“Well, it’s this rape business, boss.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s just that…” Billy pushed his blond hair away from his forehead.
“Bloody hell, come and sit down and spit it out. I won’t bite.”
Billy did as he was told. Placing his elbows on his open legs and hanging his head, he looked between his hands at the carpet. For once Crane decided to keep quiet. Something was definitely wrong. Billy was normally over confident, but at the moment was being strangely reticent.
“I’ve got this mate, met him at the gym. He seems to be in a bit of trouble,” he mumbled to the floor. Then lifted his head and looked around the office, anywhere other than at Crane, who didn’t comment.
“He’s one of us, you know, not an MP or anything, just your regular squaddie.”
Billy was faltering, so Crane had to prompt, “And?”
“And it’s just with this rape stuff…”
Crane leaned forwards over his desk, “Billy, are you trying to tell me you think this mate of yours might be our rapist?”
This time Billy did look at Crane, “No sir, I’m trying to tell you that he’s been repeatedly raped. Here on the Garrison, by a fellow soldier.”
A Letter to my Rapist
I’m not sure how to start this letter. The term ‘Dear Rapist’ has a certain ring to it, but then again you are certainly not my ‘dear’ anything. How about ‘Dear sir’? The ‘sir’ bit is about right but the ‘dear’ is still wrong. So I think I will leave out the salutation and just get on with it.
I wanted to share one of my flashbacks with you. Just to give you some idea of how you are making me feel. I’m sure you couldn’t care less, but putting pen to paper helps me, so you’ll just have to put up with it, the same as I have.
I can be anywhere when a flashback happens. Luckily most times are when I’m alone in my room. It happened on Guard Duty once though. That was a bit dodgy. I had to pretend I had a bad stomach. How else could I explain my vomiting?
It starts with uncontrollable shivers. Then the memories come. Settling on me like snow. Chilling my body, heart and soul, as I relive the horror of that first time. As I feel again the terror rendering me voiceless, my gaping mouth unable to scream, speak or even whimper, as though I had been struck dumb. I’m aware of the familiar khaki of my tunic, scratching at my cheek, as I am roughly pounded from above. A draft from the open window mocks me, playing across my bare legs, teasing the hairs and kissing my skin like a lover. Then the unbelievable pain that unlocks my voice as my skin tears and I scream like a girl, until a sweaty sock is stuffed into my gaping mouth.
But nothing lasts forever and once you are satisfied, there is a single sharp splinter of pain as I am released.
“I told you you’d enjoy it,” your deep voice whispers, as my own body offers the final betrayal.
4
Crane believed he was the master of lobbing metaphorical grenades, but had to admit that one from Billy was right there up with the best of them. Sweet Jesus. Not only a squaddie being accused of rape and murder in Aldershot, but now a young male soldier being raped and on Crane’s Garrison. It was unbelievable. The lad didn’t seem to want to make an official complaint yet, so Crane and Billy would have to tread very carefully on this one. Well, as carefully as Crane could. He was not very good at treading carefully, he had to admit to himself.
This was the first case of this type Crane had ever investigated. Male rape. It was one of those incidents that people knew must happen, not just in the army, but in all three forces, hell even in ‘civvy street’. But it was simply not talked about. There were very few official complaints and those soldiers who did make the decision to press charges, were often as humiliated by the process as they were by their tormentor.
Crane couldn’t begin to imagine the stress the poor bloke must be under, this must surely be beyond his capacity to cope, making him feel threatened - not only by his rapist but also by the system. By those who are supposed to help him. He must be fighting a hell of a battle with his anxiety and fear to follow through with an official complaint. Crane shuddered at the thought of the physical attacks the young soldier had been subjected to. That sort of physical violation would surely drive a man mad.
As these jumbled thoughts whizzed around his brain, Crane parked the car outside his quarter and entered the house. It was only when he realised there were no cooking smells greeting him, no soft lighting and the house felt cold, that he stopped thinking about work.
His first thought was, where’s Tina? His second, is Daniel alright? Quickly followed by the outlandish thought - she hasn’t left me has she? After checking the downstairs rooms, in a manner reminiscent of clearing a house of opponents, Crane headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst into the nursery - only to find it empty. Fighting his rising panic, he sprinted into his bedroom, drawing in a deep breath.
His shout of, “Tina!” died on his lips, as he spied his wife and son fast asleep in the large double bed. Walking into the room, he saw a note on the bedside table from Tina. ‘Sorry, so tired. Wake me up when you get home’.
Crane looked down on his sleeping wife, waiting while his heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. I have to get her some help, he realised as he kneeled by the bed and woke her by kissing her face and stroking her hair, careful not to disturb Daniel. As she blinked awake, she muttered, “Tom? Is that you?”
“Yes, love.”
“Sorry, is it that time already, I’ve slept longer than I meant to, I’ve got to get up, I need to make something for dinner, sorry.” Tina struggled to sit up with Daniel still in her arms.
“It’s okay, I’ll take Daniel.” Crane lifted the baby and put him over his shoulder. “I’ll put him in his cot as he’s still asleep. Why don’t you have a shower while I cook dinner? I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.”
