Which hath been forbidden
By God and His Apostle,
Nor acknowledge the Religion
Of Truth. (Qur’an 9:29)
How can you argue with that? You Westerners don’t acknowledge the religion of truth, the Muslim religion. So, for this reason my men and I take part in the struggle. In the jihad. An external struggle against the forces of evil and non-believers. That’s why I am here in your country. In England.
For the time being I am forced to wear a mask. No one must know what lies behind it. My real thoughts and feelings. I will play my part. All the while looking for an opportunity to strike, to teach you, the infidels, a lesson you will never forget.
Day 3
Crane imagined he saw the face of Captain Edwards reflected back at him in the mirror and his curled fists itched to smash it to smithereens.
“Bloody Edwards,” he turned and said to his wife, “this is his way of getting back at me, because he doesn’t like my methods when it comes to investigating. Tosser. He likes the solutions though.”
Crane’s fingers fumbled with the mess of his tie, so he gave up and tried to rip it off.
“Come here, Tom, and let me do that for you.”
Moving over to the bed, he sat next to his wife, Tina, and allowed her to put right the chaos he had created, calming slightly under her slow languid movements.
“I’m sure you’re overreacting,” she said, her dark eyebrows arching.
Crane felt the pressure of her hands on his shoulders, an attempt to stop him rising from the bed.
“Captain Edwards has great respect for you, Tom, and anyway, what could be more important than protecting Team GB as they prepare for the Olympic Games on Aldershot Garrison?”
“Solving crimes, not babysitting. For fuck’s sake, Tina, Special Investigations Branch doesn’t do babysitting, especially not warrant officers. This is a job for the Royal Military Police.”
Crane jumped up and began to comb his short dark hair, that didn’t in fact need any combing. He carefully inspected his face in the mirror, checking to see that his beard, that he’d had to get special permission to grow, covered most of the scar that ran across his cheek. A souvenir from shrapnel in Afghanistan. Chucking the comb back on the dressing table, he returned to the bed and couldn’t help smiling at Tina lying there looking like a beached whale. Albeit a glowing one.
“Anyway, enough of that.” Crane pushed his anger and frustration to the back of his mind and continued, “How are you and the little man doing this morning?”
“Fine, I think, although he’s a bit stuck at the moment, see?”
As Tina pulled back the duvet to expose her swollen stomach, he saw a large bump close to her extended belly button. Reaching over, Crane massaged his son’s extremity until the baby shifted slightly and the lump disappeared. It worked every time and every time it amazed him.
“Are you staying in bed?”
“No, I think I’ll get up if you’ll just give me a hand and I’ll come downstairs for a cup of tea.”
After helping Tina, Crane ran downstairs, collected his briefcase from just inside the front door and slipped his suit jacket over his white shirt. As Branch Investigators don’t wear army uniform whilst on normal duties, Crane had found a uniform of his own. Dark suit, white shirt and dark tie. The white shirt close fitting to emphasis his stocky muscular build. Placing the case on the large pine table in the kitchen, he checked through the files to make sure he had everything he needed. He was looking through the Strategic Security Review as Tina joined him.
“Are those the security arrangements?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she tied back her long dark hair.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant Jones seems to have done a good job. I’ve really no idea why I need to oversee it. God knows what Edwards was thinking of.”
“For goodness sake, stop grumbling, Tom. It’s not for ever. It’s just a temporary arrangement.”
“I know, but it’s still over a month.” Glancing down at the calendar stapled to the inside cover, he said, “Thirty-seven days to be precise.”
“And nights, don’t forget, if you’re going to be that pedantic,” Tina replied.
***
Those phrases rattled around in his head as he drove from his semi-detached Victorian house in Ash, towards the Royal Military Police Barracks on Aldershot Garrison. Forty days and forty nights. His own personal wilderness. Until he could get back to his real job.
Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn’t get away from the feeling that this was part of his punishment after the last big case he investigated. A few days ago, Captain Edwards explained it was just a way of easing Crane back into active duty after nearly four months of sick leave after being shot twice. He was also careful to stress that it was an important role that needed an experienced man. What a knob, Crane thought, shaking his head. If I believed that bullshit, then I’d believe anything.
As far as Crane was concerned he’d emerged from the whole ordeal fitter, lighter and raring to go. After spending the previous month on light duties, helping to shape the security plans, with a gradual return to full time hours, he had grown in confidence and frustration in equal measure. He should have been leading his investigating team by now, not overseeing security.
But still, it was an unusual situation on the garrison Crane had to admit. And with no major crime for him to investigate, as Edwards was insisting the young dead soldier hadn’t been murdered…well he supposed it made some sort of weird sense. And even if it didn’t, whatever his frustrations, he knew he had to obey orders.
