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.
Approaching two corporals leaning against a side wall, Crane asked them to find the men named on his piece of paper. Within minutes the two men in question met Crane at the door of the mess and he made arrangements to interview them in his office later that day.
As he left the barracks he phoned Kim, demanding to know if she had contacted the Padre. Pleased by her response, he made his way over to the church.
The Royal Garrison Church of All Saints stood in its own grounds, with brick pillared sentries guarding the entrance to the driveway. Not a tall building, it sat low and squat, reassuringly nestled by the hedging and flowering shrubs on either side of it. The front was covered by an ivy creeper that had settled itself around the building like a warm blanket.
The ivy had been kept clear of a large mullioned stained glass window that dominated the eye. This grand window was protected on one side by a tall steeple and on the other by a smaller version of itself. Crosses were littered around the uneven roof line, warning possible invaders from every vantage point.
Opening the door and entering the gloom of the church, Crane took a few minutes to let his eyes adjust. As he looked around the cavernous space, the light from the arched stained glass windows seemed muted, causing shadows in every nook and cranny. The layout was very traditional. Down the centre of the church were wide rows of highly polished wooden pews, facing the large high altar at the end, with the pulpit placed between it and the congregation. Bisecting the pews on either side, were large pillared arches, pointed at the tops, echoing the shape of the large stained glass window that rose majestically above the high altar. Flags and standards hung from both sides of the arches proudly announcing the regiments and battalions that had served at the garrison over the years. Crane spotted the Padre on his knees before the altar rail. Walking towards the front of the church, Crane’s footsteps heralded his arrival, no matter how hard he tried to be unobtrusive. The Padre turned at the disturbance and stood to meet Crane.
“Sergeant Major,” he called. “I believe I told your office that I wouldn’t be available until later today.”
“Oh, really, sir? Sorry, I didn’t know that. I just called in on the off chance, as I was passing. If it’s not convenient?” Crane let the question hang in the air, without turning to leave.
“Oh very well, as you’re here now, follow me.”
Chapter Seven
Padre Symonds had a small office behind the vestry and he ushered Crane inside. The room smelled musty and faintly damp, with only a very small window set high on the wall offering any sort of illumination. The room resembled a cave rather than an office. Book shelves were crammed with religious tomes. Richly coloured, textured robes hung in a wardrobe, peeping through the slightly open doors. The Padre’s desk was lit by a small desk lamp and full of papers and books, which he pushed out of the way.
“Just working on my next sermon,” he explained, moving to sit behind the desk, indicating that Crane should sit in front of it.
“Sorry to interrupt, Padre.”
“Actually, it’s not going too well at the moment. I was seeking divine intervention when you came in, but that wasn’t helping either, so maybe a break was a better idea. I was trying to explore how faith in Jesus could help our serving soldiers when they are on tour in a war zone.”
“Why was that proving difficult to write?” Crane was interested to know. He crossed his legs and leaned his head to one side.
“Probably because I haven’t experienced service in a war zone,” the Padre sighed. “I must admit I’m finding it difficult to deal with the problems soldiers face in these situations, in relation to their faith, because I haven’t actually been there myself. It’s all very well to talk about the love and support Jesus could provide to the individual in general terms, but I wish I could draw on relevant personal experience and then cross reference that with the scriptures. Somehow it would ring more true, don’t you think?”
“I see your point, sir, although I’m not a religious man myself. Even when I served in the most hellish places on earth I personally found it difficult to turn to God, although I know many who did. It seemed to me that in order to try to make some sort of sense out of what they had seen and been subjected to, they needed help and guidance from the Padre.”
“Exactly, Sergeant Major, so I want to make what I say relevant to their experiences.”
“Do you think you will ever serve in a war zone, Padre?”
“I think that’s a discussion for another day, Sergeant Major,” said the Padre, starting to tidy up the mess of his desk.
After a short silence, Crane changed the subject. “So, do you have any information for me on the Church of Jesus is King?”
Before responding to Crane’s question, the Padre pulled out several leaflets from his top drawer.
“I had a meeting yesterday afternoon with Elias Montgomery, the Church Elder of Jesus is King, who gave me these pamphlets. He said he had no personal knowledge of Solomon, but would ask around the congregation to see if anyone knew him. Elias was very concerned that we felt there could be a link between the murders and his Church, but I did my best to reassure him that we didn’t think any such thing. I told him that it was just that Special Investigations Branch wanted to leave no stone unturned and he seemed to accept that.”
“What was his general demeanour?”
“Well, he was concerned, but not overly embarrassed or nervous. He didn’t seem to mind that I’d gone to see him. In fact, he understood it was logical, as you’d found the literature at Solomon’s house.”
“Mmm,” Crane thought for a moment and then asked, “Do you think he’ll take your request seriously?”
“I think so, but he did say it might take some time, maybe a few days or even a week. He wanted time to talk to people naturally, you know, not in an accusatory way. If you can understand that?”
Rising from his seat, but not to the bait, Crane thanked Padre Symonds for his efforts and asked to be kept up to date, leaving the Padre to grapple with his sermon. He needed to get back to the office to interview Solomon’s fellow soldiers.