He left the room before Tina could refuse his help. She had been doing a lot of that lately, refusing his help. But Crane could see by the pallor of her skin, the dark smudges under her eyes and unwashed hair, that she was clearly not coping. The baby stirred once in his arms and then settled again and Crane managed to get Daniel back into his cot without waking him. A quick sweep of the nursery confirmed that it needed tidying again, so muttering under his breath, he did just that. A few minutes later, as Crane clattered down the stairs, he heard the water running in the bathroom.
With Tina and Daniel sorted, Crane opened the fridge, ready to try out his non-existent culinary skills. But the contents didn’t look promising. A wedge of old cheese, a couple of eggs, some left over vegetables and a litre of milk. Not enough ingredients to make a cheese omelette for two, which was his usual attempt at a meal. So Crane grabbed the phone and ordered a large take-away pizza to be delivered. He then went through the house, turning on lights, turning up the heating and opening a bottle of wine.
By the time Tina came down, he was sipping a beer, with the pizza keeping warm in the oven.
“Did I just hear the doorbell?” Tina asked.
“Doorbell? No I don’t think so. Here sit down; I’ve poured you a glass of wine and dinner’s ready,” Crane said producing the pizza with a flourish, still in the Dominoes Pizza box.
“You silly bugger,” Tina laughed and held up her glass. “Do you think I should drink this as I’m still breastfeeding the baby?”
“Tina, I’m sure a small glass of wine won’t hurt.”
Taking a sip of her drink, she said, “Mm that’s nice, thanks, Tom.”
“Oh it was nothing, I only had to pick up the phone and place an order.”
“You know what I mean. Thanks for helping and I’m sorry…”
Crane cut in. “That’s enough of that. Normally it’s me saying sorry. Don’t you get into the habit as well; otherwise we’ll never get anywhere.”
They managed to eat most of the pizza before the baby monitor squawked. Daniel telling them it was his turn to eat.
&n
bsp; “Sorry,” mumbled Tina, as she rushed out of the room.
Crane sat alone for a while finishing the last slice of pizza and thinking about Tina for once, rather than work. As he did so, he unconsciously rubbed the scar under his beard - a red angry souvenir from shrapnel in Afghanistan, which he had collected whilst training members of the Afghan Police Force. Surrounded by an empty pizza box, empty beer can and half drunk glass of wine, Crane came to a decision and picked up his mobile phone.
5
The following morning, DI Anderson was waiting for Crane, as he ran up the wide concrete steps fronting the shabby Victorian house.
“Thanks for meeting me, Derek,” Crane said as he wrapped his dark coat around him against the cold wind, taking care not to bend the large brown envelope he was holding.
“It’s okay, I know how you like to view the scene and anyway, a fresh pair of eyes can’t do any harm.”
“Don’t know about fresh,” Crane sighed, rubbing his eyes to make his point, stopping just short of a yawn.
“For goodness sake, pull yourself together, Crane. You’re not the only man in the world with a new baby in the house.”
Realising he’d get no sympathy from Anderson, who was a father of two girls, Crane looked around the area. The terraced houses were on a street which had been an affluent area when the houses were first built. Now they were too large and expensive for families to buy and maintain and had therefore mostly been broken up into flats and bedsits. Looking over the railing of the steps, Crane saw a basement flat instead of a garden. Tilting his head back, Crane realised the houses were three storeys, a basement, ground and first floors.
Anderson fished around for the bunch of keys, patting each of his pockets before finding it. He pushed a key into the lock on the large, scratched and scuffed green front door, opening it into a small hall area. On their left hand side was a door marked Flat 2. Anderson unlocked this, easily pushing open the flimsy plywood door and stepping back. “This is the one,” he said, rather unnecessarily.
“Thanks, give me a minute, would you?”
As Anderson turned and wandered back outside, Crane stepped into the small flat and pushed the door closed behind him, muffling, but not cutting out completely, the noise of the traffic filtering through from outside. Actually ‘flat’ was a generous description, Crane decided. Bedsit was more like it. As he looked around the room, the double bed dominated, drawing the eye. Opening the envelope he was holding, Crane removed large photographs of the crime scene. The bed dominated these as well and they showed a young girl lying on top of it.
Crane took a few steps to the bed, fanning out the photographs on the now empty mattress. He placed them in order. The first was a close-up of Becca’s face, eyes open wide, staring, yet sightless. Eye makeup smeared. Lips faintly stained red from lipstick. The second photo showed her neck, bruised from the hands that throttled the life out of her.
Carefully placing the third one in position, Crane looked at Becca’s bare breasts. Caught underneath her body, the remnants of the top the killer had ripped from her could just be seen. The fourth showed a close-up of her from her waist to the tops of her legs. Her short skirt was bunched up around her waist. Below that she was naked, bare legs splayed.
The two remaining glossy pictures were of each leg, one of them was dangling off the edge of the bed. She was still wearing her shoes.
Leaving the pictures in place on the bed, Crane straightened up and looked around. A large bay window was covered by curtains that were closed and underneath it were a small TV and digital receiver. The bed split the room in two and over on the far wall was a small kitchen area. Rounding the bed Crane walked over and saw another door. Pushing it open he revealed a small bathroom. The toilet, sink and shower were all covered in black fingerprint powder. Returning to the bed, Crane stood still and listened. The only sound was the slight humming of a small fridge in the kitchen.
