Death Call

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Clive?” Crane shouted. “Come on out, Clive. It’s over.”

  The apartment wasn’t big and Ciaran quickly ascertained that Clive wasn’t there. “Sorry, boss. It’s empty.”

  “Where the fuck is he?” Crane left the flat. “Let’s try the neighbours.”

  They banged on all the other doors, but either got, “Sorry I don’t know him.” Or, “I’ve not seen him today.”

  Crane was deflating rapidly when he got a reply to his knock at a flat above Clive’s.

  “No, sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said the occupant. She was a mere slip of a girl, who reminded Crane of Holly. “What made you think he was at home?” she asked with undisguised interest.

  “We’ve been tracking his on-line and mobile presence. We think he’s set up a mobile hot spot here, but we can’t find it. Anyway,” Crane turned away dejected, “thanks for your help.”

  “What about the cellar?”

  Crane stopped and turned round. “The cellar?”

  “Yeah, cellar, basement, whatever you want to call it. We all have a key. We tend to just use it for storage but there’s windows and everything in it. I suppose he could be there. I guess it would be pretty private.”

  “Give me your key!”

  “What?”

  “Your key to the basement!”

  She reached behind the door and handed Crane a key with a bright pink tag on it.

  “Thanks,” he managed to throw over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs, shouting “Ciaran! Where are you?”

  Crane caught up with Ciaran on the floor below and rapidly explained what the occupier of the flat had told him. “Here,” Crane pressed the key into Ciaran’s palm, “you go. Run! I’ll follow.”

  Crane watched Ciaran pound down the stairs with a twinge of regret, then hobbled his way to the lifts. His leg was already killing him from the up and down of the stairs in the block. It was about time he treated it with some respect. At last, the lift arrived and scouring the panel inside, he found the button marked B for basement.

  48

  Crane arrived at the basement just in time to hear Ciaran call, “He’s climbed out of the window. Call for backup. I’m following him.”

  He got a good view of Ciaran’s backside as his young partner slithered through the small opening, his legs kicking wildly as though he were swimming. Grabbing his mobile Crane was relieved to see a signal and called Derek for help. He was promised local Winchester police, the helicopter and anyone else Anderson could think of.

  “Stay at the block of flats and direct the officers to where Ciaran and Clive vanished through the window. They will need to cordon off the basement and Butler’s flat as well. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Crane struggled up the stairs to the ground floor and as he approached the doors to the building, he heard the sirens. Help was on its way already. Crane could relax. It still took a few minutes before cars started to arrive in the car park of the block of flats. A man clearly a police officer, walked up to him.

  “You Crane?”

  “Yes.”

  “DI Swan, Winchester Police, Senior Investigating Officer. Right, what’s happening here?”

  Crane succinctly told him about Clive Butler being a rogue 999 operator who liked listening to people die over the phone. “My partner, Ciaran, is chasing him. They exited the back of the building through the basement window.”

  Swan turned away from Crane and addressed the two officers by his side, handing out assignments. Within minutes, they were organised and swarming over the area. The dogs arrived with their handlers and disappeared into the basement to pick up Butler’s scent.

  Crane watched all this activity from the side-lines, feeling exhausted from the pain in his leg and the emotional fall out. He was still finding it hard to reconcile Clive the friend, with Clive the fake operator. He wasn’t used to being duped. He wasn’t used to being emotional either, so he’d probably let his guard down. It had just been so helpful to speak to someone who felt as he did.

  Swan came back to Crane, suggesting that he take a break for now, to let the more able-bodied officers do the hard work.

  “Thanks, sir, but I’ll stay here,” said Crane. “He might come back.”

  Swan looked at the organised chaos around him. “Not likely, Crane, is it?”

  Crane had to admit it wasn’t. “Anyway I can’t exactly run after him,” he managed a smile as he held his stick aloft. “I could interview the neighbours, though.”

  “Whatever, Crane. Give me your mobile number and I’ll keep in touch.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  49

  Sitting with some of the Winchester officers, Crane monitored the radio conversations. The helicopter was in the air; although there was thick woodland nearby that Butler may have disappeared into. Over the static and voices he could hear dogs barking in the background and the whump, whump of the helicopter blades. Crane could imagine it swooping through the skies seeking its target.

  Turning away from the activity Crane went into the building and knocked on Flat 1.

  “Yes?” an elderly woman asked as she opened the door. “Are you something to do with all that racket?”

  Crane explained that he was and that they were searching for Clive Butler. “Do you know him?”

  “Only vaguely,” she said. “Are you alright?” she peered closely at him. “You look a bit green around the gills.”

  Crane had to admit that he was feeling rather nauseous from the pain in his leg.

  “You better come in,” she said. “Come on, don’t let all the heat out.”

  Crane followed her in and walked into a wall of warmth. “I feel the cold,” she said over her shoulder, as he followed her into the kitchen. “One of the joys of getting old,” she smiled as she filled the kettle.

  Now he was inside, Crane looked more closely at his hostess. It was her bearing that struck him. Upright. Clearly in control, despite her age, which he put at around 70 years old.

