A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Read online

  A Soldier’s Honour

  Box Set 1

  A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller omnibus

  Books 1- 3

  Steps to Heaven

  40 Days 40 Nights

  Honour Bound

  By

  Wendy Cartmell

  © Wendy Cartmell 2016

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

  This kindle edition published 2018 by Costa Press

  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

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  Table of Contents

  By Wendy Cartmell

  Table of Contents

  Steps to Heaven

  40 Days 40 Nights

  Honour Bound

  From Wendy

  By Wendy Cartmell

  Steps to Heaven

  A young soldier and his family are found dead.

  But is it murder?

  Crane thinks so. His boss doesn't. Case closed.

  Until another family are found dead.

  What follows will reshape everything Crane thought he knew about soldier's minds - and his own.

  Solomon

  15:30 Hours 16th August

  There was no other sound in the house, save the grinding of the blade against the pumice stone. Death given a voice. Rising and falling. Ebbing and flowing. Marching steadily closer.

  Solomon repeated his mantra as he worked, “Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to Heaven. Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to Heaven.”

  Solomon knew that people described him as a quiet and unassuming man. A family man, a member of the local church, a Christian. But he was more than that. He was a Christian who had been chosen.

  His first-born was the key to that choosing. Not everyone could father a son, especially not their first child. It was a sign. He had studied the scriptures long into the night and knew that the ultimate sacrifice was the way to eternal salvation. Ensuring that he and his son would climb the steps to Heaven.

  Now it was a matter of timing. He had his instructions and intended to follow them to the letter, like a good soldier. A soldier of Christ. It was God’s will.

  Solomon decided to check the house once more. The mirror in the hall caught images of him, clad in his battle fatigues, as he closed and locked the doors to the front and back of the house, leaving the internal door to the garage open. That was the way they would come in. He knew their routine.

  Mentally going over his checklist, he realised he had one more task. Fishing the house keys out of his pocket, he carefully locked the windows downstairs and then upstairs, before returning to his base.

  Once there, he settled down to wait, crossed legged on the floor, his back against the kitchen door. After adjusting the beret on his shaven head, Solomon began once again to slowly, rhythmically sharpen his knife.

  Chapter One

  03:00 hours.

  Unable to sleep, Sergeant Major Tom Crane counted cases not sheep, as he stared at the ceiling. The sounds of the night rolled over him; a barrage of barking in the distance, cats fighting nearby. As the headlights of a car washed the bedroom in a pale silvery light, he slid out of bed. Picking his way across the bedroom around unseen but familiar obstacles, he grabbed his bathrobe and reached the door without disturbing Tina.

  Once downstairs in the kitchen, Crane shrugged on his robe and tied the belt around his thickening waist. Resolving to lose weight yet again, he carefully put two sugars in the mug of tea he was making, instead of his usual three and made a mental note to up the mileage on his weekend run.

  He passed his hand over his short dark beard, still not entirely comfortable with it. He had gained permission to grow it, in an attempt to hide the scar running across his cheek to his chin. A souvenir from shrapnel, during his last tour in Afghanistan. The scar itself still red and angry, as though an outward reflection of his inner feelings. The beard grown not for vanity, but to stop his disfigurement being a distraction.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, Crane stared out of the window into the black void of his garden. The click of the kettle boiling sounded unusually loud in the stillness of the house and Crane shivered, looking forward to the warmth of the tea.

  He collected his briefcase, which he kept strategically placed by the kitchen door and pulled out a thin buff folder. Unable to resist, he also collected his packet of cigarettes and lighter from the bottom of the case. Squaring everything on the table, he sat down, lighting up before he opened the folder, as if to give him courage to face the contents.

  Squinting through the smoke, he read the British Army Special Investigation Branch (SIB) file on Lance Corporal Solomon Crooks. Aged 26, with six years’ service, Solomon had returned from Afghanistan a couple of months ago. A routine tour. Or so it seemed on the surface. Crane noted down the name of Solomon’s commanding officer on the pad by his elbow. He had an appointment with Colonel Pearson later that morning. Perhaps he could shed some light as to why an exemplary soldier would be involved in a domestic argument, resulting in three deaths.

  Returning to the front of the file, Crane read the report by Staff Sergeant Jones of the 3rd Battalion Royal Military Police (RMP). Jones was the poor sod who was first on the scene yesterday. Glancing at the pine clock on the wall, Crane realised it was nearly 04:00 hours, so rather than face the crime scene photographs, he opted for trying to sleep. Tomorrow, or rather today, was going to be a long one.

  After replacing Solomon’s file in his briefcase, Crane stood and stretched, his spine clicking, reminding him of his age. At least he didn’t have to worry about hair loss, he smiled to himself. He still had a good head of hair, even though the army required it to be short and smart. In fact short and smart kind of summed him up, he decided, as he tidied up the kitchen. Totally belying his name. Under six foot and stocky, smart in both appearance and intellect. Proud of his military service, Geordie roots and candour, which even he had to admit, sometimes bordered on rudeness.

