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

by Wendy Cartmell

  The whore looked up from her meal and Louise saw her face and hair close up and was convinced she had found the right one. This was the prostitute that had ensnared her husband.

  ‘What?’ the girl mumbled through a mouth full of chips.

  Dear God, thought Louise, the girl can’t even reply to a civil question.

  ‘What’s the time, please?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ and the girl returned to her meal, picking up a piece of chicken.

  Without any warning, Louise turned slightly and slammed her body into the whore, who fell backwards in shock and hit the floor with a thump. The chicken flew out of her hand and her chips were scattered across the tarmac.

  Without thinking Louise sat on the girl’s chest, punching the air out of her lungs. She grabbed her face, jerked it to the side and ground her cheek into the pavement.

  ‘This will teach you to fuck my husband,’ she hissed into the whore’s unprotected ear, before plunging her shard of glass deep inside it.

  As the light went out of the girl’s eyes, to be replaced by a death stare, Louise sighed in satisfaction. Then in one smooth movement, Louise pushed herself of the girl’s now lifeless body, brushed dirt and chips off her coat and returned to the A7. The incident had happened so quickly that only a couple of minutes had passed. Louise started the car and drove away, all thoughts of buying some chicken forgotten.

  Twenty Eight

  When Crane arrived on the scene of the murder of a second girl, the police forensic team were shooing away the cats that were trying to get to the fast food littered around the body. The lure of chicken was strong though and Crane watched as the cats slunk off and hid in the shadows of the alley, loath to abandon the unexpected meal. The occasional glint of green eyes could still be seen, watching Crane as he walked up the passageway.

  While the tent was put in place over the girl’s body, Crane and Anderson climbed into protective gear, wanting a quick look before the team began their painstaking and time consuming work. As soon as it was ready, Anderson walked over to the tent, pulled back the flap, calling for Crane to join him.

  They walked silently into the tent that was lit by large outdoor lights hung from the framework. They police had managed to get a power source from KFC and cables snaked down the alley from the shop and into the tent. It saved a lot of noise from a generator and Crane and Anderson could hear each other for once. Well they could have done, if they were speaking. For all either of them could seem to do was to stare at the girl on the floor. A dead girl with a black bobbed hairdo and a shard of glass sticking out of her ear.

  ‘Lindsay,’ Anderson broke the silence and spoke first.

  ‘Shit,’ replied Crane as he squatted down by Lindsay’s head. ‘On initial examination, it seems to be the same glass, or at least very similar to the one from Sally’s murder. It looks like it’s from a mirror again at any rate.’

  Crane looked at the small dribble of blood trailing out of Lindsay’s ear, a pathetic trickle from such a fatal blow. He wasn’t looking forward to Major Martin’s explanation on this death. There would no doubt be more brains and goo on this piece of glass also. The odour of fried chicken and chips from the KFC kitchen was trapped inside the plastic tent and Crane was sure he’d never buy another meal from them. Their food being forever linked in his mind to Lindsay’s death.

  Retiring from the tent, so the forensic team and photographer could get to work, Crane and Anderson pulled off their white suits and wandered away from the clutch of spectators that had lined up against the police tape at the entrance to the alleyway.

  Anderson’s phone rang, and he answered it, listening briefly before cutting the call and replacing the mobile in his pocket. ‘Any thoughts?’ he asked Crane.

  ‘The murderer could be a man who hates whores, sees them as nothing more than trash to be disposed of. He could hate women in general and sees these girls as easy pickings, I suppose.’

  ‘But why kill her here and not down on the industrial estate?’ Anderson said.

  ‘A chance meeting? A twist of fate? And why Lindsay?’ Crane asked more questions as he patted his pockets trying to find his cigarettes and lighter.

  ‘Because she made a fuss about Sally’s murder, maybe?’

  ‘Or saw something she shouldn’t have?’

  ‘And didn’t realise its significance,’ Anderson finished their most unsatisfactory train of thought.

  ‘Anyway, why am I here?’ Crane asked, at last finding his cancer sticks and lighting up.

