“Before what?”
“Before we arrest you for murder.”
“Murder? Arrest me? What are you talking about?”
“You’re hiding things from us, Major. It’s best you tell us now. Co-operate, or it could be the end of your army career,” Crane said.
“NO! Shut up! I haven’t done anything to her. I love her, she’s my whole life, my wife, my love,” and Cunningham broke down, covering his face with his hands, sobbing and blubbering about how he hadn’t done anything to her, he couldn’t kill her, he just couldn’t.
Crane and Anderson left him alone then. Watching from the viewing room until the Major gradually regained control, Crane and Anderson then returned to the interview room and handed him a box of tissues and a bottle of water. Cunningham greedily glugged down half of the water and then wiped his face with a tissue.
“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell us the truth, now, Major Cunningham,” Anderson asked.
Cunningham began slowly. “Janey had been moving further and further away from me lately. I don’t know how much of that had to do with our lifestyle, or rather our sexual lifestyle,” he wiped his nose. “But things weren’t good between us. She liked to party. Hard. That involved lots of alcohol and she’d started taking drugs.”
“Drugs?” Crane said.
“Yes, cocaine mostly, occasionally a few pills.”
“And you?”
“No, I stayed clear of them. I can’t take drugs, I’m in the army, I’m not that stupid, Crane. But she didn’t like it. She accused me of not joining in. She said that my not wanting to experiment with new things made me boring and middle aged. We used to have such rows,” Cunningham shook his head as he remembered. “Awful shouting matches,” he sniffed and then took another drink of water. “But just because our marriage is going through a difficult patch doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I wanted it to work. I was trying my best to persuade her to slow down, to stay at home more.”
“But she didn’t want to?”
Cunningham shook his head. “I still love her now as much as I did on our wedding day. She is my heart, my life, my reason for getting up in the morning, my whole world. I just want her back,” his voice began to break again. “I... just… want…” and then his sorrow overwhelmed him once more and he began to sob, slumping against the table, his head buried in his arms.
Crane and Anderson quietly removed themselves from the room, leaving him alone to grieve for his lost wife and his lost marriage.
25
Crane and Anderson hadn’t managed to get any more information out of Major Cunningham yesterday and so were sat by Crane’s beloved white boards that morning, looking for inspiration.
“Any more luck with Zane Fisher?” asked Crane.
“Nope. As you know the address and phone number are fake.”
“Has Dante Skinner been in touch?”
“Nope.”
“Nothing more from Major Cunningham?”
“Nope.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Crane slammed his hand down on the desk he was sitting by and then rose and started to prowl. “There must be something, something we’ve missed, something someone hasn’t told us,” he turned and gazed at his boards. “Right, let’s start again,” he decided.
“What?” Anderson was sat on an office chair, looking morose with his hands in the pocket of the raincoat he hadn’t yet taken off.
“We must have missed something, so we need to start again. Review all the information we have. Backgrounds, jobs, friends, family…”
Anderson got reluctantly off his chair and shook off his raincoat. “Oh very well, on one condition, well two actually.”
“Let me guess,” replied Crane, “A mug of tea and a piece of cake?”
“That’s about right. If I’m going to expel lots of energy, I need a sugar boost to keep me going.”
“So that’s your excuse for your sweet tooth?”
“Yep and I’m sticking to it. Right, pass me over a folder, anyone will do, and I’ll make a start.”
Crane did as he was told and yelled for Sgt Williams to get the teas in, before grabbing a file himself. Crane wasn’t necessarily a technophobe; it was just that the SIB liked to keep their paper files as well as having everything on computer. It was a throwback practice, and was kept as a concession when the SIB came under a voluntary review a few years earlier. They had a comprehensive computer system, including a search facility to look for similar crimes using keywords, but this time Crane wanted to review all the paperwork. His eyes seemed to glaze over when he spent too long at a computer monitor and he was afraid he might miss something important. Miss that one piece of vital information that seemed inconsequential, but could crack a case wide open. That was the buzz that kept Crane working as an investigator, a military police detective. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else. As far as he was concerned it was a perfect combination of army life and policing. One wouldn’t be the same without the other, they were like conjoined twins.
For a while, all that could be heard was the rustle of paper, slurp of tea and crunch of biscuits. Crane didn’t even leave his desk for a cigarette, a sure sign of how invested he was in the case and how determined he was to find Janey Cunningham. He wasn’t doing it for her husband, for he had very little sympathy or respect for Major Cunningham at that moment in time. The Cunningham’s lifestyle was abhorrent to Crane. He simply couldn’t imagine having sex with anyone other than his wife Tina. And the thought of Tina having sex with someone else and in front of him to boot, was so repulsive that the mere thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth.
