‘Okay, so they’re a weird couple,’ said Anderson. ‘That doesn’t mean anything, for as far as I can see most of you army types are weird.’
Crane ignored the dig and pulled two pieces of paper out of his black suit pocket. One was a page from the Aldershot News. He pointed to an article about the newly promoted Colonel and his wife.
‘See here’s their picture from the newspaper. What do you think? Can’t you see the resemblance? The likeness between Mrs Marshall and the woman on the CCTV?’
Crane slapped down the second piece of paper, a still from the camera showing the woman near the KFC food outlet.
Anderson pointed to the news article. ‘Crane, this woman is well bred, charming, refined. A prostitute? Or a killer of prostitutes? I think you’ve lost your mind to be frank.’
‘Look beyond the clothes, look beyond the trappings of wealth,’ Crane urged.
When he got no further comment from Anderson, Crane took a pair of scissors off Anderson’s desk.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Crane cut the face out of both photos and placing them down on the top of the desk, put them next to each other, facing Derek.
‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ said a flabbergasted Anderson.
Forty
Anderson walked out of his office and barked orders at a couple of detective constables, reminding Crane suspiciously of himself and he wondered how much of the army was rubbing off on Derek, the more they worked together. Crane stood and wandered around the office, although turned in a circle was a more apt description, Anderson’s work space hardly having room to swing a cat in. Piles of files littered the small space. They were on top of filing cabinets, chairs and strewn across the floor. He wondered where it all came from, as the police as well as the army were moving more towards paperless offices as the computer systems became ever more sophisticated. Perhaps they were the same files as he always saw there, a pile of filing waiting to be put away.
Derek returned with two mugs of tea and pulled an unopened packet of bourbon cream biscuits out of his desk drawer which they half emptied while they waited for the DC’s to look over the CCTV footage they had of the red light area, to see what cars were driving towards the industrial estate in the previous 30 minutes to an hour before the approximate time of both deaths. They were just about to start on the second half of the packet when a young man appeared at Anderson’s door.
‘Well?’
‘You were right, Gov,’ the young man said, the light of success shining in his eyes. ‘A small dark hatchback was seen driving through the industrial area before each killing.’
‘Any joy on the number plate?’
‘No, sorry, can’t see the plate clearly enough.’
‘Oh well, worth a try,’ said Anderson and stuffed another biscuit into his mouth.
‘But there’s something else you should know, sir. One of the other DC’s that you asked to analyse the car number plates seen regularly in the area has just finished his report.’
‘And?’
‘And I think you’ll be interested in this Lexus. It’s a regular visitor to the area and it’s registered to a Colonel Marshall, a resident of Aldershot Garrison.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Anderson said as the young officer handed over a file and then retreated as Derek gesticulated for him to leave.
As Derek read over the report, a rather flustered Crane pulled out his mobile and had a quiet word with Staff Sgt Jones, asking him to ring him back with the information Crane needed. He was having trouble with the evidence he was being bombarded with in such a short space of time. Firstly the Colonel’s wife’s face and then the Colonel’s car. It was all too much. He was beginning to think that he needed to lie down in a dark room.
While Anderson and Crane waited for Jones to call back, they mulled over what possible motives either of the Marshalls could have for killing prostitutes.
‘She hates them?’ said Anderson.
‘Really? Is that the best you can come up with?’
‘Husband hates them, then,’ Anderson modified the thought.
‘I suppose that would work,’ said Crane. ‘But why would he hate them? Why would the Colonel go around killing working girls? What possible reason could there be? And why would Louise Marshall be in the vicinity of the second killing? I grant you either of them could be driving the Lexus, but she’s the only one who has been caught on camera.’
After a pause Crane said, ‘Wait a minute, not he hates them, but he uses them…’
‘And she kills them because of it,’ Anderson finished the thought.
‘A bit farfetched, though,’ said Crane dismissing the possibilities that firstly the Colonel would use prostitutes and secondly that his wife would kill them because of it.
Crane’s mobile rang interrupting their train of thought. For once it was a conveyor of good news. The Colonel couldn’t be the one they were after, as he was away at the time of both murders, firstly on exercise and secondly at a conference. Crane felt the world settle back on its axis. His relief was palpable. But that still left him with the thorny question of Louise Marshall and her German-plated car that now had UK number plates.
Draper’s initial reaction to Crane’s theory was similar to Anderson’s.
‘You’ve got to be fucking joking!’ his choice of words rather more colourful than from the Detective Inspector.
‘No, sir, I’m not,’ said Crane. ‘Here,’ and he showed the two pictures to Draper who spent several moments studying them. He picked them up and held them to the light. He put them on his desk side by side. Crane thought at one point that Draper was going to get a magnifying glass out of his desk drawer and do a Sherlock Holmes impression.
But instead he said, ‘Have you got any other evidence?’
‘No, boss, I’ve not.’
‘Well you better bloody get some if you insist on pursuing this.’
So it appeared Draper was prepared to take Crane seriously.
‘How sir? Any thoughts?’