  ‘I thought it would interest you.’

  ‘Really? Haven’t I seen enough murder scenes in my career?’

  ‘Come on, Crane. There are two reasons you are here. One is that it is the same MO as last time. The second is that I got onto the CCTV centre at Farnborough as soon as I heard about the murder. That was them on the phone. They’ve found something interesting already. A small dark hatchback was spotted driving around the area, with foreign licence plates on, although they haven’t yet been able to identify the number. So, have you had any luck tracking down any soldiers returning from Germany with such a car?’

  ‘Not really,’ Crane stalled. ‘It’s more common than you’d think. What am I supposed to do? Check every dark hatchback owned by every soldier on a garrison of thousands of men?’

  ‘Yes,’ Anderson said. ‘That’s precisely what you need to do.’

  Crane turned and stomped away. Fuck. He’d nearly said Mercedes A7 instead of dark hatchback. He didn’t like withholding information from Anderson. Their friendship went too far back and they worked too closely for Crane to keep vital facts from him for very long. But his loyalty to the Army was stronger. It was clear Crane needed to speak to his boss, Captain Draper and soon.

  Twenty Nine

  Doesn’t anyone care?

  Editorial Comment by Diane Chambers

  Chief Crime Reporter, Aldershot News

  That was the question asked by a young woman, Lindsay Hatton, when I interviewed her about the murder of her friend Sally Smith. And now Lindsay is also dead, no doubt by the same hand. Murdered by the vengeful killer who is stalking young prostitutes innocently plying their wares in Aldershot.

  And so I ask again, doesn’t anyone care?

  Two young girls are dead. The police have no leads, no forensic evidence and no idea who the killer is. At least that is the impression they are giving, with their regular spouting of, ‘no comment’ or ‘the investigation is continuing’ babble. Which can only mean one thing. They have no idea what is going on, or who the killer is.

  I recently interviewed Lindsay for a poignant piece about her background and listened to her pleas for help in finding Sally’s killer. And now Lindsay is dead also. It’s a tragedy.

  But they were only whores, I hear some of you say.

  In reply, I would urge you to read the interview next to this editorial piece. Sally and Lindsay were ordinary girls, who just happened to take what some of you may consider to be the wrong turning in life. They could have been your daughter, your sister, your niece, your cousin. Don’t let their profession colour your view of them. Don’t judge them. Help them. Show that their deaths have not been in vain. If anyone has any information at all that can help the police catch this brutal killer or killers, I and my newspaper, urge you to come forward.

  I personally promise to help the police as much as I can. I will carry on Lindsay’s work and try and find her killer. Was it Lindsay’s investigation of her friend’s death that put her in jeopardy? Did asking questions put her in the killer’s sights? Are any of the night girls safe?

  I care.

  The Aldershot News cares.

  Now it’s your turn to show the police that the good people of Aldershot care.

  If you know anything, or have seen anything, please pass on the information. The murder team can be contacted via Crimestoppers on 0800 555 111 or call the officer in charge of the investigation, D I Anderson directly at Aldershot Police station.

 
Crane threw the newspaper down on his desk. It was the third time he’d read the article. Bloody Diane Chambers. As always, her article was high on rhetoric and low on fact. He was only glad that she hadn’t mentioned the army’s involvement for once. Perhaps that was Billy’s influence. He certainly hoped so. He knew that Diane had a point, though. Prostitution was not usually high on people’s wish list of professions to aspire to. Nor did whores seem to be on the radar when crimes were committed against them. Most people just didn’t see them or think about them at all. Out of sight, out of mind, he supposed.

  He jumped at the sound of his telephone ringing and when he answered it, found DI Anderson on the line, or at least he thought it was Anderson. He couldn’t really hear him.

  ‘Derek?’ asked Crane. ‘Is that you?’ he shouted over the background noise of ringing telephones, shouting and banging of doors.

  ‘Of course it’s bloody me,’ he heard. Then a door slammed and the background noises faded away and Crane could hear him properly. ‘Jesus Christ. Have you seen this morning’s local paper?’ Derek snapped in Crane’s ear.

