‘I take it you’ve something for me then?’ Crane said after lighting up and indicating the file.
‘Yes, the file’s a bit thin, I’m afraid. There are quite a few lads who have just come back from Germany as the RLC have just redeployed. But only a handful of soldiers brought cars back with them and they were mostly officers.’
‘Ah,’ said Crane.
‘Ah, indeed,’ said Jones.
Dealing with officers was not Crane’s favourite occupation. Being an investigator in the Special Investigations Branch of the Military Police meant that Crane could cut across the chain of command. He could interview who he wanted, when he wanted and where he wanted. He could walk into the Officers’ Mess if on investigation, if he wanted to. For the rank system meant nothing to the SIB. Most soldiers hated the Military Police and it seemed to follow that most officers hated the SIB. But Crane’s motto was that it didn’t matter what rank a man was, if he was guilty of a crime, then that was all that mattered.
Crane took the file and flipped it open. ‘Any of these blokes known to you?’ he asked Jones.
‘No. They’re all as clean as a whistle. Not even a couple of days in the guard house for fighting.’
The military police could detain soldiers for a few nights’ detention for minor offences around the camp, or in town. There used to be a large military prison on Aldershot Garrison, built in the 1870’s and modelled on Victorian civil prisons, such as Wormwood Scrubs. It was called ‘The Glasshouse’ due to its large glass lantern roof and was in use up until 1946 when it was destroyed by fire, during a riot. The term ‘Glasshouse’ came to mean any prison on any garrison, but the term had its origins in Aldershot, although it had faded from use. The only surviving military prison for the British Army was at Colchester.
‘Alright,’ said Crane. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll have to look through the info and see if any of their cars are a likely fit, although a dark mid-sized car isn’t much to go on.’
Jones laughed. ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’
‘Mmm,’ said Crane putting out his cigarette. ‘Why?’
‘Because most of the cars brought back were brightly coloured Japanese sports cars.’
‘You’re kidding me?’
‘Nope. Latest craze apparently, as they’re much cheaper in Germany because of the exchange rate.’
‘Bugger.’ Crane thought for a moment, his hand itching to go to his packet of cigarettes and light up another one. But he resisted the temptation, trying as he was to cut down on his consumption. ‘You said most?’
‘Yes, but you’re not going to like it.’
‘Come on, Jones, spit it out.’
‘In that case, the only likely suspect is the Colonel.’
‘I beg your pardon? Did you just say the Colonel?’
‘Yup. Brought back the wife’s black Mercedes A7. You know the small hatchback type. Anyway it’s already been re-plated with a UK number. The details are all in there. But that can’t possibly be the one you’re looking for, surely?’
Crane looked at Jones. Then down at the file. Then back to Jones and promptly walked away, heading for his car, leaving Jones to stare after him.
As Crane sat in his Ford Focus, he opened the file, checked an address, lit a cigarette, thought for a few moments and then came to a decision. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend that Colonel Marshall had anything to do with the death of a prostitute. But Crane wouldn’t be much of an investigator if he didn’t follow up a lead. Not wanting to make a fool of himself, yet torn by the need to see the A7, Crane thought he’d do a drive past.
Starting the car, he drove off towards North Camp at the top of the Garrison, until he came to the Colonel’s house. It was a throwback to an era when Aldershot was a larger Garrison, worthy of the title, ‘The Home of the British Army’. It was a red bricked Victorian pile, the type of house his wife Tina loved. Crane preferred new himself and was quite happy with the modern three bed detached house they were quartered in whilst their own Victorian era semi was rented out. Tina had fought to stay in their own house, off the Garrison, but the birth of their first child Daniel, meant they just couldn’t afford to live there whilst Tina wasn’t working. So simple economics had made them rent out their own house and move to an army quarter. It suited Crane as he was closer to work and could be at the scene of an incident within minutes, but juxtaposed with that was the feeling that he never seemed to get away from work or the army. But then again he’d signed up for the lifestyle as much as the job, he reasoned to himself many times.
