A Grave Death (Crane and Anderson crime thrillers Book 4)

by Wendy Cartmell

  ‘Thanks, Major,’ said Anderson. ‘Crane and I will go to the chapel and interview the mourners. Ciaran will stay here with you and I’ll get someone to bring you coffee. Come on, Crane, let’s get this done,’ and he walked away from the grave, which instead of being the final resting place of Kevin Dean, had become something far more sinister. That reminded Anderson that he’d have to do something about getting Kevin moved back to the undertaker’s chapel of rest. He couldn’t stay at the graveside, lying in his coffin, waiting to be buried, indefinitely.

  4

  Anne

  September 1941

  Dear Ada,

  This is just a quick note to say that I’ve arrived safe and sound – thank goodness!

  The train journey across the country to Chorley and the factory was horrendous, mind. I’ve never spent so many hours on a train in all my life! It was far different than our small local line, which had been my previous experience of train travel. The locomotive was huge, noisy and smoky, pulling loads of carriages. It kept stopping randomly, not even at a station (although there were many of those as well) and went so slowly at times it would have been quicker to get out and walk! The carriages were crammed with people of all shapes, sizes and ages. Some poor children were being evacuated from the city to the country. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of their small, pale faces, dressed in coats and sensible shoes. But it was the labels around their necks with their names written on them, that got to me. I swallowed a lump in my throat as I passed them by in my search for a seat, I can tell you.

  A couple of the carriages were full of soldiers. God knows where they were going. I didn’t stop to talk to them as the cat-calling was enough to put me off, know what I mean? How can you have respect for a man that shouts lewd comments at you? I know we should be nice to soldiers going off to war, after all who knows what their fate might be? But really, one has to draw the line somewhere. Although that makes me sound a bit of a prude, I suppose. It must be my upbringing. It’s hard to go from a quiet, sheltered life, overshadowed and controlled by my parents, to an independent one, full of colour, noise, fear and, if I’m honest, a frisson of excitement.

  Anyway, at last I reached a relatively quiet carriage with a spare seat. I collapsed into it with relief. I had a little old lady on one side of me, sitting as stiffly as her iron grey hair, clutching her handbag on her knees, and a little old man on the other, complete with cigarette dangling from his lip and a flat cap on his head. I asked if they were together and if so, did they want to sit next to each other. The woman told me they were husband and wife, but as they spent all their time together, a break would do them nicely thank you very much. He just harrumphed and shook his newspaper. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing!

  Finally, we arrived at my destination and I clambered off the train, struggling with my suitcase. I’d tried not to pack everything I owned, but it had been difficult to know what to take and what to leave behind. I have no idea how long I’ll be required to work here. I know everyone says the war will be over by Christmas, but I thought it was better to be safe than sorry. I’ve brought my best frock in the hope that there might be an occasion to wear it. Fingers crossed. I was wearing my best wool coat, which was rather too warm for the weather, but again I thought I’d need it with me as the winter progressed. So there I was in a coat, hat, scarf and gloves on a warm September evening. Luckily no one was taking much notice of me, there were too many people on the platform, all trying to work out where they should be going, it seemed.

  I pulled out of my pocket the address of my billet and followed the brief instructions. Luckily I’ve got a room in a house in town, complete with disapproving landlady, so I found it easily and it also means I don’t have too far to walk to the train station in the morning. The government have co-opted a local manufacturing factory and changed the product lines to make the bombs and bullets that are now needed for the war. It’s a huge sprawling building on the edge of town, with its own train station. I’ve not seen all of it yet, just the small area where I work. I’m on the shop floor. The work’s a bit dull to say the least, being monotonous and repetitive. The other girls are nice enough though – but none of them are you!

  I’ll keep in touch, and please reply so I know what’s happening with you.

