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

by Wendy Cartmell

  ‘Mind you, the Colonel was here in Aldershot last night,’ Crane finished.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve checked already?’ asked Draper, who seemed to be trying to stop a grin spreading and only succeeded in looking as though he were taking part in a gurning competition, his face twisting this way and that as he strained to keep control.

  ‘Of course, sir, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I hadn’t,’ Crane grinned back. ‘I suppose I could calculate the time taken for the Colonel to leave where ever he was at the time of the first two murders, come back to Aldershot, murder the girls and then go back again.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time, Crane. He was with his officers most of the time on both occasions.’

  ‘Alright, boss, well in that case it just leaves Mrs Marshall.’

  ‘Well, in order to try and build a case against her, you’re going to have to get some forensic evidence, or at least a match to those finger prints. But I’m warning you now, Crane, you’re not to go anywhere near the Colonel or his wife without something solid. Do you understand? No interviews, no taking them to the police station, no questioning.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I promise not to accuse either them of anything, not even a driving offence, without clear forensic evidence.’

  ‘Very well, dismissed.’

  Fifty One

  It was mid-morning. Not having any wifely duties that day, Louise had finished her chores and then decided to reward herself with reading another instalment in the story of Matilda’s life. She was just fishing the book out from the back of her wardrobe when the doorbell rang. She hastily returned the book to its hiding place and went to answer the door.

  The man looked vaguely familiar. He wasn’t dressed in uniform, but rather in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. Ah, the Branch, she said to herself.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’ she spoke out loud.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, ma’am, I don’t know if you remember me? Sgt Major Crane? We met at the recent charity function.’

  ‘Oh so we did. Hello, Sgt Major. What can I do for you?’

  Louise was all smiles, graciousness personified, although her heart was beating so hard in her chest, she was afraid he could see it bumping against her sweater. The sound of it filled her head until she thought it would burst.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am but my car has overheated,’ he explained.

  ‘I can’t see any car.’ Louise’s pulse rate went from a trot to a canter.

  ‘It’s in the road behind your house. I wonder could you fill my water container.’

  ‘I, um...’ Louise could see the strange way he was looking at her, just that little too closely. He seemed to be honing in on her face as if trying to gauge her reaction. What was he seeing? Her pulse rate increased yet again, from a canter to a gallop.

  Crane held out the container, holding the bottom, so she could take the handle.

  ‘Yes, of course, one moment,’ Louise said and took the container.

  She left the door open and walked to the kitchen, knowing that he wouldn’t come in. Wouldn’t follow her indoors. He wouldn’t dare enter an officer’s house, especially not the Colonel’s. Not without an invitation and one wasn’t about to be offered.

  In the kitchen, she filled the water container from the tap, and then wiped her prints off it using a tea towel. She returned to the front door, holding the container handle with the towel underneath her fingers.

  ‘Here it is, Sgt Major. Sorry, I made a bit of a mess. I managed to spill water everywhere and had to wipe it up. I hope your car is alright,’ she finished, putting the plastic container on the ground. As he bent to pick it up she closed the door on him, leaning against it as she listened to him crunch his way back down the gravel drive.

  Her thoughts raced in time with her pulse. What the hell was that all about? She was convinced Crane had been trying to get her fingerprints, but why? What possible reason would he have for suspecting her? She’d changed the number plate on her car, from the English back to the German one each time she’d gone out looking for the whores. She couldn’t remember ever taking her gloves off. She walked to the kitchen on unsteady legs racking her brain for any failure on her part. And then it hit her. Like a punch in the face. Dazed, she realised that during the first murder she’d only had time to slip on one glove onto the hand that she’d held the shard of glass in, for it would have looked peculiar if she’d kept her gloves on after leaving the car. It might have made the prostitute suspicious.

