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

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Okay, okay so I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  Crane was relieved Derek had taken over the interview as he doubted he could have spoken another word to the disgusting, depraved man sat in front of him.

  “Killed them. The three of them.” Acreman boasted.

  “What are their names?”

  “I don’t know,” he snorted. “I only knew their user names.”

  Crane knew that was an outright lie, as the newspapers and television had named each victim.

  “In that case, please identify them from theses photographs.” Anderson opened a file and removed three photographs. “Here’s the first, Sally Smith.”

  “Yeah, she was the first. Bloody exciting that was.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “We arranged through S-Dates to meet at her flat. Her flatmate, Donna, was away so we had the place to ourselves. A lovely looking girl she was.”

  “Where was the flat?”

  “Somewhere in Aldershot. I can’t remember the address.”

  Crane’s fists clenched at the audacity of the man. He might as well be saying ‘no comment’. If he was trying to rile them, the tactic was definitely working on Crane.

  “And that’s where you recently returned to.”

  “Oh, right, poor Donna got her face bashed in didn’t she? All her own fault, of course. She shouldn’t have called that boyfriend of hers.”

  Anderson closed his eyes. Crane decided to give his friend a break and said, “Okay, what about the second?”

  “The second? Let me see. Oh, yes, that was a bloke wasn’t it? He was good looking as well, but then most of the gay men are. We met in Portsmouth. He had a place over a row of shops if I remember correctly.”

  “And the third?”

  “The girl from Southampton. She wasn’t as good as the others.”

  “Do you own a car?” Anderson asked.

  “No, I went by train to all three. I’ve got my train stubs. I wanted to make a collection. A little shrine you might say, to them. They gave their lives so I could have the most orgasmic sex. It was only fitting that I revered them. I still think about them now. Relive the experiences….

  Crane cut him short, unable to listen to any more of this revolting rambling. “I’m sure what you’re telling us is the truth. We’re going through your room now, so if the evidence that you say is there, we’ll find it. You can count on that. There’ll be CCTV coverage at the train stations as well. How did you get to the victims’ homes from the railway stations?”

  “I took taxis there, then ran most of the way back and caught the earliest train there was the next morning, back to Reading.”

  “We can corroborate that as well with the taxi companies. Well, I think that’s about it.” Crane looked to Anderson for his agreement.

  “Thank you for your co-operation,” Derek said and started to rise.

  “What about the video?”

  “An officer will come now and take your statement. We’ll meet again after that.”

  “Make sure you do,” Acreman said. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here. See you with your laptop!” he shouted as they closed the door on him.

  “I think that was the worst suspect interview I’ve ever done,” said Anderson.

  “But it looks like it will work. He’s started talking already.”

  Crane turned to look through the one way mirror at their suspect. Anderson was right, Acreman couldn’t wait to get his confession out and Ciaran was struggling to keep up with the words spilling from him, needing to try to keep the statement in some sort of coherent, logical order, for transcribing from the tape once they’d finished. Acreman’s tongue kept wetting his lips. Crane was disgusted by the man’s eagerness to boast about his activities.

  Of course Acreman would never see the video. Once they had his statement, he’d be shunted back down to the cells and then after a brief appearance in Aldershot Magistrates Court, be sent off to prison to await his trial. They weren’t sure who would represent him. As the three of them had left the interview room, the duty solicitor had promptly resigned. The poor girl looked traumatised and had said it didn’t matter if she lost her job for her refusal. Anything was better than representing that creep.

  “I’ll send someone in with a mug of tea, just to sweeten the deal,” said Anderson as they left the interview suite ready to go back upstairs to their office.

  “Ha ha. Sorry but I seem to have left my sense of humour at home.”

  “Talking of home, how’s Tina?”

  “Bloody hell, she’s become the Sargeant Major I used to be!”

  “Really?” grinned Anderson.

  “Really. Her and Major Martin have me very definitely under their thumbs. Talk about regimented. She watches me like a hawk to make sure I’m taking the tablets they dole out for me, and practically goes through my pockets every morning to make sure I’ve not slipped any extra tablets into my trousers or jacket.”

  Derek laughed at the image.

  “You might laugh, but it’s not funny to me, you know.”

  “But you’re feeling better?”

  Crane had to grudgingly admit he was. “The pain is under control now. I just get some increased discomfort when the tablets are running out. About an hour before the next dose is due I’d say. The Major has changed the Tramadol to slow release, so they give a constant supply of pain killer, rather than a boost every 8 hours. It seems to have done the trick.

  “And physiotherapy?”

  Crane groaned. “I start again next week, now this case is just about sewn up. Three times a week, towards the end of the working day, so it shouldn’t impact my job here too much.”

  By now they’d arrived outside the building, so Crane could have a cigarette.

  “Where’s your electronic one?” Anderson asked.

  “That’s another thing I need to get a handle on. Jesus, the list is bloody endless. Anyway, that’s enough of my moaning, what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Derek. You’ve taken this case really hard, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel any better now we’ve got him?”

