“A young girl has been found wandering around Ash Ranges.”
Anderson paused, making Diane even more interested than she was already. Stories about children sold newspapers and in the age of on-line free news, she was constantly on the look-out for dynamic stories that would sell paper copies of the Aldershot News.
“And?”
“And we don’t know who she is or where she’s come from.”
“Blimey,” Diane said. “So what do you want from me?”
“We were hoping you’d do a bit of a spread to help us identify the girl.”
Inside Diane was doing a jig of happiness, whilst trying to keep her face fairly neutral. A great story was being handed to her on a plate, what could be better? “Together with an editorial comment?”
Anderson paused for a moment, as though he were considering her request.
“I don’t think I can do one without the other,” Diane pressed.
“Let’s talk about that after I give you the details.”
Diane pretended to give consideration to this suggestion, tapping the end of her pencil against her teeth. Even though Diane always recorded any interviews on her mobile phone, she still liked the security of pencil and paper. The thought that her phone may get stolen, or broken thus losing valuable information, was too awful to contemplate, but not outside the realms of possibility. As Chief Reporter for the Aldershot News, and having climbed the ladder of the local newspaper world, she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
Over the years she had applied for a few jobs on national newspapers, but found that once there she would have been a junior, treated like a numpty who didn’t know anything, a small fish in a big pond. In Aldershot she was a big fish in a small pond, a state of affairs much more to her liking. Her eye was on the job of Deputy Editor of the newspaper group, which was currently held by a crabby man who was due to retire in six months and she was determined that her name would soon be on the door of his office.
After nodding her agreement to Anderson, he then outlined the case, which proved to be even more interesting than Diane had first thought.
“So, just to make it perfectly clear,” said Diane when Anderson finished. “There is a girl who you need to identify. But equally important you also need the marks on her arms explained.”
“Yes, we’re hoping that someone may have seen such symbols before, or know someone who has those symbols on them.”
“What do the police think they are?”
Anderson didn’t reply.
“Come on, Derek, you must have some idea.”
“We aren’t commenting on the symbols.”
Diane pulled the photographs closer to her and mulled them over. Why would someone do that? What did they mean? “Is that an upside down cross?” she asked, pointing to something near the top of the girl’s left arm.
“I have no idea,” Anderson said.
“Are you sure?” Diane looked at him closely. “It seems to me that some of these marks are familiar. Look at this one. Isn’t it a pentagram?”
But Anderson still refused to look at the symbol she was pointing at. Which told her far more than any words could. As she wasn’t sure how far she could push him, she didn’t say anything else about the strange symbols on the girl’s arms, but she now had an angle for her editorial piece. After all she couldn’t ignore a potential case of Devil worship in Aldershot.
7
Crane clumped his way into the sitting room. “That was a lovely dinner, Tina,” he said. “I’ve loaded the dishwasher.”
“Um, thanks,” she replied, trying to give the impression that she was caught-up in the latest episode of one of the many soap operas she watched.
She glanced up as Crane lowered himself gingerly into an armchair next to the settee where she was sitting. As she’d anticipated he started looking for a distraction from what he always described as ‘the boringly over-acted dramas that were so far from the truth it was laughable’. She heard the rustle of paper and smiled as he had obviously grabbed the local newspaper that she had deliberately placed on the table next to his chair, left open at a large article talking about a girl that had been found wandering in the woods, written by his nemesis Diane Chambers, which she hoped would interest him.
As she settled into the settee while he read the paper, she glanced around the cosy sitting room. The yellow and terracotta fabric three piece suite contrasted nicely with the warm cream walls. A rusty red rug covered the beige carpet in the middle of the room and a restored Victorian fireplace with beautiful hand painted tiles was the focal point. It was so very different from their modern 3 bed detached house on the Garrison. After Tom had had his accident and was out of the army, they’d had to give up their Garrison property and had moved back into their own house in Ash, just outside of Aldershot. Luckily the contract they’d had with a family who were renting the house had been about to expire, so Tina and Tom decided it was best not to renew it and move back home.
She was glad to be back, even if Tom wasn’t. Not that he hated the house, he didn’t. He hated being out of the army. But for Tina it was good to have her own things around her and she was particularly pleased that her garden had survived the rental. Nearly 100’ long it was split into sections, a lawn area, a play area and a vegetable plot at the end. Daniel was loving it already, taking particular delight in running up and down the length of it on his still toddler-chubby legs.
She was back at work at a local bank, which had done wonders for her self-esteem and Daniel was going to a day-nursery. They’d talked about Crane looking after Daniel at home but what with physiotherapy and rehabilitation and him being unable to get around nimbly, it seemed best to keep Daniel out of the house during the day.
As Crane grunted at something in the article, Tina said, “Diane Chambers strikes again eh?”
“What?”
“I said it is yet another inflammatory article by Diane Chambers.” Tina pushed her dark, straight hair behind her ears as she looked at her husband. Her long locks had been chopped off into a short bob ending just above her shoulders. Much more practical for a busy working mother.
