A Grave Death (Crane and Anderson crime thrillers Book 4)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Anyway I’ve just written to Memphis to tell him the good news and now I need to rush out and post my letters. I’ll be in touch soon. Promise.

  18

  A day later Paul realised he should have taken Tommy’s advice and prepared himself for scrutiny by the police. Sat in an interview room in Aldershot Police Station, he was waiting for Tommy to arrive, getting more and more nervous as the minutes ticked by. Standing, he began to pace the room, then realised someone could be watching him and quickly returned to his chair. No need to let the police know how rattled he was.

  Not that he’d done anything wrong. No. He was sure of it. But would anyone believe him? The idea that he’d killed his siblings was unthinkable! Why on earth would he want to do that? He loved them. Had loved them.

  The opening of the door startled him and he rose as Tommy entered the room. ‘Am I glad to see you,’ he gabbled. ‘I don’t know why I’m here. What on earth do they want?’

  ‘From what DI Anderson has told me, they want a formal statement about your movements over the past month or so, particularly at the times when Kevin died and Jill was murdered.’

  ‘I know you told me to prepare, but I never thought it would come to this!’

  ‘Please, Paul,’ Tommy soothed. ‘Try not to worry, just be open and honest, unless of course I tell you not to answer a question.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I answer?’

  ‘Because the answer may implicate you in some way.’

  ‘But I’ve told you I haven’t done anything!’ Paul sat down on the hard chair with a thump and put his head in his hands.

  Tommy gave him a moment then said, ‘I’m sure your fears are worse than the actual interview is going to be. Come on, smarten yourself up and pretend you are facing your senior management team. That should give you a bit of presence. Believe me it’ll work. I’ve seen you in action, remember.’

  Paul had to smile at Tommy’s analogy and did as he was told. Taking deep breaths, he tucked his shirt back in, adjusted his cuff links, smoothed down his tie and put on his suit jacket.

  ‘There. Better?’

  ‘Much. What’s that?’ Tommy pointed to a book on the table.

  ‘Oh, that’s my work diary. I brought it to confirm my movements, especially if I can’t remember a particular day. It’s not a personal diary, but I guessed it was better than nothing.’

  The sceptical look on Tommy’s face plunged Paul once more into despair. If his solicitor thought that he was skating on thin ice and possibly didn’t believe in his innocence, why should the police?

  19

  ‘Thank you for coming in to speak to us, Mr Dean,’ Crane said as he and Anderson entered the interview room.

  ‘Did I have a choice?’

  Crane noted the belligerent tone of the man sat in front of him and didn’t like it.

  ‘I’m rather surprised by your attitude,’ Crane said. ‘I would have thought you’d want to help the police in any way you could, if it means helping us to bring your sister’s killer to justice.’

  Anderson put a restraining hand on Crane’s arm, a signal to get him to go easy. The two had discussed the interview technique before they entered the room and it was agreed that Crane should take the lead. Although Anderson had argued that Paul would clearly view him as a friend and potentially be more relaxed during the interview, Crane wanted Dean wrong-footed, uncomfortable, and therefore more likely to let something slip. And Crane had won.

  Ignoring the signal from Anderson he continued, ‘Where were you the night of Thursday last?’

  ‘I, um,’

  ‘Do you need to look it up?’ Crane indicated the diary on the table. ‘Just to give you a little context, it was the night before your brother’s funeral. Surely you can remember that?’

  It looked as though Paul Dean was trying to pull himself together, by pulling at his shirt sleeves, jacket and smoothing down his tie. The movements irritated Crane, although he had to wryly admit to having tried that tactic himself in the past.

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘With?’

  ‘On my own.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

  ‘My housekeeper.’

  ‘What time did you arrive home?’

  ‘Usual time, around 7pm.’

  ‘And when did she leave?’

  ‘When I arrived.’

  ‘So, she can only corroborate that you were at home at 7pm. You could have left the house at 7.05 and she wouldn’t have known.’

  ‘Now look here.’ Paul Dean started to rise from his chair.

  Crane smiled a little to himself. The quickness of the questions and answers had finally got to Dean. Crane loved this sort of interview. He being well prepared and the suspect in a disadvantaged position, unclear as to what the police wanted, or what evidence they had.

  ‘My client has no comment.’ Tommy Walker came to his client’s aid, which seemed to mollify Paul Dean a little as he sank back into his chair.

  ‘When did you last see your sister?’

  This time Paul did reach for his diary. Flipping it open with the ribbon, which marked a page, he pushed it towards Crane. ‘We had a meeting in the morning, in the office, two days before the funeral.’

  Crane didn’t look at the diary, but Anderson drew it towards himself.

  ‘What was it about?’

  ‘The meeting?’ At Tommy’s nod, Paul said, ‘Company business.’

  ‘I realise that, Mr Dean.’ Crane’s voice dripped sarcasm. ‘Now please answer my question.’

  Paul Dean remained silent.

  ‘I’m sure I can find out from minutes of the meeting if there are any, or from company employees if there aren’t, Mr Dean. So why don’t you save us all a great deal of time and just tell me now.’

