Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel (8 page)

It
was a message to say that Sergeant Major Brown had been as good as his word and there was a full copy of the file on John Sergeant waiting for him. As Crane collected it from the young corporal waiting at the front desk, he decided to eat before going over the file, while he still had the stomach for food.

Chapter
Twelve

The next day saw Crane standing outside the Sergeant family home, steeling himself to go in. The house was still a protected crime scene, with tape all around it. The attractive modern semi complete with garage, bound up. Sealing its secrets inside. In his hand he held large crime scene photographs, to help him place the bodies in their exact location in the bedrooms, the Sergeant family having been taken to the mortuary for autopsy days ago. Brown had offered to accompany him, but Crane preferred to be alone, to absorb the atmosphere without any distractions.

The
downstairs of the three bedroom semi-detached house was untouched by the murders. He toured the rooms anyway, trying to get a feel for the family. His first impression was that the house was immaculate. The downstairs toilet still smelled of bleach. In the lounge he could see the linear marks of a vacuum cleaner in the thick beige carpet. All the surfaces gleam. The sofa was a work of art with the plethora of cushions plumped and strategically placed. Too neat and tidy for a home that housed a five year old boy, in Crane’s opinion. But then again, not having children, maybe that opinion wasn’t worth much. He found it surreal to be yet again walking through a house that only a few days ago, had been the secure refuge of a happy family. Traces of them were everywhere, despite the neatness. Family photographs were displayed to their best advantage, books adorned the shelves with a selection of DVDs - albeit regimentally straight and alphabetically arranged.

Passing
through to the kitchen, Crane found it once again spotless. Not even any dishes from the family’s last evening meal drying on the drainer. As he turned to leave the room, he saw a large fridge freezer in the corner. Here was the only evidence of a more normal family life, Crane realised. Pinned on the front by magnets were letters from the boy’s school. They included forms to be filled in and notices of forthcoming events and a child’s picture. The normal type of stuff all kids did at school, he guessed. It was entitled “My Family” written in wobbly letters, each one a different colour. Under the heading were pictures of a house and three people. Each was carefully labelled by a teacher, with the words painstakingly copied underneath in a child’s handwriting. My house. Mum. Dad. Me. Crane felt the weight of the deaths on his chest and had trouble breathing.

Turning
away, Crane ventured up the stairs. The first room he entered was the double bedroom occupied by Sergeant and his wife. Crane spent some time looking at the bed, which had been stripped bare of linen and compared it with the crime scene photos. The blood on the mattress was concentrated on one side of the bed in a large pool near the headboard. The photographs in his hands showed an attractive brunette lying on her back. She was clad in a thin nightdress, which could just be seen above the bedclothes. Her face was unlined, her skin smooth and perfect. Her long slender neck now permanently disfigured by a deep red slash.

The
second room he went in was the child’s room. Again the bed had been stripped. Crane referred to the photographs. These showed Sergeant lying on his back on the bed, propped up against the small headboard with his son cradled in his arms. Being a large man, he took up much of the narrow bed. The bed, headboard, Spiderman bed linen and the boy were all covered in massive amounts of blood. The boy’s eyes were closed. Sergeants were still open. He was dressed in his army uniform. He was also wearing a smile that mimicked the cut in his throat and that of his son.

Having
seen enough, Crane left the house, hoping to leave the images behind, sealed inside the house. But they followed him anyway. Deciding to skip lunch, he returned to the Special Investigation Branch office intent on spending the afternoon going through the case with Brown.

“So,
have you come up with any theories linking the two incidents yet?” Brown asked sarcastically, as Crane arrived.

Unperturbed
by Brown’s attitude, Crane made him go through the file in some detail, all the time looking for connections. There weren’t any.

“Right,”
Crane said, draining his third cup of coffee.

“Right
what?”

“Let’s
look at what we haven’t got.”

