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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Well, sir, for several reasons. One – the call was made from Afghanistan to the Aldershot area. Two – neither man said the other’s name, or the name of the third person they referred to. Three – it is proving difficult to trace the owners of the mobile numbers. And, of course, four – the content of the conversation.”

  “Seems innocent enough to me,” Crane said, placing his coffee mug on his desk. “Just someone enquiring about a friend who is ill.”

  “On the surface, yes, sir. But we need to read between the lines.”

  “Alright, read between the lines for me then, Lance Corporal.”

  “Well, sir,” Dudley-Jones stood and moved behind Crane’s desk to stand next to him. Leaning forward he said, “The line ‘is our friend better’, for that read ‘is our friend ready’.” He put his finger under the line to emphasise it. “Then,” he continued, “see the words ‘did you manage to get everything he needed?’ That isn’t necessarily medicines, but equipment.”

  “Okay,” conceded Crane. “Anything else?”

  “Oh yes, sir. This line. ‘I’m sure it means a great deal to him. When will he be recovered?’ So the equipment is obviously very important and the caller then wants to know specifically when everything will be in place. They then decide in a day or two.” Dudley-Jones straightens up. “We’ll obviously be monitoring the airwaves closely for the follow up call.”

  Crane motioned the Lance Corporal to move back to his seat while he thought for a moment. Personally he considered it to be load of bollocks. But on the other hand…

  “Good work, Lance Corporal.” Crane beamed at the young man in front of him. “I think we should take this to Captain Edwards immediately. Don’t you agree?”

  Once they gained access to Captain Edwards, Dudley-Jones did his party trick once again, whipping out his net book and regaling the Captain with his Intel.

  “Well,” Edwards leaned back in his chair. “I think we should take this very seriously, don’t you, Sergeant Major?”

  For once Crane was happy to agree with his boss. “Indeed, sir. Seems pretty significant to me. Added to that two mur…err….dead soldiers,” Crane quickly changed the word in response to Edwards’s raised eyebrows. “Not forgetting the thefts from the stores.”

  Edwards eventually spoke into the silence. “At the moment I don’t see that the thefts are relevant to this Intel.” Frost coated Edwards’ words. “I’ve already told you how to deal with those, Crane. I take it you have followed my orders?” The blue eyes above the long nose peered at Crane.

  “Of course, sir. It’s all in hand.” Crane said holding the Captain’s stare.

  “Be more specific please, Crane.”

  “I’ve already had a meeting with DI Anderson about obtaining a search warrant for the Gurkhas’ accommodation. In fact, I was just finishing a full and detailed report for him to use with his request for the warrant when Dudley-Jones here came to see me.”

  “Um, sir,” Dudley-Jones interrupted at the sound of his name and looking at Edwards said, “What shall we do about security on the garrison?”

  Captain Edwards rose from his chair and paced the office. When he spoke he forced the two men to swivel around to look at him, at his position by the office door.

  “Increase security on the garrison. Same procedures as last week.”

  “You feel that’s necessary, sir?” Crane asked innocently.

  “You know it bloody well is, Sergeant Major. The brass will have my guts for garters if we don’t react to this intelligence. So, as you’ve got a lot to do now, Crane, you’d better get on with it. Dismissed. Both of you.”

  As the two men clattered down the stairs after leaving Captain Edwards, Crane hissed, “Perhaps, Lance Corporal, now you’ll stick like glue to the Afghan officers, as I requested.”

  Night 23

  Rumours abound. They think I can’t understand their whispered conversations in the Officers’ Mess, but of course I can. Two soldiers are dead. Why? What’s happening? Who’s behind it? It makes me laugh to myself, as I alone know what’s going on. It is interesting to see how animated conversations stop as soon as I approach. The outsider. On the surface treated with respect. But underneath, treated with suspicion. They cannot hide their true feelings, no matter how they try.

