Cordon of Lies: A Sgt Major Crane Novel

by Wendy Cartmell

  That left two people on his list he could put pressure on and he picked up the telephone to ring the first one.

  “Dunne,” came the barked answer.

  “Oh, good morning, Sir. Sgt Major Crane here from Aldershot SIB. If you remember, I spoke to you the other day about an ongoing enquiry into the death of...”

  “Yes, yes, I remember, Sgt Major and I also remember telling you I couldn’t help you.”

  “I am aware of that, Sir, but I thought it may be possible that my phone call had triggered a memory or two that could help?”

  “No, sorry, your phone call hasn’t triggered any memories at all. Now if you don’t mind...”

  “I’m afraid I do mind, Sir Peter. Two young women, Army wives, have been killed and it is my duty to find the perpetrator.” Crane ignored the ‘harrump’ from Sir Peter and carried on speaking. “From my notes you were stationed here at Aldershot 10 years ago.”

  “So what if I was?”

  “And Barry Foster was under your command.”

  “Who did you say?” Crane noticed that Sir Peter’s voice wasn’t quite as strident as before.

  “Foster, Sir, Sgt Barry Foster.”

  After a pause, during which Crane was sure he could hear Dunne swallowing, the reply came, “I really am finding it difficult to remember, Crane. I can’t recall the man. Around that time we would have been rather busy, you know, getting ready to support the possible invasion of Iraq.”

  “That’s right, Sir, it would have been about that time.”

  “What would have been?”

  “About then that Barry Foster killed Carol Newton.”

  “Well, then, there you are, I was much too busy to think of anything apart from logistics and preparations. You have my answer, Crane, good day to you. And unless you want your Commanding Officer taking a long close look at your work, I suggest you don’t call me again!”

  Crane winced as the phone was clattered back onto its cradle. Damn, he’d given the man the excuse and Sir Peter had taken full advantage of it. Too busy my arse.

  He decided to make phone call number two and try and catch Bill Lampton in between appointments. Crane hadn’t realised that salesmen still went out on the road in this new technological age. Thought most things were done over the phone, internet or Skype. It almost seemed archaic to drive all over the country servicing your customers. As he was thinking about that, he suddenly realised Lampton had answered the call.

  “Hello Mr Lampton, Crane here from the..”

  “Yes, I remember, Crane. And I’m still away and still not sure what I can do to help.”

  “Could we meet when you get back to Farnborough, Bill? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Why, Crane? What is there to talk about?”

  “I have a name now, Bill. Foster, Barry Foster. So what do you say?”

  “I’m back Friday. I’ll call you then,” and Lampton disconnected the call, leaving Crane staring at the receiver with a small smile.

  Chapter 21

  Captain Edwards replaced the telephone receiver as carefully as if it was an egg and he didn’t want to crack the shell. But cracks were definitely beginning to appear in Edward’s shell. The call from Sir Peter Dunne hadn’t just intimidated him; it had made him positively wobble. He glanced down at his hands to find them shaking and he quickly clasped them together. Then he unclasped them and stood up, pushing back his chair. He wanted to pace the office but it was too small, so he groped behind him, pulled in the chair and plopped down again.

  Picking up the internal phone, he called Kim demanding Crane’s presence in his office, then sat there fuming until he arrived. The bloody man was a disaster area, whirlwind and tornado all rolled into one. They hadn’t taught him at Sandhurst how to deal with recaltricant sergeant majors. In fact they mostly learned their lessons from them during their sixteen week course. Now he wished he’d listened more to his father and his famous ‘when I was in the Army’ tales. Maybe one of them had been about how to handle renegades like Crane. He resisted the temptation to call his father and seek advice; instead, tried to rein in his fear and anger, as he calmed himself down by taking deep breaths.

  Once Crane arrived he invited him to sit down in front of him.

  “How are things going with the Mel Green murder, Crane?” he asked, trying for normalcy in his tone.

  “Well, as you know, Sir, we had the Crimewatch appeal.”

