Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Wendy Cartmell

  Billy was getting ready to leave, as he didn’t think he’d get much more information from Angela. But he had a couple more questions, one of which he casually asked as he got up from the kitchen table. “Did she have a lot of friends?”

  “No, she didn’t, thinking about it now. We all know each other, but with her, well, I got the impression the other women in the street were acquaintances, rather than friends, if you know what I mean. Even though we’re all in the same club, ‘the wife of...’ and all that stuff, she was a bit apart. A bit of a loner, I’d say.”

  “How did she cope when her husband was away on tour or exercise?” Billy made his way over to the door.

  “Same as we all do, we keep our heads down and get on with it. We meet up every now and again for a blow out, not that Aldershot’s got that much going for it of a night. But still, we try and have a good time. Some girls go further than others, of course, in the ‘having a good time’ stakes. Wanting something more than just a drink.”

  Stopping in the hall and turning to face Angela, he said, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? That Mel was having an affair?”

  “Yes, I reckon she was.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you mention this before? Last night would have been a good time to tell us.” Billy couldn’t believe Angela had withheld that piece of vital information. He looked at her tired dry skin, tattooed ankles and bird’s nest hair and wondered how her husband found her even remotely attractive. Her coarse looks and attitude only served to rub him up the wrong way, rather than endear her to him.

  “Well, firstly because she’d given him the elbow, as her husband was due back and secondly because Shaun doesn’t like me gossiping. So I felt it was best to keep quiet. But it’s been bothering me, you know?”

  As Angela was close to tears Billy pushed on with his questioning before she broke down and cried. He was irritated by what he considered her crocodile tears. He couldn’t seem to find any sympathy for her, over the loss of her supposed friend.

  “Can you give me any details? Do you know his name?”

  “No, sorry, she kept that close to her chest. Wouldn’t come out and say she definitely had a bit on the side, but she never denied it either, you know? Just smiled that smile of hers. She disappeared too sometimes.” Angela pulled a tissue out of the sleeve of a shirt which was so tight the buttons were straining against their flimsy thread and wiped her eyes.

  “Disappeared?”

  After a deep catching breath, Angela answered, “Yes, a few times I rang the hairdressers to see if she fancied a drink or two after work, but she wasn’t there. And then when I asked her where she’d been, she said whoever answered the phone must have been mistaken. Of course she was at work, where else would she be? Where else indeed, I thought. And then there was the van.”

  “Van?”

  “Yeah, I kept seeing this white transit type van parked in the area. It stood out because it didn’t belong to any of us on the street. Remember we all know each other and what’s going on in our lives. It’s very difficult to keep a secret. Anyway I saw it on and off for a few months, so I think it could have belonged to that bloke of hers.”

  “Were there any marks on the van? Do you remember the registration number?”

  Angela laughed, “Why should I know that? I don’t go around remembering registration numbers, who do you think I am, Miss Marple?”

  Ignoring the jibe, Billy continued, “How do you know she gave him up?”

  “About a week or so before her husband came back, I stopped seeing the van and she told me she was ‘getting her house in order’ ready for his return. And trust me, she didn’t mean she was doing the cleaning.”

  “So you don’t know the make of the van, nor the registration number and you’ve no proof of an affair,” Billy sighed.

  “No, but trust me, Sgt Williams, we women know these things.”

  Billy thought he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her, but kept that piece of information to himself.

  Chapter 8

  “Good morning, Green,” Crane said as he and Anderson arrived at Green’s house to interview him again. “Detective Inspector Anderson and I would like a chat.”

  Green nodded in reply and led them through the house to the sitting room at the back and sat down on the settee.

  Crane and Anderson pulled out two chairs that were clustered around a small dining table. The surface of the table was littered with dirty mugs, newspapers and articles of clothing. Crane wasn’t sure if the clothes were for the wash, or had been taken off the line in the garden and discarded on the table. By the look of Green he probably wasn’t sure either. His hair was greasy and unwashed. He didn’t seem to have shaved since Crane last saw him, when he’d identified his wife’s body and he was wearing an unusual mix of clothes - track suit bottoms coupled with a patterned shirt and a cardigan thrown over the top.

  At a nod from Crane, Anderson asked, “How are you feeling, Sir?”

  Green shook his head and looked around the room. “How do you think I’m feeling? I’ve got no bloody idea what’s going on, my whole world has been turned upside down and I miss Mel. Get the picture?”

  “Of course, we’re very sorry for your loss,” Anderson said. “But we need to show you the contents of Mel’s handbag. To see if you think anything is missing. In case this was a robbery gone wrong. Is that okay?”

  “Whatever,” Green said, not seeming to care either way.

  Crane scooped up the clutter from the table. Not having anywhere else to put it, he dumped it all on the floor under the table so Anderson could spread out Mel’s purse, lipstick, diary, pen, a foil pack of tablets and a hairbrush.

  “Do you think anything’s missing?” Crane asked.

  “Um, no I don’t think so.” Green stood and gazed at the items on the table.

