Deadly Duty Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set)

by Wendy Cartmell

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about our future,” she said, dropping her eyes to look at her food instead of him, pushing around the vegetables on her plate, studying them as if they were suddenly foreign to her.

  Crane groaned inwardly, whilst keeping the smile plastered on his face. “Oh yes?” he tried to inject enthusiasm into his voice.

  “You know, wondering if the time was right. What do you think?” Tina raised her head and looked at him, with eyes like a timid dog. Soft, liquid and trusting.

  What Crane thought was that she couldn’t have picked a worse time to want a discussion about having children, when all Crane could see when he closed his eyes was the young boy dead in his father’s arms, by his father’s hand. But of course he couldn’t tell her that.

  “What about your career at the bank?” He answered a question with a question.

  “I know, I know,” Tina replied turning her wine glass round and round. After pausing to take a sip of the blood red liquid, she continued, “But I figured that I could take maternity leave and then see where we go from there.”

  Dragging his eyes away from the wine she was drinking, Crane took a long draught of his beer. Placing the glass back on the table, he got out of his chair and began to clear the debris of their meal. Another avoidance tactic, he knew that, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  “What about the finances though?” he called over his shoulder from the sink.

  “Well, I was thinking that if I look into that first, taking into account my maternity pay and all the benefits you seem to get these days when you have a child, I was wondering if we could just manage, even if I don’t go back to work.”

  Crane slumped against the sink, thanking whatever God there might be up there for the reprieve.

  “Why don’t you do that then?” This time his enthusiasm was genuine. “We could talk about it again next week and go over the figures.”

  Moving over to the sink, Tina placed her arms around his chest and her head against his back. “Thanks, love, I knew you’d understand.”

  Crane dropped the plate he was holding, turned in her arms, kissed her and then whispered in her ear. “No, thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For being just the kind of wife I need right now.”

  “And what kind of wife is that?” she teased.

  “The kind that doesn’t care if the washing up doesn’t get done tonight.”

  ***

  Crane awoke refreshed the next morning and was in the office by 08.00 studying the incident board. As he requested, everyone was in place by 09.00 hours ready to go through the reports.

  Major Martin, an army officer who had taken up a position as pathologist at the nearby Frimley Park Hospital on his retirement from the forces, gave his report first. He was greatly respected by Crane and other members of the Branch, who did everything they could to ensure the Major dealt with any post mortems they had an interest in.

  “Right, well,” the Major began. “I can confirm that all three died by knife wound to the throat, made by a right handed man and that the cuts were consistent with the blade found in Solomon’s hand. The times of death, although very close together, indicate that Mrs Crooks died first, followed by her son and then Solomon. All this is consistent with murder and then suicide. None of the three had any health problems and the initial toxicology reports are clean. There was no alcohol in either Lance Corporal Crooks’ blood, or his wife’s. None had any fatal illnesses. Crooks was healthy, as one would expect.”

  “So you found nothing physical that could have caused Crooks to behave in such a way?” Crane asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, a brain tumour or something, anything.” Crane rubbed his scar.

  “Sorry, Crane, I can’t help you there. You’re clutching at straws. If there was an illness behind this behaviour, I would have to say it was psychological not physical and even though I’m good, I’m not God. I can’t see from his brain what his last thoughts were.”

  Amid good natured chuckling, Crane said, “Thank you for your report and for coming along to give it personally, sir. Right then, let’s hear from Sergeant Smith.”

  The room stilled as Smith moved to the front of the room. “Well, sir,” he addressed Crane, “the Major’s opinion of murder and then suicide is borne out by the forensic evidence. The blood splatter is consistent with arterial spray and the finger prints found in the kitchen match all three victims. Other prints found in the house are too smudged to be identified, the house having been recently cleaned. The blood at the scene has been identified as belonging to all three victims. No other blood type has been found. Solomon had blood on his clothes from his wife and also his son. Only the boy had Solomon’s blood on him, consistent with Solomon killing his wife first, and then the boy and finally committing suicide. From the drag marks in the blood near Mrs Crooks, it is presumed she tried to reach the garage door, but failed. The footprints found in her blood match the boots worn by Lance Corporal Crooks.” Smith paused and shuffled his papers before continuing. “All the rooms in the house have been examined and we found that all the windows in the house had been locked, together with the front door. The door to the garage was closed and locked. The door to the garden was open when I arrived on the scene.”

  “Anything else we should know about?”

  “Only trace evidence, sir. We found something on his trousers. But I’m not sure what it is yet. I’m still waiting to hear from the lab.”

  “What sort of trace?” Crane was impatient. He hated having to wait for the results of forensic tests. Any trace evidence could be highly important and give them further leads, but the trouble was that it took several days for the findings to be analysed. Crane fantasised about the labs in the American CSI programmes, but knew that in reality, results took days or weeks, not hours.

  “Small grains of two different substances,” Sergeant Smith explained. “I’ll let you know as soon as we get the results.”

  “DI Anderson, anything you want to add?”

