Death Rites

by Wendy Cartmell

  But once inside, there was a transformation. The shop was spotlessly clean and tiled from floor to ceiling. The room smelled of bleach mingling with dry cleaning fluid and the temperature inside was significantly warmer than outside.

  Crane introduced himself and Douglas and then showed the owner of the business, Mrs Bright, the ticket which was still in the evidence bag. “Is this one of your tickets?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, that’s one of ours.”

  “Could you tell me who the customer was?”

  “Should be able to,” she said and pulled a paperback book from under the counter. She quickly found the correct ticket number and said, “We always take a name and phone number and this one is in the name of Bullock. Here,” she turned the book around and pushed it towards Crane.

  He looked at it, with Douglas peering from his position beside Crane.

  “Do you know the customer in question?”

  “Oh yes, Mr Bullock is a regular customer. A policeman of some sort I think. Always very nice and so is his wife. They regularly bring in Mr Bullock’s suits.”

  “Is that what this ticket is for? A suit?”

  “I’ll go and get it for you,” she said.

  After a brief pause she returned, holding a suit by the coat hanger it was placed on. The suit was encased in a plastic wrapper with a note attached to it with a safety pin.

  “What’s that,” asked Douglas, pointing to the note.

  She expertly swung the suit onto the table and laid it out flat.

  Mrs Bright read the note. “Ah, yes, I remember now,” she said. “When Mr Bullock brought the suit in he arrived just after 9 am. I’d just opened up. The suit smelled terribly of petrol and smoke. You know that bonfire type of smell?”

  Crane nodded.

  “It was so strong I asked him what had happened. I needed to know, you see, because the type of stain depends on how we clean it.”

  “And what did he say?”

  Crane couldn’t believe what was happening. He was leaning in slightly towards Mrs Bright and her counter, his fingers mentally crossed. Could this be what they had been waiting for?

  “He said he’d been involved in a house fire. It had been started with petrol and he’d tried to rescue the occupants.”

  “And who were the occupants, did he say?”

  “Oh, yes, he told me all about them. They were his parents in law, Mr and Mrs Underwood, but they hadn’t made it unfortunately.”

  Crane was sure that by now his eyes were out on stalks.

  “I offered my condolences, but there was something a bit strange about his reaction.”

  “Which was?” Douglas croaked.

  “It was as if he was glad they were dead, not sad. He said not to worry, that when it’s your time, it’s your time. Then he gave me a big smile and left.”

  Crane could have kissed her. Now he had something to take to Anderson – a clear link between the fire and the petrol and Bullock.

  72

  As Anderson’s voice was still very much hit and miss, it fell to Crane to give Diane Chambers an interview, which was the quid pro quo arranged with her for the splash in the Aldershot News on the missing girl. It was essentially a summary of the case. Diane sat there, with her mobile and note book, but Crane noticed she no longer wore her trademark jeans, tee-shirt and checked shirt over it. Instead she was wearing a trouser suit. The white tee-shirt was still very much in evidence though, underneath her smarter outer wear. Maybe Diane was getting serious about her career in her old age, thought Crane. But he decided to keep those observations to himself. The last thing he needed was to inadvertently rub her up the wrong way. The subsequent fall-out would be too costly.

  When they’d finished, or Crane hoped they had, she relaxed and leaned back in her chair. “So you’re working for the police now then, Crane? That’s a news story in itself you know, Sgt Major.”

  “You don’t need to use my title, Diane. I’m not in the army anymore.”

  “Clearly, but I’m sure my readers would want to know why you’re not? In what capacity are you working for the police?”

  Crane felt like scowling, but instead tried very hard to put on a happy face, as though the questions didn’t bother him. “Don’t you dare, Diane, don’t you dare go there,” he said in what he hoped was a jokey voice, but rather thought it wasn’t.

  Chambers was quick to pick up on it. “Oh, are you sure? Maybe I won’t mention it if there’s anything else I could put it in its place? Another story related to this one maybe? One that would push a piece about you off the page?”

  Crane hated Diane’s ability to outmanoeuvre people and manipulate conversations and change answers to give her the one she wanted in the first place. Crane pretended to think, although he’d had a suspicion before they met that it would come to this.

  “How about this instead? You could praise Blake and Mimi from Totlands Total Tattoo. Their two their calls to us about sulphur tattoos that customers had requested, really helped the enquiry. And I’m sure they’d appreciate the publicity.”

  Actually Crane privately thought that Blake wouldn’t want to be publically associated with the police, but hey if there was going to be a fall guy, it certainly wasn’t going to be him.

