Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7)

by Wendy Cartmell

  I walked upstairs, to get this book, to write this entry. As I retrieved the book from its hiding place in my bedroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the dressing table and couldn’t stand what I saw reflected in it. So I picked up a shoe and smashed it to pieces. With each crack of the mirror my anger built: anger at my parents for abandoning me and anger at each man who had defiled me. I imagined hitting each one of them as I pounded the mirror with my shoe. Each satisfying ‘crack’ brought some small semblance of righteous feeling for my cause, as my actions vilified each one of them. No longer could they hurt me. It was time for me to hurt them.

  My anger spent, I let the shoe fall to the floor and sank down on the end of the bed. The vile, distorted face I could now see in the mirror was somehow reflective of my inner self. My visage looked broken, bruised and horrific. My hair was wild and damp. My eyes were burning. My clothes disarrayed. I realised I was carrying that anger around with me each day, pent up inside of me. It was time to let it loose. Vengeance would be mine.

  Louise considered the short entry. Matilda was searching for those whom she felt should pay for the person she had become, those who had made her the way she was and Louise thought that it was an interesting concept. Events in Matilda’s life had left her angry, bitter, resentful and vengeful. Which were just the same feeling that Louise had. But who should pay for the way Louise was feeling? Who was responsible for luring her husband away from her? Who was her husband turning to, instead of his wife? The answer popped into her head at once. It was startlingly clear. So obvious that she wondered why she had not realised it before, for a blind man could have seen it. It was obviously his prostitute.

  Louise remembered the girl who had leaned into her husband’s car. She’d never be able to get that image out of her head. She saw it every time she looked at Peter. The girl’s breasts dangling through the open window into the Lexus, so that they were nearly touching his face. Her arse stuck out with a skirt so short it didn’t cover her pants. Blond hair caught up in a twist. Red painted lips that promised so much. Louise wondered if they were true to that promise and that Peter been satisfied by her.

  Louise walked to the cellar, to return the book to its hiding place. Peter hadn’t mentioned the mirror he’d broken last night and neither had she. It was still there, in the bedroom, hanging on the wall, useless and broken. She must clear it up. After collecting an empty cardboard box and grabbing a pair of gardening gloves, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom, each tread on the stairs taking her closer to Peter’s words and actions. Taking her back to last night. She paused at the bedroom door, tears filling her eyes. She brushed them away impatiently. She really must stop being so emotional and become as controlled and contained as her husband. With a deep breath, she turned the handle, opened the door and walked over to the broken mirror. She carefully teased the shards of glass out of the frame, putting them in the box. All the while, running through her head, were the words Peter used to describe her; dried, shrivelled up, barren.

  Once the frame was empty of glass, she took it outside and leant it up against the bin. Returning to the house, she collected the cardboard box from the bedroom, intending to take that to the bin as well. But before taking it outside, she opened the box and looked at the shards of glass inside. She thought about Matilda. She thought about Peter. She thought about the prostitute. Then she thought that it was just possible she could find a use for the glass. So she closed the lid and decided to store it in the cellar, next to where the book was hidden.

  Fifteen

  Peter was getting ready to go away on a three day exercise. All his perfectly ironed clothes were rolled up and stowed away in his kit bag, which was lying on the bed.

  ‘Got everything?’ she asked him from the doorway, where she’d been watching him, unobserved.

  ‘I think so,’ he paused for a moment, thinking. ‘Bugger, my shaving kit, it’s in my wash bag, can you get it?’

  Louise nodded and went into the bathroom, retrieving the bag he kept in the cupboard under the sink. He only ever used it when he was away, preferring an electric shave whilst he was at home. If he did shave on exercise, it was usually a dry shave with a blade, several of which were in the small bag. It also contained a flannel, soap, toothbrush and toothpaste.

  ‘Here,’ she said handing it to him on her return.

  He placed it on top of the rest of his gear, drew the bag closed and took it with him down the stairs. She followed him like a puppy who knew something was going on, but wasn’t sure what and was staying close to her master for reassurance.

  Peter placed the bag on the floor by the door and turned to her, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. She breathed in the smell of him. The musky odour of the man she loved who rejected her day after day.

  ‘Sorry, about, well, you know,’ he said referring to his behaviour the other day: his hateful words, the broken mirror, her broken spirit. It was the first time he’d mentioned it since the incident. He tucked his hand under her chin and tilted her head so she had no option but to look at him. ‘It’s just this promotion,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit stressed, that’s all. You do understand don’t you?’

  Louise didn’t, but nodded her agreement when he let go of her chin.

  ‘I’m doing this for both of us, you know. Climbing the old ladder of promotion,’ he said, attempting a smile, but it had very little warmth in it.

  She still didn’t believe him, but managed a small smile in return.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t want you upset while I’m away,’ and with a final kiss on her lips, he hoisted his bag and was gone.

