“What the hell’s going on, Julie?” Bob had shouted over Tyler’s screams, as he walked into the kitchen. “Can’t you get the bloody baby to shut up?”
“Obviously not, Bob, or I would have done by now,” Julie retorted, scraping back the metal chair as she stood up.
“Why are you down here with her anyway?” he’d asked. “You’re supposed to nurse the baby in her bedroom. That’s what I bought that bloody rocking chair for and you’ve hardly used it. Anyway, where’s my breakfast?” he’d demanded, looking around the kitchen disbelief written all over his face because there wasn’t one packet of cereal or piece of toast to be seen. Just pristine, empty, worktops.
Julie had decided it was best not to answer that question and turned and fled from the room, after mumbling, “I’ll see if I can sort Tyler out upstairs.”
It had taken 10 minutes of walking around, in and out of the three bedrooms and bathroom that comprised the upstairs of their Army quarter, all the while rubbing the baby’s back, before the trapped wind had been released. During that time Julie had had to endure the crashing and banging from downstairs, as Bob was forced to make his own breakfast. With the wind gone, Tyler had become drowsy, so she placed the baby in her cot, and watched amazed as Tyler had promptly fallen asleep, as though there had been absolutely nothing wrong with her for the past 45 minutes. Julie had wished she could do that herself, as she’d collapsed into the rocking chair, taking a moment to compose herself. But such is the lot of a wife and mother and Julie well knew what was expected of her. So she prised herself off the rocker, braved the bathroom mirror and tried to do something with her appearance.
She rubbed damp hands over her dark hair, to try and tame the short tousled boyish cut, which had looked so much better in the hairdressers than it had ever done since. She rubbed some cream into her pale face and quickly cleaned her teeth before venturing back downstairs, with more than a little trepidation in her tread. Not that she was frightened of Bob. Well, not really. Only when he got like that. Annoyed. Distant. She just didn’t know what to do for the best when he was in that sort of mood. Didn’t know what to do to placate him. That was all it was. Just a bit of anxiety, she’d reassured herself.
Bob had looked up as she’d returned to the kitchen and then turned his attention back to his toast without speaking. She’d breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God that, for now at least, there was to be no more shouting. The silent treatment from Bob was much easier to live with than the shouting or criticism. Not that she believed in him - God. But he came in useful every now and then.
As she’d made her own toast, Bob’s mobile had rung. He’d looked at the display, then went out into the garden to take the call, where he’d paced around the small garden, his trainers getting wet from the damp grass. He’d come back indoors a few minutes later and begun gathering up his stuff. The keys to their car were stuffed into his jeans pocket, his wallet went into his back pocket, he’d strapped his watch onto his left wrist and grabbed his coat from the hooks next to the back door.
He’d still not spoken, so Julie, trying for a nonchalant tone said, “Where are you off to?”
She’d had to endure Bob looking her up and down, with what she thought was a grimace of distaste on his face, before he’d said, “None of your business.” The blank look, which often meant ‘whatever it is, I’m not going to talk about it’, returning to his face after his scrutiny of her.
“How long will you be then?” Her irritation with him had made her brave and she’d pushed the point.
“As long as it takes,” Bob had replied as he’d pulled on his coat and then slammed the front door behind him as he’d left the house.
After Julie had tidied up the kitchen, all the while refusing to give in to her sadness at the disaster area of her marriage, Tyler had woken up. So here she was, sat on the settee with a cup of coffee and Tyler in her bouncer at her feet.
She thought that maybe she’d get a chance to watch morning television and enter that day’s competition where the prize was usually around £20,000. They could do with a few grand in the bank. Well who couldn’t? Rocking the bouncer and reaching for the television remote, Julie had to admit to herself that this was nothing like she’d envisaged married life would be. Instead of being a devoted father, Bob seemed to have turned into someone she didn’t know. His idea of fatherhood appeared to be to ignore the child as much as possible when he was at home, but boast about his beautiful daughter when he was in the Sergeant’s Mess, surrounded by his cronies. So it fell to Julie to look after the baby on her own, irrespective of whether he was in the house, on duty, or during one of his long unexplained absences.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie and her selection of the television channel. Her friend Linda opened the door and walked in. “You in, Julie?” she shouted and Julie heard the scrap of the baby carrier as Linda nudged the door open with it.
“In the living room,” Julie replied brightly, but she was pissed off with Linda’s belief that she could just walk into the house whenever she felt like it. Julie often fantasized about locking the front door to stop it happening, but she knew Linda would make so much noise trying to get Julie to answer the door by ringing the bell and hammering on the knocker, that Tyler would be rudely awoken from her morning nap. So she’d never tried it, not wanting to have to deal with the consequences of her actions. With a sigh, it occurred to her that she wasn’t able to control her friends, as well as her husband.
“Morning, love,” Linda said as she walked into the room, her brightly coloured clothes matching her bright mood. Julie had never seen anyone wearing purple leggings and a bright yellow shirt successfully before, but Linda managed to pull it off and had even topped the outfit with a yellow and purple printed scarf tied around her head, that held back her shoulder length dark hair. “I saw Bob leave, so thought I’d come round for coffee. Is everything alright?”