  Your friend,

  Anne Clements

  5

  Anne

  September 1941

  Dear Mum

  Well, I’ve arrived safe and sound and am working in a munitions factory here in Lancashire. It’s a huge beast of a place and I’ve got a pretty good room not far from the train station in town, which takes us the one stop to the factory. The landlady isn’t so friendly. She’s a bit of a sourpuss really. But it might just be that I’m comparing her to you!

  Those in charge of us at factory are very strict, and there’s all sorts of talk about keeping your mouth shut and not telling anyone where you are or what you’re doing. When we had that lecture, I couldn’t stop my face going red. I was so embarrassed that I’d told you and father where I am. Well, when the bloke asked me what was wrong I had to confess that I’d already told my family where I was. But to my relief he told me that it was okay to tell your family, or even a close friend, but definitely no one else.

  I’ve never been anywhere like this, mother, nor worked in such a strange atmosphere. Okay, okay, I can hear you saying that I’ve never worked before, I guess I have to concede that one. Helping out in the corner shop on a Saturday doesn’t really count I suppose. But seriously, it’s weird. You can feel the tense atmosphere everywhere, heavy with the weight of government fears that information about where we are and what we’re doing could fall into the wrong hands.

  Posters paper the walls bearing slogans such as, ‘Keep Mum She's Not So Dumb’ to deter talk amongst us. They are everywhere. One of them has the word 'war' with a big ear attached to it and others say, 'Gossip Costs Lives'.

  We’re aware all the time of being watched. Of people eavesdropping our conversations, to see if they can catch us being indiscrete. And it doesn’t stop at the factory gates when you leave. The same warnings apply to talking when we’re out of work. Sometimes I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head when I’m queuing up at the butchers for the landlady, ration book in hand, hoping to God that the person in front of me doesn’t take the last of whatever it is that I want. The thought of being constantly watched and overheard is unnerving. Maybe I’ll get used to it. It depends on how long I’m here I suppose.

  But anyway, enough of that. You’re not to worry, I’m fine, healthy and doing my bit for the war effort.

  I’ll write again soon.

  Your loving daughter Anne

  6

  Anne

  November 1941

  Dear Ada

  Well things are looking up here. A dance has been organised for every Saturday night. It’s nothing much, just held in a large room in the local town hall. There are small tables around an even smaller dance floor and the band are dismal to say the least. But the bar is well stocked with gin, the girls are lots of fun and there’s the odd soldier home on leave to dance and flirt with. Otherwise it’s the men from the factory who attend and believe me they’re not much to look at and are as dull as dishwater! Every eligible male has been called-up, only those doing essential war work are left. That includes engineers whose only interest is their work and those too old to fight, who are usually married and on the wrong side of 50!

  The optimist in me says that at least it’s something to look forward to every week, fighting with the pessimist who’s wondering what’s the point of getting dressed up in my one ‘posh frock’, browning my legs with tea-bags then drawing lines up the back of them as I’ve got no stockings, and spending my hard-earned cash on watered-down drinks.

  Oh well, life goes on. I’m not the only one struggling with the boredom, stooped with the weight of the war, so I need to stop feeling sorry for myself.

  On a brigh
ter note, there seems to be a lot of activity on the other side of town, there are buildings going up and lots of lorries coming and going. People say it’s going to be a new army base, although why there’d be a need for one in this Godforsaken part of the country, is anyone’s guess. Mind you, the thought of soldiers is enough to cheer anyone up, especially me!

  Take care of yourself and don’t forget to keep dodging those bombs!

  Anne

  7

  It had taken Anderson a couple of hours to calm down the mourners, make sure the police constables had everyone’s details, letting everyone leave on the understanding that they might be interviewed further, and finally persuading Paul and Maggie that they ought to go home.

  A donkey would have been impressed by Maggie’s stubbornness. ‘But I can’t get hold of mum,’ she kept saying, whilst frantically dialling and redialling, sending message after message. ‘I’ve got to stay here. What happens if she turns up and we’ve all gone?’

