Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Crane turned as Anderson entered the room, but his leg failed to obey the instructions from his brain and as he twisted he fell to the floor.

  “Shit! This fucking leg!”

  “Not to worry, Crane, up you get,” and Anderson held out a helping hand.

  “Jesus, it fucking kills. And stop being so bloody nice about it,” Crane grumbled.

  “For God’s sake, calm down and get up. Here.”

  But Crane didn’t take Anderson’s hand. He’d twisted as he’d fallen, so his head was now underneath the computer desk.

  “Crane? Stop pissing about and get up, will you?”

  “Hang on, Derek, there’s something stuck to the bottom of the tray here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m bloody sure!”

  “Alright, alright, hang on,” and Anderson joined Crane on the floor. “Well I’ll be buggered, so there is. Come on, get up and we’ll tip the table over.”

  Crane managed to struggle upright and watched as Anderson up-ended the rickety desk. Pulling out his mobile phone he took several pictures and then took an evidence bag and latex gloves out of his pocket.

  “What is it?” Crane asked as he hadn’t been close enough to read what was on the piece of paper stuck to the underside of the keyboard tray.

  “Looks to me like his list of emails and social media accounts, together with their user names and passwords,” said Anderson as he pulled on the gloves.

  “Well, what do you know,” Crane grinned. “We’ve found something for Holly to work with at last.”

  Theresa

  There was only a small piece on the local news that evening. They said a young man had been found murdered in his flat in Portsmouth. There were no other details available but a post mortem was taking place and a team from the Hampshire Major Crimes Unit had been called in.

  Major Crimes.

  The people who were investigating the murder of Sally.

  Theresa berated herself for having an over active imagination. For seeing connections that just weren’t there. Sally’s murder was in Aldershot and the latest was in Portsmouth. And there was no indication from the news broadcast they were connected.

  But Tim hadn’t come home last night. He’d sent a text saying it would be the early hours before he got back from Portsmouth, so he’d just go to his room at the university and stay there. He had a sofa bed for the times when he’d be late and didn’t want to disturb her sleep. He’d said it wasn’t fair and he’d never be so disrespectful of her.

  She couldn’t see it herself. Thought of it as something else that kept them apart. They were more and more leading separate lives. Well, he was. She didn’t have much of a life to lead if she was honest. Every time she’d suggested something to fill her time, such as getting a job, he’d said that she really didn’t need to. They didn’t need the money, so why bother? ‘Enjoy your free time,’ he’d said. ‘You spent all those years looking after the boys and this is your reward.’

  But it didn’t feel like much of a reward.

  On the night of Sally’s murder, he’d been staying in a hotel in the Aldershot area.

  On the night of Charlie’s murder he’d been in Portsmouth.

  Her head felt as though it would spin right off her neck. Her body was a punch bag as her thoughts swung backwards and forwards and she felt every one as though it were a blow to her stomach.

  He could be guilty. He could be no such thing.

  He was in the two towns on the nights of both murders. A pure co-incidence nothing more.

  He had a penchant for ‘that’ sort of sex. Don’t be silly he only tried it once.

  He had a secret mobile phone. You could have been hearing things.

  Stumbling into the kitchen, she grabbed a shot glass from a cupboard in the corner. Hanging onto the freezer she took out a bottle of vodka one of the boys had given them for Christmas and insisted it had to stay cold. She’d done as he suggested, but had no idea why. Until she filled the glass and downed the vodka in one. The shock of the ice cold liquid going down her throat, soon gave way to the fire spreading through her belly from the strong alcohol. She smiled. That was better. Perhaps she could sneak in another one. Before she could change her mind, she the refilled the glass and drank it back. She staggered slightly, bumping against the freezer. She very definitely had had enough. Tim would be home soon. She’d have to appear normal.

  But her hands couldn’t help fluttering to her neck.

  The following morning, the ringing of the phone interrupted Theresa’s seemingly constant cleaning of the house. It was the only thing she had to do, the only thing she was allowed to do, and so was determined to do it well. She wiped the sweat off her brow with her hand and pushed away a few locks of hair that had escaped from the hair band tying it back into a ponytail.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh hi, Sally. It’s Rose. I’ve got a date for your diary.”

  “What’s it for?” Theresa was used to various functions at the university she was expected to attend alongside Tim, although there hadn’t been any lately.

  “Charity fund raiser. The Dean’s pet charity needs an injection of cash, so he’s hosting a dinner and charity auction.”

  “Fine. When is it?”

  Theresa took down the details, scribbling away on the pad by the phone and said she’d put it in her diary. Rose hoped she was free on that night as it did mean so much to the Dean. Theresa said she understood its importance and assured Rose she would be there on Tim’s arm, not mentioning her diary was empty and, in fact, unused. The pages as white and crisp and clean as they had been at the beginning of the year when she’d bought it, more in hope than necessity.

  “Oh, I am glad,” said Rose, “especially as you’ve had to miss the last few.”

  “Miss?” Time seemed to stand still as Theresa realised the implications of Rose’s words. Missed. She’d never missed any function. At least none that she’d known of.

