Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Glass Cutter

  A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller

  by

  Wendy Cartmell

  © Wendy Cartmell 2015

  Wendy Cartmell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction and not meant to represent faithfully military, or police, policies and procedures. All and any mistakes in this regard are my own.

  Inspired by a friend and fellow writer.

  Praise for Wendy Cartmell

  ‘A pretty extraordinary talent’ - Best Selling Crime Thrillers

  ‘This is genre fiction at its best, suspense that rivets and a mystery that keeps you guessing.’ - A R Symmonds on Goodreads

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  1976

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  1976

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  1976

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Forty

  Forty One

  Forty Two

  Forty Three

  Forty Four

  Forty Five

  Forty Six

  Forty Seven

  Forty Eight

  Forty Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty One

  Fifty Two

  Fifty Three

  Fifty Four

  Fifty Five

  Fifty Six

  Fifty Seven

  Fifty Eight

  Fifty Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty One

  Sixty Two

  Sixty Three

  Past Judgment

  Meet the Author

  One

  Louise Marshall passed the back of her hand across her brow. She’d been unpacking all morning and looked at the mass of boxes littering the sitting room of their new army quarter. Well, not so much new, as old, she supposed. The house was imposing, as befitting a commanding officer, a solid Victorian house, set in large gardens. The resultant quietness was calming, but if she were honest, a little isolating. No longer could she hear the chatter of women, clattering of children’s feet, or cars being backed off drives. Now she only heard bird song, or the occasional mewling of cats.

  There was a whole world outside the gates, which were as large and imposing as the drive they protected. But somehow the house made her not want to go out there. Out there was new. A new garrison, new wives, new subordinates. For as the Colonel’s wife, or as the army would put it, the wife of Colonel Marshall, Royal Logistics Corp, Travers Barracks, Aldershot, she was expected to get involved. Her duties would include meeting her husband’s subordinates, greeting them by name, asking after their wives and their children. She rather needed a notebook, she realised. She’d never remember everyone’s names and writing them down would help her memorise them. She must remember to ask Peter that evening to run through the people she needed to recall. When he came home. If he came home.

  Shaking such thoughts away she turned her mind back to the job in hand and began to stack the empty boxes, placing smaller ones inside larger ones, until she had a pile in the hallway. She looked up at the imposing stairway and around the elegant hall of their new home. The overall impression was of high ceilings and deep mahogany wood that gleamed. She imagined the shine was because of the countless servants that had diligently polished it over the years. Through an open door at the back of the house she could see into the large kitchen that was, luckily, not as old as the house. It had been dragged into the twentieth century and sported all the modern appliances and was where she would be expected to produce wonderful dinners. They would be for men who were far more interested in drinking and wives who were more interested in taking stock of her than eating her cuisine. Louise could feel their eyes on her already.

  They would wonder if she looked young for her age, or old. Did she dress right and sound right? Was she friendly or slightly frosty? Did she peer down at everyone from her elevated position as the Colonel’s wife, or would she muck in and get her hands dirty?

  Turning her gaze away from the kitchen, Louise looked at herself in the lovely old gilt framed mirror that had been hanging on the wall when they arrived. It was so large and imposing, there wasn’t really anywhere else to put it, so she had decided to leave it hanging there. It was handy to use to check her appearance when they left for whatever function or duty was to be performed that day or night. Today she looked pale, she decided, inspecting her skin tone in the antique glass. She really should put some make up on and brush out her auburn hair which was breaking free from the twisted knot she’d hastily pinned up that morning. Her cat-like green eyes would benefit from a sweep of mascara and her chapped lips from some lipstick. Peter had always instilled in her that you never knew if anyone would call unexpectedly and he would expect her to be ready for anything and everything. He expected her to be the perfect army wife.

  And thinking of which, it was about time she got rid of these boxes. Under the stairs, set into the wooden panelling that graced the wall under the banister, was a small door. Peter had said it led to the cellar, somewhere where she had yet to explore. The perfect place to store boxes, she decided, where they’d be out of sight, out of mind.

  She really should go out and do some food shopping, she thought, as she glanced at her watch, yet she was hesitant to leave the house. Somehow it felt safer here, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the garrison, away from the watching, prying eyes that would be monitoring her every move. So instead of walking up the stairs to put on a face for the world and change out of her jeans and tee-shirt, she walked towards the door to the basement. She’d stay a while and explore the house, she thought, as her hand reached for the door handle.

  The stairs surprised her, being concrete; somehow she’d expected rickety wooden ones, leading down to a cellar full of cobwebs, spiders and the odd dead mouse. She stood at the top, grasping for a light. As her hand felt a plastic plate, she flicked the switch on and took a few hesitant steps downward. A strip light struggled, flicking on and off, before settling down and buzzing into life, illuminating the cellar with its harsh light.