“For
God’s sake, Crane, there’s nothing there. Can’t you just leave it alone?” Brown’s anger which had been simmering all afternoon finally erupted. He pushed his chair away from the desk and stood up.

“Not
until there’s been a full investigation.”

“How
dare you!” roared Brown, his fists tightly clenched. “You can’t just bloody well come down here onto my patch and accuse me of not doing my job properly.”

“Sit
down, Brown. I’m not doing that,” Crane said his voice low, counteracting Brown’s shout. “I’m just helping you to finish up.”

“Finish
up, finish up, what the bloody hell are you talking about?” But the volume was fading and he dropped back into his chair.

Continuing
in the same flat voice, Crane said, “I just wondered if you had thought of looking into Sergeant’s religious views?”

“What?”
Brown’s head snapped up.

“You
know, did he go to church? Believe in eternal salvation? That sort of thing.”

“How
the bloody hell should I know?” the volume rising once again.

“By
asking neighbours, friends, family, the garrison padre?” suggested Crane.

“But
why in God’s name should I do that?”

“Trust
me on this one, Brown. Just find out will you. Then just maybe you’ll get me out of your hair and out of your barracks. Unless you want me to make the enquiries?” Seeing the look on Brown’s face he smiled and added, “I thought not.” Putting all the files back in his briefcase he stood. “I’ll be in the Mess.”

***

Later that evening, Crane was annoyed, having still not heard from Brown. He was just about to leave the Mess, where he’d been enjoying a quiet drink to go outside, have a smoke and phone Brown, when he saw him striding through the room.

“What
are you drinking?” Brown asked Crane without any preamble.

“John
Smiths thanks.”

Crane
watched as a dour Brown ordered and paid for the drinks. Once back at the table, Brown sat down in the easy chair opposite Crane and took a large gulp of his lager. “Why did you want to know about Sergeant’s religious inclinations?” he demanded, placing the half drunk pint on the small low table between them.

“Just
a hunch,” shrugged Crane, looking at Brown over the top of his pint.

“Yeah,
right.”

“Why,
what have you found?” Crane placed his drink next to Brown’s and leant forward across the table.

“These,”
Brown pulled some leaflets from his pocket and threw them across the table.

‘
Jesus
our
Savour’ screamed the banner headlines. As Crane picked them up and glanced through them, cold fingers of dread crept across his shoulders and down his arms, hugging him in their icy embrace.

“Jesus
Christ,” he whispered.

“Now
will you tell me what’s going on?”

“We
found similar pamphlets at Lance Corporal Crooks’ house.”

Crane
saw Brown close his eyes for a moment.

“And?”

“And, I don’t know,” Crane replied honestly. “But there has to be a connection somewhere, between the two men and the two churches.”

“But
they’re hundreds of miles apart!” Brown couldn’t contain his astonishment.

“Yes,
I know, but,” after a moment, Crane continued, “what do you know about this place, this Church of Jesus our Savour?”

“Nothing.
I’ve only just found the leaflets,” Brown had to admit.

“Only
just found them? What do you mean?”

“They
were in a pile of papers still being sorted through. Because of that they hadn’t been logged.”

“Bloody
hell, Brown.”

“Look,
there was no hurry on this one. A straightforward murder and then suicide. We would have got to them eventually.”

“Eventually?”
Crane’s tone suggested he was seriously unimpressed.

Taking
a moment to finish his drink, Brown retorted, “Alright, give it a rest. I went through all the papers myself after you left the office and that’s how I found them. To be honest if you hadn’t said anything earlier, I don’t think I would have taken any notice of them. In fact I still don’t really know why we should. Couldn’t this just be a coincidence?”

“Maybe,
but then again maybe not. Can you make some enquiries about this lot?” he asked Brown, indicating the pamphlets.

“Sure,
but don’t hold your breath, Crane. It’ll take some time. I’ll have to ask the chaplain for help. It’s going to have to be a favour. Let’s face it, there’s no evidence to suggest a pile of innocuous leaflets have anything to do with anything.”