  “Can you open the purse please and check the contents.”

  The purse was still sprinkled with black fingerprint powder and Green shied away from it. But after Anderson said, “It would really help us, Sir,” Green nodded, grabbed the purse, juggling it in his hands as though it were a hot potato scalding his fingers. He finally found the courage to open it and firstly checked the money and then the cards.

  “Everything seems to be here,” he said, throwing the purse back on the table with obvious relief. “There’s no money missing. Um, what about the sweets and water?”

  “Sweets and water?” asked Anderson.

  “Yes, she told me she was going to Tesco for sweets and water. Those seem to be the only things missing. Surely she wouldn’t have been killed for some sweets and water?” Green’s voice rose an octave and he looked despairingly at Crane.

  “We’ll bear that in mind,” Crane said, as Green went back to the settee, not wanting to explore the possibility that someone could have pilfered the sweets and water from the dead woman’s handbag as she lay on the floor of the underpass. “Right,” he continued, as Anderson put the effects back in the evidence bag, “Now we’ve got that out of the way, we need to talk about you and your wife.”

  “What about me and my wife?”

  “What was your relationship like, Green?” Crane asked.

  “Like most Army marriages, I suppose,” Green shrugged his shoulders.

  “Enlighten me, Sir,” Anderson said, “not being in the military myself.”

  “Well it was pretty much on and off. What with me coming and going most of the time. On exercise and postings and stuff. Sometimes it was a bit difficult. Mel would get used to being on her own, managing everything herself and then I’d turn up again. She had to adjust to me being there and I had to adjust to being back at home instead of away with the lads.”

  Crane realised that was the longest speech Green had made since being told of his wife’s death. It seemed he was in the mood to talk about her and Crane intended to capitalise on that.

  “Did Mel mind being on her own?” he asked.

  “She said she didn’t. Said it me
ant she could do stuff that I didn’t like doing and not feel guilty, like.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “Well, her amateur dramatics, I suppose.”

  “Did she carry on going when you were at home?” Crane leaned forward, forearms on his knees, peering closely at Green.

  “Yes, she said she had to, especially if there was a performance coming up. She said she couldn’t just stop because I was back.”

  “Anything else?”

  “What do you mean?” Green stiffened at the question.

  “What else did she do and not feel guilty about?”

  “Now look here, what are you implying?”

  “Did Mel have any close girlfriends?” Anderson asked.

  “Um, well, Angela next door I suppose and another woman at the theatre, although I can’t remember her name.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so,” Green answered Anderson’s question, but instead of looking at him, Green was staring out of the window at the pocket handkerchief garden. “She knew most of the women in the street, but I don’t think she was particularly close to any of them.”

  “So, she was the independent type?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Green turned his attention back to Anderson.

  “Did her own thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had her own friends?”

  “I suppose, so, why? What’s the matter with that?”

  “She was quite happy on her own, then.”

  “Um,”

  “Happy to do what she wanted to, without feeling guilty.”

  “Now look here,” Green was becoming agitated and kept plucking at the sleeve of his cardigan.

  “Didn’t mind you going away?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Have a special friend did she, Green?” Crane joined in the rapid fire conversation.

  “What?” Green spun his head from Anderson, to look at Crane.

  “Someone she saw when you weren’t around.”

  “I -”

  “Who was he, Green?”

  “I don’t -”

  “He could have killed her, you know.”

  “I don’t know his name!” Green screamed. “Stop it, just stop it!” and he burst into tears.

  Crane and Anderson waited whilst Green regained a modicum of composure. Green then dug in his pocket, brought out his mobile phone, pressed a couple of buttons and handed it to Crane.

  As Crane looked at it, Green said, “I got this text whilst I was in Afghanistan, a couple of weeks before we were due back. I don’t know who sent it.”

  Passing the mobile to Anderson, Crane asked, “How did you feel when you got it?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, Green, honestly.”

  “How would you feel, eh?” Green lifted his head in defiance. “I wanted to kill the bitch,” he said in a low, cold voice.

  “So, did you confront Mel when you got back?” Crane subconsciously scratched at the scar under his beard as he watched Green’s reaction.

  “No.” The anger and defiance faded from Green’s face, to be replaced by despair.

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because by then I’d calmed down. Because I didn’t want to know. I just pretended everything was fine. But it wasn’t was it? Because now she’s dead.”

  Anderson passed the phone back to Crane, who read once again the vile text message from an ‘unknown number’:

  Do u know what yr wife is up 2? u need to ask her when u get home. While the cats away......from a friend.

  Chapter 9

  Captain Symmonds’ attention was dragged away from the sermon he was writing, by calls of, “Padre! Are you here, Padre?”

  He hurried from his office at the rear of the Anglican Church to see what tortured soul needed comfort. The male voice, filled with pain and desperation, called again, “Padre!”

