Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Wendy Cartmell

  “It’s alright, Sir,” a paramedic said. “We’ve got a thermal blanket for her. Here, put your coat back on, it’s too cold to be without it.”

  It was bitterly cold inside the hut and Francis did as he was told, as the paramedics lifted Kim onto their stretcher. He walked beside them, once again holding her hand, to the waiting ambulance.

  “Sir, you really need to let go of her,” someone said to him. “We need to get her inside the ambulance,” but the Padre couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t break that tenuous hold he had on her, wouldn’t break the bond between them. Someone peeled his fingers off her hand and as he protested, the voice relented and said he could ride in the ambulance with them.

  Along the bumpy track and then the main road, a paramedic, in his calm disciplined way, set up drips and put an oxygen mask over Kim’s face, the Padre was holding her hand once more. He was whispering to her, as his muddled brain faintly remembered that if someone is in a coma or unconscious or something, you have to keep talking to them. So he did. He told her how he had always wanted to be a soldier when he was growing up. Wanted to be brave and true and honest, just like her. But that God had other plans and he was called to the ministry, having to make the brave decision to leave his ideological thoughts of being a soldier behind.

  So he learned how to interpret the bible. Learned how to run a local church and get on with all the different types of people in it. Learned how to work amongst them and teach and inspire them. Then after a few years the Lord brought him into contact with an Army Chaplain, he told Kim. That was when he realised he could have the best of both worlds. He could serve the Lord his God and his country at the same time. The perfect fit.

  He looked down at their linked hands and saw another perfect fit.

  Chapter 43

  “What do you mean, you’re going on holiday?” Jill Lampton hovered over her husband, as he hastily packed a suitcase small enough to be categorised as hand luggage on the budget airlines.

  “Look, I just need a few days in the sun, that’s all,” Lampton told her, his face darting from his suitcase to his clothes and back again.

  His hands fumbled with the catches on his case as Jill demanded, “When did you decide this then?”

  Glancing up, he saw her looming over him, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her face poked towards him. “Um, last night. I’ve been working too hard, I just need a break, stop going on.”

  Lampton lifted the case off his bed and dumped it on the floor.

  “And what about work?”

  “Work’s fine, Jill, now please get out of my way.”

  Lampton snapped up the handle of the suitcase and walked out of the bedroom door, dragging the case behind him on its wheels.

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “Why aren’t I coming with you?”

  Lampton stopped on the landing and turned and looked at his wife. The woman who was his wife in name only.

  “Do you really need to ask that, Jill? When was the last time we did anything together? When was the last time you cared enough to ask me how I was?”

  He could see her eyes harden and her lips press together. He well knew the frostiness of that gaze. It was one of the reasons he’d taken a travelling salesman’s job. He wanted to be as far away from his frigid wife as possible, as often as possible.

  “Where did you say you were going?”

  “Spain.” Lampton bumped the case down the stairs.

  “Where in Spain?” Jill asked as she followed him, her slippers slapping on the treads.

  “For God’s sake woman, I don’t know!” Lampton hurried to the door. “I’ve taken one of those bargain packages where you pay your money and you only find out where you’re going when you get there.” Lampton lifted his coat off the hook in the hall. “Now stop going on. I’ll text you to let you know I’ve arrived,” he lied as he opened the door. “Look the taxi’s here to take me to the station. I’ll see you soon,” he called as he ran for the car, his case nearly tipping over as he dragged it behind him in his haste.

  As the taxi drove away, he saw her, still standing on the step, staring after him. A spinster-type figure leaning against the door frame, her disapproval clear, even from that distance.

  God knows why he’d ever married her. It was a decision taken at speed that came with a lifetime of regret. They’d never really got the chance to become close, as he was already in the forces when they married and he’d been posted away shortly afterwards. Now they were together for convenience. He wasn’t home much, so they lived their separate lives. They just happened to live in the same house that’s all. Lampton had realised he didn’t want to take Jill with him, when he was talking to Crane about the arrangements last night. A clear sign the marriage was over; if indeed it had ever begun. Deciding she would be safe enough from Foster, as she clearly would have no idea where her husband had gone, Lampton had made the decision to go it alone.

