40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Cartmell, Wendy

  “What the hell?”

  Pulling the plug to let the water out of the bath, Crane reached up to the shelving above the toilet, grabbing the first large towel he could find. Wrapping this around Tina’s back and under her arms, he managed to lift her to her feet holding her as she stepped out of the bath. Throwing the now sodden towel to one side, he watched as she wrapped herself in a towelling dressing gown and shuffled from the bathroom to the bedroom. Leaving her there to rest, he went downstairs to make a cup of tea and tried to calm down. Bloody stupid woman, what the hell did she think she was doing? It was probably some sort of home beauty treatment he thought, knowing Tina.

  “My hero!” she grinned as he returned to the bedroom, two mugs of tea in his hand. His with three sugars in for the shock.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Crane sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Just fancied a bath,” she smiled tentatively, her damp hair hanging round her face, sticking to her neck and shoulders. The precious bump barely contained by the bathrobe.

  “What the hell did you put in the water? I still can’t get the grease off my hands,” Crane rubbed them together to prove his point. “And I’ll have to change my shirt.”

  He looked down at his grease splattered white shirt that more than likely needed throwing away.

  “Baby oil,” Tina answered. “I read somewhere that if you put it in your bath water, it helps to keep your skin supple so you don’t get stretch marks.”

  “Jesus, had you put the whole bloody bottle in? Can you stick to showers in future, Tina? Please? If it means having you in one piece but with stretch marks, then so be it. And don’t lock the door! Understood?” Crane’s fear made him shout.

  “Understood, Sergeant Major,” Tina grinned. “Now shouldn’t you be getting to work? Sorry I’ve made you late.”

  “It’s okay,” Crane replied, but glanced at his watch all the same. “Look, why don’t we go out for dinner tomorrow night. I know I haven’t been able to spend much time at home lately, but I’ll make sure I can get away on time tomorrow. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now bugger off,” and she sank back on the pillows cradling her mug of tea.

  Crane was, in fact, quite glad to bugger off, although he was accompanied by the guilty hot pin poking his brain as he drove to work. He felt guilty for not spending more time with Tina, who was alone during her maternity leave from her job at the bank, not only during the day but well into the evening on most nights. The scan had gone well and she’d begrudgingly shown him the photographs, carefully pasted into the ‘Our First Baby Album’. He hadn’t expected his businesslike independent wife to be so soppy, but it looked like becoming a mother was changing her.

  He also felt guilty when he went off duty, worrying something would happen on the garrison whilst he was away. He’d be glad when the athletes went. Still, the thefts from Sergeant Major Dunn’s stores had been sorted out. It turned out to be a couple of opportunists from the civilian staff, who were now spending their time going to the Jobcentre Plus instead of peeling potatoes. The thefts of jewellery still hadn’t been solved, but the undercover WPC was in place and hopefully ingratiating her way into an unsuspecting, thieving group of cleaners.

  Crane was fed up of feeling guilty. Was this a forerunner of things to come he wondered? Will he spend the rest of his army career feeling torn between his family and the army? Probably, he decided as he swung into the car park in front of his barracks.

  Unfortunately his day didn’t improve, as the first thing he saw when he entered the office, was the sallow face of the Intelligence Operative.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Major,” Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones called standing to attention. “I wonder if I might have a word.”

  “Very well, Lance Corporal, wait in my office and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Crane took his time making his morning coffee. Then had a quick look through the memos and lists left by Billy and Kim from last night and checked if the forensic report had come in on Lance Corporal Simms. It had. So he read it. Only then did he go into his office, lean back in his seat and look at the Intelligence Operative.

  “Right, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, sir. There’s been a fair amount of chatter on the airwaves over the past couple of days.”

  Crane closed his eyes, bloody hell this was all he needed.

  The Lance Corporal continued, “We have reason to believe the talk was about a plan to be implemented soon.”

  Crane opened his eyes and fixed them on the Intelligence Operative.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Um, at the moment that’s a bit vague.”

  “I see. Who was this chatter between?” When he got no reply, Crane tried again, “Is it from any of the Afghan officers on the garrison?” Dudley-Jones was beginning to try his patience.

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Not exactly?” By now Crane was very pissed off.

  “No, sir, none of them were involved as far as we know.”

  Crane got up and walked into the main office with the Lance Corporal trotting behind him and stood by the large scale map of the garrison. Taking a deep breath he tried out his foundling diplomatic skills.

  “So, as I understand it, Lance Corporal, you are warning me that there is increased activity on the airwaves, which may or may not indicate that there is a terrorist plan afoot.” Crane’s fists were clenched at his sides.

  “Exactly right,” the Lance Corporal beamed. But with his sallow skin it looked more like a Halloween leer.

  “This may or may not involve one or more of the Afghan officers on our garrison.”

  “Indeed, sir.” The leer was still in place.

  “However, as I also understand it you have not one piece of physical evidence or any witnesses to support this.” By now Crane’s jaw was clenched as well as his fists.

  The leer started to wobble. “Well...”

  “Just as I thought. The thing is, Lance Corporal, I am just a simple detective working with dead bodies, victims, forensic tests and witnesses.”