Crane shouted ineffectually at a motorist in front of him, who was taking too long to turn right at the T-junction. The man couldn’t hear him, but must have been able to see the abusive gestures that accompanied the words. Ignoring Crane’s outburst the man placidly remained stationary. Clearly waiting for what he considered to be the right moment, despite Crane’s frantic bursts on the horn, before eventually crossing the road during a break in the flow of traffic. Crane took the opportunity to follow, his tyres squealing as he raced away, narrowly missing a car coming up the road on his right hand side.
Crane was on the back route today from Ash to Aldershot, so he entered the garrison via Government Road. A little way up on his left he could see the new St Omer Barracks that had risen from the debris of the demolished concrete tower block. A new complex of single soldier accommodation, constructed in just less than four months. Crane had watched the barracks take shape when the modular blocks were delivered to site complete and then fastened together. To Crane St Omer Barracks now looked more like student accommodation, or an office block, rather than a traditional army building. But he knew he had to move with the times, despite his fondness for army tradition, history and architectural heritage.
The new modular units were now the home of the Olympians, who had arrived a couple of days ago to much local fanfare. Crane was unhappy about that as well. In his opinion the less people knew about the whereabouts of Team GB the better. But the army was keen to publicise their involvement with the athletes who were carrying the pride of the nation on their shoulders. Also the local mayor was panting for any conceivable opportunity to get his face on the front page of a newspaper – any newspaper local or national. Crane grimaced as he glanced at the front page of a tabloid newspaper on his car seat, showing the mayor’s grinning face in its pock marked glory.
As he passed the barracks, Crane saw armed soldiers at the entrance, carefully checking each vehicle, oblivious to the long line of cars awaiting entrance to the complex. Soldiers were also patrolling the perimeter, some with guns, and others with dogs. He hoped it wasn’t putting off the athletes. The last thing the army wanted was to make them feel like they were in prison. But it was better to be safe than sorry. Each athlete, coach, PR, liaison, dietician and myriad of hangers on, no doubt providing essential support, had been photographed, recorded and background checked. The army and Crane left nothing to chance.
As the briefing finished, Crane looked at Jones and inclined his head towards the outside of the building. The resulting grin and nod of the head meant his message was received and understood.
Outside, the two men lounged against the mellow red brick wall of the barracks, basking in the early morning July sun. Although Crane was the higher ranking of the two, they were friends as well as colleagues and when alone didn’t adhere to the formal use of titles.
“Good work, Jones.”
“Thanks, Crane. Maybe now you can see I don’t need you babysitting me,” the accompanying grin taking some of the sting from his words.
Lighting his cigarette allowed Crane to think before he spoke. “Not my intention. I don’t want this assignment, anymore than you want me watching over you.”
“Okay, fair enough,” was the slow reply. “So what is your intention then?”
“To follow orders, of course.”
“Which are?” Jones dragged deeply on his own cigarette, squinting at Crane through the smoke.
“To oversee the whole security operation. Liaise with you lot, with the British Olympic Association, Aspire Defence and the Intelligence Operative.”
“Isn’t that what Captain Edwards should be doing?”
Crane couldn’t resist a wry smile, but bit back a reply, instead concentrating on putting out his cigarette. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Got to go, Jones, I’ve a meeting with the BOA in 10 minutes. Call me on my mobile if you need me.”
As Crane moved away, Jones called out, “Don’t forget to tell them we’ve got the garrison sewn up. Nothing can possibly go wrong!”
Lifting his hand in acknowledgement, Crane continued to his car, unable to share Jones’ attitude. Prior experience meant he always expected the worst.
***
Crane was listening to an altercation between a member of the Aspire Defence kitchen staff and the warrant officer brought into to oversee the feeding of the proverbial 5,000 in St Omer Barracks. The large, gleaming kitchen rang with the chimes of metal and porcelain. Above that could be heard the churning and gurgling of the industrial plate and glass washers and above that, the raised voices Crane was listening to. At the same time people weaved in and out, around and past each other, their movements a well choreographed ballet. The sharp clean whites of the kitchen staff contrasting starkly with the black uniform of the waiting staff.
“Watch what you’re doing!” the Chef shouted.
“Don’t you speak to me like that!” the recipient of the Chef’s anger retorted.
“Look, just get out of my way and get those bloody eggs out to the hotplate now,” ordered the Chef, flapping his hand in the direction of the double doors leading from the kitchen to the dining room.
“Right, that’s it, I’ve had enough. You can stick your fucking job. I’m off.” The man undid his apron, snatched off his hat and threw them both at the Chef before disappearing into the staff room.
“It’s going well then?” Crane called, failing to keep the mirth out of his voice.
Whirling round, the Chef nearly knocked off his tall white hat, precariously perched on top of his large round head. Seeing who the speaker was, he wiped flour off his hands onto his apron and held one of them out. A large meaty paw, seemingly incapable of the intricate delicate pastillage icing structures Crane knew the chef could produce.
“Bloody hell, Crane!” he said, lifting Crane’s hand up and down as though it were the handle of an old fashioned water pump.