  She stood in the hall, looking at the closed door. At least he’d apologised, she supposed. But she didn’t really believe he’d meant it. His words seemed glib, empty of the emotion they were meant to express. She knew the reasons behind his words and knew that they were more for him than her. Peter needed reconciliation so she’d not go anywhere whilst he was away. So he didn’t have to worry and could give his full attention to the exercise, which probably consisted of a lot of soldiers getting lost in the middle of nowhere for hours on end. He needed to ensure she’d continue being the Colonel’s wife, acting as surrogate mother to the wives of the men who were with him. He needed to be confident that she would continue to do her duty in his absence.

  She knew Peter needed her by his side. He might not want her body at the moment, but she was certainly necessary as his wife, for he’d so wanted the promotion and she was part of the reason he’d got it. But he needn’t worry. She wouldn’t leave him, for she had nowhere else to go.

  She wandered into the kitchen to make a cup of tea that she didn’t really want. It was more for something to do than anything else. As she waited for the kettle to boil she took stock. She had to admit she’d no employable skills. They’d married at an early age, so she’d never worked. Her stuffy old fashioned parents had said that she wouldn’t need to work once she had a husband, but in the meantime they supposed she could go to a secretarial college. She often felt her parents were a throwback to a different era. The swinging sixties seemed to have passed them by and instead of moving with the times they were still stuck in the 1950’s. But in the end Peter had proposed a few weeks before she was due to start her course. So her parents cancelled her place without telling her. When they eventually confessed, the day before she was due to start, she had felt trapped, but utterly helpless. All she could do was to watch the machine that was Peter, her parents and his parents, as it marched steadily forward and the plans for their wedding began to take shape.

  The click of the kettle turning itself off made her jump and she poured the hot water onto a tea bag and went to the fridge. That reminded her that she had no money of her own. Well not enough to be of any use. Peter was in charge of that sort of stuff, giving her a monthly allowance for food, petrol and clothes. She had no one she could to go to either, should she decide to leave him. Her parents were dead and she had no siblings. So she really was
trapped. The thought made her shoulders slump, as though burdened by the great weight of her marriage.

  Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, on her parent’s part at least, she supposed. And she’d gone along with it as though pulled by an invisible string. She seemed too weak to fight against them. She couldn’t really blame them, for in the end she supposed she had been complicit. She had walked up the aisle after all and met him at the altar. The saying, marry in haste repent at leisure, made her smile wryly. For now she had no choice but to make the best of it.

  And so as she sipped her tea standing by the sink, looking out of the window at the garden, she wondered what to do for the best. How could she make Peter love her again? But what she was really asking herself she realised, was what lengths would she go to, to save her marriage?

  Sixteen

  As night fell, Louise was ready. She had made her decision, planned carefully and gathered what she needed. All that was left was the execution. She smiled at the double meaning of the word execution. What a mouth-watering, delectable word. She pulled on her black leather gloves and as she backed the small Mercedes out of the garage and drove away, she focused on what mattered. Peter. Peter was all that mattered. She had to save him from those girls, from the false attraction they offered. For what young girl in her right mind would want to sleep with a soldier in his late 40s? Alright so Peter was handsome in that uptight, upper class way of his. But his dark hair was cut in a soldier’s style, short with a parting at the side and brushed back off his face. He didn’t wear civilian clothes well. He looked out of place in them. He’d worn a uniform for so long that it was like a second skin. When that skin was sloughed off, what was underneath was gawky and self-conscious. But in a uniform he was in command, in charge and confident. A different man altogether.

  Louise saw the industrial estate looming out at her from the darkness and the line of girls waiting to fleece the men who came along, charging twenty quid for a quickie, or at least as quick as they could make it happen. She was sure none of them wanted to linger with a customer for long. While you were chatting, they were losing money. So no street girl would want to waste time.

  She wondered if Peter realised that and just wanted the physical release. She had never thought him a stupid man. But then again, maybe he was. If anyone found out his little secret, he would be belittled in the eyes of his men and frowned upon by those higher up the chain of command and he wouldn’t want that. So it was up to Louise to save him from himself.

  As she slowly drove along the line, she couldn’t see the girl she was looking for at first. There were some blonds there, but with short hair, not long blond hair tied back. Most of them had red lips and breasts on display and Louise began to wonder if the girl she was seeking was working that night. Or maybe she was already with a customer. And then she saw her, right near the end of the line. Louise exhaled loudly with relief and pulled up next to her.

  The girl leaned into the car window, just as she had done a few nights ago at Peter’s car, when she had leaned in and tempted him. The prostitute must have been shocked to find a woman in the car, for a small, ‘Oh!’ escaped her lips.

  ‘You don’t mind women, do you?’ Louise asked. ‘I’m prepared to pay the going rate.’

  The working girl shrugged. ‘Suppose not,’ she said.

  ‘Hop in then,’ Louise leaned over and opened the car door for her.

  As soon as the girl was in Louise drove away, immediately heading for open country. ‘Let’s drive out of town. It’s a lovely night. How about Badshot Lea? It’ll be quiet there. I’ve got a rug in the back.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the girl shrugged and put her hand on Louise’s leg. Trying not to flinch from the touch, Louise offered a fake smile and pushed hard on the accelerator. They soon reached their destination, a small wooded area with public access that Louise had picked out. Parking the car by the side of a track, Louise sprang out and grabbed the rug from the boot and struck out, climbing over the style. ‘Come on,’ she called. ‘Just in here.’

