“About eighteen months now, Sir.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought, eighteen months ... during which time we’ve had your theories about a maniacal preacher -”
“I was right on that one, Sir,”
“And terrorists wanting to blow up the garrison whilst the Olympic athletes were here…” Edwards continued as though Crane hadn’t spoken, “and, most recently, a soldier who was a rapist. Am I right so, far?”
Crane was beginning to feel that perhaps this meeting wasn’t going to go the way he had originally planned. Edwards’ tone was more akin to sarcasm than praise, as he highlighted three of Crane’s more colourful cases.
“Um, yes, Sir, you are right, but you also know I was right on -”
“But I have to say,” Edwards cut across Crane, “that this latest theory of yours tops the lot,” and he waved Crane’s report in the air yet again.
Crane felt this was fast becoming one of those occasions when it would be best for him to keep his mouth shut. Something he had difficulty doing most of the time.
“Oh yes, Crane, this is definitely your best work to date. A conspiracy theory this time, no less. The British Army conspiring to protect a soldier who murdered an Army wife. Tell me, have you been watching too much American television, or perhaps those fact or fiction documentaries the science fiction channels are so keen on?”
“No, Sir.”
“That was a rhetorical question, Crane. Don’t test my patience anymore than it has been already.” This time Edwards emphasised his point by slamming Crane’s report down on his desk. The trouble was, the report wasn’t very thick, so it didn’t quite have the effect Edwards was probably hoping for. Crane chewed the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling and just about managed to maintain a blank expression on his face.
“This isn’t bloody Area 51, its sodding Aldershot Garrison,” Edwards went on. “So this is what I think about your grand conspiracy theory, Crane,” and Edwards proceeded to rip the report in half and throw it in the bin. “Now get out of here and don’t come back until you’ve got a theory, backed up by hard evidence, that isn’t akin to a fairy tale. Got it?”
“Got it, Sir.”
“Good. Dismissed.”
Crane leapt from his chair and marched the two paces to Edwards’ door. After closing it very quietly behind him he muttered, “Fuck!” under his breath, several times.
*
Anderson’s review of and re-interviewing of the witnesses in the Carol Newton case wasn’t going very well either. But not because no one would talk, as in Crane’s case, but because he couldn’t find any of them. The trawl by the two detective constables had produced only one witness still living in the area. In fact that was the only witness they had any contact details for. The remaining four seemed to have disappeared. Even in today’s electronic age, tracing witnesses who had no criminal record wasn’t easy, unless they had an internet presence. And those who were in their forties at the time would by now be hurtling towards 60 and completely oblivious to Twitter and Facebook. Also, as the UK became more protective of the rights of individuals via the Data Protection Act, unless you knew where someone was and could see if they had a telephone number and or address in that area, you were pretty much stuffed. Which is where Anderson found himself. So he decided to go and see Crane and bemoan the situation and, if he was honest, he rather fancied getting out of the office. The only trouble was that Crane never had any cakes, never mind biscuits to sate his sweet tooth, so he took a packet of Bakewell tarts out of his desk drawer and headed out.
Queens Avenue was doing its impression of a wind tunnel and Anderson’s car was buffeted around on the stop/start journey to Provost Barracks. The low speed limit and myriad of traffic lights took their toll and Anderson entered the SIB office with relief, to find Crane slumped at his desk.
“Oh, it’s you,” Crane spoke dismissively, as Anderson sat down opposite him.
“Good day to you, too, Crane,” Derek said, patting down his hair, which had become dislodged in the wind.
“It isn’t,” came the growled reply.
“For God’s sake, what is it this time? The case?”
Crane’s response was to incline his head heavenwards.
“Ah, Edwards.”
“Jesus, I swear I’ll swing for that man one of these days,” Crane said and Anderson could see the anger sculpted in the tendons of Crane’s neck.
“No you won’t, Crane,” he replied. “You value your job too much, stop being so pathetic.”
