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

by Wendy Cartmell

  Holly wasn’t at all happy with the concept of S-Dates. Their tag line of ‘sexy, sensual and satisfying encounters’ smacked of prostitution. She could understand the more traditional internet dating, where lonely people were searching for their soul mate. From what she could see, it could work pretty well. She personally knew several people who’d had good experiences from such dating sites and met their long term partners.

  But just meeting someone for sex? Christ, you could probably pull any red blooded male off the street and offer to meet just for sex. Physical contact, without any of the messy emotional wants and needs that so often went with it. She figured most men would be up for it, the unintended double entendre making her laugh.

  But this was no laughing matter, she knew. Three people were dead because of that site. Three young people, not much older than Holly herself, who had hopes and dreams and a future they thought stretched out before them. What had possessed them? Why would they join such an organisation? Why not a more conservative dating agency? Was it really because they wanted sexual deviancies that wouldn’t be tolerated by normal partners? Whatever ‘normal’ meant these days. Specialist agencies like this pushed the boundaries of decency, bringing out into the mainstream, fetishes and BDSM sex. She wasn’t naive enough to think such things didn’t exist, bubbling under the surface of the thin veneer of respectability. It was just she hadn’t encountered them before and she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of people the participants were.

  Being the type of person she was - inquisitive, driven and compulsive - she’d researched autoerotic asphyxiation in her quest for background information. Historically, the practise was documented from the early 1600s. It was first used as a treatment for erectile dysfunction and impotence. The idea for this most likely came from subjects who were executed by hanging. Observers at public hangings noted that male victims developed an erection, which sometimes remained after death (known colloquially as the death erection), and some occasionally ejaculated when being hanged. Although ejaculation occurred in hanging victims after death, because of disseminated muscle relaxation, there were AEA devotees who felt it happened as a result of the restriction of oxygen to the brain. So really it was nothing new. It had been practised for hundreds of years. Somehow the thought didn’t make her feel any better.

  Neither did the information from S-Dates. From what she could see, her fingers had been working frantically whilst she was musing, all three email accounts were now closed. There had been no hits on her searches for the three user names and all the direct messages associated with those accounts had been deleted. All she had left were IP addresses. What were the odds that they were all from cafés, or even libraries, with free Wi-Fi? Pretty high. At least it would give them an approximate location; country, county and town. The location of the IP addresses associated with each account could help triangulate an area where the killer lived, or worked, or at least visited a lot. Scrolling down through the email from S-Dates it seemed each account had used several IP addresses which would give them even more information. Unless the killer was using a proxy, hiding their real location behind an organisation that cloaks your IP address by bouncing around the signal. In which case it would take a while longer as they’d have to contact the proxy company, which would take another search warrant, which would take another few weeks that they didn’t have the luxury of.

  Once the IP addresses had been fed into the locator, Holly went to make some herbal tea, thinking perhaps camomile might calm her down. She was feeling rather excitable, which meant she was becoming hyperactive, which wasn’t good news. She could feel her heart rate and breathing quicken as she became more anxious about finding the truth. It was the least she could do for the victims. But inducing a manic episode wouldn’t help anyone, so she used breathing techniques and her mantra to return to a more centred state.

  She was still controlling her breathing when the results of her IP address search came back. Every one of them belonged to a proxy. Shit. More delays. It was time for more drastic action. But would her plan be given approval?

  Crane

  “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Set up,” grumbled Crane. He was sitting in Major Martin’s office, alone with the doctor. “Going to buy biscuits, my arse.”

  Crane was referring to Anderson’s trip to the hospital shop for biscuits, leaving Crane and the Major sat in the doctor’s office in the bowels of Frimley Park Hospital.

  “Well, maybe a little. But my question still stands.”

  “Fine. Great. Never better.”

  “Rubbish.”

  Crane’s head snapped up from his study of his hands which were holding his stick.

  “Your eyes are bloodshot and there is purple bruising under them. You’re clearly very irritable …”

  “You don’t say.”

  “See. That’s what I mean.”

  “I’m normally like that.”

  Major Martin laughed. “Touché. Are you eating?”

  “Not so much, can’t seem to face it.”

  “Tremors? Shaking?”

  “You’d bloody shake leaning on this thing all the time,” Crane brandished his stick.

  “What’s your morphine dose?”

  “Supposed to be twenty milligrams three times a day.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “I’m trying to come off them. So I only take one if I really need it.”

  “Ah, that would explain it.”

  “Explain what? Look, do we have to do this? I’ve got questions for you about our killer. This is just wasting time.”

  “If you’re not functioning correctly, then you’re the one that’s wasting your time, Crane, not me.”

  “So now all of a sudden you’re a pain expert.”

  Crane tried to stand up, but failed when his leg buckled, so he fell back down into the chair and threw his stick on the floor. “Fuck this. I’ve had enough of it. I can’t do it. I must have been stupid to think I could.”

  “Can’t do what, Crane? Work? Or come off the tablets?”

  “Both, I guess. Anyway, what would you know about it?”

