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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Because of her age. It happens. I did warn her.”

  “How was she taking it, this slow down?”

  Battle shrugged, “You know,” she said.

  “No we don’t,” said Anderson.

  “Not particularly well.” Battle settled back against the settee and crossed her legs. Anderson raised his eyebrows, questioningly. “Alright,” Battle sighed. “She hated the fact her career was waning. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Crane leaned forwards, “Where do you think she is?”

  “No idea,” she said, but didn’t hold Crane’s gaze, her eyes sliding to the left to focus on a painting on the wall.

  “Do you think this could be nothing more than a publicity stunt?” he asked.

  “How would I know?” Battle said. But Crane thought she did know. He had a feeling she knew far more than she was prepared to admit for the moment.

  “Very well, Ms Battle,” said Anderson, standing. “Here’s my card. Please let me know if you hear from her, or she turns up here.”

  Laura Battle stood as well. “Of course,” she answered and took the proffered card.

  But Crane decided he wouldn’t hold his breath. Being contacted by Laura Battle would be the last thing he’d expect.

  As the door to the offices closed behind them Crane looked up. The sky was clearing, the rain gone, leaving gleaming, and glistening rain drops decorating the plants in the Japanese garden. But it didn’t have a calming effect on Crane. The whole place seemed wrong to him somehow. It was too posed and too cold - just like its owner.

  As Anderson drove away, Crane said, “I think she’s hiding something from us.”

  “Do you think this is a publicity stunt then?” Anderson asked.

  “I’m not sure. In fact, I’m not sure about any of them.”

  “I fancy her husband,” Anderson said.

  “Oh please, Derek,” Crane laughed.

  Anderson flushed at the faux pa and said, “You know what I mean, I fancy that her husband has something to do with her disappearance.”

  “You think he’s killed her?”

  Anderson nodded his agreement.

  “Well,” said Crane, “That’s not going to stick without a body and some forensic evidence and at the moment we’ve neither. Still, onward and upward, let’s go and see Major Cunningham’s brother at the family estate.”

  12

  It wasn’t too long a trek from Reading, in the direction of Abingdon. The satnav interrupted their conversation every now and again with its robotic sounding directions. They stopped at the gates of the estate. They were tall and imposing, at least 8 feet high and a wall ran from each side of them, running away into the distance. But the gates were open, so they drove on, towards a mansion that could be seen peeping through trees some way away.

  The drive wound its way through a wooded area and at one-point Crane fancied he spotted a deer bounding away as it was startled by their car. They pulled up in front of an old house, not quite of Downton Abbey’s size, but beautiful in its proportions and built of old creamy red brick. As they parked the car, a man walked up to them. Crane and Anderson held up their identification and asked to speak to someone from the family, preferably Lord Garford.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me,” the man said. “I’m Quentin Cunningham,” and he held out his hand.

  As Crane took it, feeling a short firm handshake under his fingers, he asked, “Clive Cunningham’s brother?”

  “That’s me, how can I help?”

  Anderson explained that Janey Cunningham was missing and they were making enquiries as to her possible whereabouts.

  “Well, she’s not here,” Quentin said. “Here is probably the last place she’d be. Look, walk with me, would you? We’ll go to the estate office.”

  They followed Cunningham around the side of the house, past a kitchen garden and onward towards a stable block. Several stalls were in use, their owner’s looking out at them, snorting and shaking their heads, their manes flicking and ears twitching. Crane found their stares disconcerting and was glad when they left the horses behind and walked into an office.

  “Cuppa?” Quentin asked, indicating a kettle and a tray of assorted mugs.

  “No, you’re alright, thanks,” said Anderson. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

  Quentin invited them to sit down and Crane and Anderson managed to find a couple of straight backed wooden chairs that were free of newspapers. There was a large corkboard along one wall with rosettes and pictures pinned to it, along with newspaper clippings.

  Quentin saw Crane looking at the board and said, “We do pretty well with the horses.”

