40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Cartmell, Wendy

  As Crane drove, he opened the windows. The weather was holding and Aldershot didn’t look as bleak in the sun. Even a Mediterranean beach, which looks inviting in the sunshine, isn’t much of a paradise in the cold wind and rain. Aldershot was no different. Its mean streets were today brightened by sunlight and looked less threatening and desolate.

  Driving along the dual carriageway, towards the police station, he glanced to his left at the Queens Theatre, where the civic reception was held to welcome the athletes to the town. It was deserted now, apart from a small cluster of men perched on the tiered steps. It seemed they huddled together for protection, rather than warmth, as it was over 20˚C. A group of elderly Gurkhas, small and insignificant in the large wide space, drinking bottles of water and clutching plastic carrier bags.

  ***

  After accepting a welcome cup of tea, but declining Anderson’s invitation to share his cake, Crane asked what was happening with the investigation into the petty thefts.

  “Nothing.” Anderson choked on a piece of cake and had to be revived with a swig of tea. “No more thefts, but we’re still no nearer to finding out who did it. Whoever it was probably thinks they’ve got away with it by now.”

  “Just what I thought. But that won’t be acceptable to the Wicked Witch of the North.”

  “Wicked Witch of the North? Oh, you mean the ice cold Miss Stone,” Anderson laughed and threatened to choke on his cake again. “Mind you she’s a looker don’t you think, Crane? If you can thaw that ice cool exterior that is. If only I was twenty years younger...”

  “Sorry, Derek, not interested and neither should you be. Don’t forget you’re a happily married man. So if you don’t mind, can we get back to work? I’ve come up with a plan.”

  “Why does it always worry me when you come up with a plan, Crane?”

  “Don’t worry, Derek, it’s only a small spot of misdirection,” and Crane leaned in to give Anderson the details.

  By the end of their chat, it was decided that a young WPC would join the workforce as a temporary helping hand, subject to the witch’s approval, of course. By posing as the kind of girl who couldn’t care less about her job or the athletes, they hoped she could ingratiate herself with the person or persons who were interested in pilfering a few more trinkets. It may take a few days for the undercover operation to work, but the WPC wouldn’t be in any harm and the witch would prefer working with the police rather than the army. Crane’s final trump card was that Anderson could take the credit if it worked.

  “Just so long as it’s your idea if it doesn’t,” Anderson called to Crane’s retreating back as he left to return to the garrison.

  Night 9

  The plan about sending a WPC under cover, stuck in Crane’s mind, so he phoned Tina to check she was alright and to let her know he’d be late – again. Making a second phone call he requested that Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones attend the SIB office that evening, bringing with him any background information he had on the Afghan officers.

  The Lance Corporal’s sallow complexion hadn’t been improved by the good weather. Crane thought he was no doubt too busy pouring over his satellite images and computers, or whatever the hell he consulted, to spend any time outdoors. And God forbid he should do any exercise. The lad looked like he’d be blown over by a gust of wind, in sharp contrast to Billy, who stood all rippling muscles, blond hair and freckles.

  “Um, Sergeant Major, um oh, Sergeant Williams,” the Lance Corporal bumbled his way into the room, laden with files, which he nearly dropped as he caught sight of Billy.

  “Lance Corporal, thank you so much for coming over and bringing your information to share with us. Shall we sit at the table?”

  Crane led the way, giving a slight shake of his head at the puzzled look Billy had thrown him. Shrugging his shoulders Billy also sat as the Lance Corporal’s precarious pile of papers slid out of his arms and onto the table’s shiny surface.

  “So, what have you brought us?” Crane continued to charm.

  “Well, sir, I’ve got the files on the Afghan officers, as you requested and I’ve also taken the liberty of bringing the latest intelligence for you. I would, of course, be happy to decode anything that you may have trouble understanding. Is Captain Edwards joining us?” The Lance Corporal looks around the room, as if expecting to see the Captain materialise from under a desk and shout ‘boo!’

