40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Cartmell, Wendy

“Good luck with that then.”

  “Which, the baby or giving up smoking?” Crane flicked ash onto the road.

  “Both I reckon. Still at least this is finished,” Anderson indicated the Team GB banner. “You must be relieved.”

  “Yes. Now just twenty-one days left.” Crane ground the stub of his cigarette under his foot.

  “Twenty-one days?”

  So Crane explained his theory that he’d been pushed into the wilderness for forty days and forty nights, looking after the Olympians and Paralympians and co-ordinating their security.

  “So now I’ve got the Paralympians arriving tomorrow.” Crane finished. “I tell you, Derek, both teams had better win lots of bloody medals after all this!”

  “You’ll be prouder than anyone when they do, Crane. It will all have been worthwhile.”

  “I guess so.”

  Crane stared across the steps towards Aldershot Garrison, which could be seen in the distance, on the other side of the dual carriageway. The wind was starting to get up and Crane’s tie fluttered in the breeze, causing him to do up his jacket to keep it in place.

  “But in the meantime, I’ve got a dead soldier, no leads and a load of Afghan officers on the garrison. And on top of that there’s still the job of co-ordinating security, as well as looking after the Paralympians.”

  “No problem for a man like you,” Anderson smiled, his grey wispy hair blowing in the now cold wind.

  “I’m not so sure anymore, Derek.”

  Crane looked at the ground and studied his shoes, shivering slightly as the wind cut through his lightweight suit.

  Night 19

  At last I have been given my chance – nothing can stop me now. I can sense everyone thinks the threat is over. People seem more relaxed on the garrison, laughing and joking and drinking alcohol. The security level should be downgraded soon and I will then be free to roam around, putting the finishing touches to my master plan.

  Talking of roaming around the garrison, do you know what I saw today? People lying prone on the grass. Nothing wrong with that you might think? But what about when some of them were scantily clad couples practically fornicating? Practicing in public what should only be done by a married man and woman in the privacy of their own home.

  One of the young women I remember in particular. She was with a group of men, boys really. I watched as she lay down on the grass, then got up again and teasingly removed her outer clothing, revealing milk white skin, her upper body covered by a scanty piece of silk. I could see the boys ogling the shape of her breasts and the sliver of skin revealed between her top and her skirt as she stretched out. I watched as she languidly hitched up her skirt revealing bare thighs and lay back once again with her arms stretched above her head. Her uncovered head. Her soft brown hair framing her face, some of it tumbling down her chest, like fingers stretching and craning towards the mound of her breasts.

  Suddenly I remembered where I was and had to quickly gather my thoughts, replace my slipped mask and turn my face towards the army officer giving us instruction. But all the time, in the back of my mind, was the image of the young woman I had seen. Poisoning my thoughts and my body. A body that was threatening to expose my basest instinct. This, my friend, is why Muslim women and indeed all women should be covered in public. So they can’t taint the thoughts of good true Muslim men. See how that image threatens to divert my thoughts from the one true path? But I am strong, both mentally and physically. I will resist the temptations of your Western ways.

  And so, back to my plan. Things are falling into place. I have chosen a location and now have made a mental list of things I need. Not a written list. I have been instructing my Muslim brothers in the ways of the Qur’an and now it is nearly time to reveal to them what we have to do to glorify the name of Allah.

  Nearly, but not quite.

  Day 20

  Crane was in the meeting being held in the open plan office of Provost Barracks. It was a mixture of de-briefing and forward planning. De-briefing on the security for the Olympians and a briefing about the arrangements for the Paralympians, due to arrive that afternoon. Crane looked around and saw all the usual suspects. Captain Edwards in command, if not control. Staff Sergeant Jones resigned to twenty one more days of rosters, plotting the movement of his own and drafted in Royal Military Police. Sergeant Billy Williams, his youthful zeal undaunted by 20 straight 12 hour shifts of night duty. Sergeant Kim Weston, as usual surrounded by files, notebook in hand, the epitome of efficiency. Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones, trying to look competent and knowledgeable by burying his head in computer print outs, and failing. They had just finished the de-briefing of the past nineteen days.