  In her mind she replayed her movements. She’d grabbed the blanket from the back seat of the car, picking up her gloves and shard of glass that she’d hidden underneath it, taking care only to hold the glass with the rug and not her bare hands. She’d laid the rug out on the grass, hiding the gloves and glass beneath it. Before turning to lean over the girl, she’d slipped on a glove and grabbed the glass. Then, when it was over, she’d rolled the girl off the rug and automatically picked up the shoe that had fallen off and replaced it on the girl’s foot. Louise realised she had used the wrong hand to do that with. She’d used the hand that hadn’t had the glove on.

  Louise wasn’t sure how much time she had left. How long it would take them to gather enough evidence to charge her. She knew there was a major investigation underway. She’d seen the papers and the local television news. She’d seen her husband stiffen as he read each article in the Aldershot News and then look up at her. Was there an unspoken question in his eyes? Did he suspect her? Was he beginning to think she knew about his disgusting filthy habit of using prostitutes? Had he seen her car following him in his rear view mirror?

  She’d seen through Crane’s ruse, of course. Did he think her stupid? What a bloody pathetic attempt at getting her fingerprints that had been. Maybe they’d traced the German plate? Traced it back to her somehow? Why else would Crane have come?

  But she couldn’t let them take her. Not just yet. She needed a little while longer. She needed to finish the book. She ran upstairs and took the volume from the back of the wardrobe. She didn’t bother to go downstairs to read it, or to make a coffee first. She couldn’t risk the time it would take. She jumped up on the bed and opened it. She was calming down now, her breathing returning to normal. Her anxiety faded into the background as she focused on Matilda’s words. The book would tell her what to do next. Matilda would show her the way.

  Fifty Two

  It’s nearly time to claim my last victim. The one who could have been the first, but the one I decided to leave until last. I wanted to anticipate the moment, I suppose. Turn it over in my mind. Plan the perfect execution. Savour the build-up. Knowing that I was going to kill him, and he didn’t. He had no idea what was coming. No idea how I felt behind the everyday wifely mask I wore for him. What would he see behind that mask should it ever be ripped off? Would my husband see my hurt and pity me? Would he see evil and be afraid of me? Would he understand the part he had played in making what he would no doubt perceive as a monster?

  And so I waited. Honed my killing skills until I was ready for him. Practiced on the others you might say. Made sure I knew what I was doing and would be able to execute my plan to perfection.

  You might wonder what his crime against me was. Why I should want to snuff out my husband’s beating heart. It is because he is the one who has enslaved me for the rest of my life. The others, the priest, the headmaster, the doctor and Fred Brown, they all abused me as a child. He now abuses me as a woman.

  How did I end up here, in this house, with him you might ask. Well it went like this. My childhood years eventually ran out. I became too old for my tormentors, for they were paedophiles who only liked young flesh. Once I grew up, they didn’t find me attractive anymore. But instead of throwing me out with the rubbish, leaving me to my own devices, letting me take my chances in the wide world, they sold me. Sold my body and soul for a few lousy quid. And so I came to this house, to this man, to this garrison, to the army. With nothing more than my battered chest that contained a few paltry possession
s.

  But it was the house, in the end, that was my salvation. It offered me protection, succour and shelter. I felt that I had come home. And so under the calming influence of its tiled roof, encased within its rich warm red brick walls, I can finally be myself. I can never leave here. I will stay forever.

  Fifty Three

  PC Colin Daniels was driving the patrol car, unable to take much more of his young colleague’s driving that night. He was fed up of Ben being in the wrong gear, taking corners too fast or too slowly and getting stuck behind dawdling drivers. So he’d decided to take control for the last few hours of their shift. He did it nicely, of course, without criticism. He merely offered to give the young man a break.

  It was fast approaching the end of their shift at 10pm and Daniels was looking forward to getting back to the station and the waiting hot cup of tea as he rounded a corner near the Farnborough shopping centre. He’d followed the road around the outskirts of the centre, checking for kids hanging around in groups, perhaps hassling unsuspecting dog walkers or spraying their stupid graffiti. He didn’t mind graffiti per say, it’s just that it had to be good. And the kids around Farnborough were not Banksy. Stupid tag names and strange symbols were all they seemed to be able to manage and the Town Council were fed up of cleaning the stuff off during the day, only to see it pop up again the next night. So they had asked the local police to try and nip it in the bud if they found any kids with spray paint cans.