Knowing Linda was fishing for information, Julie simply said, “Yes, fine thanks, Linda. Bob just has a few things to do at work.”
“I thought he was off duty today?” Linda asked as she lifted the baby carrier from her arm and placed her child on the floor next to Tyler.
“Well, you know how he is, devoted to his work and all that.” Julie smiled warmly at her friend, trying hard to match Linda’s sunny disposition. “Let me make you a coffee. Watch the babies will you?”
Julie made sure her smile was firmly in place as she stood. It only slipped when she walked into the kitchen and was out of Linda’s sight. Julie was so tense, her whole body felt as stiff and unyielding as a block of concrete. Forcing her taut muscles to relax, she leaned against the kitchen sink. She didn’t know what to do to make her relationship with Bob work, but the one thing she did know was she wasn’t going to ask for help from any of her women friends on the garrison, no matter how nice they were. That was a sure way of feeding the ever hungry gossip machine and the quickest way to end her marriage.
4
Crane listened to the two men exchange greetings. They started moving along the path, both trying to look nonchalant, like it was common place for them to be walking in one of the local parks. Which, of course, it wasn’t. The soldier had covered his regulation haircut with a woolly hat and seemed to be trying to disguise his military bearing, by stooping down to the other man’s level. The other man being a short, white, bulldog of a male, who Crane thought could be of eastern European descent or from somewhere in that area. Crane never could make head nor tail of all the countries that had broken away from Russia and become independent. And to be honest he didn’t particularly care. He was far more focused on what was happening on his patch, with his soldiers.
Just then, their conversation was lost in a crackle of static, as a sudden gust of wind whipped up the discarded crisp packages, tissues and other pieces of light rubbish sending them whirling around the heels of the two men.
“Jesus, Billy, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Crane. He was sitting
in the fake satellite company van. Even though it was quite old, it acted as the perfect cover for covert operations in and around the suburban streets of Aldershot, for watching undetected and listening in to conversations. The supposedly mock dish on top of the van cleverly concealed a directional microphone and camera.
“Sorry, boss, it’s very windy today. When a gust gets up sometimes it rocks...”
“Alright, shut up and get their voices back!”
As the static cleared Crane heard, “Got the sample?”
“Yes.”
Bob Wainwright slid a packet, containing a sample of fine white powder, from the palm of his hand into the pocket of the other man’s jacket.
“Good. I’ll test it later. If it’s as pure as you say it is, there won’t be any problems. If it’s not, then...” the recipient of the package let his words hang in the air.
“Then what?” asked Wainwright. A question that was rather superfluous in Crane’s opinion, as he even he could hear the underlying threat in the voice of the Eastern European.
“Let’s just say those who try and cross me don’t live very long. Understand?”
The image on Crane’s video monitor was so clear that he could see beads of sweat breaking out on Wainwright’s forehead as he digested the threat. It served him right, Crane thought. He had no sympathy for soldiers who turned smugglers and was happy to see Wainwright squirming under the other man’s hard stare.
“When is the shipment due?”
Wainwright stole a glance around the park, although there was no one else in the meagre space. The grass was sparse and brown due to lack of attention and the children’s play area was full of broken and rusted equipment. The whole place was reminiscent of an area closed down for redevelopment. But Aldershot wasn’t big on redevelopment, so it would probably be like that for a while yet.
“Soon,” Wainwright replied.
“Soon isn’t good enough. I need dates,” demanded the contact.
“I’ll let you know when I know, alright?” Wainwright drew himself upright.
If the soldier was trying to appear threatening it didn’t work, Crane thought, watching the eastern European man laugh in Bob’s face. “Dates, I want dates. Understand?” he said.
“I just told you, you’ll know as soon as I know.”
“Make sure I do.”
Wainwright watched the man walk away with a look of distain on his face, more than likely at having to deal with the gangster, Crane thought. But Crane knew times were changing all over the country, not just in Aldershot. Heroin smuggling was as popular as ever, but now there were new gangs taking over the old territories. They brought with them fear and loathing. But that didn’t seem to bother the eastern Europeans, they clearly weren’t out to make friends, just lots of money.
“Do you want them followed, boss?” Billy asked as Crane pulled the headset off and put it down on the control panel.
“No, Billy. We know the deal is on and we’ve got a bloody good idea when the shipment is coming in, even if they don’t.”
Crane and his investigating partner, Sgt Billy Williams knew the drugs were coming thanks to the RMP on the ground in Lashkar Gah in Afghanistan. They also knew the soldier based at Aldershot facilitating the deal was Bob Wainwright, but so far they hadn’t been able to identify his customer. Now it looked as though things were finally coming together. So for the moment Crane decided it was a matter of waiting it out until the large consignment of vehicles repatriated from Afghanistan, as part of the British Army’s successful withdrawal, arrived back in Aldershot. Hidden in that lot, somewhere, would be a large quantity of pure heroin. This was a golden opportunity not just for the villains (who were hoping to make lots of money) but for the Military Police, who wanted to break the drugs ring and Crane didn’t intend to blow it.
“Come on, Billy, back to base. I need to get out of this bloody van.”
