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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Looks like we’re off for another foray in the big smoke,” said Crane gathering his things. “Don’t forget your raincoat, Derek,” and the two men got ready to leave as Billy stood watching them, holding three cups of tea and three slices of cake on a tray.

  “Why, boss?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you off to London?”

  “Are you going mad, Billy? We need to show Cynthia and Justin Hall the photo of Tyler Wells.”

  “Email it,” said Billy, “that way you can have your tea and cake.”

  Crane and Anderson looked at each other and, having been exposed as technological dinosaurs, slunk back to their desks.

  40

  The view from the bank of the River Thames between East Molesey and Richmond was as beautiful as any landscape painting DC Saunders had ever seen. Lined with trees and pockets of grassy knolls it was a veritable piece of heaven. The sound of birdsong filtered through the trees, boats ran lazily up and down the river and from his position he had a view of Taggs Island, one of the most exclusive houseboat sites anywhere in the world, not just in England.

  As he gazed at the structures, mostly two and three stories high, with banks of glass glinting in the sunlight, brightly coloured awnings and canopies hinting at gaiety and laughter, he tried to imagine what life would be like as a permanent resident on the river. Would you get seasick from the constant motion of the boats? Would you get annoyed at noise from neighbouring and passing boats? Or would it be a tranquil lifestyle, ideal for photographers and writers, artists and artisans? Either way it was probably better than life viewed from his own tiny bedsit in a converted warehouse in East London. In fact, truth be told, he didn’t have a view at all, cheap rent being the trade-off for a window.

  His roving eyes rested on the police launch moored just off the bank, from the Marine Policing Unit. This part of the river just fell into their remit, for which Saunders was grateful, as it made the job much easier, rather than contacting Surrey Police who used a launch provided by the Environment Agency. There was a man in the boat, the spotter for two divers who were exploring the river floor and river bank just beneath his feet, their buoys bobbing in the waves created by passing vessels on the other side of the river. They had been exploring the area for a couple of days now, but so far no other bodies had emerged. This was the last day of exploration, the Chief Investigating Officer having said that he was stretching the budget as it was and no way could they afford another day. If they drew a blank today, then that was it, the river would keep its secrets.

  The emergence of a diver startled Saunders out of his musings, the black rubber suited man popping up out of the water like a jack in a box. His arm raised, he circled it, indicating he’d found something. Saunders had to contain his excitement, or was it dread, as the launch communicated with the two divers and the boat was brought into position. The divers submerged once more, the two of them working together to bring up whatever it was they’d found. Saunders leaned forward over the edge of the bank, desperately trying to see what was going on, but all that was in view was a few air bubbles reaching the surface from the divers below. After what seemed like eons, the water gushed and rushed before finally parting, revealing the divers and their catch. One seemed to be carrying a body and the other a chain tied to some sort of weight. As their grizzly cargo was transferred into the boat the radio Saunders was carrying crackled into life.

  “Body retrieved from the river bed, close to the bank, over.”

  “Can you tell if its male or female, over?”

  “Female,” came the distorted reply, “With long blond hair.”

  Saunders had been right. There was another one. He looked at his radio and opened his mouth to speak when the policeman on the launch began talking again.

  “The lads say there’s at least another one down there. Maybe two. The water’s a bit murky at the moment from all the activity, so we’re going to let it calm down and then try again in about an hour. Coming to shore with the body. Over and out.”

  Saunders stared at the launch as it made its way over to his position, not sure how he felt about being right. There were more bodies, more dead girls. But it didn’t give him any pleasure, just hardened his resolve that they had to do everything in their power to catch the sick killer.

  But his hardened resolve was no help when he saw the body the divers had brought up from her watery grave. As Saunders gazed at the girl laid out on a piece of black plastic, a rictus grin displaying her teeth and jaw bone as she had no lips left, her hair tangled and matted and torn out in places, he ran for the bushes. After he’d thrown up the numerous cups of coffee he’d consumed that morning, the bitter taste of bile lingered and he dug in his pockets for a packet of chewing gum. Somehow he managed to get the image of the dead body, of the as yet unknown girl, out of his thoughts. But one thing stayed with him. The rusty chain wrapped around her waist, attached to a square cube of concrete.

  41

  Tyler Wells was in the middle of his morning. All around him colleagues beavered away. Phones rang, fists pumped and hands held heads in despair; all dependent upon the success or otherwise of their stock market portfolios. Their bodies were fuelled by adrenaline and the air charged with testosterone. Tyler was deep in thought. A new client had given him his portfolio to manage. A client who had a lot of money to invest, but expected quick results. It would require a steady nerve, sound judgment and more than a little bit of luck, but Tyler thought he might just be able to pull it off. He was looking at a list of companies that he’d highlighted as being ‘ones to watch’ and wondered if one or two of them would be a good fit for his new client.

  “Mr Wells,” said a voice behind him.

  Tyler was aware of someone standing behind him and lifted his arm, a request that the man stop speaking. The last thing Tyler wanted at the moment was inane questions, or pleas for help from his colleagues. He continued to analyse the figures before him, ignoring the person standing behind him. A hand landing on his shoulder made him jump.