  ‘In that case we’ll let her know where you are and if necessary I’ll bring her to you myself.’

  ‘I wish I knew where she was.’ Maggie was close to tears and Paul seemed to be out of his depth trying to console her. In truth, Anderson doubted anyone could. ‘I don’t want to go home alone. What if something’s happened to her?’

  ‘Please, Maggie. There’s no point staying here. Why don’t you go back with Paul and I’ll be in touch immediately I have any news?’

  ‘Are you sure? What do you think, Uncle Paul?’

  With an encouraging nod from Anderson, Paul agreed that the plan was for the best and Anderson heaved a sigh of relief as they both left the church, heading for Paul’s car, Maggie’s attire of many colours now looking limp and out of place, as she trudged despondently away.

  ‘Do you really think it is Jill in there?’ Crane asked quietly, appearing at Anderson’s side. Anderson was still watching the slow progress of the three members of the Dean family as they walked to their car, which earlier had been at the head of the procession from Dean Engineering to Aldershot Redan Cemetery, following the hearse as Kevin took his final journey.

  ‘It seems likely. I can’t think of a more plausible excuse for her missing her brother’s funeral.’

  ‘If it is her, then I guess she hasn’t missed it,’ Crane said with a straight face.

  Anderson glared at him, then shaking off his gloom grinned despite himself. ‘Let’s go and see how the Major’s getting on.’ After all Anderson had a job to do, one he intended to do to the best of his ability. He’d never let the Dean family down before and he was damn sure he wasn’t going to let them down now. But despite Crane’s efforts at levity, Anderson was very much afraid that they were in for a long haul with this case.

  Crane walked beside Anderson on the gravel path, but then stumbled in the small dips in the tarmac.

  ‘You okay?’ Anderson reacted immediately by grabbing Crane’s arm to stop his friend sprawling face down on the path. As Crane regained his balance, he brushed down the dark suit that he habitually wore to work, tucked his tie back into his jacket and then pulled down his sleeves.

  ‘What? Yes, left the stick in the car that’s all. Don’t worry, I’m fine,’ and Crane strode away as if to demonstrate his independence. Crane had a much better handle on his pain levels now from his injury which had necessitated his leaving the army, but his leg still sometimes had a mind of its own and gave way, unceremoniously putting Crane on the floor. He managed to reach the cordon unscathed. ‘Come on, Derek,’ he called. ‘Keep up.’

  Anderson lifted his arm in reply and deliberately took his time. He needed to prepare himself in case there really was a body in the grave and it really was Jill. He followed Crane into the white tent that had been erected to preserve the scene.

  ‘Good timing, Derek,’ Major Martin said as he clambered out of the grave. ‘I’m just taking a break,’ and he greedily accepted the coffee Ciaran was holding out to him.

  ‘Well?’ Crane prompted.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it is a body. Female. But that’s all I know at the moment.’

  ‘Any way to identify her?’

  ‘Here,’ the Major passed over his mobile phone to Crane. ‘I took a picture. I’ve managed to clear part of her face and one shoulder. ‘

  Anderson watched Crane’s face but saw no sign of recognition.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve never seen her before,’ he said and passed the phone to Anderson.

  All it took was one glance and Anderson’s worst fears were confirmed. In death Jill’s features were in repose. In life they had been animated, Jill having been the kind of person who liked to live life to the full. She’d found joy in the smallest of things and was grateful for all she had. But now she had nothing. She was alone, buried in her brother’s empty grave.

  Her short dark hair was dishevelled and full of soil and small stones. Gravel coated her lips instead of lipstick. Derek found it distressing that some of it was stuck on her open eyes and he desperately wanted to wipe it away. The shock was profound. He felt rooted to the ground, unable to move or speak. Who on earth would want to kill such a lovely person? But then again, he’d thought that about Crane’s wife, Tina. What was it with the women in his life? They all seemed intent on dying. It made him worry for Jean and a shiver ran down his spine at the thought of losing his wife.

