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

by Wendy Cartmell

  ‘It might take a few days to trawl through the whole lot,’ Anderson warned.

  ‘I don’t care. Put more men on it if you can get authority. We’ve got to trace her from the nearest CCTV camera to her house, through the town and up to the industrial estate. For all three murders.’

  ‘Okay, but you’ll have to help. You know the garrison like the back of your hand. There must be so many entrances and exits that she could use if she’s varying her route, which is what I’d do. Your knowledge could really help.’

  ‘No worries,’ Crane nodded his agreement. ‘Draper says I’ve got to be bloody sure before I go anywhere near her, so to me that gives me carte blanche for staying here if needs be.’

  Fifty Five

  Driving home from work that evening, Peter was wondering what was going on. He’d heard on the radio news that there had been another victim. Another dead girl. April. April of the warmest, softest lips he’d ever kissed or felt on his body. April with her whole life before her. Why had three of his women been killed? They were girls. People. Human beings. Nice girls who never did any harm. Girls who were only trying to make their way in the world and bring a little comfort and excitement to men along the way. They didn’t even charge very much.

  His hands were sweating, slick on the steering wheel and he turned on the air conditioning to try and cool himself down. His face was burning and his heart rate galloping. Not even the softness of the leather or the warmth of the walnut dashboard of his car could calm him down. For now he was angry. Angry at the waste of life. Angry that someone could do something so barbaric, killing three girls with shards of glass. Angry that his girls, his guilty secrets, were being killed for no reason that he could think of.

  By the time he arrived home he had forced himself to regain some semblance of control. He knew he couldn’t lose his cool. Couldn’t give himself away. No one must know. He had to reign in his temper and emotions and pretend like nothing was happening. He climbed out of the car, glad of the cool wind on his face. The trees were bending under the pressure of it, the leaves shivering and shaking. He tried to listen to their message. But they offered him no comfort.

  Walking into the house, it was bright and welcoming. It should have been an oasis of calm for him, but Louise couldn’t offer the succour he needed. As he walked into the sitting room, the television was showing the local news. Louise was sat in an armchair, leaning forwards, glued to the screen. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard him come in.

  He turned his attention to the television. A picture of a local policeman filled the picture.

  ‘We are calling on the public for assistance. For anyone who knew the three girls to come forward. All information will be treated in total confidence.’

  ‘What information are you hoping for, DI Anderson?’ the news presenter asked the policeman. She was an immaculately groomed woman, making the man sat next to her look like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz by comparison.

  ‘We are trying to piece together their last days. Who did they see? Who did they go with? Who knew them? Where did they go?’

  ‘So you want their friends to come forward?’

  ‘Friends, clients, pimps, anyone.’ Anderson turned away from the presenter and looked straight into the camera. ‘I don’t care who you are,’ he said. ‘This is not about prosecuting those who are involved in the sex trade. This is about finding the cold blooded killer who seems to be preying on working girls.’

  At Anderson’s words, Peter nearly fainted. His head begun to swim, he could no longer hear the television and he grabbed the back of the settee to steady himself. He couldn’t come forward as one of the girl’s clients, he just couldn’t. And anyway he didn’t have any evidence. He didn’t know anything. But then he began to wonder once again why three of his girls were dead. The only three he’d gone with, actually. Could all this have any bearing on him? Did anyone know? Should he suspect any of the lads at work? Anyone at home? But then he dismissed the thought of the killer being Louise as total nonsense. They’d been together for 20 years for God’s sake. He knew her inside out.

  Then, unable to watch the news item any longer, he tore his eyes from the television screen and his gaze lit upon Louise. She was sitting slightly forward in her chair, hands in her lap, mouth slightly open, completely engrossed in the news item. He watched as her tongue licked her lips. She was transfixed. Her eyes were gleaming. When her mouth closed and the sides lifted in a self-satisfied smile Peter had to clamp his mouth shut, grinding his teeth together, to stop the accusation that was building inside him, exploding from his mouth. He chastised himself. Told himself to stop being so stupid. His wife couldn’t be the killer. That was the most idiotic idea he’d ever had. He realised how close he’d come to making a bloody fool of himself. Instead of flinging accusations at her, he cleared his throat to catch Louise’s attention.

  Fifty Six

  That evening, Crane arrived home and dumping his stuff in the hallway, he rubbed at his tired eyes. He didn’t know how people worked at a computer monitor all day, every day. His eyes were rimmed red and he couldn’t seem to shake the blurred vision, no matter how hard he rubbed or blinked.

  It was already late and his son was sleeping peacefully in his cot. Crane tip toed into the room and took a moment to look at the sleeping child. Tina and Daniel were really the only ones who ever broke through the hardened shell of his emotions. He was so used to boxing off his feelings, refusing to let himself be affected no matter how awful the crime or the incident, that at work he had become almost an automaton. A self-operating machine. Years ago in school he’d learned of Talon from Greek Mythology. A giant man of bronze who protected Europa in Crete from pirates and invaders. He’d circled the island's shores three times daily. That’s who Crane identified with now. He felt himself to be a protector. A man who kept the garrison safe from outside horrors, or from the evil within. There were thousands of inhabitants of Aldershot Garrison, soldiers and their families, whom he had sworn to protect and serve.

