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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Well, it will be. Feeling a bit left out are you?”

  Crane didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to grind his cigarette out under his shoe. “Right, I’m off now. Are we agreed that the problem here is booze not drugs?”

  “Definitely. There are always a few tablets floating around, but nothing serious. Most of the kids just do booze. I don’t think they can afford both.”

  “Okay, I’ll report back to Captain Edwards on Monday and hopefully I won’t have to do another Saturday night stint here. Bloody idiots, I don’t know how you stand it.”

  Crane nodded his head at the police officers still dealing with the sea of humanity breaking out of the pub doors in waves.

  “Oh, right, so you don’t get drunk then?” Anderson snorted. “What about all your ceremonial dinners? I hear they disintegrate into wild nights once you’re all tanked up.”

  “Maybe they do, Derek. The difference is, we keep it on the Garrison and the wives dress like women not whores.”

  Crane turned and marched off in the direction of his car, leaving the destruction behind him, not noticing Anderson’s smile.

  2

  The wailing cut through Crane’s dream like a knife, plunging him awake, as though he had been ducked into a freezing cold bath. Instinct took over and within seconds he was out of bed and at his son’s side. Picking up the soaking baby from the cot, he held him close, while they both calmed down. He was going to have to stop reacting like this, he knew, but well, it was his military training. At the first scream, his instincts took over and he was in the other room before conscious thought kicked in.

  “You beat me to it again then,” Tina’s eyes were glazed with exhaustion as she leaned on the side of the bedroom door, trying to push her greasy dishevelled long black hair off her wan face. The baggy t-shirt she slept in failing to hide the sagging flesh around her waist and stomach, left over from her pregnancy.

  “Sorry, I just…sorry.” Crane didn’t know what else to say to make the situation any better, so settled for, “Look, you sort yourself out and I’ll clean him up and bring him through in a minute,” falling back on his army training, making sure everything was in order. At six thirty in the morning he simply couldn’t deal with emotional stuff.

  Tina nodded and turned to go into the bathroom. Crane thought she looked too exhausted to even manage a conversion.

  As he changed his son’s nappy he noticed the once organised nursery was a mess. After they’d decorated the small room, Crane put shelves up over the changing table to hold all the baby paraphernalia, so everything was on hand for Tina. But his system didn’t work unless items were put back in their correct place and so instead of being a symphony of order, it had become a discord of disorder. The same was true of the rest of the room. Drawers were half closed with baby clothes peeping from them, the small wardrobe doors were swinging open and in the rubbish bin were too many used disposable nappies in sacks. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he thought he should just have time to tidy up and restock the shelves before he went to work. Now they’d moved back onto Aldershot Garrison and rented out the house they owned in Ash, it only took a few minutes for Crane to reach Provost Barracks, where the Branch were based.

  Once Daniel was clean and dry, yet still gulping back sobs and trying to stuff his fists into his mouth as though they’d provide the nourishment he needed, Crane carried the baby through to the bedroom. Whilst Daniel was happily feeding, Crane had a quick shower, made coffee and then tidied up the nursery. When he popped his head back into the bedroom mother and son were sleeping. Deciding to leave them well alone, Crane went back downstairs and left a note for Tina, before heading out.

  Their army quarter was a fairly new link-detached house, the small estate built to resemble a civvy housing estate, rather than the bleak council estate type of older Garrison properties. Crane had ignored jibes of ‘lucky sod’ and ‘do you have to be in the Branch to get one of those then?’ The houses were prized amongst the ranks and Crane’s neighbours were of the same standing in the army – Sergeants and Warrant Officers only. The army doing their usual trick of keeping each rank separate as much as possible.

  Tina was very upset about leaving their lovely old Victorian semi in Ash, but the budget just hadn’t added up. Without her salary, they couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments, feed and clothe themselves and buy all the necessary baby things. So, as they’d got a good long term rental, they moved back onto the Garrison. Crane hoped Tina would embrace army life more than she had at the moment. Perhaps she would once the baby was a bit older. As it was, he didn’t think she was coping, but that was a problem for another day. Now he had to concentrate on his report to his superior, Captain Edwards, about his findings on Saturday night.