  “Racing?”

  Quentin nodded. “Not top level stuff, nothing like the stables from Lambourn, but we do well enough, it pays for the horses’ keep. I enjoy it and so do they,” he nodded in the direction of the stables.

  Anderson explained to Quentin that Janey Cunningham hadn’t been seen since last night and that they were doing a bit of background digging, talking to family members and her colleagues, to try and find out what might have happened to her.

  “Do you know her well?” Crane asked when Anderson had finished.

  “I know of her, rather than know her,” Quentin said. “They don’t come here much and when they do she swans around being all aloof and above us, constantly checking her appearance and lipstick. It drives me nuts all that posturing and posing.”

  Crane could understand that. Quentin was dressed in jodhpurs and an old jumper with leather elbow patches which had bits of straw poking out of it. Not exactly haute-couture.

  “So your brother doesn’t take much interest in the estate then? If he doesn’t come here much…”

  “No, hates it all. The house, the estate, the parents. Couldn’t wait to get away.”

  “Hence the army?”

  Quentin nodded. “He won’t be back here much until father dies, then it’ll be a different story.”

  “Why?” Anderson looked puzzled.

  But Crane thought he knew what Quentin was talking about. “He’s the elder brother,” Crane said.

  “Exactly. He inherits the lot, the estate the money...” Quentin’s voice trailed away.

  Crane should have felt vilified, after all his suspicions about the Major were correct, playing into his theory about him being the type of officer he hated, but instead he found himself feeling bad for the brother, who clearly loved the place and spent each day working hard to keep everything going.

  “And he’d never do anything like this,” Quentin spread his hands out to encompass the office. “Not only do I look after the horses, but I’m the Estate Manager. I deal with the tenant farms and farmers, rental properties, balance the books, sort out repairs on the house. God knows what’ll happen to the place once Clive gets his hands on it.” Quentin ran his hands through his dirty blond hair, combing it off his forehead with his fingers. A muscle in his jaw ticked and he appeared to be grinding his teeth together.

  “What was it like growing up with him?” Anderson asked, clearly trying to deflect the man’s anger away from the estate and its problems and get the questioning back on track.

  “He was always a bit of a golden boy, very popular at school. Well he would be wouldn’t he with his inheritance behind him.”

  Crane could hear the bitterness in Quentin’s voice. “You weren’t then?” he asked.

  “No, second in line doesn’t get much attention. Number one son has it all.”

  Anderson said, “Isn’t that a bit archaic?”

  “Very, but what can you do? I expect I’ll be kept on in some sort of estate manager role and have to be beholden to my brother for every penny he deigns to throw my way.”

  “Well,” Anderson said, standing. “Thanks very much for your time. Just in case,” he handed Quentin a card, “call me if you see Janey, or hear anything about her whereabouts.”

  Crane and Anderson walked out of the office and
retraced their footsteps around to the front of the house.

  As they climbed into the car, Crane said, “He really does hate his brother and Janey doesn’t he?”

  “It seems that way. But does he hate them enough to do something to Janey?”

  Both men pondered that question as Anderson drove away.

  13

  Crane had just walked into the kitchen and was looking forward to breakfast as he joined his wife Tina. His son Daniel was happily munching his way through a chocolate cereal, most of which seemed to be smeared across the toddler’s face. At the sight of his father, he gave a toothy grin and waved his spoon around, which meant that chocolate coloured milk ended up all over the kitchen cupboards like some sort of arterial spray. Shaking the gory thought out of his head, Crane turned his attention to the news programme on the portable TV which was tucked into the space under the wall mounted cupboards and the kitchen counter.

  “Good morning and welcome to Breakfast. Our top story this morning, super model Janey Carlton has been reported missing. She was last seen at her home in Farnham 36 hours ago. Her husband, Major Clive Cunningham, currently serving with the British Army and based at Aldershot Garrison, hasn’t been seen in public since her disappearance but is understood to be devastated and desperate for her to get in touch. The couple were last seen together at a restaurant in Farnham, the night before last and our reporter is there for us now.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Crane said, “that’s all we bloody need.”