  The policeman shook his head. “Not at this stage, Crane. It looks as if it’s fairly clear cut. So unless there is anything else, I’ll see you at the inquest.” Anderson stood and collected his jacket and briefcase, both of which looked as tired and beaten as he did. After the three men left, Kim and Billy stayed on for a team discussion.

  “Okay, thoughts,” invited Crane, sitting on the edge of a desk.

  “Clear murder and then suicide,” said Billy, leaning back in his chair and locking his hands behind his head.

  “Well, of course it was. But why? Why in God’s name would Crooks kill his wife and son and then kill himself?” asked Crane.

  Kim and Billy failed to reply.

  “Come on, come on, you must have some theories,” said Crane raising his voice in frustration at their lack of initiative.

  “Okay, boss, how about his wife playing around?”

  “Good, Billy. Kim, what did you find out?”

  “Absolutely no evidence to suggest that, sir,” replied Kim, as formal as ever. “I spoke to the neighbours. Mrs Crooks was particularly friendly with Jean Byrd next door, so I talked to her at length. She said that Mrs Crooks told her most things and had never mentioned a love interest. She also claims she would have known if ‘something had been up’, as she put it.”

  “And family?”

  “I spoke to Mrs Crooks’ mother and sister. Again both said that she had a happy marriage. They believed she had loved her husband and enjoyed being in the army community. They also stressed that she was very proud of Solomon and his achievements. So it looks like that theory is a dead end. Crooks had no immediate family. His mother and father died a few years ago and he was an only child.”

  “Billy, what did you find out about their financial affairs?”

  “Well, as with most soldiers, they sailed pretty close to the wind, but were basically alright, just about keeping their heads above water,” said Billy
as he consulted his notes.

  “Anything unusual? Any regular withdrawals? Maybe the one playing away was Crooks himself. If he was he’d need to finance it, either paying a prostitute or taking a mistress out for a meal, that sort of thing.”

  “Not really, sir. The only thing was that he used to take out money every Sunday morning, regular as clockwork, at about 10am. £50 each time. Could have just been his weekly spending money I suppose.”

  Crane’s interest was piqued. He cocked his head and scratched at his beard. “Every Sunday at the same time?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The same cash point machine each time?”

  Again Billy consulted his notes. “Yes, sir. The Santander on the High Street. Just across the road from his quarters on the garrison. So I guess that was his nearest one. Maybe you’re right and he had an assignation every Sunday,” grinned Billy. “You know the sort he didn’t want his wife to know about.” Billy stopped short of winking, but gave Crane a knowing look.

  “Is that all you ever think about?” snapped Kim, her voice dripping venom.

  “Just exploring possibilities,” said Billy, putting his hands in his pockets and stretching in his seat.

  After a brief pause, Crane stood and said, “Alright, dismissed for now. Billy, let me know when the computer boys come back on the Lance Corporal’s laptop. Kim, check with welfare to see if there have been any visits there by Solomon or his wife. Oh and fix me up a meeting with Padre Symonds and Crooks’ Sergeant Major. Both for some time today.”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy and Kim replied in unison.

  Just then the phone rang. Kim answered, listened and then replied, “Certainly, sir.” Replacing the receiver, she looked at Crane, “The Captain is waiting in his office for you, sir.”

  Chapter Six

  Captain James Edwards had been in command of the SIB in Aldershot for the past year. That made him a newbie as far as Crane was concerned, having himself served there, between his posting in Afghanistan, for over two. A fact that Crane had been known to needle Captain Edwards with, citing superior knowledge of the garrison and the men stationed there. This time though, neither Crane nor the Captain had ever dealt with a murder/suicide before, so it was new ground for them both.

  Captain Edwards was sitting at his desk as Crane entered the room, which was not nearly as opulent as the Colonel’s office. Basic furniture including a small desk, were crowded into the small space. There was not enough room for a conference table. Looking at his Captain, Crane saw a man with regulation short black hair and the kind of aristocratic features that came from years of family inbreeding – long aquiline nose and a weak chin. His eyes were a startling blue and he had the natural haughty expression of someone used to being obeyed, either because of his money or his rank.

  “Sir,” Crane said, remaining standing, before being invited to sit.

  “Right, what’s your update on the Crooks case?” Captain Edwards began.

  Crane proceeded to go over the reports presented at the meeting by Sergeant Smith and Major Martin, finishing with the team discussion and their proposed way forward.

  “Sorry, Crane, but isn’t this case closed?” said his superior officer in his most superior voice.

  “Yes, in terms of what happened, it is, sir.”

  “Well then, that’s all there is to it,” replied Captain Edwards, closing the file on his desk.

  “Sir?”

  “Case closed, Sergeant Major, don’t you agree?”

  “Not at all, sir…with respect,” Crane added.

  “What do you mean, Crane? It’s as plain as the nose on my face what happened,” the Captain said in exasperation, tapping the file in front of him to make his point.

  “But don’t you want to know why?”

  “Why?” queried Edwards.

  “Yes, sir. Why did he do it?”

  “Is that relevant?”

  Breathing deeply to calm himself down, Crane began to speak, choosing his words carefully. “It’s certainly relevant, sir. Perhaps there are lessons to be learned from what happened, so we can at least try and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Clearly not looking favourably on Crane, or his opinions, Edwards rose from his chair, as though the increased height would give him back some of the advantage that his rank should have afforded him, and began prowling around the small space.