  I have now formulated the how, what and where of my little plan and obtained the materials I need. So the next part of my mission is to earn the respect of my fellow British officers. Lull them into a false sense of security. Show I can be trusted. That I am a true friend of the British Army.

  It is also time to tell the others of my plans. Plans that will throw your security services into disarray. So they don’t know what’s going on, or which way to look, nor have any suspects. I shall enjoy watching that. Knowing that I am in control. Knowing that they are reduced to reacting to my disruptions.

  I have had the go ahead from home; they will be watching and waiting for news of my success. In essence, I have to succeed. I will succeed - for I know with every fibre of my being that Allah will reward my faith, and not the faith of you infidels! For Allah is good! Allah is great! Allah is the way to eternal salvation!

  But I also understand that to achieve eternal salvation requires more than a Muslim just leading a good and humane life. It requires - no demands - certain achievements in one’s life. Those achievements could be conquering land, converting non-believers or destroying infidels - all in the name of Allah.

  Here in your country I know I cannot conquer land, nor convert non-believers. So I must destroy you infidels. As many as I can. And I will.

  Day 24

  Crane entered Aldershot Police Station and waved his security identification at the desk sergeant. As he walked through the large open plan office towards the CID area, Crane was puzzled. There were lots of staff in the office and they were all on the phone. Fragments of conversations drifted towards him, then swirled away to become lost in the general melee.

  “We can only apologise….”

  “Tightened security was necessary I’m afraid…”

  “A series of thefts…”

  “I understand you are being inconvenienced but…”

  Crane stopped at the door of Anderson’s office, looking in with some trepidation. When he saw Anderson was also on the phone he knew he was in trouble.

  Replacing the receiver with a bang, Anderson paused for a moment before picking it up again and dialling a number. Preferring to leave un-noticed, Crane nevertheless knocked on the door to gain Anderson’s attention.

  Jerking his head up at the interruption, Anderson stared at Crane.

  “Morning,” Crane called from the door. Receiving no reply Crane’s eyes swept the office and his smile became more of a grimace. Still Anderson didn’t speak.

  “Are you alright?” Crane hovered at the door, uncertain whether to enter.

  Eventually Anderson spoke. “No I’m bloody not.”

  Crane noticed the elongated words and stiffness in his friend’s body. “Ah…not a good time to call then.”

  “Not at all, Crane.” Anderson seemed to force himself to relax, leaning back against his chair. But his crossed arms remained a barrier between the two men. “I was just going to call you, ask you to come over, so you could see the fruits of your labour.” Anderson indicated the crowded space outside of his office.

  “Ah...” was all Crane could manage.

  “I know you had to increase the security at the garrison again, but Jesus Christ, Crane, we’ve never had so many phone calls!” Anderson rubbed his head, adding to the general disarray of his grey wispy hair. “Everyone from civilian support staff, to constables and all the way up the ranks to me, are apologising to the local population.”

  “Sorry,” Crane replied, “but you know it makes sense,” and he was unable to suppress the grin which spread across his face crinkling his eyes.

  This seemed to diffuse the situation, as Anderson smiled a wry smile in return and shook his head. “I actually t
hink the excuse is making things worse,” Anderson said.

  “Why?”

  “It sounds so feeble, reports of thefts from the garrison.”

  “Surely it’s better than telling the truth? That we think there are terrorists getting ready for an attack somewhere in the vicinity.”

  “I suppose so,” but Anderson didn’t sound convinced.

  “Believe you me, a load of pissed off residents is a whole lot better than terrified people, afraid to leave their homes in case the local Tesco is bombed.”

  “All right,” Anderson sighed. “But you’re going to have to deal with the local press. This was your call and you’re going to have to take some flack.”

  “Be glad to, Derek.” Crane glanced at his watch. “But I must go, duty calls. Have to inspect the front line. Back up the lads at the barriers.”