‘Not my call, Crane. You want her, you get some evidence to catch her with. Rock solid, mind you. Oh, and don’t let either her or the Colonel know what you’re up to. Nor anyone else.’
‘Can I get Billy to help me?’
‘No. Find him something to do to keep him away from you. And tell no one else, only talk to DI Anderson or to me. Now fuck off.’
Forty One
The newspaper article had re-awoken the other me, the troubled me. The persona that lived deep inside of me. An alien. A beast that once woken had to be sated.
At least this would be a night time job, so I wouldn’t be afraid of anyone seeing my face. According to the newspaper report, Fred and Sylvia Brown still lived in the same house, on the same street, in the same town. They must have been there for twenty years or more. I was fearful of returning to that house, I must confess. Afraid I would hear again the screams and cries of the children that had been placed with them by unsuspecting social workers. Once a child was in the clutches of Fred and Sylvia, it seemed to be a matter of out of sight, out of mind, by the authorities. The only way out was by running away and many of their victims were too traumatised to make a success of it. Whilst I was there a few tried, all failed. The Brown’s house reminded me of a prisoner of war camp. We were all prisoners, resigned to our fate. It was as though we were awaiting the end of the war. Making the best of things until that far off, often dreamt of, day.
I arrived at the house about 3 am, late enough for everyone to have fallen asleep, yet early enough to ensure that no one would be waking up to start the day. I had managed to slip out of my house unseen, whilst my husband slept. I had no fear of him waking. The sleeping tablet I had crushed and melted into his night-time whisky ensured it.
I knew the way into the Brown’s house, of course. I’d been able to make my way in and out of the place without detection for years. It was an old house and the wooden windows didn’t shut properly. All you needed wa
s a bit of wire poked in through the gap and you could lift the latch. As I crept around to the back of the house, to the kitchen widow, I was relieved to find that the Brown’s hadn’t spent any of the money that they got from the state for looking after the foster children, on repairing the windows. And so my old trick from years ago worked. I opened the window and climbed in.
I turned on the small torch I had brought with me, using it to light my way, but keeping the beam on the floor. I knew every creak and groan in that house and so was able to make my way up the wooden stairs with the minimum of noise. My feet slipping into their old pattern as easily as if there were footsteps painted on the carpet for me to follow.
I made my way to the nursery. I had to be extra careful. The baby’s room was next door to Fred and Sylvia’s. The door was open, thank goodness, as I knew that was the one whose hinges creaked. Slipping in through the opening, I took tentative steps across the room until I was at the cot.
I looked down on him. He was a beautiful child, that innocent boy, sleeping the sleep of the righteous. But I wondered how long it would take for him to become as foul and vile as his parents. He was lying on his back, head turned to one side. I reached out and ran my hand over his hair. It was the finest, softest thing I had ever touched. With the smallest of sobs stuck in my throat, I impaled him through the heart with a shard of glass.
Forty Two
The shock of what she’d just read, made Louise drop the book. It clattered to the floor, and she left it where it fell. A pool of red on the floor, the colour of the baby’s blood that had been spilled. Louise stood and backed away from it, her mind a maelstrom of thoughts. Emotions swirled through her; hatred, anger, sorrow.
How could Matilda have done that? Taken the life of a child? Louise could understand the other murders. They were acts of revenge, necessary retribution. Call it what you would they were, in their way, understandable. Do unto others as they do unto you, flitted through her mind. A piece of scripture she had heard in bible readings at one garrison church or another. Matilda had obviously taken this as her mantra. But this time Louise felt that Matilda had gone too far.
Louise grabbed the white headscarf and wrapped the book up in it. She needed to get it out of her sight. If nothing else, she needed to cover up the blood red of the cover. She placed it on the chair, determined to return it to its hiding place. Her hands were shaking. Louise longed for a cigarette. Smoking was a filthy habit she had given up years ago. Yet they said the craving never went away completely. The way she was feeling at that moment confirmed that. But she didn’t even have a lighter in the house never mind a cigarette. She felt like an alcoholic desperate for a drink. Just one to make the jitters go away. If she’d had a packet of cigarettes in the house, that’s what she would have done, had just one.
In the absence of nicotine, she fancied the next best thing would be coffee. Caffeine would be a good alternative and she hurried into the kitchen to put the coffee pot on, leaving the book on the chair. The making of the coffee soothed her. Her well-practiced movements, the normalcy of the everyday task, brought her back from her horror and revulsion. As the smell of coffee permeated the kitchen, she thought that perhaps she would go back to the book. Once she had a crutch with her. For surely Matilda would have had a good reason for doing what she did. The woman who wrote the book, whom Louise had become so close to and regarded as a friend, didn’t kill without good reason.
As she poured the freshly brewed, fragrant coffee, her hands were steady, her breathing had returned to normal, in anticipation of reading Matilda’s explanation.
Forty Three
Why did I do that? You must be asking yourself that question. How I could kill an innocent baby? You must be outraged. But there is a reasonable, rational, explanation. I may be the emotionally ravaged, desperate woman they have turned me into. The sum of all their abuses. But the Brown’s inflicted perhaps the worst abuse of all. Or rather Fred Brown did. I killed their baby, because he had killed mine.