  “Not tonight no, Lance Corporal. He’s tasked me with running the security operation for the garrison, remember?”

  “Oh yes, of course, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Taking pity on the Lance Corporal’s flaming face, Crane and Billy turned their attention to the files. Unfortunately it didn’t take very long. Each file was slimmer than a credit card. They also looked at the Intelligence Operative’s ‘Intel’ as he proudly called it. Crane had to admit he couldn’t actually understand a word of it and that’s when the young man came into his own, pulling out maps and charts, which indicated where each officer was from and where their units were deployed. Noted on the map were details of how many men they commanded and what their main area of operation was. Satellite photographs indicated the last known location of each unit, none of which had moved in any direction without their officers.

  “Probably enjoying a bit of time off,” Billy observed.

  Ignoring the comment, Dudley-Jones then provided log sheets which monitored mobile phone calls the officers had made since being on the garrison. Most of them were to family, only a handful to their units.

  “So, sir, the idea is to crack the code,” he explained to Crane.

  “The code Lance Corporal? What code?”

  “The language used in the phone calls. Whether they actually mean what they are saying.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Billy asked.

  “Because they are trying to disguise what they really mean by using normal everyday language.”

  “Isn’t that rather difficult to determine?” Crane wanted to know. “After all it’s mostly conjecture, surely.”

  “Possibly, sir, but we have men trained and practiced in this and you’d be amazed what we find out. We’ve likened it to cracking the German codes in the Second World War.”

  “Well, it’s all very impressive, Lance Corporal.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dudley-Jones puffed up with pride.

  “But I was just wondering, how are you tracking them whilst they are on the garrison?”

  “Tracking them?” Dudley-Jones looked at Crane and then Billy, whose stony face held no answer. “On the garrison?”

  Crane nodded.

  “Do you think we should be?” Dudley-Jones looked as if Crane had just pulled a gun on him.

  “Yes, Lance Corporal.” Crane stood and moved around the office. “What if they are planning something here on the garrison? Without outside help. How would we know?”

  Dudley-Jones glanced down at his files, but the inert pieces of paper said nothing. He turned to Crane, tilting his head back to look at the man looming above him.

  “We wouldn’t,” he whispered and his face began to tinge with pink.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Crane made the Lance Corporal wait, while he strolled over to the coffee machine and helped himself.

  Remaining standing he said, “So, if we’re all agreed it’s a problem,” Billy and Dudley-Jones nodded, “then,” Crane smiled, “I think I may have the solution.”

  The solution involved Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones attaching himself to the Commanding Officer of the Coldstream Guards, ostensibly as a part-time aide. He would then be able to come and go as he liked, staying in the shadows, observing and most importantly, listening to the Afghan officers’ conversations. The Lance Corporal had admitted that whilst not being fluent, he had a fair working knowledge of Pashtu. The plan seemed perfect in its simplicity but Crane still sensed some reluctance on the part of Dudley-Jones.

  “I’ll certainly pass your plan along to my superiors, Sergeant Major Crane,” Dudl
ey-Jones sighed and collected his files.

  “My plan? Is it my plan, Billy?” Crane tried and failed to keep the smile off his face as he looked at his young sergeant.

  Taking his cue Billy said, “No, sir, I wasn’t aware that it was. If I remember correctly it was the Lance Corporal here who came up with it.”

  Dudley-Jones’ head shot up.

  “A stroke of genius on his part, identifying a potential chink in the armour of intelligence surrounding the protection of the athletes, I’d say.”

  “Couldn’t agree more, Billy. So, Lance Corporal, well done on your incisive overview of the situation. I’m sure your superiors will be impressed. I know Captain Edwards will be when I tell him all about it tomorrow.”

  “Oh I see, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The young man stood and marched from the office as though anxious to get away before Crane changed his mind.

  “That should do it.” Crane didn’t bother to keep the satisfaction out of his voice, as the office door swung shut on the retreating Dudley-Jones.