  ‘Going public,’ Paul Dean whispered to the table top.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Taking the company public.’ Paul paused and took a deep breath. ‘At the moment it’s a privately owned company and the three of us are equal partners.’

  ‘The three of us?’

  ‘Me, Kevin and Jill.’

  ‘So, who wanted to sell?’

  ‘My client has no comment,’ said Tommy Walker quickly.

  ‘No, it’s alright, Tommy,’ Paul said. ‘They’ll find out soon enough, if they haven’t already. Jill and Kevin wanted to take the company public, float it on the stock exchange. It would have made us all very rich.’

  ‘Richer than you are already, you mean?’ Crane said, his eyes boring into those of Paul Dean, forcing the man to look away. ‘So, just to clarify, who wanted this to happen?’

  Crane held his breath. This could be the moment. He could feel the tension rising in the room, all his focus was on the man in front of him. They glared at each other, a gladiatorial fight but instead of swords they used eyes, face and body language as weapons. Finally, Paul Dean capitulated. Crane won.

  ‘Jill and Kevin wanted to go public. I didn’t. I wanted to keep the company in the family.’

  Crane nodded slowly. ‘Thank you, Mr Dean. That’s all for now. But we will want to speak to you again. Oh, and thank you for bringing in the diary, I’m sure it will be very useful.’

  Paul Dean started to bluster about wanting it back, but Anderson kept his hand firmly on the diary and his mouth shut, as he and Crane walked out.

  20

  Anne

  September 1942

  Dear Ada,

  Well, today my world fell apart. I got the dreaded telegram. I was asleep on the top of my bed, after an exhausting 12-hour shift. A knock at the door was answered by my landlady and she came up the stairs and woke me up to tell me there was a telegram boy at the door. I didn’t want to go down, but she insisted I must. I knew what it was before I even saw the boy’s face or read the telegram. With tears streaming down my face I managed to negotiate the stairs and came face to face with the boy who was standing in the open doorway.

  The boys are nicknamed the an
gels of death, because poor people only get a telegram when it’s to inform them that their sons or husbands are missing or killed in action. Let’s face it the likes of you and me wouldn’t communicate by telegram, it’s just too bloody expensive and we need all our money just to make ends meet.

  Anyway, looking at the telegraph boy's face confirmed my fears. It was bad news. I didn’t want to open it, but I had to. My landlady put her arm around my shoulders and with shaking hands I managed to fumble the envelope open to read:

  The US Army regrets to announce that your next of kin Memphis Jackson has been killed in action. Letter to follow.

  'Thank you, there’s no reply,' I managed to whisper to the boy.

  The lad mumbled, 'I'm sorry, so very sorry.'

  It seemed Memphis had put me down as his next of kin, before he left the camp, just in case. Well the just in case has happened.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself, nor what to say to the landlady who was as white as a sheet. She’d met Memphis several times and always said she thought he was a nice, polite boy who treated me well.

  ‘Why don’t you go back to bed,’ she said. ‘And I’ll bring you up a nice cuppa.’

  Stumbling up the stairs I did as I was told and went back to my room. I needed to be alone, to give me time to think. I curled up on the bed. I felt I had been physically assaulted, my stomach cramping and my head aching. I began clutching at straws. Perhaps it was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. After all, I had only received an airgraph from him the day before, telling me he was safe and well and that he was sending me a photograph by post as it couldn't be put on an airgraph.

  That's it, I thought. I'll look at the airgraph and check his service number. It had to be a mistake. I fumbled under the bed to find the shoe box where I kept all Memphis’ letters, photographs and keepsakes. I scrabbled through the box to check his service number, holding a letter in one hand and the telegram in the other. My worst fears were confirmed. The service number on the letter was the same as on the telegram.

  There was no mistake. I had to face it. Memphis really has gone.

  God knows what I’ll do now….

  It’s me. I’m back. As I hadn’t finished this letter to you, I thought I’d just carry on with it. I’ve made a decision after many sleepless nights and conversations with my landlady. I’ve decided to have the baby and then give him or her up for adoption. I can’t risk a back-street abortion that would kill my baby and probably me. The child deserves a normal life with loving parents. I can’t keep him. I can’t support him or me once the war is over. I’ll leave the factory and return home to what? No job, disapproving parents, the stigma of being an unmarried mother? No, the baby deserves better than that. I just hope Memphis would approve and not think too badly of me. If he’d have lived I could have borne anything with him by my side. But on my own? Well that’s a different matter altogether.

  I’ve spoken to my landlady and the local Church. She’s letting me stay with her and the Church have put me onto Dr Barnados, who are arranging to take the baby and will then arrange an adoption. I’ll carry on working as long as I can – up to delivery I suppose – and then return afterwards. The factory are okay with that too. I guess they need every hand they can get and even pregnant ones will do. One big plus coming out of all this is that I’m being moved to the administration offices. I’ve done a two year stint working with TNT and for health reasons they said it would be better if I moved away from the filling shed.

  In the meantime, I’ll just have to grin and bear it and keep talking to my beautiful baby asleep in my womb, telling him all about his father and how loved he is.