  He spent the few minutes’ drive from his home to Reading train station checking his pockets. Passport. Reading glasses. Wallet. He patted each of them in turn, reassuring himself he had everything he needed. Checking, checking and checking again. Briefly looking up, he saw the driver watching him though his rear view mirror, a look of wry humour on his face. The man clearly thinking his passenger a bit of an old woman, what with all the checking.

  Throwing a five pound note at the driver, Lampton clambered out of the taxi and entered the large glass fronted facade of Reading Station. He looked around the unfamiliar concourse, craning his neck to read the overhead signs, followed the arrows to the ticket office and joined the queue.

  “Single to Gatwick Airport, please,” he whispered, just loud enough for the ticket clerk to hear, when it was eventually his turn.

  Lampton grabbed his ticket and change and melted into the crowds making their way to the various platforms and hoped he was indistinguishable from any other traveller. However, he felt more exposed when he reached his platform and found he had five minutes to wait until the train arrived. Sitting down next to a spotty youth playing on his phone with earplugs in his ears, Lampton placed his case between his legs and bent down, as though he were checking the locks. Still with his head down, he looked left and then right, trying to see if anyone was un-naturally interested in him. Satisfied that he was not being observed, he allowed himself to close his eyes and tried to relax.

  The noise of the incoming train startled him and standing up, he was buffeted and bumped as the outgoing passengers and incoming ones fought for space on the narrow platform.

  Lifting his hastily packed case, he clambered up into a carriage and worked his way down the train, looking for a spare window seat, without a table, so he could keep his case close to him. The first one he came to had a young mother and a screaming child opposite the empty seat, so he carried on walking awkwardly through the carriages, manoeuvring his case behind him. He was nearly at the end of the train when he found a suitable spot. A quiet carriage with only a handful of fellow passengers in.

  Lampton sank into the empty seat and stared out of the window as the normally un-seen industrial side of Reading, best viewed from the train tracks, slipped past. He spent most of the short journey checking his fellow passengers reflected in the glass. He hoped no one was paying him any particular attention.

  “North Camp,” intoned the automated voice of the announcer. “The next stop is North Camp.”

  As the train pulled into the deserted small railway station located at the bottom of North Camp, between Farnborough and Aldershot and close to Aldershot Garrison, Lampton emerged from the carriage and walked over to the exit. With no one there to check his ticket and ask why he hadn’t remained on the train all the way to Gatwick, Lampton hurried out and went into the car park of the pub adjacent to the train station. With relief he spotted the blue and white electrician’s van parked at the far end. He walked up to it and knocked on the back doors.

  He hoped his wife hadn�
��t seen the lie etched on his face when he had told her he was going to Spain on holiday. The best way of protecting her from Foster was for her to believe in the stupid story that he was suddenly taking a few days break. Bloody Crane, Lampton thought, typical of him to come up with a song and dance of a cover. Still, at least the Branch was prepared to help him and he climbed gratefully into the van.

  Chapter 44

  Crane heard the soft knock on the back door of the van and opened it just a crack. As expected, he saw Lampton’s narrow face thrust forward towards the door, his eyes still darting from side to side. Checking for Foster, Crane supposed, just in case Crane had lied, or the operation had been compromised. He opened the door wide enough for Billy to grab Lampton and haul him and his case into the van.

  “Alright?” he asked the trembling man.

  “Suppose so,” came what Crane perceived as an ungrateful reply.

  “You weren’t followed then?”

  “Don’t think so. Hope not. What happens now?”

  “Put on these overalls and baseball cap,” Billy handed Lampton a bundle.

  “Over your clothes, Lampton!” Crane said as Lampton started to take off his jacket. “You won’t need the overalls on for long.”

