Crane whirled around.
‘It’s a go. His Honour Judge Howard has agreed with us and given us a green light for the searches.’
Crane ground his butt underfoot. ‘When do we execute the warrants?’
‘The Senior Investigating Officer has said 7 o’clock tomorrow morning. There is nothing more we can do now, so go home and get some rest. Be back here by 6am.’
Crane nodded and walked to his car, hands stuffed into his overcoat. His thoughts as deep as the pockets his hands were in. Crane had cracked some strange cases before, but never one with a Colonel’s wife at the centre of it. It made him feel uncomfortable. But he hardened his resolve. He was personally convinced of Louise Marshall’s guilt. He just needed the evidence to prove it. Which he’d get tomorrow.
Sixty
Now that the adrenaline caused by waiting on the warrants had gone, drained away with his anxiety, Crane was knackered. Last night Tina was up when he’d returned home, but not tonight. The house was in darkness and only the outside light above the front door was on.
Making his way quietly into the kitchen, Crane clicked on the kettle then went to check on Daniel and Tina while the water was boiling. Returning downstairs, Crane grabbed a mug and tea bag and stared out of the window while he waited for the kettle to boil. He was absolutely shattered, but no one had told his brain, which was still full of thoughts careering around his head like ping pong balls. Too and fro his thoughts went. He was glad that they were at last making a move, yet worried about the fall out and the disturbing vibes this could have throughout the garrison. It would be open season for the press and television. He’d have to warn Staff Sgt Jones, for if the interest got too bad, they might have to put barriers up on some of the entrances to the garrison.
As he made his cup of tea, he welcomed being back at home. He had to admit to himself how much he missed his family, when an investigation got as manic as this one had. But he and Tina knew he had a mission in life and it was one he couldn’t ignore. They had talked in the past about him leaving the army, giving up the military police. But the role defined him. The army defined him. He could no more make it in civvy street than survive as a fish out of water. And if he was honest he didn’t want to try. The only other career he’d contemplate was joining the police force. Anderson had mentioned it once or twice. If Crane or Tina got fed up of the nomadic life, the all-encompassing world that was the British Army, he should consider it. But Crane knew from working with Anderson that joining the police wouldn’t solve any of the problems brought on by 12 or 18 hour days. It would only push them from the military over to the police.
So for the time being at least Crane was a member of the armed forces. Proud of the tradition, the men, the honour. It had been his way of life for so long that it fit like a favourite old jumper. Stretched and a bit baggy in places, but warm, comfortable and familiar. Draining his mug of tea, he placed it in the sink, set the alarm on his mobile phone for 5 am and went to join his wife in bed.
Sixty One
The mobile phone next to Crane’s bed rang. He fumbled for it, thinking it was his alarm waking him up, but then he realised it was an incoming call and eventually he managed to answer it and held the phone to his ear.
‘Sgt Major?’ a voice asked.
‘Yes,’ he mumbled his mouth and mind still full of sleep. He prised open his eyes and stared with horror at the bedside clock. 02:00hours. He’d only slept for two hours.
‘I wonder could you come round to the house please?’ the voice continued.
Crane struggled against the last vestiges of the dream he’d been having before he was rudely awoken, that was still clogging his brain. He thought he recognised the voice as that of the Colonel’s wife. But that couldn’t be? Surely not?
‘Mrs Marshall, is that you, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Crane. Could you come please?’
‘Now, ma’am?’
‘Yes. Oh and you might want to bring the police with you.’
The line went dead. He looked at the handset. What the hell was going on? Perhaps she or her husband had got wind of the search warrants, were aware that the net was closing in on Mrs Marshall. But he couldn’t see how that had happened. And why was she ringing at two o’clock in the morning? Anyway he had no other option but to comply with her wishes. He got out of bed and fumbled for his dressing gown. He’d go downstairs and ring Draper and Anderson, so as not to wake Tina. But the phone call had already done that.