  Once again, please keep my secret deep inside your heart and tell no one. By the time I return from this dreaded war work, no one will be any the wiser.

  Xxx

  21

  Anne

  October 1942

  Dear Mum

  I’m not sure how much more of all this I can take. Explosions are pretty normal here, by day and night. I’m never sure if it’s from a Luftwaffe strike, or because of an accident at the factory. No one ever asks. And nothing is ever said. You just jump at the noise, which fills the air, the walls shake and sometimes the sound waves threaten to knock you over, but then you have to keep your head down and get on with the work. The machines can never stop. Not for anything or anyone.

  We had a new intake of girls the other day. I’m not sure if they were volunteers or conscripts. We were all walking towards the gate when a group of them stopped in front of us.

  The look on their faces was something else. The sight of the vast factory and the sulphur smell that comes from it, was all a bit too much. But it was the sound of the explosion that did it, I think. It wasn’t really loud, more of a whump than a bang, but it didn’t half frighten them. About 6 of them turned back at the gates and ran back down the road.

  Maybe they made the right decision, because later that day there was another explosion. It was during our break and I’ll never forget what happened next. The workhouse just collapsed like a house of cards and there was this bloke standing amongst the wreckage. His clothes were mostly torn off him, tendrils of smoke were rising from his hair and his skin was flayed red. He managed to take a few steps and then just toppled over. We all thought he was dead. But I found out later he survived. I don’t know how. It looked as though he was burned all over. I can’t get that image out of my head, but I guess I’ll have to. Lots of people have seen much worse and I can’t be seen to be a cry baby. But it’s not something I’ll ever forget.

  I’m so glad I’m being re-assigned to a different part of the factory. I’m going to the offices. Apparently its normal to move people when they’ve done two years in the filling sheds. It’s too dangerous to our health to keep us in there much longer than that. The work is just as monotonous, mind. I’m now officially a paper pusher!

  Love Anne.

  22

  Anne

  February 1943

  Dear Ada

  Sorry to not have been in touch. Thanks for your letters which I devour eagerly but I just haven’t had the strength to reply to. And anyway, I never know what to say. I’ve had no news, I’ve just been working and sleeping, working and sleeping, over and over like an automaton. I never go out, there’s no reason to. Life holds little excitement for me without Memphis. So, I just get on with the daily grind of living. The work in the factory seems to drain any energy I have. We’re working 12-hour shifts which seem endless. But there’s no point in complaining.

  I’ve found I’m not the only one this has happened to, being an unmarried, pregnant woman. I don’t get any sympathy. As soon as my pregnancy started to show, I was sent to Coventry. No one seems to want to be associated with a little tart like me. They don’t know what Memphis was like, how he loved me and that we were going to get married. But I don’t tell them any of that. It’s none of their business. I keep his memory alive in my heart and in the baby I’ve been carrying.

  I gave birth to a little girl yesterday. I’ve called her Heather, which is Memphis’ mother’s name. She came out a mixture of yellow and brown, but the doctor says that the yellow will disappear soon as it’s just a reaction to me working in the factory while I was pregnant. He assures me it won’t have done her any harm. I really hope he’s right.

  As soon as she was born she was taken from me. That was cruel beyond description. My arms, heart and breasts scream for her. The natural urge to mother my baby has been ripped apart and my body doesn’t know how to react. So now I have two concrete blocks on my chest that were once breasts designed to feed the baby I no longer have. I’ve been given tablets to get the milk to stop but it drips from my breasts like the tears that fall from my eyes.

  I’ve asked that she keeps the name I’ve given her and that myself and Memphis will be listed as her parents, but I’ve no idea if that will happen. I’ve no idea what her new parents will call her. No idea who they are, what they’re like, or where they live.
I can only hope I’ve done the right thing and that they will give her a better life than I ever could. I can only hope that her new mother will love her as much as I do.

  I’m not sure there’s any point in carrying on. But then I think of my own mother and there’s no way I could inflict my death upon her. Committing suicide would be an act of supreme selfishness, which I’m not capable of.

  Mind you, I’ve never been so unhappy or felt so alone.

  Xxx

  23

  Anderson was still reeling from the revelation in the interview with Paul Dean, as he and Crane drove to Frimley Park Hospital to attend Jill Dean’s autopsy.

  ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I know, Crane, it’s just that…’

  ‘Paul Dean has the perfect motive for wanting his brother and sister dead.’

  ‘Yes, he has. But it still doesn’t gel with the man I know Paul to be. He is so honest, straight, always tries to do the best thing, the right thing. He looks after the company and his employees. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘That’s why you need me. An impartial investigator. I told you before…’

  ‘I’m too close, I know,’ snapped Anderson.

  ‘I bet that’s why Paul Dean was so keen for you to be SIO. Because of your history, you’ll never accept his guilt. Always think the best of him.’

  Crane had parked the car around the back of the hospital, near to the morgue and he turned off the engine, turning to face Anderson. ‘You have to admit that revelation is pretty damning. It looks like he was desperate to keep the company in the family, but with Jill and Kevin voting against him, he would have lost the battle and the company would have been taken public. Now it’s all his and he can do what he wants with it.’