***
Sergeant Bullen and Corporal Palmer were both waiting at Provost Barracks when he walked in, even though they had separate appointment times. “What’s this, safety in numbers?” he joked to the two men standing awkwardly to attention in front of him, before assuring them they could stand at ease. But his efforts at light hearted humour seem to have made them even more nervous, as their hands fidgeted and eyes roamed around the open plan office. Neither man seemingly brave enough to look at Crane’s face.
Giving up on the humour he said, “I need to speak to you separately,” causing two sets of eyes to widen in fright. “Sergeant Bullen first and then Corporal Palmer.” After pointing to a chair where Palmer could wait, he barked, “Follow me,” to the Sergeant.
The interview room Crane was using did nothing to put an interviewee at ease. Plain walls were painted army green and the only furniture was a metal table with two hard chairs placed on either side of it. Nothing else. No papers, no telephone. Two small windows were high up on one wall, grey light from the outside fighting with the gloom of the inside and losing. As a result, the room seemed dim, confined and claustrophobic. Seating himself on one of the chairs Crane gestured for Sergeant Bullen to sit opposite him, as Billy slipped in through the door and leaned against the wall.
“Right, Sergeant,” Crane began. “I understand from Sergeant Major Tomlinson that you are in command of Solomon’s platoon.”
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“Sir,” was the extremely brief reply.
“How well did you know him?”
“Well, you know…” the Sergeant spread his hands and hunched his shoulders.
“No I don’t, so tell me.”
“He was just another solider. Normal, like everyone else.” Bullen began to study his hands as though he had never seen them before.
“Since when have soldiers been normal, Bullen?”
“Come on, sir, you know what I mean,” he replied, head down, still looking at his hands.
“No I bloody don’t – so explain.”
As the silence stretched, Crane left his chair, leant against the wall next to Billy, folded his arms and stared at the Sergeant. “Are you a good sergeant?”
Bullen seemed confused by the change of subject, his eyes flicking from Crane to Billy and back.
“Sir?”
“If I was to look at your record, would it say that you were a good leader, understood your men and got the best out of them?”
“I would hope so, sir,” was the immediate response. Bullen sat up in his chair as though sitting to attention.
“Then bloody well prove it and tell me about Lance Corporal Crooks.”
Crane pushed off the wall and returned to his seat. Bullen looked around the room, glancing once again at Billy, who still hadn’t moved and was managing to make his open friendly face look menacing. Clearly finding no help from that quarter, Bullen looked at Crane and began to speak.
“He was a good soldier, you know, followed orders, tried hard, and worked to the best of his ability. But...”
“But?”
“Well, sir, he could be a bit odd at times.”
“What does odd mean?” Crane masked the urgency in his voice with a gruff tone.
“Well, when we were on our last tour, he started disappearing out to a far corner of the camp when off duty, instead of mucking around and relaxing with the other lads. You know how it is, sir, we all keep each other’s spirits up, combat the boredom by playing cards, having a cup of tea, that sort of thing.”
“So, a bit of a loner then?”
“Yes, but he didn’t used to be, if you see what I mean. Just on this last tour,” Bullen shook his head sadly. “I don’t know - the pressure seemed to get to him somehow. Changed him.”
“Was there any incident in particular that seemed to spark off this behaviour?”
After moment’s consideration Bullen said, “I couldn’t say, sir. Corporal Palmer may be able to help there. He’s obviously closer to the lads than I am.”
“Fair enough, Sergeant. Thanks. “
Walking across the room and opening the door, Crane indicated the office outside with his head. “Hang around for a bit please, in case I need to speak to you again before you make your statement and send Corporal Palmer in.”
Palmer entered the room and sat in the seat Crane silently pointed to. Closing the door, Crane saw Palmer jump at the noise and then start again when he saw the implacable Billy leaning against the wall.
“Why so jumpy, Corporal?”
“Sorry, sir,” Palmer replied, clearing his throat after speaking.
“Solomon.” Crane said nothing else, merely waited, standing beside Billy, and leaning against the wall.
After once more clearing his throat, Palmer said, “Nasty business that, sir.”
“Yes, yes.” Crane was exasperated by the term that many people had already used to describe such horrific and saddening murders. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Umm, he was a good soldier, sir.”
“For God’s sake man, I know that already!” exploded Crane, as he pushed off the wall. Still standing, he leant on his arms, which straddled the table. Putting his face right up to Palmer he said, “Look, I’ve talked to Colonel Pearson, Sergeant Major Tomlinson and just now, Sergeant Bullen. This is serious and everyone is helping as much as they can. So, now it’s your turn to spill the beans – or do you want me to report back up the chain that you’re impeding my investigation?” Crane stopped talking, but stayed in the intimidating position, banking on the young man’s fear of his chain of command being greater than his fear of the Branch.
Slumping in his chair as if realising there was no alternative, Palmer mumbled, “What do you want to know?”
