‘I didn’t have that information at the time, your Honour.’
‘Clearly not. Perhaps in future it would be worthwhile taking a bit more time over a case and getting it right before you end up in my court again.’
The Prosecution counsel took his rebuke silently, which appeared to please the Judge.
‘Right then, let’s make this official. Off you go.’
Charles fairly danced down the corridor and rushed to his place on the defence bench. He managed to nod and grin at his team before his Honour returned.
‘All rise,’ rang out and everyone duly complied.
67
‘Dear God, you did it Charles, you actually did it!’
Charles Walker shook the outstretched hand of Paul Dean.
‘Not on my own, Paul,’ Charles confessed. ‘It was rather a team effort. Started by DI Anderson here.’
‘Derek?’
Derek almost blushed. But not quite. In fact, the whole thing was becoming rather too emotional for his liking. Blinking away his embarrassment, he said, ‘Holly in my office started it. She found the information on Brian Monaghan’s family tree, which was all very well, but we had no way of getting to him. We had no other evidence and he wasn’t breaking. In the end we had to find a way around him.’
‘So you contacted Charles?’
‘James, actually,’ and Derek turned to see James Walker stood next to his brother, grinning and clasping his brother around the shoulders.
‘It was James who came up with the idea of issuing a warrant for Brian to come to court as a witness. We thought that would unnerve him, perhaps leave him open to his emotions and I must say Charles played it beautifully. Like a conductor of an orchestra, ramping up the tension until he reached the final crescendo.’
‘Monaghan never stood a chance against Charles,’ James said. ‘Anyway, I sense a celebration coming on. Anyone for champagne?’
Derek stood amongst a sea of nodding heads and said, ‘Not for me, I’m afraid. I need to get back to Aldershot. My team need a big thank you from me.’
‘I understand, Derek,’ said Paul, clasping Derek’s arm. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘By being the best man you can be,’ Derek said. ‘Which is what you’ve always been. We’ll speak soon. Bye everyone.’
Derek fairly skipped down the steps from the court house, or at least skipped as much as his unfit, over-weight body would allow. He really should get out and exercise, he knew. But why change the habit of a lifetime?
The drive to Aldershot passed in a haze of happiness. It wasn’t often that Anderson felt like this about a case and he knew full well it was because he was emotionally vested in it. Far too close than he normally would be. He understood now how Crane had felt when trying to find the bastard who had been hacking into the 999 system. Crane hadn’t given up and had caught the man responsible in the end. Because of Anderson’s friendship with Paul Dean and his family, that was what had propelled him to keep going, keep digging, never giving up. And the emotional pay off had been well worth all that effort.
But Anderson knew he wouldn’t have been able to keep that up much longer. He was drained. Perhaps a few days off would be in order. That would keep Mrs Anderson happy as well. She was always nagging him about the hours he worked. Not for her, she insisted, but for him, for the sake of his health. Maybe she had a point. The older he was getting the harder it was for him to keep pushing forward, the gruelling hours and the types of cases they dealt with were beginning to take their toll.
But all that introspection was for another day. For now, it was time to celebrate.
As he walked over to his team in the corner of the CID office, the three of them stood.
‘How did it go, Derek?’ asked Crane.
‘Did it work, Guv?’ Holly said.
Ciaran said, ‘Don’t keep us in suspense!’
‘Anyone for cream cakes?’ said Anderson and held out his package with a grin.
As the team fell on the celebratory cakes, Derek’s phone rang.
There was one more task before Derek could have his well-earned holiday. A person that needed his attention. Brian Monaghan. As Anderson had left Winchester Crown Court he’d made a phone call to Winchester Police, to arrange to have Monaghan taken from the cells under the courthouse to Aldershot Police Station and the phone call he’d just taken was to say the man had arrived.
Fairly skipping down the stairs, he arrived at the Custody Sergeant’s desk, just as Monaghan was brought in.
‘Brian! There you are. I hope you had a good journey?’
‘Are you mad?’ Brian glowered at Anderson. ‘How could I have had a good journey, locked in a small cage with only a moulded plastic bench to sit on?’
‘Oh dear, all the Rolls Royce’s must have been in use,’ Anderson quipped. ‘Anyway, now you’re here - Brian Monaghan I’m charging you with the murders of Kevin Dean and Jill Dean. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down in evidence and used against you in a court of law. Do you understand the charge?’
‘Of course I do, I’m not a moron,’ glowered Brian.
Derek smiled, turned on his heel and waggled his fingers in a waive goodbye as he walked away.
His focus now was the future, not the past, and it would start with a good rest. Maybe a few days in the sun somewhere. He was sure Mrs Anderson would like that.
THE END
By Wendy Cartmell
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Wendy Cartmell
A Cold Death
Why not continue with the Crane and Anderson series. The next book in the series, A Cold Death is available now. Here’s a taster.
Looking for crime thrillers that will grab you by the throat and not let go?
Try the latest installment in #1 bestselling Crane and Anderson series by Wendy Cartmell today!
What if the killer the police are hunting was your son?
You hear a story about a murder. But do you believe it? Your son is involved. Do you tell the police?