  As he entered the main body of the church he could hear sobbing echoing through the high vaulted stone and wood ceiling. He scanned the four sets of highly polished pews until he saw his visitor; a man, perched on the edge of the highly polished unyielding wood, at the end of one of the rows. As he raised his head to yell again, the Padre saw it was Lance Corporal Green.

  “Green, what on earth is the matter?”

  Green’s emotional collapse had to be from something more than the death of his wife, if that was possible, the Padre thought. Something else must have happened. He hurried to Green’s side and squatted down on the outside of the pew, taking the man’s shaking hands in his.

  “They, um, they, um, they think I killed her, Padre, they do, they really do, I saw it in their eyes!”

  “Who’s they, Green?” although the Padre had a pretty good idea what was going on.

  “Cccc Crane and the ddd DI.” Green gulped and sucked in a deep breath. “But I didn’t do it - honest I couldn’t - I loved her - I still love her.”

  “What would make them say that?”

  “The tttt text, here,” and Green freed his hands, delved into his pocket and thrust his mobile phone at the Padre.

  After glancing at the text message, Captain Symmonds said, “Come on Green, let’s go into my office and talk about it in there.”

  He managed to get Green off the pew and into his office, listening to Green’s protestations of innocence all the way through the church. Once in his office with Green ensconced in a chair, he pressed a cup of coffee into the soldier’s hand, from his ever popular percolator. Sometimes the Padre thought people only came to see him for a rest and a proper cup of coffee. After a few gulps of the strong brew, Green was more coherent and able to recount his interview with Crane and Anderson.

  “So, you see, Padre,” he finished, “I’m sure they think I did it. I’ve got no alibi. I was sure Shaun next door would vouch for me, tell them I didn’t leave the house, but he says he can’t. He was too busy to notice either way.”

  “Have they searched your house?”

  “No, the DI said something about getting a search warrant and coming back.”

  “When?”

  “Um, about now I suppose,” Green said looking at his watch.

  “Right, let me make a phone call and find out what’s going on. You just stay there, Green.”

  “Thank you, Padre,” Green said, turning his attention back to his mobile phone, rolling it over and over in his hands.

  *

  If the Padre thought Green’s house was in a muddle before, it definitely was by the time the Padre and Green were allowed back inside. Drawers were left open, their contents spilling all over the floor. The books on the shelves had been rifled through and the kitchen had been ransacked. Green collapsed onto the settee, which was now minus the cushions, looking bewildered and overwhelmed. The Padre shook his head at the destruction of Green’s house. He was convinced the poor man couldn’t take much more. He left the house intending to confront Crane or Anderson.

  “Did you have to make much a mess, Sgt Major?” he called, walking up to Crane who was about to get into his car.

  Crane turned and said, “We had to thoroughly search the house, Padre,”

  “I know that, but for goodness sake, the man’s life is in enough of a mess without you lot coming along and destroying his house. Anyway, did you find anything?”

  “Well, we won’t know for a while. Forensic examination takes some time.”

  “Come on, Crane. Is he a serious suspect?”

  “Let me ask you something, Padre,” Crane said not answering the question, but posing one of his own. “What’s your opinion of Green?”

  “He’s a man devastated by the death of his wife, of course,” the Padre answered with confidence.

  “What’s he said to you about it?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that. I treat anything people say to me as confidential. They pour their heart and soul out to me. I won’t disrespect that by discussing it with anyone else.”

  “Alr
ight. But I guess he’s protesting his innocence.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Do you think he’s lying? Do you think he’s capable of killing his wife?”

  The Padre looked around the ordinary scene before him. Rows of Army houses, containing happy and not so happy families. There were children playing in a small playground further up the road, the mothers chatting to each other as the children clambered over the climbing frames. Could evil be lurking amongst them, he asked himself. Was Green capable of murdering his wife? How could he answer such a question?

  “The best I can do, Crane, is to say that I believe Green’s grief is genuine. But if that grief stems from remorse because he killed Melanie, I can’t say. That’s for you to decide. You have to rely on evidence and your own instincts to answer that question. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Green needs help tidying up.”

  Chapter 10

  Crane sat alone in his office surrounded by copies of the statements from military personnel based on the garrison, at the time of Carol Newton’s murder. But he ignored those for the moment, grabbing instead copies of the crime scene photographs. His eye was drawn to the one showing Carol Newton lying on the floor of the underpass.

  The only difference in the underpass between then and now was the floor. In Carol Newton’s time the floor was concrete, giving the impression from the photographs, that she was cocooned within the structure. It was difficult to differentiate wall from floor, so she was seemingly enveloped in a grey tomb. Her bag was a short way from her body and according to the file, there didn’t seem to be anything missing, as there was still cash and cards in her purse. She was killed by a single stab wound to the heart, with a stiletto type knife. Her left hand had multiple fractures, as though someone had crushed it underfoot. From a close up photograph Crane could see what looked like a partial boot print, pressed onto the skin.

  Crane pushed the photograph away and reached for the list Kim had prepared for him with one hand and his telephone with the other. The list contained the current contact details for the military personnel who were interviewed over 10 years ago.