  ‘Just read it. Why?’ Crane couldn’t help the smile that was forming, for he could guess what was coming.

  ‘Because it’s gone bloody nuts here. The phones haven’t stopped ringing and there’s a queue running all along the outside wall of the police station of people waiting to see me. I’ll ring that bloody woman’s neck when I next see her. She named me as the officer in charge of the case. In print.’

  By now, Crane was openly chuckling. ‘So it seems that the mighty people of Aldershot have heeded Diane’s call to arms then.’

  ‘Fucking idiots,’ Anderson grumbled. ‘Oh and you might like to turn your television on.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because there’s now a candlelit vigil outside the KFC on the High Street. People are streaming there, placing flowers, candles, teddy bears, bloody all sorts.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Crane.

  ‘Nice? It might be nice but it’s giving me the biggest manpower headache I’ve ever had. I’ve had to cancel leave, pull in people to work early and make them stay late, just to man the phones in the station and to control the crowd outside the KFC.’

  ‘I bet KFC will make a few bob out of this,’ Crane said, deliberately being provocative.

  ‘They would do, if the mourners weren’t in the way and if they’d stop putting flowers in the open doorway. The manager is going nuts. They’re driving away customers with all the weeping and wailing. And apparently someone is handing out hymn books as they’re waiting for the local church choir to arrive to lead them in a sing song.’

  ‘Our good citizens aren’t doing things by halves then?’ Crane was desperately trying to suppress his laughter, without much success.

  ‘Don’t you bloody laugh, Crane, or I’ll come over there myself and strangle you.’

  ‘Now, now, Derek, calm down. Look, the good people of Aldershot do seem to be going over the top on this one, I’ll grant you that. I suspect most of them just want to get on the telly. The old ‘five minutes of fame’ syndrome. Do you want Jones to send down some MPs to help you out? They could control the crowds outside KFC.’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ roared Anderson. ‘Diane Chambers would go around telling everyone that there’s Marshall Law on the streets of Aldershot. She’d create a riot.’

  ‘So she would. Oh well, you can’t say I didn’t try to help.’

  ‘Of course you can help. Get Jones to send some military police boys down to the station, dressed in civvies. They can help answer these bloody phones and interview some people for me.’

  Crane went to say that of course he would, but Anderson had already gone. After one last irreverent laugh he composed his face and went to find Jones. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. Crane and Anderson were the two who cared the most, Crane suspected. It was just that you had to love the people of Aldershot. There were two reactions from them. One: to do absolutely nothing. Or two: to go way, way, over the top. There was never an in-between.

  Thirty

  After sorting out some help for Derek with Staff Sgt Jones, Crane had a meeting with Captain Draper. He found the boss relaxing in his office, slurping what appeared to be a freshly made mug of coffee. Unfortunately Draper didn’t offer Crane any, but he was invited to sit down. Draper’s salt and pepper hair appeared to be freshly cut and his normal inscrutable face crinkled into a smile as Crane sat in front of him. Draper had been a senior non-commissioned officer in the military police, before taking a commission. The two men got on well because of this background, Crane being more receptive to a boss who had come up through the ranks, rather than some inexperienced captain straight out of the Officer Training College at Sandhurst.

  Crane handed his boss a hard copy of the investigation file, which Draper didn’t open, merely putting it down on his empty desk.

  ‘You can tell me what’s in the file,’ he said and so Crane began by outlining the salient facts of the case to his boss. Two prostitutes had been killed, one in the middle of no-where and one outside the KFC in Aldershot High Street. Public appeals had been made for information and as the Aldershot Police were somewhat inundated with calls and visits from the public, Crane had complied with Anderson’s request to send some military policemen to work alongside the civilian police. Draper nodded his agreement with the arrangement. Crane then went on to say that twice a small black hatchback sporting German plates had been seen in the vicinity of the murders. As a result DI Anderson was keen to find out about any army personnel moving back from a German base into the area and bringing with them a German plated car.