  She leaned over the banister and saw that the area was large, seemingly running underneath most of the house. It was split into sections. There was a work bench, stained and marked from unknown tools and metal shelves that were ready to hold Peter’s bits and bobs, the solitary oil can waiting patiently for other tins to join it. Louise walked down the remaining steps and past the workbench and shelves. She came to a large boiler, clanking and working overtime to keep the house above warm. Moving further into the cellar, she could see the back wall was rough
ly plastered, as though the workman had become overwhelmed by the size of the job he had taken on. As the far corner of the cellar was not on view, it seemed he hadn’t bothered to produce his best work there.

  Turning back towards the stairs, Louise saw something pushed up against the side wall of the cellar. Walking over to it, she saw it was an old travelling chest, of the type used many years before by boys going off to boarding school, or soldiers travelling to their next posting. Kneeling down, she ran her hands over the old cracked leather, brittle beneath her fingers. There was a label tied to it and looking closely at the old fashioned writing in black ink against the yellowing paper, she read the name Underwood. Man or boy? She had no idea.

  The natural thing to do would be to open the chest and peer inside. But Louise hesitated. Looking behind her she made sure no one was watching. A stupid gesture as she was alone in the house. But she’d had the feeling, for a fleeting moment, that she wasn’t on her own. It was probably just a change in temperature as the boiler has just fired up, she reasoned. But still, opening the chest felt like an invasion of someone’s privacy. A nonsensical notion, as it was more than likely empty, Louise thought. So she took a breath and lifted the lid.

  Secretly hoping it to be full of treasures, such as old clothes, shoes, boots and pictures, she was disappointed to find only one item in there. It appeared to be a scarf of some kind as Louise could see white silk. Reaching for it, she realised it was covering something. Something hard. A book perhaps? A diary?

  Using both hands, she lifted it out of the chest, rocking back on her heels. The silk headscarf shimmered as it slithered away, revealing what appeared to be a large scrap book, or maybe a photo album. The light at the back of the cellar wasn’t very bright, so Louise put the scarf back in the chest and took the book over to the concrete steps. Sitting on the first one, she placed the book on her knees. She could now see that the large red leather book had something written on the cover. There were just two words embossed on the leather, Matilda Underwood. Intrigued, Louise opened the book.

  Two

  My name is Matilda Underwood and this is my story. It’s not a new one. It’s the story of every other disaffected, displaced and abused individual. What makes my story different is how I dealt with it. How I dealt with the rejection, the misunderstanding, the mistreatment.

  I came to this house hoping for redemption. And in a way I got it, I suppose. Just not in the way I imagined. But more of that later.

  On first sight I loved this house. It wrapped its arms around me like the mother I had never known. It made me feel wanted, loved, secure. In fact it is the only thing in my life that ever has. A house, after all, is solid and safe. Not like human beings. They are fickle, flawed, cruel and unusual. My past experiences mean that I no longer trust people. Men, women, children, it makes no difference. They have all hurt me in one way or another. At one time or another. But not this house. There was always a nook or a cranny revealed to me, that I could hide myself in, when the pressures of the life I lead and had led, got too much.

  One of my hiding places was the attic. I loved poking around in there, trying on old clothes, slipping them on like a new persona; sitting in discarded furniture; setting out ornaments; playing the lady of the manor. I was as happy as a child given dolls and a tea set to play with. Most days I could be found either there or in the cellar. Underneath the house lay tools that I’d never seen before. Implements that I shuddered to think what they could be used for. Half used tins of paint and pots of foul smelling liquid. All fascinating in their own way. I would make up uses for them, imagine them being used by old gnarled hands, lovingly cleaned and cared for. Relics of the past, memories of a time long gone by. A happier time? Who knows. But perhaps a simpler time.

  I found this old book one day in the attic and rescued it. I was sorting through some old discarded newspapers and as I revealed it, the red leather cover beckoned me. I ran my hands over the hide and it warmed them, the book seeming to speak to me. Its pages were blank and I had the uncanny feeling that they were eager to be filled with a story that was just waiting to be told.

  I carried the book carefully down the narrow steep attic stairs and took it to my room. There I cleaned and polished the cover, brushed the cobwebs off it and separated some stuck pages. When I’d finished, it sat on my dressing table waiting. But it wasn’t quite ready to be used.

  The next day I took it into town to a local printer. I was unsure if he could help, but he assured me he could. And this is the result. My name embossed in gold on the cover. Isn’t it beautiful?

  Now the book is ready and so am I. It’s time I told my tale.