When a mother sacrifices her son, the least Crane and Anderson can do is to take the case and find the truth. But where are the bodies? Who are the killers? And why did they kill a harmless, old couple?
And so begins Crane and Anderson's first cold case, or rather a new case with old roots that they have to follow to its final, gripping conclusion.
A dark, complex crime thriller that readers of Sgt Major Crane, Angela Marsons, Robert Bryndza, LJ Ross and Helen H Durrant will devour.
1
‘You want us to do what Guv? Investigate a possible murder, that might have taken place 10 years ago. But we have no evidence and no bodies?’
‘Yes, Derek, that’s about right.’
DI Anderson of Aldershot Police sat down heavily in the chair opposite his Boss, Det Supt Grimes. He straightened his mustard coloured tweed jacket and smoothed down his tie, which clashed with his shirt which was once pink and was now a shadow of its former self. Anderson wasn’t known for his debonair attire. His wife had tried for years to update his wardrobe, without any success.
‘But we don’t do cold cases.’
Grimes was quick to retort, ‘Well it’s not really a cold case is it, Derek? It’s more a new case that has old roots.’
‘Old Roots?’ Derek hadn’t a clue what Grimes meant by that.
‘Is there something wrong with my voice, Derek? Or your ears? You aren’t listening to me. Your team WILL look into this. Am I clear? Capiche? Entiende?’
Anderson knew things were serious when Grimes started speaking in tongues.
‘For heaven’s sake, Guv, how am
I supposed to sell this to the team?’ Anderson ran a hand through his wispy grey hair, causing it to stand up from his scalp. ‘A case that might not be a case. A murder that may or may not have been committed. And suspects who aren’t living in the UK and that you think live in Spain? Oh, and all reported by an old woman who got a drunken phone call from her son – let’s not forget that titbit. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit of a stretch, Guv.’
Grimes sighed and leaning over his desk, loomed in front of Anderson. He had considerable bulk and was certainly intimidating to Anderson who, whilst undeniably putting on weight, was only half the man the Boss was.
‘You’re supposed to order them, Derek, or is discipline so lacking in your team that they’ll do whatever they like? Are Holly and Ciaran picking up bad habits from you and Crane?’
Anderson hated it when Grimes mentioned Crane. Good news and Crane never went together as far as their boss was concerned.
‘Of course not.’ Derek sat up straighter, looking deeply shocked that Grimes could even mention such a thing. The fact that it was true was neither here nor there.
‘Well off you go then, brief your team and then arrange to interview Mrs Beadle.’
‘Mrs Beadle, who is a friend of yours?’
‘She’s a friend of my wife’s.’
‘Ah, now I understand. She who must be obeyed.’
Derek had worked under Grimes for enough years to know all about his boss’ occasionally frosty treatment from his wife. None of which did any of them in CID any good at all. If Grimes got frosty treatment from his wife, you could safely bet that the temperature in CID would become decidedly artic.
‘Exactly, Derek, now piss off and do as you’re told, otherwise it will be the cold shoulder for me tonight, including a cold supper.’
2
Jean Wilder stopped for a moment and looked around the room. The packing case was half empty and newspaper was scattered around her as she unpacked the crockery. The kitchen needed some updating but was deliciously quirky and Jean would rather have quirky than cold and impersonal, which was the impression she got from many of the modern kitchens these days.
It was moving-in day and Jean still couldn’t believe her luck at getting the house she wanted, at a price she could afford to pay. She stopped her unpacking, savouring how good it felt. It made her want to sing out loud and run around the rooms like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
This was her time. Time for a new start. A fresh start. After her husband’s death a couple of years earlier, she had been devastated for so long, but now she was coming out of the darkness and into the light. The sun streamed through the large windows, filling her house, and her heart, with sunshine.
Importantly, the house was near her daughter Ellen and her granddaughter Strike. Strike was a bloody strange name. She wouldn’t have called a child that, but hey times they are a changing, as the song went. Jean would have been happier with a more old-fashioned name, but had to admit it made Strike very, well, striking! An out of the normal name seemed to be reflected in an out of the normal granddaughter. Strike was very perceptive for a 7-year-old. She seemed to know when nanny was depressed and gave her extra cuddles and told her everything would be alright. The love and concern coming from Strike had made many a day worth living lately, dispelling any dark thoughts Jean was having, just by her mere presence.
Deciding to take a short break, Jean went out into the garden, turning to look back at the red-bricked Victorian house that was now hers. The warmth of the brick and the solid proportions of the building exuded a feeling of home. Of having arrived. Of being in the right place. She could see her reflection in the window and was surprised at what she saw. Having lost a lot of weight after her husband died, she had now put on a few kilos and it suited her. Her shoulder length hair was scraped back into a ponytail which accentuated her cheek bones and made her wonder what it would look like if she had it cut short. Her face, having filled out, looked much better and a lot less wrinkly and maybe it would take a short cut better than before.
But updating her hair style and perhaps buying some new clothes were activities for another day.
