He wondered at the price of a hospice per week in this well-padded location, but his unspoken question was answered as he turned into the drive, leading to an Edwardian house in the distance. According to the large green sign on the road, the hospice was funded by the MacMillan Foundation, a charitable trust dedicated to cancer treatment and research.
Crane was glad he had phoned ahead and obtained permission to visit, when he saw the look of disdain from the receptionist as he flashed his SIB identification card and asked to be directed to Dave Richmond’s room. A quick telephone call to the doctor in charge, confirmed to her that both Dave and his doctor had given their assent and therefore the receptionist had no choice but to give him directions. In between sniffs of disapproval, she imparted the relevant information and then promptly turned her back on Crane.
Finally arriving outside Room 23, Crane lightly knocked on the slightly open door and walked in without introducing himself. Dave Richmond was not a pleasant sight. His head was completely devoid of hair. Not one piece of fluff was visible on the top of his head. Nor did he have any eyebrows or eye lashes, giving him a strange bug-eyed appearance. He held out a pale trembling hand towards Crane, which to Crane’s shock didn’t have any finger nails. All the result of chemotherapy, he supposed, which unfortunately for Dave, hadn’t killed his cancer. Richmond looked more alien than man, but Crane was too disciplined to react. He readily grasped Richmond’s hand and smiled in welcome. Crane had served in Afghanistan and seen men more broken than this when his unit had been attacked, whom he had helped and encouraged to keep going, at least until they got back to the relative safety of their base.
“So, you must be Sgt Major Crane,” Richmond whispered. “What can I do for you that’s so important you must see me like this?” The tubes in his arm twitched as he slightly raised his hand.
Crane decided the direct approach was best. No point in asking the man how he was, it was evident. So he did the man the courtesy of answering his question and left the platitudes where they belonged, outside the room.
Standing by the bed Crane said, “Sorry, Richmond, but I need to ask you about an old case. The murder, about ten years ago, of Carol Newton.”
Crane thought he saw the man’s pallor pale further, but it could have just been a trick of the light.
Richmond closed his eyes and leaned back on his pillows, a small pale body lost in the whiteness of the large hospital bed and after a moment he said, “What is it you want to know?”
“I want to know who killed her.”
Richmond gave a small grunt of what Crane thought could be laughter, as he turned his head back towards Crane. “Giving you the name is easy, Crane. But I wonder if you can live with the repercussions? I’m dying anyway, so it makes no difference to me. But you? Can you take the risk?” Richmond’s eyes were coal black. The pupils dilated from some opiate or other, probably morphine.
“Risk? Repercussions? What the hell are you talking about, Dave?” Crane looked behind him, found a visitor’s chair and pulled it to the side of bed. Whilst his back was to Richmond, he slipped his mobile phone out of his pocket, hitting the voice recorder button handily located on the screen. Sitting down he placed the mobile on his lap, leaned over the bed and he and the phone listened to Richmond’s reply.
“I’m talking about Barry Foster. He’s the man you want. He’s the one they all protected.” Richmond’s staccato speech was becoming laboured, with deep breaths in-between sentences. “He had an affair with Carol. No one was supposed to know, but of course we all did.”
“So why didn’t you say so at the time?” Crane said more to his phone than the man.
“Because,” gasp, “we were told not to,” gasp, “and the next thing we knew he had been shipped off to Iraq.”
“So how do you know he killed her?”
“Because he bragged about it.” Richmond closed his eyes again and his thin frame seemed to sink further into the bed. “Told us, the lads in his unit, how he used his dagger to pierce her heart. Just like she’d pierced his,” gasp, “when she ended their relationship.” Richmond’s fingers found his morphine pump and with what was clearly the last of his strength, he pressed the plunger, accompanied by a sigh of satisfaction
“Will you sign a statement for me if I come back?” Crane needed an answer before the man passed out, or even died, in front of him.
Richmond’s response was a slight nod of the head, before he fell into his morphine induced oblivion.