After a while, the lure of nicotine became too strong for Crane to ignore, so he took the opportunity of clearing his head and having a wander outside. Not that there was much to see, just the Provost Barracks car park and the main thoroughfare through Aldershot Garrison. Every now and again a clutch of military vehicles rumbled past and soldiers came into view jogging around the playing fields. Crane took a deep breath. It was the smell that got to him every time. It was a bit like a layer cake. At the bottom was sweat and the middle layer was made up of male hormones. The top layer was a mix of engine oil and exhaust fumes and it was all topped off with a sprinkling of mud and grass. This was his home, where he felt most useful and most comfortable. Occasionally it was subtly suggested that Crane might be posted elsewhere, but he always resisted. Anyway the SIB at Aldershot covered the whole of Hampshire and the South East of England. The other large SIB contingent was based at Catterick and the North of England was too cold for him. So because of his experience in major crimes he’d managed to keep his post at Aldershot so far. But his reputation demanded that he solve this case and solve it quickly, so with renewed determination he ground out his cigarette and went back to his office.
Anderson was still hunched over a file, oblivious to everything, so Crane took a new one. Opening it, it contained the details of everything taken from Major and Mrs Cunningham’s house, when the forensic teams had scoured through the dwelling looking for any sign that Mrs Cunningham had been murdered there, or abducted from there. Looking through the list of items, he found an entry for bank statements.
Bank statements were routinely taken in cases of missing persons. There could be anomalies in the accounts. Large payments made to unknown persons, perhaps the cost of having their partner, or child, killed or kidnapped. Horrible thoughts, but the police were paid to be suspicious. They couldn’t afford to think that people of a certain social standing wouldn’t break the law. The statements recovered from the house were in several names. A joint account for Major and Mrs Cunningham, an account in the name of Major Clive Cunningham, one in the name of Mrs Janey Cunningham and a fourth in the name of Janey Carlton. So there was one which was a joint account, but three accounts in individual names. Crane stilled. His skin began tingling, then his hands trembled, the paper he was holding fluttering slightly. He had spotted that there were a clutch of statements for a bank account in the
name of Janey Carlton. Her professional account would appear to be separate from her personal account. He then checked and double checked the account numbers. Yes, it was clearly a different account. He looked at the evidence reference number given to the bank statements and on checking found they were stored at Aldershot Police Station in the evidence locker. Flicking through the pages in the file, he couldn’t find photocopies of them.
“Derek,” he called, keeping his voice light.
“Mmm,”
“Fancy a break?”
“What? Why?”
“Because I think I’ve found the missing link we’ve been looking for. We need to go to your place. Now.”
Anderson’s head snapped up at the words ‘missing link’ and clearly trusting his friend’s instincts and not needing any further information, he grabbed his old raincoat and followed Crane out of the SIB office.
26
Crane and Anderson, upon arrival at the police station, were quick to locate the bank statements they needed. They were rapidly photocopied, to give them one set each and after examining them, both men swiftly came to the same conclusion.
“Well?” asked Anderson.
“Well, we’ll have difficulty getting anything out of her bank without a search warrant and that could take too long to come through.”
“Agreed.”
“The entries don’t give us enough information.”
“Agreed again,” said Anderson.
“So?” asked Crane.
“So we go to see Laura Battle.”
“Excellent, my thoughts exactly. Shall I drive?” and Crane grabbed his car keys.
During the car journey they tried not to speculate, Crane careful not to get carried away in his enthusiasm. Theories and wild guesses didn’t really get an investigator very far. True, part of the job was intuition, found at the core of all good detectives. But good detectives also knew when to stay within the realms of possibility, not become carried away with fantasy.
Anderson had called Laura Battle as Crane drove, to ensure she stayed in her office. She’d grumbled a bit, but agreed to move a couple of appointments so that she could be available. Not that Anderson had left her any room for manoeuvre. He had been dogged in his demands that she stayed put, the unspoken threat of arrest if she didn’t, had been clear from the tone of his voice.
Upon their arrival, she let them into the building and they once more settled on the sofas.
“How can I help you this time, detectives?” she said, not sounding in the least bit happy at their sudden appearance.
Crane said, “We want to talk to you about Janey’s expenditure.”
“Pardon?”
“Her work expenditure. After all you’re her agent, are you not? You must have a good idea of what’s going on, how she’s earning and spending her money and also know who her accountant is.”
Laura had been fiddling with her cigarette packet, but stilled at Crane’s words and took an involuntary intake of breath, her eyes widening in horror.
“Ah, I see you’ve an inkling of the information we want,” he said to her.
Anderson said, “It seems clear from her professional bank account, the one in the name of Janey Carlton, that she paid a regular monthly payment of £2,000 pounds to what appears to be an estate agency.”
The only parts of Laura Battle moving were her eye lids. She blinked them, rapidly.
“We need to know what that payment refers to, Ms Battle. Does Janey have a house or a flat in London that she rents?”
As her silence continued, Anderson told her, “If you don’t co-operate to our satisfaction, we will easily get a search warrant for your premises, your computers and your company and private bank accounts, in order to find the information we require.”
“This is vital, Laura,” Crane said. “Janey could be there. Help us find her, please. Let’s put an end to all of this.”
“I had promised never to tell anyone,” Laura Battle whispered looking anywhere but at the two men.
“If Janey is dead, it rather negates your promise doesn’t it?” Anderson said.
“Do you think she’s dead?”
