Death Call

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Good, get me a coffee first, will you?”

  Ciaran rushed off to the break room, his drainpipe trousers making his legs look even skinnier than they probably were and his checked shirt clashing with his knitted tie. Holly grabbed a thick band of fabric and tried to tame her multi-coloured hair with it. Managing to get it off her face, she turned back to her computer.

  Anderson dragged himself into his office. He sat in his chair without taking off his raincoat. For a moment, he let himself once again grieve for his friend. Jean, his wife, was going over to see Crane today, no doubt clutching a few meals for his freezer. Over the years, they had all become close and had regularly gone out for dinner, or to each other’s houses for drinks and meals. Successful jobs were celebrated and ‘the ones that got away’ picked over. Mind you, Jean and Tina had done their best to keep ‘shop talk’ to a minimum.

  Anderson looked down and realised he still had his raincoat on, so stood and shook it off, throwing it onto a chair pushed under the conference table. He pulled out his desk drawer to have a biscuit or two with his coffee, but when he looked at the packet, he couldn’t bring himself to eat one. He felt sick to his stomach and wondered how the hell he was supposed to get through the day. Still, feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help anyone and however bad he was feeling, it was nothing compared to Crane having to cope with the destruction of his world.

  Ciaran appeared at the doorway as quietly as a stealth warrior, jolting Anderson back into the present. He smiled weakly at Ciaran as he took his mug off the tray.

  “Ciaran, why are there three coffees?”

  “Because I forgot,” said Ciaran, cheeks burning and ears red. “I made one for Crane.”

  Anderson reached over his desk and patted the boy’s hand and they both stilled for a moment.

  “I feel as though it’s Crane who’s died, not his wife.”

  “It’s because he means so much to us, we’re feeling his pain. His loss is our loss.”

  “I never met Tina,” Ciaran said, sniffing.

  “She was a wonderful woman. I know people utter those sort of platitudes easily when someone has died. But she really was. She was the rock on which their family was built.”

  “So Crane is going to be in for a rough ride.”

  “That, Ciaran, is the understatement of the year. Now, why don’t we try to focus on other things? Tell me what’s going on with the Damian Little case?”

  Ciaran dropped into a chair in front of Anderson’s desk, like a marionette collapsing. He chewed the side of his cheek, and then said, “Uniforms missed him, guv.”

  “Jesus Christ! I’ve told Clive Butler we were arresting him! What are the Little family saying?” Derek knew his outburst was over-reaction, but couldn’t care less.

  “Nothing. They wouldn’t talk. None of them.”

  “Come on,” Anderson stood and leaving his coffee un-drunk, moved to get his raincoat. “Let’s talk to them ourselves.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, Ciaran. We need to find this lad. Anyway, I need something positive to do, otherwise I’ll just sit there thinking, mulling, depressed. So tell Holly where we’re going, and then get your coat and your car keys. You can drive.”

  Four hours later, they returned. Ciaran went with Damian to book him in and Anderson took the lift up to the CID floor and his office.

  “Bloody hell, boss, I was going to send out a search party any minute. Where have you been? And why haven’t either of you answered your phones?”

  Anderson watched Holly fight her emotions. She was fighting anger with something else. Whatever it was, it must be important for her to have spoken to him like that. She was a civilian employee and Anderson had the power of hire and fire over her. She’d always treated him with respect before, so he’d let her tell him what the problem was, without any recriminations. He just wasn’t emotionally able to deal with any conflict. “We had to chase Damian Little all over Farnborough, from one family member to the next.”

  “Oh, sorry, boss. Did you get him?”

  “Of course we did. I refused to give up. We caught him leaving a house in Bordon. He’s downstairs now being processed.”

  “Nice work.”

  “Thank you. So, why did you want me?” asked Anderson.

  “Well, as you weren’t here, I thought I could help you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You’ve talked to the 999 call centre in Winchester, after I specifically wanted to do it myself, haven’t you?”