  ***

  As Crane returned from the meeting later that morning, Sgt Kim Weston, the SIB Office Manager called him over.

  “Sir, I’ve had a call from DI Anderson. He wants you to go over to Aldershot Police Station.”

  “Any idea why Kim?”

  “He asked that you go as soon you were out of your meeting. He has a possible new case, but wouldn’t give me any details.” Kim’s uniform, hair and desk were as pristine as ever and she was reading the message from her ever present notebook. Her long blond hair was scraped back from her face and tied neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Thanks, Kim, in that case you’re with me, Billy.”

  “Boss,” Sgt Billy Williams said, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of his chair, as they went to the car.

  The short drive, along Queens Avenue, down Hospital Hill, and finally circumventing Aldershot town up towards the police station, only took about five minutes. But it took just as long once they had arrived, for Crane to find a parking space in the overcrowded car park.

  As Billy and Crane got out of the car, the cold early October wind rushed through the tunnel of walkways leading to the town centre, tugging at their clothes and hair. Crane’s close cropped dark hair didn’t move, but Billy’s shock of blond hair fell over his forehead. One final huff of wind pushed them through the front door and they arrived amid a swirl of leaves and debris, in the foyer of Aldershot Police Station. They showed their passes to the bored Desk Sergeant and were allowed through to CID.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Men in Black,” DI Anderson called to Crane and Billy as they reached his office door. Anderson’s joke was wearing a bit thin as far as Crane was concerned. It was a reference to the fact that Branch investigators don’t wear army uniform and so Crane and Billy had swopped one uniform for another. They both wore dark suits and white shirts, normally sporting Regimental ties. The only concession being short sleeved shirts in the summer and long sleeved ones in the winter.

  “Ha ha, Derek, very droll,” said Crane as he brushed some shrivelled brown leaves from his hair. “So what have you got for us?”

  “Not a very nice case, I’m afraid. Come on in, I’ve got copies of the paperwork for you.”

  Crane and Billy squeezed into Anderson’s office, which looked as though the wind from downstairs had been playing havoc in it. Billy stood by the door as there was only one free chair which Crane took; the other one being buried under piles of files. The waste paper basket sported a decorative ring of crumpled paper. Derek himself looks like he’d had an argument with the icy blast and the blast won. His prematurely grey wispy hair, which should be wrapped around his bald spot, was standing on end. His jacket was discarded on the floor and his once clean tie was loosely tied around a collar frayed from use. However, many an Aldershot villain, to their detriment, had mistaken his sloppy appearance as a reflection of his work.

  “I’m afraid we’ve got a rather disturbing case of rape and murder, Crane,” Anderson explained. “A young girl, Becca Henderson, was attacked on Saturday night. It seems she met a boy in The Goose pub, had her drink spiked and was then taken back to her own flat, where she was raped and murdered.”

  Anderson handed over the f
ile and Crane flicked through it with Billy looking over his shoulder.

  “Was a full rape kit examination done?” Crane asked.

  “Yes, during the autopsy yesterday. Things are a bit quiet over at Frimley Park Hospital at the moment, so they did it straight away. Forensics went over her flat, but there’s nothing of any help so far. Not even a bloody fingerprint. This one was definitely premeditated. He coldly picked her out, picked her up and then drugged her. He had the audacity to tell her friends he would help her get safely back to her flat, but once there he raped then killed her, all without leaving anything behind.”

  “Well,” Crane said, handing the file over his shoulder to Billy, “it’s very sad and all that, but look at what the girl was wearing.” Crane was referring to the crime scene photographs. “Look at her clothes. They barely covered her body. She may as well have been naked. She might as well have had a red light shining above her head, for God’s sake, telling any bloke that fancied a bit, that she was available.”