  Crane put his hand out to stop the other man speaking.

  “In other words, physical things. Things I can hold in my hand, evidence I can see and people I can talk to. These are the tools of my trade, if you like, just as Intel is yours.”

  Crane stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked around Dudley-Jones.

  “So, you are telling me that perhaps something may be happening, either shortly or in the distant future. Is that right?”

  He stopped and stared at Dudley-Jones who nodded in agreement. At least Crane thought he did. It was difficult to tell as the young man had his head on his chest, staring at the floor. Crane picked up the file containing the forensic tests on Corporal Simms.

  “The difference between us is that I can tell you that someone was definitely with Corporal Simms on the night he died. Simms had a jet black hair on his shoulder. Which is all very well, you might say. Until I also tell you that Simms was blond and none of the other soldiers who were on patrol with him that night had jet black hair.”

  The Lance Corporal didn’t speak.

  “So, as a number of the Afghan officers currently on the garrison have jet black hair, I wonder if it may be a better use of your time to get back undercover and see if you can hear any ‘chatter’ from them.” Crane put quotation marks in the air around the word chatter. “And, don’t forget to pick up any stray black hairs you may find. Dismissed.” Crane emphasised the final word by shouting it.

  Watching the Lance Corporal’s back as he left the office, Crane mulled over the conversation, feeling that his diplomatic skills still needed work, as they were more akin to sarcasm. He rubbed his beard, fingering the scar. Dear God, he thought, still twenty-nine days left.

  Night 12

  Crane’s guilty hot pin had been working overtime, meaning the day had been full of additional tension, as he was determined to get away on time and not let Tina down. Eventually h
e rushed into the house, had a quick shower and changed into clean clothes, whilst Tina waited on the settee, pretending to be absorbed in the local news. She had on her best maternity dress and to Crane looked absolutely wonderful, her skin glowing and her hair a shiny, soft curtain falling down her back.

  As Aldershot was not noted for its plethora of fine restaurants, Crane had opted for El Pic, the Spanish tapas restaurant near the Atrium, in Camberley. Thinking that something different would make it an extra special evening. As long as the food was good. And they could get a table. Maybe he should have booked? And so the worrying went on as he negotiated the back roads though Camberley’s leafy suburbs that he knew Tina aspired to live in.

  Crane’s worries were unfounded. When they arrived at the restaurant, he felt they had stepped into another world. Crane saw Tina’s eyes widen as she took in the ambience of the Spanish restaurant. Dark wooden bar, dark wooden round tables and chairs, authentic Spanish memorabilia on the walls and Spanish guitar music playing softly in the background. The only thing Crane wasn’t sure about was the Spanish flag bunting strung around the bar, which to him struck a slightly garish note in the otherwise authentic atmosphere.

  They had a drink at the bar whilst waiting for a table, which was accompanied by an appetizer of fresh tomato and garlic on toast. Crane and Tina studied the menu together.

  “What do you think we should have, Tom?”

  “Oh, well, it depends on what you fancy.”

  “So, in other words you don’t have a clue either,” she laughed.

  Rubbing his beard, Crane had to agree that he hadn’t a clue and called over a waiter to help them decipher the menu and advise them what to have. They decided to have a couple of tapas each, which would give them four dishes they could share. He knew Tina was finding it difficult to eat a lot of food, as the baby and her stomach were fighting for the limited space left in her belly. At the moment, the baby seemed to be winning.

  After eating their tapas, which they both declared delicious, Crane kept glancing at the small garden at the rear of the restaurant.

  “Tell you what,” said Tina, “why don’t we take our coffee outside?”

  Crane collected the coffee cups and followed Tina into an oasis of green shimmering under soft lights, pulling out a packet of cigarettes as soon as he sat down.

  “I’ve had a lovely evening, thanks, Tom,” Tina leaned back in her chair.

  “Well, I thought it might be the last chance we’ll get for a while.” Seeing the alarm in Tina’s eyes, he quickly added, “When the baby comes, I mean.”

  “Thank goodness for that. For a minute there I thought you’d brought me here to break the news of a posting.”

  “No love, nothing like that. This was just a nice treat.”

  “We’ll have to do more things during the day when the baby comes, I suppose. Remember, ‘have baby will travel’. I don’t intend to be the sort of mum who won’t go anywhere, who’s afraid to leave the house and who’s careful not to make any noise indoors in case the baby wakes up.”

  “Talking about travelling,” Crane thought out loud. “How would you feel about uprooting when I do get another posting? You know, leaving your mum and all that and moving to the other end of the country, or even abroad?”

  “I must admit I’ve not really wanted to think about it,” Tina tucked her hair behind her ears. “I guess I’ll just have to face it when it happens, unless...” her voice trailed away.

  “Unless?”

  “Well, unless you leave the army,” Tina fiddled with her unused sachet of sugar.

  “What’s brought this on?” Crane struggled to keep his voice even.

  “Oh, obviously having the baby. I’ve been thinking about the future, about stability for our family, about keeping you safe.” Her eyes strayed to his scar.

  “I didn’t realise it was a decision we had to make,” he replied.