  Tina was already in bed, reading by a small light clipped to her bedside table. She smiled as he walked in, but the best he could do was smile in return, take off his clothes and fall into bed beside her. He was asleep in moments. If she spoke to him, he didn’t hear her.

  It was the following morning, over breakfast, before they had a chance to chat. Crane was taking his turn feeding Daniel breakfast, more of which was ending up on the floor or on his bib, than in his mouth. As she brought over a cup of tea, Tina told Crane she’d seen the Colonel’s wife yesterday at the Playgroup.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ He was immediately interested. ‘Did you get a chance to speak to her?’

  ‘Yes, we chatted for a few minutes,’ Tina said and took away Daniel’s cereal bowl, before grabbing a cloth to clean up the mess he’d made.

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘Oh, I told her about your latest investigation.’

  Crane stopped with his mug of tea half way to his mouth. ‘Tina! You know you’re not supposed to do that. Jesus! What did you tell her?’ He put the mug down before he spilled tea all over his clean suit.

  Tina looked crestfallen. ‘I told her about you finding the glove covered in blood and the really exciting bit of a speck of blood inside it. If you remember you phoned me yesterday morning gabbling about it.’

  Crane closed his eyes to take a moment to think. He didn’t want to have a go at Tina. Then something occurred to him. It may have been a good thing, his wife’s indiscretion. It all depended on the answer to his next question. He opened his eyes, looked at her and asked, ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Well, she went a bit white and looked like she was about to faint. I had to go and get her a glass of water. Sorry, Tom, did I do something wrong?’

  ‘Wrong? Tina my love you are wonderful!’

  ‘Why? Tom?’ she called.

  But Crane was already leaving the house, slamming the door closed behind him.

  Fifty Seven


  Louise knew she was in trouble. She’d been panicking since she’d talked to Tina yesterday afternoon, when Crane’s wife had gleefully told her all about the glove and the blood. Not realising what she was saying and who she was telling. But this was the first time Louise had been alone since then. For once she and Peter had arrived home more or less at the same time yesterday and it was one of the rare nights when he hadn’t gone out, but stayed in. No doubt he was mourning the death of his latest favourite prostitute.

  But now that she was alone, she could consider her options. It seemed the police weren’t far away from arresting her. Once they analysed the blood and realised it was April’s on the outside of the glove and Louise’s on the inside, the game would be up. She fingered the small cut on the side of her index finger. She’d hurt herself washing up a sharp knife. The cut had scabbed over, but the scab kept getting caught at the end, causing the wound underneath to bleed again. That must have been what had happened. It was the only reason she could think of for blood having been found inside the leather glove. Louise had no idea how long analysis of the blood would take. No idea when they would come for her.

  What should she do? Stay? Go? Flee Aldershot, the county or even the country? But she realised that she had very little resources. She had her car and access to money. Even though it was the beginning of the month and she had the housekeeping money in her account, she knew it wouldn’t be enough. It would get her somewhere, but not allow for any living costs. And she didn’t know what to do about work. She’d never worked a day in her life.

  Should she come clean? Tell Peter? Tell the police? As she paced the house she kept getting glimpses of herself in the mirrors. In them she looked the same. Auburn curls, pale complexion, green eyes. She almost expected the mirrors to reflect what was really inside her, for surely she had turned into a monster. She was someone who had killed three women. Willingly. What did that make her? She imagined a deranged harlot, or a shrivelled up hag lurking inside of her, for surely she was an evil witch. In truth what she was, was a cold blooded murderer.

  Then she remembered that what she had done made her a good wife, in fact the perfect wife. Peter couldn’t have asked for someone better, she realised. For Louise had looked out for him throughout his army career. Been there at his side. At his elbow. Devoting herself to him, as he devoted himself to the army. They had both been working toward the same end. For all that mattered was Peter’s career.

  And now it seemed that career was in jeopardy. But it wasn’t Louise’s fault. It was Peters. She had only tried to clean up the mess that he’d made of his personal life. The mess that threatened his career. No, he’d started this particular ball rolling. He was the one ultimately responsible for getting his whores killed.

  But that still didn’t answer the question of what to do. So she turned to the only person Louise was confident would have the answer. Matilda. She must get out the book and see how this was to end.

  Fifty Eight

  And so I come to the last victim. He came to me last night, as I thought he would. I was getting ready for bed when I heard his footsteps on the stairs. The slow steady tread that filled my heart with fear. I saw the door knob turn slowly and with each turn ice flooded through my veins. I would not, could not, endure any more from this man. The door creaked as it opened and there he was. He stood looking at me, one hand still on the handle. Then he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He turned the key in the lock, put it in his pocket and came towards me. I was mesmerised. All I could do was to stand there, stock still, terror in my heart, yet unable to move. Then he lunged. Quick as a flash he grabbed me and flung me on the bed, climbing up on top of me. I tried to tell him no. Begged him not to hurt me, but he clamped his hand over my mouth to stop my screams. Roughly he pulled up my clothes, ripped my underwear and raped me.

