Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

Crane and Captain Edwards were having their weekly review of his open cases. Crane explained he was still in the middle of the house fire case, but had to admit they had hit something of a brick wall. Potts and Mathews checked out. Solid alibis for the afternoon of the fire. The only good thing was that they’d confessed to the thefts. As for the kids, Crane was pretty sure they were telling the truth about having nothing to do with it. Eight and ten year olds couldn’t lie that effectively, he surmised. One of them would have burst into tears and admitted they had started the fire. Crane and Edwards agreed that, if nothing else, it would keep them off the streets in future and stop them annoying the neighbours. But as a result, they hadn’t much else to go on in terms of motive or opportunity, but Crane intended to keep digging.

Thinking
their business was concluded, Crane started to collect his files and made to rise from his chair.

“One
more thing.”

The
Captain’s voice halted Crane and he sat back in his chair, trying not to mumble out loud – ‘what does the stupid bastard want now?’

“Sir?”
queried Crane instead.

“It’s
been, what, six weeks or so since that nasty business with Solomon?”

“About
that, yes, sir.”

“How
are we doing with that one?”

Crane
thought his Captain had finally fallen off the edge of the cliff called rationality. “We’re not, sir. If you remember the file is on the back burner. Or to be more precise ‘in the deep freeze’ as you put it the last time I raised the case. I told you then that the forensic tests showed Solomon had spent some time sharpening his knife that afternoon. Trace evidence of metal shavings and pumice stone suggesting an element of pre-meditation to his actions. Coupling that with the fact that all the windows and doors in the house were locked, it was a deliberate murder and then suicide, not a domestic argument gone wrong.” Crane hadn’t been able to resist the dig and sat staring at his Captain, defiance clear in his eyes.

“Mmm,
that’s what I thought.” But the Captain wasn’t meeting Crane’s glare, choosing instead to rise and fiddle with something behind his desk, turning his back on Crane.

“The
thing is, we may have been a bit premature on that,” Edwards said to both the wall and Crane.

“We?”

“This is no time for splitting hairs,” was the curt reply from Edwards, his back still to Crane.

“Something’s
happened hasn’t it, sir?” Crane put his files on Edward’s desk and sat forward on the edge of his chair.

Returning
to his seat, Captain Edwards eventually faced Crane, opened his desk drawer and retrieved a thin file.

“It
would appear so.” The Captain’s voice was grave. He spoke in the tone that Crane knew his Captain reserved for informing families that their loved one had been found dead. “As you know we now get updates from the computer system about cases that are being dealt with by other Special Investigation and Royal Military Police Branches.’

“Yes,
sir.” Crane knew all about it. The Special Investigations Branch were still able to work with paper files, as it was a procedure everyone knew and loved, but certain members of the team were now tasked with putting reports and details of crimes, offenders and victims onto the new computerised system. It was a pain in the arse, but the powers that be said it could help in current and future investigations and maybe even help solve cold crimes. It was the result of the recommendations of a Report written in 2006 after a voluntary inspection of the SIB.

Clearing
his throat, the Captain continued with his explanation. “It would appear there has been a murder followed by suicide in somewhat similar circumstances on another garrison.”

“What
the?” Crane exploded from his chair, nearly knocking it over. He paced the office, unable to keep still. Wheeling around he asked, “Where, when, how?”

“Colchester.
A week ago. A soldier named John Sergeant killed his wife and five year old son by cutting their throats and then committed suicide.”

“Jesus.”
This piece of news made Crane sit down. “Jesus,” he repeated, running a hand through his hair down to his neck, where he tried to massage away the shock and horror.

“Exactly,
Sergeant Major.” Edwards looked washed out; all the colour drained from his arrogant face, which didn’t look haughty anymore. “Here’s a copy of the file. I think it may be worth you taking a trip to Colchester, don’t you?” Edwards pushed the file across the desk to Crane. “In there are all the details we have at present. I’ll leave the arrangements to you. Report to me when you get back.”

“Yes,
of course, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Crane
left the office at a run.

***

He was on the road within the hour, after calling Colchester, Tina and then collecting an overnight bag. When he left the M3 and joined the M25 he settled into the journey. Showers of rain mean the wipers were on intermittent and their regular rhythm and the hiss of tyres on wet tarmac soothed him, allowing his mind to process the little information he had at present. He knew that by the time he got to Colchester he would have to be focused, thorough and professional. He couldn’t afford to let emotions get in the way.

Crane
recognised that under normal circumstances, dealing with a murder case wouldn’t touch him so personally. He was a soldier after all, trained to follow orders and not question or react to situations, merely do his job. As he went through the Dartford Tunnel, his thoughts turned darker. Crane was disturbed by the fact that children were involved. As far as he was concerned, innocent children should never be subjected to that kind of horror. He was now very angry that another child had suffered a similar death. As he drove out of the tunnel, into bright sunlight, he sharpened that anger into a determination to solve the murders. He hoped that the two cases combined might reveal clues otherwise hidden, so he could make sure no other child, wife or soldier, lost their lives.

Skirting
the city of Colchester, he made his way to the garrison. From his knowledge of military history, Crane knew that Colchester had long had a military presence, starting with the Romans who built the first military garrison there in 43AD. Since then various factions had fortified the town and it was extensively used in both world wars. Previously located in the centre of the town, the garrison had moved to a brown field site just outside the city. The new modern purpose built complex was completed in 2008, and was still the home of the 16th Air Assault Brigade.