Billy radioed to the spotters and told them stand down and then clambered though to the driver’s seat. The creaky van sprang to life after a couple of false starts. As they drove back to Provost Barracks, the home of the Military Police on Aldershot Garrison, Crane watched the video clip again, then froze the screen and printed off the best shot they had of the unknown man’s face, to show to DI Anderson. Crane was excited about this operation. A game of cat and mouse would make a nice change from the spate of murders and hierarchical bullshit he’d had to deal with recently.
When they arrived back at Provost Barracks, Crane got out at the car park and luxuriated in the cigarette he had been craving for the past couple of hours, before throwing the butt away and banging his way indoors.
5
Bob Wainwright settled in his chair in his sparse office on Aldershot Garrison and clicked the Skype icon on his computer. He pulled his chair forwards until he was sat at his desk, but as usual his knees banged up against the underside of the wood so he withdrew and turned his chair sideways to better accommodate his long legs. After a series of clicks and beeps the connection was made and the smiling face of John Davis filled the screen. Dressed in his desert combats, John looked far too happy for someone who had been on tour in Lashkar Gah for nearly six months. Perhaps it was the thought of all the money they were going to make that accounted for the grin on his face.
“How’s things?” John asked, his voice sounding distant due to the dodgy connection usually prevalent when talking to Afghanistan.
Bob put on his headset needing to hear better. Not wanting to shout and be overheard he adjusted the microphone, pulling it close to his mouth. “Same old, same old,” he replied.
“God you’re a misery, Bob,” John rebuked. “What’s to be so upset about? If anything I should be the miserable one, stuck out here in the bloody desert.”
“You don’t have to deal with the people I have to,” Bob grumbled. “And Aldershot is the fucking pits. Home of the British Army? That’s a laugh. Home of the lost, broken and broke, more like. The High Street has more rubbish on the streets than goods in the shops.”
“Never mind, you grumpy old sod, not long now.”
“That’s precisely why I’m ringing. What’s the news?”
Sgt John Davis was in charge of the repatriation back to the UK of the last remaining personnel and equipment of his Regiment in Lashkar Gah and Sgt Bob Wainwright was responsible for accepting the returning men and goods into Aldershot Garrison.
The two had met when on duty in Afghanistan, which Bob had to admit was a rough old place indeed. The trouble with the desert was that it was too hot during the day and too cold at night. Plus, he’d never before realised how many places grains of sand could get stuck in, on and within the human body, causing much chaffing of the affected skin. But the main difference between there and Aldershot was that in Afghanistan at least you were doing a soldier’s job.
He missed the adrenaline rush of his tour of duty over there and being back home had done nothing to fill the hole in his life that it had left in its wake. To be able to do the job you were trained for, was what Afghanistan was all about for Bob. But when he heard he was going back to the UK, with no chance of being posted back into a war zone, it had been time to make sure he was recompensed for the years of service to the British Army. The British Government were doing their best to make sure the lads didn’t get the pension they were entitled to. Years of changing regulations meant that the pension that had lured him into the service in the first place had been diminished. Meaning his commitment to the Army and the regiment had lessened with every change. So he had quickly realised that it was up to him to provide a private pension of his own making.
He’d decided that if the stupid bastards were going to do him out of what he was due, he was determined to make up for it and had therefore jumped at the chance of making some extra money - actually a lot of extra money - when John had mentioned it one night, as they were bemoaning their lot.
The consignments of returning vehicles were their last chance to smuggle drugs out of Afghanis
tan and they intended to make the best of that chance. The plan was simple. The returning vehicles were packed with equipment, then weighed and stored securely whilst awaiting their turn on the large supply aircraft. Being the Sergeant in charge on the ground, meant it was a relatively easy thing for John to replace some of the returning ration packs on the vehicles with their own particular brand of sustenance. It was then a fairly simple matter for Bob to retrieve the packages once they were safely back in Aldershot.
Because they were unable to safely discuss which consignment the drugs were in, it was a waiting game for Bob. They had decided that as it was more than likely that every computer, mobile phone conversation, email and surface mail was monitored, no mention was ever made between them of the drug smuggling.
John had just confirmed the next load was due back in Aldershot the following week and Bob was really hoping there was something in it for him. So far there had been no ration packs anywhere. Plus, he was getting bloody fed up with Josip Anic. The bloke was the most impatient man he’d ever met, making stupid threats if Bob didn’t come up with a date for the delivery. He guessed it was because, for once, Anic wasn’t in control. The trouble was, neither was Bob. They were both reliant on John Davis back in Afghanistan.
As Bob ended the call, having confirmed the vehicles were due for repatriation next week, he hoped to God this coming consignment would be the one with the drugs hidden in it.
6
“What do you think?” Crane asked Anderson, later that day, when he visited the detective at Aldershot Police Station and told him about the meeting he’d witnessed. “Do you recognise him?”
Crane handed Anderson the shot of the eastern European man who had met with Bob Wainwright, then removed his dark suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. The heating in Aldershot Police Station had two settings, bloody hot or bloody cold and today was one of the hot days.
A Soldier's Honour Box Set 2 (Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers Box Set) Page 24