As Crane drove past Colonel Marshall’s house he saw that, unusually for a garrison property, the Colonel’s home was protected by hedgerow and had gates across the drive, with a large garden contained inside them. Turning around at the top of the street, Crane drove back, parked the car, got out and strolled past the open gate. There was only one car parked outside the house. A small, black, Mercedes A7. Crane stopped, taking out his cigarettes and lighter as an excuse to linger by the gate. He looked at the car for a few moments. The bodywork was unmarked and gleaming, at least from the back. Dropping his lighter, Crane squatted down to retrieve it, looking at the underneath of the car as he did so. The tyres were clean and as new and there didn’t appear to be a trace of mud on them.
Twenty Five
Louise shivered as she finished reading the latest chapter in Matilda’s story. How sad it was that the men, who had taken advantage of her, were the ones who should have been protecting her. First a man of God and then a school teacher, both the type of men regarded by society as being above reproach. But instead of being beacons of light in a young child’s life, Matilda had revealed them as being no better than spiders or scorpions. Poisonous insects she had crushed underfoot and banished from the face of the earth.
As Louise moved about the house, after putting away Matilda’s book, she realised that, of course, her case was similar. Peter was being tempted by the dregs of humanity, she recognised as she stacked the dishwasher, after rinsing the leftovers off the plates. Girls who had no pride and no self-esteem. Who were slaves to their pimps and their drug habit. She moved upstairs to make the bed, thinking of the whores. The worthless females who couldn’t find normal jobs, who were fit for nothing, banished from normal society. She shook out the duvet and pummelled the pillows into submission, taking out her anger over the prostitutes Peter was dallying with on her bedding.
Flinging open the curtains, she let light into the room and sunbeams crisscrossed the carpet like some sort of giant grid for playing noughts and crosses. Opening up the window, she leaned out, breathing in the crisp air, thinking of the girls who were forced to live their lives holed up in squalid rooms during the day, only coming out at night like vampires. She paced the bedroom, her anger building at the vampires of Aldershot. The girls who fed on the sexual impulses and urges of their victims. Taking advantage of the weakness of men.
Determined to help Peter, she realised she had to find his latest floosy. She had to find the girl in the black wig. Her husband needed saving from himself. He needed saving from his latest whore. He was going to be away this week end, just a short two day conference, but it meant he’d be away on Saturday night. That’s when she would have her chance.
Getting ready to go to meet some of the wives for morning coffee, Louise reflected that over the past week she had been slightly happier. Peter had seemed less distant and as a result there had been fewer opportunities for that casual cruelty of his. The forgotten kisses, the forgotten goodbyes, his lack of attention when listening to her conversation. Those little things that stabbed at her, each one tiny in itself, but put them together...
Pushing her mind away from Peter’s flaws as she brushed out her hair, she fancied he was being kinder out of guilt. Guilty because he’d had sex with another prostitute and still hadn’t made love to his wife.
Louise ran down the stairs, checking her reflection in the lovely old mirror hanging on the hall wall. She was glad they’d kep
t it, kept something of the old house which they’d filled with their new. It was a tie to the history of the place, a reminder of past times, a reminder of Matilda her secret friend. She smiled to herself and gave a little wave goodbye to Matilda, then collected her car keys and slammed the door behind her on her way out. As she drove away, pausing at the gates to check the road was clear, she noticed a man on the pavement, smoking a cigarette. She hoped he wouldn’t throw the butt into her garden.
It seemed the officer’s wives weren’t above a bit of gossip. Louise had joined them that morning wanting to talk about a local school that needed help with raising funds and were also in need of two school governors. As it was where most of the army children went, Louise was keen to make her mark on Aldershot Garrison with some positive, easily achieved results. She was happy to take one of the governor places if she could find someone to take the other. But her efforts to turn the conversation to the school were in vain. All the women wanted to talk about was the murder of the local prostitute.
‘Who’d have thought Aldershot would have a red light area,’ said one, who Louise thought was called Juliet.