Crane could hear the fright in her voice. “Laura,” he said. “She’s been missing for days now. There’s been no ransom demand, so she wasn’t kidnapped. She’s not phoned anyone, so it’s unlikely she’s run away, for if that were the case, the desire to get in touch with at least you would be extremely strong.”
“I take it you’ve not heard from her?” asked Anderson.
“No, no, I’ve not,” she replied.
A tear had begun to track its way down Laura’s make-up caked cheek, leaving a bright track mark in the foundation.
“So… the most likely scenario is that she’s dead. Where is the property, Laura?”
Laura Battle got off the sofa and moved across to her computer, as if in a daze. She sat down, clicked a few keys, then pulled towards her a piece of paper and wrote on it. She then walked over to a cabinet on the wall and extracted a set of keys.
Anderson and Crane stood.
“Here’s the address,” she said and handed over the keys and the note. “It’s a flat, in London. It was private. Her sanctuary.”
Crane swallowed his anger at the stupidity of the woman who had been withholding vital information, that could have save them a lot of time and trouble, and said, “And the income paid into that account and detailed on the statements, was that from her modelling assignments?”
Laura shook her head. “No. As I’ve already said, the modelling work was drying up because of her age. It’s super hard to get jobs at the moment. She’s at that difficult in-between age. Not young enough, but not yet old enough to be a mature model such as Twiggy.”
“So where did the money come from? Where did she find another income stream from?”
Laura Battle sat down hard on the sofa. “She was a high class escort. Very high class,” she whispered.
“She was a hooker,” said Crane.
Laura Battle nodded, toppled over on the settee and sobbed.
Leaving the woman, as frankly Crane had no idea what to say to her, he and Anderson let themselves out of her office.
Once in the car Crane vented the anger he’d dared not let loose in the office. “Fucking bitch!” He smashed his hand down onto the steering wheel. “She could have given us this information three days ago! What is wrong with these people?”
“I don’t know, Crane,” Anderson said, sounding worn down rather than angry. “After all the years in this job, at times I still don’t understand human nature. People cover up things for what they think are the best of reasons. They keep secrets when they should tell the truth and refuse to accept the reality that their loved one has been killed, or even is a killer.”
“Will you arrest her for obstructing the course of justice?”
“Probably, but for now we need to get to London and get into this flat,” and Anderson reached for his mobile.
“Who are you calling?”
“The Metropolitan Police. I’ve a bad feeling about this and I want them there when we open that door.”
27
The sound of the opening music to ‘Saturday Morning Kitchen’ filled the air as Tyler walked into his own kitchen. Cooking was one of Penny’s hobbies and she watched the program religiously every Saturday morning. Tyler, dressed in running gear, had grabbed the post off the mat at the front door as he’d passed and held the envelopes in his hand.
“Any coffee on?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Penny grabbing a mug and pouring the hot, strong liquid into it. “You off for a run?”
“Umm, supposed to be, but, well, you know?” and he shrugged his shoulders. He took the mug from her, endured her laughter at his lack of commitment to his running regime and strolled out of the kitchen into their garden. It wasn’t large, they were in London after all, but it was a beautiful, calm space, with a deck, a patch of grass and mature bushes and trees surrounding it. It was
also a bit of a sun trap. He pulled a chair away from the wooden table on the decking and sat down, deciding to open his credit card statement first. It was cleared every month by direct debit from his bank account, but he liked to keep abreast of his expenditure. It was a way of making sure he didn’t become too frivolous. It was amazing how much brunch at Costa Coffee or lunch at Pret a Porter most days could add up and become a run-away expense.
The first thing he saw as he pulled the statement out of the envelope was the total. £5,000. The sum caused him some consternation. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cover it, but surely his spending wasn’t that out of control? His normal bill was around £2,000 per month. There must have been some mistake. Perhaps a payment had had a full stop in the wrong place turning £24.75 into £247.50? Maybe a purchase for £100 had become £1,000 in error? Confident the balance could easily be explained away Tyler unfolded the paper and began to go through each item.
By the time he’d finished, he’d found that most of the statement was in order, but there were three payments that he couldn’t explain. All were to some place called the Mayfair Club and were for £1,000 each. Tyler was still sat in his chair, drumming his fingers on the wooden table, when Penny came to join him.
“What a beautiful morning,” she said, sitting down and lifting her face to the sun. “Don’t you just love England in the sunshine?” she asked Tyler.
“Mmmm,” he agreed vaguely, his mind elsewhere.
“I think I might take the girls to the park later. What about you? Decided what you’re up to yet?”
“Oh, I think I’ll go for that run after all,” he said and he grabbed the post off the table, just managing to remember to kiss Penny as he left her. “See you later.”
Tyler didn’t really want a run it was just that he needed to get away from the house. He was beginning to feel like he was in a pressure cooker. His feelings of anger and confusion had turned to fear. His emotions were conspiring to make him feel trapped in a situation that he couldn’t begin to understand and from which there was no way out.
Solid Proof: A dark, disturbing, detective mystery (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Book 8) Page 8