“Bloody stupid woman,” Crane grumbled. “Just look at that headline – Devil Worship Comes to Aldershot. She does far more harm than good. Derek needs to be more careful when dealing with her.”
“Oh, so you think its Derek Anderson’s case then?”
“Probably, but whatever,” he shrugged.
“Intriguing, though, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“That poor girl. I wonder where she came from? What could have happened to her?”
Crane folded the newspaper and put it back on the table.
“So you’re not interested then? Not even a little bit?” Tina pressed.
“Jesus, Tina, don’t you understand yet? I’m out! No more investigating. No more army. No more Aldershot Police. For Christ’s sake,” he shouted and picked up the paper and poked it at her across the space between them. “And you can stop playing your stupid games. I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work.”
Crane struggled out of his chair and grabbed his stick.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To throw away this piece of rubbish and get a beer.”
As he stomped out of the room, Tina wiped her suddenly tear-filled eyes. She wasn’t feeling sorry for herself, but for her proud husband, who’d had everything he held dear torn from him. She had to try and get him interested in something. She’d hoped an intriguing case would have done the trick, but it appeared not. She’d just have to think of another way. Tom wasn’t getting off with it that easily. Throwing a childish tantrum and storming off was something Daniel would do and was behaviour unbecoming a Sgt Major. She grinned at the army speak. Having protested at moving to the Garrison a couple of years ago when she found out she was pregnant, she now, to her surprise, found that she missed it. The wives had turned out to be good company and proved to be good friends
when she’d needed them most and had been diagnosed with post natal depression after Daniel’s birth. So she did understand her husband’s pain, both physical and mental. There had to be a way forward for him and she was determined to find it. Maybe it was time for a phone call to Derek Anderson.
8
Standing outside the Victorian terrace that housed his friend and latter-day partner in crime detection, Anderson paused, taking deep breaths to prepare himself for whatever mood Crane was in. He had never given up on Crane, no matter the bad moods, the shouting or the abuse thrown at him. He understood that the accident must have been an almighty blow to his friend. It came without warning and as a result it seemed that Crane couldn’t come to terms with it.
With determination in every step Anderson walked up to the rich red door and grabbed the brass lion knocker, rapping it firmly. As he heard Crane thumping his way to the door, he arranged his features into a positive smile; a smile that waivered when he saw Crane’s face. Dark clouds seemed to cover Crane’s features and it wasn’t just the whiskers on his un-shaven chin. His once bright, piercing blue eyes were dulled and he appeared to be clinging onto his stick as though afraid someone would steal it.
“Oh, it’s you,” Crane said and turned and walked back into the depths of the house, leaving the door open. Taking that as a cue to enter, Anderson followed Crane to the kitchen, after leaving the carrier bag he was carrying on the hall table.
“Make yourself useful then,” Crane indicated the kettle as he struggled to sit in one of the chairs arranged around a large farmhouse-type pine table.
Pushing down his instinct to help Crane, a move he knew from past experience would only provoke, not aid, he said, “How’s things?” as he filled the kettle and grabbed two cups from the cupboard. He was very familiar with Crane’s kitchen, having visited many times during Crane’s convalescence, whether his presence was appreciated or not.
“How do you think?” Crane grumbled.
“Same old, same old, eh?”
“Pretty much.”
“How’s the physiotherapy going? Is that where you’ve been today?” Anderson indicated Crane’s blue sweat pants and white tee-shirt.
“Yes and for your information it was bloody painful.”
“Yes, well it will be, but it will be worth it in the end.”
Crane didn’t bother to comment and seemed to slip into a sullen silence as Anderson finished his chore.
“Did you see the local paper?” Anderson asked as he put the two mugs of coffee on the table.
“Why?”
“There was a big article in there by Diane Chambers about my latest case.”
“Ha!” Crane barked. “It was just her usual bluster and bullshit, so I put it where it belonged, in the rubbish bin.”
“But there was a kernel of truth in it as well.” Anderson kept his voice light when what he really wanted to do was to shout at his friend telling him to get a grip and cheer up. “I really do have a mystery girl.”
“So?” Crane grabbed his coffee and blew across the top of it before taking a tentative sip.
“So I’m hitting a bit of a brick wall. Well, a bloody big wall, actually. I’ve no leads, nothing.”
“Can’t Staff Sgt Williams help? After all he is in charge now. At least so I hear. I was told he’d got his old rank back and is in charge of my old team.”
Anderson could hear the bitterness in Crane’s voice, which was more than a bit of a worry. Depression, yes. Anger, suppose so. But, bitterness? He had to try and turn his friend away from going down that particular road.
“No, it’s nothing to do with Billy. We can’t find a military link and no one from the Garrison has reported a child missing, so it doesn’t fall within his remit. Have you seen him?”
“Who?”
“Billy, of course.”
“No, why should I?”
“Because you were friends as well as colleagues.”
“I taught him everything he knows. He was lucky to have worked for me.”
“Exactly, so you should be proud that you’ve handed the Special Investigations Branch team over to such a competent soldier and investigator.”
