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

by Wendy Cartmell

  As he smoked he mulled over the two cases. Something he did consciously and unconsciously during an investigation. Tina, his wife, was used to him being remote at times, as he’d been an investigator for all of their married life. She sometimes grumbled about being like a one parent family as he was away from home such a lot, and even when he was at home he was obsessed with some case or other and walked around the house in a daze. But she always confessed she wouldn’t have it any other way. Part of Crane was better than none, she’d told him. Crane had had no answer to that, finding sentiment hard to deal with. He was so used to containing his feelings, holding back his emotions and dealing only in facts, he found it hard to open up in his personal life.

  But his focus, for now, had to be the two murders, not Tina and their young son Daniel, despite how awful it sounded. They were chasing a bi-sexual murderer, addicted to the euphoric rush that breath control play brought. But Crane was very much afraid he, or she, was addicted to killing as well. Crane was convinced their murderer was a man, but Holly wasn’t so sure, being more inclined towards the feminist point of view that it could just as easily be a woman. She was convinced that with a victim already disarmed by the confused state the sexual practise brought, it would be fairly easy for a murderer to go one step further.

  But all of that was conjecture for now. They needed solid evidence, which was proving elusive.

  A sudden stab in his hip caused his leg to buckle underneath him and he clawed at the wall to try and keep upright. He ended up leaning against it, half upright, like a drunken solider at the end of a night out in Aldershot. The pain left him gasping and he fumbled in his pocket for a Tramadol. To be honest he wasn’t sure how many he was supposed to take in a day. He thought it was three. One in the morning and two at night. But somewhere someone had said he could have an emergency one, if the pain got particularly bad. The trouble was he frequently lost count and just went with having one when the pain was bad. Which, to be honest, was most of the day.

  Sliding down the wall and sitting on the cold floor, he swallowed a tablet and stayed where he was for a while until the debilitating pain subsided. Crane was just considering a second cigarette, when his phone whistled the electronic version of woody woodpecker. Dragging it out of his pocket it was a WhatsApp from Holly. Got something, guv. So putting the second cigarette on hold for now, he hauled himself up and turned and fought his way through the obstacles of stairs and doors, back to the office.

  He’d only just poked his head around the door to the main CID floor when Holly rushed over.

  “Got something, guv!”

  “I know, I know, I’m here now.”

  “Crane!” Anderson shouted from his office door. “Get in here, I’ve got something!”

  “Um,” Crane dithered as Holly jigged up and down beside him. “Look, Holly, come with me so you can tell whatever it is to Anderson at the same time. Sorry, but DI Anderson outranks you and me, come to that.”

  Holly grinned and followed his slow progress across the floor.

  “Ciaran, you best come too,” said Crane as they reached his desk. “I’m sure you don’t want to miss the party.”

  And so the three of them arrived at Anderson’s office door much to the DI’s surprise. “Oh,” he said as they took seats around the table, which was covered in files and photographs and reports.

  “Holly here has something for us,” Crane explained. “So I thought we could hear your news and hers.”

  “I might as well go first as I’m the boss,” Anderson tried to look important by puffing his chest out and failed miserably as they all fell about laughing, as his stomach outranked his chest. “Bugger off you lot,” he grumbled, but as he then grinned good-naturedly, Crane thought that at last they must have something to work with, hence Anderson’s good mood.

  “Crane and I have been working through the CCTV sent from Portsmouth,” began Anderson. “And while Crane here was skiving outside, filling his lungs with contaminates, I saw a Suzuki Jeep in the area from a private CCTV camera that just shows the opening to a multi-story car park a few minutes’ walk to the flats above the shops where Charlie lived. The Jeep arrived about 8pm and then left at 2.30 am. But I can’t get a good enough image to get the licence plate.”

  “Do you want me to see if I can enhance it?”

  “Thanks, Holly that would be great.”

  “Will do, guv.”

  “Doesn’t the car park have the licence plate?” asked Ciaran. “Many of them read your number plate when you enter and leave.”

  “I wish, but no such luck,” said Anderson. “I asked the local police that. But it’s an old one that’s been there many years and as the area is subject to redevelopment in the future, the owners hadn’t seen any point in investing in new technology. So, your turn, Holly, what do you have for us?”

  “I’ve been checking out Charlie’s on-line presence to see if there is any correlation between the two victims, and trying to find anyone they were both friends with, who could be the killer. But I’ve not come up with anything so far. However, he does have a dating site account, so I’ve put a request into the administrators to see if they have an account under Sally’s email address as well.”

  Crane felt a shiver of excitement. Two leads to work with. Maybe they were getting somewhere at last.

  Theresa

  Theresa had started her round of cleaning the house early, so by mid-day she was finished and all she had to look forward to for the rest of the day was starting all over again. She pulled off her rubber gloves and as she did so she caught sight of her bleach splattered jeans. Buying a new pair seemed a fairly good reason for going out, so she ran upstairs to change. Once ready, she checked the upstairs bathroom and the en-suite, just to make sure she hadn’t missed any marks, or, heaven forbid, left any stains on the toilet. Happy that they were clean, at least for the moment, she went downstairs to check the kitchen was sparkling. After running her finger over the work surfaces and closely inspecting the sink, she was happy that the house was clean enough to leave.