  “Yes, well, that didn’t exactly bring lots of lines of enquiry, did it Crane? Not when counter-balanced by the amount of time it took out of the investigation, planning for it.”

  “No, Sir, but,”

  “Hmm, any news on the partial plate yet from DI Anderson?” Edwards cut in as he was determined to control this conversation, not Crane.

  “No, Sir, but,”

  “So that’s not produced anything either, has it?” Edwards snapped.

  “No, Sir, but we’re doing rather better in the Carol Newton case.”

  Ah here it was the Carol Newton case, Edward’s cue to start crushing Crane under his boot.

  “Ah, yes, Crane. The Carol Newton case. The case that we didn’t know was a case. Isn’t that the one?”

  “Well,”

  “The cold case that Aldershot police have. I am right, there, aren’t I Crane? It is an Aldershot Police cold case, not an SIB cold case?”

  “Well, strictly speaking,”

  “I am strictly speaking, Crane and I am telling you that the Carol Newton case is nothing to do with us.”

  “I have evidence that proves it is connected to the Mel Green case, Sir.”

  “Proves? A phone recording purportedly from a dying man, telling you someone called Barry Foster killed Carol all those years ago? Is that the evidence you’re referring to? The evidence that has nothing at all to do with the Mel Green murder?”

  “Well, when you put it like that,”

  “I do put it like that, Crane. I very much put it like that.” Edwards realised his voice was rising an octave, making him sound whiney and stupid. So he cleared his throat and continued a few tones lower. “I am expressly forbidding you to carry on investigating the Carol Newton case. Do I make myself clear?” He looked down at his hands and realised they were trembling again and he put them on his lap, under the desk, so Crane couldn’t see them.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s more like it, Crane. And furthermore I expressly forbid you to contact Sir Peter Dunne about anything, ever again, Crane. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Now go away and get on with finding the killer of Mel Green. DISMISSED!”

  As Crane left his office, Edwards realised that he had relied on sarcasm to make his point. Sarcasm and shouting. But he knew no other way to try and control the man. Try being the operative word. Edwards was under no illusion about the amount of control he had over Crane. None. That’s how much control he had. But he had to try. Sir Peter Dunne expected it. If Edwards failed, Dunne would contact his Commanding Officer and Edward’s career would be over before it had even started.

  He managed not to give in to the impulse to cross his fingers, but couldn’t resist a quick, ‘Dear God, help me’ arrow prayer.

  *

  Crane clattered down the stairs, intending to go back to his office, but paused at the bottom and then gave in to his nicotine craving. So once again he found himself pacing the car park, trying to think things through. Bloody Edwards, was the uppermost thought in his mind. Although reasoning told him that his Captain was also right. If viewed logically, Crane had nothing to tie Foster to the Carol Newton murder, nor to the Mel Green murder. Just exactly the same location, murder weapon and rumours that the victim was having an affair. But no witnesses, forensic evidence or murder weapon.

  As Crane finished the last of his cigarette and threw away the butt, his mobile phone rang. Taking it out of his inside pocket he glanced at the display, but found the caller details were withheld. Wondering who it could
be, he answered the call.

  “Good morning, Sgt Major.” an unfamiliar voice said.

  “Who am I speaking to?” Crane asked, a puzzled frown furrowing his brow.

  “My name’s irrelevant at the moment, Sgt Major. You just need to know that I’m keeping an eye on you.”

  “Keeping an eye! Who is this? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I’m watching you and your investigation, just making sure you don’t get too close.”

  Too close? What was the man talking about? Then recognition dawned and Crane said, “It’s you, Foster, isn’t it? What do you want?” Crane fumbled with the packet of cigarettes in his pocket, managing to get one out and light it.

  “I’ve already told you, I’m ringing to let you know I’m watching you and to persuade you to let things be. Stop your investigation into the two murders. I’m sure you’ve been warned off by now, so I’m just making sure you follow orders.”