  73

  A celebration of sorts was taking place at Crane’s house. He and Tina had invited Derek and his wife Jean to dinner and much to his relief there were no major crimes to be investigated that night, to ruin the celebratory meal.

  Anderson pushed his plate away and said, “Tina, that was wonderful. I’m sure I’ve consumed too many calories, but what the heck.”

  Crane was pleased to hear his friend’s voice had become stronger, only cracking occasionally and when it did Anderson normally disguised it with a cough, although he wasn’t really fooling anyone.

  Jean reached for the wine bottle. “Refill anyone?” to which they all nodded. No one had to drive that night as Derek and Jean were to go home in a taxi at the end of the evening.

  “How are you feeling now, Derek?” Tina asked.

  “Much better thanks, a bit frustrated with the old voice, but the doctors say it’ll come back stronger than ever, but I’ve not to speak much in the meantime.”

  “Thank goodness,” spoke up Jean. “The house is much quieter without Derek shouting at the kids.”

  “How can you say that, woman,” Derek said and they all laughed at his mock outrage. “Anyway there’s something else to celebrate, other than the closing of the case.”

  “There is?” asked Crane.

  “Jean you’re not?” said Tina.

  Jean shook her head. “No, this one is nothing to do with me.”

  “Come on then, Derek,” said Tina. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  “You’re retiring,” guessed Crane.

  “No chance, you’ll not get rid of me that easily. No, it’s to do with you, Crane.”

  Crane’s heart sank. It was probably some sort of commendation for helping with the case. But that was not what he wanted at all.

  “You were such a help with the case and got on so well with everyone, especially DC Douglas, that Grimes and I had a few words.”

  “Which were?” said Tina.

  Derek reached into his inside pocket. “This is for you, Crane.”

  Crane took the long white envelope with his name typed on it, but didn’t open it. Just stared at it.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Derek, stop it,” said Jean bumping his arm. “Just tell us will you?”

  Derek grinned. “We’ve created a new post. Criminal Consultant to the Major Crimes team, which consists of myself, DC Douglas and Holly. And the first incumbent of the post is Sgt Major Crane (Retired).”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Oh my God, Tom,” said Tina.

  “You alright with this?” Crane asked her.

  “More than alright, love,” she said taking his hand.

  Crane took a deep breath and said, “In t
hat case, thank you, Derek. I accept.”

  Raising his glass in a toast, Crane decided that perhaps life really was looking up after all. But as though not to be outdone, a sudden pain shot all the way down from his hip to his ankle.

  The End

  Death Element

  As Oscar Wilde put it

  “All men kill the thing they love.”

  The Crane and Anderson partnership continues…

  The papers call him the Choker. Crane and Anderson call him a sadomasochist. But whatever his name is, the Major Crimes team have to find him. And fast. Because time is running out. It won’t be long before he kills again.

  Available from Amazon now.

  Continue reading for an excerpt…

  Boy

  You’d be surprised how still I can sit. I’m doing it now. My bottom is on the floor, my knees are pulled up and my arms wrapped around them. I’m watching a spider. A big, black, fat one. He’s just behind that rock. He came out once, but I frightened him by moving, so he ran away and I had to start over. I won’t make that mistake again. I can wait for ages and ages.

  Here he comes. I can see one black leg poking out. Here comes another and another. A spider has eight legs. I learned that at school. I like school, it’s interesting. I’m not like some of the other children. They mess about, don’t concentrate and don’t try their hardest. I always try my hardest. Daddy makes sure of that. Daddy helped me to learn to sit still. He said I was a terrible wriggler, so he tied me to a chair until I stopped. He doesn’t have to tie me down anymore. I can sit still for ages, until he tells me I can get down. It makes me feel funny inside. I quite like that feeling. So I do as I’m told.

  I can see the spider’s body now. He’s inching his way out from his hiding place, his legs reaching out ahead of him, making sure there’s nothing in his way. And there isn’t. Not really. Only my little hand and if I keep it still enough he’ll crawl right onto it.

  The spider is climbing onto my hand now. One leg, two. He’s an old slow coach but I can wait. Nearly there…

  My fingers curl over his body, trapping him inside my hand. Got him!

  I hold the spider’s body between my finger and thumb, leaving his legs dangling in the air. Now I can count them. The first leg comes off easily, making him wriggle even more. He isn’t as good as being still as I am. As I pull off each leg I sing quietly to myself…

  Incy wincy spider…

  Aldershot Mail Online

  Murder

  An unknown male, dubbed the Choker, is being sought by police, after a body was found yesterday in an apartment in Aldershot. The woman, yet to be positively identified, is thought to have been found tied to the bed, with a silk scarf around her neck. Due to the sexual nature of the crime, police believe she could have been partaking in ‘breath control play’ also known as ‘scarfing’, a highly dangerous practice where the brain is deprived of oxygen, in order to enhance sexual stimulation and pleasure. They are awaiting the results of the post mortem, which will take place today.