Crane killed the recorder function on his mobile and put it back into his pocket. With a last pat on Richmond’s arm, he slipped out of the room as quietly as he had entered it.
*
Crane veritably skipped back into Provost Barracks, but knew he had to try and temper his enthusiasm, after all the man who gave up Barry Foster was dying. But he couldn’t help the feeling bubbling up inside him. The one he got when chasing up a particularly important lead. And this would show Edwards that his so called ‘conspiracy theory’ was more than just a theory now. In fact if he was honest, getting one over on Edwards was almost as important as being vindicated. Almost.
Now his witness, Dave Richmond, was going to sign a statement confirming that Barry Foster was the killer of Carol Newton and that he was told to say nothing by his commanding officer. In fact, more than that, he was told exactly what to say. No wonder all the statements sounded the same and used the exact wording.
This, coupled with the statement from Jack Newton, had to make a difference to Edwards. Change his mind. Make him realise Crane was definitely onto something.
He called Billy and Kim into his office and quickly told them what had happened, his keenness causing his words to run into each other. Damping down his excitement, he then handed Kim his mobile phone. “Can you transcribe this please Kim?”
Turning to Billy he said, “I urgently need the records of Barry Foster. I need to know why he was so important. Why he was allowed to get away with murder. What did the Army need him for? Then, start trying to trace him - right away. Go on you two, off you go,” and Crane waved them away.
“Okay, boss,” said Billy and he and Kim got up to leave. On her way out Kim said over her shoulder, “What about telling DI Anderson?”
“Doing that now, Kim, doing that now,” and Crane reached for the phone.
Billy then asked, “What about Captain Edwards?”
Crane’s hand fell on the desk, instead of the phone, while he thought. After a pause, he said, “Not a word to the Captain until I say so.”
Chapter 14
Kim was laying the table in the Padre’s dining room, dressed in casual civvies, her long blond hair hanging down her back. She’d been tempted to have it cut over the years, but had become adept at twisting it up whilst at work and so had never bothered. It was actually easier to manage than a short hair style would be. There was never time for messing about with hair in her busy life. Well, busy work life, anyway. Recently she had become more aware of the fact that she didn’t have much of a social life, relying on work to fill her free time. She’d cut herself off too much from the team and from friends. But all that seemed to be changing, she realised as she turned to the bureau and collected knives, forks and spoons. She was so much happier now. In fact, she realised, even happier than she was before the ‘incident’, as she called it.
A small smile lit her eyes as she thought about the reason behind her happiness, Captain Francis Symmonds himself. At first glance people might think him a bit old fashioned. Geeky, was a description that sometimes sprang to her mind, especially when he was pouring over his books or his computer, trying to get a sermon just right, or do some research or other, to help a particular soldier or family. He was in his early thirties, but his boyish, round face meant that people were unsure about his age. She’d even heard people question if he was old enough to be a minister. In her experience, though, she had found him to be wiser than his years.
It was his calmness that had initially attracted her
to him. In an Army where it was all shouting, hustle and bustle, noise and action, it was a relief to spend time with him. He was becoming her oasis. With him she was in a place where she could be herself. Not Sgt Weston, the soldier who had to prove herself day in day out, be as good, if not better, than the men. Not even Kim Weston, the girl she was before she joined the Army - she had changed too much to ever be that person again. But the woman she had become; a loyal, committed, well trained soldier, who could keep up with the men, but who still had a feminine side. That feminine side of her hadn’t been repressed completely. It just hadn’t found the right outlet. Until now.
He was also great fun to be around, always ready with a funny story or an idea for something different and quirky to do. And he was a pretty good cook. Kim smiled to herself; actually, he was pretty much bloody perfect. But she mustn’t get carried away. After all he wasn’t just an officer he was a Padre, who was probably just being kind to her. He was probably out of her league and only wanted a close friendship, not a real relationship.
“Kim?” he called from the kitchen.