  “Jesus, Crane, that’s harsh. The girl didn’t ask to be raped and killed,” Anderson looked aghast.

  “I’m not saying she did, Derek, but I was with you out there on Saturday night, if you remember and none of the girls acted as though they had one bit of self-restraint. They put themselves into vulnerable situations without a second thought. Anyway, what’s it got to do with us? By the sounds of it, it could have been anyone.”

  “Because one witness, the girl’s best friend, reckons the bloke who did it was a squaddie,” snapped Anderson.

  That shut Crane up and wiped the smirk off Billy’s face.

  3

  The smoke from Crane’s cigarette was drifting away towards the playing fields located on the opposite side of Queens Avenue, in front of Provost Barracks. Which was precisely what Crane was doing, drifting away, thinking. As he smoked with one hand, the other was fingering the mobile phone in his pocket. His guilty pin was poking into his brain, saying he should phone to check that Tina and Daniel were alright. But he couldn’t get out of his head random thoughts of rape and murder. He saw again the pubescent girls from last Saturday night, giggling with their friends, flashing pretty eyes at young soldiers. Not understanding the danger they were putting themselves in. Not thinking that anything bad could happen. Innocents, who had been seduced by pop videos into wearing inappropriate clothing.

  Did he see Becca that night? He took his hand off his mobile phone and pulled out of his jacket pocket a photograph of her and studied it. No, he didn’t think so. But then again, a lot of the girls looked the same that night. Clones, fashioned from pages in magazines. He knew the words he blurted out in Anderson’s office were out of order. Perhaps there was nothing wrong in the youngsters having a good time in their own way. Maybe he was just getting too old. Unable to remember what he was like when he was their age. Crane smiled sardonically to himself. Well, maybe he could remember, just doesn’t want to admit that he was just as bad, in his time.

  Turning back to the photograph, he wondered if he had seen the boy who killed her. The one supposed to be a soldier. Crane shook his head in frustration. Fuck knows. But one thing he did know was that standing there wasn’t achieving anything. So dropping his cigarette butt on the floor, he placed his foot over it, crushing it as he turned and walked away.

  Entering the SIB office, he called for Billy and Kim to join him and they dutifully followed him into his lair, Kim bringing with her a welcome mug of coffee for him. Crane’s domain was a small room with no space for luxuries such as a conference table, so he sat behind his desk, with Billy and Kim taking the only other chairs in the room. Billy lounged rather than sat, his broad muscular frame threatening to break the cheap chair. Kim seemingly sat to attention, her notebook open and pen poised.

  Crane looked down at the photograph which was still in his hand, turned it around and pushed it across the desk towards Billy and Kim.

  “Right, this rape and murder of Becca Henderson, we need to decide on a way forward.”

  “Are you sure it’s a soldier then, boss?”

  “No one’s sure of anything, Billy, but we have a duty to see what we can do from this end. Any ideas Kim?”

  “Yes, sir, I thought I’d take a look at the description from the witnesses and put it into the computer. Do a search and see who I find.”

  “Just about the whole bloody Garrison, eh, boss?”

  “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it, Sgt Williams.”

  The lining of Kim’s uniform skirt hissed as she crossed her legs, as though at outward sign of her displeasure with Billy.

  “No it doesn’t, Kim. What about you, Billy? Have you any thoughts about the way forward?”

  Billy sat upright, “Well, I know it’s a bit off the wall, boss, but what if there have been other cases of rape or rape and murder in other Garrison towns?”

  “Oh, so now we’re looking for a serial rapist?” Kim flipped a page in her notebook.

  “For God’s sake you two, cut it out.”

  Crane picked up his coffee mug and hid his smile.

  “Two good ideas so off you go. Oh,” he called as his two Sergeants rose to leave, “go back say three years for both searches.”

  As Kim left the office, Billy hung back, asking for a quiet word.

  “Of course, Billy, what is it?”

  Billy closed the door but remained standing next to it.

  “Well, it’s this rape business, boss.”