‘Tom? Is everything alright?’ Tina raised a sleepy head from where she had been buried under the duvet.
‘Yes, love,’ Crane smiled in the dark. ‘I’ve got to go out for a while.’
‘But you’ve only just got in.’ Tina struggled against the thick bedding and sat up.
‘Well, it certainly feels like that at any rate.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘You know, love, I haven’t got a bloody clue,’ and Crane quickly told her that he was off to the Colonel’s house.
‘At this time of night?’
‘At this time of night,’ he agreed.
‘I think you’re all stark staring mad,’ she said and dived under the covers again.
Crane had to totally agree with that sentiment as he ran down the stairs to ring Derek and Draper.
The three men met outside the Colonel’s house. The three musketeers, Crane thought glibly. Crane himself, short and stocky, dark hair and short clipped beard. Anderson even more crumpled that usual, sporting a five o’clock shadow, his grey wispy hair ruffled. Draper was the only smart one among them. But, of course, he’d not been involved in the painstaking work of the past few days. He was dressed in uniform, his salt and pepper hair groomed to perfection.
They had parked their cars outside the gates of the Colonel’s house and walked through them together. As they walked, their feet crunched on the gravel, an alien sound at that time of night that echoed through the grounds. They reached the house and paused before it. All was quiet. A light breeze ruffled the trees that seemed to be whispering amongst themselves. Did they know Mrs Marshall’s secrets? Was that what they were trying to tell Crane? Were they warning him? He pushed aside such foolish thoughts, but was still very much aware that the house and grounds had an air of mystery about them. At least that was the best description he could come up with. He didn’t know what it was, but there was definitely something about that house. It was unlike any other army house he’d known. Very large, very grand, very old and a bit of a throwback. As Aldershot Garrison was in the middle of a regeneration programme, building new single men’s quarters and married quarters that resembled modern housing estates rather than army barracks, the Colonel’s house looked even more incongruous.
‘I’ll go in as she asked for me,’ he said and the other two nodded their agreement.
He walked towards the door put his hand up to the bell and hesitated. He turned the door handle instead, which opened under his hand.
He called out, ‘Mrs Marshall? Sir? Is there anyone there?’
That last phrase left Crane feeling a bit foolish, as though he were in some sort of ghost story, or playing with an Ouija board. There was no answer. The downstairs of the house was in darkness, but upstairs there was a light on, its beam filtering down through the impressive staircase. Turning and shrugging at the others, Crane walked up the stairs.
Mrs Marshall must have heard his footsteps, for as he reached the landing he heard her call, ‘In here, Sgt Major,’ and he followed her voice into a bedroom.
He walked into the room, not really knowing what to expect. Not knowing why the Colonel’s wife had called him to her house. What he saw chilled him, like no other crime scene had done before. To find the Colonel dead in his own bed, with a shard of glass sticking out of his chest, was so far from what he’d expected, it stopped him dead in his tracks. He’d imagined they’d caught a burglar, or a young soldier pissing about high on drugs or alcohol, but not this. Never this unexpected tableau
of murder and madness, the Colonel dead in his bed with his wife looking calmly on.
Mrs Marshall was sitting by the bed in a small armchair and appeared to be reading some sort of scrap book. She looked up at him. Crane was afraid he was losing his mind. He didn’t trust his eyes anymore. Thought that they were lying to him. He looked again from the dead Colonel to his very much alive wife. As he looked more closely at her, he could see she had blood on her hands and splashes of it on her face. Her hair was not just out of place, but in wild ringlets around her head and her lipstick was smudged, making her lips look larger than normal. He thought she looked like she was done up in some sort of Halloween costume, particularly with those piercing green eyes of hers.
She said, ‘Perfect timing, Crane, I’ve just finished.’
Finished what he wondered. Finished reading? Finished killing her husband? As far as Crane was concerned his timing hadn’t been perfect, for he was too late. Too late to save the Colonel. It was Crane’s job to find killers and bring them to justice and he’d let Peter Marshall down. The Colonel’s own wife must have been killing the prostitutes, just as Crane had always suspected, and it seemed her final victim was not another girl, but her husband.