  “Tom,” Tina hissed. “Daniel,” and she nodded in the direction of their son.

  “Sorry, love.” Crane knew Tina didn’t like him blaspheming or swearing in front of Daniel. But, hey, at least he hadn’t said the ‘f’ word, which is what he’d felt like uttering, in deference to his son’s presence in the kitchen.

  “Bad news then?” she asked, grasping her long dark hair in her hands, pulling it behind her head and securing it with a hair band from around her wrist.

  Crane took a moment to appreciate his wife. She’d suffered from a bad bout of post-natal depression a couple of years ago, after the birth of Daniel and Crane had been very worried about her. At the time she’d lost all her self-esteem, couldn’t seem to shake the weight accumulated during her pregnancy and generally couldn’t cope with looking after the house, the baby and herself. But those dark days were behind them now and Tina was glowing with heath. Her long dark hair shone in the overhead lights, her trim figure was outlined by leggings and a tee-shirt and her eyes were clear and inquisitive. He’d often pondered the idea of having a second child, but always shied away from discussing it with her. The last thing he wanted to do was to re-awaken the spectre of Tina’s depression.

  “Someone’s leaked the story to the press about Janey Cunningham,” he said. “We were trying to keep a lid on it for now. Bugger.”

  “Tom!”

  Crane looked at her and could only hope this phase of hers about watching his language around their son would pass quickly. He knew from past experience she’d soon move on to another aspect of their son’s development that she wanted him to pay attention to.

  “Got to go, love, sorry,” and he kissed her cheek, ruffled Daniel’s hair and was gone before she could rebuke him for not eating anything before leaving the house.

  As he backed the car off the drive of their army quarter, one of a row of smart, modern, three bedroomed detached houses on Aldershot Garrison, the radio informed him:

  “Model Janey Carlton, the face of Lasting Cosmetics, is understood to have been missing for 36 hours. Her career began when she was discovered as a young girl of 17 and she has had a stellar career over the past 30 years. She was often hailed as ‘the new Twiggy’ and has long been regarded as one of Britain’s most professional of the super models. We had hoped to get a statement from the family, but her Agent Laura Battle spoke for them when she said, “We are all devastated by Janey’s disappearance. We are praying for her safe return.”

  Crane turned the radio off as he drove down Hospital Hill and then onward around the town centre, up towards Aldershot Police Station, feeling like a cartoon character with steam puffing out of his ears. His boss, Captain Draper, wouldn’t be happy about this. He would be shouted at by those officers above him and he, in turn, would shout at those below him, which meant Crane.

  Crane found Anderson in his office surrounded by newspapers. It was clear Anderson was not taking the publicity well either, as there were no biscuits in the saucer of his cup of tea, not even a crumb. It must be bad for Anderson’s liking for sweet biscuits and cakes to disappear. His sweet tooth was legendary and the bottom drawer of his desk normally held some treat or other.

  “What the hell is all this?” he asked Crane, shaking the front page of one of the papers. “Who leaked it?”

  “Christ knows,” said Crane. “But on the TV they were reporting from the restaurant in Farnham, so they would be my best guess. They might have heard something on the local gossip grapevine. It wouldn’t take much investigative work, I suppose,” he said. “All it would need would be for one or two of Janey’s friends in town who’d received a phone call from the Major asking where his wife was, being overhead whilst having coffee and discussing her disappearance. Then, as their restaurant was the last place the Cunninghams were seen, well the free publicity for them would be too tempting I should think. It wouldn’t be anyone from my office… and not yours,” he quickly added at a glare from Anderson.

  Crane picked up one of the papers, which carried a full length picture of Janey Carlton advertising an alluring perfume, as the phone on Anderson’s desk rang.