Crane tried to imagine this small space alive with a young girl getting ready for a night out with her friends, but found it impossible. The killer had sucked the life out of the bedsit as surely as he had sucked the life out of Becca.
Collecting the photographs, Crane opened the door and joined Anderson in the hall.
“No useful forensic evidence?” Crane asked, although he already knew the answer.
“Not a bloody thing. No finger prints, no hair, no semen. Just traces of lubricant from a condom. No wrappers, cigarette butts, empty glasses he drank from. No hairs in the sink, down the plug holes or in the drain pipes. No…”
“Alright, Derek, I get the picture. The forensic team have done a thorough job and came up with nothing.”
“That’s about right.”
Anderson closed and double locked the door to Flat 2. Moving through the front door and standing on the steps he said, “The only thing we’ve got is the witness who swears the bloke was a squaddie.”
“Well that link is a bit tenuous to say the least.”
Crane joined Anderson on the steps and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his coat. His new tactic, aimed at stopping him lighting a cigarette.
“Why? Because you don’t want it to be one of your lads?” Derek patted down his hair, which was being blown about by the cold wind.
“Not at all, Derek,” Crane walked down the steps. “It’s because it’s such a generic description. Your so called witness can’t really help with colour of hair, eyes, height or build, can she? And she was drunk at the time. And it was in a crowded pub with dim lights and blaring music.”
“Well, as it’s the only thing I’ve got at the moment, I’m running with it. So on Saturday night I’ll be going around the bars talking to doormen and taxi drivers. I need to find anyone who saw Becca last week. Why don’t you come too? Maybe then we can start filling in some of your blanks.”
6
Crane’s superior officer, Captain Edwards, was not happy. Actually, Crane thought that was an understatement. Edwards was furious. And all Crane had done was to tell him about the two rape cases.
“So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” Edwards said tersely, standing behind his desk and peering down at Crane, who was sitting on the other side. “You’re firstly telling me that a young girl, Becca Henderson, was raped and murdered last Saturday night and Aldershot Police thinks a squaddie was the culprit.”
“Yes, sir,” Crane replied just to get up Edwards’ long nose.
“And secondly,” Edwards continued, ignoring the interruption, “Billy has reported a conversation with one Private Sebastian Turner, who has confessed to being raped by a fellow soldier.” Edwards pushed his straight black hair from his deep forehead.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dear God, whatever is the British Army coming to?” Edwards fumbled behind him, grabbed his chair and sank into it. “There is nothing I hate more than rape cases. Very sensitive issues involved and they can be very hard to prove. So, over to you, Crane, I think. Tell me what you’re going to do about them.”
Crane once again noted Edwards’ trick of demanding answers without offering any investigative insight.
“Well, sir, I’m going out with DI Anderson again on Saturday night, this time to question the doormen at the local pubs and the taxi drivers. To see if we can find anyone who saw Becca that night or, more importantly, saw her rapist.”
“What’s his description?” Edwards leaned forwards to listen.
Crane opened his folder and read from a witness statement. Actually the only witness statement they had so far. “A witness described him, and I quote verbatim, ‘He was, like, tallish. I think his hair was blond, or blondish. I reckon he was a squaddie. After all, The Goose is a squaddie pub, innit?’ I’m not altogether sure if that last bit about The Goose was a question or a statement, sir.”
“Come again?”
Crane began to read the statement once more.
“Shut up, Crane,” Edwards interrupted. “Is DI Anderson really taking this witness seriously?”
“Yes, yes, Crane, I know what forensics are, thank you.”
Crane hid a surreptitious smile behind a coffee cup he put to his lips.
“What about the other case?” Captain Edwards leaned so far back in his chair that Crane thought he was in danger of falling over backwards. It was as if Edwards was trying to get as far away from the cases as he could.
“Well, sir, at the moment there’s very little I can do. Turner hasn’t made a formal complaint, but Billy is pretty sure he will. Until then, we just have to wait. I was thinking about doing some background checks, sir.”
“Background checks on Turner you mean?”
“Yes, sir, but also the other men in his Company, especially his superiors. If anything, it’s more likely a Corporal or Lance Corporal that’s doing this to him, someone with authority over him.”
Edwards sat up straight. “I think you’re right on that one, Crane,” he said. “But you can’t go around doing background checks until a formal complaint is made. So keep that line of enquiry until Turner spills the beans. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“Very well, dismissed.”
***
Crane took the stairs down to SIB two at a time. Banging through the double doors, he called for Kim to join him in his office.
“Right, Kim, a job for you on the Turner case. I want to make sure we’re prepared for when he makes a formal complaint.”
“Sir,” Kim acknowledged, opening her notebook.
“I want the records for the other Privates in his Unit and his immediate Corporal and Lance Corporal.”
“Very well, sir. Whose authority do I log as granting permission for retrieving the information?”
“Why, Captain Edwards, of course,” Crane managed to say with a straight face.
Honour Bound: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 2