Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Crane didn’t know what would greet him upon his arrival at Ribblehead, but logic presumed there would now be a few hours of ‘settling in’. The hijackers had made their demands and would now be concentrating on keeping the train and the hostages secure. The police, security services and army would be getting their people in place and appointing a negotiator. The television stations and reporters would be doing something similar. Getting their outside broadcast vans as close to the incident as possible and pulling reporters off other stories to cover the biggest news item in Britain since the 7/7 bombings. No doubt some news programme anchors would be sent to Ribblehead. What could have greater impact, than to present the whole evening news programme with a picture of the train marooned on the track as the backdrop?

  Crane wondered how Billy, his young, easy going, happy-go-lucky Special Investigations Branch Sergeant was faring. In his mind he saw Billy’s engaging smile, eyes as blue as a Mediterranean sky and blond hair kept as long as regulations allowed. A tall striking figure - but not immediately recognisable as military. Crane hoped that would work in Billy’s favour, for if the hijackers were to discover his military background, it could compromise not only his safety but the safety of his fellow hostages. The last thing Billy needed was for the hostage-takers to realise they had one of the hated British Army in their midst. That thought made Crane increase the pressure of his foot on the accelerator pedal. His hands squeezed the steering wheel, as though he were squeezing the life out of one of the captors, strangling him with his bare hands.

  11:15 hours

  Someone else steaming up the motorway in a northerly direction was Diane Chambers, self styled investigative reporter for the Aldershot News, a provincial paper, which was part of a group of newspapers covering the county of Hampshire. Her young legs, clad in jeans, were trembling with excitement as she listened to the same news bulletin as Crane. She’d seen Crane a few minutes earlier as he was sitting in his car, waiting in a line of traffic to get onto the motorway. Tension had radiated from him. Hands gripping the steering wheel, he’d gunned his engine and swung his head from side to side, as he’d impatiently waited for a gap in the traffic.

  Her radar was always on high alert whenever she saw Crane in that sort of mood. He’d provided her with yards of copy in the past, from murders and bombs, to an expose of military secrets. So putting two and two together and making five, Diane decided there must be a connection between Crane and the hijacked train. Which meant a connection to Aldershot.

  Ignoring the protests from her editor, that were spewing out of her hands-free mobile phone, she had swung her car around and followed Crane onto the motorway. To start with she was working blind. She had no idea where he was going, but was convinced that wherever it was, she needed to be going there as well. And now she knew, thanks to the BBC news broadcast. She was as focused on her mission as no doubt Crane was, without any thought of how long it would take her to get to Yorkshire or the fact that she had no change of clothes with her. She had her coat, computer, small digital recorder and her purse, which was all an impulsive, ambitious reporter needed.

  Cutting across her editor’s remonstrations she shouted, ‘Look, Crane wouldn’t take off like that without a very good reason. Which must mean a local connection between Aldershot and this train hijack. If you don’t want me to go, then I’m officially on leave. I’ve got a couple of weeks owing.’ The response to that was silence, so Diane continued, ‘But if I’m right, then I’m on the clock. Fair enough?’

  As her editor gruffly agreed she decided to push her luck. ‘In the meantime, get someone to do some background on the Ribblehead Viaduct. I’m going to need it for the piece you’re going to splash all over the front page of next week’s paper.’

  She ended the call, cutting off his laughter. He wouldn’t be laughing soon, she thought. He’d be falling all over her for copy. Just as soon as she found the connection, that was. To make the miles go quicker she ran over her knowledge of Crane. A tough, no nonsense investigator, he’d proverbially pulled the wool over her eyes on more than one occasion. Yet he wasn’t beyond using her services when it suited him. He was married with one son, but she didn’t think his family were on the train. Although he was from the Newcastle area, his wife Tina was a southerner born and bred, so Diane doubted Tina would be in Yorkshire. That left Crane’s crew. It must be someone close to him, she figured. An anonymous soldier would be a worry, but that worry would belong to the military no doubt already gathering at Ribblehead. It wouldn’t be personal to Crane.