  “So, any problems?”

  Crane looked around the table and when no one else responded to Captain Edward’s question, he said, “Well, sir, I consider the unresolved murder of Corporal Simms as a problem.”

  “In what way?” Edwards steepled his hands and pressed his finger tips together.

  “Well, because it’s unresolved, sir.”

  Closing his eyes, Captain Edwards said, “I know that, Crane. Can you be more specific?”

  “I feel this matter should be factored into our security arrangements for the coming days.” Noticing Captain Edward’s hard stare, he slowly added, “With your permission, sir.”

  Predictably Edwards rose and began pacing up and down the side of the rectangular table. Stopping in front of Crane he asked, “How?”

  “By keeping the increased security level.”

  There was a spluttering sound from Staff Sergeant Jones at the other end of the table. Ignoring it Edwards called, “Dudley-Jones!” The young man began to rise from his seat, before realising there was no need. He sank back down and replied, “Yes, Captain?”

  “Would you inform Sergeant Major Crane here, of the recommendations from the Intelligence Corps?”

  “Very well, sir.” Grabbing one of his computer print outs, Dudley-Jones cleared his throat and began. “The Intelligence Corps have reviewed all recent Intelligence and as a result recommend that the security threat level be reduced.”

  “On what basis?” Crane wanted to know.

  “Oh, um,” Dudley-Jones ruffled pages and read, “on the basis that the previous high levels of ‘chatter’ have dwindled. They believe that if there was a threat to Team GB, it may well have moved on with them to the Olympic Stadium.” Dudley-Jones sat back.

  “May well have?”

  “Um, let me see…” more ruffling, “the exact wording is ‘it is highly likely that any threat would have moved on with them’.”

  “Thank you, Dudley-Jones,” the Captain said. “So, Crane, as I always thought, the murder of Lance Corporal Simms, if that’s what it was, appears to have nothing to do with any Olympic athletes. And even if it had, it has moved on with them. Request denied. Now, after that unnecessary delay, let’s get on with the arrangements for the Paralympians.”

  There were to be no civic receptions, no welcoming committee. The whole operation far more low key than for the able bodied athletes. In some ways Crane felt it was a shame for the Paralympians not to have their efforts equally recognised, but on the other hand it was understandable. The Olympic Games were starting in less than a week and the whole entourage following Team GB had moved on to the Olympic Park. It also meant that the Paralympians could train with a greater degree of privacy than that afforded to their able bodied counterparts. Something at least to be grateful for. Crane felt there was enough pressure on everyone as it was, both the athletes and the army. Most probably the situation would change and they would start to come under intense media pressure as the starting date of the Paralympics drew nearer. Crane was just glad they’d have gone from the garrison by then, to other training camps.

  By the end of the meeting, it was decided Billy and Kim would continue on nights and Staff Sergeant Jones would continue to co-ordinate with Crane. Crane would in turn co-ordinate with the BOA, Juliette Stone and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all,
including Dudley-Jones. Crane couldn’t fathom out what Captain Edwards was doing. So he gave up trying to.

  “Excellent,” Edwards concluded. “Thank you all, meeting closed. Dismissed.”

  Everyone got up, stretched and collected paperwork before drifting away. Crane and Jones headed outside by mutual, unspoken consent.

  “Jesus Christ,” Crane lit his cigarette the way a dying man would suck in oxygen.

  “You alright, Crane?” Jones lit up himself, but without such intensity.

  Crane exhaled loudly before speaking. “Yes, fine, just fed up with all this bloody stuff. Meetings, co-ordination, liaison. If I’d have wanted all this shit I’d had gone into Administration or Logistics, not the Special Investigations Branch.”

  “Fair comment, but it’s a good learning curve you know. Different skills can come to the fore when you’re placed in stressful situations.”

  “Stop spouting that official line bollocks, Jones.” Crane snapped.

  “Well stop bloody whingeing then,” Jones shouted.

