As the briefing finished, Crane looked at Jones and inclined his head towards the outside of the building. The resulting grin and nod of the head meant his message was received and understood.
Outside, the two men lounged against the mellow red brick wall of the barracks, basking in the early morning July sun. Although Crane was the higher ranking of the two, they were friends as well as colleagues and when alone didn’t adhere to the formal use of titles.
“Good work, Jones.”
“Thanks, Crane. Maybe now you can see I don’t need you babysitting me,” the accompanying grin taking some of the sting from his words.
Lighting his cigarette allowed Crane to think before he spoke. “Not my intention. I don’t want this assignment, any more than you want me watching over you.”
“Okay, fair enough,” was the slow reply. “So what is your intention then?”
“To follow orders, of course.”
“Which are?” Jones dragged deeply on his own cigarette, squinting at Crane through the smoke.
“To oversee the whole security operation. Liaise with you lot, with the British Olympic Association, Aspire Defence and the Intelligence Operative.”
“Isn’t that what Captain Edwards should be doing?”
Crane couldn’t resist a wry smile, but bit back a reply, instead concentrating on putting out his cigarette. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Got to go, Jones, I’ve a meeting with the BOA in 10 minutes. Call me on my mobile if you need me.”
As Crane moved away, Jones called out, “Don’t forget to tell them we’ve got the garrison sewn up. Nothing can possibly go wrong!”
Lifting his hand in acknowledgement, Crane continued to his car, unable to share Jones’ attitude. Prior experience meant he always expected the worst.
***
Crane was listening to an altercation between a member of the Aspire Defence kitchen staff and the warrant officer brought into to oversee the feeding of the proverbial 5,000 in St Omer Barracks. The large, gleaming kitchen rang with the chimes of metal and porcelain. Above that could be heard the churning and gurgling of the industrial plate and glass washers and above that, the raised voices Crane was listening to. At the same time people weaved in and out, around and past each other, their movements a well-choreographed ballet. The sharp clean whites of the kitchen staff contrasting starkly with the black uniform of the waiting staff.
“Watch what you’re doing!” the Chef shouted.
“Don’t you speak to me like that!” the recipient of the Chef’s anger retorted.
“Look, just get out of my way and get those bloody eggs out to the hotplate now,” ordered the Chef, flapping his hand in the direction of the double doors leading from the kitchen to the dining room.
“Right, that’s it, I’ve had enough. You can stick your fucking job. I’m off.” The man undid his apron, snatched off his hat and threw them both at the Chef before disappearing into the staff room.
“It’s going well then?” Crane called, failing to keep the mirth out of his voice.
Whirling round, the Chef nearly knocked off his tall white hat, precariously perched on top of his large round head. Seeing who the speaker was, he wiped flour off his hands onto his apron and held one of them out. A large meaty paw, seemingly incapable of the intricate delicate pastillage icing structures Crane knew the chef could produce.
“Bloody hell, Crane!” he said, lifting Crane’s hand up and down as though it were the handle of an old fashioned water pump.
“Are they always this bad, Dunn?” Crane asked nodding towards the kitchen staff.
And that was all the invitation Sergeant Major Dunn needed. Retreating into the small head chef’s office, he firstly gave Crane a cup of coffee and secondly chapter and verse on the problems of whipping civilian staff into shape, in order to feed the athletes whilst they were on the garrison.
“Basically we’re running a rolling buffet,” he concluded. “Because the athletes all have differing dietary needs and eat certain foods at certain times depending upon their training schedule, it seems as though we’re working morning noon and night and some of the civvies can’t keep up.” Dunn shook his head in disgust making his hat wobble once again. “For me, it’s no different than being in the field, having to feed men as they arrive back at all times of the day and night. I tell you, I don’t know about progress, but personally I wish the Army Catering Corp was still in existence. Things have never been the same since the army disbanded the Corp and contracted catering out to civilian companies.”
“I think that’s a discussion best kept for over a pint in the Sergeants’ Mess, don’t you?” Crane looked around to make sure no one was standing at the door and listening to their conversation about army politics.
“I suppose so,” agreed Dunn leaning back in his chair, which creaked in protest and folded his arms. “Anyway, what brings the Branch over here?” Dunn used the euphemism for the Special Investigations Branch.
Glad to leave the subject of the Army Catering Corp, Crane explained that as he was responsible for overseeing security on the garrison for the next month or so, he thought he would call in and see that everything was in order within St Omer Barracks itself, not just along the perimeter.
“Apart from discipline you mean?” Dunn laughed.
“Yes, Dunn, apart from discipline. Can I see the background checks on the staff?”
“Sure. They’re in the top drawer of that filing cabinet. Can I leave you to it and get on?” Dunn asked rising.
“No problem,” replied Crane. Then just as Dunn was heading out of the door he called, “Let me know if anything seems a bit off won’t you?”
“Off?” Dunn’s weather beaten face crinkled in surprise.
“Yes, out of kilter. Oh I don’t know. Anything really. Just give me a ring.”