“Coming,” she replied, shutting the cutlery drawer and walking through the house to the kitchen. His Army quarter was befitting the status of a Padre, a man who had to see those seeking advice, comfort, or making arrangements for church services. A large, modern, detached house, it had several bedrooms upstairs, with a lounge, study, dining room and kitchen downstairs. Kim knew every nook and cranny of his study from their counselling sessions, but was also familiar with the rest of his home, having stayed there for a brief period, when she had needed a safe house.
“Here,” he said as she entered the kitchen and handed her a glass of red wine.
“Mmm, lovely,” she said after sipping it, and sat down on a stool at the central isle in the kitchen. “Thank you.”
“So, good day?” he asked, as he stirred something that smelled delicious in a pot on the stove.
“Well, yes and no, really.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, because we’re getting somewhere with the two murders I told you about, and no, because,” she paused, “because I’ve done something I know you’re not going to be happy about.”
“Oh dear, that sounds serious,” he teased. “Come on, this is ready. Let’s dish up and you can tell me all about it over dinner.”
It took Kim some time before she confessed to Francis about the Crimewatch programme reconstruction and that she had volunteered to play the part of Mel Green.
“You’ve done what?” Francis’ normally relaxed features crinkled in worry. “I’m not surprised you’ve volunteered, but please tell me you’re not going to do it, Kim.” He reached for her hand across the table.
“But I must, Francis,” she gripped his hand tightly. “I’m the only one who looks like her. My height is nearly the same, we’re the same dress size, have the same coloured eyes and when I put the blond wig on, Billy and the DI Anderson were stunned that we’re so alike.”
“I get all that, Kim. What I don’t know is, are you emotionally strong enough?”
Kim looked up at Francis and saw not the anger she had expected, but understanding. Scraping back her chair she stood and walked over to the window. Still facing it, she said, “I don’t knew either, but I must do it, it’s my duty.”
Francis rose from the table and went to her. Hugging her from behind, he said, “You know I’ll support you in whatever you feel you have to do. I know how important it is to find Mel’s killer. I’m trying to help Corporal Green myself, but I know he needs more than just words of comfort. He needs the Branch to find whoever it is that killed her. He says it’s the only way he can come to terms with her murder, by finding out who killed her and why. So, go ahead and do it and remember, I’ll be there for you.”
He’d kept his voice light and encouraging, but Kim could see his reflection in the window. All the misgivings he had were written on his face, belying his words. That was when she realised he did want more than a friendship. She’d never seen that intensity of emotion on his face before when he was offering help and support to anyone else. That look seemed to be just for her.
“Anyway,” he said breaking away, “enough of that. Let me tell you about the great time I had with the lads from the Tank Unit on their recent training exercise. You know how bloody awful the weather’s been, well Bovingdon was a complete mud bath, you should have seen us by the end of the day. We were practically unrecognisable, covered in so much mud that all you could see were our eyes....”
Chapter 15
Kim was ready. Or at least as ready as she’d ever be. She took one last look in the mirror and was startled as she didn’t recognise herself. The short light-blond wig changed the colour of her complexion, as did the bright red lipstick, a colour Kim would never entertain under normal circumstances. But these weren’t normal circumstances. She was getting ready to pretend to be Mel Green. The face looking back at her in the mirror was definitely more Mel Green than Kim Weston.
Walking out of the toilets in Provost Barracks, which she had used as an impromptu changing room, Kim tottered for a moment, unused to the high heels. The tight skirt was no more comfortable and the fitted white blouse emphasised her breasts. The shoes, skirt, blouse and coat were exact replicas of the clothes worn by Mel Green on the night she was killed and felt strange against Kim’s skin. At least she hadn’t had to wear the actual clothes Mel Green was wearing the night she died, that would have been too much for Kim to cope with. Mel had mostly shopped in cheap high street chain stores, so they had easily found replacements.