  “Vaguely. I will when we have his signature on the bottom of a statement.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we need an analysis of what went wrong with this case. How the hell we missed him at the three railway stations. Why we never canvassed taxi companies. How forensics missed that bloody nanny cam. Why did we have to rely on a stroke of luck to catch him? ”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “I know, but that’s all you’re getting for now.

  “Peter Sutcliffe was caught by a stroke of luck, when he was pulled over for a traffic misdemeanour. It doesn’t mean our investigation was flawed. We would have got there eventually, you know.”

  “You’re not helping, Crane. I’d be obliged if you’d keep your opinions to yourself.”

  Crane stayed outside and watched his friend and colleague walk back into the station. His shoulders were still hunched, but Crane was sure he detected a little more spring in Anderson’s step. At least he hoped so. He didn’t think he could continue working without Derek at the helm of their little ship and he wondered how long it would take his friend to make the decision as to whether to continue in the job or not. He knew all about it, thanks to Tina talking to Derek’s wife. But that was their little secret. In the meantime he’d just have to give Derek the space he needed to come to a decision.

  He guessed the future would become clear, in time, not just for him and Derek, but for all of them. Donna was moving in with Ciaran and their relationship seemed to have been strengthened by Donna’s experiences, rather than broken by it. And Holly? Well she had promised she’d spend the next case firmly anchored to her computers. Crane could only hope she’d get the chance to be as good as her word.

  The End

  By Wendy Cartmell

  All my books
are in Amazon Kindle Unlimited

  Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers:

  Steps to Heaven

  40 Days 40 Nights

  Honour Bound

  Cordon of Lies

  Hijack

  Regenerate

  Glass Cutter

  Solid Proof

  A Soldier’s Honour (Omnibus Edition Books 1-3)

  Emma Harrison Mysteries:

  Past Judgement

  Mortal Judgement

  Joint Judgement

  http://author.to/WendyCartmell

  Please join my mailing list and get the first book in the original, gritty and unnerving Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers, absolutely free!

  http://eepurl.com/bRh-w5

  From Wendy

  I do hope you’ve enjoyed Basic Element. If so, perhaps you would be kind enough to post a review on Amazon. Reviews really do make all the difference to authors and it is great to get feedback from you, the reader. Just one or two sentences would be fine.

  http://getbook.at/BasicElement

  If you haven’t read one of my novels before, you may be interested in the Sgt Major Crane books, following Tom Crane and DI Anderson as they take on the worst crimes committed in and around Aldershot Garrison. At the time of writing there are eight Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers.

  Past Judgment, Mortal Judgment and Joint Judgement are a new series. It is a spin-off from the Sgt Major Crane novels and features Emma Harrison from Hijack and Sgt Billy Williams of the Special Investigations Branch of the Royal Military Police. Look out for more adventures from Billy and Emma in the Judgment series in the near future.

  All my books are available on Amazon:

  http://author.to/WendyCartmell

  You can keep in touch through my website.

  http://www.wendycartmell.webs.com

  I’m also on Twitter @wendycartmell

  and can be contacted directly by email:

  w_cartmell@hotmail.com

  Happy reading until the next time...

  Oh, and if you haven’t read the first in the Crane and Anderson series, Rules of the Earth, here’s a sample.

  Rules of the Earth

  Prologue

  Six months earlier….

  It was stifling inside the black hood and he was sure the pointed top was wilting in the heat; just as he was. The smell of the blood in the chalice was making him feel sick and, if he was honest, the last thing he wanted to do was to drink it. But the humiliation of not joining in the ceremony was probably worse than taking a drink. Just.

  He and his fellow supplicants formed a semi-circle around an altar, upon which lay a young child: she was very much alive but drugged to keep her quiet while the bloodletting took place. Her long blond hair was in dramatic contrast to the plain black shift that she wore. Her face was white, lips flesh coloured and only the faintest rising and falling of her chest indicated that she was breathing. On the back of one hand was a needle that fitted snugly into her vein. Attached to the needle was a small plastic tube that allowed her precious blood to drip out into the chalice. She could have been asleep, instead of unconscious. Around her were placed seven candles, six black and one white, their flames guttering and smoking in the hot fetid air.

  Normally children were banned from attending these rituals, the only exception being the Satanic baptism, which was specifically designed to involve infants, and such a baptism was taking place in the basement of a remote house in the dead of night. It was a ceremony deemed to be necessary to override any Christian or other religious ceremonies that the child may have been subjected to before joining the Satanic Church. He wasn’t so sure it was necessary himself, but then all the churches had their rules, didn’t they? He guessed it was no different to a Catholic first communion or a Jewish Bar Mitzvah and so he’d decided he may as well play along. Let’s face it he had nothing better to do that night. And as he was moving soon, he’d thought he’d better make the most of the last meeting he would be attending.

  As the chalice was passed to him he muttered the rite: Cursed are the lambs of God for they shall be bled whiter than snow.