“Whatever, Crane,” Dunn said, as he tied his apron more tightly around his waist, rose to his full height and marched into the large luminous industrial kitchen.
Once satisfied that all the paperwork was in order, Crane left the kitchen by the back door and had a quick cigarette, sitting on top of boxes of supplies already delivered but not yet put away. The fresh air revived him, or was it the nicotine? Either way he now needed to find the equivalent to the mess manager. On a normal barracks, the mess manager was responsible for liaising with the head chef about the kitchen and its staff, whilst being responsible for front of house – the waiting staff and cleaning staff. Things, however, were not normal and Crane knew that under the circumstances, Aspire Defence had appointed a housekeeper to solely look after the cleaning staff. Consulting his notes, he had to find Juliette Stone, by all accounts drafted in from their head office on a temporary basis.
After putting out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray provided for the kitchen staff that disgusted even a hardened smoker like Crane, he went round to the living quarters.
As he entered the main lobby he saw a young woman, probably in her late 20’s or early 30’s striding towards the accommodation wing. She was dressed in a dark suit and white blouse, wearing sensible court shoes, with a clipboard in her hand. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her demeanour reminding Crane of the housekeeper of a large stately home at the turn of the 19th Century. If he were a betting man, which he wasn’t, Crane would wager a reasonable sum of money that he was looking at Juliette Stone. The large Aspire Defence identity badge she was wearing clinched it and he approached her.
Standing directly in her path, he called, “Ms Stone I presume?”
Stopping and looking Crane up and down she retorted, “Sergeant Major Crane, I presume?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” she said pointing to the ID he had hanging around his neck and then pointing to hers, “As indeed I must be.”
“Touché” Crane inclined his head. “May I just have a quick word?”
“Certainly, but on the move I’m afraid,” she said as she swept off towards the living
quarters. “I have to check on the staff,” she called over her shoulder.
“That’s precisely why I’ve come to see you.” Crane matched her stride for stride, as they moved along the carpeted corridor, although the top of her blond head was slightly higher than his.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, just keeping my eye on security inside St Omer Barracks as well as outside.” And he went on to explain his current role, once again requesting to see the staff files.
“Very well, Sergeant Major, but I’m sure you’ll find everything in order. Just because we’re not the army, doesn’t mean we do a bad job, you know. We at Aspire Defence appreciate how important security is at the moment. Heaven forbid something awful should happen to the athletes whilst they are on the garrison.”
“Heaven forbid indeed,” Crane echoed the sentiment, watching the cool blond woman walk away. He wondered if she was always like that, or just at work. Crane got the feeling she was simply projecting an image, maybe something to do with being a woman in a man’s world.
Having satisfied himself there was nothing untoward in the staff files, Crane looked at his watch. As it was nearly 19:00 hours, he decided to check on his young team in the office. Sergeant Billy Williams and Sergeant Kim Weston would be coming on duty to take over the night shift from him.
***
Arriving back at his barracks he found Billy and Kim updating themselves on the day’s events and going over the athlete’s schedules for the evening. As he entered the communal office, they stood to attention.
“Sir,” they called in union.
“Billy, Kim,” Crane nodded to each in turn and they settled into the hand over, pulling up chairs at the conference table in a corner of the large space.
Crane explained that for the moment things were running smoothly. There were no complaints to deal with, nor any special requests from the BOA.
“So, for tonight,” he concluded, “it’s just a matter of doing the rounds every now and again and being on hand should an emergency occur. Obviously any problems should be phoned through to me at home immediately.”
“Okay, boss,” said Billy, the only member of Crane’s team who addressed him in such a casual way. Crane found it hard to be offended by the title Billy naturally gave him when they first started working together last year. A fine young soldier, Billy was well built and muscular, with a shock of blond hair constantly falling into his smiling eyes.
“You might want to read these, sir.”
Kim handed Crane a few sheets of paper. Her pristine army uniform an outward reflection of her attitude to her work. Her blond hair tied back in a bun so severe, that Crane thought it must be giving her a headache.
“They’re the latest intelligence reports. I thought you’d like them tonight before your regular meeting with Captain Edwards first thing in the morning.”
“Thank you, Kim, as usual you’ve thought of everything.” Kim preened under the praise but Crane didn’t miss Billy’s raised eyebrows.
“Anything else you need, boss?”
“No thanks, Billy, that’s all for now. As everything’s in order I’ll push off home and see you both in the morning.”
Happy with the growing tension between his two sergeants, Crane left them to it and went home. Earlier in the year Billy had been demoted from staff sergeant to sergeant due to his reckless behaviour that endangered the life of his nephew, and was nearly thrown out of the Branch. Only Crane’s intervention saved him from being put back into uniform and pushed into a backwater for the next couple of years. Kim on the other hand, provided a vital link in the case, consolidating her place and permanency in the Branch not as an investigator, but as office manager. Crane now had two sergeants determined to outdo each other, which meant two pairs of extra vigilant eyes and ears. That’s something he needed, as Crane had the uneasy feeling that things were going too well at the moment – and he still had thirty-seven days to go.