  “Mmm, sorry.”

  Anderson grabbed Crane’s empty chair from behind his desk and pulled it over to Holly. Sitting down he surveyed her array of electronic equipment, mostly stuff that he didn’t understand and didn’t particularly want to. Deciding to forgive her, he said, “So, spill, what have you found out?”

  “I talked to Terry Jones, he’s the manager. He told me that one of his operators had had a similar call recently, but they’re sure it was just a computer glitch.”

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “Bloody hell. And what about Crane’s call?”

  “Again they have a log of his call, the one he made asking where the ambulance was.”

  “But no log of the original call?”

  “That’s right. A man called Clive Butler took both calls, Josie’s and Crane’s. He’s pretty unsettled by it. Nothing like this has happened since he joined the service 10 years ago.”

  “And I take it both victims died?”

  “Yes, sir, they did.”

  “So that’s what part of the problem was.”

  “Sorry, guv?”

  “Oh, just thinking aloud. Clive Butler. I went to tell him about Damian Little yesterday afternoon.”

  “You mean it was Clive Butler’s family that died in the car crash caused by Little?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now he’s taking calls from people claiming that an operator who answered a 999 call wasn’t a real one?”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “Jesus.”

  For once they were both lost for words.

  8

  Crane heard the knock at the door. Then ignored it. Probably some neighbour or other coming to give him yet more food than he would never be able to eat. The freezer was full. The fridge was full. Why was it that at a time of tragedy everyone came around with food? Knowing that he wouldn’t bother to cook, granted. But a more co-ordinated affair would have been better. Then Crane realised what he was doing. Quantifying gifts. Analysing them. Applying army rules. He called himself a bloody stupid man and went to answer the door.

  Seeing Anderson on the doorstep, Crane nodded at him and turned away. Anderson followed him into the kitchen.

  “Who else is here?”

  “No one, why?”

  “Oh, I thought I heard you talking to someone.”

  Crane shook his head to say no, but wondered at his own stupidity. Talking to himself for fuck’s sake. He must have lost it. But that was all he had to do. Talk to himself. Tina was no longer there to have a conversation with. Daniel was still with his grandparents. Tina’s Mum said it was helping her to have him around. Did he mind if Daniel stayed a little while longer? No, he hadn’t minded, not really. Crane wanted the boy’s presence, but wasn’t in any fit state to look after him. Not the day-to-day stuff of bathing, dressing, playing. Tina’s Mum had looked after him when Tina had returned to work part-time recently, so it was a comforting routine for the little boy. Crane hadn’t even managed to shower and dress in clean clothes himself.

  “Earth to Crane?”

  “What? Oh, sorry, Derek. I wandered off somewhere in my head.”

  “Understandable. Coffee or tea?” Derek stood and moved towards the kettle.

  “Tea I think, not coffee. I’m already finding sleep difficult; I don’t need coffee making it worse.”

  Once the tea was made and placed in front of him, Crane straightened in his chair and said, “So,
any news?”

  “About what?” came the cagey reply and Crane wondered why Derek was avoiding the issue.

  “You know what. That 999 call.”

  “Well, yes,” Derek stirred sugar into his mug of tea. “Holly spoke to the call centre team in Winchester.”

  “Holly? Why didn’t you do it?”

  “It’s a long story, but I was out catching a criminal.”

  “So you left this important task to Holly. For God’s sake, Derek.”

  “Hold on, she’s perfectly capable, as you well know.” Crane watched as Derek bristled at the rebuke.

  “But a Detective Inspector would carry more weight than a computer operator. They’d take you more seriously than they would her.”

  Crane stood, breathing heavily, snorting air out of his nose like a horse recovering from a race. Overreacting. He knew he must try harder not to, but his emotions were all over the place and not easily controlled. A bizarre thought flitted through his head – he wondered if this was how a woman felt when she had PMT or some such. He knew Tina used to complain of it every now and then.

