Deadly Duty Box Set 2 (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Box Set)

  Deadly Duty Box Set 2

  Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers

  Deadly Cordon, Deadly Widow, Deadly Hijack

  by

  Wendy Cartmell

  © Wendy Cartmell 2011

  Wendy Cartmell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2017 by Wendy Cartmell

  This kindle edition published 2019

  By Wendy Cartmell

  All my books are available for sale and to borrow on Amazon.

  Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers:

  Crane and Anderson crime thrillers:

  Emma Harrison mysteries

  All my books are available to purchase or borrow from Amazon by clicking the links.

  Check out my website and blog, where I review the very best in crime fiction.

  Wendy Cartmell

  Table of Contents

  By Wendy Cartmell

  Table of Contents

  Deadly Lies

  Dear Reader

  Deadly Widow

  Dear Reader

  Deadly Hijack

  Dear Reader

  One

  Two

  By Wendy Cartmell

  Deadly Lies

  By example, shall we lead

  Motto - Royal Military Police

  Prologue

  Some years earlier

  The footsteps echoing through the underpass weren’t hers. She was wearing trainers and the footsteps sounded like military boots. Stopping, she held her breath and listened to the drops of moisture falling through cracks in the concrete structure, their irregular tattoo sounding like gun fire. She inhaled the damp air, turned and peered into the darkness behind her, but couldn’t see anyone. The grey gloom of early evening was glowing weakly, just visible at the tunnel entrance. Beyond that she could see the garish lights of the revered Tesco superstore she had left a few minutes earlier. Overhead she heard the faint rumble of tyres on tarmac, as cars hissed though the rainy night.

  She tried to still her shaking hands by grabbing her bag and lifting it higher onto her shoulder. The end of the underpass, leading towards the relative safety of Aldershot town centre, was still some way away. As she started walking towards it, so did the boots. Matching her step for step. She broke into a run, her large bag weighing her down and banging against her hip. Her husband had told her not to carry such a big heavy bag and tonight she wished she’d listened to him. Her purse, umbrella, book and make up bag had turned into heavy stones, forcing the bag off her shoulder and down her arm. It landed with a thump on the concrete. She couldn’t leave it behind, if nothing else she needed her purse, so she squatted down and retrieved the bag which had up-ended on the floor. With fumbling fingers, she stuffed her purse safely back into the bag and began scrabbling for the rest of her stuff, scattered around her feet. Her lipstick had rolled away and looking around she saw it lying up against the wall of the underpass. As she reached for it, a black boot landed on her hand.

  “Hello Carol,” she heard over the snapping of bones, as her hand was ground into the floor.

  If he said anything else, she wasn’t aware of it. All she could feel was the extreme pressure of his boot and intense pain as the bones along the back of her hand cracked and crumbled. It felt like she was being been run over by a car, but whereas a car would move off her hand as it travelled on its way, Foster didn’t liberate it, merely slightly shifted the position of his foot and placed it over her fingers. As he slowly pressed down on them, she blacked out.

  When she came round he pulled her onto her feet from behind. His head was next to hers. His lips by her ear. The pain in her hand was abating, but she was incapable of moving it. She couldn’t even wiggle her fingers and the shock of that realisation made her slump against Foster. He was muttering something and she strained to hear.

  “Oh dear, have I hurt you, Carol? Well now you know what it’s like. You’re feeling pain just like I did when you ended our relationship. The type of pain that fills your head, so you can’t think of anything else. Well, I can’t think of anything else apart from your betrayal. It just keeps going round and round in my head. I’m not able to do my job properly and it’s all your fault. So I’ve got to get rid of you. Yes. That’ll work. That’ll get you out of my head.”

  “Barry, I...”

  “I, what Carol? I’m sorry – is that what you wanted to say? Well sorry just doesn’t cut it. You picked me up and then put me down, just like a plaything you’d grown tired of.” His hand grabbed her chin, pulling her ear even closer to his lips. He hissed, “What was I, Carol? Just a diversion while your husband was away? A bit of fun on the side? Well, it’s not bloody funny now is it?”

  “No, Barry,” she managed, hoping that if she tried to placate him, agree with him, he would let her go. But then she felt him release her chin and press something cold against her neck.

  “Maybe I should just slit your throat with this dagger and leave you here to bleed out. That way, while you die, you’ll have time to think about what you’ve done to me.”

  Carol swallowed, making the tip of the blade move slightly and dig into her skin.

  “But your regret would be too little too late wouldn’t it, Carol? So no, I don’t think I’ll do that.”

  Carol’s relief was short lived as he continued, “I’ll do what you did to me. Break your heart as you broke mine. That’s more fitting don’t you think? Breaking your treacherous heart?”

  But she wasn’t able to answer, only gasp, as the sharp point of his knife broke through her clothes and then her skin, pressing onwards through fat and muscle, towards her beating heart.

  Chapter 1

  Present day

  Crane nimbly sidestepped the reporters crowding around the police barrier, ignoring their calls and questions.