  “Is this the mamby pamby, new age shit I keep hearing about? Where we should wrap our men in cotton wool, instead of making soldiers of them? Generations of my family have served in the armed forces and in our experience men have to put up and shut up.”

  Suppressing a smile and keeping his face blank, Crane clarified things for Captain Edwards. “I don’t know about that, sir. What I do know is that Colonel Pearson has given me permission to investigate the matter from a personal angle.”

  “A personal angle? Are you sure?” The mention of Colonel Pearson made Edwards stand still.

  “Yes indeed, sir. Crooks could have been affected by family problems, financial problems, or even problems he faced in Afghanistan or that have developed since he returned.”

  Going back to his desk, Captain Edwards said, “Colonel Pearson’s given his permission you say?”

  “Rather willingly in fact,” said Crane, stretching the truth somewhat.

  “Oh very well, but make it snappy. Let’s get this one wrapped up quickly. Dismissed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Crane, smiling inside. His face, his usual mask of respect.

  As Crane was leaving Captain Edward’s office, he received a call from Kim.

  “Lance Corporal Crooks’ Sergeant Major can see you in 15 minutes, sir.”

  “Good. Give me the details.”

  ***

  Crane arrived at Lille Barracks and followed Kim’s instructions, finding his way to Sergeant Major Phil Tomlinson. Tomlinson was just finishing up on the parade ground and Crane watched with interest as he put the soldiers through their paces. His voice rang loud and true, bouncing off the walls of the buildings covering three sides of the large space. As a result, his instructions were barely intelligible to an untrained ear. But the soldiers under his command seemed to have no problem understanding and responded immediately to his every bark and shout. Once the officer commanding gave the order, Tomlinson dismissed the troops and marched towards Crane, his barrel chest pushed forward. Standing stiffly to attention in front of Crane for a few seconds, his face then relaxed and crumpled into a less formal arrangement of features, before holding his hand out to Crane.

  “Crane, good to see you.”

  “And you, Phil.” Crane shook his old friend’s hand. Crane and Phil Tomlinson had joined up at the same time and went through basic training together, managing to keep in touch irregularly over the years as they passed through various locations on their way up the career ladder.

  “Come away to my office.” Phil indicated the building opposite. As they walked, the two friends caught up with each other’s recent postings and asked after their respective wives.

  Upon reaching the privacy of Phil’s office, they sat in a couple of chairs to discuss the subject that both of them had been avoiding. Crane wanted to know about Solomon.

  “Good soldier, showing leadership potential. What else is there to know?” asked Phil.

  “Come on, don’t give me that bullshit,” countered Crane, leaning forward with his hands on his knees. “I know you too well for that. I need to know what was behind this whole sorry business. A man doesn’t just up and kill his family and then commit suicide.”

  “Fair enough, but I don’t have exclusive access to all the men’s thoughts and feelings you know. It’s more of do they jump high enough and fast enough as far as I’m concerned and Solomon certainly did that.”

  “How was he in Afghanistan?”

  “Seemed alright on the surface.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He did his job.”

  “Any signs of fear, questioning
why he was there, that sort of thing?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Who would have seen? Who was he closest to? Come on, Phil, work with me on this,” Crane implored, standing and pacing around yet another small grey room, failing to hide his frustration with the ping pong of the questions and answers. It was becoming clear that Phil wasn’t opening up as much as he had hoped he would. Tomlinson remained seated and stared at Crane, refusing to answer the last question. Given no choice Crane returned to his own chair and changed tack.

  “Had an interesting conversation with Colonel Pearson yesterday,” he said casually.

  Phil made no comment but raised his eyebrows.

  “He was very concerned that this should have happened to someone in his regiment.” As the silence from Phil continued, Crane said, “He was most insistent that I investigate this matter from all angles. Obviously from the personal one – his family life – but also from a professional angle. For instance, he was particularly interested to find out if anything had happened in Afghanistan that had affected him and could have been an underlying cause.”

  Leaning back and folding his arms, resisting the temptation to finger his scar, Crane waited for Phil to respond. A range of emotions had crossed Tomlinson’s face during Crane’s last words; widening of the eyes at the mention of his Commanding Officer; a slight wry smile at the mention of the personal angle; to finally a hardening of his eyes at the mention of Afghanistan.

  After a short pause, Phil grabbed a pad and pen from his desk and scribbled two names on it. Tearing off the paper and thrusting it at Crane he said, “Try these two, perhaps they can give you more of an insight into the man than I can. You’ll find them in the Mess Hall.”

  Pushing his chair back, Crane rose and after placing the paper in his pocket said, “Thanks, Phil, appreciate it.”

  ***

  Walking through the mess, Crane caused quite a stir. In the same way a policeman is easily marked out even when in plain clothes, SIB personnel seem to have a neon sign on their foreheads, particularly as Crane was in civvies not uniform amongst a sea of khaki. He was holding a piece of paper and scanning the tables looking for stripes on arms.