Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2)

by Wendy Cartmell

  As the Professor pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes, Anderson said, “Professor Dennison, none of this is your fault. Do you understand?”

  The Prof nodded his head and tried a watery smile, but he was clearly not convinced. He’d explained to Crane and Anderson in private, while they were waiting for Holly and Ciaran to complete the background checks, that the reason he’d been in the area on the nights of the three murders was because he was a closet gay and had been having liaisons, as he’d put it. He’d told them he’d confessed his secret to Theresa. Of course their marriage was now over and he was currently sleeping in his room at the university.

  “I doubt she’ll ever want to see me again,” he’d said. “All communication is being done via our sons. I’ve hurt her very badly, I know. But I just can’t help myself. I am what I am and it’s about time I took responsibility for that. For years I pushed my sexual leanings deep down inside of me. In the end the secret was eating me from the inside out. I had to find out who I really was. I made contact with other men through S-Dates. I was petrified to start with, but with each encounter I became more comfortable with my sexual leanings and learned being gay wasn’t the life sentence I’d imagined it to be. I needed to be good to myself, embrace who I was and enjoy it. Unfortunately Theresa has paid the price for my sexual freedom. I hope one day she’ll realise I can’t help being who I really am, not who I was pretending to be.”

  Anderson had felt sorry for the man, who was carrying two burdens. The first, the wilful destruction of his marriage and the second, his failing to see that one of his students was a murderer, a serial killer. But there was no place for emotion now, all their focus had to been on apprehending Giles Acreman.

  “When do you see him next?” Anderson asked.

  Fumbling through his diary, Prof Dennison said, “Oh my God. Tomorrow!” The diary fell out of his trembling hands and Ciaran bent to pick it up.

  “What’s the occasion?” Crane asked.

  “A lecture, in Foxhill House, where the School of Law is situated.”

  “Does he usually attend them?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve never known him miss one. He’s obsessive. I don’t think he’s missed anything in the past three years.”

  “That’s all very well,” mused Crane. “But we can’t bank on him being there, Derek.”

  “No, I agree. I think we put teams on the lecture hall and also on his house. If he’s not at one, he should be at the other.”

  “But there are lots of spots in the university grounds where he could slip out of the campus. You know in case he sees us and gets away.” Holly said, then went back to chewing the top of her pen.

  “How about police cars at those points? I’m sure Reading would be glad to help.”

  “Stop with the sarcasm, Crane,” said Anderson. “I’ll make sure they are.”

  The major crimes teams were still having problems liaising with some local police forces, who perceived them as undermining their own work and casting doubt on their ability to do their job. Sometimes it was jealously, sometimes resentment. Whichever, it was a bloody nuisance as far as Anderson and his team were concerned.

  “What time is the lecture, Professor?”

  Once they had all the details, Anderson said, “We’ve only got twenty-four hours, so I need your best work, people. Professor could you go with Holly please and work on the logistics of the site? Ciaran contact Reading Police and get the name and details of a Senior Officer who can lead the team from their end. Crane, write the Risk Analysis, incorporating all the information from Ciaran and Holly. I’m off to see Grimes and tell him the good news. Come on then, why are you all still sitting here? Off you go and make it happen.”

  Crane

  “With attractive views of Whiteknights Lake and surrounded by parkland, the School of Law is situated in an architecturally significant Grade 2 listed building on the university’s main campus.”

  Crane put the brochure down and instead of looking at the photographs in it, looked out of the car window at the building he’d been reading about. Foxhill House was grand and imposing, built in a Gothic revival style. The diamond pattern on the walls caught the eye immediately, giving the brickwork a texture that plain brick couldn’t. Three stories high, the attic windows all had peaked arches above them, and at either end of the building were large chimney stacks, each one comprising three chimney pots.

  He carried on reading aloud, “The house was originally built in 1868 by the architect Alfred Waterhouse and used as his own residence until he built an even more ambitious house, Yattendon Court. After that, a string of local dignitaries had owned it, before it was incorporated into Reading University.

  “Foxhill was described in an auctioneer’s advertisement in 1890 as a moderately sized gothic mansion with first class stabling, a coachman’s and gardener’s cottages and a small farm. The exterior of Foxhill has altered very little over the years. In the 2003 refurbishment, three new offices were added, linking the main house to the stable block, and the conservatory was replaced to provide two large teaching rooms with picture windows. Sadly, the Turkish baths in the basement no longer exist but many of the original features remain.”

  The building was certainly out of the way of the rest of the university buildings, the large site having grassland to the front and large wooded areas and the lake at the rear. All in all, a tranquil site, ideal for a seat of learning, if you liked that sort of thing, he supposed. It was a bloody nightmare for the police.

  The nearest buildings were several halls of residence, the main campus being some way away. Once the lecture was underway, the three vehicular accesses into Reading University would have teams of police at them, checking the identity of those entering and leaving the site. The nearest pedestrian access points were on Upper Redlands Road and at the corner with that and Whiteknights Road, both of which would be covered. Police dog handlers would patrol the wood and lake area behind Foxhill House. The idea was to not frighten Acreman off, but to make like it was a normal day as he arrived. The police presence would only appear once the lecture started, by which time they hoped their prey would be safely inside Foxhill House.