  “Oh, right oh,” Lampton replied and Crane watched the man fumbling his way into a set of overalls that were rather too large.

  “Bloody hell, Crane, they’re huge!”

  “Stop moaning, man. Roll up the legs and sleeves or something. Jesus. Here I am saving your skinny arse and all you can do is complain!”

  Billy smirked and Crane burst out laughing at the sight of the weasel of a man disappearing inside the voluminous clothing.

  “What? Are you laughing at me? Fucking bastards,” Lampton said and pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes.

  The van had, by now, entered Aldershot Garrison and was approaching the entrance to Provost Barracks. At a nod from the driver, the private on the gate pulled up the barrier and waved them inside. Pulling up tightly to a back door, the driver shouted, “Everybody out!”

  Crane and Billy hustled Lampton inside Provost Barracks, with the man protesting, “Where’s my suitcase? What about my stuff?”

  “Jesus, Lampton, since when has an electrician got a suitcase with him when he goes on a job? Bloody idiot. You’ll get your suitcase back, but first I want that tape.”

  *

  Ten minutes later, Billy, Crane, Edwards and Lampton were in the screened off portion of the SIB office, ready to listen to Lampton’s Dictaphone tape of his conversation with Sir Peter Dunne.

  “Before we start, Sergeant,” Edwards said, using Lampton’s old rank, “Please just put this into context for me. What were you doing and where were you when Sir Peter arrived?”

  “I was in my office, Sir, dictating instructions for the move out to Iraq. I always found it best to have a list of stuff to do, stuff to take with us, stuff...”

  “Yes, alright, Lampton, I get the picture. So you were dictating. Where was the machine?”

  “In my desk drawer, Sir. I didn’t have a very large desk, so I used to keep it in a drawer and pull the drawer open when I wanted to use it. If you remember, tape machines were much larger ten years ago. Especially this one, it was so old it was a huge clunky thing.” Looking up at Edwards, Lampton said, “But I don’t suppose you’d know that, Sir, being young, like. I mean, younger than me, that is.”

  “Lampton,” growled Crane.

  “Right, sorry. Anyway I was dictating, when in burst Sir Peter Dunne, as he is now. I stood up quick, like, and dropped the microphone onto the machine as I put my hand to my side to salute him.”

  “Didn’t the machine stop recording automatically? Didn’t you have to keep your finger on a button or something on the handset to make it record?” Crane asked.

  “Ordinarily, yes. But my handset was a bit dodgy so when I began dictating, I’d wound an elastic band over the button, to keep the connection you see.”

  “Yes, I see, Sergeant. Play the tape please, Crane,” Edwards said and they all leaned in to listen.

  DUNNE: At ease, soldier.

  LAMPTON: Thank you, Sir.

  DUNNE: Lampton, I have your witness statement here about Carol Newton’s murder.

  LAMPTON: Sir.

  DUNNE: It strikes me as unclear.

  LAMPTON: Oh, I thought I’d made myself very clear, Sir. I just told the RMP what I knew.

  DUNNE: But you talked about things you didn’t actually know about, didn’t you Lampton? Not really. It strikes me that there is a lot of conjecture and supposition in there. Particularly about Carol Newton’s private life.

  LAMPTON: Sorry about that, Sir.

  DUNNE: Good I’m glad you are. Now, I’d like you to make another statement, a less, shall we say, ambiguous one.

  LAMPTON: If you think that’s best, Sir.

  DUNNE: I do, Sergeant, and so will you, for the rest of your career I’d say.

  LAMPTON: Very well, Sir. What would you like me to say?

  DUNNE: That you didn’t know of any relationship Carol Newton was having with anyone other than her husband.

  LAMPTON: Sir.

  DUNNE: That at no time was Carol Newton linked with Barry Foster.

  LAMPTON: Sir.

  DUNNE: That you, yourself, were with Foster on the night of the murder.

  LAMPTON: I was, Sir?