  Three

  Before she could turn the next page, Louise was startled by a noise from up above. It was Peter. She didn’t know why she was so surprised, for who else could it have been? No one else would walk into the house unannounced. No one would dare. As Peter called her, driven by some instinct she couldn’t put a name to, Louise quickly returned the book to the chest, determined not to mention her find.

  Thinking back on why she did that, she decided that perhaps it was nothing more than wanting something that belonged to her alone. For after all her life wasn’t her own, it was dictated by her husband and her husband’s life was dictated by the army. The more she thought about it, the more she resolved that she wouldn’t share Matilda’s book. It would be her secret.

  For the rest of the day they worked together on the house. Peter piled the empty boxes in the cellar for her and then went outside and spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through the garage, occasionally bringing through things to store in the basement. She unpacked the rest of the kitchen equipment, crockery and cutlery. She arranged pots and pans near the stove, put the china further away from it and nominated cupboards for foodstuff. Then moving through to the sitting room she pushed and pulled chairs and sofas this way and that until they were arranged to her liking. She plumped cushions, dusted off lamps and scattered rugs.

  By the end of the day, Louise was too exhausted to do much more for dinner than heat some leftover casserole and put a baguette in the oven to warm. They ate their food on trays balanced on their knees in front of the television.

  Louise watched Peter eating. He always ate quickly, as though needing to get the meal out of the way and move on to other more interesting things. A throwback from being on exercise or in theatre, she supposed, where food was nothing more than a necessity. Fuel. Not something to be slowly enjoyed, relishing every mouthful. He tossed back his wine as though it were lager and put the empty glass back on his tray. He was fresh out of the shower and beads of water glistened in his short dark hair. He wore a simple white tee-shirt that clung to his slim frame and baggy joggers that hid his muscular thighs and calves.

  Not much interested in the news and feeling the need to make conversation she asked Peter how things were going at the barracks.

  ‘Fine. Why?’ he answered his eyes still on the television.

  ‘I just wondered. Do you think you’ll like it here?’

  ‘Of course,’ he looked at her in surprise. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

  Why wouldn’t he indeed, she realised. For Peter things were the same on every barracks in every garrison. The same tasks, routines, policies and procedures. The army structure was the same the world over. Things only seemed changed for her. She was the one who seemed to find it all so unnerving. She quaked at the thought of the new house, new people and new responsibilities, every time he climbed yet another rung on the ladder of promotion. Every time they moved she was at sea. While he? He took it all in his stride.

  Later in bed, she turned to him, slipped her arms around his waist and kissed his neck. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. Wasn’t that he mistreated her. He just, well, didn’t seem to take much notice of her. She wondered if tonight would be any different. Could she make him see her? Make him feel her love? Make him feel her need? She caressed his back, felt the broad shoulders and well defined muscl
es under her fingertips. If the light had been on, she would have been able to see the scars that tattooed his body. One from where he was shot. Another from a skiing accident. A third from an operation.

  ‘Peter?’ she whispered in the dark, unable to hide the hope in her voice.

  ‘Not tonight, eh, darling. Busy day tomorrow,’ he said and burrowed further under the duvet.

  He moved away from her. Only slightly. But enough to cause her hand to fall off his back and land in the space between them.

  A casual rejection, yet the pain of it sliced her in two. Why was he indifferent to her, she wondered. Unmoved by her advances. So dismissive of her love. Louise listened to the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock they had placed in the hallway and that could be heard through the open bedroom door. Its rhythmic tick tock, tick tock, sounded loud in the otherwise silent house. Eventually it lulled her to sleep.

  1976

  Father Chumley, Arch Deacon of all he surveyed, was sitting behind his desk in his study. It was a typically male space, he supposed, looking around it. Winged armchairs, large desk, angle poise lamp placed just so, to illuminate the godly words he was writing and that he would preach to his congregation on Sunday. It was Harvest Festival. He’d preached the same sermon now for the past five years so he’d thought he’d have a go at writing something different for this year. Although he wasn’t altogether sure that people remembered what he’d said from one Sunday to the next, never mind from one year to the next. He sighed. Oh well, as he was now Arch Deacon, a most prized appointment, a bit like being an area manager, he really felt he ought to raise his game. You never knew when someone higher up the ecclesiastical chain would slip into the back of the church anonymously, intent on doing an unannounced spot check. Spies sent by the Bishop.

  He realised he was wool gathering, wasting time, so he picked up his pen and once more bent over his words. He’d only written five sentences and had an awfully long way to go yet. He was just composing a particularly brilliant phrase when the telephone rang. He sighed as the words flew out of his brain and instead of being put down on the paper, they vanished into thin air. He put down his pen and picked up the receiver, anything to stop the incessant, shrill bell.