  As her mobile was on hands free, she risked looking at it and dialled a number. It was quickly answered by a woman.

  ‘Good morning, is it possible to speak to the Padre, please?’ Diane asked her.

  ‘Certainly,’ the female voice replied, ‘I’ll just get him for you.’

  Chambers cut the line, not needing to speak to the Padre, or his wife Kim. She now knew the connection wasn’t Kim, Crane’s ex-office manager, nor Captain Symmonds, Padre of the Garrison Church, both close to Crane and accomplices in previous investigations.

  Diane had one more call to make, to Provost Barracks. Asking to speak to Captain Draper, she was told he was in a meeting. But her next request hit the jackpot.

  ‘Can I speak to Sgt Billy Williams then please?’ she said.

  ‘Sorry, miss, he’s on leave at the moment.’

  ‘Lucky sod,’ Diane retorted. ‘I wish I was on a sunny beach somewhere.’

  The soldier laughed. ‘No such luck there. Sgt Williams is visiting his parents in Carlisle. Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, no message. Thank you.’

  Diane cut the call. She’d found the connection. Billy must be on the train. But she didn’t feel exuberant about that piece of information. Not at all. She obviously knew Billy in a professional capacity. But they’d bumped into each other socially a few times and had a laugh and a few drinks together. But on Friday they were due to meet by arrangement. A date. The thought had previously made her smile. Now it scared her. Would he still be alive by Friday, she wondered, as sweat trickled down her face and slicked her hands on the steering wheel.

  12:00 hours

  Billy was squirming, trying to get comfortable on the train seat that he’d no doubt have to get used to, even though there wasn’t enough room for his lanky legs. He thought about the last time he’d been on a train. Just two days earlier, when he was returning home, going to visit his parents who lived in Carlisle. Going back to see his mum for a couple of days, to eat her Sunday lunch, leave some money on the mantelpiece so she could treat herself, give her a hug and a kiss until next time. Or at least that had been the plan.

  Not that Billy minded visiting her, he loved his mum to bits, of course he did. It was just that he didn’t like being away from the lads. He was proud of his military service and his regiment and preferred to be close to the body of men that were his real home and family these days, no matter where in Britain, or abroad, they were posted.

  Last weekend his idea had been that after the hellos and welcomes, he’d go with his old man to the local boozer and sink a few pints, which were essential to helping Billy sleep in the small lumpy bed he’d had since he was a child. He always enjoyed his few snatched hours with his father and his cronies whenever he could find the time to visit. The local Working Men’s Club reminded him of the camaraderie of the Sergeant’s Mess. The club was pitched right in the middle of the Mount Pleasant Housing Estate in Carlisle. Unfortunately there was nothing pleasant about the estate. A jumble of people, cars, discarded appliances and dogs summed up most of the area. A real live ‘Benefit Street’. His mum and dad lived on the fringe of the estate, in a quieter part, mostly inhabited by elderly residents.

  On his walk from the train to his parent’s house last Friday, he’d met May, a relative from his large extended family. A younger sibling on his mum’s side, although there wasn’t anything young about May anymore. The older generation of the Williams family still lived clust
ered together around a couple of streets on Mount Pleasant Estate. The younger generation having left years ago, mostly going to the South of England to find work.

  But instead of just sharing a cup of coffee and enjoying each other’s company, May was jumpy and upset. He’d finally got her to confess that the behaviour of one of local gangs was getting out of hand. They were stealing cars and mugging people for a few quid and their mobile phones. Breaking into empty houses and then selling the stolen stuff to riffraff from other estates. The residents thought maybe the youths needed to steal to fuel their drug habits. Either that or it was done out of boredom. They weren’t really sure. But whatever the reason, it was frightening the life out of the older residents. Billy was upset enough to find that they were harassing May, but positively angry that the behaviour was also affecting his Mum and Dad. He’d promised May that he’d sort it out, but without revealing who he was. Telling her he’d be the soul of discretion.