  “Well, you’ve nearly done your twelve years. So you can take a lump sum re-settlement grant and still get a pension when you’re sixty-five.”

  “I know that,” Crane lit another cigarette, “but the pension would be much bigger if I left after eighteen years or went all the way to twenty-two. Maybe even taking a commission and serving until I’m fifty-five. Even I appreciate I’ll have to retire then!” Crane tried to inject some humour into the conversation, but it fell flat. So he finished with, “That’s got to be a big consideration, Tina.”

  “So has the family.” She stirred her coffee.

  “I’m sorry. I thought I was considering the family. The future of our family.” Crane crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “What about your safety?”

  “My safety?” Crane’s voice rose.

  “For God’s sake keep your voice down, Tom, or do you want the whole garden joining in our discussion?” Tina hissed. “Your safety record hasn’t been too brilliant lately, has it? What with a piece of shrapnel embedded in your face in Afghanistan and then being shot twice in a bloody church of all places!”

  Tina struggled to move into a more comfortable position on her chair.

  “Yes, well, what exactly do you think I would do if I wasn’t in the Branch?” he asked, deliberately putting her on the spot. Pulling up short of poking a finger in her face as he asked his question.

  “I don’t know. Security or something?”

  “Security? Tina are you out of your mind? I tell you, I would be if I had to take a job like that. I’m an investigator for God’s sake, not a babysitter. That’s what I’ve been moaning about for the last eleven days. And anyway, the army’s not just a job, you know that. It’s a way of life. It’s a community, a family.”

  “I’m not sure I want to join that community.”

  “Sorry?”

  Crane hadn’t the first idea what she was talking about. As far as he was concerned Tina was already part of the army community by virtue of being his wife.

  “I mean moving onto the garrison, Tom. You know I don’t want to do that and join the community of wives.”

  “Not even if I get posted abroad and you can’t come?”

  “No. I’m not sure I could take the gossip and nosiness of the other wives. And the restrictions on whom you can fraternise with. It’s the same for the women as well as the men, Tom. The rank system filters down to the wives. It drove me nuts.”

  Crane finished his coffee and pushed the cup and saucer to one side. Leaning across the table towards Tina he tried to explain.

  “Then we have a problem, Tina. As far as I’m concerned the army made me what I am today. It became the family I never had and gave me a reason to get up every morning. A vehicle to channel my energies into. And I’ve experienced so many things I wouldn’t have had a chance to do in civvy street. But now I’m to have another family. You and our baby son.”

  Crushing out his cigarette, he stood and took the car keys out of his pocket.

  “Both are equally important. Don’t make me choose between the army or you and the baby, Tina. That’s not fair.”

  Day 13

  Crane banged on Staff Sergeant Jones’ window. As Jones raised his head, Crane jerked his, more of a demand that he meet him outside than an invitation. Crane paced up and down the car park as he waited, pulling deeply on a cigarette.

  “Morning, Crane,” Jones called as he ambled out of Provost Barracks into the sunshine, wearing his short sleeved summer uniform. “Much nicer place to have a meeting, out here in the fresh air.”

  Crane didn’t hear the words, however, as a lorry rumbled by, belching diesel fumes into the air. And anyway he was too busy adding to the pollution with his cigarette.

  Once the traffic cleared, Jones tried again.

  “Morning, Crane. What’s up? You’ve got a face like a summer storm.”

  “Indigestion and bloody Edwards!” Crane started to pace, treating Staff Sergeant Jones as the friend he was and not a subordinate.

  “Ah.”

  “And the bloody Intelligence C
orp!”

  “Ah,” Jones nodded his sympathies. “That explains it then.”

  Crane stopped his pacing and whirled round to face Jones.

  “Bloody pompous prigs! They’ve just spent the last half an hour going on about intelligence chatter and mobile phone calls. None of which I could make head nor tail of. It’s like chasing shadows, or the wind. None of it means anything in terms of physical evidence or real life sightings.” Crane threw away the dead end of his cigarette which joined a pile of discarded butts and promptly lit another one.

  “Could you just calm down a minute, Crane and tell me in English what the hell you’re going on about.” Jones leaned again the barracks wall his hands in his pockets.

  Forcing himself to relax, Crane joined Jones leaning against the wall.

  “It appears that the Intelligence Corps are getting jittery. They think there’s something going on, but they have no idea who, what, when, where or why. Just monitored mobile phone calls talking about seeing old friends and making new ones. I tell you Jones it’s all double-dutch to me. If there is a threat to the garrison, it should come from proper hard evidence. You know people in the wrong place at the wrong time, murders, thefts, that sort of thing.”

  Not getting a response, Crane turned to look at Jones.

  “You agree with me don’t you?”

  But Jones was pale and remained silent.

  “Staff?”

  “I think you better come inside,” Jones croaked and hurried off.

  Crane took a couple of minutes to finish his cigarette, before joining Jones in his office. As he arrived at the door, he watched the Staff Sergeant rummaging through the papers on his desk. Obviously not finding what he was looking for, Jones then began lifting up his computer keyboard, in tray, out tray and finally his telephone.

  “Thank God for that,” he breathed, holding a piece of paper in his hand.