Mrs Marshall followed Crane’s gaze as he once more looked at Peter Marshall’s dead body. ‘Ah yes,’ she said, ‘that was me. You’ll find the other shards of glass from the broken mirror in a box down in the cellar. The ones I haven’t used that is.’
Other shards? What the hell was she talking about? Is that what she’d used to kill the prostitutes? Shards of glass from her broken mirror? Yes, that made some sort of sense, he supposed.
‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘What’s happened? Have you? Did you…’ For once, Crane was unable to finish his sentence.
Louise Marshall smiled at him, as though indulging a small child. ‘You’ll find the answers you seek in here,’ she said, and handed him the scrap book.
Crane took it after shaking out a handkerchief to hold it with. He looked at the cover. Two words were embossed on it.
Louise Marshall.
‘Crane?’ he heard the voice of Captain Draper, calling from the doorway. As he turned to his boss and DI Anderson, Crane took his eyes off Louise Marshall.
Sixty Two
Louise afforded herself a small smile, a delicious one. She’d seen Crane’s reaction, noted his incredulity. She’d never thought she would be able to out-fox the seasoned investigator. But her final swan song had done just that. She’d been the one step ahead of him that she’d needed to be. So that she could go out on her terms. Not his and not the police’s.
Once she’d realised he was on to her, thanks to his gossiping wife, she’d had to act fast. She’d greedily drunk in the final chapter of Matilda’s book. How foolish she’d been not to see the way herself, she’d realised. It all made perfect sense now. How clever her friend Matilda was. How clever the house, the house that Louise had come to love as much as Matilda had. In fact she loved it as much as she loved Matilda. For Matilda had been her only friend, her confidant. The one person who’d provided an anchor in the sea of her husband’s treachery, when he’d had the temerity to threaten his career, their life together and their home. The home that Louise couldn’t bear to leave.
She watched as Crane looked helplessly at the two men with him. Indicating the red leather bound book in his hand. Clearly wondering what it was. The one Louise thought was the policeman, the crumpled one who resembled Columbo, just stared at her with flat eyes. She guessed he’d seen some awful things before. Perhaps this was just one more for him. The soldier in uniform, however, wasn’t taking it as well. He was holding onto the door frame, looking decidedly pale under that swarthy tan a lot of soldiers had, the colouring that came from spending so much time outdoors.
Then before any of the men could react, while they were still looking at the book Crane held in his hands, Louise lifted a final shard of glass to her throat and with a smile on her face and in her eyes, went to join her friend Matilda.
Sixty Three
Pru Jenkins looked around the sitting room of their new home. She was surrounded by boxes and wondered when she’d ever get straight. At that moment it seemed like a daunting task and instead of diving into another box, she felt the need to stop and have a cup of tea. Walking from the sitting room into the hallway that took her breath away every time she walked through it, she thought how lucky they were to have found this amazing house, and at such an amazing price. If it hadn’t been such a bargain, they’d never have been able to afford such a beautiful home. She’d been resigned to buying a modern three bedroomed box when her husband Ken had told her they were relocating from Newcastle to the south of England, as he’d secured the promotion he wanted and deserved.
When she found the Victorian detached house on the outskirts of Aldershot, within their price range, she couldn’t wait to view it. She hoped it would live up to her expectations and it had in every way. It was perfect, just the kind of house befitting a company director.
Walking into the huge kitchen at the end of the hall Pru wondered why the army had decided to sell the house. To her it was perfect for some sort of high ranking officer. She’d never managed to get a straight answer from the local estate agent. But hey, why worry, for their loss was her gain. While the kettle was boiling she decided to put some of the now empty boxes in the cellar. She ripped the brown tape off the cardboard flaps and flattened the boxes, so they’d be easier to carry.