  “How the hell do you know I’ve ...” then Crane suddenly cut short his sentence. He didn’t want Foster to know he really had been told to drop the investigation.

  But Foster jumped on his hesitation, “Ah, so it is true, you have been ordered off the case. Good. So just follow orders like a good boy and nothing will happen to you.”

  “Are you threatening me, Foster? Because I can assure you it won’t work. Anyway you can’t be watching me, I’m on my own.” Crane looked around just to make sure he had spoken the truth.

  “Oh, you mean you’re alone in the car park outside Provost Barracks.”

  Crane refused to take the bait and kept quiet.

  “Yes, I can see you standing there, smoking a cigarette.”

  “No you can’t see me, you’re bluffing.

  “Not at all, Sgt Major, you’ve just lit a cigarette and are taking deep drags.”

  “Bollocks, you can hear that over the phone, it doesn’t prove you can see me.”

  “Very well, how about, you are wearing a black suit, white shirt and dark tie.”

  “Still doesn’t prove anything. I always wear that, you stupid man.” Crane was hoping to rile the man into saying something that may give away his location.

  “Oh please, Sgt Major, let’s stop playing this silly game. Right now you are leaning against the wall of Provost Barracks. You have your left leg up behind you resting on the wall. Now you are desperately looking around you to try and find my position. I can see you as clearly as if I was standing in front of you. Am I right, Sgt Major?”

  Barry Foster’s voice poured over Crane, like ice cold liquid nitrogen. He was stunned into silence, imagining he could feel Foster’s eyes crawling all over his body. He pushed himself off the wall with the leg he was resting on.

  “It’s okay, I’m not going to kill you,” Foster continued. “Oh no, it would be much more fun to kill your family and leave you still living. Alone. Mourning for your wife and child. Now that would be hell on earth wouldn’t it Mr Special Investigations Branch? So no, there’s no need to worry about your safety, just that of your family. But nothing has to happen to them at all. You can keep them safe by following orders to drop the Carol Newton investigation.”

  The mobile phone went dead in his ear and Crane took looked at it in amazement and disgust. Had he really heard Foster threatening his wife and child? He was very much afraid he had and the protective layers around his heart began to crack. But being emotional wouldn’t help them, nor the situation he found himself in, so collecting himself and refusing to let Foster see how much his words had un-nerved him, (that is if he could actually see him), Crane squared his shoulders and marched back into Barracks.

  Chapter 22

  Crane looked closely at the weasel of a man who had just got into his car, which was parked right at the end of Farnborough Airport, tucked in close to a group of old abandoned nissen type huts. There were no walkers to see their meeting, the pouring rain sluicing off the car no doubt putting off even the hardiest of dog walkers and no vehicles marred the bleak landscape.

  The man had a goatee beard grown into a point and small darting eyes burdened by overgrown eyebrows. His hair was thinning on top, but grown longer at the back as if to compensate for his ever increasing baldness.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mr Lampton,” Crane began, but only got a small nod of the head by way of reply.

  “Shall I start by telling you what I learned from Richmond?”

  This time several small nods of Lampton’s head were accompanied by darting eyes which looked through the windscreen and then the side window and back again.

  Crane proceeded to tell his story about his visit to Richmond, who gave him the information he wanted, but died before he could make a formal statement. Crane firstly wanted to know if Lampton also had been told what to say on his statement. Lampton confirmed that was true. He had been told to change his original statement to say he knew nothing about Carol Newton’s personal life and knew of no evidence that she was having an affair. His direct superior spoke to him about it, but everyone knew that Dunne was behind it. But when Crane pressed him, Lampton wouldn’t give or confirm any more information than that.

  So Crane changed tack, asking if Lampton knew about Foster’s boasting of his sexual prowess with Carol Newton.

  Lampton seemed to relax again at this line of questioning and said, “Yes, of course. Most of the soldiers in the unit were aware of his escapades with Carol Newton.” Lampton craned his head to once again look out of the windscreen and then turned to check the back window also.