Crane
navigated his way around a garrison that he thought looked more like Farnborough Airfield than a military barracks. The new low buildings were constructed on a grid system and from the air look like giant aircraft hangars assembled around long airstrips. If Crane thought Aldershot Garrison was large, Colchester was equally so, having more than 110 buildings across a 185 hectare site. Crane finally found Goojerat Barracks, home of the RMPs. His contact was Sergeant Major Brown, an experienced Special Investigations Branch man who had spent much of his time on tour abroad.

Crane
met Brown in his modern office and shook hands with a man who would have been far more suited to the name Crane. Brown was tall and lanky, with long arms and legs and a slim body that seemed incapable of supporting them. His equally long and lanky face was topped with sandy hair. The complete antithesis of Crane himself. Brown ushered Crane into a bright neutrally painted office devoid of frills, but furnished in the same simple fashion as the other parts of the building Crane had seen since his arrival. Crane figured that the sales director of a national office furniture company somewhere, must have been rubbing his hands in glee when he got the contract to furnish the garrison.

Brown
was welcoming but initially unhelpful.

“So,”
he began, “you rushed down here as soon as you found out about our case. A bit hasty don’t you think? You could have just phoned.”

“Hasty?
No, why would you think that?”

“Well,
I don’t really see what you can do here.” Brown’s tone was dismissive.

“I
need to see for myself the similarities and differences between this case and mine. Then maybe I can establish a link,” Crane explained folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to keep his anger under control.

“Why
on earth would there be a link?” Brown leant towards Crane across the desk. “The two barracks are miles apart.”

“I
know, but don’t you think it’s strange there are now two cases of murder and then suicide within two months of each other. Something unheard of in the British Army before now.” Crane leant forward to meet Brown.

“True,”
Brown conceded, backing off. “But surely the link was Afghanistan? Both soldiers served there, albeit separately. As far as we know they never met.” Brown was warming to his theory, his voice sounding as if he was giving a lecture, confident in his information and his interpretation. “Perhaps they were both so badly affected by their experiences they decided they just couldn’t take anymore. I could understand that, having served there myself,” he finishes rather pompously.

“Okay,
fair enough,” agreed Crane, unwilling to be pulled into a pissing contest about who had served when, where and for how long. “That theory is fine, as far as it goes.”

“As
far as it goes? For God’s sake, Crane, what more of an explanation do you want?”

“I
want to know why two unconnected men killed their families and then committed suicide. In the same way. How on earth would they both come up with that idea?”

“Perhaps
Sergeant heard about Crooks and decided to follow his example,” countered Brown.

“How
would he have done that? The publicity was only local to Aldershot and you know how the army likes to keep things quiet. So I’ve brought with me a copy of my file on Crooks for you to go over,” Crane placed his briefcase on his knee, snapped open the catches and slapped a thick file down in front of Barnes. “I need a full copy of yours as soon as possible please, delivered to the Sergeants’ Mess. I may find something when I go over your case tonight. I also need to see the crime scene tomorrow.”

“Okay,
if you think it’s necessary.” Brown was beaten into submission by Crane’s determination and refusal to back down.

“I
do,” was Crane’s firm reply and he left the office to find the Sergeant’s Mess, where he had been booked in for the night.

Housed
in the prison, or to use its correct term, the Military Corrective Training Centre, the Mess had recently been extended to provide further bed sitting rooms and it was in one of these vacant rooms that Crane found himself. Looking around, he decided he may as well be in the room of a national hotel chain anywhere in England. Once again the banality of the room echoed across the new garrison and Crane wistfully remembered the old Sergeants’ Mess in the centre of Colchester. A fine brick building built in 1875, with tall windows and high ceilings, standing as proud as a Georgian terrace in Bath. Whilst he realised the modern army had to have modern, practical barracks, he fervently hoped that its history, tradition and architecturally unique buildings would not be lost in the process.

Once
settled in, he gave Tina a quick call. He was conscious of the spectre of the ‘great decision’ still lying between them. During the past few weeks they hadn’t made much progress towards reaching a point where they were both in favour of trying for a family. He almost expected her to be cool towards him, having rushed off at short notice, but to his surprise she seemed happy and relaxed.

“I’m
going to have a bit of quality ‘me’ time,” she giggled. “You know a lovely relaxing bath, do my nails, that sort of stuff.”

“Good
for you,” enthused Crane, sitting at the small desk in the corner of the room, surrounded by his papers. “You deserve a bit of pampering. I do love you, you know,” he said. “It’s just that….”

As
if understanding he couldn’t finish the sentence, Tina cut in, “And I love you too, so just do what you have to do and I’ll see you when you get back. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. If you’re not back tomorrow, a couple of the girls from work are going to see the latest rom com, so I’ll probably go with them. I know how you hate that sort of thing anyway.”

“Yes,
definitely not my scene at all,” agreed Crane, laughing. “You do that, love. I’ll keep in touch and let you know when I’ll be back. Now off you go and have your bath.”

After
he ended the call, Crane moved to lie on the bed and closed his eyes, a picture of Tina in his mind in her bubble bath. He could almost smell the fragrance of jasmine scented candles strategically placed around the bathroom. As he began to imagine parts of his wife’s naked body peeking above the level of the creamy water, half hidden by wisps of steam, his phone rang, dispelling the image and bringing him back to reality.