Solid Proof: A dark, disturbing, detective mystery (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Book 8)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Solid Proof

  A dark, disturbing, detective mystery

  A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller

  Book 8

  By

  Wendy Cartmell

  © Wendy Cartmell 2015

  Wendy Cartmell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2015 by Wendy Cartmell

  This kindle edition published 2016

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

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  29

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  31

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  36

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  39

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  45

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  49

  50

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  54

  55

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  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  By Wendy Cartmell

  From Wendy

  Joint Judgement

  Author Note

  1

  2

  Solid Proof. A high profile murder investigation threatens to condemn an innocent man to a life of imprisonment. When Military Police Detective Tom Crane is called out to the scene of the disappearance of army wife and model Janey Cunningham, his only clue is a red stiletto shoe dropped on the garage floor, plunging Crane into his strangest murder mystery to date!

  In a leafy borough of London, family man and investment banker, Tyler Wells begins to notice small intrusions into his life - a flower left on his wife's bed, and silent phone calls to his office. Blissfully unaware of his ties to a far darker past, Tyler is thrust blindly to the forefront of a high profile murder investigation.

  1

  There it was, Crane’s only clue. A single shoe on the garage floor. The crime scene lights picked it out as though it were placed there as part of a fashion magazine photo shoot. The crime scene photographer adding to that illusion, as he walked around the inanimate object photographing it from all angles, although he was dressed in a white paper suit with a mask over his face, instead of some trendy ‘I’ve just thrown this together’ attire.

  Crane walked around the red glossy stiletto himself when the forensic photographer had finished. But it stubbornly remained what it was. Just a shoe. It told him precisely nothing. In all honesty Crane felt a bit of a fool, examining a shoe as though it were a body. Still, life was full of new experiences, especially in his job. But without doubt, this had to be one of the strangest encounters he’d ever had.

  Crane looked again at the photograph that he was holding, depicting the owner of the said shoe. Her legs were long and slender, pushed straight by a pair of stiletto heels. A skirt swung around her knees and was teamed with a stylish, silk blouse. Her hair framed her face, neither short nor long, but teased artfully by an expensive hairdresser. The kind of hairstyle that looked natural, but was probably anything but.

  “Well?” asked DI Anderson.

  “Well what?” said Crane.

  “Any thoughts?”

  Crane caught sight of the DI’s face and returned the grin. DI Derek Anderson of Aldershot Police and Sgt Major Tom Crane of the Special Investigation Branch of the Military Police knew each other well and Crane was keenly aware that Derek was trying to wind him up.

  “Seriously, Derek, is this all we’ve got?” Crane asked, nodding towards the shoe.

  “I’m afraid so,” Derek consulted his notes. “It belongs to Janey Cunningham, a model who works under the name of Janey Carlton. Wife of one Major Cunningham, she seems to have disappeared into thin air.”

  Crane had to shake away the image of a genie disappearing with a puff of smoke back into the oil lamp he lived in.

  “The couple had a meal at a restaurant in Farnham last night,” Anderson was saying. “Upon arriving home, the Major realised he’d left his wallet in the restaurant. He dropped his wife off and immediately returned to Farnham to collect it. When he arrived back home that shoe was all that was left of Janey Cunningham. Her car is here and her clothes. The only thing missing, apart from her, is her handbag.”

  Anderson stuffed his notebook and his hands into his rumpled suit jacket pockets, seemingly oblivious to his grey wispy hair flying around in the wind, exposing the bald patch on his head.

  “Has the Major tried to find her?” Subconsciously Crane rubbed his hand over his own short, dark, curly hair, but it hadn’t moved. It never did.

  “He called her friends last night, waking some of them up, but everyone denied knowledge of her whereabouts. He phoned her mother, but she hadn’t heard from her either. Janey’s mobile phone was, and still is, turned off.”

  “No sign of a struggle?”

  “Nope.”

  “So after that he called the police?”

  “Not exactly,” said Derek.

  Crane raised an eyebrow.

  “He waited until he woke up this morning and found she was still missing,” Anderson continued. “When I was dispatched to the scene and heard that the call had come from an army officer, I phoned you.”

  “Why did the Major wait until this morning to ring the police?”

  “That’s what I hope we’re about to find out,” said Derek and led the way to the house.

  The large detached house situated between Farnham and Aldershot had a separate two car garage and they walked from there, crunching over the gravelled drive, to the Major’s home. A large, symmetrical, double fronted Georgian house awaited them, making Crane whistle.

  “Maybe I should take a commission to officer rank, if this is what you can afford on a Major’s pay,” he said, taking in the imposing building, looking as though it were straight out of an article in the magazine Country Life.

  “Family money,” said Anderson.

  “Eh?” Crane stopped walking and turned towards Anderson.