  “Did you know that he killed her?” Crane asked. He was finding it difficult to look the man in the eye, as Lampton’s head was all over the place.

  “One never knows anything for sure, unless you see something with your own eyes.” Lampton licked his lips. “But I heard him say so. Then again there’s one in every unit. You know, the one always boasting about his conquests, the one who has always gone one better than whatever story is being told at the time.” Lampton looked Crane directly in the face for the first time since he got in the car.

  “Do you think he’s capable of murder?” Crane asked.

  “He was certainly capable of killing people during the time I knew him. He did that a lot for the firm, being a sniper, like. But was he capable of murder?” A shiver seemed to run down Lampton’s back as his arms and shoulders shook. “Yes, I’d say so.”

  “That explains your nervousness then.”

  “Nervous? Me?”

  “Yes, Lampton, you’re nervous.” Crane had never seen a witness act this way before. A guilty soldier, sure, but it was strange to see a witness so edgy and jumpy. “Do you think I should be wary of Foster as well?” he asked.

  “Why, what’s Foster said?” Lampton peered at Crane, looking intently at his face.

  Crane decided to tell Lampton the truth. “He told me he was watching me. Told me to drop the investigation or my family would suffer. He’s already been round to my house, spoken to my wife seen my kid. So, should I take his threat seriously?”

  “Well, to a certain extent,” the man nodded his head in such a way that made Crane think of a bird tapping for a worm. “I don’t think he’s a psychopath or anything, not the sort who kills just for the sake of killing, or because he enjoys it, but ...” Lampton seemed to run out of steam and looked down at his lap.

  “But?” urged Crane.

  “If he was cornered, or threatened, then, yes, I’d say you’d have reason to be nervous, reason to take his threats seriously,” Lampton addressed his knees.

  “Look, Lampton,” Crane manoeuvred around in his seat to face his passenger as best he could, “I need to know if you’ll help me. Give a formal statement. Say you were told to change your statement. Say you heard Foster boasting about killing Carol Newton.”

  The man’s silence answered Crane’s question.

  “Alright, look here’s my card. If you change your mind you can contact me anytime.”

  Snatching the card from Crane’s hand, Lam
pton darted from the car, running back to his own vehicle. As he watched Lampton, Crane wondered who the man was running away from, Foster or the SIB.

  Chapter 23

  Crane pulled up outside Provost Barracks and went looking for Staff Sgt Jones, who was just leaving for the night. The heavy rain had stopped, so they decided to have a cigarette in the wet car park before going home. The rain clouds were still low in the sky and Crane could hear water dripping from the trees, giving the impression it was still raining.

  “So,” Crane said to Jones, “what do you think? Is there still a threat from Foster?” he asked, after telling Jones what Lampton had said.

  “Mmm,” pondered Jones. “Difficult to say. How would he know you’ve dropped the investigation? How would he know there’s no threat anymore?”

  “Well, it’s clear he’s keeping tabs on me, somehow. Probably following me around, or Billy, or someone else in the team. You even!” Crane laughed. “Depending on who we go to see, he can gauge what or who we are investigating.”

  “But what about the Mel Green murder Anderson is investigating? He’s in the frame for that as well, isn’t he?”

  “Well, Anderson and I think so, but no one else does. Remember there’s no physical evidence to link him to either murder. And Foster seems particularly interested in the Carol Newton case, because of the history. Because I can connect the dots on that one.”

  “If only someone will talk on the record, you mean, other than Jack Newton.”

  “Yes, Jones, you’re right. Jack Newton’s statement is all well and good, but at the end of the day the jury could consider him just another con trying to score points in the system. We need corroborating statements from other people.”

  After a bit of pacing around, trying to avoid the puddles, Crane said, “What about the detail guarding my house?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you think we should leave it there, or take it off?”

  “Why, what’s your thinking?”

  “Well, if we take it off, then it would be a sign to Foster that we’re not investigating him, that we’ve backed off and done what he asked and that therefore we think the threat has gone away.”