  That was what it was. Rape. There was no love involved. No kisses. No whispers of affection. No soft caress. Just raw animal need, which he sought to sate as he thrust into me. When he’d finished, he rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. I was once more discarded. That’s when I reached down and retrieved the shard of glass that I had hidden under the bed.

  This time it was I above him. He opened his eyes. Saw me there. His mouth twisted in a grin and he said, ‘Oh, you want more then, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t want you ever again. There is to be no more sex. No more rape. Not ever.’

  Then I brought down my shard of glass as hard as I could and pierced the heart of my husband. I looked down on him as though from a great height. I could see his face which still registered the shock of my treachery. His eyes were wide open and his mouth gaping, as though he were gasping for the air that would never again fill his lungs.

  For a moment I felt the most incredible jolt of fear. This time I had gone too far. I had killed my own husband in our home, in our bed. Surely there was no way back from that. But then the voice of the house spoke. It pierced my fear, allowing it to evaporate, like air being released from a balloon. The house told me not to worry. Told me that everything would be alright. That I would never have to leave this place. No one could make me.

  I could stay within these walls forever.

  Safe. Forever.

  Warm. Forever.

  Loved. Forever.

  The house told me to finish the book, wrap it in the headscarf and leave it where the next woman who needed protection from the cruelties of men would find it. Then she, you, would be able to join me. So that’s what I have done.

  I will now return to my husband and take my own final journey.

  I will become one with the house.

  Where I will be waiting, for you.

  Fifty Nine

  After leaving Tina, Crane had gone straight to Aldershot Police Station, where he told Anderson about Mrs Marshall’s reaction to Tina, when they had spoken at the Playgroup yesterday.

  ‘Well, that’s all very interesting,’ said Anderson. ‘But the problem remains that we don’t have the Colonel’s wife’s DNA on file. We’ve nothing to match the blood in the glove with.’

  ‘Is the CCTV evidence enough to question her? After all our hard work yesterday, we’ve found her car travelling in the direction of the industrial estate at the approximate time of each murder. And back again afterwards. Is it enough to arrest her?’ Crane asked.

  Crane knew that Draper was blanching at the thought of arresting the Colonel’s wife. So was Crane privately. It was something he’d wrestled with on his car journey over to the police station. His desire to protect the army versus his desire to put away a cold blooded killer. But he’d made that choice before. Made the decision to blow a conspiracy wide open. He’d publically outed those in the army who years ago had spirited a killer out of Aldershot as he was needed on the front line. Crane hadn’t let them get away with it, despite their rank, despite the silence, despite the cordon of lies they’d created.

  And so Crane knew he had no alternative but to pursue the investigation. But Anderson was quick to sense Crane’s reluctance.

  ‘This is no time for you to pull the bloody army will investigate themselves bollocks, Crane,’ Anderson said. ‘You know the score. You can’t be part of a conspiracy, or at the very least be seen to be a part of a conspiracy. Murder is a high profile crime. It’s just not a military police matter. It’s a civilian police matter.’

  ‘It’s alright, Derek. I won’t be part of a conspiracy. I know that and you know that, but I’m still going to have to tread pretty bloody carefully. We need to try and get as solid a case as possible against Mrs Marshall before we proceed.

  ‘And how will you lot feel if another girl is murdered in the meantime, while you’re building a solid case?’

  ‘I know, Derek, there’s no need to rub it in. But we still haven’t got a real motive.’

  ‘I thought we were going with the fact that it seems the Colonel is using prostitutes. We found his car driving towards the red light district, remember?’<
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  ‘Is that a good enough reason for Mrs Marshall to kill the girls?’

  ‘We both know people have killed for less,’ said Anderson.

  Crane had to nod his agreement. ‘I know. Right, then, what happens now?’

  ‘Now we have a coffee and cake before we start processing and collating all the paperwork we need for a judge to agree to give us a search warrant.’

  ‘So we go with what we have for now? Without the DNA?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Okay, best put the kettle on then.’

  By early evening everyone was exhausted, the paperwork for the three murders had been processed and search warrant applications completed and submitted to a judge. They were requesting to search the Colonel’s house and his wife’s car. Two detectives had gone to Judge Howard’s house. They were just waiting for His Honour’s decision.

  Crane was once again in a car park, smoking a cigarette, thinking for the nth time that it really was about time he gave up smoking. But it always seemed there was another crime to stretch his intellect and his nerves and cigarettes were his automatic crutch for getting him through the stresses of the job. His introspection and his cigarette break were interrupted by Anderson appearing at the door.

  ‘Crane?’