  The silence between them became a roar in Crane’s ears as he stared at Jones, every muscle in his body taut. Incensed that a man of inferior rank, albeit a friend, would talk to him like that.

  But Jones wouldn’t back down and held the stare. Eventually breaking the silence by asking, “How’s Tina?”

  The simple question diffused Crane’s anger, turning it into hot tears only held back by sheer willpower. He realised this was what his anger was all about. Not just the job, but also the uncertainty over Tina and the baby. Averting his gaze he said, “Still in hospital.”

  “But doing well?”

  “Yes thanks.” Crane coughed the emotion from his voice. “Should be home today or tomorrow.”

  “Look, Crane, it’s not for much longer. Twenty days. Just under three weeks.”

  “If that’s the case then,” Crane said after a moment, turning to smile at Jones, “could we still keep the Afghan officers under close observation?”

  “Fucking hell! Oh all right then. But it’s not produced anything so far.”

  “Maybe not, but it just might. You never know. Anyway,” Crane threw away his cigarette and pulled his car keys from his pocket, “I’m off. A meeting with the Wicked Witch of the North.”

  “Who in hell’s name is that? No, let me guess, Ms Juliette Stone.” Jones emphasised the Ms.

  “The very one. See you later.”

  During the short drive to St Omer Barracks, Crane was delayed by a cavalcade of motorised armoured vehicles. Whilst waiting for them to turn right into Clayton Barracks, Crane used the hands free set on his mobile phone to call the hospital, where he was once again re-assured that Tina was fine. Her vital signs were good and she was resting. He urged the nurse to tell Tina he rang, before ending the call.

  During the conversation, his eyes were drawn to the soldiers and machinery passing in front of him. The men standing proudly in the turrets, at one with their vehicles; dressed in muted colours to match the body work, with the same camouflage nets on their helmets as those draped over their transport. Crane knew that clearly defined roles were the mainstay of the British Army. Everyone had a job to do. They knew exactly what it was and what was expected of them. He didn’t have that certainty. Not in his professional life, where he felt like a leopard stuck in a cage of tigers, nor his personal life, where he seemed to be separated from Tina and the baby by a pane of glass. He felt helpless. He could see them, but was unable to reach them. The last of the vehicles moved away, allowing the traffic to flow again along Queens Avenue. As Crane drove to his destination, he wondered if a leopard could change his spots.

  ***

  For once Juliette Stone was not prowling the corridors and rooms of St Omer Barracks, but sat in her office.

  “Come in,” she called, “Coffee?”

  “No thanks, this is just a quick visit to make sure everything’s alright.”

  “All in order, Sergeant Major.” The abrupt reply tempered by a smile in her eyes, if not in her lips. “By the way, thanks for your help in catching the thieves.”

  “All in a day’s work, Ms Stone.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s still appreciated.” Now the smile reached her lips and she lifted her cup of coffee, looking at Crane over the rim.

  Oh my God. Is she flirting with me? Crane’s stomach tensed at the thought and he was part flattered, part terrified.

  The telephone interrupted their exchange much to Crane’s relief and he got up as Juliette answered the phone. But she reached out to him and motioned he should stay where he was with a flap of her hand. Pulling a clean piece of paper towards her, she started scribbling. After asking the caller for a written report as soon as possible, she replaced the receiver and handed the paper to Crane, accompanied by a flick of her ponytail and a question.

  “Are you going back to your barracks, Sergeant Major?”

  “Yes, why?” Crane glanced at the scribbled message.

  “Could you pass this onto Staff Sergeant Jones for me? It appears we’ve had a break in at the stores. They’re doing a full inventory at the moment and will let me know in writing what’s missing as soon as they can.”

  “Any initial ideas?”

  “It seems to be cleaning materials. But the landscape contractors were storing stuff there too, so I guess we’ll have to check with them. Tell the Staff Sergeant I’ll let him know as soon as we know.”

  “So in the meantime I’m to act as messenger boy?”