“Suppose so.”
“Definitely so. Come on, Crane, you’ve touched many people’s lives and done a lot of good.”
“How do you work that one out?”
Anderson sighed inside. He seemed to have embarked on an uphill conversation and was fearful that he might say the wrong thing. As usual.
“Think of all the cases you’ve solved, the people you’ve brought to justice.”
Crane didn’t reply, just kept on sipping his coffee.
Anderson said, “You saved Billy and those children; caught a terrorist and a rapist; uncovered a corruption…”
Crane interrupted, “Yes, and I failed to save a child, failed to save the Colonel’s wife and found the Major’s wife dead.”
“For God’s sake, Crane, stop being so morbid.”
“Why? I can be whatever the hell I want to be.”
“Okay, sorry,” Anderson tried to pacify Crane.
“I’m sick to death of people telling me what I should and shouldn’t do and how I should feel. Alright?” Crane slammed his mug down, spilling some of the liquid onto the table. “Now look what you’ve made me do!”
“Let me do that,” Anderson grabbed the mug and cleaned the table with some paper towels.
“You may as well go now,” said Crane once the mess was cleaned up.
“Why?” Anderson asked after throwing the sodden paper into the bin.
“Because I’m sure you’ve got lots to do, most of which is more important than sitting here with me, such as working on your mystery girl case, that I’m not in the least bit interested in. And anyway I’ve got to take my tablets and it’s time for my rest.”
“You sure?”
Anderson got a glare in reply.
“Alright, I’ll be off then. Take care and I’ll be back soon.”
“Oh joy,” Crane shouted to Anderson’s back as he walked down the hall.
Anderson raised his hand in goodbye, and then left the house, deliberately leaving his carrier bag behind.
9
Blake put his hands on either side of his back and bent forwards and backwards, trying to loosen the knots in his spine from leaning over and decorating human flesh all day. He pulled the latex ink-spattered gloves off his hands and began to tidy up his workspace. The last punter had just left and his wife, Mimi, was locking up. His feet were killing him and he was sure she’d bought him the wrong sized boots, even though she insisted she hadn’t, and his jeans were falling off him as he’d forgotten to put on a belt that morning. All in all he was glad the day was over.
Walking over to the reception desk of his shop, Totland Tattoos, Blake saw the local paper open on the counter. He scanned the headline, Devil Worship Comes To Aldershot and grinned. He was well used to the overblown articles that periodically appeared in the paper. He skim-read the several column inches devoted to the story. Apparently a young girl had been found, nearly naked, wandering around on Ash Ranges. It seemed she was unable to speak, so the police had no idea who she was. He didn’t recognise her, so he didn’t bother to read the rest.
“Seen the paper?” Mimi called from the back room where she was making tea.
“Yeah, why?”
Mimi appeared, carrying two mismatched cups without saucers. “They want to know about some of the marks on the girl.”
“What marks?” Blake drew the paper to him once again.
Mimi put the cups down and pointed to a picture that accompanied the article. “Those ones.”
Blake was glad he hadn’t yet picked up his tea, as he would certainly have dropped it in shock.
“You alright?” Mimi asked. “You’ve gone all pale.”
“I did it.”
“You did what?” she asked, pushing her wild blond curls out of her eyes.
“See that sign?”
“Well, I put it on a bloke a couple of months ago.”
“Never!”
“I’m sure I did.”
“Right,” Mimi said and turned over her mobile phone which was sat next to her cup. “Best call the coppers then.”
“Whoa, hold on a minute, girl,” Blake said.
“Why? Look it says here you can call the Crime Stoppers line in complete confidence.”
“But why should I help the coppers? Don’t forget that most of our clients are, shall we say, not good friends with the police.” Blake shivered in his thin black tee-shirt sporting a large picture of the rock band Metallica, at the horrific thought of losing his shop. “If they get wind of the fact that I’m helping the police, then it could be the end of the business.”
“Don’t be so stupid,” she said. “You have to do something. Look at the picture of that poor child? How can you not help find out what happened to her? And anyway, isn’t there some law or other about perverting the course of justice?”
“Don’t be so daft, woman.”
“I’m not being daft, Blake. What happens if they find out you were involved and you hadn’t told them first?”
“Involved? I’m not bloody involved. I had nothing to do with anything. All I did was put a bloody tattoo on some bloke’s arm.”
“Well, its best you tell them that first isn’t it, before they find out for themselves.”
“Oh bloody hell, alright, but mark my words they’ll want to come and interview us and I don’t want them coming when we’re open.”
Blake ran his hands over his shaven head and absently scratched at the scab of a new tattoo on his neck as he contemplated an un-wanted meeting with the police. But the bloody woman was right, he supposed. If it had been anyone other than Mimi telling him what to do, he would have protested and won. But she was too determined, too forthright and he loved her for it. For without those qualities they wouldn’t have the shop and a very nice living thank you very much. So, out of love for his wife, he supposed he’d better go along with it.
Death Rites Page 3