As a result, Sir Peter was torn. What should he do? Hand Foster over to the civilian authorities to stand trial for murder? But what of his advanced party? It was clear that Foster could potentially save hundreds of innocent lives in Iraq. Handing Foster over to the police would bring a modicum of shame to the Army and the regiment. Something Sir Peter could not endorse. And so Sir Peter was under pressure. He had to get his lads to Iraq as soon as possible. Maybe he decided that, as lies were being told to the British people by Blair and Bush to cover their backsides, why not replicate this behaviour? If it was acceptable for the politicians to lie, then surely it was acceptable for the officers of the British Army to lie. Blair and Bush were doing what they believed to be a good deed for the world, so it stood to reason this was more important than one young woman in Aldershot.
The decision was made. Dunne sent Foster to Iraq, told all those involved to change their original statements if they had implicated Foster and to keep their mouths shut. Whether Foster saved vital lives in Iraq is unclear, but the Army had a very successful invasion, resulting in the down fall of Saddam Hussein.
But what of Foster now? Instead of being in jail for murder, he is roaming the streets of Aldershot once more. How do we know? Because he is again implicated in a murder. The killing of a young Army wife, Melanie Green, with whom he was reportedly having an affair. And the British Army, and more importantly Sir Peter Dunne? Have they served up Foster on a plate this time? No, for, as usual, they are keeping their mouths shut and protecting their own and themselves. All those implicated in this perversion of the course of justice are walking the streets of Britain without shame. Will anyone come forward and give up Foster, or will this cordon of lies remain firmly in place? If that is the case, justice for Carol Newton and Mel Green may never be served.
Chapter 32
Captain Edwards was eating toast and drinking coffee, when his wife brought the freshly delivered Daily Record into the kitchen. Browsing through it he arrived at Page 3. As he sucked in his breath at the audacity of the article, unfortunately this propelled the piece of toast that was in his mouth, down towards his windpipe. After a good deal of spluttering and choking, he managed to cough up the toast. With tears streaming down his face, from both the blockage and the wreckage of his career, he grabbed the paper, his uniform jacket and his briefcase and fled the house without a single word to his wife.
Upon arrival at Provost Barracks, he immediately telephoned and was put through to the CO.
“Good morning, Sir,” Edwards began, trying desperately not to have a tremble in his voice. “Captain Edwards here. It seems we may have a, a,” Edwards bumbled, trying to find the right word, “…a situation. Have you read the Daily Record today?”
“Edwards, do I seem like a man who reads the Daily Record to you?” the boorish voice asked.
“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure, Sir. But I think you need to read it today. Specifically page 3. There is a rather unfortunate article that I need guidance on.”
“Oh, very well, Edwards, I’ll call you back.”
With a slam the phone went dead and he was left alone in his office, waiting for his world to end.
*
It was a very different Commanding Officer, who called back nearly an hour later.
“Right, Edwards, need your help on this one. From the boots on the ground upwards as it were.”
“Certainly, Sir, I’ll do whatever you say. To be honest I haven’t got a clue what to do,” Edwards said having decided that honesty was the best policy.
“Well, this is what’s been happening here. During the past hour I’ve had every high ranking officer even remotely connected with the Royal Military Police, or Special Investigations Branch, or Justice Services, phoning to tell me about this bloody article and what they think ought to be done about it. But more importantly, I’ve had the politicians on my back too - anyone in opposition who has anything vaguely to do with defence and, of course, the current Secretary of State for Defence. The way things are going I wouldn’t be surprised to get a phone call from the PM himself.”
Edwards could only gulp.
“They are demanding clarity; a statement; access to our records; an enquiry; a quote. None of which we are able to give at this moment in time. So, this is what I want you to do.”
“Yes, Sir?”
Thank God, Edwards, thought, direction at last.
“Nothing.”
“Beg pardon, Sir? Did you just say nothing?”
“Yes, Edwards. Rein in that bloody Sgt Major of yours and do and say absolutely nothing until we formulate a plan and draft a statement for the media. The last thing I need is any interference at local level. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Someone will be in touch.”
“When would that be, Sir?”
“I don’t bloody know, man, just get on with it!” and for the second time that day, Edwards had the phone slammed down on him. He sat looking at the offending instrument and wondered exactly how he was supposed to ‘get on’ with doing nothing.
*
Crane had spent the last hour fielding calls from Tina, Staff Sgt Jones, Derek Anderson and Bill Lampton. He had nothing to tell them. Nothing at all. He promised he would get back to them as soon as he’d managed to get access to Edwards.
At last the call came and Crane bounded up the steps to see his Officer Commanding. As soon as the formalities were over, Crane said, “So, Sir, I take it I have permission to continue my investigation of the Carol Newton case.”
“Not exactly, Crane.”
“Not exactly, Sir? What does that mean?”
“HQ hasn’t yet decided how to handle this.”
“How to handle this?”
“Yes, we are to do nothing until we know the strategic plan.”
“Strategic plan?”
“Crane, stop sounding like a bloody parrot!”
“Sorry, Sir, but I just can’t take it in.”