“Pathetic! That’s rich.” Crane sat upright and savagely pushed back his chair. “You don’t have to deal with the high and mighty Captain James Edwards day in day out. A few weeks at Sandhurst and the stupid bastard thinks he knows all about being an investigator, a manager and a soldier all rolled into one.”
“He can’t be stupid, Crane, otherwise he wouldn’t have made the grade.” Anderson wasn’t about to give in to Crane’s tantrum.
“Ha, sometimes I think that stupidity is a given. Without that particular character trait, coupled with Daddy’s money or the family tradition of being in the Army, they don’t even get a place on the course.”
“Oh, so you’ve been an instructor at Sandhurst then? You must have been to know so much about it.”
“What? Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Crane. “Don’t tell me you watched that bloody television programme about the Officer Training School at Sandhurst, Derek? That makes you an expert on officers, does it?”
“Actually, if you’ll calm down at minute, it’s more like it gave me a good insight into the sergeants and sergeant majors who train them. How much experience they have and how little time they have to cram their knowledge into the recruits.”
“Yes, well,”
“And,” interrupted Anderson, “you’re forever telling me that behind every officer is an experienced sergeant major telling him what to do and how to do it.”
“Yes, well,”
“So,” Anderson was on a roll now, “it seems to me your role in life is to be one of those experienced sergeant majors guiding your officers onto bigger and better things … unless,” Anderson decided to play his ace card, “you want to take a commission?”
“And be an officer? Not on your bloody life.”
“Well, then, drink your tea and eat one of my tarts and get it off your chest.”
Anderson tried very hard to listen to Crane’s recount of his meeting with Edwards without laughing. To him it didn’t make any difference if you were in the police or the forces, everyone had a boss they hated at one time or another. To be fair to Edwards, Anderson thought Crane’s conspiracy theory a little lame as well and proceeded to tell him so.
“It’s just not good enough, Crane. Edwards is right, you haven’t got any evidence, just a lot of supposition. Come on, you know that. Look, I’ve traced Carol Newton’s husband. He’s incarcerated in HMP Bullingdon, doing five years for GBH. I’ve arranged for us to go up there this afternoon and interview him. Now, stop getting caught up in your perceived hatred of Edwards. It’s just an excuse. Let’s get out there and see what we can find. Maybe Newton can give us some evidence to support your precious theory.”
*
Billy watched Anderson leave and after glancing into Crane’s office where he saw Crane was on the phone, he walked over to Kim.
“The boss seems in a bit of a mood,” he commented, wanting to draw her into conversation. Her normal icy exterior seemed to have thawed a bit recently, at least since she had returned to work, so Billy thought he would take advantage of it.
“Mmm,” nodded Kim in agreement. “Don’t think his morning meeting went so well with Captain Edwards today.”
“No, I did hear something about that. Seems Edwards chewed him out over his conspiracy theory.”
“Just another battle, I expect. Funnily enough they both seem to thrive on it. Whether he means to or not, the Captain manages to get the best out of Crane by rubbing him up the wrong way an
d making him angry.”
“How do you mean,” Billy perched himself on the corner of Kim’s desk.
“Well, the boss tends to do his best work when he’s fired up, don’t you think?” she explained.
Billy laughed. “You know, I think you’ve got something there, Kim. Look, I was just wondering, a few of us are going to the mess for a couple of drinks after work tonight. Do you fancy coming with us?”
“Thanks, Billy, but, I’m not free tonight.”
“Oh, okay, I understand. Just a thought, you know?” Billy backed off and stood up, thinking maybe she hadn’t thawed as much as he had hoped.
“No, Billy, it’s not that I don’t want to come. I appreciate the invitation, but I really am busy tonight.”
“Go on then,” he smiled, “what are you doing that’s more important than having a drink with the team later on?”
“Having dinner.” Kim turned away and started to fiddle with some papers on her desk.
“With?” teased Billy.