“Understood.
I’m pretty much in the same boat over in Aldershot. The Padre made some enquiries about the pamphlets Crooks had in his bedroom but, on the surface at least, everything seemed normal. It’s just that now finding another similar type of church…….. Oh I don’t know,” he finished in exasperation. “Still, I’d like copies of these. I’ll take them back with me to Aldershot tomorrow.”

“No
worries, I’ll do them now,” replied Brown, rising from his seat.

“Oh,
Brown,” Crane called him back, waving his beer glass in the air.

“Yes,
Crane?” Brown’s indignation was still evident in the clipped tone and rigid posture. He remained standing.

“Could
you get forensics to do some tests on Sergeant’s clothes? Particularly his trousers.”

“What?”
As recognition dawned, Brown held the back of the chair he had just vacated with two hands. Leaning heavily on them, he looked at Crane. “What have I missed now?”

“I
think you might find traces of steel and stone. He would have sharpened his knife before he killed them, don’t you think?”

Chapter Thirteen

The next few days brought no good news in the murder/suicide cases. In fact, no news at all. Crane became dispirited and frustrated and his days merged into one another, as he went about his work like an automaton, before he turned his attention back to the fire case.

Sitting
down and brainstorming one afternoon in Crane’s office over a cup of tea, Billy said, “You don’t suppose he did it to himself, sir?”

“What?”
Crane splutters, choking on the tea that he’d just started to drink.

“Sergeant
Barnes. Maybe it was suicide. Turned himself into a human torch.”

“A
bit bloody extreme,” was Crane’s reaction as he mopped up the spilt tea from his face and his tie. “And anyway, why would he do it?” he asked, dropping the tissues into the bin under his desk.

“Who
knows?” Billy shrugged his shoulders. “Medical reasons perhaps? Maybe he was ill?”

After
a pause, Crane said, “Alright, follow it up. Get his medical records from the health centre. We’ve nothing else, so we might as well look into it.”

“Sir,”
agreed Billy as he left the office, taking one of Crane’s biscuits with him.

It
was some time later when Crane realised Billy hadn’t come back with the medical records, so he went into the open plan office in search of him. He found him at his desk going through some papers.

“Billy,
what the hell are you doing? Where are Sergeant Barnes’ medical records?”

“Well,
sir, I…um…was just about to come and see you about those.”

“Well
come and see me then,” called Crane striding back to his office.

Billy
sat opposite Crane, looking like a mouse facing a snake. After swallowing he said, “Well, sir, it’s just that I’ve cocked up.”

“Jesus
Christ, what have you done this time?”

“Well,
you know you asked me to get Sergeant Barnes’ medical records?” Billy played with the brown paper envelope in his hand.

“Of
course, where are they?”

“Still
in the medical centre.”

A
confused Crane asked, “So what’s in your hand?”

“Mrs
Barnes’ medical records, sir.”

“What
the hell! How did that happen? No, don’t tell me,” Crane holds out his palm to stop Billy replying. “A pretty young receptionist?”

Nodding
in agreement, Billy looked abashed. “She was really sweet, boss, with big you know what’s. Anyway we got chatting. So she was a bit distracted when she gave me the records for A. Barnes. I just took them and when I got back I realised she had given me Mrs Barnes’ medical records. Alice, that was, not Adrian.”

“You
bloody idiot. How could you be so stupid?”

“I
know, boss, but, it could be a good thing.”

“Enlighten
me.”

“It
seemed Mrs Barnes had had several ‘accidents’ over the past few years.” Billy began taking out papers from the brown lined packet from the medical centre.

“Oh
yes,” Crane leant over his desk to take the papers from Billy.

“Yes.
See here, firstly broken ribs, then injured knees, and finally a broken wrist. And that’s just in the past year. All plausibly explained… but…”

“Domestic
violence,” Crane said shaking his head, leafing through the computer printed sheets, “probably over a prolonged period.”