  “Here you go,” she said and put a mug full of murky brown stuff that he thought could be tea in his hands. Sipping it, he said, “Blimey, I’ve not had a cup of strong tea like this in a long while. My parents would say it’s thick enough to stand your spoon up in.”

  She laughed. “Ah well I’ve made it like that for years, old habits die hard.”

  “Habits from where?”

  “The Navy. Twenty years’ service.”

  “Oh wow, I was Army. Nearly did my 22 years, until my accident. Then I had to leave.”

  “I left when I got married,” she said spooning sugar into her mug. “Left it a bit late in life, but better late than never, eh?”

  Crane swallowed down the emotional reaction that hit him unexpectedly. “I suppose so,” he managed, his voice thick.

  She leaned over the table and touched Crane’s hand. “Oh sorry, have I said something wrong?”

  “No, don’t you worry. It’s just that my wife died recently.” Crane didn’t add that it was because of Butler, the man they were all chasing.

  She smiled sympathetically. “My husband died as well. We only had a few years and then he just dropped dead one day. So all of a sudden I had nothing – after having everything.”

  “I know that feeling. How did you cope?”

  “Oh my friends helped the most. Encouraged talking, crying, drinking, you name it, we did it.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “It takes as long as it takes. You need to give yourself time to heal, time to look forward again, time to enjoy what you have left and believe me we all have something left in our lives that will make us smile again. Mine was my dog. What’s yours?”

  “My son Daniel.”

  “Lucky you. I never had children. Maybe if I’d had…” she turned away slightly, but Crane could still see that she wiped away a tear. “Anyway there’s no point in looking backwards, one must look forwards.”

  “Not remember? Not look back?�
� Crane was becoming confused.

  “Oh always remember, Crane, but with joy and smiles, not pain and tears.” And she once more patted his hand.

  The ringing of Crane’s mobile broke the spell that they had managed to weave around themselves in the small apartment, with the old lady unexpectedly taking on the role of a parent. Crane was more grateful to her than he could possibly express and promised himself that he would remember her words when he returned home and see if he could perhaps start on a journey of his own. A journey of healing.

  “Crane? I’m outside the apartment block. Where are you?”

  “Just coming, Derek. Wait there.”

  Crane struggled up from the kitchen table. “I must go. But thank you.”

  “It was only a cup of tea.”

  “It was far more than that and you know it,” Crane smiled. “But now it’s time for me to get back to work.”

  He stood and steadied himself with his stick before walking out of the apartment and towards his friend, without looking back.

  “Any news?” Anderson called. “Have they found anything yet?”

  “No, not that I know of,” said Crane. “But maybe I have.”

  “What? Have you a witness?”

  “It’s a personal thing.”

  Derek looked askance.

  “It’s alright, I’ll tell you another time. Look, there’s DI Swan. Let’s go and get an update.”

  50

  Walking out of the block of flats was like walking into a wall of sound. The noise of the police sirens was everywhere. A helicopter was hovering nearby. Barking dogs could occasionally be heard above the melee. Then, a shout came over the radio.

  “One of the dogs has got him!”

  Crane’s leg buckled. As much as he didn’t want it to, as usual it seemed to have a life of its own. Derek caught him on the way down, before he embarrassed himself further.

  “Boss!”

  Anderson and Crane both turned towards the voice. A thoroughly dishevelled Ciaran greeted them. “We got him! We got him!”

  “So I heard, lad,” said Crane. “What happened?”

  “I lost him in that patch of woodland. At least I thought it was a patch to start with. It ended up being bloody acres of the stuff!” He leaned down with his hands on his thighs, desperate to get air back into his starved lungs.

  “Anyway, I’m thrashing around, getting nowhere fast, when a couple of officers with dogs appeared. They asked me where I’d last seen him. By then I was a bit disorientated, you know?”

  Both men nodded in agreement.

  “But then I saw this tree.”

  “No, not a tree,” Crane spluttered, making Ciaran’s face red with embarrassment, which mingled with the redness of exhaustion. The colour of his face now clashing with his pink tie.

  “Take no notice, Ciaran; it’s just Crane and his pathetic jokes. Come on, what happened then?”

  “Well, hanging off one of the branches was a bit of cloth. The same stuff from the jacket Clive was wearing. I directed the handlers to it and the dogs sniffed around the tree for a few seconds and the next thing I knew they were off, running through the undergrowth, with their handlers following on. I tried to track them, but I was tired from my chase and kept tripping over tree roots and God knows what, so I took a breather and waited.”

  Ciaran pushed his lank hair out of his eyes and then rubbed his hands over his head. Bits of twig and leaves showered his shoulders. He examined his hands, which were green with mould and brown from bark.

  “Anyway, next thing I heard was this scream and then someone shouting to get the dog off him. I recognised his voiced straight away. It was Clive. They’d got him. He’ll be along in a minute. I wanted to rush on ahead and let you know.”

  “Excellent work, Ciaran,” praised Anderson and Crane thumped the boy’s shoulder.

  “Never doubted you, lad,” he said. “Never doubted you.”

  “Did he say anything?” Derek wanted to know.

  “Not that I heard, but they’re bringing him to you to charge and then we can take him back to Aldershot.”

