work together, trust each other and watch each other’s backs. Moreover, they will learn from our own officers how to foster and achieve that attitude. And if the Commanding Officer of the Coldstream Guards thinks it’s a good idea, then believe you me, Crane, it is.”
Crane left his chair and paced the small space in front of Edward’s desk. Feeling trapped, not only by the confines of the office but also by the small mindedness of his Officer Commanding.
“But don’t you see the problem is timing,” Crane said.
“Timing? What on earth has the timing of this got to do with anything?” The Captain pushed his lustrous black hair away from his sloping forehead.
“The Olympic athletes, sir.” Crane closed his eyes and shook his head in frustration at the inability of the man in front of him to see his point of view. “They are an obvious target for the Taliban, Al Qaeda and any other loony terrorist on the planet.”
“Sit down, Crane.” A barked order. As Crane complied Edwards continued. “For God’s sake, you’re assuming that one or more of
the Afghans are terrorists. If they hadn’t been properly vetted they wouldn’t be here.”
“What about Corporal Simms?”
“Corporal Simms? Jesus, Crane you don’t change. The death of Corporal Simms was an unfortunate accident. It had nothing to do with any Afghan officers or anyone else who may be on the garrison. Stop seeing things that aren’t there and get back to the job in hand. Ensuring the security of the athletes on the garrison.”
“That, sir, is precisely what I’m doing and will continue to do.”
Crane walked out of the door, leaving Captain Edwards spluttering into the empty space.
***
After leaving Captain Edward’s office, Crane went to see Derek Anderson at the station. As he drove he realised he was seeking refuge but was past caring. After an internal debate he decided to leave the matter of the Afghan officers stewing for a while, until the best course of action revealed itself to him. Which it usually did. So he concentrated on another problem that was irritating him. The petty thefts from the Athlete’s living quarters. Nothing else had been stolen but something still needed to be done. Especially before anyone outside the garrison, namely the press or, heaven forbid, the mayor, found out.
As Crane drove, he opened the windows. The weather was holding and Aldershot didn’t look as bleak in the sun. Even a Mediterranean beach, which looks inviting in the sunshine, isn’t much of a paradise in the cold wind and rain. Aldershot was no different. Its mean streets were today brightened by sunlight and looked less threatening and desolate.
Driving along the dual carriageway, towards the police station, he glanced to his left at the Queens Theatre, where the civic reception was held to welcome the athletes to the town. It was deserted now, apart from a small cluster of men perched on the tiered steps. It seemed they huddled together for protection, rather than warmth, as it was over 20˚C. A group of elderly Gurkhas, small and insignificant in the large wide space, drinking bottles of water and clutching plastic carrier bags.
****
After accepting a welcome cup of tea, but declining Anderson’s invitation to share his cake, Crane asked what was happening with the investigation into the petty thefts.
“Nothing.” Anderson choked on a piece of cake and had to be revived with a swig of tea. “No more thefts, but we’re still no nearer to finding out who did it. Whoever it was probably thinks they’ve got away with it by now.”
“Just what I thought. But that won’t be acceptable to the Wicked Witch of the North.”
“Wicked Witch of the North? Oh, you mean the ice cold Miss Stone,” Anderson laughed and threatened to choke on his cake again. “Mind you she’s a looker don’t you think, Crane? If you can thaw that ice cool exterior that is. If only I was twenty years younger...”
“Sorry, Derek, not interested and neither should you be. Don’t forget you’re a happily married man. So if you don’t mind, can we get back to work? I’ve come up with a plan.”
“Why does it always worry me when you come up with a plan, Crane?”
“Don’t worry, Derek, it’s only a small spot of misdirection,” and Crane leaned in to give Anderson the details.
By the end of their chat, it was decided that a young WPC would join the workforce as a temporary helping hand, subject to the witch’s approval, of course. By posing as the kind of girl who couldn’t care less about her job or the athletes, they hoped she could ingratiate herself with the person or persons who were interested in pilfering a few more trinkets. It may take a few days for the undercover operation to work, but the WPC wouldn’t be in any harm and the witch would prefer working with the police rather than the army. Crane’s final trump card was that Anderson could take the credit if it worked.
“Just so long as it’s your idea if it doesn’t,” Anderson called to Crane’s retreating back as he left to return to the garrison.
Night 9
The plan about sending a WPC under cover, stuck in Crane’s mind, so he phoned Tina to check she was alright and to let her know he’d be late – again. Making a second phone call he requested that Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones attend the SIB office that evening, bringing with him any background information he had on the Afghan officers.