  Dragging his thoughts back to the present, Billy acknowledged that now he had another problem to sort out. But a much more deadly one than a gang of youths roaming the local streets. Here was also a gang of youths, but this time they were in charge of a train, not a few streets on a housing estate. Young men armed with automatic weapons and hand guns, instead of unarmed kids. Altogether a much more deadly and dangerous proposition.

  14:00 hours

  The young police constable at the barrier set up in front of Ribblehead railway station, eyed Crane nervously. ‘I’m not allowed to let just anyone pass, sir,’ he said, his large Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he spoke. ‘And you’re not on my list,’ he said and rather needlessly held up his clipboard.

  ‘I totally understand that,’ said Crane smoothly, trying not to get distracted by the young man’s unfortunate physical appendage. ‘But, you see, I’m not just anyone. I’m Sgt Major Crane of the Special Investigations Branch of the Royal Military Police,’ and Crane lifted the identification he wore around his neck and poked it in the young man’s face. ‘I must have access to the control centre. I’ve inside information about the hijacked train that I guarantee they’ll want to hear.’

  Captain Draper had earlier supplied the information about the location of the men who were to be the ‘boots on the ground’ as it were. Those nearest to the hijacked train and who would make the tactical decisions. However, Draper had been unable to gain Crane official access, making Crane rely on his wits to get around the cordons.

  ‘Well, um, well, I’m not sure, sir.’

  The young man looked around, probably hoping someone would come and save him. Crane, however, was hoping they wouldn’t.

  ‘Well, don’t you worry, because I am sure. In the station building are they?’ Crane asked and as the police constable turned to look where he was indicating, Crane ducked under the hastily erected tape and sprinted for the Victorian structure. The station entrance was guarded by a soldier and Crane knew that all he had to do was to get to him, to ensure access.

  With, ‘Oy, come back here,’ being shouted at his back, Crane ran on, black suit jacket flapping and regimental tie askew. He slowed as he approached the soldier guarding the station building, who had been watching the altercation. However, instead of challenging Crane, he stood to attention. Crane’s dark suit and regimental tie over his crisp white shirt - his normal SIB civilian uniform - and with his identification around his neck, ensured instant recognition from the soldier on duty.

  ‘Sir.’ The soldier acknowledged Crane’s presence but did not salute, even though Crane was of superior rank. Crane not being in army uniform meant that a salute from the lesser ranking man wasn’t required. The soldier signalled to the young police constable, with a nod of his head, that Crane’s presence was in order.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Crane replied. ‘I understand that this is the command centre for the hijacked train.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Then I need to be inside.’

  ‘That’s not possible, sir. My orders are that no one can disturb the meeting.’

  Crane said. ‘Would you let me in if I told you there was a sergeant from the Royal Military Police on the train? And that he is communicating with me via mobile phone? I believe that makes me a vital part of the investigation.’

  The beauty of the Branch was that its investigators cut across the military rank system when on an active case and as far as Crane was concerned Billy being on the hijacked train made it an active investigation.

  The soldier blanched at the news and sharply stepped aside. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said and allowed Crane access to the station building. Crane nodded his thanks, opened the door and stepped into the large waiting room of the train station. In the open space, three men stood around a trestle table on which a large scale ordnance survey map was taped. Two of them were in army uniform and one in civilian clothing. They were all looking at the map as if it held the answer to their unspoken question - what the hell do we do next? No one seemed to have noticed that Crane had slipped in and quietly closed the door behind him. He stood against the high stone wall, which gave off a slight chill and settled down to observe.

  ‘Obviously the first priority is to ensure the safety of the hostages,’ the civilian said, his voice bouncing off the high ceiling. He was a small dapper man, his suit as well cut as his hair.

  ‘I realise that, but the army’s first priority is to get them out of there.’