Day 4
The past few days had not been good for Padam, being filled with bureaucracy and hunger. He had spent interminable hours at Social Services, the Job Centre and the Gurkha Welfare Office and was still no nearer to getting any money or work. In the Aldershot Council building he was handed a plastic card by a scowling woman. He dutifully said “thank you” and left, puzzling over what it was for.
To find out, he walked several miles to the Gurkha Welfare Office in Farnborough and showed them the plastic card. It was a bus pass. He could now use the buses for free, a harassed man told him in Nepalese and waved vaguely in the direction of the street, before disappearing into a back room. The man actually said “bus free no pay” in Nepalese, being English and having a Nepalese vocabulary nearly as limited as Padam’s English. However, Padam was greatly heartened by the news; it would save him a lot of time and energy.
Back outside, he stood at the bus stop. Only then did he realise he didn’t know which bus went where. Was he standing on the correct side of the road to go to Aldershot? He wasn’t sure. There was a plaque on the pole of the bus stop sign. He thought it was probably the timetable, which explained to passengers which bus went where and at what times. But peering at the jumble of names and numbers proved futile. They meant nothing to him. He wished he could understand it. But had to accept he couldn’t. So Padam had no choice but to walk the long lonely miles back to Aldershot.
Once there Padam remembered he needed food, but with no money, the best he could do was to call in at the local Gurkha supermarket and hope that they would allow a little credit for some bread and dried fruit. But first he would try again to tell someone about the smudge he had seen near the sports centre on Aldershot Garrison. He tried to tell people at every official business he visited. But they neither understood nor cared. A friend had mentioned an official interpreter who was based in the newly formed Gurkha Liaison Office in Aldershot. But his friend didn’t know when the office was open, or when the interpreter might be there.
Undeterred and before getting some food, Padam went to find the office. His friend had told him it was located in a building above a shop in the town centre. As he walked through the streets he realised most of the shops around him had large posters and notices in the windows. He had no idea what the notices said, but as he looked through the grimy windows, the shops were empty, so he guessed they had closed down. Failed. For every five shops he passed, two or three were like that. Rubbish bins were overflowing with debris from the fast food shops. Food that Padam couldn’t afford. The only shops doing any business were those full of second hand clothes and furniture. The others were empty of customers, the staff hanging around outside the shop taking a cigarette break.
Padam finally saw a small brass plate screwed to the wall between two empty shops with a word he could understand on it, Gurkha. He climbed the steep stairway to a large brown doorway. The paint was peeling off and scuff marks decorated the bottom, but the large brass knob turned easily in his hand.
Opening the door, he peered around it before walking in, but found this office no different to others he had been in since arriving in England. The walls were light coloured, the desks brown and covered with papers and what he had learned were computers. He wasn’t exactly sure what computers were used for, just knew that every office he went into had a lot of them and people spent an inordinate amount of time looking at them and playing with them. There were three people in the office. No one looked up, so he sat on a red plastic chair and waited. He was very good at waiting.
Eventually an older lady dressed in a tweed skirt, blouse and cardigan, with a kind face looked up, smiled at him and beckoned him forward. Padam shuffled over to her, for by now his feet were very sore indeed. He placed his plastic carrier bag on his lap and took out his two most precious possessions. His Lal Kitab (the official record of his British Army Service) and his bus pass. The lady studied each document carefully and then said, “Hello, Padam.”
Unfortunately, he couldn’t understand what she said next. It must have bee
n English, but the words she spoke meant nothing to him, not being part of his limited vocabulary. Rooting through his plastic bag once again, he found the piece of paper his friend had written one word on. Interpreter. He handed this over accompanied by a large smile.
Nodding, the lady reached for a calendar on her desk. She showed Padam a date on it. He didn’t understand the writing, but knew his numbers, so understood the number four. Using her pencil, she touched the desk with it, several times. Pointing to the number and then once again at her desk. Padam nodded in agreement. He understood today was day four. So he gave her the universal sign of thumbs up. She then pointed to the number ten and once again mimed ‘here’ by pointing her pencil to the desk and then by pointing to his piece of paper bearing the magic word ‘interpreter’. She repeated this action several times. Padam put his thumb up again to indicate he understood. Today was day four; he could see the interpreter on day ten.
So he didn’t forget he mimed to the kind lady to write it down on his piece of paper, under the word ‘interpreter’. That done, Padam put his precious documents and the piece of paper back into his plastic carrier bag and hobbled out of the office. Day ten seemed a long way away, but there was nothing to be done about it. And anyway, at the moment, hunger was his most feared rival.
Day 5
The athletics track spread out before Crane, was a sea of blue and white. The dark sea of officials, trainers and physiotherapists in their blue tracksuits swelled and rolled around, topped by athletes in white running vests. Frothy white energy that suddenly raced away, before burning out and being consumed once again by the mass of blue. As Crane watched he was struck by the structure of it all. There were huddles of officials consulting clipboards. Athletes were spread over the grass having limbs attended to, whilst watching the front line - those waiting at the starting gate for their opportunity to race away.
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 24