  ***

  Once outside, before crossing the car park, Crane paused between a couple of police cars parked nose into the building, to light a cigarette. He ducked his head inside the flap of his jacket to keep the flame out of the blustery wind. As he raised his head a familiar but definitely unwelcome figure was standing directly in front of him, blocking his way.

  “Sergeant Major Crane,” Diane Chambers said, “just the person I wanted to see.”

  After taking a moment to drag on his cigarette, Crane exhaled. “Sorry, Ms Chambers. No comment at this time. Please direct all enquiries to the press office.”

  “Oh, Sergeant Major,” Diane purred. “This isn’t an official request for a comment. More of a, how can I put it, off the record chat.”

  “Sorry, I don’t do off the record chats. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Crane made to step forward, but was stopped by Diane turning sideways and leaning backwards onto one police car, with her legs stretched out and feet nearly touching the wheel of the one next to it. Her legs were clad in their usual denim, but today her feet sported sandals. Seemingly her only concession to the July heat, as she was also wearing a white tee shirt under a partially open checked shirt.

  “In that case, I’ll chat and you listen.”

  Realising he was defeated for the moment, Crane continued to smoke his cigarette.

  “You see,” she said, “I was sitting at my desk this morning thinking about the increased security at the garrison and that got me wondering about the Afghan officers who are currently in New Mons Barracks.” She paused for dramatic effect, staring straight at him.

  Crane struggled to keep his face blank.

  “It seems more logical, don’t you think, Sergeant Major, that there could be a link between them and this lock down. Personally, I think all this talk about thefts from the stores is just a smoke screen. As ineffectual as the smoke from your cigarette.”

  Crane looked at the butt in his hand and quickly threw it on the ground.

  “Any comment now, Sergeant Major?” Diane smiled, obviously very pleased with herself.

  “None whatsoever. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh but I think you do.” Diane straightened up and turned to face Crane. “You’re in charge of security on the garrison at the moment aren’t you?”

  Crane didn’t answer the rhetorical question.

  “So therefore you know the location and movement of everyone on the garrison. Surely, it can’t have escaped your notice that there are a handful of, shall we say, unusual visitors?”

  Forcing himself to relax Crane smiled. “Sorry, Diane, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Security has been increased on the garrison due to a number of thefts. I’m afraid that, as usual, you’ve heard some incorrect rumours and put two and two together to make five.”

  “Not this time, Crane. I have my sources on the garrison and I’ve heard this piece of information more than once,” she gestured to the ever present recorder in her hand. “So, I can confidently do a piece on possible terrorists in our midst.”

  Crane realised his fists were clenched at his side, just as Anderson’s had been a few minutes earlier. Forcing himself to uncurl them, he crossed his arms and asked, “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? The people of Aldershot have a right to know what’s going on. That they could be in terrible danger.”

  Crane could see the screaming headlines and rhetoric that would drip off Diane Chamber’s poisonous pen. But the question was - how to deal with her?

  “What do you want, Diane?” he sighed.

  “An in-depth interview with you, about how the garrison dealt with having Team GB and then the Paralympians on site. That way I get a double page spread. The one I should have got last year, only you reneged on the deal.”

  “I was ill in hospital, as you very well know.”

  “That’s as may be. But this gives you a chance to make up for it.”

  “And you’ll wait until the Paralympians have gone?”

  “Of course, Sergeant Major,” triumph gleamed in her eyes. “See you in a couple of weeks then,” she called as she wove her way through the car park and disappeared inside her battered VW Beetle.

  Crane made a mental note to have Captain Edwards call the editor of the Aldershot Mail, just in case Diane Chambers decided to go back on their apparent deal. If she did write such a piece, the Captain would ensure the editor pulled it, in the interests of national security, never mind Aldershot security. Edwards would also make sure the editor rejected any idea she may have of writing a piece on security arrangements for the Olympians. After all, no one was allowed access to that kind of information, particularly not the press. Her editor would understand the need to keep such things under wraps, even if his naive young reporter didn’t. He hoped. As Crane went to his car, he checked the time on his wristwatch, noticing the date. Doing a quick calculation, he found he still had seventeen days to go. Seventeen more days of chaos.