  “Major Cunningham is a minor aristocrat, which means he’s a major pain in the arse.”

  “Ah,” said Crane nodding, deciding that the Major was probably one of those men playing at being soldiers, while they waited for papa to die, so they could take over the reins of the family estate. A prejudiced view, he knew, but he’d come across that type of officer before and as a result it coloured his judgement. “She’s a model, you said?” Crane started walking again.

  “Mmm. Works under her maiden name of Janey Carlton. I’ve never heard of her, but Mrs Derek has. Wants me to get her autograph when we find her,” Derek delivered the line in his best, dry humoured voice and Crane had to struggle not to laugh out loud as Anderson pushed open the door to the house.

  They stood in a large hallway on a black and white tiled
floor. White closed doors led to various downstairs rooms and an imposing staircase swept onwards to the upper floor. At the sound of their feet, a door on their right opened and a uniformed policeman poked his head out.

  “Ah, sir, Major Cunningham is here in the morning room, waiting for you,” he told Anderson and flashing his eyes wide, opened the door, so they could walk through into the room.

  2

  “The morning room, eh?” Crane couldn’t resist the dig.

  “I beg your pardon?” a man standing before an unlit fireplace with huge marble surround turned at Crane’s words. He was dressed in casual clothes so crisp they had obviously been professionally cleaned. Crane mused that the creases in the Major’s trousers were so severe the man was in danger of cutting his legs to ribbons. He wasn’t in uniform, but quite honestly may as well have been, the twill trousers, muted shirt and tie covered by a V-necked pullover, were all in colours reminiscent of army fatigues.

  “It’s just that I’ve never been in one before, a morning room that is,” Crane said, looking around the high-ceilinged majestic room which was filled with what appeared to be antique furniture. Crane fancied it was real, not reproduction, but to be honest he couldn’t have told the difference between the two.

  “And who might you be?”

  “Me? Sgt Major Crane, SIB. And who might you be?” asked Crane, knowing full well who the man was.

  “Major Cunningham. Why are you here, Crane?” Cunningham snapped. “I’d have thought this would be a civilian police matter.”

  “Oh dear, no,” Crane replied watching the Major closely, feeling the distaste for the Branch that the man was radiating like an icy fog. But Crane had been there, done that and bought the t-shirt. Some officers, such as the one stood before him, hated the fact that SIB investigators on an active case, could interview who they wanted, when they wanted and where they wanted. It was one in the eye for the rank system that tried its best to keep those of a lower rank separated from those who were higher-ranking, such as sergeants or officers. Such men were a challenge that Crane just couldn’t resist. “I’d be failing in my duty as a military investigator if I didn’t assist DI Anderson here.”

  “Absolutely,” Anderson agreed. “We’re a team, Sgt Major Crane and I. Take us or leave us. But I’d advise co-operation if I were you, sir. If you want your wife back, that is.”

  “Of course I want my bloody wife back. Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Not immediately, sir, no,” Crane chipped in.

  “How dare you!” Cunningham roared, causing Crane to take a step backward in surprise and Anderson to step bodily between the two men.

  “Please, Major, sit down. And you, as well, Crane.” Once both men had complied, Anderson said, “I think Crane here is alluding to the fact that you didn’t report Mrs Cunningham missing last night. Why was that, Major?”

  Cunningham, sitting on the edge of a floral patterned settee, his elbows on his knees, looked down at the floor and said, “I thought she’d flounced off. She sometimes does that if we’ve had words.”

  “Words?”

  Cunningham looked up at Anderson. “A few words, Inspector. A bit of an argument. Nothing much really. When I couldn’t reach her last night, I figured she come home in the morning.”

  “But she hasn’t.”

  “No.”

  “And what were those words about?” Crane asked.

  The Major glared at Crane, then his whole body sagging said, “I’d said the wrong thing. It was something stupid about the fact that she was looking good for her age. But it touched a nerve. She didn’t like being reminded that she was getting older. She’d been a bit touchy most of the evening, as though she was just waiting for me to say something wrong, which I, of course, unwittingly did.”

  “She hasn’t been seen or heard of by her friends and family?”

  The Major shook his head. “No. No one’s heard from her at all.”

  Crane sat back and appraised the man in front of him, while Anderson continued with the questioning. Mid 40’s, he guessed. Good looking, good teeth, good job, good background. A bit of a catch, he supposed, on the surface at any rate. But who knew what went on behind the façade of a golden couple. Was he moody, abusive, or cruel? Was she neurotic, spent all his money and was only interested in her career? He’d seen her picture in Tina’s magazines, promoting some expensive product or other. Hair, make-up, clothes, it was all the same to Crane. She reminded him of Twiggy or Lulu, but 20 years younger than them, Janey Carlton being in her mid-40s, not mid-60s. But she was definitely out of that mould.