  By the time the girl arrived at Louise’s chosen spot, the rug was already laid out and Louise was sitting on it. She lay down and patted the space next to her.

  ‘Look at those stars,’ Louise said. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’

  ‘Suppose,’ the girl replied lying on her back beside Louise and looking up at the night sky. ‘It’s extra for women you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Louise, turning on her side and leaning over the girl. ‘I’ve plenty of money.’

  Louise didn’t give herself any time to think, or speak, for actions spoke louder than any words could. The prostitute opened her mouth, but anything she had been about to say died on her lips, as Louise plunged the shard of glass she had brought with her from the broken mirror at home, straight through the girl’s right eye.

  ‘That’ll teach you to sleep with my husband,’ Louise whispered in the girl’s ear. She wasn’t sure if her victim could hear her anymore. But it was of no matter. The deed was done and Peter was free of her. The eye the prostitute had left, gazed sightlessly at the night sky as the stars continued to look down on the two women, unchanged and untroubled by what Louise had just done.

  Not wanting to leave any potential evidence behind, Louise grabbed the rug, lifting one end so the girl rocked off it and came to rest on the grass on her back. The girl’s shoe had fallen off as she’d rolled, so Louise picked it up and put it back on the limp foot. Bundling the fleecy wool rug in her arms, she returned to the car, without so much as a backward glance. As she started the engine, she realised there was blood on her driving gloves. Peeling them off she decided she would discard them with the rug. She wasn’t worried as both items were replaceable. It was her husband that wasn’t.

  Seventeen

  The military detective, Sgt Major Crane, picked his way across the muddy field. The early morning mist was dissipating but was leaving behind dew which was stubbornly clinging onto his short curly black hair. He ran his hand over it and rubbed away the dampness, then wiped his palms on his black raincoat to dry them. As he walked, Crane cursed the field, the weather and DI Anderson of the local Aldershot Police, who had seen fit to get him out of his warm bed at some unearthly hour in the morning and into a field that looked like it had been used for an army exercise. Police cars, an ambulance and forensic vans were parked here there and everywhere, forcing Crane onto the damp grass to get away from the mud churned up by the car tyres. He wondered for the third time why he hadn’t put on his wellingtons when he’d parked his car on the roadside. Oh great, he’d just trodden in a patch of mud that looked suspiciously like a cow pat, which he fervently hoped it wasn’t.

  His inspection of the muddy mess around his feet and clinging to his shoes was interrupted by Anderson calling, ‘Crane, over here! What’s keeping you?’

  ‘Coming, Derek,’ Crane called and as he drew near to the policeman he said, ‘Please tell me there’s a good reason for me being here at this ungodly hour.’

  ‘Good morning to you too, Crane,’ Anderson replied. ‘Got a nasty one here,’ and inclined his head in the direction of a white plastic tent that had been erected just a few feet away from them.

  ‘Is nasty the reason you called? Just to share? I know we’re friends, but this is above and beyond.’

  ‘Shut up, Crane and listen. Here, coffee might help your mood,’ and Anderson grabbed a paper cup of coffee from a passing uniformed constable and handed it to Crane. ‘Don’t know what you’re moaning about, I’ve been here most of the night, so you’ve had more sleep than me. Right,’ Anderson turned towards the tent. ‘Young woman, killed sometime last night. Found by some kids messing around in what’s known locally as ‘lover’s lane’. They were hoping to wind-up some couples looking for a bit of peace and quiet, if you get my meaning and they ended up getting a bit more than they bargained for.’

  ‘You mean people voluntarily come all the way out here to this God forsaken spot? It’s not exactly scenic.’
Crane looked around at the landscape, which comprised mostly of bare spindly trees and muddy farmer’s fields.

  Anderson ignored Crane’s comment and continued, ‘One of the cars that responded to the call work the local red light area and the two policemen recognised her as a working girl.’ Anderson lifted the flap on the white tent. ‘You can go in,’ he told Crane. ‘Forensics have finished and we’re just about to move her. I thought you might like a look before we do. I know you prefer to experience a crime scene yourself, rather than just look at photos.’

  Crane handed Anderson his coffee and once inside the tent he stood over the body. The girl was lying on her back, arms outstretched. One side of her face was un-marked with make-up still on. Red lips, dark eyes, pink cheeks, all garish and badly applied. But it was the other side of her face that was the more interesting. For sticking out of her eye socket was a long, thin, shard of glass. Blood had seeped from the wound, trickled down the side of her face and tracked into her hair. Not the most pleasant thing to witness especially before breakfast. Crane squatted down by the girl’s head and looked closely at the glass. After a few minutes of thinking and prowling around the lifeless form, looking at her from all angles, he walked out of the tent to join Anderson. Retrieving his coffee, he took a gulp and then said, ‘What does the Major say?’

  ‘Major Martin found approximate time of death to be about 10pm. Give or take an hour or so either side.’

  ‘What about the glass? Looking at it, one side was glass, but the other had a backing of some sort.’

  ‘Yes, we think it’s from a mirror.’