“Looks
that way, sir,” Billy agreed.

Crane
paused to think, stroking his scar as he did so, his eyes looking inwards.

“Right,”
Crane came to a decision. “Get those bloody medical records out of my sight and back where they belong, before anyone notices they’re gone. Then we better talk to DI Anderson of the Aldershot Police. Don’t forget Mrs Barnes is a civilian and as her husband was dead, she is effectively outside of army jurisdiction. Especially if she’s suspected of murder, a charge in the civilian court.”

***

DI Anderson was drinking tea in his office at Aldershot Police Station and enjoying a sweet sticky cake when they arrived. He was wilting in his chair and looked as crumpled and tired as his office. His dark tie and tweed jacket were full of cake crumbs. His thinning dark hair was unruly, as though he had just been out in the wind. After talking to Crane and Billy he pushed away the cake and picked up the phone.

It
only took an hour for Anderson to bring in Mrs Barnes for questioning and during that time Crane had Staff Sergeant Jones and the RMP search the garage at the bottom of the Barnes’ garden. They reported their findings to Crane by phone, just as Mrs Barnes arrived at the police station.

DI
Anderson and Crane interviewed Mrs Barnes together, with Billy listening in from an adjoining office. Mrs Barnes refused legal representation and sat down. She didn’t fidget, just sat with her hands clasped in her lap, shoulders hunched and head down. She was in her mid thirties and very thin. Skeletal even, Crane thought. She looked very small sat at a metal table that was screwed to the floor.

At
first Mrs Barnes denied killing her husband. She stuck to her story about being at her sister’s for the day and finding the fire on her return.

It
was only when they started asking questions about the rumours of her having a lot of ‘accidents’ that she became agitated. She asked for some water and sat without speaking until it was brought in. After a few gulps, she admitted that her husband had physically abused her throughout their marriage. She explained that he usually hit her so that any bruises or injuries weren’t noticeable, but every now and again he got it wrong. Once he had thrown her down the stairs and her wrist had become caught in the banister and broken. Mrs Barnes hugged herself and rocked slowly from side to side.

Crane
had to ignore her distress and press on, confronting her with what the RMP had found in her garage. After that, she was ready to tell them what really happened.

Hiding
behind her curtain of long dark hair, Mrs Barnes admitted to feelings of dread as she returned from a lovely day out with her sister. The freedom she had enjoyed for just one day had been liberating. No violence, no shouting, no one putting her down. As she got closer to home she decided, on impulse, to try to free herself from her tyrannical husband. She parked her car on the edge of North Camp and managed to walk to the back of her house and slip into the garden without being seen by the neighbours.

“I
could see him in the kitchen, making a cup of tea,” she explained. “I went into the garage, poured some petrol into a jug and walked up the garden path. When I opened the back door, he looked at me and demanded to know where I’d been. He wanted to know why I wasn’t at home preparing his dinner. He called me a lazy slut and told me I’d get what I deserved later. I…I…” Mrs Barnes faltered and fell silent for a moment. No one spoke. Into the silence she whispered, “If only he’d been nice to me, asked me if I’d had a good time, wanted to know what we’d done.”

“So
what did you do?” Crane asked, no longer the demanding investigator, finding some sympathy within him for the woman and her plight.

“I
threw the jug of petrol in his face. While he was recovering from the shock I pulled a box of matches from my pocket and went to light one. He looked at me in horror and wanted to know what the bloody hell I thought I was doing. He told me to stop being so bloody stupid and to pull myself together.”

Pausing
to take a deep breath, she then continued. “You can’t imagine the feeling of power I got from holding that box of matches,” she confessed. “For once I was in charge, not him.”

Raising
her head and looking straight at Crane she said, “He fell to his knees and begged for mercy, but I decided he didn’t deserve it. So I struck the match and threw it at him.”