  “Sgt Major, any news for us?”

  “Why are the Army being called in?”

  “Can you comment on why a senior member of the Special Investigations Branch from Aldershot Garrison has been called to the scene?”

  That last question came from Diane Chambers, self-appointed investigative reporter for the Aldershot News. In the light of Crane’s previous tussles with the young woman, he simply shook his head and hurried away. He knew it was dangerous talking to her. Whatever he said to her made no difference; she either made it up, or distorted his quote to suit her article. So he kept his distance. Anyway, at the moment, the press probably knew more about what was going on than he did. Being an investigator in the Royal Military Police, he’d responded to DI Anderson’s terse phone call about 15 minutes earlier for him to “get his arse down here fast”. And when DI Anderson of the Aldershot Police called, Crane knew he had to move it. The local police and the military police worked closely on joint investigations, when the perpetrator or victim was military personnel. ‘Down here’ was the underpass walkway from the local Tesco Superstore, allowing safe pedestrian passage to the town centre, under the main road. Well, safe for most, Crane supposed, but not the victim.

  Flashing his ID at the young constable on duty at the cordon, he walked to the entrance, where he stopped and called, “Derek!”

  Anderson, an unwieldy, bulky figure in his crime scene suit, lifted his head at the interruption, then held up his hand in greeting and picked his way towards Crane.

  “Thanks for coming, Crane. Here put this suit on and then follow me, walking…”

  “Yes, yes, Derek, I know,” said Crane as he pulled his way into the white suit, “walking in my footsteps.”
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  “Sorry, force of habit,” grinned Anderson as he turned and guided Crane to the body of a woman, sprawled on the dirty floor in the middle of the underpass. There was a cold wind blowing through the tunnel, lifting Anderson’s grey wispy hair from its normal position, which was covering his bald patch on the crown of his head.

  “So, is she one of mine?” asked Crane looking down at the body.

  “No, but she’s the wife of one.”

  “Shit.” Crane scratched at his well-worn scar, just visible under the short dark beard he’d had to get special permission to grow. It covered the disfigurement that ran from his cheek to his chin, courtesy of shrapnel from an IED in Afghanistan, when he was training Afghan Military Police in investigative procedures.

  A dead British Army wife was never a good investigation. The husband and his mates expected a quick result with all possible resources used, but his superiors wouldn’t see it quite that way. A terrible thing to happen, for sure, but not a priority for the Army. It was effectively a civilian killed off-site, making it a police matter. Crane found it easy to empathise with the husband though and would do his best for him. God knows how Crane himself would feel if the victim was his wife, Tina. Breaking the news to the victim’s husband would be hard, but someone had to do it and that someone usually meant Crane.

  “According to information in her purse, her name’s Melanie Green,” stated Anderson, “and she lives, sorry make that lived, at an address on the garrison. Looks like she’s was stabbed in the area of her heart, probably about an hour ago, according to the Pathologist. She was found by a local woman walking her dog. Luckily it was on a leash so we don’t think there’s been any contamination of the scene. When the dog walker realised what she’d found, she backed away from the body and ran to the entrance of the underpass, calling 999 as soon as she got a mobile signal.”

  As Anderson droned on, Crane squatted down to have a closer look at the dead woman. Actually dead young woman was nearer the mark. Crane guessed she was in her mid-twenties. She was lying on her back, her short blond hair in stark contrast to the black asphalt. Her head had dropped to one side, so Crane just had a view of a wide staring eye, half of her red painted lips and a gold stud earring. Her coat had fallen open, revealing a large dark red stain blooming on her snow white blouse. Her legs were closed and slightly bent at the knees. There was no immediate sign of sexual assault, as her clothes didn’t look disturbed and all the buttons on her blouse were fastened correctly.

  “Obviously we can’t say if anyone else saw the body at this stage. It’s likely someone did because of the time delay, but they decided not to call the police,” Anderson finished.

  “Mmm,” replied Crane, who had been wondering what the motive was for killing Melanie Green. He pulled his attention back to Anderson and said, “Anyone who saw her probably didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. Isn’t this one of the places popular with drug dealers?”

  “Yes,” replied Anderson, “the lack of a CCTV camera makes it nice and safe from the prying eyes of the police. We’ve tried several times to get the council to install one, but no luck yet. We’ll put out a call for witnesses later, through the press, and see if anyone comes forward.”

  “Well, there are quite a few reporters waiting for you back there,” Crane indicated the barrier. “I expect they’ll welcome a press conference or a statement from the police, they’ll get precious little from the Army.”

  “Don’t I know it,” said Anderson. “You lot are tighter than a duck’s arse when it comes to telling civilians what you’re up to. Anyway I’ve just about finished here, so let’s get going.”

  “Going where?”

  “To break the news to her husband and interview him. The crime took place off the garrison, but the victim is the wife of a soldier. So as far as I’m concerned it’s a joint investigation between the police and Army - unless you want me to handle it alone, of course.”

  Crane’s colourful reply was drowned out by the rustling of Anderson’s crime scene suit as he turned and walked away from the body.

