A Grave Death
A Crane and Anderson crime thriller
Wendy Cartmell
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
By Wendy Cartmell
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
By Wendy Cartmell
A Cold Death
1
2
3
By Wendy Cartmell
All my books are available for sale and to borrow on Amazon.
Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers:
Crane and Anderson crime thrillers:
Emma Harrison mysteries
All my books are available to purchase or borrow from Amazon by clicking the links.
Check out my website and blog, where I review the very best in crime fiction.
Wendy Cartmell
‘And it's the girl that makes the thing that holds the oil
that oils the ring that works the thing-ummy-bob
that's going to win the war.’
‘The Thing-Ummy Bob’,
A British song made popular by Gracie Fields 1942
For my grandmother,
one of the girls who made the thingumabobs
1
It was a cold, blustery autumn day, the type of weather befitting a funeral. They were following the swaying, bumping coffin, walking slowly through the cemetery towards the freshly dug, waiting grave. A beam of sunshine broke through the dismal grey sky, illuminating the path, as if to light their way. But it couldn’t lighten anyone’s mood.
‘Where the hell is Jill?’ Paul hissed at Anderson, replacing his mobile in his pocket, clearly annoyed that once again he’d been unable to contact his sister. He’d said to Anderson earlier that to think that she wouldn’t attended her own brother’s funeral was, well, unthinkable.
No one seemed to have seen her since the previous morning. As a result, DI Anderson could only shrug his shoulders in reply to Paul’s question. He’d suggested to his friend that perhaps she’d been overwhelmed with grief and, unable to face the funeral, had gone away. That theory had been met with a snort of derision. She was a Director at Dean Engineering, Paul had said, and was made of sterner stuff.
Anderson turned and looked at the straggling line of mourners following them, as a sudden gust of wind made his beige raincoat flap open, which he wore over his customary work attire of tweed jacket and grey trousers. It lifted the wisps of grey hair off his head and into his eyes. But pushing them aside, he still couldn’t see Jill. The tall figure of Kevin’s son Reece was loping alongside his latest girlfriend, model thin and elegant in her black dress. Jill’s daughter Maggie had steadfastly refused to wear black to her uncle’s funeral and instead was wearing a dress of many colours and layers under a red duffle coat, a headband in her hair and rope espadrilles on her feet, despite the earlier rain. The remaining mourners were dressed in various shades of grey and black and were reminiscent of an undulating sea in winter.
He hurried to catch up with Paul, who had reached the edge of the grave. The coffin was on the grass, set upon the bands of rope that would be used to lower it into the ground and the undertakers were standing ready to complete the task at the appropriate time. Anderson tried to block out the memory of the last funeral he’d attended, that was threatening to take hold with the death grip of a migraine. The passing of Tina Crane, the wife of his friend and fellow investigator Sgt Major Tom Crane, although some three months ago, was still a lump of grief that had settled in his stomach like a stone. No amount of positivity had so far managed to move it.
Anderson looked around in an effort to distract himself from his grief over Tina’s death. The vicar had his bible open in his hands, his white robe rippling in the breeze. Paul was looking down, his thick black-framed glasses slipping down his nose, revealing red-rimmed eyelids. Anderson envied Paul’s coarse thick black hair which was unruffled, despite the wind that was blowing more steadily now. His black cashmere overcoat with black suit underneath added just the right amount of gravitas to the occasion. The elder brother and uncle setting the standard for the family, as usual. Not that they always followed his lead, Maggie being a prime example of that.
By now the remaining mourners had arrived but stood a respectful distance from the yawning mouth of the grave, as though afraid that if they got too close, then they too would be set down inside it, never again to see the light of day. Anderson bowed his head in respect rather than prayer and looked at the freshly turned earth that covered the bottom of the grave. A touch of white caught his eye and he wondered if it was a flower from a wreath? A Lilly perhaps that had made a break for freedom from a tightly woven floral spray.
The words of the burial service washed over him. Not being a religious man, they didn’t particularly touch him. And anyway, his focus was still on that bit of white something or other poking out of the black earth. Deciding he needed a better look, he moved around the edge of the grave until he had another angle on it. He squatted, oblivious to the strange looks from the mourners and the stuttering and spluttering from the man of God, whom Anderson had unceremoniously pushed out of the way. He had a clearer view now. From one side he had only seen white. However, from his change of perspective he could see a slash of deep red. This was no Lilly, but a finger. With blood red nail polish painted on it. Poking out of the empty grave. Pointing at them.
2
Anderson interrupted the sonorous voice of the vicar who was reciting, ‘We have entrusted our brother Kevin to God’s mercy, and we now commit his body to the ground.’
‘Stop!’ Anderson put out his arms. One against the Vicar’s chest and the other, palm out towards the undertakers.
‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Paul glared at him. Anderson saw the venom in his friend’s eyes and was glad that he wasn’t one of Dean Engineering’s employees, as he wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the man in a work situation. But that wouldn’t happen here. Here, Anderson was confident in his role as Detective Inspector and further confident that there was something seriously wrong with the freshly dug grave.
‘There’s something in there,’ Anderson said.
The mourners collectively leaned forward to look.
‘I don’t see anything,’ said the Vicar. ‘Really, this is highly irregular.’
‘What is highly irregular is a finger poking out of Kevin’s grave.’ Anderson clamped his mouth shut. Aghast that he’d said that statement out loud. He’d meant to be more circumspect. His words turned th
e mourners to stone for a moment, before all hell broke loose.
‘A finger?’
‘What?’
‘What is he talking about?’
‘I’ve never heard anything like it!’
‘And I thought this was a respectable family!’
‘I fear he’s right, sir,’ one of the undertakers said to the Vicar. ‘I believe it is a finger.’
Hearing the validation of Anderson’s outrageous suggestion, more gasps and moans ran through the crowd.
‘Oh, my God,’ someone shouted.
‘Let me see!’ cried another, pushing people out of the way, as he tried to get a better view.
‘This can’t be happening.’ Paul staggered from the shock of the outrageous suggestion and Anderson put out a hand to grab him, afraid his friend was on the point of collapse and who could blame him. ‘What do we do?’ Paul asked, grabbing at Anderson, who managed to steady his friend as his knees buckled.
Anderson turned to the vicar, whose mouth was opening and closing, as if still carrying on with the funeral service but with the volume turned off. He was as white as his robe and holding onto his bible with clenched fingers. He was also swaying dangerously close to the edge of the grave.
‘Is there somewhere everyone can wait?’ Anderson asked, grabbing the man’s elbow to steady him and also in an effort to gain his attention. ‘I need to call the police and they’ll want to talk to everyone here. Also, we need to secure the scene until they arrive.’
‘The scene? What are you talking about? Police?’
‘If I’m right, there is a dead body in the grave that’s not supposed to be there,’ Anderson hissed, afraid of stirring up the crowd even further. ‘We could well be standing in the middle of a crime scene. Now is there somewhere you and the mourners can go?’
At last the Vicar responded to Anderson’s urging. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘We can go back into the chapel in the grounds. We’re the only group today, so we won’t be holding anyone else up.’
‘Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen,’ Anderson raised his voice and his head to look at the crowd. ‘Please go with Father Geoff and Mr Dean, where you can wait for the police.’
Mumblings rippled through the mourners, as they stumbled backwards, but with a few gentle words and hands on arms, the undertakers managed to move everyone away from the grave and usher them back towards the church, their respectful poker faces not slipping, even for an instant. It was as though they had seen all this before, although Anderson found that hard to believe. This was a new one on him, despite being a seasoned detective and running a Hampshire Major Crimes Team.
Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, Anderson rang Aldershot police station.
‘You’ve got a what?’
Anderson could hear Crane’s scepticism, finely-tuned to the nuances in his colleague and friend’s voice. ‘A finger poking out of a freshly dug grave.’
‘And is this finger attached to anything? Like a body?’
‘How the hell would I know? I didn’t exactly jump in and start digging like a dog smelling a bone, now did I?’
Crane chuckled. ‘With you, Derek, nothing would surprise me. Now, as Ciaran and I walk down to my car to come and join the party, tell me everything you know.’
‘I’m attending the funeral of Kevin Dean at Redan Road Cemetery in Aldershot.’
‘Kevin Dean of Dean Engineering?’
‘Yes. Anyway, I’m here with the family; his brother Paul, son Reece and niece Maggie. The other mourners are friends of the family and members of the management team at the factory. We were nearly at the bit where they lower the coffin into the grave, when I saw a flash of white. It bothered me, so I moved around to take a closer look and it seems to be a finger, with a coat of red polish on the nail. I need for you to organise uniforms to attend as well and secure the scene, oh and you better call Major Martin.’
‘Ciaran’s already on it.’ Anderson could hear the beeping of the locks on Crane’s car. ‘Is there anyone missing? From the funeral party, I mean.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ said Anderson. ‘Where’s Jill?’
3
The last thing Anderson wanted at this early stage was for Paul Dean to get any inkling that the body in the grave could be that of his sister.
‘Paul,’ he said, going over to him and taking him by the elbow. ‘It’s best you go indoors with everyone else.’
‘What’s going on, Uncle Paul?’ Maggie had broken away from the group of people heading back towards the chapel and had run up to Paul and Anderson.
‘Nothing to be alarmed about,’ Anderson said to her. ‘More of a precaution, really. Can you take your uncle back to the chapel?’
But Maggie didn’t move. ‘Uncle Paul?’
When Paul nodded his agreement to Anderson’s suggestion, she flashed angry eyes at Anderson. ‘Something’s going on,’ she hissed. In that instance Anderson could see the Dean family spirit in her. She may think she’d broken away from the hold the family had on its members, but there was no denying she’d inherited her mother’s genes.