  As Daniels swung around to the entrance of the centre on his right hand side and the car park on his left, he saw some spray painting on the corner of the first shop in the precinct. Sighing and pulling over he said to Ben, ‘I’ll just check out that tag there, won’t be a minute,’ and he clambered out as quickly as he could, encumbered as he was by his uniform and stab vest.

  Walking through the wind that was coming down the street, he approached the offending spray paint to try and identify the kids who’d done it. As he walked up to it, he had to veer around a large industrial rubbish bin. And that’s when something caught his eye. A flash of brown on the floor between the wall and the bin. Bending down he saw it was a discarded glove and he was just about to pick it up, when he noticed dark stains on it. Stepping backwards he turned and waved his colleague over. Leaving the young boy standing there guarding the find, he went back to the patrol car and called it in, requesting a forensic team to come and collect the glove that had what looked like blood stains on it, from the floor behind the rubbish bin.

  DI Anderson wasn’t far behind them and walked over to PC Daniels on his arrival.

  ‘Colin,’ he nodded. ‘Good find.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Daniels was genuinely pleased with Anderson’s acknowledgement. Perhaps the detectives weren’t such arses after all.

  ‘So, what’s the status?’

  ‘Well, sir, forensics are photographing the glove in-situ and have confirmed that on initial examination it is blood stained. They’ve checked the bin itself but unfortunately the rubbish collection has already taken place, so if there was anything else of interest in there, any other items or clothes, they’ve already gone to the landfill.’

  ‘So all we have is the glove.’

  ‘Afraid so, sir. As the ground is tarmac, there’s no chance of footprints, but they’re dusting the bin itself for finger prints.’

  ‘That could take all night,’ Anderson laughed. ‘God knows how many they’ll find. Not sure I’d like that job.’

  ‘Exactly, sir.

  ‘Anyway, you can get off now,’ Anderson said. ‘Control wants you back at the police station to hand over to the next crew,’ and with another nod Anderson headed over to the bin.

  As Colin walked back to the car, his young partner was bubbling over with excitement.

  ‘Bloody hell, Colin, we could have cracked the case here. Who’d have thought we’d be instrumental in finding the killer?’ Ben said.

  Colin though the ‘we’ was a bit of a stretch, but kept quiet.

  ‘Just wait till I get home,’ Ben continued. ‘I can’t wait to tell Julie all about it. She’ll be dead excited too.’

  Colin stopped walking. ‘Who’s Julie?’ he asked.

  ‘My sister. She always wants to know what I’ve been up to at work.’

  ‘Right,’ Colin said. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. Right now. This minute.’

  Ben had also stopped walking and was looking up at his older, far more experienced partner.

  ‘You tell no one. Do you hear?’ Colin’s words came out rather harsher than he’d intended, but, on the other hand, he reasoned, Ben had to realise the importance of his message.

  Ben nodded enthusiastically, the tips of his ears burning red. ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘Walls have ears,’ Colin said. ‘As do the press. Once you tell one person, they’ll tell another five, who’ll tell another ten. Get the idea?’

  Ben nodded bashfully.

  ‘Before you know it, the information has fallen into the wrong hands. It’ll be all over the papers and the internet. And that could alert the killer. So tell no one. Right?’

  ‘Right, Colin. Sorry.’ Ben paused for a moment, and then said, ‘But it’s still bloody exciting!’

  Daniels followed Ben to the car, shaking his head and wondering when he’d lost the excited feeling Ben was currently displaying for the job.

  Fifty Four

  Crane and Anderson were sat in Anderson’s office at Aldershot Police Station the next morning with cups of tea in front of them. Anderson was munching on a biscuit. He’d offered one to Crane, but it was too early in the morning for him.