  Returning to the present, he said, ‘It’s her,’ his voice a whisper of despair. ‘It’s Jill Dean.’

  ‘Oh, Derek, I’m so sorry.’ Crane put a hand on Anderson’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Where to?’ Derek handed the phone back to Major Martin.

  ‘To break the news to the family, of course.’

  ‘Jesus. How the hell am I supposed to do that?’

  He ran his hand over his face, then looked at Crane and Major Martin, but neither seemed to be able to answer his question.

  8

  Derek was silent in the car. Crane drove, leaving Ciaran to take Anderson’s car back to the station. It wasn’t far to Paul Dean’s house, a large five bedroomed detached property on the outskirts of Aldershot, in the direction of Farnham. Derek wished it was further away, in order to give him more time to prepare what he was going to say. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’, and, ‘My condolences,’ both sounded so bland and unemotional, having been parroted in just about every crime drama on the television.

  Too soon, Crane swung into the drive of the large house and whistled at the size and obvious high value of the property. Anderson wasn’t ready to face his friend. But then, he decided, he never would be able to convey to Paul his shock and sadness at all that had befallen the family in such a short time. So, he may as well just get on with it. It was his job, after all.

  The noise of the car and then their feet crunching along the gravel drive, must have alerted Paul to their arrival. In the end Anderson hadn’t had to say anything. Paul Dean, upon flinging open the front door, took one look at them and said, ‘It’s her. I can see it in your faces.’

  Derek nodded. ‘I’m so sorry, Paul,’ he managed.

  Paul leaned against the doorframe, hid his eyes with a hand for a moment, mouth and throat working silently. Then he coughed and invited them in. ‘Why don’t you wait in the lounge. I’ll go and tell Maggie. She’s in the kitchen, still frantically trying to find Jill. It’s not fair to make her wait any longer than she has to.’

  Derek nodded his agreement and led Crane through to the sitting room, which was filled with several floral settees, with large paintings adorning each wall. The look should have been cluttered, but instead made the large room seem cosy and welcoming. They jumped at the sound of wailing coming from somewhere in the house.

  ‘Shall I get a FLO?’

  Derek nodded his agreement to Crane’s suggestion of a family liaison officer. Crane rose and walked to the other end of the room, looking out over the landscaped garden as he put in his request for someone to attend as soon as possible. He’d just finished his
call, when Paul joined them and they all sat down.

  ‘Reece is with Jill. They can console each other. I’ve also called for our doctor to come and see her.’

  ‘Reece?’

  Derek explained to Crane, ‘Reece is Maggie’s cousin. Kevin’s son.’

  ‘Oh, it was his father you were trying to bury.’

  Anderson nodded.

  ‘What happens now?’ Paul interrupted.

  Anderson stayed silent, his mind blank. He supposed it was the shock. Thankfully Crane spoke instead.

  ‘Well, Mr Dean, Major Martin needs to finish his excavation of your sister’s body. We’ll know more about her death when he does the post mortem. Regarding your brother, arrangements are being made for him to be taken to the mortuary as well.’

  Paul Dean looked as if he’d been slapped. ‘What the hell? You’re taking Kevin to the mortuary? But he died of a heart attack!’

  ‘It’s a precaution. It won’t hurt for Major Martin to check. It’s just that two deaths in the same family within a couple of weeks of each other…’ Crane looked at Derek for help.

  ‘Please, Paul. I think it’s a good idea. Will you give your consent to a post mortem? We’d rather do it with the family’s consent,’ said Derek, although he knew full well they’d be able to get a warrant allowing them to have Kevin’s body in order to do a post mortem.

  ‘Oh, alright.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Derek was relieved. It saved a lot of extra work, bad feeling between the family and the police and they could get on with the investigation sooner rather than later. ‘I’ll send someone over with the paperwork. Better make it official. And there’s a family liaison officer on her way.’

  ‘We don’t need one of those!’