  “I am a medical doctor, Crane. I’d like to go through your medication with you and see what I can do to address your addiction to opiates and find different ways to control the pain.”

  “You can prescribe stuff?”

  “You really are being a bit slow today, aren’t you? Yes I can. I wouldn’t offer otherwise. I also do one day a week at my local GP surgery. So, will you trust me to help, Crane? We’ve been friends long enough for you to realise I only have your best interests at heart. Now, give me your list of medication.”

  Once Crane had done that, the Major pulled a prescription pad out of his briefcase. “I’ll log you onto the system when I go to the surgery tomorrow, so this will all be documented and legal and in future you can come to the surgery in Ash.”

  “Ash? Where I live?”

  “Yes, Crane. That’s where I work, every Friday.”

  “I never knew.”

  “You never asked. Now, this is your problem. Prescription painkillers stimulate the reward system of the brain and release a flood of a neurotransmitters called dopamine. Like all commonly abused drugs, opiates in the form of prescription painkillers, are known to stimulate areas of the brain which are associated with pleasurable feelings. Therefore, alongside analgesia, they give you feelings of happiness and the sensation that all is right with the world.”

  “So?”

  “So I need to replace the morphine with something else that works in conjunction with your other painkillers to help control the pain and control your moods.”

  “Are you talking about anti-depressants?”

  “One in particular. Triptizol has been known to work really well in these cases. Now, it will take some time for it to kick in and you might experience increased drowsiness at first, but trust me, it will really help. I’ll also slightly increase your Lyrica, which works directly on the nerve pain
you are experiencing from your hip. My guess is because you’ve returned to work there is increased strain on the sciatic nerve, it’s become inflamed. Now, this might not work right away,” Major Martin finished scribbling and handed Crane the prescription. “But it should start to relieve your pain. And remember, if it doesn’t, come back to see me and we’ll play around with the dosage a little more. I’ll be honest, it’s a case of trial and error until we find what works for you, but it will be worth it in the end. I also think you’ll benefit from a good multi-vitamin and mineral complex. I’ll talk to Tina about that and about your diet. So, will you trust me on this?”

  Crane nodded mutely, unable to trust himself to speak. The kindness and understanding of his long-term colleague had made him emotional and the revelation the major viewed Crane as not just a colleague, but a friend, had knocked him sideways. The hard-nosed Sgt Major Crane had to blink away a sudden urge to cry. He was fed up of being emotional and fed up of being in pain. At the moment the pain was in control, not Crane, and which was a new experience. Crane was always in control. He clearly hadn’t known how to handle this new and puzzling change in his life. He could only thank God that someone else did and that Anderson had noticed his suffering and known what to do with the knowledge.

  “Ready, Crane?” Anderson called from the door.

  “What about the real reason we came?”

  “That was the real reason, you idiot. Now get the car keys out and let’s get back. Ciaran is pulling in Mrs Dennison. I reckon we’ve got some questions for her as well as her husband.”

  “I might just have a plan,” said Holly, catching Crane and Anderson before they went in to see Mrs Dennison.

  “Go on, then,” said Anderson. “Let’s have it.”

  “Right, we know our killer makes up false identities and email addresses and uses them on S-Dates. He wants to lure anyone who is willing to take part in a bit of autoerotic stimulation. From looking at the site in more detail, he’s looking for ‘chokers’ and ‘gaspers’. He doesn’t seem to mind whether his victim is male or female, he’s basically looking for anyone up for it. So, I thought we could set up a false identity and pose as someone looking for something a bit different in the way of sexual encounters. That will be me. If we get a suitable response, we could arrange a meeting and catch him in the act.”

  “Absolutely fucking not!” exploded Crane, not caring that Anderson was the boss. There was no way one of the team was putting himself, or herself, in harm’s way.

  “But why not? Two of the three victims were female and all three were wanting to meet people who were interested in BDSM.”

  “So you want to pose as a woman interested in that sort of thing?” interrupted Anderson.

  “Yes. I’ve compiled a profile of what the three victims put out there; ages, hair colour, where they live, access to a flat or house alone. I’m sure I can write a profile that could lure our killer.”

  “Maybe you should have been a criminologist coming up with that sort of social background information,” said Ciaran, but Crane could see something in his eyes. Was it jealousy? It certainly didn’t seem to be respect. But it was about time Ciaran put up his own theories about the killer and the victims. So far he’d been very lacking in that area. Some days he just seemed to be going through the motions. His mind wasn’t really on the job and he was far more interested in his mobile phone than he should be.

  “Let us think about it,” said Anderson “In the meantime we’ve got to talk to the Professor and Mrs Dennison. You never know it might not be necessary to go to such lengths. But thanks for the idea and the offer, Holly. Come on, Crane, let’s go and see Mrs Dennison.”

  Crane followed his boss as requested, but could see Holly was pretty fed up as she flounced back to her desk and sat down hard on her seat. But at least she’d had the good sense not to get angry at the boss.