“Are they always this bad, Dunn?” Crane asked nodding towards the kitchen staff.
And that was all the invitation Sergeant Major Dunn needed. Retreating into the small head chef’s office, he firstly gave Crane a cup of coffee and secondly chapter and verse on the problems of whipping civilian staff into shape, in order to feed the athletes whilst they were on the garrison.
“Basically we’re running a rolling buffet,” he concluded. “Because the athletes all have differing dietary needs and eat certain foods at certain times depending upon their training schedule, it seems as though we’re working morning noon and night and some of the civvies can’t keep up.” Dunn shook his head in disgust making his hat wobble once again. “For me, it’s no different than being in the field, having to feed men as they arrive back at all times of the day and night. I tell you, I don’t know about progress, but personally I wish the Army Catering Corp was still in existence. Things have never been the same since the army disbanded the Corp and contracted catering out to civilian companies.”
“I think that’s a discussion best kept for over a pint in the Sergeants’ Mess, don’t you?” Crane looked around to make sure no one was standing at the door and listening to their conversation about army politics.
“I suppose so,” agreed Dunn leaning back in his chair, which creaked in protest and folded his arms. “Anyway, what brings the Branch over here?” Dunn used the euphemism for the Special Investigations Branch.
Glad to leave the subject of the Army Catering Corp, Crane explained that as he was responsible for overseeing security on the garrison for the next month or so, he thought he would call in and see that everything was in order within St Omer Barracks itself, not just along the perimeter.
“Apart from discipline you mean?” Dunn laughed.
“Yes, Dunn, apart from discipline. Can I see the background checks on the staff?”
“Sure. They’re in the top drawer of that filing cabinet. Can I leave you to it and get on?” Dunn asked rising.
“No problem,” replied Crane. Then just as Dunn was heading out of the door he called, “Let me know if anything seems a bit off won’t you?”
“Off?” Dunn’s weather beaten face crinkled in surprise.
“Yes, out of kilter. Oh I don’t know. Anything really. Just give me a ring.”
“Whatever, Crane,” Dunn said, as he tied his apron more tightly around his waist, rose to his full height and marched into the large luminous industrial kitchen.
Once satisfied that all the paperwork was in order, Crane left the kitchen by the back door and had a quick cigarette, sitting on top of boxes of supplies already delivered but not yet put away. The fresh air revived him, or was it the nicotine? Either way he now needed to find the equivalent to the mess manager. On a normal barracks, the mess manager was responsible for liaising with the head chef about the kitchen and its staff, whilst being responsible for front of house – the waiting staff and cleaning staff. Things, however, were not normal and Crane knew that under the circumstances, Aspire Defence had appointed a housekeeper to solely look after the cleaning staff. Consulting his notes, he had to find Juliette Stone, by all accounts drafted in from their head office on a temporary basis.
After putting out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray provided for the kitchen staff that disgusted even a hardened smoker like Crane, he went round to the living quarters.
As he entered the main lobby he saw a young woman, probably in her late 20’s or early 30’s striding towards the accommodation wing. She was dressed in a dark suit and white blouse, wearing sensible court shoes, with a clipboard in her hand. Her blond hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Her demeanour remindin
g Crane of the housekeeper of a large stately home at the turn of the 19th Century. If he were a betting man, which he wasn’t, Crane would wager a reasonable sum of money that he was looking at Juliette Stone. The large Aspire Defence identity badge she was wearing clinched it and he approached her.
Standing directly in her path, he called, “Ms Stone I presume?”
Stopping and looking Crane up and down she retorted, “Sergeant Major Crane, I presume?”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” she said pointing to the ID he had hanging around his neck and then pointing to hers, “As indeed I must be.”
“Touché” Crane inclined his head. “May I just have a quick word?”
“Certainly, but on the move I’m afraid,” she said as she swept off towards the living quarters. “I have to check on the staff,” she called over her shoulder.
“That’s precisely why I’ve come to see you.” Crane matched her stride for stride, as they moved along the carpeted corridor, although the top of her blond head was slightly higher than his.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, just keeping my eye on security inside St Omer Barracks as well as outside.” And he went on to explain his current role, once again requesting to see the staff files.
“Very well, Sergeant Major, but I’m sure you’ll find everything in order. Just because we’re not the army, doesn’t mean we do a bad job, you know. We at Aspire Defence appreciate how important security is at the moment. Heaven forbid something awful should happen to the athletes whilst they are on the garrison.”
“Heaven forbid indeed,” Crane echoed the sentiment, watching the cool blond woman walk away. He wondered if she was always like that, or just at work. Crane got the feeling she was simply projecting an image, maybe something to do with being a woman in a man’s world.
Having satisfied himself there was nothing untoward in the staff files, Crane looked at his watch. As it was nearly 19:00 hours, he decided to check on his young team in the office. Sergeant Billy Williams and Sergeant Kim Weston would be coming on duty to take over the night shift from him.
40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 2