  He walked to the window and looked out at the garden, strewn with Daniel’s toys. At the sight of Tina’s herb garden, he broke down, his anger dissipating, the emotional attack leaving him drained. Derek left him alone for a while. Just staying in the kitchen with him. Waiting until he was ready to speak again. Crane appreciated the gesture, which was as kind as any man-hug. After a few minutes he returned to his seat, his eyes stinging from where he’d rubbed the tears away with his knuckles.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed. “Holly is much more than a computer operator.”

  “It’s okay. I know. So, do you want to know what they said?”

  “Yes please.”

  Anderson recounted Holly’s conversations with Terry Jones and Clive Butler.

  “So I’m not the only one.”

  “No, you’re not,” Anderson agreed. “But it still looks like nothing more than a computer glitch. Did whoever you spoke to give you any reason to doubt that you were really talking to a genuine operator?”

  Crane thought back to last evening. “No, no, I can’t say there was. I definitely spoke to someone. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination.”

  “What was the voice like?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Crane, you can do better than that,” Derek leaned across the table. “Young? Old? Male? Female?”

  “Um, youngish voice, I suppose. Not sure if male or female. To be honest I was rather involved at the time. Trying to save Tina and trying not to fall apart.”

  The words came out harsher than Crane intended and he winced. The whole conversation seemed fraught with potholes and he was falling into every one of them.

  “Of course you were. As I said, they really do think it was an unfortunate computer glitch, nothing more sinister than that.” Anderson leaned back in his chair and finished his tea. “Well, I’ll be off. Jean asked if you wanted to come and eat with us tonight. You know, rather than being here on your own.”

  “No, you’re alright. Thanks though. I will be better off on my own I think. I’m not good company just now. See yourself out would you? I’ll just sit here awhile.”

  “Why not go to bed? Try and get some rest.”

  “Maybe. Thanks, Derek.”

  Crane closed his eyes, shutting out the view of his friend going, leaving him alone. He heard the rustle of Anderson’s mac and then the front door click shut.

  Taking Derek’s advice, he climbed the stairs, looking and feeling like an old man of eighty and just about made it to the bed. Falling onto it without bothering to take off his clothes, he grabbed a pillow and cradled it in his arms. It still smelled of Tina. Of her perfume. Of her shampoo. Closing his eyes, he tried to sleep but the telephone call was going round and round in his head, on a loop.

  “999 what’s your emergency?”

  9

  They were probably the last people Crane expected to see as he opened the door, but he was very glad indeed that they were there. Just the sight of them brought tears to his eyes.

  “Padre. Kim.”

  “Hello, Crane.” Padre Symmonds said and held out his hand. Crane shook it, the strong grip making his hand tingle and it eased the pain in his heart just a little. Then he turned to look at Kim, the Padre’s wife and Crane’s former office manager when they had both worked in the Special Investigations Branch of the Military Police on Aldershot Garrison. That was before Kim met and fell in love with the Garrison Padre and had to subsequently leave the army.

  “Kim thanks for coming.” Kim took a step inside the house and hugged Crane. The smell of her freshly washed blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders and a hint of her perfume, threatened to make him lose his frail grip on his emotions. He took a step backwards and asked, “Tea anyone?”

  “Bloody right,” said the Padre. “Preferably laced with something warming,” and Crane smiled and led the way into the kitchen.

  As Kim rummaged through the cupboards, finding the tea bags, mugs and milk, the Padre asked Crane how he was feeling.

  “It’s the shock more than anything at the moment,” Crane said. “It was so sudden. So unexpected.”

  “Where’s Daniel?” Kim said from the sink, where she had taken it upon herself to do the washing up.

  “With Tina’s parents.”

  “Oh, I was looking forward to a cuddle. Maybe another time.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Crane.

  “Come on, let’s take our tea outside.” Padre Symmonds stood.

  “But it’s cold,” protested Crane.