  Crane and Anderson were sitting in an unobtrusively placed car and had spent the last fifteen minutes watching students arriving for Professor Dennison’s lecture. The last of the stragglers had just sprinted their way to the building. They had been really hoping to see Giles Acreman walking into Foxhill House, but had had no such luck. And anyway, everyone seemed to look the same: jeans, trainers and hoodies. Didn’t the young have any imagination when it came to attire, Crane wondered?

  “Ready, Crane?” asked Anderson.

  “As I’ll ever be,” he replied and climbed out of the car.

  Tim

  Professor Dennison was standing in the wings. His gown hung heavy on his shoulders and seemed too much of a weight for him to bear. He was physically and mentally exhausted. After everything that had happened over the past few weeks, he was finding it difficult to function normally. His brain was sluggish, his arms felt like lead and his legs like jelly. He didn’t know where Anderson and his team were. The DI had felt it best he didn’t, otherwise he may spend much of his time looking at them and therefore might give away their location. And the students might wonder who the newbies were. Particularly Acreman.

  A shudder passed through him at the thought of the depraved things his student was capable of. How easily he’d been hoodwinked by the charming smile and air of confidence he’d always put down to Acreman being knowledgeable on the subject matter in hand, because of good preparation and planning. But now it seemed it hid something other than that - something dark and evil.

  He looked at his watch. He was already five minutes late starting. He better get on with the lecture. He took one shaky step forward. Then another. He felt like a robot taking its first steps after being re-programmed.

  Holly

  Holly and Ciaran were standing at the top of the lecture hall looki
ng down on the body of students. They had been chosen to sit in the hall as they were the only ones who wouldn’t look out of place. Holly wore her normal cargo pants and a muddy coloured top and Ciaran had ditched his shirt and tie for a tee-shirt extolling a local rock band, and his leather shoes for trainers.

  Ciaran poked Holly with his elbow. About to berate him for it, she looked at his face. Excitement seemed to be the overriding expression, but she noticed his eyes were wide with fear.

  “Five rows down,” he said. “Towards your side.”

  Holly craned her neck, but couldn’t see Acreman. Deciding she’d just have to trust Ciaran, she nodded and walked to the stairs to her left. Ciaran walked to those to his right. Stepping down towards Acreman’s row, Holly was surprised to find her legs were as useless as a new born lamb’s and she stumbled. She would have fallen down the steps if she hadn’t been caught by someone.

  “Hey,” a voice said. “You alright?”

  “Fine thanks.”

  Her knight in shining armour was bending over her. He was so close, the smell of his aftershave filled her nostrils. She shrugged off his hand and stood up, holding onto the back of the first seat in the row nearest to her.

  “Here, sit down next to me,” the man said, “before you tumble all the way down and knock the Prof over.”

  Sinking into the seat at the end of the row Holly looked up to see who the owner of the voice was. Even though she wasn’t remotely interested in men, she had to admit his dulcet tones were like chocolate, coating her in its sugary sweetness. Expecting a six pack, muscled poster boy, the face floating in front of her was the stuff of nightmares. She was staring at Giles Acreman.

  “I’m Giles,” he said grinning.

  “Holly.”

  “Not seen you here before.”

  Christ. Stunned, she realised she was going to have to make polite conversation. Not a forte of hers. “No, I’ve just switched over,” she mumbled.

  “From?”

  Bloody hell, she thought. Switched from… “Sociology,” she managed. “Decided being a social worker wasn’t quite for me.”

  “Wouldn’t be for me either,” he smiled. “Hope this is a better fit. Dennison’s quite good. I think you’ll like him.”

  Luckily, the Professor chose that moment to walk onto the stage, saving her from further conversation. Her left leg was shaking with involuntary tremors, so she crossed her legs in the cramped space, hoping that by putting her good leg on top of the shaking one, it would stop.

  “You okay?” he hissed.

  “Yeah, must have hurt my leg. I’ll be fine.”

  “Do you need paper?”

  “What?”

  He held up a notebook. Christ, this was getting worse and worse. “No, I’ve got one here. Thanks anyway.”

  She put her hand in the pocket on her left leg and fumbled to get out her small notebook and pen. Jesus. She was having a hot flush and began to fan her face with her pad. She wasn’t trained for this. Her mind was screaming for Ciaran to come and help her. Turning in her seat, she caught a glimpse of Crane and Anderson walking into the back of the hall, giving her an idea.

  Tim

  “So, today, we’re going to look at… look at...” Dennison realised that he’d forgotten to click the button to change the slide.

  “Sorry, to take a look at theories of crime – sociological and theoretical accounts of offending.”