  “Anderson!”

  Derek looked over to where DI Swan was beckoning him. “The SIO wants me. Ciaran, why don’t you take Crane back? You can clean up at the station. I’ll get a patrol car to follow me back with Butler in it. Better to be safe than sorry, eh? I think taking him back in a secure vehicle would be best. Off you go then,” he chivvied them along before walking over to Swan.

  “We’ve been dismissed, Ciaran,” said Crane as the two men ambled their way back to Ciaran’s car. “I wonder why that is?”

  “Do you really need to ask, sir?”

  Crane scratched his chin and thought about what he would like to do to Clive Butler. The man responsible for his wife’s death. “No, I don’t suppose I do, Ciaran. Come on then, let’s get back, I could kill a cup of tea.”

  51

  Mrs Strange had agreed to stay on at the house to look after Daniel because it was early evening before Clive Butler was processed and waiting for them in an interview room. It was something Crane was determined not to miss. This time Anderson had allowed Crane to accompany him. Crane noticed as he swept into the room that there was a burly uniformed officer stationed at the door, who didn’t leave, making Crane smile to himself. Anderson taking precautions. Fair do’s.

  Anderson sat, adjusting his tweed jacket and running his hand through his uncontrollable grey hair. Crane wondered if Anderson was nervous. Examining his own mixed-feelings about the man sat opposite them, he figured it would be a natural reaction. Neither of them wanted to get this wrong. It was time for a considered, calm interview, with as few outbursts as possible. No way did they want any criticism of their interview technique at a trial, no possibility of a confession being thrown out due to undue pressure. At least all that was what Anderson had told him before he was allowed to enter the room. Play by the rules, or you’re out.

  However, looking at Clive Butler, Crane’s determination to play by the rules flew out of the window. At least they would have done if there had been any windows in the room. They sat in plastic chairs set around a metal table, bolted to the floor. The strip lighting on the ceiling buzzed due to a faulty starter and Butler’s solicitor coughed, the sound echoing around the room.

  Anderson started the interview by introducing the participants and by saying that the interview was being videoed and taking place under caution. Turning to Butler he said, “Why not tell us a bit about yourself?”

  Butler looked confused but started by giving his name, age and address.

  “Do you undertake any studies?”

  “Yes, an Open University course for a degree in computer sciences.”

  “A Master’s Degree, as I understand it. And your occupation?”

  “999 Emergency Response Centre operator.”

  Anderson nodded and said, “So you take the calls from the public?”

  “Yes, and then organise an ambulance.”

  “I guess you get your share of bad accidents, fatal illnesses, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes.”

  Butler held himself upright, looking Anderson in the face as he replied to his questions. Therefore, the change in his demeanour was marked when Anderson changed the line of questioning.

  “Can you tell me about you wife’s death?”

  “What? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Everything, Clive,” said Crane. “It’s got everything to do with it.”

  “No comment.”

  Crane wanted to smash his no comment back through his teeth, but dug the nails of one hand into his bad leg instead.

  “Mmmm,” said Anderson. “I’ll tell you then, shall I? Your wife and daughter were killed in an accident caused by Damien Little. His objective was to crash his car, get a mild injury and then claim compensation from the insurance company. However, it all went very wrong, didn’t it? Your wife’s car was hit by Little and pushed into an oncoming lorry.” />
  Clive Butler sat immobile as Anderson spoke.

  “Trapped in the crushed car, your wife managed to grab her mobile phone and call 999. You were on duty and answered that fateful call.”

  Butler closed his eyes. His face now resembled that of a corpse. All light and life drained out of it.

  “You called for the police, ambulance and fire brigade, then stayed on the line, hoping that your family would be alright. They weren’t, of course. Your daughter had died instantly from a fatal head injury. Your wife stayed conscious throughout the attempts to rescue her and you stayed on the line with her. Unfortunately, she had suffered severe injuries and was bleeding internally. By the time they carried her from the crumpled vehicle, she had died. You, however, were still alive and on the line.”

  Tears began to inch out of the corners of Clive Butler’s closed eyes.

  “The problem was the time taken by the emergency services to get to the scene, wasn’t it?”

  Anderson saw the slight nod of the head and acknowledged it verbally.

  “Yes. It took fifteen minutes before they arrived, due to an earlier accident on the nearby motorway and then another fifteen minutes’ preparation before they could even start to attempt a rescue. They had to cut your family out of a car that had been squashed to half its size.”

  “It was all too little too late.” Clive’s voice was a whisper that Crane had to strain to hear.

  “You’ve never forgiven them?”

  “No, never.”

  “How do you feel about the enquiry the authorities opened afterwards?”

  “It was pathetic,” Clive’s head lifted. “They all made their excuses. Not one of them stood up and apologised. Said it was their fault. Said they should have done better. No one understood how I felt. How lost and alone I was. My family had been wiped out and no one cared.” Clive’s voice was getting stronger. Louder. “They needed to be punished. For the public to understand what happens when the emergency services don’t get there in time. People die. That’s what happens. I was hoping that if it happened enough times I could get publicity for their failings. For their shortcomings. Public acknowledgement and sympathy for my loss.”