No Mercy (Sgt Major Crane story)
Page 7
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 year’s service, Solomon 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 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 pulled 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.”