  Crane didn’t recognise the speaker but his uniform identified him as holding the rank of Colonel.

  ‘We can’t just dive in, for God’s sake,’ the diminutive civilian replied and started pacing the room, his words quickening with his steps. ‘We’ve got to at least try and talk to the hijackers. Start a dialogue. Persuade them to let the hostages go. Launching an immediate, brutal attack without previously exhausting the potential for a negotiated solution, might inflame the extremist’s cause still further.’ He stopped, turned towards the Colonel and implored, ‘And God knows what the British public would think.’

  ‘Caring what the British public think is your job, not mine. Nor am I going to pander to your bosses in Whitehall and Westminster. My only concern is as principal operational advisor to my senior officers. I’m the one who says when, if, and how we go in. So, if we knew something about these bloody hijackers, it might help. Have we got any background on them yet?’ the Colonel snapped in exasperation as he looked across the table to a young soldier that Crane recognised.

  Corporal Dudley-Jones was in the Intelligence Service and had assisted Crane when they worked together on a security case. Their task had been to keep the athletes of Team GB safe whilst they were on Aldershot Garrison in the run-up to the 2012 Olympic Games.

  ‘At the moment, sir,’ Dudley-Jones said, ‘we don’t think they’re part of a recognised faction, but army and civilian intelligence services are doing their best to get us as much information as they can on who might be involved in such an operation. We’re also working with the NCA, to see what they have on their books that might help. That’s the newly formed National Crime Agency, sir,’ he explained to the Colonel’s blank expression.

  ‘And how the bloody hell do you intend to find out who’s holding the train and passengers to ransom?’ the Colonel shouted.

  ‘Oh, Dudley-Jones here will be listening to the ‘chatter’ on the airways and on the internet, I expect. Not to mention running facial recognition software. If the group can be found on any CCTV footage, that is. In fact any intelligence, IT and communications will all be analysed and used to help us deal with these bloody idiots,’ Crane said, coming to Dudley-Jones’ rescue. It seemed the lad hadn’t lost his rather embarrassing habit of his face suffusing with colour when he was put under pressure and not sure how to reply to a question. He was a very intelligent young soldier, but one who was happier communicating with his computer, rather than face to face with human beings.

  Whirling around, the Colonel snarled at Crane, ‘Who the bloody hell are y
ou and how did you get in here?’

  ‘Sgt Major Crane, SIB.’ Crane deliberately left the ‘sir’ part out of his answer, in response to the man’s obnoxious attitude.

  ‘We don’t need help from the SIB, Crane, so you can go back to wherever the hell it is you came from.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be that hasty if I were you, sir, as I have information that can help.’ Crane bristled at the Colonel’s attitude but tried hard to keep his contempt for the man under control, at least until he was safely established as a necessary part of the command team.

  ‘Do enlighten us, Sgt Major,’ the civilian asked with a sharp sliver of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Do share your knowledge.’

  ‘How many hijackers and hostages are on the train?’ Crane replied by asking a question of his own, deliberately leaning nonchalantly against the door and looking around with a slight smile on his face.

  ‘At the moment, we don’t know, sir,’ Dudley-Jones answered. Crane’s one ally in a room full of hissing snakes.

  So Crane told them. ‘There are 6 hijackers and minimum of 4 hostages.’

  ‘How the bloody hell do you know that? Have the SIB added clairvoyance to their list of attributes?’ Clearly the Colonel had a very low opinion of the Branch and Crane was very much looking forward to putting him in his place.

  ‘Because - ‘ But before Crane could continue, his phone beeped with a message. Pulling it out of his pocket and reading it, Crane then looked up and grinned at the assembled men. ‘Sorry, make that 8 hostages and 6 hijackers.’ Looking around at the silent, gaping faces he said, ‘My sergeant, Billy Williams, is on the train and has managed to keep his mobile hidden from the hijackers. So I think that makes me a vital member of your team, don’t you?’