‘I thought most towns had them,’ replied another. Louise didn’t know this woman, still not having managed to meet everyone yet.
‘Really? It’s not something I’ve come across myself.’ Juliet’s comment caused tittering laughter, making her blush prettily. ‘Still, murder’s pretty awful. It doesn’t matter who was killed.’ Juliet had recovered her composure and was clearly trying to move the conversation away from the dead girl’s occupation.
But the problem now was Louise’s equanimity. She could feel a hot flush rising up, spreading from her chest, up her neck and by now she was convinced her cheeks must be a flaming red.
Juliet noticed her distress. ‘Louise, are you alright?’ she asked.
Everyone stopped talking and looked at her. Louise grabbed her notebook and waved it in front of her face like a fan, trying desperately to cool down, but the scrutiny from the ladies was making it worse.
‘Um, yes,’ Louise rapidly fanned the notebook. ‘Sorry, bit of a hot flush.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ Juliet said. ‘I know just how you feel,’ and so began another topic of conversation, this time about the menopause.
Louise stumbled into the kitchen after mumbling about the need for a glass of water and drank it greedily, holding onto the sink for dear life.
Twenty Six
Lindsay moved around her bed-sitting room over the Unicorn pub in Aldershot. Her room was next to Sally’s, who wasn’t there anymore, of course. The yellow police tape across her friend’s door reminding Lindsay every time she went out, or came in, of Sally’s fate. She sniffed back a few tears at the thought. She really missed her. Missed the laughs, the giggles, telling raucous tales of the punters and keeping each other’s spirits up when the reality of their profession hit them squarely in the face. Like a punter’s fist. Sally had been given a black eye once from some idiot. Every time she saw him again after that she’d told him to fuck off or she’d knee him in the balls. Lindsay smiled at the memory. Sally had certainly had a way with her.
It wasn’t fair. Sally had only been 19. She’d had all her life in front of her. She’d always said that one day she’d find someone nice. Someone who’d take her away from the sordid work they did. Away from the sex, the pawing, the hot breath, the sweaty smells. But Lindsay knew it was just a pipe dream. There were no knights on white horses to charge up and rescue them. Not in Aldershot at any rate, nor anywhere else for that matter.
Lindsay wiped away a tear and sat down on her bed, the old springs creaking in protest. She fancied the landlord deliberately put noisy beds in the rooms, to dissuade the girls from bringing anyone back. Bouncing, squeaking springs brought a cacophony of shouts, bangs and swearing from the other residents. All the rooms had the noisy beds. The landlord had probably bought them as a job lot.
Lindsay put on the clothes she’d laid out on the bed, jeans, sweater, boots, normal, sensible clothes. Dressed like that and without the harsh make up and black wig she wore when working, no one would have any inkling about her night job. She caught sight of herself in the large mirror she had propped up against one wall. There, definitely normal. She brushed her blond hair and then tied it up, pulling on a baseball cap and pushing her hair through the gap at the back.
Turning to grab her bag from the chair, she saw her books and papers laid out on a small table she used as a desk. She hadn’t had a good education when she was growing up, because of being moved around from children’s home to children’s home or foster parents to foster parents. The nomadic life in care meaning she bibbed and bobbed from school to school. Where she was always the new girl, never really fitting in. Because of her lack of qualifications, she’d found it difficult to find a job. She was no good at office work and hated being confined all day in bland offices with bland people. Shops were just as bad in their own way. It was tempting to pilfer bits and pieces. Nothing fancy or expensive, just chocolate, lipstick or soap. But she’d been caught and was ‘let go’ as they’d put it. So she had no choice but to turn to the oldest profession. At least spreading her legs gave her time to study during the day. She was trying to get some qualifications, for she really did want to better herself. She was in a horrible profession, but not stuck in it. Prostitution was just a bus stop on life’s journey. At least she didn’t have a pimp to pay like some of the other girls, or was addicted to drink or drugs.