“That’s of no concern to me, Crane, just so long as you take in your orders.”
“But Sir, in the light of that article, surely we have a duty to formally investigate the murder. Without doubt we have a duty to investigate the cover up.”
Crane stood and walked over to the door. Turning back to Edwards, he said, “We should announce we are setting up an inquiry, before the public demand one.”
“I’ve no doubt one will be set up, Crane. But it doesn’t mean to say that it will have anything to do with us. This is way above our pay grades, Crane.”
“Well, is there no statement for the media? The local papers, radio and TV are going nuts. They are gathering outside Provost Barracks as we speak. What shall we say? Have you drafted a Press Release?”
“Haven’t you understood a single word I’ve said, Sgt Major? This is being handled from the CO’s office, not here. Now, haven’t you some burglaries to investigate? Those are your orders for now, which I expect you to carry out. Dismissed.”
Jesus fucking Christ, Crane blasphemed to himself and then thought of every possible swear word he could remember to add to it. He didn’t believe it! After all that hard work and subversive behaviour, all he had to show for it was, ‘haven’t you some burglaries to investigate’. Cannoning through the office, he shouted to Kim, “I’m off to see DI Anderson.”
Staff Sgt Jones had set up a cordon around Provost Barracks, keeping members of the press away from the entrance. Once in his car, Crane opened his driver’s side window, lit a cigarette and took a moment to savour it and try to calm down. But the nicotine didn’t help. He was still angry. If this went on much longer, he’d be a prime candidate for an ulcer or a heart attack.
He flicked his cigarette away, started his car and readied himself for the onslaught as he still had to deal with the press once he was outside the barracks. Driving slowly through the barrier, they crowded round his car as he inched his way onto Queens Avenue.
“Sgt Major Crane, do you have a comment for us?
” Diane Chambers said gleefully and loudly, making sure the rest of the pack knew who was in the car. So, he quickly pulled up his window for protection. But he could still hear their calls.
“Any news yet, Sgt Major?”
“Will your lot be doing anything about this injustice?”
“Who is going to stand up for these innocent women?”
With cameras clicking and flash bulbs going off, he finally managed to get away without knocking anyone over.
Chapter 33
Wrapped up in his duvet, Sir Peter Dunne luxuriated in the warmth. He considered getting up, but decided that one of the perks of being retired was to have a lie-in if he wanted to. He glanced at the clock. 7 am. No need to get up yet. As he drifted off to sleep, he heard the sound of the music from the breakfast news show on the television, filtering through from downstairs.
“The headlines today,” he heard. But the remainder of the sentence was blocked out by a scream from his wife.
“What the hell!” he started and with only the smallest of pauses, leapt from his bed. As he grabbed his dressing gown his wife called, “Peter? Peter!”
“Coming, dear, what on earth is wrong?”
He managed to cover his blue silk pyjamas with his matching dressing gown and was on his way downstairs, when there was another shriek.
“They’re outside! Do something Peter!”
Rushing into the lounge, he said, “What on earth is the matter woman? Are you alright? Who’s outside?”
All his wife could do was to point at the television.
“Now to our main story,” the newsreader began. “An inflammatory article in the Daily Record today, implicates the British Army in a cover up, in the run up to the invasion of Iraq. It is alleged that an experienced sniper was spirited away to Iraq by his officer at the time, now known as one of our most respected military leaders, Brigadier Sir Peter Dunne. Nothing wrong in that, you might say. But surely it wasn’t the right thing to do when that sniper was wanted by Aldershot Police in connection with the murder of a young woman.”
Sir Peter felt behind him for the sofa and then collapsed gratefully onto it, as the blood drained from his head. He whispered, “Good God.”
“Do something, Peter!”
He looked up at his wife, her terrified face topped by what looked like a hedgehog, but was in fact her set of brush rollers. For a moment she reminded him of his mother and he remained fixated on her. All that was missing was a net scarf wrapped around the rollers. He suddenly became aware of how much his wife looked like his long dead mother.
“Peter! For God’s sake what are you staring at? What are you going to do? There are reporters outside the house!”
Dispelling the image of his dead mother which was filling his head to bursting point, he took a deep breath and stood up. “Alright, don’t go on,” he said.
“There is no comment from Sir Peter Dunne at this time, but we understand he is at his home in West Sussex.” the news presenter continued.
“That’s our house!” his wife screamed.
Sir Peter turned his attention back to the television, only to see that his front gates were the backdrop to a reporter talking into a microphone.
“For goodness sake,” he said and strode to the telephone. Time to be a soldier again, he thought. Time to take control. For what will probably be the last time. Refusing to think about his future, or rather lack of it, he picked up the receiver and called the Chief Constable. He needed to get the press off his back. It didn’t occur to him to just call the local police and ask them to remove the reporters from outside his house.
As a sleepy voice answered the call he said, “John, Sir Peter here.” He decided to use his title whilst he still could. “Got a small problem I need your help with.”
After putting down the receiver, he gratefully accepted a cup of tea from his wife, who had calmed down once he had taken the initiative. He would have loved to have a tot of whiskey in it, but knew he had to keep a clear head, at least for the time being. He could drown his sorrows later.