She turned her attention to the garden. It was a wonderful space, just right for Strike to play in. And the dog, of course. Her little white Bichon Frise who followed her everywhere and was the one who had comforted her during her husband’s illness and then death. When she couldn’t raise the energy to get out of bed, Lulu would lie next to her. A warm body next to hers instead of acres of empty, cold sheets. She dashed away sudden, unwanted tears at the memories and looked for Lulu. The dog was poking around in the flower beds and Jean called her back from under the trees at the very end of the garden. Surprisingly flowers grew well there, which was unusual as that flower bed was mostly in the shade of the pine trees overshadowing it. She’d have to do some research into plants that grew well in the shade, as her knowledge of gardening was severely limited. But she was happy to learn. The garden was a good project for her to get her teeth into and she was sure Lulu would enjoy helping to dig over and weed the flower beds.
She turned and went back into the kitchen, Lulu at her heels, determined to finish unpacking the kitchen, after which she could take a break with a cup of tea.
3
Walking back to his office, Anderson mulled over the Superintendent’s request, alright his order, to brief the team and interview Mrs Beadle. He decided to do things slightly differently, he wouldn’t brief the team just yet, just Crane.
As they were coming to the end of their shift and Holly and Ciaran started packing up and closing down computers, Derek emerged from his office and nodded to Crane, indicating that he should speak to him before leaving.
Crane limped into the office.
‘You alright?’ Anderson asked, although he knew what the answer would be.
‘I’m fine,’ Crane snapped.
‘Alright, just asking, no need to bite my head off!’
‘Sorry, Derek,’ Crane conceded as he sat down and stretched his bad leg out. ‘Bloody knee has been playing up something chronic.’
‘Must be the weather,’ said Anderson, looking out of the window at the rain which had been falling steadily all day. ‘The wife always moans about her ankle in this weather. You know, from when she broke it last year.’
‘Let’s hope it’s fine tomorrow then,’ grumbled Crane as he rubbed his kneecap. ‘Anyway, what’s up?’
Anderson quickly gave Crane what little information he had and asked him to go with him to see Mrs Beadle. ‘I’ve already called her, and she is waiting for us at her home in Ash.’
Crane looked sceptical, so Derek piled on the pressure. ‘Which is on your way home, Crane, so you wouldn’t be too late getting back to your son. It shouldn’t take long, maybe 15 minutes max.’
Crane grinned. ‘You don’t need to keep going on, trying to persuade me, Derek. I’m intrigued already. Come on then, let’s go.’
Anderson grabbed his trusty raincoat off the coat rack and Crane slipped on his black suit jacket and dark overcoat. The two men walked through the now empty offices, as different as chalk and cheese in their attire. Anderson all crumpled and well-worn and Crane ramrod straight and still smart, despite the lateness of the hour and the pain in his leg.
They parked their cars outside the red brick home of Mrs Beadle in Ash, which was just a few doors down from the Victorian brick building that housed the Infants School. Traffic was heavy, being rush hour and they both had to wait until there was a large enough gap in the stream of vehicles, so they could open the doors and alight from their cars. At least the rain had abated.
Meeting at her door, Crane gave way to Anderson who stepped forward and knocked. It was answered after several locks could be heard being undone and a chain being attached.
The door opened just a few inches, a pair of eyes appeared, a flash of white hair, with a tremulous, ‘Yes?’ accompanying them.
‘Mrs Beadle, I’m Derek Anderson from Aldershot
Police, we spoke earlier today.’
‘Oh yes, sorry, hang on.’
The door was once more closed and after much fumbling at the chain, it opened fully. ‘Sorry about that,’ Mrs Beadle said. ‘It’s just that…’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ Derek finished for her. ‘No problem,’ he assured her. ‘May we come in?’
They followed Mrs Beadle into the house. From her nervous reaction to their knock on the door, Derek was afraid that Mrs Beadle could turn out to be a bit doddery and possibly not in full control of her faculties. But the white hair and anxious disposition were rather misleading. She strode ahead of them into the sitting room and once there turned to face them. He could see that the white hair was cut in a jaunty style, she was wearing a little make up and her clothes were classically cut, all giving the impression of a confident older woman, enjoying her retirement. After all, Derek reasoned, being a friend of Mrs Grimes, Mrs Beadle was bound to be cut from the same cloth.
It took a while to begin the interview, as once Mrs Beadle had let them into the house, she then fussed over making a pot of tea. Crane carried the tray into the front room for her and he and Derek sat on the edge of overstuffed armchairs with cups and saucers balanced on the arms.
‘Perhaps you could tell me about the phone call from your son?’ Derek asked.
Mrs Beadle took a deep breath and held her hand to her chest. ‘Well, as you might know, Ronald lives in Spain. He and his wife Christine have been there for about 7 years, I suppose. He rang me a couple of nights ago, clearly drunk, asking for money.’
‘How much did he want?’
‘He said several thousand would be ideal, but I don’t have that sort of money. My husband, Ron’s father, died three years ago now and I’ve not had much of anything since. I told him that, but he got increasingly anxious and, well, manic really, you know? He was incoherent most of the time, prattling on about how much he hated Christine and the people and the heat.’
A Grave Death (Crane and Anderson crime thrillers Book 4) Page 16