‘As soon as I know anything, I’ll come inside and speak to you. For now, I really do need you both to leave.’
With a final glare she flounced away, skirts swinging, looking like an exotic butterfly, out of place in the greyness of the graveyard. Squatting down, Anderson once again took a close look at the ‘thing’ in the grave. It really did look like a finger. He hoped to God it didn’t belong to Maggie’s mother, Jill. There was no way he would have voiced his suspicions to Paul and Maggie anyway, as there was still the tenuous hope that the finger belonged to someone else entirely.
Upon hearing the arrival of two police cars, he turned towards them, taking comfort in the fact that back up had arrived. He indicated that one pair should secure the scene and the other ones go to the church and initially make a list of all those attending the funeral, together with their contact details. It was imperative, at this stage, that everyone be accounted for and that no one leave the confines of the small chapel.
With the scene quickly secured, Anderson could leave the graveside and he went to meet Crane, Ciaran and Major Martin as they drew up and parked alongside the police cars.
‘I don’t know,’ said Crane, grinning as he climbed out of his car. ‘You can’t be left alone for five minutes without stumbling upon a crime. And at a funeral to boot! Here, I’ve a spare suit you can wear.’ Crane clicked open the boot and rummaged inside.
Anderson found it hard to share Crane’s joviality but recognised that it was probably Crane’s way of ignoring the painful memories a funeral would dredge up. His wife, Tina, had been the victim of a cowardly killer who liked to hear people die over the phone. Whilst Crane was doing well, handling his grief and looking after their son, Anderson knew what it cost Crane emotionally. Still, if anyone was good at hiding emotion and putting bad memories in a box and screwing the lid tightly shut, it was an ex-soldier. Sgt Major Crane had been the scourge of soldiers with criminal intent whilst an investigator in the Special Investigations Branch of the British Army Military Police and upon his discharge had simply shifted his focus to civilians, by joining the Hampshire Police Major Crimes Unit.
‘Morning, Anderson,’ Major Martin called as he stood at the rear of his car and pulled himself into a crime scene suit. Once they were all ready and gathered around Anderson, he said, ‘Right, what have we got?’
‘A finger. At least I think it’s a finger. It’s poking out of an empty grave.’
Major Martin stood next to Crane. Both ex-forces, but in physical proportions two opposites. The Major rotund in his white suit, carrying his bulky case against the taller, slimmer Crane. Not that Crane was tall, it was just that the Major was shorter.
‘And is this finger attached to anything?’ his eyes widened at the strange finding.
‘I rather hoped you’d tell us that.’
The Major nodded, ‘Alright, let’s get to it,’ and the four of them walked toward
s the grave. Once there, they pulled on overshoes and ducked under the tape barrier which had been erected.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Crane.
‘Christ,’ said Ciaran.
‘Mmm, interesting,’ commented the Major. ‘Now how the hell do I get down there?’
‘The undertakers have procured the small ladder the grave diggers use. Ciaran?’ Anderson said inclining his head and Ciaran tipped the ladder into place.
‘Better hold the top secure as I climb down,’ the Major said as he climbed uncertainly down the ladder, feeling with his feet for the next rung, landing unexpectedly at the bottom, causing a slight misstep. Once he righted himself, he called, ‘Crane, hand me down my case.’
Anderson, Crane and Ciaran watched as the Major took a small brush from his case and approached the finger. ‘I can’t see any footprints,’ he called. ‘Nor any spade or shovel marks, but the forensic guys will tell us more.’
‘They’re on their way,’ explained Ciaran. ‘Just finishing up a job in Farnborough.’
‘Mmm,’ grunted the Major from the grave, as he squatted down to peer at what Anderson feared was a finger.
With his brush, he carefully moved the soil, which came away easily. ‘The soil here is very loose,’ he called, still brushing with care. ‘Looks like it’s an index finger.’
Anderson and the others looked on in fascination as he uncovered a joint, then reached the knuckle where the finger joined a hand.
Pulling himself upright, he lumbered back to the ladder and climbed it as Ciaran once again held it in place. Upon reaching Crane and Anderson he said, ‘As you can see, the finger is part of a human hand. I’m going to wait now until the forensic team get here, then once they’ve finished sifting through the bottom of the grave and surrounding area, we can carry on with carefully revealing what is actually down there. But it’s going to take a number of hours. We’ll be here a while yet.’
‘Thanks, Major,’ said Anderson. ‘Crane and I will go to the chapel and interview the mourners. Ciaran will stay here with you and I’ll get someone to bring you coffee. Come on, Crane, let’s get this done,’ and he walked away from the grave, which instead of being the final resting place of Kevin Dean, had become something far more sinister. That reminded Anderson that he’d have to do something about getting Kevin moved back to the undertaker’s chapel of rest. He couldn’t stay at the graveside, lying in his coffin, waiting to be buried, indefinitely.
A Grave Death Page 1