  He had never felt less like talking to a body of students. It reminded him of when he’d first started lecturing, the panic and sense of overwhelming fear that he wasn’t good enough, didn’t know enough. Who was he to educate young, hungry minds? He was back there now, fuelled by the lack of self-worth he was currently feeling. All he’d managed to do lately was upset people.

  Pressing the button, he said, “We’re here to try and identify and explain a range of theoretical approaches to issues concerning crime as a phenomenon, offenders and offending, and social responses to crime.”

  Looking up he could see the majority of the students were scribbling, some tapping at phones and tablets and others watching him closely. One of those staring at him was Giles Acreman.

  Dennison managed to press the button. “Um, crime as, a, um, ah, phenom… phenom…”

  “Phenomenon!” someone shouted, startling him and bringing him back from his bleak thoughts about Acreman.

  “Thank you, young sir,” he managed a mock bow. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to give us your thoughts on the subject.” That, thankfully, took the spotlight off him, giving him a couple of minutes to catch his breath.

  He managed to continue with his lecture for a further few minutes, until movement at the end of one of the rows caused him to stutter again. If he wasn’t mistaken, Holly and Giles Acreman were making their way up the stairs towards the exit at the back of the hall.

  Holly

  “Oh God,” Holly said, swaying in her seat, “I don’t feel too good.”

  Acreman looked at her and must have agreed with her as he said, “Quick, put your head between your legs.”

  She managed to uncross them, then felt Giles’ hand on the back of her head, insistently pushing it forward. She allowed him to do so, swallowing down her panic at his touch but she couldn’t stop the shaking it produced.

  He said, “Perhaps you need some fresh air?”

  Holly managed to nod and slid off her seat. She tried to move into the aisle, but her legs started to fold in on themselves. They were no longer able to hold her weight. Acreman grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her upright.

  “Come on, I’ll help you. Up you go.”

  By now Holly was no longer faking it. She only just managed to put one foot in front of the other, aiming for where she’d last seen Anderson and Crane standing. Please God, she prayed, let them still be there.

  Ciaran

  Ciaran had seen the commotion at the other end of the row. Bugger, was Holly alright? His first instinct was to push along the row to get to her. But he realised that would be a very bad move indeed. Either she was making a play, or there was really something wrong with her. He very much hoped it was the former. He’d never forgive himself if something happened to her. She was really brave, he knew, always coming up with ideas about how to catch the Choker, but he also knew she had limited experience of police work. She was a civilian analyst after all.

  Holly was being helped up the steps by Acreman, who seemed to be supporting her, as they climbed upward. He stood up as quietly as he could, holding the seat so it wouldn’t bang against the back and started mounting the stairs on his side, never taking his eyes from Holly. Which was a mistake. Acreman must have felt his scrutiny, for he looked over at Ciaran. Pausing, he then looked upward and must have seen Crane and Anderson who were waiting to grab Holly and Acreman as they reached the top of the stairs.

  Acreman put on a spurt and pushed Holly in front of him, thrusting her at Crane and Anderson, so they were unable to chase after him. Holly bumped against them, and down they went, all legs and arms and Crane’s stick.

  Ciaran matched Acreman’s speed and was only a few strides behind him as he burst through the door… into the waiting arms of two of Reading’s finest.

  Crane

  Giles Acreman was denying everything, along with a few well chosen, ‘no comments’. He’d accepted the offer of a duty solicitor and the young woman had sat next to her client, with alternating expressions of shock and horror on her face, as they’d confronted him with the murder of three people and the attempted rape of one other.

  Finally, with no viable alternative strategy, Anderson had taken the decision to tell him they had a video of him killing Sally Saunders.

  Crane tapped the tablet he’d brought in with him to their third interview of Acreman. “It’s on here,” he said.

  “How? Where from?” Acreman gabbled.

  “Sally had a nanny cam, hidden in a smiley face on the wall in her bedroom.”

  By the change in Acreman’s expression,
Crane realised they had the right man. His desperation to see the video was disgusting to watch. Acreman looked like the big bad wolf from the fairy tale, licking his lips in anticipation, as he prepared to eat his prey.

  “If you admit to the killings we’ll let you see it,” said Anderson, which of course was an outright lie, but Acreman didn’t know that.

  “How can I trust you? Maybe you’re lying to get me to confess?”

  “No, unfortunately I’m not,” Crane went pale at the memory of the disgusting images that he still couldn’t get out of his head and were giving him nightmares.

  “Show me a bit now then,” a sly smile crossed Acreman’s face.

  “Sorry?”

  “Show me a bit now. Then I’ll believe you and tell you everything.”

  Crane and Anderson look at each other. They’d anticipated this and had decided that their determination to get the creep to confess would make them do as he asked.

  “Very well,” said Crane.

  Turning on the tablet, Crane showed Acreman the beginning of the video. The small screen of the tablet showed him and Sally entering her bedroom and moving towards the bed, before Crane abruptly turned it off.

  “Oh my God, you really do have it!”

  The salacious grin on Acreman’s face made Crane want to throw up.

  “We told you we did,” said Anderson. “We weren’t lying.”