  “Yes.” But Rose was hesitant. “You’ve been ill… I hope you’re feeling better now?”

  “Ill?” was all Theresa could manage. What had Tim being doing? Why hadn’t she known about the invitations?

  Trying hard to recover her composure, she said, “That’ll be another late night for Tim, then,” not wanting the conversation to linger on her supposed illness.

  “Another?” It seemed it was Rose’s turn to be taken aback.

  “Yes, it was the early hours before he got back from Portsmouth. You know, he was a speaker at the debating society this week.”

  “Oh, right, I, um, yes of course, I must have forgotten about that one. Anyway, must dash, Glad you’re feeling more yourself. Bye.”

  Theresa was left holding a dead telephone and pondering Rose’s strange comments. It seemed Theresa had known nothing of her own mysterious illness and Rose had known nothing about a trip to Portsmouth. That was very strange as Rose never made a mistake. Theresa chewed her lip, thinking.

  In the kitchen her laptop was open, so she went to it and in the search engine typed, Portsmouth University. Once on their website she clicked on the link for the debating society, pulling up their list of events.

  There had been no debate last night. Actually there had been no debates for the past two months, due to the organiser falling ill. Normal service was hoped to be resumed next term.

  She slammed the lid of her laptop closed. Why had Tim been in Portsmouth? Had he even been in Portsmouth at all? He’d definitely been somewhere as he hadn’t been at home. Breathing became difficult and her eyes were blinking uncontrollably. She grabbed a cloth and some cleaning fluid and began scrubbing the already sparkling hob.

  Aldershot Mail Online

  Has The Choker struck again?

  The Aldershot News continues to bring you the latest stories that affect our local community and the wider Hampshire area. We understand the murder of a young man aged just 24 and living in Portsmouth, who has yet to be formally identified, has died in similar
circumstances to our local girl Sally Sawyer.

  Once again silk scarves have been mentioned and bruising was clearly visible on the poor man’s neck. It seems that young men and women from the BDSM community are no longer safe and should take every precaution before meeting strangers for sex.

  If this is linked to auto erotic asphyxiation, as the police assume, we must warn our readers that this is an extremely dangerous practice. Cutting off oxygen to the brain can lead to brain damage or even death. It is highly recommended this sexual practise be avoided at all costs.

  Ciaran

  Once he’d finished reading the online article, Ciaran handed the tablet back to Donna.

  “So, now do you see why I called you?” she asked. “Is it true? Is this another victim, the same as Sally?”

  “At the moment, we just don’t know, Donna.”

  “But it could be?”

  Ciaran was intrinsically an honest person, so he answered truthfully, “Yes, it could be.”

  “Oh my God.” Donna fell into the hard chair by the desk in yet another anonymous hotel room. “Are you any nearer to catching him?”

  “We’re following up a few leads… that’s all I can say at the moment.”

  Donna was looking alarmingly pale and she was swaying, her body threatening to fall off the chair, so he said, “Quick, put your head between your knees,” and he lightly pushed her head downwards.

  Once she had obeyed his instruction, he said, “I’ll get you some water,” and he ran to the small en-suite and grabbed a plastic cup, filling it with water from the tap.

  “Here,” he said returning, “try and sip some of this.”

  “Thanks,” Donna mumbled and she sipped at the cup Ciaran was holding for her. His ministrations had done the trick and slowly Donna’s colour returned.

  “So sorry,” she said.

  Ciaran crouched down before her and put the cup down. “It’s okay.”

  “I’m just so frightened. What if he comes after me? I’m not sure I can move back into the flat. He knows where I live. He could think I can help you catch him!”

  “Please, Donna, I’m sure that’s not the case.” Ciaran grabbed her hands in his and tried hard to ignore the frisson it caused. It was as though he’d had a small electric shock. “And anyway I’ll always be available if you become frightened. Don’t let this take over your life. That way he’ll win, won’t he, whoever he is?”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right,” Donna took a couple of deep breaths. “So, it would be alright for me to call you? You know, if anything happens?”

  “Definitely,” agreed Ciaran, anxious to be Donna’s knight in shining armour, pushing aside his doubts about whether it was entirely proper for him to like a woman connected to his murder investigation. He was still holding her hands in his and was amazed she hadn’t pulled them away.

  “Thanks, that makes me feel much better.” Donna lifted her head and smiled at him, her frightened eyes making a mockery of the polished, professional persona she projected.

  It was those eyes that did it and Ciaran found himself saying, “Look, I don’t know about you but I need a drink. Shall we go downstairs to the bar?”

  He was thrilled when Donna agreed with his impromptu suggestion.

  Theresa

  “Rose called today,” Theresa said as she and Tim cleared the table after dinner. “About the charity thing for the Dean?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve brought home the official invitation. It’s in my briefcase. Go and get it if you like.”

  “Alright,” said Theresa walking into the hall, where Tim’s briefcase rested on the floor by the front door.

  She hadn’t been able to resist mentioning it, half wondering if the function did exist, but then berating herself for over-reacting. Of course it was genuine and of course she would be going with Tim. It was just that she’d wondered if he would make an excuse for her absence and leave her at home, manipulating her once again and ensuring he had a night out on his own.

