Death Call

by Wendy Cartmell

  He scraped butter on his knife and began spreading it onto the toast.

  So, what would be the motive for these ‘remote killings’? Someone who just has a nasty streak? A twisted psyche? It was definitely a power thing, Crane decided – I have a life or death control over you. But then again, it was only control over their death. Control over people who were never going to make it without help and that help was deliberately withheld, in a bid to maintain power over the situation, gain attention and assert a warped sense of authority.

  That scenario certainly fitted the bill.

  Crane finished spreading the butter and started to cut it up into ‘soldiers’ for Daniel.

  Is this behaviour uncharacteristic for their killer? He or she isn’t presenting any extreme aggression. Which would be hard to do as they aren’t hands on crimes, Crane conceded. But, there was certainly no aggression in the way the fake operator had talked to Crane, either in the voice or the actions she wanted Crane to undertake.

  Passing the toast to Daniel, Crane then raised his cup to his lips and finding it empty, decided to get himself more coffee and to go back to basics.

  As he walked over to the coffee machine, he decided to work from the premise that there are two types of killers – one based on motive and the other on organisational and social patterns. He felt their killer must fall into the motive-based category.

  Sitting back down at the kitchen table, he pulled a pad and pen towards him and made notes. He wrote MOTIVE at the top of the page and circled it. Now he had to try to remember the types of killers according to the Holmes typology; Ronald M. and Stephen T. Holmes were the authors of textbooks on serial murders and violent crime, many of which Crane had studied during his time as a detective. First, he scribbled down the types of killers: act-focused, process-focused, lust killers and power killers.

  Holmes purports that serial killers can be act-focused, and kill quickly, or process-focused, and kill slowly. For act-focused killers, killing is about the act itself. Visionary murderers in this group hear voices or have visions that direct him, while missionary murderers believe they are meant to get rid of a particular group of people. Crane put a line through this category, because there was no act of and in itself, nothing physical at any rate and no one particular group of people was being targeted. The same went for process-focused serial killers, who got enjoyment from the torture and the death of their victims.

  Lust killers derive sexual pleasure from killing – Crane didn’t think that was correct in this case. He certainly hadn’t detected anything sexual behind Tina’s death.

  There could be elements of thrill killers, those who get a ‘thrill’ from the act of killing – that trait was something they couldn’t dismiss at the moment. Gain killers murder because they believe they will profit in some way and Crane doubted that that one was a fit.

  That left power killers, those who wish to be in charge of life and death.

  Crane put down his pen and stared at the last one with mounting horror. Power. In charge of life or death. Withholding treatment so the patient would die. Listening to that death over the phone. Power. Life. Death.

  “Are you alright, Sgt Major?” Mrs Strange had appeared from nowhere as usual. “You look all pale. Can I get you more coffee?”

  Crane continued to stare at his notepad.

  “What on earth is Daniel eating?” she asked. “His toast is in minute squares!”

  Pushing away from the table, Crane managed to say, “I’ll be next door,” and grabbing his pad he fled the kitchen.

  Once in the incident room he closed the door behind him and then leaned on it, taking deep breaths, as he fought to get his thoughts in order. Breathe, just breathe. Walking over to the table on shaky legs, he picked up the pen and paper and wrote ‘Power killer’, in large letters, underlining it. Twice. Then stuck the paper on the board with a small red pin.

  As he calmed down, he began to think clearly and swallow down his fear and his horror. He had to focus. Lives depended on it. He could do this. Employing the tactics that had served him well as a soldier, he pushed away all thoughts of Tina and Daniel and his grief and loss, putting them in a compartment of his brain, not to be looked at again until the investigation was over. If he detached he could find the killer. If not, he would just wallow in grief, achieve nothing, and never avenge Tina’s death and the death of the other innocents.

  With his newfound resolve firmly in place, and having identified the type of murderer they were faced with, he once again turned his attention to the profile. The scariest thing, he continued musing, was the fact that their killer could present as ordinary and they might not have had a troubled childhood either. Not every killer had been subjected to a disturbed upbringing. He wrote, ‘presents as normal’ and that went up on the corkboard. Therefore, the deviant behaviour could be because of something that had happened to their killer that had acted as the trigger. ‘What happened?’ went on the board as well.

  So, taking that thought further, maybe they were looking for someone who had lost a family member. Mother? Father? Partner? Crane decided he knew all about that type of grief. Knew how it could make you so angry you could hurt someone. Do something uncharacteristic, a word that went on the board as well. Their killer wasn’t presenting any extreme aggression. Which would be hard to do, as they weren’t ‘hands on’ as it were, Crane conceded.

  What would make someone go on a killing spree, albeit an act done remotely? Someone mad? Angry? Mad with grief? Bloody hell that could be it!

  He scribbled ‘mad with grief’ down and pinned it on the board as he grabbed his phone.

  As soon as his was answered Crane said, “Derek? Have you got that personnel list yet?”

  “I’m just going to collect it from the printer.”

  “Can you bring it round as soon as you have it in your hands?”