“Padre Symmonds,” Kim replied, her back still to Billy. She swivelled round on her chair to face him, a slight pink flush rising up her neck, “and if you dare say another word, you’re dead meat. Understand?”
“Understood.”
Billy returned to his desk, his eyes wide in wonder. Not only had Kim come out of her shell, but she had just admitted to having a date with an officer, no less. Dangerous territory for any enlisted soldier that. Perhaps she’d confided in him because she wanted an ally in the office, or someone to cover for her in the future. If that was the case, it was fine by him. He was just glad Kim seemed to be getting a life at last.
“What were you two just plotting?” came Crane’s voice from his office door.
“Plotting, boss?” Billy kept his wide eyed look, trying for innocence.
“Yes, Billy, plotting.”
“We were just discussing the Mel Green case, Sir,” Kim called from her desk.
“Good, what did you two come up with, taking into account your vast joint experience?”
“Actually, boss, nothing,” Billy had to admit. But thinking on his feet quickly added, “That’s why we wondered what you thought about doing a reconstruction. You know, for the local news.”
“Actually, Billy was wondering about the television programme Crimewatch, weren’t you, Billy?” added Kim looking at him with a slight smile pulling up one side of her mouth.
“Yes, that’s right, boss, we were wondering if DI Anderson could get a slot on Crimewatch,” and as Crane’s eye lit up, Billy knew he owed Kim one.
Chapter 13
Later that afternoon, Anderson and Crane pulled up in the car park outside HMP Bullingdon in Bicester, near Oxford. Crane had never been to the facility before and was surprised to find a modern looking building greeted them. From an initial glimpse, the double height building could have been an industrial or commercial unit. But on closer inspection, only the lower floor had windows in it, the second level being completely enclosed by the light coloured bricks. The main gate, through which prisoners entered and rarely exited, was double height and certainly gave the impression of being extremely thick, due to its raised square pattern.
After the necessary formalities and checks, Anderson and Crane were shown into a light, modern interview room, where the ex-soldier Jack Newton was waiting for them.
He immediately went on the offensive. “What the hell do you two want? The screws told me the police and RMP wanted to interview me. Fuck knows why, I’m not in the bloody Army anymore, or have you forgotten that?”
“Good afternoon to you, too, Jack,” said Anderson, ignoring the man’s outburst. “Sgt Major Crane and I thought we would pop over and have a quick word.”
Newton looked at Anderson more closely. “Don’t I know you?”
“You do indeed, Jack, although I’m about 10 years older since we last met.”
“That’s right, you were one of the coppers involved in the wife’s murder case. Bit of a bastard you were, if I remember rightly.”
“Not really, Jack, I was just younger and more enthusiastic then than I am now.”
“Is that your excuse for accusing me of murdering my wife?”
“Standard investigative procedure, as you well know. Anyway remind me why you’re in here.”
“You bloody well know what I’m in for. You’ll have done your homework.”
“Indeed I have, Jack. Grievous bodily harm. Not of any interest really, until we look at who the GBH was against, that is.
“Fuck off, Anderson.”
“It was against your girlfriend, or partner, or punching bag, whatever it is you call her.”
“Now, look here,” Newton made to rise from his chair, but stopped as the prison officer who was observing from the corner of the room, took a menacing step forward.
Crane had also been observing the prisoner during the exchange. Jack Newton was a bulldog of a man. Short and squat with bulging biceps over which was stretched a far too tight tee-shirt, no doubt done deliberately to accentuate his physique. He had two visible tattoos, one on either side of his neck. A dagger and coiled serpent on one and a scorpion on the other. If the intention was to appear aggressive and menacing, Newton had scored a bull’s-eye.
“Which naturally makes me assume that you were physically aggressive towards Carol. What do you think, Crane?”
Crane was in silent mode, so just nodded.
“Which leads me again to the possibility that you killed her.”
Newton closed his eyes in resignation. “I told you before, I didn’t do it. Why would I kill her?”