  Laying the rather battered case flat on the floor, which Tim had had since his first post at the university, she clicked the clasps and raised the lid. There, on top of a couple of books, was a white envelope with, ‘Professor and Mrs Dennison’ written on it. Theresa reached for it, but then her hand stopped half way there, as she spied a flash of colour peeking out from under the books.

  Rocking back on her heels, she stilled. Then, heart racing and hands shaking, she plucked at it, feeling the silk slide under her fingers. The garish colours were bright against her white hands and the material whispered as she pulled it from one hand to the other. A little voice inside her whispered...

  A colourful silk scarf found wound around her neck.

  Hands tied to the bed.

  Evidence of oxygen deprivation by choking.

  She couldn’t move. Her feet were stuck to the floor. She was unable to wrench her gaze from the scarf.

  “Theresa!”

  The sound of Tim’s call made her jump and the scarf fell from her hands, breaking the spell. She grabbed the scarf and the invitation and walked through to the kitchen, leaving the briefcase where it was.

  It took all her willpower to keep her voice even. “What’s this?” She held up the scarf.

  “Oh, it belongs to Rose. She left it in the car when I gave her a lift home.”

  “Why is it in your briefcase?”

  “To remind me to give it to her. You know what I’m like,” he laughed. “My memory is rubbish and I’d leave it in the car for a week. Pop it back in the case would you?”

  Theresa nodded and walked back into the hall in a daze. Tim said it belonged to Rose. A perfectly plausible excuse for having a woman’s scarf in his briefcase. But did she believe him? As she let go of the scarf it slithered into the case, reminding Theresa of a snake. A poisonous snake, worming its way into their marriage.

  Boy

  We’re studying crime and the punishment of criminals at school, a subject I seem to be doing rather well at, as I find it so interesting. We’re on our way to the Clink Prison Museum, built on the site of the first ever prison. That fluttering feeling is back and I’m revelling in it. Stupid John, who has been allocated as my partner, keeps wittering on about home, his brothers and the model plane he is building. I keep my mouth shut and ignore him most of the time, staring out of the coach window as we crawl along in the London traffic.

  With a hiss of brakes and a cheer from the class, we arrive. Everyone makes their straggling way to the door of the museum. I push to the front, with John trailing behind me, as I’m determined not to miss a minute, or a word, or the opportunity to handle the instruments of torture.

  A man appears and tells us we’ll be learning how inmates were treated and the conditions they lived in. We will have the opportunity to handle original historical artefacts relating to crime and punishment, used both in the Clink Prison and nationally. My hands itch at his words and if I’m not careful someone will see how eager I am to get started.

  At the sight of the manacles I nearly swoon like a heroine in one of my favourite gothic novels. They are much heavier than I thought they would be and as I hold the weight of them in my hands my imagination runs riot. The satisfying clink of the chains, the chill of the iron, the huge plates fashioned to fit around wrists, all contribute to my determination to get a pair of my own. I wonder what it would feel like to be manacled and then hung from the ceiling.

  Left there, waiting for my tormentor. Not knowing when he, or she, would return.

  I walk straight past the wax skeletal prisoners, but when we get to the large wooden chair, well things start to look up. Being the first in line, John and I are allowed to sit in it and demonstrate to the rest of the class. The old oak wooden structure is bigger than we are, but I am still able to pin John’s head against the back of it, immobilising him with the large leather straps around his forehead. There are similar straps for his wrists, securing them on the arms of the chair and his dangling legs are bou
nd in leather also. Standing up I look at him closely. His face is pale with small beads of sweat dotted over his forehead. His hands are clenched and his eyes large. Moving behind him, I grab the wheel that will raise the back of the chair, lifting him out of the seat and stretching and pulling his body.

  His screams alert the guide and the teacher, who both shriek at me to stop. The guide rushes to John and releases the leather straps and the teacher grabs my arm, pulling me away from the instrument of torture.

  “What the hell do you think you are doing, boy?”

  “Having a bit of fun,” I reply.

  His face goes a putrid, puce colour. “The Headmaster will hear about this,” he hisses at me and pushes me towards the back of the snake of students. But I can’t suppress my grin, nor hide my excitement.

  The Clink - the prison that gave its name to all others.

  Crane

  Whilst Holly was working on the online investigation into Charlie Keating’s murder, Crane and Anderson were stumped. Once again the body and the flat had been cleaned down with bleach. There was no phone or laptop in the property. So the only option left was CCTV. Portsmouth police had given them access to recorded footage from the local cameras for the night of Charlie’s murder.

  After what seemed like hours of fruitless viewing, Crane needed a break and a fag. Doing his best to stop smoking, Crane was trying electronic cigarettes but ended up using both; smoking cigarettes during the day and his e-cigarette at home. He would have used the electronic version at work, but for some reason they weren’t allowed in the office either. He had no idea why. If he was blowing out harmless water vapour, why couldn’t he use it in the office? He put it down to another case of health and safety gone mad. So he clumped his way out of the office, into the car park, where he leaned against the wall and lit up.