I became pregnant with my foster father’s baby. That charming, smiling man, a pillar of the local community would come to my room at night and force himself on me. I once tried to tell Mrs Brown. But as I endeavoured to get the awful words out, force them from a mouth that was tongue-tied, she shot me a look of pure hatred. It was then that I realised she knew. She was complicit in his unspeakable, disgusting behaviour. She grabbed my arm and pulled me close to her. Through a mouth that had turned from a smile into a snarl, she hissed in my ear. Told me not to tell anyone. For no one would believe me, she said. Her and her husband would make sure everyone knew what a filthy liar I was. They would say that I wasn’t to be trusted. Explain that I had these awful fantastical thoughts that were made up. They would call me a poor child who was so tormented by past treatment that I didn’t know fantasy from reality. But it would be alright. They would keep me on, despite my terrible lies, for they wouldn’t give up on me.
Although I hated Fred Brown, I loved the thought of having a child. The one thing that I could call my own. Someone who I could be close to and love, for I had never known love in my pitiful life before. So I heaped all the love in my soul on the baby growing inside me. I didn’t tell anyone. It was my secret. I hugged it to me for several months, until I began to show, that was. When no longer the baggy oversized clothes I hid in, could conceal my growing stomach. One night when Fred took to my bed, he realised I was pregnant. He felt my breasts that were growing and swelling with milk. Ran his hands over the mound of my stomach. He got out of bed and stood over me. I pleaded with him not to hurt me, not to hurt my unborn child. But he took no notice. He slapped me across the face and told me to keep my filthy mouth shut. Grabbed me by the arm and dragged me off the bed so I landed on the floor with a thump. Then he kicked me repeatedly in the stomach, until his anger was sated and he left me bruised and bleeding on my bedroom floor.
The next day I lost my baby. My son. Aborted from my body by the thug who had impregnated me. As the baby was ripped out of my body, so was the love I had never felt before. Both fledging things, ready for ripening. Now shrivelled and lifeless. I was never the same after that.
Maybe now you can understand why I killed his baby, for he had killed mine. It was their turn to feel the pain, to be tormented by the loss. Their turn to have the one thing they loved more than anything else, ripped from them.
Forty Four
Louise closed the book. She was overwhelmed with emotion that she couldn’t contain. She curled up into a ball and allowed herself to feel everything that had been suppressed for so long. Emotions that had remained dormant for years bubbled up, refusing to be buried any longer.
And so Louise cried over Matilda’s story. She couldn’t believe that anyone could go through what Matilda had and remain sane. Her friend (for that’s what she considered Matilda to be) had been through more pain in her life than surely anyone could bear. It was as though all the evil in the world had descended upon her.
Louise sobbed for the two dead babies. Sobbed for babies everywhere. Sobbed for the babies she would never have. Sobbed for the maternal love she would never know. By now she was losing control of her emotions, she was becoming hysterical.
Forcing herself to calm down, taking huge gulping breaths interspersed with sobs, she uncurled from the chair and staggered into the kitchen, as though drunk. She was intoxicated, although not with alcohol but with emotion. She ran the tap and filled a glass with water. But before drinking it, she splashed the cold water on her face. Held her wet hands against her eyes, which were swollen and burning.
Not bothering to dry her face, Louise sipped the water and considered how alike they were, the two women who had never met, but whose stories were so similar. She felt an affinity with her, felt that Matilda was a kindred spirit. Louise only knew Matilda’s name. Didn’t know if she was still alive. Didn’t yet know what had happened to her. But Louise was convinced they were as one.
Forty Five
Peter was also into
xicated, excited beyond reason. He’d practically run out of the house that evening, away from Louise, out into the welcoming dark. As he started the car and drove away, leaving Louise behind at home, his thoughts were focused on his destination. The red light district called him once more. He’d tried to stop seeing the prostitutes, he really had, especially after his first two girls were killed. But he was addicted, he knew that now. He embraced the knowledge. He embraced his addiction. He supposed he was like a drug addict, a gambler, an alcoholic. It didn’t matter what your addiction was, the substance was all that mattered. The drugs, the money, the alcohol, or in his case, the sex. Reason went out of the window. He’d found the fear of being caught just heightened the experience. Waiting in a queue of traffic at a red light, his heel tapped rapidly on the floor of the car and he wrung the steering wheel with his hands over and over again.
At home, or at work, when he was rational, normal, he could see how his predilection could harm him. Harm his career and his marriage. For both went hand in hand. As the lights changed to green and he was on the move once more, he reflected that he was good at his job, but so was Louise. She was as good at hers as he was at his. The higher one climbed up the officer ranks, the more important a good wife became. Some would call it old fashioned, he guessed. Out dated. Over rated. But in his world, Louise was an integral part of his success.
It’s just that he didn’t see her as a woman anymore, he supposed. She was more like one of his officers. She had her role to play and he expected her to play it to his exacting, high standards. She was just part of the machinery that was the army. That was his life.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 12