The Lance Corporal’s sallow complexion hadn’t been improved by the good weather. Crane thought he was no doubt too busy pouring over his satellite images and computers, or whatever the hell he consulted, to spend any time outdoors. And God forbid he should do any exercise. The lad looked like he’d be blown over by a gust of wind, in sharp contrast to Billy, who stood all rippling muscles, blond hair and freckles.
“Um, Sergeant Major, um oh, Sergeant Williams,” the Lance Corporal bumbled his way into the room, laden with files, which he nearly dropped as he caught sight of Billy.
“Lance Corporal, thank you so much for coming over and bringing your information to share with us. Shall we sit at the table?”
Crane led the way, giving a slight shake of his head at the puzzled look Billy had thrown him. Shrugging his shoulders Billy also sat as the Lance Corporal’s precarious pile of papers slid out of his arms and onto the table’s shiny surface.
“So, what have you brought us?” Crane continued to charm.
“Well, sir, I’ve got the files on the Afghan officers, as you requested and I’ve also taken the liberty of bringing the latest intelligence for you. I would, of course, be happy to decode anything that you may have trouble understanding. Is Captain Edwards joining us?” The Lance Corporal looks around the room, as if expecting to see the Captain materialise from under a desk and shout ‘boo!’
“Not tonight no, Lance Corporal. He’s tasked me with running the security operation for the garrison, remember?”
“Oh yes, of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Taking pity on the Lance Corporal’s flaming face, Crane and Billy turned their attention to the files. Unfortunately, it didn’t take very long. Each file was slimmer than a credit card. They also looked at the Intelligence Operative’s ‘Intel’ as he proudly called it. Crane had to admit he couldn’t actually understand a word of it and that’s when the young man came into his own, pulling out maps and charts, which indicated where each officer was from and where their units were deployed. Noted on the map were details of how many men they commanded and what their main area of operation was. Satellite photographs indicated the last known location of each unit, none of which had moved in any direction without their officers.
“Probably enjoying a bit of time off,” Billy observed.
Ignoring the comment, Dudley-Jones then provided log sheets which monitored mobile phone calls the officers had made since being on the garrison. Most of them were to family, only a handful to their units.
“So, sir, the idea is to crack the code,” he explained to Crane.
“The code Lance Corporal? What code?”
“The language used in the phone calls. Whether they actually mean what they are saying.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Billy asked.
“Because they are trying to disguise what they really mean by using normal everyday language.”
“Isn’t that rather difficult to determine?” Crane wanted to know. “After all it’s mostly conjecture, surely.”
“Possibly, sir, but we have men trained and practiced in this and you’d be amazed what we find out. We’ve likened it to cracking the German codes in the Second World War.”
“Well, it’s all very impressive, Lance Corporal.”
“Thank you, sir,” Dudley-Jones puffed up with pride.
“But I was just wondering, how are you tracking them whilst they are on the garrison?”
“Tracking them?” Dudley-Jones looked at Crane and then Billy, whose stony face held no answer. “On the garrison?”
Crane nodded.
“Do you think we should be?” Dudley-Jones looked as if Crane had just pulled a gun on him.
“Yes, Lance Corporal.” Crane stood and moved around the office. “What if they are planning som
ething here on the garrison? Without outside help. How would we know?”
Dudley-Jones glanced down at his files, but the inert pieces of paper said nothing. He turned to Crane, tilting his head back to look at the man looming above him.
“We wouldn’t,” he whispered and his face began to tinge with pink.
“That’s what I thought.”
Crane made the Lance Corporal wait, while he strolled over to the coffee machine and helped himself.
Remaining standing he said, “So, if we’re all agreed it’s a problem,” Billy and Dudley-Jones nodded, “then,” Crane smiled, “I think I may have the solution.”
The solution involved Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones attaching himself to the Commanding Officer of the Coldstream Guards, ostensibly as a part-time aide. He would then be able to come and go as he liked, staying in the shadows, observing and most importantly, listening to the Afghan officers’ conversations. The Lance Corporal had admitted that whilst not being fluent, he had a fair working knowledge of Pashtu. The plan seemed perfect in its simplicity but Crane still sensed some reluctance on the part of Dudley-Jones.
“I’ll certainly pass your plan along to my superiors, Sergeant Major Crane,” Dudley-Jones sighed and collected his files.
“My plan? Is it my plan, Billy?” Crane tried and failed to keep the smile off his face as he looked at his young sergeant.
Taking his cue Billy said, “No, sir, I wasn’t aware that it was. If I remember correctly it was the Lance Corporal here who came up with it.”
Dudley-Jones’ head shot up.
“A stroke of genius on his part, identifying a potential chink in the armour of intelligence surrounding the protection of the athletes, I’d say.”
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 26