  Turning off the kitchen light, Crane once more felt his way through the darkened house to the bedroom, hoping to dispel the despair of the night by curling into his wife’s body.

  ***

  Crane realised he had made a mistake driving through town to Aldershot Garrison the next morning, rather than using the back road from Ash. God, what a depressing place, he thought, as he crawled through the traffic. Grey summed up Aldershot. The murky sky was dark and oppressive, despite it being August. Pedestrians hurried along, clad in dark coloured clothing. Their heads down and shoulders hunched, bowed under the weight of the greyness. He passed filthy Victorian terraces, complete with a jungle of domestic detritus that served as front gardens. An air of seediness pervaded the area, that he couldn’t remember having been there a few years ago.

  At last Crane pull
ed onto Queens Avenue, driving along the main thoroughfare of the garrison. He strictly obeyed the 30 mile an hour speed limit for nearly a mile, before turning into Provost Barracks. An un-modernised building more or less slap bang in the middle of the garrison that it policed. Slowing to a halt in front of the barrier, Crane lifted the ID hanging around his neck, ready for the young private on guard duty. After parking the car, he collected his briefcase and locked the door. Looking up he saw Staff Sergeant Jones waiting for him on the entrance steps.

  Pleasantries complete, they settled themselves in the Sergeant’s office. A small square room. A study in grey. Crane felt as though he was still driving through oppressive Aldershot.

  “Nasty business this, sir,” Jones said. ‘I don’t really know where to start.”

  “At the beginning.” Crane folded his arms. “I want to hear from you what happened and what you found. You were the first on the scene. We’ll discuss theories later, for now I just want facts.”

  “But it was in my report and you were on the scene yourself!” objected Jones, and then hesitated. “Oh, you want me to go over it again, don’t you?” he asked. “To re-live it, to describe it for you, so you can feel it too.”

  “Sorry,” Crane bent forwards focusing his sharp blue eyes on Jones, “but it really could help tease out things that you may have forgotten.”

  Running one hand over his nearly bald head, Jones said, “I tell you what, I’d rather forget the whole bloody thing if I had my way, but here goes.”

  Chapter Two

  Crane watched Sergeant Jones pace his small office, as he relived the horrific events of yesterday. Jones told Crane that a panic 999 call was made at 16:00 hours, by a distraught neighbour, (who by rights should have called the guard room) on the afternoon of the 16th August. The neighbour reported shouting and then screaming, soon after a mother and young boy returned home from the school run. As per procedure, the police called the RMPs, as it concerned an incident at a house on Aldershot Garrison.

  Arriving a few minutes behind the police, Jones and his assistant Lance Corporal Steve Tomlinson parked their vehicle and made to enter the house. At that stage they thought it was a domestic violence call. Thinking they would simply have to cart the solider back to the guard room while he cooled down, Jones and Tomlinson were unconcerned. After all, incidents such as this were a common occurrence on the garrison.

  Jones was heading for the front door, when Detective Inspector Derek Anderson of the Aldershot Police appeared in the doorway of the house. His face bleached so white, that Jones thought Anderson was going to faint. Leaning against the doorframe for support, Anderson looked at Jones, with haunted eyes that barely registered him. “It’s bad,” he whispered, “really bad this one. You might want to leave the young lad out here,” jerking his head towards Tomlinson. With that Anderson walked to the end of the drive. After ordering Tomlinson to stay where he was, Jones made his way inside.

  Interrupting the recount, Crane said, “Okay, first of all describe your entry into the house. What could you see? What was the atmosphere?”

  Pausing for a moment, Jones returned to his seat and leaned back. “I walked into an entrance hall. I could see the stairs on my left and a door on my right, with a further door in front of me at the end of the hall.”

  “Open or closed?”

  “I’m sure the door on my right was closed, but the door at the end of the hall was half open.”

  “And the atmosphere?” Crane asked.

  “Very quiet and still, deathly quiet, if you’ll excuse the pun.” Neither man smiled. “It seemed stuffy in there, shut up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Good, so then what did you do?”

  Jones rose once more. He stopped by the window and leant against the wall. “I went to the end of the hall and pushed the door to the kitchen open with my elbow as I wasn’t wearing gloves. The smell hit me first, bitter and coppery, so I knew even before I looked down that there must be a lot of blood. And there was. Everywhere. Pools on the floor and arterial splatter on the walls and doors.”

  Crane waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt. Afraid that if he did, Jones won’t be able to continue.

  “I saw a woman. She was lying on the floor, with her arms stretched towards a door to my left, which I presumed was the door to the garage. There were drag marks in the blood by her feet, as though she had tried to get to the garage, but hadn’t made it.”