  Boy

  We simply know each other as the choker or the gasper, depending on the role we are playing. The internet makes you that way, all the made up names, the truths that turn out to be lies and stories invented to impress. But Sally, aka Miss Mischief on S-Dates, had turned out to be who she said she was; young, free and single. I got the feeling she had been lonely, from the way she was so eager to chat via private messages and was logged into the forum night after night.

  I’d known she had a flat mate. Sally had said she was an airhostess on long-haul flights and was absent from home more often than not, but she was due back the day after we met. That had helped with my sorrow over her death. Knowing she wouldn’t be lying there, alone, for very long.

  The trouble was, even though I felt a lot of remorse for killing Sally, I couldn’t get out of my mind what had happened. What I’d done to her.

  Murdered her.

  Killed her.

  Strangled her.

  It didn’t frighten me. It thrilled me. I kept fantasising about doing it again. In bed, when I closed my eyes, I relived the evening time and time again.

  I prevaricated for ages. Could I do it again? Could I kill another girl? In the same way? To start with I decided I couldn’t possibly. I wasn’t a killer. I was ordinary, not made that way, surely?

  I wished Daddy was still alive so I could have asked his advice. He’d have known what to do. After all, I think he killed Mummy. One morning when I came down for breakfast, she wasn’t there. Daddy said something about she had to go on a trip. It must have been a long one, for she never came back. After a while I stopped asking where she was and when she would return. It was just Daddy and me. He said it was a good thing she’d gone, because it meant we could live our lives the way we wanted to. And anyway, we only needed each other.

  After all the introspection, I came to the inevitable conclusion that it had been the most explosive, mind blowing sex I’d ever had and that my body was crying out for it again. More and more often. In that moment of clarity, I realised I was hooked.

  Hooked on the power, the lust, the rush.

  I had a sexual addiction, just like a smoker needing one more cigarette, or an alcoholic a glass of wine, or a druggie a snort of coke.

  I remember thinking, thank goodness for S-Dates, turning once more to my laptop.

  S-Dates for sexy, sensual liaisons.

  Crane

  “Ah, Mrs Dennison,” said Anderson as they entered Interview Room 5. “Thanks a lot for coming over. We appreciate your co-operation, don’t we, Crane?”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Crane, sitting down next to Anderson, the two men now opposite Mrs Dennison.

  “Well, I wasn’t left with much choice,” she spat. “That young detective of yours didn’t make it seem like a request. It was more of an order.”

  “Oh dear, just the exuberance of youth, I expect,” soothed Anderson.

  But Mrs Dennison didn’t look consoled. “Anyway, what’s going on? Are you going to arrest Tim? Isn’t he the man you’re looking for? That murderer? That Choker?”

  “I’m afraid there’s not enough evidence at the moment, Mrs Dennison.”

  “Not enough evidence?” her strident voice rang out in the room, reminding Crane of Hyacinth Bucket in the 1990’s sitcom. “What on earth are you talking about? Don’t you believe me? Haven’t I given you enough information?”

  “I can assure you it’s not a case of whether we believe you or not, it’s a case of having to prove it with proof that supports your claim, such as CCT footage, that sort of thing.”

  “So what am I supposed to do now?” Crane could see the bluster was draining out of her and she was becoming a rather small, frightened woman. “Just go home and pretend nothing is wrong?”

  “What you do or don’t do is your affair entirely. We can’t advise you what to do, that’s your prerogative. But in the meantime, we have some questions for you.”

  Crane didn’t think that had come out quite as sympathetically as he’d intended it to. His bloody army speak was getting in the way again. The formalities of speech he’d used for twenty
-two years were proving hard to shake off.

  “Questions? Of me?”

  “Yes,” said Anderson opening his file. “Now, can you tell me where you were on the dates of the murders? And,” he slid over a photograph, “what were you doing in Southampton on the night of the latest murder?”

  Mrs Dennison had gone very pale indeed. In fact so pale that Crane called for a glass of water for her, followed by a restorative cup of tea, with lots of sugar in it. As she gulped the water first, she haltingly began to tell them what she’d been up to.

  “Dear God, woman,” said Anderson. “You’ve been playing private detective.”

  “Yes, I’d come to imagine I was some sort of private eye, you know like on the television.”

  “You do realise you’ve compromised our investigation don’t you?” said Crane, all sympathy for the stupid woman gone.

  “Why? How could I have done that?”

  “Because, if we are to believe your story, any sightings of your Suzuki Jeep we were counting on as evidence in the case we might want to bring against your husband, is now worthless. Both of you were driving around the same cities at the same time but in different cars. The Suzuki Jimny Jeep we’ve been trying to trace is yours, but we’ve no way of knowing from the majority of the footage who is driving the car, you or your husband.”

  “It’s going to be a case of, ‘he said, she said’,” complained Anderson.

  “Exactly,” said Crane. “So thank you, Mrs Dennison,” Crane looked at Anderson who nodded, “that will be all for now.”

  “So I can go now? Go home?”

  “Yes,” Anderson stood and collected his paperwork.

  “How?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve no car here. Can someone take me?”