  ‘Right,’ Anderson said. ‘The glove found last night has been sent to the laboratory for forensic examination. So far all we have is that the blood on it is the same type as the latest victim April. Obviously they are running DNA tests on it, just to be sure it’s hers, but that test will take a while yet.’

  ‘Can they check for any skin cells or anything inside the glove they can get a trace on?’ Crane asked.

  ‘We’re ahead of you there. It turns out there’s a small spot of blood inside the glove, they are trying to get DNA from it.’

  ‘So it could be the killer’s blood?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Anderson nodded, ‘Perhaps from a small cut from the glass. It’s worth a try at any rate.’

  ‘But if it is the killer’s and it’s from the same person as the fingerprints on Sally’s shoe, then we won’t get a match. We’ve not got those prints on file, so it stands to reason we won’t have the DNA either.’

  ‘I know, but we’ll have it for future reference. To confirm the killer, once we have a suspect.’

  ‘And there’s the rub,’ said Crane.

  His ruse to get Mrs Marshall’s fingerprints had failed. If he was honest, it had made him feel really stupid. He hoped he hadn’t done anything to hinder the investigation, but thinking about it, why would he have done? But not really knowing, he decided to push the uncertain thoughts away and focus on what they could do something about.

  ‘What CCTV have you got?’ Crane asked Anderson. ‘Let’s see if we can pick her up leaving her home around that time.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ Anderson stopped mid dip of his biscuit in his tea.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Marshall,’ Crane said. ‘She’s our only suspect, let’s see if we can find her car leaving the garrison, or at least approaching the industrial estate on the night of April’s murder.’

  ‘I’ll get someone on it,’ said Anderson.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I don’t mind doing a stint. Just point me in the right direction.’

  ‘Fine, come on then. Farnborough have given us direct access to their files, apparently they’re stored on the Cloud, wherever that may be and we’ve a couple of computers set up out here.’

  Crane and Anderson walked into the general CID office. Crane looked around an operation that was so much bigger than his own in Provost Barracks. But then it was to be expected. Here was a murder team, hunting a
serial killer who had just claimed his or her third victim. Boards were up in strategic places around the room. Some dealt with the post mortems, some the forensic evidence. Others had photos from CCTV and the obvious one of the crime scenes. In one corner of the room was the Office Manager, doling out tasks to his team of civilian employees who were responsible for updating the HOLMES computer system with every piece of information, witness statement or forensic evidence they had. Others were responsible for analysing that information, searching for threads, similarities or variances.

  The Senior Investigating Officer, a Chief Superintendent, was just finishing up the morning briefing and with noisy scrapes of chairs teams of detectives stood up, gathered their things and headed for the door.

  ‘You’re not involved in that all?’ Crane asked, wondering why Anderson wasn’t at the briefing.

  ‘Already got my orders for the day, Crane.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Why to keep you in check, of course.’

  With Anderson laughing and Crane grumbling, they made their way to a small screened off area where there were two computer monitors, complete with police officers sat in front of them. Crane was inordinately glad to see operators in place. He hadn’t too much faith in Anderson’s computer skills. His friend was a dinosaur when it came to technology.

  He let Anderson brief the two operators and one quickly found the dark hatchback with a foreign number plate on, leaving the Garrison at Hospital Hill.

  ‘Bingo,’ said Anderson. ‘There she is, now let’s follow her...’

  A while later, Anderson and Crane took a break for a well-earned cuppa and Crane wanted to go and have a cigarette. Pacing around outside the building, Anderson grumbling something about breathing in secondary smoke and diesel fumes, Crane savoured the welcome nicotine hit and then said, ‘Okay so we have her in the vicinity for the latest victim. But now we need to go back and see if we can trace her being around for the other two. We’ve already got a similar looking woman near Lindsay’s murder, but we need to definitively identify her car and track it as far as we can through the cameras for all three murders.’ Crane took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘We’re closing in Derek,’ he said, smoke billowing from his mouth. ‘But I’ve got to be sure before I pull her in. She is the Colonel’s wife for God’s sake.’