  After running her index finger along her bottom lip she asked him, “Why? Do you have a problem with that?”

  Night 20

  The absence of barriers with armed soldiers was good news. It meant he could enter the garrison at night again. Not that there weren’t any armed soldiers around, of course. There were still lots of Royal Military Police on patrol. Driving around the garrison in jeeps, or walking around with dogs. But it was easy for someone with military training, such as himself, to keep out of sight, in the shadows.

  Padam was not going to the sports centre tonight. He saw the athletes in their buses a couple of days ago, so he knew they weren’t on the garrison anymore.

  As he ambled along, he found himself in an area of the garrison he had not explored before, beyond the Military Cemetery. Walking up the steep hill, on his right hand side he saw a long, squat building, with an outside area sporting benches. Thinking it may be a mess, he walked past without much interest, deciding to cut across the field behind the building, hoping it would bring him back into the main body of the garrison. It was a dark night, with clouds obscuring the moon, making it difficult to see. He walked over extremely hard grass. It scrunched under his feet, as though all the life had been sucked out of it. A legacy of the fine weather perhaps? It made walking quite difficult and Padam stumbled. Suddenly the grass under his feet on his left hand side was gone and he tumbled sideways, sliding down a large incline. The hard, prickly surface scratched his hands and face. He was glad he had trousers on and a pair of shoes he found discarded in a bin, as protection for his legs and feet. It was several moments before he reached the bottom and stopped sliding.

  Taking a few moments to recover, he rolled over onto his back, slowly wiggling his fingers. They all worked, so there was nothing broken. He touched his face, wincing at the pain, his fingers sliding over some of the cuts, which must be bleeding. He struggled to his feet, hampered by the pain in his hands, his old knees joining in the protest. As soon as he stood, his legs felt cold from a slight breeze. Examining the only pair of trousers he owned, he found they were torn.

  He limped along the bottom of the hill, reluctant to try and climb back up the incline. As he walked he felt a change underfoot. Here the grass was soft and springy. Intrigued, Padam squatted down to feel the two different surfaces. How could the grass be so dry on one side, as hard and unyielding as a stiff brush, yet green and soft on the other? As he looked around, the moon peeped out from behind a cloud, the cold white light glinting o
ff poles in front of him, reaching skyward, back up the hill. One behind the other, as if on parade. Grabbing the first pole by the T bar at the bottom, he made his way carefully upwards. The poles were not fixed and swung backwards and forward making them difficult to use. Still they were better than nothing and he needed assistance to climb back up the hill. He couldn’t imagine what they were for, or why they were there. Once at the top, he decided to return the way he had come, down the road, having had enough adventures for one night. As he walked he passed a large sign with ‘Alpine Snowsports Centre’, written on it, which he didn’t understand.

  As Padam walked down the road the quiet of the night was disturbed by the chugging of a diesel engine. Ducking down behind a low hedge, he watched through the foliage as three soldiers drove by in a military vehicle. Just before a curve in the road, they stopped. Two of them got out, with the third one staying behind the wheel and driving away. The two on foot then split up, one running off in the direction of nearby houses and the other staying where he was. After a few moments, the remaining soldier inclined his head as though listening to something. Padam remained motionless. The soldier walked towards the entrance of the Military Cemetery, on the opposite side of the road from Padam, and disappeared inside. As he couldn’t be sure how long the soldier would be, Padam sat down, made himself comfortable and settled down to wait.

  After a while Padam saw a soldier emerge from the entrance. A different soldier. Dressed in an entirely different uniform. A short dark moustache on his face. Not the soldier who had run towards the houses earlier, nor the man who had gone into the cemetery. Moustache man made his way down the road. Padam decided to wait some more. After Padam estimated he’d waited an hour and as no one emerged from either the houses or the cemetery, he made his way to the end of the road, deciding to return to his flat. He had no idea what was happening, but perhaps the Royal Military Policemen he met several days before would be interested. He would go and see them in the morning. In the meantime, he had the feeling it would be safer to leave the garrison to the soldiers.