No Mercy (Sgt Major Crane story)

by Wendy Cartmell

  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 regiment’s 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 officer’s mess. A large mahogany desk, empty of papers, filled one half of the space, complete with a large leather office chair and two smaller visitor’s 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.

  Colonel Pearson gazed down on the parade ground, which was filled with marching, wheeling soldiers. A sight that still had the ability to fill Crane with pride. He may be SIB, he thought, but was first and foremost a soldier. The Colonel pulled down his tunic, which seemed rather large on his shrunken frame and turned his rocky, weather beaten face towards Crane. Crane stood silently to attention until asked to sit. Once seated, Crane began, “Thank you for seeing me, sir”.

  “No problem, Crane. I just wish it was under better circumstances. Nasty business this.”

  “Indeed, sir, a view that many of us share. But it’s my unfortunate duty to investigate it.”

  “Investigate?” queried the Colonel, the bushy eyebrows that dominated his face arching. “Sorry, but what’s to investigate? I was led to believe by the Adjutant that it was a domestic argument that got out of hand. A young soldier murdered his family and then killed himself, unable to face the consequence of his actions.”

  “Maybe, sir,” said Crane. “But even if that turns out to be correct, I want to find out why.”

  Rising, the Colonel resumed his position gazing out over the parade ground. Without turning round he said, “Then investigate his private life. Find out what his wife had been up to.”

  “Of course, sir …but…” Crane subconsciously scratched at his beard.

  “Spit it out, man, can’t abide a ditherer,” called Colonel Pearson, raising himself to his full height and once more turning to look at Crane.

  “I also need to investigate what happened during his tour in Afghanistan.” Expanding on his thinking, Crane continued, “Could any incident in particular have affected Solomon badly? What was his mental state whilst he was in Afghanistan? What was his mental state when he returned? Did he ask for counselling? Did he-”

  “Alright, alright, I get the picture.” Returning to sit at his desk the Colonel leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking in protest. “I suppose you want permission to interview my men, never mind the disruption you’ll cause and the bad feeling you’ll spread throughout the regiment.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I really feel it’s necessary.”

  “Why? What have you found?” Colonel Pearson narrowed his eyes, his forest of grey splattered eyebrows all but obscuring the lids.

  “I’d rather not say at this stage, sir.” Crane folded his arms.

  After a short silence Colonel Pearson barked, “Very well. See the Adjutant. Keep me posted through Captain Edwards.”

  Rising to his feet before the Colonel changed his mind, Crane replied with an equally curt, “Sir,” and a nod of his head.

  On one of the newer housing estates on the garrison, Crane found Newton Avenue. Aldershot Garrison boasted a range of accommodation for its soldiers and their families. The newer barracks incorporated brand new single men’s quarters, whilst houses for officers and other ranks, some old and some new, sprawled across the garrison, like clutches of Lego land buildings, hugging each barracks.

  As Crane drove through the estate, he saw the comings and goings of a suburban street. Mothers with babies resplendent in their smart new strollers; small children playing on the swings, under the watchful eye of a parent or child minder; wives staggering under the weight of their shopping bags as they emerged from a local store. Crane was acutely aware of such normal, everyday scenes, juxtaposed with the horrific murder of a child.

  Drawing up opposite number 13 Crane stopped the car, turned off the engine and looked at the outside of the house. It was one of a number of newer terraced houses, each with their own driveway and integral garage. They looked quite small and had just two bedrooms. But still, the sort of house that anyone in ‘Civvy Street’ would be proud to live in with their family. Crane supposed that the other members of his team attached to the investigation would still be in the house and went to join them.

  Inside the living room he found Staff Sergeant Billy Williams looking through a desk, which at first glance seemed to contain household bills and other such correspondence. Raising his head from the paperwork, Billy made to stand, but Crane waved him back down.

  “Anything interesting, Billy?”

  “No, sir, just the normal stuff everyone has. Lance Corporal Crooks had a laptop, which the techies have taken away to look at. Better than me trying and messing up, eh, sir?” he finished with a grin. His youthful face had an openness that was appealing, with a shock of blond hair that constantly fell into his eyes.

  Billy was not technically minded and had messed up on more than one occasion, so now Crane kept him away from computers that may hold potential evidence. Strange for a young man not to be good at that sort of stuff, but Billy was more the physical type, forever in the gym, playing football or out with the lads. Crane knew he wouldn’t find him holed up in a room with a play station or computer. Fresh air and exercise were his mantras and he had a well muscled, fit body to show for it.

  “Okay. What about scene of crime?” nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen. Normally SIB investigators collected their own forensic evidence, but as this was such a large crime scene Crane had called in a specialist.

  “All finished, sir. Sergeant Smith said he’ll be ready to report tomorrow morning at 09:00 hours. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

  “Yes, fine. We’re not up against time on this one.”

  “No, sir,” the younger man agreed. “Major Martin said he’ll be ready with the post mortem results by then as well. DI Anderson agreed to the meeting being held here on the garrison and will be in attendance.”

  “Fair enough. Now, what about friends, relatives, neighbours? Who’s handling the interviews?”

  “Kim is. She’s gone back to the office to write up her reports. She said to let you know that she’ll meet you there.”

  “Good choice, Billy,” Crane said. “A bit sexist I know, but people have enough trouble talking to the Branch as it is. Maybe the wives will open up to Sergeant Weston.” Turning to leave Crane instructed, “Finish up here, then chase the techies and whi
le you’re waiting fully investigate Lance Corporal Crooks’ finances. I need to know if he had money problems.”

  “Sir,” Billy acknowledged, pushing his hair out of his eyes and going back to the paperwork.

  Leaving the room, Crane avoided the kitchen and went upstairs. There were three doors. The first one Crane chose revealed the child’s room. It remained frozen in time. The bed was unmade and books tumbled across the small desk in the corner. Aeroplanes were strung from the ceiling, still and silent in the dead air and pictures of Aldershot football team adorned the walls. Crane picked up a small photo frame from next to the bed. A picture of the boy, grinning for the camera, with his arms around his father’s neck. Crane paused and closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on the utter waste of a young innocent life, before replacing the photograph and backing out of the room.

  In the hall, Crane pushed open the second door revealing a neat bathroom and then turned to the final room. The master bedroom, if you could call it that, was at the front of the house, over the garage. A small double containing a bed, bedside cabinets, double wardrobe and small dressing table. The few pieces of cheap pine furniture seemed to dominate the room and Crane immediately found it claustrophobic.

  Moving to one side of the bed, he opened the drawer to the bedside cabinet, finding women’s magazines and a couple of paperback books. Going around the bed to the other side, he found a drawer filled with pamphlets. Fishing them out, Crane laid them on the bed.

  The religious tracts seemed to be the kind of thing Mormons or Seventh Day Adventists pushed through doors, or handed out to anyone willing to take them. Just about to dismiss them, Crane found one from a local church. ‘Jesus is King!’ hailed the banner headline and skimming the text Crane found an invitation to those who were feeling lost to go along and be saved. Had Solomon gone to the church and if so, what did he feel he needed saving from? Pondering these questioned, Crane gathered up the pamphlets, put them in his pocket, ran down the stairs and left the house.