A picture of him as a young man on the television caught his attention.
“Sir Peter Dunne was born into a normal working class family. He did particularly well at school and our reporter is outside there for us now. Fiona, tell me, was Sir Peter Dunne a popular boy at school?”
“Well, John, we understand that Sir Peter showed real academic ability when he was here at St Saviours.” The reporter neatly sidestepped the question. “It seems he was groomed by a supportive teacher who made sure he did well in his examinations. I have with me here the current Head of St Saviours. Is that how Sir Peter is remembered here? For his academic ability?”
“Very much so,” the Headmaster agreed. “Sir Peter is one of our success stories. Obviously, I wasn’t here at the time, but our school supported Sir Peter’s application for Officer Training at Sandhurst. He is our most famous ex-schoolboy and is hailed as a role model for future generations of children who follow him into our great school.”
“So what now? Will he still be an inspiration?”
“Well, I think we need to wait for the outcome of this investigation. It’s early days yet.”
“But what if he is found to be involved in a cover-up?”
“Then, of course, we would have to reconsider our position and perhaps stop holding Sir Peter and the scholarship he offers, in such high esteem.”
“Scholarship?” The reporter became animated, clearly eager to jump on anything she could to inflame the situation and raise the blood pressure of the general public watching at home.
“Surely you won’t be able to accept this type of support for the school in the future? I mean, who could accept money and help from someone who has been disgraced in this way?”
The Headmaster looked petrified. “That’s, is, um, something that will have to be decided by the School Governors,” he finished with obvious relief. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to school.”
“Of course, Headmaster. Thank you for giving us a small amount of your valuable time. And now back to the studio.”
Sir Peter wanted to turn the bloody television off, but at the same time was drawn to it, mesmerised by the fact that they were talking about him. Even if most of it was conjecture, speculation or just plain rubbish.
“I have with me here,” John the broadcaster said, smoothly accepting the hand over, “a military expert to talk to us about Sir Peter’s meteoric rise through the ranks of the British Army.”
But Sir Peter didn’t get the chance to watch the piece about that part of his life, as the house telephone began ringing, followed by his mobile and then his wife’s. The siege had begun.
Chapter 34
“Good evening and welcome to News Night and our special report on the role of the sniper. In the light of the recent press and television interest in the alleged cover-up by Sir Peter Dunne a former member of the British Army, interest in snipers has been heightened and we thought it would be relevant to raise the level of awareness of the vital role that snipers play in the defence of the United Kingdom. Here’s Samantha Black with her report from Sennybridge in Wales, the home of the Sniper Training Course.
Foster leaned towards the television as the camp came into view. How well he remembered his time there. He scrutinised the buildings and tried to see if there had been any changes in the past 20 years. Perhaps not to the outside he saw, and wondered what the inside was like now. Hopefully upgraded and decorated. But, to be honest, the only thing that mattered when you were there was the training you were undertaking.
The reporter’s voice cut through his recollections, “At the tactical level, in direct support of a battalion, snipers will watch over the immediate objective in advance of any assault. Within a Brigade, snipers are employed well forward of the front line of the battle area but still within artillery range.”
She continued, “British snipers employ their skills to provide information for those back in HQ. Then sele
ctively eliminate specialist personnel such as unit commanders, communications operators, heavy weapons crews and exposed communications, sensors, light vehicles, fuel and supply units and so on. The use of snipers deep in the enemy operational areas on autonomous missions have proven to be viable and of high value against the enemy. The sniper's concealment and observation capabilities mean they can operate with very little chance of being spotted by the enemy. This constant stream of human intelligence is very useful, and the opportunity to kill senior opposition commanders has arisen, and been taken, on several occasions.”
Foster was riveted to the television, as a picture of a Ghillie Suit appeared behind her.
“Although visually little changed from its ancestor,” she said, “the modern ghillie suit is a highly advanced piece of kit. It includes elements for defeating visual, thermal and electromagnetic detection. There will always be the need for effective rifle marksmanship, and the sniper is the apex of all infantry skills and used properly he is an asset in war, and an enormous training asset in peace.”
Samantha Black then turned to a man stood next to her. “I wonder, Major if you could give us an insight into the type of man who could train as a sniper.”
“Well, Samantha, it takes a special kind of courage to be a sniper. In the theatre of war, he is always alone. To be alone with your thoughts, to be alone with your fears, to be alone with your doubts, takes real courage. This courage is not the superficial brand stimulated by the flow of adrenaline. Neither is it the courage that comes from the fear that others may think one a coward. Rather, it is the courage born of honour.”
Foster was amazed that a television programme was actually talking to the real deal. Someone from Sennybridge, no less. For some reason, the BBC seemed to be on the side of the sniper and he was fascinated.
“Honour on the battlefield is a sniper’s ethic,” the Major continued. “He shows it by the standards and discipline with which he lives life in combat. The sniper does not hate the enemy; he respects him or her as a quarry. Psychologically, the only motive that will sustain the sniper is the knowledge that he is the best person to do it. On the battlefield, hate will destroy any man - and a sniper quicker than most.”
Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 15