  Listening for a moment, Anderson said, “Good morning, Major Cunningham. Sgt Major Crane is with me, so I’m going to put you on speaker,” ignoring Crane’s frantic hand signals, as he was trying to indicate he didn’t want to speak to the Major.

  “Good morning, sir,” Crane said and glared at Anderson.

  “What the hell is going on, Crane? There are reporters at the end of the drive, my father is being harassed and I’ve had to turn off my mobile phone as it won’t stop ringing with calls from the press. I thought no one was supposed to know about Janey yet?”

  “They weren’t, sir, but I can assure you the leak didn’t come from the military police, or the Aldershot police.”

  “Well who did it come from?”

  “We think the restaurant in Farnham,” said Anderson. “I’ve got a patrol car on its way to clear the reporters from there and have a word with the owners.”

  “I tell you I’m not happy about this, not happy at all. I’ll be having words with your Captain, Crane.”

  “You are quite within your rights to do that, of course,” Anderson said, “but it might be more productive to work with us, not against us, sir.”

  “What the hell do you mean?” Cunningham’s anger could be heard crackling down the line like a bolt of lightning fizzing in the night sky.

  “Have you any idea where Janey might have gone, sir?” said Crane. “Is there anywhere else that you haven’t told us about that she likes to go to? Or are there any friends that she might be staying with?”

  “Look, Anderson,” the Major said, effectively ignoring Crane, which was fine by him, “I’ve told you all I know. The rest is up to you. And if you don’t find her, I’ll be having a word with your superiors as well!”

  “Major…”

  But Cunningham cut across Anderson. “It’s your job to find her, not mine, so I suggest you get on with it!” and the telephone receiver was replaced with such force it made Crane wince.

  “Not a happy bunny then,” Anderson said.

  “You know, Derek, I do wish bloody officers would work with me, not against me. All they do is shout and threaten, instead of discussing and helping. It drives me up the wall.”

  Just then someone appeared with a welcome black coffee for Crane. As he took the mug he said to Derek, “What’s our next move?”

  “Battle.”

  “Eh?�
� Crane looked at Anderson over the rim of the mug.

  “Laura Battle. You thought she knew more than she was letting on yesterday, so I think it’s time to put more pressure on her. Come one,” and Anderson stood and grabbed his raincoat from the coat stand in the corner of his office. Looking longingly at the coffee mug he had to leave behind, Crane followed his friend out of the door.

  14

  As expected, Laura Battle was no more pleased to see Crane and Anderson than she had been yesterday. But this time Crane sensed a chink in her hardened persona. It was in the slight trembling of her hands and the excessive blinking. The cigarette she was smoking was being quickly sucked out of existence.

  “Janey’s been missing for nearly 48 hours,” Crane said, once they were settled on the settees again. “We really need your help, Ms Battle.”

  “I don’t see how I can help,” she said. “I’ve told you…”

  Anderson cut across her protestations. “Look, if you really are the friend to Janey that you say you are, please help us find her.”

  Laura Battle turned away from Anderson to stare out of the window.

  “Between you and me, I’m beginning to get a bit worried,” Anderson said.

  Her head shot around.

  “It’s been two nights since she was last seen, well, normally that means…”

  Crane looked at Laura Battle closely as Anderson didn’t complete his sentence.

  “What?” she asked. “What does that ‘normally’ mean?”

  “We’re afraid she might be dead,” Crane said.

  “Dead! What are you talking about? Why would she be dead?” The prospect of the death of her friend clearly horrified Laura Battle. Her eyes bulged and she frantically stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray.

  “We don’t know, but we suspect you might,” said Crane. “Was there something, or someone she was involved with, that no one wants to tell us about? Was she involved with, say, unsavoury people or went to places with a dodgy reputation?”

  “You can’t protect her anymore, Laura,” said Anderson. “Help us to help her. Is there anything, anything at all you can tell us?”