  Pausing to collect her car keys from the hall table, she just had to check the downstairs cloakroom. Confident the small space smelled of disinfectant and that there wasn’t a mark to be seen, she opened the front door and went out to her car. Her little Suzuki Jimny Jeep sat on the driveway and she carefully backed it out onto the road and was away.

  As she drove, she became aware of something rolling around the inside of the car, on the floor. Pulling over, she found the culprit. An empty plastic bottle of water. Tim must have left it when he last used the car. He really must learn to take better care of her Jeep and she’d make sure to mention it tonight. What was the point of her working hard to keep the interior spotless, if he messed the car up every time he used it?

  Arriving at the Oracle Shopping Centre in Reading town centre, Theresa parked the car on a fairly empty floor, so she was less likely to get dints in the side from people opening their car doors. She walked towards the shopping centre past the many food outlets and her stomach rumbled at the delicious smells wafting around her. She didn’t want too much to eat, didn’t fancy a burger or chicken, so settled on a Subway and coffee. As she walked along, turning over in her mind the various fillings they had to choose from, she passed an Italian restaurant. Glancing through the window, wondering if she should have a pizza instead, she stopped to check the menu pasted to the glass.

  But she suddenly went off the idea when she saw a familiar back, sitting at a table towards the far end of the eatery. She was sure it was Tim’s jacket. Let’s face it, how many other men wore tweed jackets with elbow patches on? As she watched, he threw back his head with laughter and raised his glass. He chinked it with his companion and took a drink of what looked like red wine.

  Theresa turned and leaned her back against the pane of glass, head swimming, unable to think clearly. Telling herself to remain calm and breathe, she fumbled for her mobile phone. Turning sideways, she peered around the menu board.
Yes, he was still there. She scrolled through her contacts list, pressing the button to connect her with Tim. Watching him closely she saw him grab his phone from his pocket and answer it.

  “Hi, love,” he said. “Everything alright?”

  “Yes, fine,” Theresa said. “I was just wondering if you’d pick up a bottle of wine on your way home tonight. I’m a bit bogged down with the cleaning and can’t be bothered to go out.”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “What you up to? Busy?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Just having a sandwich at my desk. No rest for the wicked eh? See you at home,” and he finished the call.

  Theresa saw him replace his phone and grab his wine glass once again, leaning over the table to talk to his mysterious friend.

  Feeling sick, Theresa stumbled away from the restaurant back towards the canal, where she sank onto a bench.

  ‘No peace for the wicked,’ he’d said. Well he’d got that right, she decided. It was time to find out what Tim was really up to. And time she phoned the police again, this time to tell them about the Portsmouth trip. All thoughts of buying new jeans forgotten, she was planning what to do about catching her lying, cheating, murdering husband, as she pulled her mobile phone from her fake Gucci handbag.

  Ciaran

  “For God’s sake,” Holly shouted and banged down the telephone receiver.

  “Whoa girl, what the matter?” Ciaran was rather alarmed to see his normally placid co-worker so angry. Her eyes were blazing and she banged her computer keyboard down for good measure.

  “Bloody dating sites, that’s what the matter!” Holly was still shouting and attracting the attention of the other policemen and women in the large open plan office.

  “How about a coffee to calm you down?”

  Ciaran deduced from Holly’s piercing stare that yet again he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Oh, right, no caffeine, sorry.” To be honest if this was Holly without caffeine, he’d hate to see her with it. “Come on spit it out, what’s the matter?”

  “The dating people won’t tell me if Sally and Charlie were members of their sites. ‘Not without a warrant’, they’re all saying. Jesus, it’s a murder investigation. What’s wrong with these people? Who is it going to hurt if they just tell me?”

  “I guess they feel they have a reputation to keep,” said Ciaran, “No one would trust them with their personal data otherwise.”

  That got him another withering look.

  “I haven’t got time for this bullshit,” Holly spat, but Ciaran detected a slight slump of resignation in her shoulders.

  “I tell you what, give me their details and I’ll draw up the warrants. What about that?”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  “What about where the two victims grew up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Where they went to school?”

  “Nothing.”

  Ciaran was praying for a miracle as he was getting nowhere. Then he had a light bulb moment. “Where they worked? Anything there?”

  She glared at him. Ciaran didn’t know if it was a good sign or a bad sign and held his breath.

  “You bloody star,” she said. “They could have used their work computers to help remain anonymous. Forget about those sites for the moment,” she demanded. “Help me get access to their work computers. Use some of your boyish charm, so we don’t have to wait for warrants for those as well.”

  Ciaran pulled up the details on his screen and reached for the phone on his desk. Before he could lift the receive it rang. “Sorry, Holly,” he said. “I’d better answer this,” secretly hoping it might be Donna. But it wasn’t. It was from the woman he hoped never to hear from again.

  “DC Douglas? Its Mrs Dennison, Theresa Dennison. I don’t know if you remember me?”

  “Oh yes, Mrs Dennison, I do.” Ciaran closed his eyes. Then, aware that he wasn’t being very polite, said, “What can I do for you?”