Getting out of Palmer’s face and sitting down, Crane said, “I want to know everything you know, from the beginning, from when you first met him.”
Chapter Eight
Arriving home that night Crane slammed the car door and then the front door, threw his briefcase down and kicked off his shoes. Barely managing to grunt hello to Tina he went into the living room, turning on the television and surfing the channels. Finding nothing to watch he shut it off again, throwing the remote control onto the settee. After hurrying through his meal, he changed into loose comfortable track suit bottoms and a t-shirt. Leaving Tina to watch a particularly banal reality TV show and taking a few cans of beer, he climbed the steep stairs and shut himself in the spare bedroom that they used as an office. His computer and desk were surrounded by book shelves and filled with his and hers reading material, Tina’s shelves being much fuller than his.
Crane settled in the swivel chair behind his desk and went through Solomon’s file, methodically going back over all his notes and the statements taken from the men in Solomon’s regiment. Working his way through the cans of beer, he poured over the scene of crime and pathologist’s reports and examined the crime scene photos meticulously. As he went to bed he knew there was something there, an explanation for Solomon’s behaviour, but it was just beyond his grasp.
The weather outside was stormy and Crane could hear the wind rushing through the trees, occasionally howling around the corners of the house as he fell into a troubled sleep.
But there was no escape in sleep for Crane. His dreams were plagued with images of sand storms. Flashbacks from Afghanistan and Iraq. Choking sand was filling his eyes, ears, nose and mouth, rendering him blind and deaf. He felt as if a million iron filings were wearing away his skin. As the wind continued outside, so it continued in his dream, filling his head with an unholy noise from which there was no relief. He was lost and alone, fighting to get over the next sand dune where he was sure he would find his fellow soldiers. But no sign of life in any direction left him disorientated, not knowing which way to turn.
***
Morning did nothing to lift Crane’s mood, even though the stormy skies had cleared. Later in the day the team gathered for a briefing, Crane, Kim, Billy and Captain Edwards. They all sat around an oval conference table partitioned off in the main SIB office, ready to debate the evidence, or rather lack of it, Crane thought.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Edwards intoned. “Would you begin please, Sergeant Major?”
“Thank you, sir. Well, first of all there is irrefutable evidence from forensics and the post mortems that Solomon killed first his wife, then his son and finally committed suicide. But, if that wasn’t enough, I believe it wasn’t a domestic argument that went wrong, but a deliberate and premeditated act, as all the windows and doors of the house were locked. Aldershot Police had to break down the front door to gain access. Lance Corporal Tomlinson is on report for tampering with evidence, as he had opened the back door, having found the keys in Solomon’s pocket. Also, we are still awaiting the results of the analysis of the trace evidence, which could prove to be significant. So,” he finished, “if the act was indeed deliberate and premeditated, the question is, why?”
Captain Edwards ignored the question and nodded to Kim.
“Thank you, sir. Well, with regard to the family relationships there is no evidence to suggest marital difficulties from conversations with close friends, neighbours and family. Neither Solomon nor his wife have ever been to welfare with any problems.”
“Billy?”
“Well, sir, the techies haven’t yet managed to come up with anything on the computer. They send their apologies, but it’s due
to a backlog of work, not helped by their recent move to temporary premises. I’m afraid they are yet another departmental casualty of the garrison’s upgrading.”
“Yes, yes, Sergeant, get on with it please.”
“Sorry, sir. Um, the only strange thing in the family finances is Solomon taking £50 from his local cash point every Sunday.”
This led Crane nicely into his suspicions about the Church of Jesus is King, based in an old cinema on Aldershot High Street. He stood and passed around the religious pamphlets he found in Solomon’s bedside drawers.
“Right, everyone, take a look at these. I think that perhaps Solomon withdrew the money every Sunday morning to place at least some of it in the church offering.”
“So?” asked Captain Edwards.
“Sorry, sir?” Crane looked up from his pile of pamphlets.
“So what, Sergeant Major? Is there anything wrong with that? Surely you can’t think there is something disturbing in a young soldier turning to the church? Or is it that you think there’s something wrong with this particular Church?”
“Well, no, sir. I mean, there’s nothing at the moment to suggest there is anything untoward about the Church of Jesus is King.”
“So by that, I take it the Padre hasn’t been able to help.”
“The Padre has advised that at this moment in time it appears there isn’t a connection between Solomon and the Church of Jesus is King, after speaking to the Church Elder,” Crane had to admit. “But—”
“Right then, let’s move along.”
Crane’s eyes widen at the rebuff from Captain Edwards, but he made no comment.
Billy then reviewed the statements of Sergeant Bullen and Lance Corporal Palmer. “Sergeant Bullen had nothing much to say apart from the fact that Solomon was a bit of a loner towards the end of their last tour in Afghanistan, but he doesn’t know the cause. Palmer’s statement is more interesting. He reported that Solomon had begun to question why they were there and what it was they were achieving, if anything, in Afghanistan. He’d become more and more disillusioned. Palmer didn’t feel it was any one incident in particular that caused this questioning, but a combination of things.”
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 4