  “Alright. But why?”

  “Because at last I have a theory! See you soon.”

  Crane looked at the scribbled notes on the board and nodded with satisfaction. He needed some fresh coffee and grinned as the door opened and Mrs Strange walked in with a tray in her hands.

  27

  A knock at the door brought Crane out of the incident room and as he let Derek into the house, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. “Am I pleased to see you,” he gabbled as he left Derek to shut the door behind him. “Have you got the list with you? I’ve got a really good theory about who we’re looking for! Dudley-Jones can tell you all about it while I look at this list.”

  “These lists,” Derek corrected and held out a buff envelope.

  “These lists?”

  “Yes, I got the names of graduates from Winchester University and also the personnel list from the Emergency Response Centre.”

  Crane went to open his mouth, but Derek cut in, “All of them, operators, management and computer support staff.”

  Tears sprung unbidden into Crane’s eyes. “You really do believe me. You don’t think I’m going mad anymore. I, um,” Crane coughed. “Dudley-Jones, over to you,” and he turned away, ostensibly to look at the lists but really to give him a moment to compose himself. He hadn’t realised how important Derek’s support and help would mean to him. Not until he got it. He no longer felt abandoned and friendless, a thought that gave him great comfort.

  “So, what’s our next step, Crane?” Anderson asked.

  Crane smiled, “To get Dudley-Jones here to run a sort to see if there are any duplicates. People who went to Winchester University who now work at the centre.

  “Once you’ve done that,” Derek said, “let me have a copy and I’ll get Holly to compare it with ours.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yes, the other day I asked her to get me a list of those who had been charged of computer crimes in the south of England.”

  “The other day?”

  Derek grinned.

  Crane nodded, “Thanks, thanks a lot. Anyway,” Crane changed the tone of his voice. “What do
you think of my theory about our killer,” and he turned, spreading his arm in an arc to encompass the pieces of paper stuck on the corkboard.

  Anderson read for a moment and then said, “Pretty much spot on, I’d say. So, somewhere in these lists might be our killer.

  “It’s the only lead we have at the moment.”

  “We could go and interview everyone.”

  “Yes. But then our killer would just deny everything and it would alert him or her to the fact that we’re onto him.”

  “Him or her?”

  “Yes. There are conflicting thoughts on that one. Some say they spoke to a man, others to a woman. But I’m convinced there’s only one killer not two.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I’m right and he or she is killing for power, triggered by a personal tragedy, it’s much more likely to have happened to one person, not two at the same time.”

  Derek nodded and closed his eyes, as he appeared to ponder Crane’s words.

  “Okay, I agree that we’ll hold off on interviews for now. Maybe if we can get someone off these lists, then that would be the time to make a move. I’m conscious of time, that’s all.”

  “Time?”

  “Yes. The longer we take to find our 999 killer, the more likely it is that there will be other victims.”

  “Bloody hell,” said Dudley-Jones.

  “Exactly,” said Crane. “Welcome aboard, Derek. We need all the help we can get.”

  28

  Clive was once again mentoring Siobhan. As he listened to her with half an ear, he thought about the phone call Crane had made to him. The one asking for his help. Well, pleading really. That phone call late at night had been a revelation. Crane had reached out to him in his grief. That had given Clive a sense of solidarity. Crane and Clive against the world. The thought made him smile, but at that particular moment, he had to try to concentrate on what Siobhan was doing.

  “I understand, sir,” she was saying. “Just try and keep calm, the ambulance is on its way. Stay on the phone with me until someone arrives. Can you hear the sirens yet?”

  Clive listened to the tone of her voice. It was now much more authoritative. Not loud, not shouting, but firm, calm and polite.

  “Good, the ambulance is nearly there, I can hear the sirens as well. Is there someone who can let them in for you? Excellent, your son is going to let them in, correct? Good, keep on with the compressions, until the paramedics take over.”

  Although Siobhan was doing well, he could see that it was draining her emotionally. It looked as though she was trying desperately to maintain the calm state, but she was taking deep breaths when she wasn’t speaking.

  Anyway, as he had promised Crane, Clive was keeping an eye out for any strange behaviour from members of the team. As his glance swept across the room, he remembered Crane saying that his fake operator had been a woman. There were only three women working at the moment. Barbara, Siobhan and Pam.

  Clive knew that Barbara was happily married. Siobhan, who he was listening to, was single and proud of it. The more likely candidate was Pam, who was a widow. Her husband had died some months ago, but of natural causes, not because of an accident. At least he thought that was right.

  Maybe he should talk to her, they could possibly have coffee. She’d often given him conspiratorial smiles, little ones that seemed to say, ‘we’re in the same boat maybe we can help each other’. He’d never moved on it, for the only way to distance himself from his grief had been to keep busy. Work hard at work and keep busy at home with his Open University studies that he poured over any spare moment that he had. His goal of bettering himself, learning about the computers he interfaced with every day, resonated with him and gave him an occupation that pushed his loss out of his mind.