  “That murder in Portsmouth, are you on the case?”

  “We certainly have an interest in it, yes.”

  “That’s what I thought!” The triumph in her voice rang clearly down the line. “I’ve got some information for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “He was there that night. Or at least he said he was there. But he was lying. The event he was supposed to be attending didn’t exist. It’s all very fishy. So I thought I’d better tell you about it.”

  Ciaran very much wished she hadn’t bothered. She was gibbering away and not making very much sense and he ended up taking the receiver away from his ear so Holly could hear Mrs Dennison squawking like a demented parrot. Holly grinned and then mouthed, “Be nice!”

  Begrudgingly taking her advice, he said, “Mrs Dennison, let’s start at the beginning shall we? Answer my questions as fully as you can and we’ll see where that gets us, alright?”

  At her mumbled apology he said, “You say you husband was in Portsmouth the same night of the latest murder?”

  “Yes, but he might not have been!”

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s what he told me, but he could have been lying. Just like he was lying today. Just like he’s probably been lying to me for years. I can’t cope. I don’t know what to do!”

  Ciaran didn’t either, but said, “Please, Mrs Dennison, try and calm down. Where are you?”

  “In Reading, outside the shopping centre. I saw him, he’s in an Italian restaurant having lunch with someone, but I can’t see who it is. I rang his mobile and he told me he was sitting at his desk having a sandwich! So you see, he can’t be trusted can he?”

  Ciaran was alarmed by her mental state and could hear she was crying as well as gibbering. But Reading was too far away for him to get to her in time, to help calm her down.

  “Look Mrs Dennison, are there cafés where you’re sitting?”

  “Yes, yes there are, lots of them,” she gulped.

  “Well, go and have a coffee or tea while you compose yourself enough to drive home. Yes?”

  “I suppose I could,” she sniffed.

  “That’s great. Once you get home, perhaps you’d like to email me your thoughts about your husband. It’s much better to have these things in writing, don’t you think? Then as soon as I’ve read it we can talk again.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you,” Mrs Dennison now sounded like he’d just pulled her into a lifeboat after nearly drowning at sea. But it seemed he’d done the trick.

  “I’ll text you my email address right now. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Her previously laboured breathing sounded more natural now. “Thanks again,” she said and cut the call.

  Ciaran expelled a rush of air and hoped to God he’d calmed her down enough to drive home safely. What was it with women and this investigation? First Donna and now Mrs Dennison getting upset. It appeared his role as a knight in shining armour was in great demand. But it wasn’t really the image he wanted to project. It was nowhere near the incisive, decisive, detective he was aiming to be.

  Theresa

  It was an inane American television programme that had given her the idea. Private Eyes. Once she saw it, she couldn’t get the equally banal song out of her head, Private Eyes by Hall and Oats, which was the programme’s theme tune, albeit sung by someone else.

  She’d sent the email to DC Douglas as he’d requested, detailing her husband’s strange behaviour and had had an acknowledgement. But nothing else. She wasn’t a stupid woman. She knew she had to find evidence if she was ever to convince the police to investigate her husband. So, if Tim really was the killer, the one they called ‘the Choker’, a term that never failed to elicit a shudder through her slight frame and make a hand fly to her neck, then she’d just have to find some. As he rarely left his electronic devices, mobile and netbook, lying around, that line of enquiry wasn’t going to work. Oh, that was a good phrase, she decided, line of enquiry. It sounded very detective-like. That train of thought clinched it. She was going
to pursue a different line of enquiry, by following her husband.

  The trouble was she didn’t know when something might happen, when another killing may take place. Thinking about it logically, as she did the ironing in the kitchen, if he was to murder someone it would be at night, so perhaps she should just follow him when he was supposed to be working late at the university, or away at a so-called speaking engagement. That’s when he was more than likely lying.

  Putting down the iron and wiping her face, as she’d become hot from the steam - please God don’t let it be the start of an early menopause - gave her another idea. She’d more than likely be following him at night, but she still wanted to ensure she wouldn’t be recognised. So she’d have to change her appearance. A wig and glasses should do it, she decided. There wasn’t much she could do about the car, but both of their vehicles were quite popular models. As long as she didn’t park under a street lamp or anything, she should be okay.

  She thought back to the episode of Private Eyes she’d seen. They seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting in cars and watching and waiting for something to happen. So it didn’t appear she’d hit on a clue, or evidence, the first time she followed him. But, she reasoned, if she didn’t start, then she’d never find anything out at all. Whilst the two private eyes were waiting around, she’d noticed they detailed comings and goings in a diary. At last she’d have use for that new empty one she had. She anticipated filling it up quite quickly.

  As she finished ironing the last of Tim’s shirts and hung it on a coat hanger, she wondered where she might buy a wig. A hairdresser? No she’d not seen one in any of the local salons. What about a department store? Debenhams? John Lewis? Yes, it would have to be somewhere like that, so it was time for a trip to The Oracle again. Oh and glasses with plain glass in them. She mustn’t forget those. Maybe her opticians would have an old pair of frames she could buy. She could always tell them it was for a fancy dress party.