  “Then put a coat on. Come on the sun is shining. Let’s get some fresh air in your lungs,” and without waiting for Crane he pulled open the kitchen door and walked outside to the patio. Watching the Padre, dressed in fatigues, black shirt and dog collar, walk purposefully outside, Crane realised Symmonds wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Crane followed, reluctantly at first, but as the crisp, clean air hit his face he remembered the Padre’s penchant for his ‘morning constitutional’ and was glad he hadn’t suggested taking one of those. Crane wasn’t up to a walk around the rugby pitch on the Garrison. He figured he’d gotten away lightly with sitting in the garden.

  “So how are you really?” the Padre asked.

  “The truth?”

  At Padre’s Symmonds’ nod, Crane began to speak. Slowly at first, but then it all came out in a flood of words, until he was so angry at the emergency services, God and the mythical operator, he was unable to breathe properly. Once again, his emotions were getting the better of him. An unemotional man, necessitated by his army training, he hadn’t known he had so many tears to cry, nor flashes of anger to contend with. He frequently wanted to smash something, he felt so angry, so impotent, so bereft.

  From his coat pocket, the Padre pulled a small hip flask. Dropping some whisky into each mug, he then made Crane drink it. With shaking hands, Crane put it to his lips, wincing as the fiery liquid hit his tongue.

  “It was brandy yesterday with Anderson. Now whisky with you. Maybe someone will bring something different tomorrow.” Crane tried for a smile.

  “Does it help?”

  “Not really. It only dulls the pain for a while. I can’t get away from it for long.”

  “We can help, you know.”

  “Help?” Crane put his mug on the table wondering what sort of help anyone could possibly offer. From where he sat nothing was ever, ever, going to make his life better again.

  “Yes, be here whenever you need to talk. Or you could come to the church.”

  “No, I’m alright.”

  “It does help you know, Crane. Talking. It’s not so difficult once you get started and I firmly believe that the peace and tranquillity of the church itself could help ease your broken heart, if you’ll let it. I always feel closer to God there.”

  “I told you I was fine.”

  “And, of course, Kim is trai
ned in bereavement counselling. If you remember, it was her new career when she left the forces. She now helps bereft army wives come to terms with…”

  Crane realised the Padre mustn’t have caught the edge in his voice and wondered why people weren’t listening to him. Well he’d make him. He quickly stood and grabbing the edge of the table, he upturned it, the contents of their mugs arcing through the air and the porcelain smashing to pieces as it hit the floor.

  “Leave. Me. Alone.”

  “Crane!”

  “I. Don’t. Need. Any. Help.”

  Crane was vaguely aware of the Padre going back in the house, but he remained in the garden, a white noise in his head pushing out all rational thought. His fists clenched and he desperately wanted to punch somebody. Anybody. Anything. But preferably the bastard on the other end of the 999 call. He had to make do with the door of the garden shed.

  10

  Once the red mist had cleared and the white noise in his head abated, Crane realised he had to do something. He couldn’t sit around the house anymore drinking tea, whisky, or brandy. No matter what anybody said about talking, he knew the best thing to do was to keep moving. Keep active. Start investigating. Surely his wife’s death could have been prevented if it wasn’t for that first 999 call.

  Walking back through the house he saw that Padre Symmonds and Kim had left. He hadn’t expected anything else. Who would want to talk to him in his current mood? Not bothering to shower, shave or change his clothes, he grabbed his keys and went to his car, intent on driving to Aldershot Police Station to find out for himself how the investigation was going.

  Arriving at the car park ten minutes later, having lost some of the rubber off his tyres as he’d screamed up the dual carriageway, he couldn’t find a parking space, so he just abandoned his car, blocking Anderson and a couple of other vehicles in. Leaving his keys in the ignition, he pushed through the door to the police station and made his way to the Major Crimes team’s office.

  Anderson’s head jerked up in surprise as Crane walked into his office.

  “What are you doing about this lunatic?” Crane demanded. “Has he taken any more calls? What does the Emergency Response Centre say?”