“Because she’d been having an affair with Barry Foster.”
“You didn’t manage to prove it though, did you Anderson? It was all rumour and gossip, especially after Foster scarpered. And anyway, you had to drop the case against me for lack of evidence. Why the hell are you bringing all this up now? It better be good, as I’m missing association and I had a slot in the gym booked.” Newton flexed his hands and Crane watched as the blood vessels in his arms were pumped up with blood and his muscles became more defined.
“Careful, Jack,” Anderson warned. “I’m sure you don’t want to get in any trouble. I hear from the Governor that you’re being quite the model prisoner, so you won’t want to lose any time off you’ve accrued for good behaviour.”
“Stop playing games, Anderson and get on with it. Why the hell are you here?”
This was Crane’s cue. “There’s been another murder, Newton. Another Army wife killed in the same place in the same way.”
Instead of looking shocked, as Crane expected, Newton actually laughed. “Well fuck me,” he said. “The bastard’s only gone and done it again. He ran rings around your lot back then, Crane. Is he doing it again? Is that what this is all about? You’ve got nothing on him, again, have you?”
Refusing to be drawn, Crane kept silent and Anderson took up the interview once more. “What’s going on now is nothing to do with you, Jack. We want to talk about back then. Was Carol seeing Foster behind your back?”
Newton narrowed his eyes. “What’s in it for me?” he demanded of Anderson.
“Nothing yet, but if we catch him and it goes to trial, well…let’s just say you appearing for the prosecution wouldn’t do you any harm. Might just change a few things. Get you a better job, maybe. Give you some extra privileges.”
After a short pause, Newton seemed to accept the offer, as he said, “She told me she’d been having an affair with Foster while I’d been away. She said she was sorry and that it hadn’t meant anything, she loved me she’d decided, not him.”
“What made her confess to you?” Crane asked.
Turning to look at Crane he said, “Because she was scared bloody stiff. He’d threatened her. Said he was going to make sure no other man wanted her by ruining her face. Said he’d disfigure her so badly she’d never be able to look in the mirror again.”
“Did you do anything about it?”
&nbs
p; “Didn’t get the chance. I was going to re-arrange his bloody face for threatening Carol. But then she was killed and I was so bloody confused at the time. Found out the hard way that grief is a funny thing. Has a way of taking over your life for a bit. So it was a few weeks later that I went looking for him, but by then he’d gone. Been sent out to Iraq in the advance party. Fucking bastard got away with it.”
“Well it looks like this might just be your chance for revenge. If you co-operate with us, together we can nail Carol’s killer. What do you say, Jack?”
*
The next day, Crane left Billy and Kim working with DI Anderson on the arrangements for the reconstruction of the last hour of Mel Green’s life, for the Crimewatch programme. As luck would have it, the BBC had started a new series of the show the previous week, so the timing couldn’t have been better. If there had been a good time to die, Crane reasoned, then this was it and then immediately chastised himself for his insensitivity. He was driving to The Oaks in Farnham, to interview Dave Richmond, one of the soldiers who gave witness statements in the Carol Newton murder, so he was alone with his thoughts, as he made the short journey from Aldershot to Farnham.
The popular town of Farnham was the complete antithesis of Aldershot. Where Aldershot’s town centre was all concrete and desolation, Farnham’s was all cobbled streets and expensive shops, which were crammed into historical buildings. Mind you, Crane noticed three charity shops were now jostling for space with Jaeger and Laura Ashley, as he drove up the high street, so there must have been some empty shops that the charities had taken advantage of.
Farnham was a commuter town, popular with those working in London, as the journey to Waterloo Station only took an hour on the fast train. Not only was the town quaint and historical, but was also surrounded by beautiful countryside and wasn’t that far from the coast, at least close enough for a day out. Surrounding the town were many beautiful properties, with extortionate price tags, requiring a large salary to purchase them.
Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 7