  Crane tuned back in as Anderson was asking Cunningham if the restaurant would confirm his story about leaving the wallet there last night.

  “Of course they will. We’re regular customers. They know me well.”

  Crane didn’t know the restaurant in question, but knew that any restaurant in Farnham wasn’t cheap. It was an affluent area with upmarket shops and eateries. A charming, old town with cobbled streets, wooden beamed houses and shops, complete with the obligatory fast train to London. Perfect, expensive, commuter territory.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Major Cunningham,” Anderson said as he stood up. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Is that it?”

  “For now, yes,” Crane said, deliberately leaving out the normal ‘sir’ he would be expected to utter to a senior officer.

  “Well, what the hell are you going to do now? You can’t just leave!” the Major jumped up as Crane and Anderson walked towards the door, his face suffusing with colour in his anger.

  “We have to leave and get on with the business of trying to find your wife, sir,” said Anderson. “Sitting here with you won’t do anyone any good. If Mrs Cunningham gets in touch, or anyone else does with any news of her, tell the constable here,” Anderson indicated the policeman who’d let them into the room and was still standing silently by the door. “He’ll call the information in straight away. I’ve got the list of contact details of your friends and family,” Anderson patted his pocket, “which is all I need for now.”

  With Major Cunningham still blustering, protesting at their leaving, Crane and Anderson walked out and shut the door on his objections.

  3

  …It was always the bloody same. No matter what children’s home, orphanage, or whatever the hell you wanted to call the places he’d been sent to, they were all as bad as each other. Always full of staff that didn’t give a shit, kids that didn’t give a shit and social workers that were so liberal and laid back they were practically flat on their backs. In most cases they were more interested in reading The Guardian than tackling the case files piling up on their desks. He had been in the system all his life. Weak at birth and with complicated health problems, no one had wanted to adopt him. Foster parents quickly tired of his anger and troublemaking, eventually succumbing to his indifference towards them and his determination to push anyone and everyone away, and sent him back. Back to the places he was desperate to get away from, but unable to work out how to.

  As he was sent from one orphanage to another, they blurred into sameness. Same paint peeling, concrete cracked walls. Same smells of damp and boiled cabbage. Same rickety beds. Same lack of privacy. Same idiots in charge who were more interested in chatting over cups of tea, than doing any work.

  His problem, of course, was that he was livid. It coloured his thinking, his judgment and his relationships. He was mad at his birth mother for fucking off, fuming at the gangs of bullies who picked on him and irate that he didn’t have a family like 99% of the population seemed to have. As a result of the anger that was building inside him like storm clouds, most people gave him a wide berth. Lonely and isolated, he’d quickly realised that you couldn’t rely on anyone. Only yourself.

  His asthma, skin conditions and bad stomach started to clear up as he reached puberty and signalled a turning point in his miserable life. He was aware that he needed to bulk up. His thin and bony limbs not only looked pathetic but
were ineffective when it came to running away from bullies trying to catch him, or throwing punches if he was surprised and cornered. He began to grab food wherever and whenever he could, ate as much as possible at meals and hid snacks in secret places around the grounds of whatever institution was his current home.

  Under cover of darkness he started to exercise. Running helped his stamina. Shadow boxing made his reactions quicker. Push ups, pull ups and sit ups built muscle. As he grew, so did his reputation. Not only was he angry, he was now dangerous and the other kids quickly realised it was bad for their health to pick on him.

  As his body matured, the additional oxygen coursing through his body, fed his brain. The water he drank whilst exercising helped with thinking and the food he ate at breakfast, that he’d once shunned, increased his ability to concentrate.

  The teachers at school slowly began to notice the change in him. Most ignored it, as they did most of their pupils, preferring to take the easy route of teaching everyone the same thing, whether they understood it or not, or even already knew it. They couldn’t care less about pushing the brighter children, nor giving those struggling extra help. But there were a couple that were different. The english teacher, a matronly looking woman, yet with an imperial air about her, began to lend him new and interesting books to read and then casually discussing them with him once they had been read. The mathematics teacher, a young, sharp minded, angle bodied, bony male, delighted him by opening up the world of computers and programming. Once hooked, he quickly became passionate about bits, bytes, binary code and operating systems.

  And then came the turning point, the pivotal birthday. When he turned 18, he was turfed out of the latest local authority home, given a housing association flat and told to get on with it. He was officially an adult and no one else’s responsibility but his own. Weaker orphans fell apart at this point. Having spent a lifetime cossetted from decision making, money management, cooking and employment, turned adrift on the sea of adulthood, they floundered. But not him. Here was the release he’d been waiting for all his life. Thanking those two disparate but equally effective teachers, he left school, moved into his flat and arranged for the fastest internet connection he could get. He then stole a laptop from an unsuspecting traveller who was waiting for his train at the local railway station.