  Crane and Anderson often tussled over who a case belonged to. The military police were restricted to incidents which occurred on Aldershot Garrison, but Crane worked closely with the local police if an incident in their jurisdiction involved a soldier. Similar restriction applied to the civilian police investigating incidents on the garrison that involved military personnel. However, the more serious the offence, the more the police had jurisdiction on the garrison.

  Crane knew Anderson well, after working closely with him on several high visibility cases and both were respectful of each other’s boundaries. Well, maybe not respectful, Crane thought as he followed Anderson, Crane being too pragmatic to pussy foot around authority. He had carte blanch to interview those of a higher rank than himself in the Army, whilst on active investigation, so he saw no need to treat Anderson or his colleagues any differently. What Crane wanted he usually got one way or another.

  Back at the car Crane called Provost Barracks the home of the military police on Aldershot Garrison. He gave Staff Sgt Jones Mel Green’s details and asked him to find out what he could about her husband, staying on the line while Jones looked it up on the computer. By the time Anderson and Crane had relieved themselves of their paper suits and boots and adjusted their clothing, Jones had the information. Crane scribbled down the pertinent details, resting his notebook on the top of his car, his mobile hunched between his head and his shoulder, trying to keep the pages from flapping in the increasingly blustery wind. Jones told him the husband, Lance Corporal Green lived next door to Corporal Shaun Taylor from the same unit. Taylor was Green’s direct superior, so Crane decided that was as good a place to start as any.

  There was just one more thing to do, before Crane and Anderson could interview Green and that was to contact Padre Symmonds. If ever anyone needed a welfare visit, it was Green. As Crane waited for the Padre to answer the phone, his mind turned to how he would feel if he suddenly lost Tina. He was rather glad when the Padre answered and he was able to dispel those horrific thoughts.

  “Good to hear from you, Sgt Major,” the Padre said after Crane introduced himself.

  “I’m afraid you won’t think so when I tell you what’s happened, Padre. I need pastoral and welfare support for a young soldier. DI Anderson and I are just about to tell him his wife has been murdered.”

  If Crane expected a gasp, or some sort of expletive, he didn’t get one, merely a calm voice saying, “I’m so sorry you are having to deal with such an appalling situation, Crane. Give me the details and I’ll come round straight away.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Crane replied and did just that.

  Crane and Anderson had a rather roundabout drive to Green’s house, as they had to enter the garrison from Hospital Hill. During the journey Anderson asked Crane why he had involved the Padre.

  “Because Army chaplains are now playing an increasingly larger role in the general welfare of soldiers. It doesn’t matter if the lads are religious or not, the Padre is there to offer what support and comfort he can. It can be a harrowing situation, such as the one we have here, or mediating in a domestic dispute. Large or small, problems are increasingly being referred to the Padres.”

  “A bit like our family liaison officers, then, I suppose,” said Anderson. “One officer is appointed to stay with the victim or their family for as long as they are needed.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” nodded Crane. “Here we are, Derek. We want Number 26 Williams Park; it must be on the even side, along here somewhere.”

  Crane parked the car and he and Anderson climbed out. As Anderson paused for a moment to collect a package from the back seat, Crane shivered and pulled the flapping sides of his coat together. The cold wind hadn’t abated, filling the night with noise, as the trees were whipped first one way and then the other. The bleakness of the night reflecting the bleakness of Crane’s message.

  “It’s this one,” Crane pointe
d but started to walk up the cracked concrete path to number 28 instead of 26. He lifted his arm to knock on a gleaming black door, but before he could make contact with the wood, the door opened.

  The two men stared at each other and before Crane could speak, the soldier standing in front of Crane said, “Oh bloody hell, it’s the Branch!” using the well-known euphemism for the Special Investigations Branch. Branch personnel are particularly distinctive, because they dress in dark, sober, civilian clothing, not uniform when on investigation and they wear their IDs around their necks.

  The young soldier standing before Crane then added, “Oh, sorry, Sir, no offence meant.”

  “None taken,” Crane smiled. He was used to the fact that that the one thing soldiers hated was a visit from the Branch, as it usually meant they, or someone they knew, were in trouble. On the other hand, a visit by Crane to an Army wife, more often than not meant the injury or death of a loved one serving abroad.

  “Are you Corporal Shaun Taylor?” Crane asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “We need to come in, there’s a delicate matter I need your help with.”

  A few moments later, after Crane had explained the situation to Taylor, the three men stood outside the correct house, number 26.

  “Ready, Taylor?” Crane said, as he saw the unhealthy pallor of the young soldier standing before him.

  “Not really, Sir.”

  Taylor coughed several times, as if the news that his friend’s wife was dead was stuck in his throat, a blockage he couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard he tried.

  “Look, lad, just be there for your mate, okay?” Crane said. “We can’t break this sort of news to the man and then leave him on his own. I appreciate you haven’t done anything like this before, but you don’t need to tell him what’s happened. We’re doing that, okay?”