  Mind you, Clive had often wondered how people viewed him, from the outside looking in, as it were. What did they feel? Pity? Compassion? Empathy?

  He realised that Siobhan had cleared the call. “Well done,” he said, trying his best to grin at her. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Bloody knackered,” she smiled. “Phew, that takes it out of you.”

  “I know, love, but all calls aren’t like that one was. But it was your first major live call, so big up to you. Why don’t you go and have a quick coffee? I’ll take the calls while you have a break.”

  “Thanks, Clive, you’re the best.”

  As another satisfied customer left him, Clive robotically answered the calls from Siobhan’s station, but in the back of his mind were thoughts of his family.

  When he did allow himself to think about the family he’d lost, he was still angry. So bloody angry that they’d all let him down. Not Jan and Debbie. They hadn’t. But the emergency services certainly had.

  On that fateful day, he’d been working and been the one to take the 999 call from the car crash. He had recognised Helen’s voice right away. How could anyone else feel as he did? No one in this room had had to listen to their wife and daughter die over the phone, helpless to do anything, having to listen because he dare not put the phone down, couldn’t let Jan think he’d abandoned her. He’d tried to be strong, but after she’d gone and he’d heard her last breath, he’d screamed out his pain and anguish and had to be led from the office, taken home and sedated by a doctor.

  Every now and then, the pain and anger resurfaced. People saying that they understood was a bit like a red rag to a bull for him. No one knew. No one had any idea of the pain he hid every day. The only people who understood were those who had suffered the same harrowing loss. That’s why he could relate to Crane. They were in it together. He was no longer alone. He’d managed to find a friend. At last, someone understood him.

  29

  Dudley-Jones and Holly were looking for those individuals with any kind of computing degree, preferably from Winchester University, working presently or in the past at the Emergency Response Centre and who may or may not have a criminal record that they hadn’t divulged.

  They’d found ten. A mix of male and female.

  “So, the task for now is to find out as much as we can about these 10 people.” Crane said to Derek.

  “Yeah, background stuff really, members of their families – living or dead – finances, phone records, anything that would give cause for someone to act as he or she is doing. That reminds me, how sure are you that you spoke to a female operator?”

  “Pretty much. I guess. I assumed.”

  “You’re not then, are you?”

  Crane thought for a moment. “No, I couldn’t swear to it. Not in a courtroom anyway.”

  “Well, it’s best to tell the truth. Any others think it was a woman?”

  “Josie, that old lady, she thinks it was a woman. But that bloke Jeff, well he’s pretty sure the voice was male.”

  “In other words we have no idea what gender we’re looking for.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Very well. Therefore, we have to work on male and female suspects equally. Now this might take a couple of days. You do know that, Crane?”

  “Oh yes, and I’m happy to help. Ready to dig in and all that.”

  “And how good are you at computer searches? Genealogical trees? Spotting fraudulent payments in bank statements?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, alright. I’ll let the experts get on with it. Bloody hell too much of this stuff is computerised these days. I’m more used to trudging around the area interviewing suspects. I can do searches and stuff like that, no problem, but all this forensic digging is a bit beyond me.”

  “Wise move,” said Derek as he gathered up his raincoat. “And, by the way, I feel the same.”

  The two laughed.

  “Seriously, though, why don’t you take a break, Crane, spend some time with Daniel, and do normal things like take him to the park. Watch cartoons together.”

  Crane felt the room tilt. “I just can’t. It’s too painful, Derek.”

  “In that case, you need help, Crane. You can’t keep everything bo
ttled up and shy away from your responsibilities as a father.” Derek put up his hand to silence Crane, before he started to rant. “I’m not criticising, Tom, but you really do need to learn how to overcome your fears and be a dad again.”

  Crane slumped in the chair and listened to Derek leave. The house felt very empty. Daniel was at nursery school. Mrs Strange was doing the shopping. Billy was at work. Dudley-Jones had gone to Aldershot Police Station to work with Holly and now Derek had gone. That meant he could give way to his emotions. No one was looking. No one would see him and think any the less of him. The proud Sgt Major became a normal human being, crying for his wife and trying desperately to come to terms with his loss. And failing.

  30

  Crane drove through Aldershot Garrison, memories assailing him at every turn. A platoon of soldiers practicing drills; a gaggle of them out on a run all hot and sweaty and holding their rifles in both hands out in front of them; following a motorised convey down towards the Garrison church. He swung his car round behind the gothic red-bricked place of worship, to the Padre’s house behind it. Not sure he’d be able to go anywhere near the church where Tina was buried, he’d not called ahead to make an appointment, in case he bottled it and ran for home, rather like a bad dog with its tail between its legs.

  Standing before the glossy painted door, it took all his courage to knock. He was ready to concede that all this emotional shit was harder than he’d ever thought possible. The great Sgt Major Crane brought down by grief. He’d always vaguely thought that if he was to ever have a breakdown it would be from PTSD or some such, after witnessing the horrors of war. But he’d handled that just fine. It was the job, after all. In the job description. Lay down your life for your country.