Struggling down the steps, she dumped the boxes at the back of the cellar. Out of sight, out of mind, she thought. As she turned to go back to the stairs, she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Stopping, she saw it was an old chest of some sort that she’d not noticed before. Walking over to it, she knelt down and ran her hand over the brittle leather and saw the clasp was undone. Opening the lid, she spied something white nestled in the bottom. Reaching in, she lifted out a white scarf that appeared to be covering something rectangular and heavy. Peeling off the scarf, she saw it was a red leather bound book of some kind with two words embossed on the cover.
Matilda Underwood.
Past Judgment
Author Note
Her Majesty’s Young Offenders Institute (HMYOI) in Reading is no longer a working institute. However, the building is still there and plans are being considered by Reading Council to turn it into a hotel and leisure complex.
The prison has a long and rich history and its most notable prisoner was Oscar Wilde, who wrote the Ballad of Reading Goal, based on his incarceration there.
I worked as a teacher in the Education Department at Reading HMYOI, teaching a range of subjects including English, Maths, Computer Skills, Art and, rather badly, Cookery. I loved my time at Reading and also at other nearby prisons, where I did supply teaching. My family has experience in prison education. My father was Deputy Chief Education Officer for Prisons and Borstals in England and Wales in the 1970’s and 1980’s and my mother taught at Reading Prison and Broadmoor. Both had the dubious pleasure of meeting some of Britain’s most notorious prisoners.
Whilst the Judgment series may draw on our experiences from time to time, all characters and events are fictitious. Although I try and be true to policies and procedures, this is a work of fiction. Therefore, all mistakes are my own.
About Past Judgment
Emma Harrison has a great life. She's Assistant Governor at Reading Young Offenders Institute, has a boyfriend and a flat of her own. But then a prisoner escapes and Emma's world unravels. Skeletons from her past she thought were buried rise up to haunt her and then the escaped prisoner makes it personal. Can Emma deal with her past? Is it the only way she can secure her future?
1
Present day...
The prison transport vehicle Leroy was expected to climb into loomed into view. It was very large and very white and would carry him away from Reading Young Offenders Institute. From the security of all things known. His well-practiced and comfortable routine. His cell m
ate, John. His courses in the Education Block. And, of course, Emma. Or rather Miss Harrison. He shrank back. Fearful. Unwilling to get into the claustrophobic cell he would be locked in. He turned slightly as if to run away, but the prison escort officer he was handcuffed to wasn’t having any of it.
“Come on, lad. Leroy isn’t it? In you go, it’s not that bad when you get in there.”
Leroy had to disagree with that one and wondered if the escort had ever had to travel in one of those ‘cells’ for any length of time.
“But...”
“No buts, in you go,” and Leroy took one last deep breath of fresh air before he and his three travelling companions were pushed and pulled into the vehicle as though they were no more than cattle being herded into a milking shed or an abattoir. As Leroy climbed the two steps into the transport, he was told to stop opposite the second cubicle on his left. When he was told to get in it, Leroy looked at the escort then at the cubicle and wondered how the hell he was supposed to do that. There was very little room in the narrow space to even turn around. Especially for someone as tall and gangly as he was. Standing at over six foot, but without the bulk and muscle to make him intimidating, Leroy had taken to stooping over slightly. A posture that screamed leave me alone, I’m trying to make myself small so as not to be noticed.
“Back in, then I’ll close the door and you can hold out your hands through the space in the bars,” the exasperated officer told him. “Then I’ll un-cuff you and you can turn and sit down.”
Leroy managed to do as he was told as the door was banged shut. Then locked. Breathing deeply to try and stop the rush of claustrophobia from his brain flooding through his body, he looked out of the window. Glad for the small glimpse of the world outside. Focusing on the window, he tried to block out the noises of the back door being slammed and locked and then the cab doors being opened and closed. As the rumble of the diesel engine started its soundtrack to their journey, the van left Reading HMYOI, rumbling along the urban roads on its way to the motorway.
Glass Cutter: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 7) Page 16