Reaching out her hand to open her door, she saw her black wig hanging from a hook on the back of it. Lindsay liked to wear a wig when she was working as it changed her into someone else. It was a mask, a disguise, the other side of her personality in a way. It was an act, a way of separating herself from the work she did. Whoring was, for her, just a way to make money.
Slamming the door behind her and locking it, Lindsay made her way out of the pub and onto the street. She was going to meet Diane Chambers from the Aldershot News, to give an interview about her friend Sally. She had to do anything she could to help find Sally’s killer and had been pleased that Diane had seemed eager to interview her, when Louise had telephoned the newspaper. The killer, whoever he was, couldn’t be allowed to get away with it. The police had to catch him. They just had to.
Twenty Seven
At last it was Saturday night. Peter had left early that morning and Louise had hugged her secret to herself as she waved him goodbye. By the time he came home on Sunday, all his problems would be solved. Rather fancying herself as his saviour, Louise turned her attention to the matter in hand. She was plagued by questions. Would the girl be working? What lure could she use to get her away? Would the lesbian angle work again? Occasionally she’d had doubts. Could she do it again? Should she do it again? But those thoughts were erased by conjuring up a picture of Peter in her mind. His proud military bearing couldn’t be tarnished by these girls. He couldn’t lose the one thing he loved. The army. And so once again her resolve hardened.
Louise had been unable to eat all day, because of the tension and as a result by mid-evening she was becoming giddy and lightheaded. Deciding she needed to eat, even though the thought filled her with repulsion and her stomach rolled in protest, she fancied she could eat some chicken. And so a plan was formulated. Firstly she would go and get something to eat, and then see if she could find the girl in the black wig.
Louise ran upstairs to get ready. She dressed in the dark clothing that she had selected earlier, made sure she had a new pair of leather gloves with her and then went to get her beautiful shard of glass. She ran down to the basement and kneeling on the dusty floor, opened the flaps of the cardboard box which contained the broken pieces of the mirror from her bedroom. Pulling on her gloves, she inspected the shards; selecting one that she was satisfied had a point which was sharp enough and was long and thin enough. The glass reflected parts of the basement as she examined it, giving her glimpses of the chest and the white silk scarf within. Louise’s
heart was filled with a sudden surge of emotion, making her blink back tears. It was Matilda’s presence, of course. Her one and only friend hadn’t abandoned her in her hour of need. Louise felt herself being filled with the spirit of Matilda. Her friend gave her courage, hope and resolve. Wrapping the glass carefully in a towel she silently thanked Matilda for being her inspiration, for showing her how she could save her marriage. As she left the basement, she knew Matilda would be with her every step of the way.
The local Kentucky Fried Chicken was in the High Street, which was pedestrian only, so Louise manoeuvred her A7 around the back streets, eventually pulling up next to the loading bays behind the take-away. As she parked and turned off the car engine, she glanced up. From where she was parked, she could see the side of the fast food outlet. A girl pushed her way out of the door. High heels, short skirt, breasts on display and, could it be possible, black, sharply cut, bobbed hair. The girl walked towards Louise, stuffing chips into her mouth as she moved away from the bright lights of the High Street and into the shadows of the alley. Louise was surprised, yet grateful. She supposed that even whores needed to eat. This would save her a great deal of anxiety, not to mention time.
Louise climbed out of the car, crossed the road and walked up the alley towards the prostitute, her footsteps echoing around the passage, like a harbinger of doom. But the whore was oblivious to the footsteps and to Louise. She was focused on her meal, her head bent towards the cardboard box in her hand. There was no one else around just Louise and the whore. This was an unbelievable co-incidence. It was now or never. Louise had to grab the opportunity that had presented itself. Taking a shuddering breath, she felt the power of the shard of glass in her hand and stepped forward to stand in the girl’s path.
Looking at her watch, Louise tapped it. A puzzled look crossed her face and she said to the girl, ‘Have you got the right time, please? My watch seems to have stopped.’
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 8