  Taking the tiniest of sips but still gagging on the foul taste of the blood, he just about managed to swallow it instead of coughing it out and spraying it all over the child. Thankful that he’d managed to get through it, he passed the cup to the next in line. To be fair, the group had tried to adhere as closely to the ritual as they could, using the rules described in the Satanic rituals, or dramatic performances as they were sometimes called. They followed the suggestions of the clothing to be worn, the music to be used and actions to be taken. It was said that the pageantry and theatricality was intended to engage the participant’s senses on all levels. He could relate to that, for apart from the blood, the rest of it was definitely working for him.

  All the males wore black robes and hoods but the young women were encouraged to make themselves attractive to the males present. As a result, he was surrounded by a surfeit of black leather and rubber, long shiny thigh length boots and even the odd whip or two. Everyone wore the sign of sulphur around their necks. The intent of the women to stimulate sexual feelings amongst the men was exciting and he couldn’t wait for the bloody ceremony to be over, so they could get on with the really interesting part, the part that started once the ceremony ended.

  The Church of Satan smashed all concepts of what a ‘church’ was supposed to be. It was a temple of indulgence, where one could openly defy the temples of abstinence that had previously been built. Rather than an unforgiving, unwelcoming place, as so many of the church’s built by religions that worshiped God were, theirs was a place where you could go to have fun. It was a religion based on self-indulgence, of carnality (of the here and now instead of the there and then), and, most importantly to him, of pleasure instead of self-denial

  At last the final person drunk from the chalice, the welcome sound of the bell ringing nine times rang around the room, signalling the end of the ceremony. The formal part over, it was time for the only reason he was there. It was time for the fun to start….

  1

  Today…

  “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are,” Bethany sang in her head. She would have sung out loud, but her throat was raw and sore from crying. Oh and screaming. There had been a lot of screaming. She remembered that at least. The rest of it she just wanted to blank out and singing that song helped her do just that.

  Shivering, whether from cold or fear she wasn’t quite sure, she pulled the thin blanket over her shoulders and tried to tuck it around her body, so no cold air could get in. She wriggled down into her cocoon and imagined she was a butterfly, ready to burst from the confines of her sheath that kept her safe from predators, until she was ready, formed and changed into a beautiful creature. The land-bound caterpillar shrivelled, lying decaying on the forest floor.

  Would she be safe, lying on a filthy mattress, covered by a smelly blanket? She knew she wouldn’t. But no one had been to see her in a while. She felt she was safe for now. But then, in horror, she wondered if they’d forgotten about her? Moved on to another young girl? That thought was worse. If that were the case, she’d never get out of there. She’d stay in the filthy cell until she died from starvation, or dehydration, or whatever it was that you died from.

  She’d been snatched from the park. Or at least that was the last place she remembered being in. Vague memories of ice cream, that tinkling music and chocolate sauce. She thought she’d fallen asleep after eating the ice cream and woken up here. Wherever here was.

  She’d no idea how long ago that had been. She’d wanted to scratch the days on the wall, like she’d seen in the films. But she had nothing to scratch with and anyway the light never went off. The dirty bulb high in the ceiling provided a weak yellow light all the time, so she soon became disoriented, having no way to discern day from night, or night from day. She was fed at irregular intervals, a plate with a shop bought sandwich, a piece of fruit and a bottle
of water. She’d thought she could count every time she was fed, thinking that would help tell her how long she’d been there. She was constantly hungry, so thought they only fed her once a day and so it should have been easy to count the meals. But as her strength waned, she became confused and after five, or was it six meals, she couldn’t remember what the last number had been.

  She closed her eyes, determined to try and get some sleep, pulling the blanket over her head to shut out some of the light, when she heard footsteps. She thought they sounded like her dad’s boots. Her eyes flew open and she held her breath and listened. Hard. But there was no other sound. It seemed it wasn’t time for another visit, or for another meal. She was safe for now. But her limbs wouldn’t obey her mind. They began to shake again and she wondered if she was becoming addicted to whatever it was they gave her to keep her sleepy. Not so much willing and able, but oblivious. She fancied it was something they put in the water, but not in every bottle. Sometimes she felt fine after drinking it. At other times she would rapidly fall asleep and upon awakening had no recollection of what, if anything, had taken place. Just that the backs of her hands were sore and bruised. She felt like one of her Barbie dolls, to be played with for a while and then thrown back into the toy box. Discarded. Until the next time.

  Tears tracked small rivulets through the dirt on her face, their salty taste coating her lips. Angrily she dashed them away and sniffed back the others threatening to fall from her eyes. She wouldn’t break. She wouldn’t give in. She wouldn’t stop hoping. Hoping that one day this would be over and she’d be back home in Birmingham with her family.

  The shuffling had started again. She was sure it was boots. It couldn’t be mice or rats; they would scratch along the floor with their claws. Someone was making their way towards her cell in this cold basement that was her home now. She fancied it was a basement at any rate. The dirt floor, the wooden steps that she could see from the small square opening in the door of her prison climbing up the far wall. The damp, fetid air, the lack of windows, yes, she was sure it was a basement.