No Mercy (Sgt Major Crane story)

by Wendy Cartmell

  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 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 a through draft.” 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.