  DUNNE: Yes you were. You both went to the Sergeant’s Mess at around 18:00 hours after work and stayed until 23:00 hours. I have several other witnesses that corroborate it. At no time did Foster leave the Sergeant’s Mess during the evening. Is that clear enough for you, Lampton?”

  LAMPTON: Very clear indeed, Sir.

  DUNNE: Very well, the RMP are waiting for you over at Provost Barracks. Just to give you the opportunity of clarifying your statement, you understand?

  LAMPTON: Understood, Sir.

  DUNNE: Very well, dismissed.

  After the tape stopped, Lampton spoke into the silence. “At that point I sank back in my chair and wondered what the hell I’d just been ordered to do. Because it was an order, you see, one I needed to follow if I wanted to stay in the Army.”

  “Bloody hell,” whispered Billy. “The man was an out and out bully.”

  “There’s not much difference between bullying and ordering sometimes, Billy,” Crane said. “What do you think, Sir?” Crane turned to Edwards.

  “It’s particularly concerning that Sir Peter Dunne acted in a way that was more concerned with his own good and with Foster’s own good, rather than in the good of the victim, Carol Newton. It’s as if he considered the Army far more important than the life of a military wife.” Edwards stated rather pompously.

  “Very well put, Sir,” said Crane. Wanting to bring his Captain back down to earth, he continued, “But the sixty four thousand dollar question is - what are we going to do about it?”

  Chapter 45

  The Army pool car careered around a corner on the country lanes of West Sussex, causing Anderson to hold on to the hand grip above the passenger door.

  “Jesus, Crane, slow down will you?”

  “Sorry, Derek, I’m pretty focused today.”

  “I’m well aware of that, but we don’t want to get there too early. We need to meet the local police remember.”

  Anderson stole a look at Crane. Determination was written in his clenched jaw and white knuckles. But not the look of triumph Anderson had half expected, considering that Crane had been proven right, as usual.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Anderson asked, hoping to distract Crane from the pressure he was exerting on the accelerator pedal.

  “I’m going to play him the tape, see if he has any comments and then you can arrest him.”

  “What for?”

  “Anything you can think of, or make up on the spot,” Crane laughed. Then he sobered up. “Seriously, whatever happens I want that man to pay for what he did. Thank God the CO came to his senses and agreed that the first step was
to arrest Sir Peter on criminal charges. An Inquiry has started, but that will take too long and the public want to see decisive action now.”

  Anderson picked up the newspaper he had placed on the floor of the car, and read through part of the recent article by Harry Poole, again.

  The parents of the two young Army wives found dead with stab wounds to the heart, ten years apart, in Aldershot in Hampshire, insisted today they would not give up their fight to reopen the case, despite the failure of the government to grant a public inquiry.

  Tim Worcester, the Armed Forces Minister, said the initial findings of an Army Board of Inquiry into the deaths of Carol Newton and Mel Green did not alter the Ministry of Defence's view.

  The Aldershot barracks, at the time of the death of Carol Newton in 2003, was actively involved in the preparation of the invasion of Iraq. “Although this situation was not unique to Aldershot, it was here that the problem was at its most acute, reducing the Army's ability to meet fully its duty of care and supervision responsibilities,” the Inquiry is believed to say.

  Coroners recorded murder on both deaths, but the killer has never been brought to justice. In the hours after the death of Carol Newton, Sgt Barry Foster was heard to make comments about having killed her. But the comments were not regarded as serious at the time, rather as loutish bravado, according to Army sources.

  Newton’s father pointed out today, “If these comments had been taken seriously at the time, Mel Green would still be alive today, as Foster would be incarcerated in prison, not free to kill again.”

  He went on to say: “At the time of Carol’s death there was a string of failures by the Army. Somebody has got to be answerable for this. I don't see that the MoD or the government can sit there and say there's no need for a public inquiry when it cost the lives of two young Army wives … the only way to clear this up and give closure to the families is to hold a public inquiry and make people be accountable for their actions.”