  Turning around and shrugging the hand off, he said, “What the hell?”

  “Tyler Wells?” the man asked.

  Tyler had never seen the person who was speaking to him before and he looked at the man, taking in the squat muscly body, dark curly hair and close cropped beard. The man’s blue eyes bored into him, the intense interest in them as piercing as a drill entering his brain, making Tyler flinch and look away.

  “Yes, I’m Tyler Wells,” he said and looked at the second man, registering the rumpled raincoat, messy grey hair and the badge of some sort that he was holding up. “Who the hell are you two?”

  Tyler was still very much in work mode and extremely pissed off at being interrupted. He stood, not wanting the disadvantage of being lower than the two interlopers and having to look up at them.

  “Sgt Major Crane, Royal Military Police,” said the first.

  “Detective Inspector Anderson,” said the second, “Aldershot Police.”

  “What? Look, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but I have nothing at all to do with the military,” he pointed at the man calling himself Crane, “and even less to do with Aldershot,” he said to Anderson. “So if you wouldn’t mind, I’ve got a lot of work to do before a meeting with a new client in,” he glanced at his watch, “two hours. An extremely important meeting and one I have to be fully prepared for.”

  Tyler twisted away from the two men, mumbled, “Idiots,” under his breath and sitting down bent once more over the papers on his desk.

  “I don’t think you quite understand, sir,” said one of them, grabbing Tyler’s arm and lifting him from his seat.

  “Get your fucking hand off me,” said Tyler, trying to shake off the meaty paw of the military man, who held on with the tenacity of a terrier and the grip of a python.

  “Tyler Wells,” said the policeman, “You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Janey Cunningham, nee Carlton. You are to accompany us to Alders
hot Police Station.”

  Tyler watched the detective who was still talking, saying something about rights and defence, but it wasn’t really going in. He looked around the room, to find he was the subject of everyone’s interest. Ringing phones were going un-answered, people were standing up whispering amongst themselves and some of his colleagues who sat close to Tyler’s desk, were physically distancing themselves from him, by retreating to the groups of people that had formed to watch the drama unfolding before them.

  Tyler continued to struggle, trying to work his arm free from Crane’s grip. He turned to face his captor and drew his arm back to punch the army detective in the face, when it was grabbed and twisted behind his back. Tyler could hear the jingle of the handcuffs as they were attached to first one wrist and then the other, immobilising his hands and arms. Their grip around his wrists felt as heavy as the chains the ghost of Marley wore in ‘A Christmas Carol’ and Tyler began to realise that something was terribly wrong, something that he wouldn’t be able to get out of easily. He was trapped in a scenario worthy of any nightmare. Angry tears began to form, that Tyler couldn’t swipe away, so he coughed, swallowed hard and looked at the rumpled detective.

  “I can’t believe you are doing this, embarrassing me in front of my work colleagues, accusing me of murder.” Tyler turned as Crane pushed him out of the way and began to collect items from Tyler’s desk.

  “Look,” he pleaded. “I haven’t done anything wrong! Please, I need to tell my wife, let me call her, she’ll tell you I haven’t done anything.”

  When neither man spoke and began to drag him along the walkway of the large office, towards the exit, he tried again, fear making his voice rise an octave. “I want a solicitor. I’m allowed a phone call.”

  Tyler wasn’t at all sure of that last one, but thought it sounded good. Also he didn’t have a solicitor, at least not one that dealt with criminal cases, but they weren’t to know that.

  “Where are we going?” he asked as they pushed through the double doors out of the large open plan space and waited at the bank of lifts. He noticed that Crane was holding the items that had been collected from his desk; laptop, mobile phone, suit jacket, diary and his watch which he had taken off whilst working, as it irritatingly clanged against his keyboard.

  “It will all become clear in due course,” the policeman said, the ominous words weighing heavily on Tyler’s mind, as he was escorted out of the building and into a waiting car.

  All the way to Aldershot, along the M3 motorway and then local dual carriageways, Tyler racked his brains to think of anything at all that could get him out of the bloody mess he’d found himself in. Crane and Anderson had been silent all the way there, the atmosphere in the car full of their expectation and Tyler’s fright. His arms pinned uncomfortably behind him, forced Tyler to sit crushed in the corner of the car, between the back seat and the door, the only way he could keep upright as they sped around corners and overtook traffic. He was sure his wrists and hands were marked with red sores, where the handcuffs bit deeply into his skin from the pressure of his body.

  Upon their arrival at Aldershot Police Station, he was taken to an interview room and sat in a plastic chair. Anderson removed the handcuffs and then he was left alone with his thoughts. Tyler immediately began inspecting his wrists, rubbing at the deep red marks and his red raw skin. As his body was stiff from the car journey, he walked around the room, shaking his legs and arms to get his circulation going. Blood flow was good. Blood to his head was good. It would help him think. Help him find a way out of this mess.

  42

  …So that was the end of that. The Major and Janey no longer wanted him and his latest glamour girl as their partners of preference and he was left with the dregs of the clientele, not one of whom could hold a candle to his Janey.