  Jones looked down at his trembling hands. Stuffing them into the trouser pockets of his uniform he cleared his throat and continued.

  “Raising my head, I saw a glass door to the garden in front of me, with a sink and kitchen units next to it. On the right hand side of the room more units ran along the wall.” Jones bowed his head and Crane had to strain to hear his next words. “They were all covered in blood. The units I mean. It was as though someone had splattered red paint from a brush in an artistic frenzy. Living art, or rather deadly art in this case.”

  As the silence stretched, Crane worried at the scar under his beard. “What about the windows and doors?”

  “Sorry?” Jones turned and looked at Crane.

  “Windows and doors in the kitchen,” Crane repeated. “Open or closed?”

  “Closed, all of them,” Jones replied. “Does it matter?”

  Crane shrugged.

  Jones stared blankly out of the window, as if seeing the scene painted on the panes. “I looked down…and there they were…a soldier in battle fatigues sitting on the floor with his back against the kitchen units, cradling his son on his lap. The boy had a football strip on, but his white shirt had turned pink. His dark curly hair had red streaks in it, probably from his father’s blood. He couldn’t have been more than about six years old. They were both dead. The soldier still had the knife in his right hand, which had fallen on the floor next to him. His left arm was around his son’s chest, pulling him close. Both had their throats cut.”

  After a pause, allowing Jones to collect himself and return to his seat, Crane questioned him about his actions following the gruesome discovery.

  “I followed procedure, sir,” was Jones’ curt response. “I vacated the scene without touching anything and then called the Adjutant, who in turn called you lot, the Branch.” Jones used the euphemism for the SIB.

  “So who opened the door to the garden?”

  “What? What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  Leaning forward across the desk, Crane explained. “When I arrived, just after the Pathologist, I felt fresh air blowing through the house. I understand that we had the front door open, but I noticed the back door to the garden was also open, allowing through a draught.” Jones made to speak, but Crane persisted. “And you’ve just told me that when you entered the house, all the doors and windows were shut in the hall and in the kitchen. That’s why the smell of death was so strong.”

  Pushing back into his chair, recoiling from the force of Crane’s words, Jones thought for a moment. “Shit. I think Tomlinson must have done it then. Opened the door to the garden. He slipped past me to look when I called the Adjutant. But what difference does it make? It didn’t interfere with any evidence surely?”

  Levering himself out of his chair, Crane looked down at Jones. “That’s a matter of opinion, Staff. Think about it. If the door to the garden had been open when Solomon and his wife were having a row and in the heat of the moment he went for her, she would have escaped into the garden. And anyway, the boy wouldn’t have been there.”

  “Well, yes,” agreed Jones. “If you’re having an argument, you tend to send the kids out of the room.”

  “Exactly. So with the house locked down tight, maybe Solomon planned it. Maybe it wasn’t a domestic argument gone wrong as we all thought, but a deliberate, pre-meditated attack on his wife and son. Solomon always meant to kill them and then commit suicide. So put that stupid bastard Tomlinson on report.”

  “Dear God,” whispered Jones, putting his head in his hands as Crane left
the office.

  Chapter Three

  Due to see Solomon’s commanding officer, Crane made his way to his car. As he drove, he mulled over his knowledge of the garrison. Aldershot Garrison had a fine military history and was split into two Camps, North Camp (which became known as the Marlborough Lines) and South Camp (the Stanhope Lines). It was first conceived in 1854 as a large scale space for the concentration and training of troops. Over the years the garrison had become known as ‘The Home of the British Army’ and was the home of the Parachute Regiment. But when the Paras left in 1999, it became the base of the 12 (Mechanised) Brigade. Crane believed the relocation of the Paras was Aldershot town’s downfall. A once vibrant place, reduced to a ghost town by comparison.

  A five-minute drive up Queens Avenue, towards North Camp, brought Crane to Lille Barracks, the new home of the 145 (South) Brigade. The difference between the RMP headquarters and the shiny new buildings was startling. After passing through the guard post and entering the barracks, Crane gazed around. Here new floors caused boots to squeak and records of the regiments’ achievements decorated the eggshell coloured walls. Through double doors at the end of the main corridor, Crane could just glimpse the new mess hall, resplendent with its gleaming stainless steel fittings. Walking with his head held high and his arms swinging, marching as though he were in uniform instead of dark suit and white shirt, Crane followed the directions given to him yesterday and found his way to the Colonel Pearson’s office. The Adjutant showed him through to the great man’s domain.

  Crane saw the Colonel standing by a large window which dominated a room furnished in an old fashioned style, redolent of an officers’ mess. A large mahogany desk, empty of papers, filled one half of the space, complete with a large leather office chair and two smaller visitors’ chairs. A conference table with seating for six took up the remaining space. The beige carpeted floor was covered by a large rug that Crane imagined had some fancy name and an equally fancy price tag.