  ‘Well, that all seems very straightforward to me, Crane,’ said Draper relaxing back in his chair. ‘I take it there’s a ‘but’ though, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Yes, boss, I’m just not sure how big of a ‘but’ it is. It’s the dark hatchback type car that has been seen at both locations and sporting a German number plate on it, or at least a foreign one. The only car of that type that has been repatriated is a Mercedes A7.’

  ‘And? Who does it belong to? Frankly, Crane, I’m not seeing your problem.’

  ‘It, um, belongs to the Colonel Marshall, Royal Logistics Corp, recently returned from Gutersloh.’

  Draper was in the middle of taking a large gulp of his coffee when Crane had spoken. Spluttering, he put down his mug and managed, ‘Say again?’

  So Crane did, watching the disbelief cross Draper’s face, before his boss managed to force his features into something resembling a more normal expression.

  ‘Okay,’ Draper said, with the air of a man trying his best to calm down. ‘Let’s go over it again. A dark hatchback doesn’t mean specifically a Mercedes A7. Also that car has a UK number plate now, yes?’

  ‘Yes and I’ve actually seen the car, sir. It was very clean and sporting a UK plate.’

  ‘And it belongs to the Colonel’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and we’ve confirmed that with DVLA. It’s in her name.’

  ‘But there’s no evidence to prove it’s the car Anderson is looking for.’

  ‘No, boss, nothing irrefutable at any rate.’

  ‘Well, that’s good then,’ Draper looked relieved. ‘The Colonel and his wife are surely beyond reproof. Let’s face it, how would the man get to be a Colonel if there was a murderous side to him?’ Draper grabbed the file and handed it back to Crane. ‘No, Crane, I think you must be wrong on this one. Decision made. The Colonel’s car is nothing to do with the investigation.’

  ‘But,’ Crane got no further.

  ‘And you can take that as an order, Sgt Major,’ Draper intervened.

  ‘Sir,’ Crane acknowledged Draper’s decision.’

  ‘I’m sure there are actual military cases that you should be concentrating on.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Crane replied and left Draper’s office.

  But Crane wasn’t as relieved as he thought he would be. He still had that nigglin
g doubt somewhere in the back of his mind. It was about time he tried to find out where the Colonel had been on the nights in question. But it needed to be done subtly and Crane wasn’t known for his subtlety.

  Thirty One

  Louise was at a loose end and had gone into Farnborough to look for some new clothes, but so far hadn’t seen anything she liked. As a result, she made up her mind to go to Reading later in the week, where there was a much better selection of shops in the large shopping centre, the Oracle. Peter had one of those ‘do’s’ coming up that they were expected to attend as a couple and she wanted something new to wear. A little black dress she supposed, but perhaps something a little more daring than she normally wore, something a little sexier without being overt. Peter would expect her to dress with decorum, but surely that didn’t mean dowdy? She was beginning to feel her dress sense was rather too old fashioned after meeting the wives on Aldershot garrison. Her and Peter had obviously spent far too many years in Germany, Louise decided and as a result she was way behind in the current fashions.

  Deep in thought, Louise nearly collided with a pram. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she exclaimed as she grabbed onto it, to stop herself falling. ‘I must have been miles away,’ she explained to the mother who seemed equally as shocked as Louise that someone had just grabbed her baby’s buggy.

  Unfortunately Louise glimpsed the baby as she straightened. She froze on the spot, remaining hunched over the pram like some hulking ogre. But if she were the beast, then the child was the picture of beauty. Louise could see blond wavy hair, long lashes and a little pink mouth.

  ‘Oh, how gorgeous,’ said Louise, the words escaping before she could stop them.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the young mum casually, as though everyone said that to her about her baby. Which they probably did, Louise realised and wondered if the young woman knew how lucky she was. The woman was talking to her, or at least Louise thought she was, as she could see the girl’s lips moving. But she could hear nothing. Nodding, because she felt she ought to do something, Louise then stumbled away, wanting to get as far from the baby as possible.