  “Nice one, boss,” Billy grinned. “A very incisive overview of the situation.”

  Day 10

  Padam awoke to a cluster of black dots hovering in front of his eyes. As he blinked, he saw the mass was growing, advancing across the ceiling and down the walls. He was afraid of what the damp mould was doing to his lungs. Several of his friends appeared to have developed breathing problems, but weren’t able to see a doctor as their paperwork hadn’t come through yet. If only they had all understood the importance of birth certificates. Not having one made things very difficult indeed here in England. Nepal wasn’t big on paperwork when he was born. You were just born. End of story. Or rather, the start of it, depending on which way you looked at things. Padam hoped his story wouldn’t end before he was re-united with his family.

  Fed up with staring at the ceiling, he climbed out of bed, picking his way around the still sleeping bodies of his friends on his way to the bathroom. More mould. The bathroom suite was old and decrepit but still sturdy under the grime. It was a shame they couldn’t afford cleaning products. Shuffling into the kitchen Padam made himself a cup of hot water, wishing there was some tea to put in it. He was hungry but didn’t bother to look in the cupboards for any breakfast. He knew they would be empty. But despite these problems Padam was feeling positive, as today he was going to see the interpreter at the Gurkha Welfare Office about the smudge. And it wasn’t far to walk.

  He was glad to see the kind lady was in the office when he arrived. She looked up and smiled at him, indicating he should once again sit on one of the red plastic chairs. It seemed a very long wait, but Padam amused himself by looking around the office. Brightly coloured posters were plastered on one of the walls. Perhaps conveying information? Padam wasn’t sure. He checked through his plastic carrier bag to make sure he had his important documents with him. If in doubt produce them, he was always told. His eye was caught by a picture of his family. His wife, son and daughter. Their image caught forever on a small glossy square of paper. Waiving him goodbye as he left for England. Would he ever see them again? Somehow he doubted it. But he had to keep hoping.

  His introspection was interrupted by the sound of an old Nepalese man coming out of an office in the corner of the room. The kindly lady called to Padam. It was his turn.

  “Welcome, Padam,” the man greeted him speaking in Nepalese accompanied by a small bow, which Padam returned. “What can I do for you?”

  It was such a relief to tell someone his important news. A fellow Nepalese, the interpreter was much younger than Padam. His name was Unman Bahadur and Padam learned that his father was currently a captain in the Gurkha Regiment. Glossy black hair topped the round happy face prevalent in his race. Padam noted the man was dressed smartly in a dark suit and didn’t look hungry. Unman listened with respect, making notes along the way as Padam hesitantly told the story of the smudge.

  Perhaps because the interpreter was from a family with military connections, he wasn’t perturbed by the fact that Padam had been out on the garrison at night. He agreed that the authorities needed telling and promised to let them know at the earliest opportunity. But that wasn’t good enough for Padam, who refused to move until Mr Bahadur contacted the Royal Military Police. This forced the interpreter to pick up the telephone and have a conversation, which he translated for Padam along the way.

  - “Good morning, this is Unman Bahadur from the Aldershot Gurkha Welfare Office. Could I please speak to someone in charge? Yes I’ll hold. Thank you.” Mr Bahadur translated whilst he waited to be connected.

  - “To whom am I speaking?”

  - “Good morning, Staff Sergeant Jones. I wish to let you know of a suspicious sighting that has been reported to this office by a Gurkha, living in Aldershot.”

  - “Yes, I do think this matter should be taken seriously.”

  - “What’s happened? Well, it appears that Padam Gurung was on the garrison on July 4th and again on July 7th between Midnight and four am, when he saw a suspicious shadow moving around in the vicinity of the sports centre.”

  - “Yes, on both nights, that’s correct.”

  - “He has been unable to report it to anyone because of the language barrier, Staff Sergeant. He’s had to wait until today, which was the earliest appointment with me.”