  Night 24

  Padam could sense the tension in the air on the garrison. It was a palpable thing. He could feel it on his skin and taste it in his mouth. Could see the strain on the soldiers’ faces as they held their weapons just a little too tightly, the whites of their knuckles clearly visible. Saw the way they rolled their necks to release pent up anxiety. Apprehension in their eyes as they waited for the next person to come up to the barrier, requesting either access or exit from the garrison.

  Padam strolled up to a barrier, to see what would happen if he attempted to walk through, instead of infiltrating the garrison through little known gaps in the security. He was instantly dismissed as a threat. In fact, instantly dismissed full stop. No one even wanted to look in his Tesco carrier bag. The soldiers waved him through, as though trying to be rid of him as quickly as possible. Other people waiting in the queue looked through him as if he was invisible. But he was used to that. It was clear the residents of Aldershot didn’t quite know what to make of Padam and his friends. They couldn’t communicate with them, as they didn’t understand them and vice versa. But it seemed to be more than a language barrier. It was more that they didn’t seem to understand why they were in their midst at all. So they did what most people do to those they don’t understand. Ignore them. Pretend they’re not there.

  Once inside, Padam was still ignored. The focus seemed to be on the barriers, the normal ways in and out. It was as though everyone was looking outward and not thinking about who was actually around and why. So Padam was able to stroll along Queens Avenue, up towards the sports centre. But, as he came to the road that led to the centre itself, he found armed guards at the barrier. So he doubled back and entered the grounds from a more oblique angle. After all he had no legitimate reason for going to the sports centre and the only people being allowed through were the athletes and vital members of their entourage.

  Settling down in his favourite clump of trees, Padam opened his carrier bag and enjoyed a small picnic of fresh fruit that a market trader had casually thrown to him earlier in the day. As he looked more closely at the apple and banana, he saw they were badly bruised. But it
was of no matter. Fruit was fruit whichever way you looked at it. He also had a small bottle of water. An old bottle he’d filled from the tap in the flat. It tasted stale and a bit metallic, but he soon got used to it.

  As night fell, he became more conscious of his vulnerability and lay down on the ground after making a bed of leaves. He pulled the army greatcoat over himself, making sure he tucked his carrier bag under the coat by his leg. Suitably disguised he settled down to wait.

  He thought he was asleep and dreaming when he saw his son, walking, no running, crouched over with a bundle of wood clasped in his arms. Knowing it couldn’t possibly be his son, he shook his head, blinked his eyes and then pinched his arm for good measure. But the figure was still there, steadily gaining ground on the sports centre. As he focused, Padam saw it was the smudge. And it wasn’t carrying wood, but long bundles that resembled sticks. It was also carrying something else, a tin or bucket, dangling by the handle from one of its hands.

  As Padam expected, the smudge stopped half way down the side of the sports centre wall. It paused for a moment probably making sure it was alone and unobserved, Padam surmised, before disappearing as before. Morphing into the wall.

  It was nearly dawn by the time the smudge reappeared. Padam, bored and stiff nearly missed the fleeting figure as it raced towards the safety of a clump of bushes. Without it’s bundle of sticks.

  Day 25

  It was the smell that hit Crane first. Then the heat. Then the noise. There were over fifty elderly Gurkhas in the open plan office space in Aldershot Police Station, along with police officers, Royal Military Police and interpreters. Interviews were being conducted at four tables with long lines of Gurkhas waiting for their turn. Military and civilian police were going along each line taking names and inspecting documents.

  Crane watched the moving piles of old clothes. It seemed that some of the elderly men were wearing every stitch of clothing they owned, despite the oppressive heat in the room from the sheer number of bodies. Others wore little, their shirts and trousers hanging off their emaciated limbs, old sandals covering bare feet. It looked like a scene from Belsen.