As Kim got into Sgt Major Crane’s waiting car, she showed far more leg than she wanted to. The skirt rose up her thighs and she felt Crane’s eyes settle on them. Looking up, she saw a glimpse of his realisation that she was a woman as well as an Army sergeant and quickly covered her legs with the coat. After that unnerving moment, she let Sgt Major Crane do the talking as he went over the plan, as she felt unable to string two words together, never mind whole sentences.
“The television cameras are all set up outside Mel’s house, so you won’t have to wait around for them to get ready,” said Crane to Kim, as he drove them the short distance to Williams Park. “When we get there, go into the house and they will start filming as you leave, following you all the way to Tesco. Once there, we’ll take a break while they set up the equipment in the store. Something about making sure the lighting is right. They will then film you walking into Tesco, buying water and sweets, paying for them and finally walking to the underpass. Alright?”
“Yes, Sir,” Kim managed to say her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth, which felt like it was full of cotton wool.
Crane parked the car some way from Number 26. He solicitously helped her out of it and she was embarrassed all over again at the amount of leg on show, although this time Crane averted his gaze. There seemed to Kim to be an inordinate number of cars on the street, but they were all dwarfed by the BBC outside broadcast vehicle. As they walked past it, Kim saw DI Anderson talking to an interviewer. He was filming his opening sequence, explaining why the Aldershot Police needed the public’s help. Kim kept walking, head turned away from the policeman, hands pushed deep into the coat pockets. Her body felt strange, as though it no longer belonged to her. The unfamiliar clothes of the type worn by a dead woman, taking her over. The phrase ‘dead man walking’ was added to her already troubled thoughts.
“Kim?” Crane’s voice broke through. “Are you ready?”
She nodded her reply and walked into Number 26, closing the door behind her. Leaning back against it, she took deep breaths and tried not to panic. How could she play a woman going to her amateur dramatics rehearsal, not knowing, as Kim did, the outcome of that night? She felt that Francis had been right and she had been wrong. She never should have done this. She wasn’t strong enough. As Kim looked down at the pristine white blouse she was wearing, in her mind she saw a red stain blooming and spreading over her heart and her knees buckled.
A disembodied voice called through the door, “Action!” and with a final shaky breath Kim turned from woman into soldier, pushed herself off the door and let herself out of Mel Green’s house.
As she walked towards the Tesco superstore, the surreal nature of this assignment hit her. People along the street gawped at her, perhaps because she looked like a dead woman resurrected, or because of the cameramen following her every move. With every step she took, the reconstruction became inextricably linked with Kim’s night out with the girls a few months ago. Kim had gone out that night a confident and happy young woman and had morphed into a frightened shadow of her former self by the next day. In Kim’s head, Mel Green’s murder became her own rape.
Once she reached the entrance to Tesco, someone guided her to a chair and put a hot coffee in her hand. Kim wrapped her fingers around the Styrofoam cup, but couldn’t stop them shaking enough to put the cup to her mouth and enable any liquid to pass her lips. After a short break, the cup was prised from her hands and Kim stood and walked into the store. Barriers had been erected to keep Aldershot’s fine citizens out of her way, so she had a clear walkway to the open chill counter where she managed to grasp a bottle of water. She selected a bag of sweets and handed them both to the dumbstruck cashier, together with the right money. It had been decided earlier that there was no need to go through the palaver of getting change.
With the purchases in her shoulder bag, Kim left the cheerful store and stepped out into the gloom of early evening. With the path before her once again cleared, she embarked on the last leg of her journey.
She scanned the curious crowd. Was the killer amongst them? Was he getting perverted pleasure from this reconstruction? She hoped this charade would jog someone’s memory. Please God, let us get something worthwhile out of this, she fervently prayed, not just a lot of crazies wanting their five minutes of fame.
As the underpass drew nearer, Kim’s breath quickened and her hands became clammy. Several times she stumbled in the high heeled shoes and hoped those parts would be edited out of the final screened version. She wasn’t as confident on heels as Mel Green must have been.
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