  - “Yes, Padam can be contacted through this office. I’m sure he would be happy to talk to you through me. We could do that now on the telephone if you like.”

  - “Oh, I see. Yes, please do call me at any time on Aldershot 774302. If I’m not here a member of staff will be able to contact me straight away.”

  - “Yes, thank you, goodbye.”

  Throughout the telephone conversation, Padam interrupted, telling the interpreter that he would go to the RMP that very minute to tell them what he had seen. But as the conversation went on, he became deflated, realising that wasn’t going to happen.

  After replacing the receiver, Mr Bahadur explained that Staff Sergeant Jones was very interested in what Padam had seen, but unfortunately had to go and deal with another equally pressing matter. But Padam could be sure the RMP would be in touch with him, through the Welfare Office, very shortly, and someone would take a statement from him. After taking Padam’s address, the interpreter said that he himself must get on as he had other people to see this morning, but he was confident he would see Padam again quite soon.

  Collecting his carrier bag Padam shuffled out of the office, smiled goodbye to the kind lady and went back to the wasteland of his life.

  Night 10

  You might ask what I’m doing here? How I came to be here? Well I am one of the lucky but small contingent of officers deemed to be ‘brilliant’. The ones with the most potential. The ones with leadership qualities that will ensure we become the highest ranking officers of our army. The happy chosen few.

  But what you stinking infidels fail to realise is that I come from an affluent, already powerful family. Because of this privilege I have been educated and am comfortable in elite social circles. Your leaders don’t understand that my family always intended that I join the military. That I was groomed from childhood to play an important role in the running of our country. We already have politicians and religious leaders in our extended family. But there was no one in the military. Until now.

  I have learned my lessons well. I can be suave and sophisticated if needed, yet a ruthless leader of men when required. Bringing fear into their eyes, ensuring their utter devotion to me and our glorious cause.

  The soldiers I lead are mostly from poor backgrounds. They have little or nothing of their own. In many instances they are illiterate. They do not have electricity or running water in the hovels they live in. Therefore it falls to people like me, their leader, to shield them from the modernism of the western ways. To ensure they are immersed in the teachings of the Qur’an as well as in the ways of basic fighting. So when the time comes there will be fighting forces all over our country that will be ready,
willing and able, to rise up against the infidel invaders. To claim back our country in the name of Allah and expel the evil force that is poisoning our land.

  Therefore my task here is twofold. Firstly, to learn from your precious army. To learn all your ways, so that I may understand you better and therefore be able to outsmart you in battle. Secondly, to strike a blow against you unbelievers. Thirdly to do so without harming myself. For I am destined to be an important leader. A call I cannot ignore, nor would want to. For I am the chosen one. And as such am invincible.

  Day 11

  The crash from above had Crane racing up the stairs.

  “Tina!” he called as he took the stairs two at a time, following the sound to the bathroom door. “Tina, are you alright?” he called again, pushing the door.

  Nothing. No reply from Tina and no movement from the door. It remained solid in its rigid frame. An innate object, oblivious to Crane’s concern for his wife.

  “Tina, for God’s sake!”

  This time he heard a slight moan, muffled by the pine.

  “What the hell did you lock the door for?”

  He rattled the door knob, although he knew it was useless. The door was locked from the inside by a small bar, pushed across from the door to the lintel. He would have to break in.

  Taking a few steps backwards, he hesitated. He daren’t shoulder the door open, God knows what damage it would do to the weakened bone. Luckily the landing wasn’t wide and so supporting his back and hands on the railing he gave a well placed flat footed kick to a point just above the door knob. Three times. The door gave way, causing some damage to his foot in reprisal.

  Crane burst into the room finding his wife dazed and confused in the bath, entrenched in slimy water. Grabbing her arm, he tried to lift her out, only to find she was as slippery as a piece of cod from the fishmongers in the High Street. Her arm flopped out of his grasp and slithered back into the water.