  Fed up with the situation, he knew he had to find another way. The computer system of the Mayfair Club was easy enough to crack for someone with his hacking abilities. It took him precisely 15 minutes. He’d timed himself. Once there he began to rummage around, clicking on various files and infiltrating deep into their records.

  He found video clips and photographs, secretly taken of the unsuspecting members, something Dante Skinner no doubt kept as insurance or for darker purposes. He wondered how many of his perverted clients would pay good money to have their activities cleansed from the Mayfair Club hard drives.

  Having amused himself with the images, he grew bored and flitted around the system, until he found a section devoted to ‘Park Lane Escorts’. Leaving the computer for a moment, he crossed the living room, poured himself a glass of scotch and then settled down once more at his computer. The Park Lane Escorts website proved to be the mother lode he’d been looking for.

  He recalled once having asked Janey how she managed to find the time for their extracurricular activities at the club, what with her busy work schedule and all. She’d laughed. But it came out sounding bitter and harsh; a laugh that held no mirth, only the acrimonious sound of failure. She’d said that over the past couple of years the work had dried up. It seemed she was in that dark chasm between youth and maturity. Too old for most of the cosmetic and clothing companies, yet not old enough to be the mature woman. It seemed this sorry state of affairs could go on for a few years yet and so she’d had to turn to other avenues of revenue. When pressed and asked what they were, she wouldn’t say. But now it seemed he’d found out her secret.

  There she was. His Janey. Loving the camera as she did, her pictures were meant to draw in and entice a prospective client and they did that in spades. She was practically making love to the damn lense. All sexy underwear, tousled hair, sucked in cheekbones and pouting lips, who could resist such a woman? Certainly not him. She was definitely high class, no doubt about it, with a high class price to match. But no matter, for after all, this time it wouldn’t be his own money that he was spending. It was time to book an appointment with her.

  He opened the drawer in his desk and withdrew the credit card details belonging to his brother, who had unsuspectingly opened a keyboard logger virus which had been buried in an attachment to an email. This had kindly given up his credit card details after an on-line purchase had been made. The security code on the back of the card had been what he had specifically been after. Turning back to his keyboard he was disappointed to find there wasn’t an open slot with Janey until the following week. But it was of no matter. The anticipation would bolster him. By the time they did meet, he would be bursting with anticipated lust. Just the way she liked him.

  43

  Wanting to make sure they had their game plan synchronised, Crane and Anderson let Tyler endure an interminable wait while they prepared. From the look of him, he wasn’t handling it well, thought Crane as he watched Tyler through the viewing screen. Tyler examined his surroundings (bare and uninviting, with three chairs and one table the only furniture); tried the door (locked); shook his limbs out (as though he had a bad case of pins and needles); ran his fingers through his hair and then drummed then on the table.

  Anderson arrived at Crane’s side and said, “How’s he doing?”

  “I think we’ve timed it perfectly. He is anxious, distracted, worried and keeps shouting for his wife and his solicitor.”

  “Let’s do it then,” and Anderson picked up the file he had compiled on Tyler Wells and the two men went into the interview room.

  “Thank God!” Tyler stood at their arrival. “Perhaps now you can explain to me what the hell is going on.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Anderson, as though surprised by Tyler’s comment. “That’s precisely what we’re here to do.”

  “Oh. Right,” said Tyler and Crane smiled to himself as Anderson had immediately wrong-footed the suspect.

  “Please sit down.”

  “What? Oh, yes.”

  As Tyler complied, Anderson opened the file in front of him, took out a piece of paper and passed it to Tyler.

  “Could you please confirm that this is
a copy of your credit card statement?”

  “What?” Tyler grabbed the paper and scanned it. “How did you get this? You can’t get stuff like this without a warrant surely!”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Crane. “We can’t. That’s why we got one.”

  “Got one! What? How? Why?”

  “The Metropolitan Police organised it for us,” explained Crane. “They got a warrant, searched your property, interviewed your wife and emailed several pieces of paper over for us that they thought could be useful to the investigation.”

  “They also took items from your house that could be of interest for testing,” added Anderson with a smile.

  “Testing? What the hell for?”

  “Let’s just say forensic testing at the moment, shall we,” and Anderson looked at Crane who nodded his agreement. “So, back to the matter in hand. Your credit card statement. You can confirm it’s yours?”

  “What?” Tyler was still blustering. Crane nodded to himself approvingly. They definitely had him on the back foot.

  “Please, sir, let’s not make this interview any longer than it has to be,” said Anderson, still being unfailingly polite. “You wanted to know what this was all about. Well, it’s about those three transactions highlighted on that statement. They are payments to the Mayfair Club for £1,000 each.”

  Tyler peered at the paper as though he’d never seen it before, but in the end he had to nod his agreement.

  Crane said, “This statement has been confirmed as relating to this physical credit card.”

  Anderson obliged by taking that out of the file also. “Which was taken from your wallet when we arrested you.”

  “So?” said Tyler.

  Crane wasn’t sure if the question was borne out of bluster, or fright, but the transactions clearly meant something to Tyler as he had stopped making eye contact with them and instead intensely studied the table.