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s just that…” Billy pushed his blond hair away from his forehead.

  “Bloody hell, come and sit down and spit it out. I won’t bite.”

  Billy did as he was told. Placing his elbows on his open legs and hanging his head, he looked between his hands at the carpet. For once Crane decided to keep quiet. Something was definitely wrong. Billy was normally over confident, but at the moment was being strangely reticent.

  “I’ve got this mate, met him at the gym. He seems to be in a bit of trouble,” he mumbled to the floor. Then lifted his head and looked around the office, anywhere other than at Crane, who didn’t comment.

  “He’s one of us, you know, not an MP or anything, just your regular squaddie.”

  Billy was faltering, so Crane had to prompt, “And?”

  “And it’s just with this rape stuff…”

  Crane leaned forwards over his desk, “Billy, are you trying to tell me you think this mate of yours might be our rapist?”

  This time Billy did look at Crane, “No sir, I’m trying to tell you that he’s been repeatedly raped. Here on the Garrison, by a fellow soldier.”

  A Letter to my Rapist

  I’m not sure how to start this letter. The term ‘Dear Rapist’ has a certain ring to it, but then again you are certainly not my ‘dear’ anything. How about ‘Dear sir’? The ‘sir’ bit is about right but the ‘dear’ is still wrong. So I think I will leave out the salutation and just get on with it.

  I wanted to share one of my flashbacks with you. Just to give you some idea of how you are making me feel. I’m sure you couldn’t care less, but putting pen to paper helps me, so you’ll just have to put up with it, the same as I have.

  I can be anywhere when a flashback happens. Luckily most times are when I’m alone in my room. It happened on Guard Duty once though. That was a bit dodgy. I had to pretend I had a bad stomach. How else could I explain my vomiting?

  It starts with uncontrollable shivers. Then the memories come. Settling on me like snow. Chilling my body, heart and soul, as I relive the horror of that first time. As I feel again the terror rendering me voiceless, my gaping mouth unable to scream, speak or even whimper, as though I had been struck dumb. I’m aware of the familiar khaki of my tunic, scratching at my cheek, as I am roughly pounded from above. A draft from the open window mocks me, playing across my bare legs, teasing the hairs and kissing my skin like a lover. Then the unbelievable pain that unlocks my voice as my skin tears and I scream like a girl, until a sweat
y sock is stuffed into my gaping mouth.

  But nothing lasts forever and once you are satisfied, there is a single sharp splinter of pain as I am released.

  “I told you you’d enjoy it,” your deep voice whispers, as my own body offers the final betrayal.

  4

  Crane believed he was the master of lobbing metaphorical grenades, but had to admit that one from Billy was right there up with the best of them. Sweet Jesus. Not only a squaddie being accused of rape and murder in Aldershot, but now a young male soldier being raped and on Crane’s Garrison. It was unbelievable. The lad didn’t seem to want to make an official complaint yet, so Crane and Billy would have to tread very carefully on this one. Well, as carefully as Crane could. He was not very good at treading carefully, he had to admit to himself.

  This was the first case of this type Crane had ever investigated. Male rape. It was one of those incidents that people knew must happen, not just in the army, but in all three forces, hell even in ‘civvy street’. But it was simply not talked about. There were very few official complaints and those soldiers who did make the decision to press charges, were often as humiliated by the process as they were by their tormentor.

  Crane couldn’t begin to imagine the stress the poor bloke must be under, this must surely be beyond his capacity to cope, making him feel threatened - not only by his rapist but also by the system. By those who are supposed to help him. He must be fighting a hell of a battle with his anxiety and fear to follow through with an official complaint. Crane shuddered at the thought of the physical attacks the young soldier had been subjected to. That sort of physical violation would surely drive a man mad.

  As these jumbled thoughts whizzed around his brain, Crane parked the car outside his quarter and entered the house. It was only when he realised there were no cooking smells greeting him, no soft lighting and the house felt cold, that he stopped thinking about work.