  A local expert explained: “Breath control play is more properly known as asphyxiophilia. I personally know two members of my SM community who went to prison for manslaughter, after their partners died during breath control play. The act of asphyxiation is extremely dangerous. Cutting off oxygen to the brain can lead to brain damage or even death. It is highly recommended that this sexual practice be avoided at all costs. What happens is that the more the play is prolonged, the greater the odds that a cardiac arrest will occur.”

  It is unknown how many people currently engage in this activity, which in itself is not illegal - just the possible outcome.

  We believe Aldershot Police will be holding a press conference later today, when they hope to release the name of the victim and the results of the post mortem.

  Crane

  “A local expert!” snorted Anderson as he threw his tablet across the table and ran his hand over his hair, trying to tame the wisps of grey that should have covered his bald spot, but never did.

  Crane winced and caught it just as it teetered on the edge. “Careful, Derek,” he admonished. “Your tablet isn’t as robust as the files of paper you normally chuck around. You need to be more careful with the technology that we’ve been given, otherwise all your budget will be taken up with repairs and replacements.”

  “Well!” Anderson glared at Crane, in an amusing role reversal of their emotional traits, at least amusing in Crane’s eyes.

  But he was careful not to smile. DI Derek Anderson of the Hampshire Police Major Crimes Team (effectively his boss) seemed to be acting more like his civilian consultant (Sgt Major Crane Retired ex-army SIB investigator) in his anger and mannerisms. The current focus of his derision was the latest article by the new editor of the Aldershot News, Diane Cambers. Online. The day after they had found the dead girl and when no formal announcement had been made about the murder.

  “She is obviously taking full advantage of modern communication methods, now she’s editor,” Crane said, indicating the home page of the Aldershot News On-Line.

  “Yes, but who is her source?” Anderson looked through the office window at the rest of his team.

  “It could be anyone, Derek. It’s not necessarily one of ours, but it could be any neighbour, paramedic, or member of the hospital staff, including the morgue assistants.”

  It still seemed strange to Crane, to think of the civilian police as ‘one of ours’. After nearly 22 years in the British Army it had taken quite a while for the adjustment in his circumstances to begin to appear normal.

  “Yeah, alright, I get it. The possibilities are endless.”

  “Exactly.” Crane pulled up the cuff of his white shirt and glanced at his watch. “Anyway, are you ready for the off?”

  “What?” Anderson seemed momentarily confused. “Oh, right, the autopsy.” He stood and began to collect his things, stuffing his phone and his keys into the pocket of his tweed jacket. “Not that we really need to go, Diane Chambers seems to have all the facts at her finger tips,” he grumbled. “I’m sure we can read all about the post mortem online later.”

  “Oh cheer up,” Crane said, grabbing his stick and levering himself up from his chair. “Look, the sun is shining; it’s a beautiful day…”

  “And we’re going to spend the rest of it watching Major Martin slice up a beautiful young girl who didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Well, when you put it that way.”

  “I do,” said Derek, pulling open the office door. “I do.”

  “So, is it true then, boss?” DC Ciaran Douglas addressed both men as Crane and Anderson arrived back at Aldershot Police Station from their visit to Frimley Park Hospital.

  “Is what true?” Crane asked, although he suspected he knew full well what Douglas was talking about.

  “The Choker? Is that how she was killed? What did Major Martin say?”

  “I’ve been looking up asphyxiophilia, guv,” Holly their computer analyst butted in. “I’m collecting lots of background information for you.”

  “Oh, joy,” was Derek’s response. “Get the coffees in, Ciaran, and we’ll talk about it in my office.”

  Since the formation of a major crimes team, consisting of DI Anderson, Tom Crane, DC Ciaran Douglas and computer expert Holly Abbott, Anderson had been allocated a larger office, which was big enough to contain a conference table and, at Crane’s insistence, a large white board all along one wall. Douglas and Holly sat outside at desks facing each other. Holly’s was crammed with various pieces of technical equipment that Crane neither knew the names of, nor understood how they worked. Crane himself had a desk on the other side of Anderson’s door. He still wasn’t used to not having an office of his own and as a result spent far more time in Anderson’s than he really should do.

  Holly Abbott, a computer sciences graduate, had joined the police, as she put it, ‘to put her skills to good use, rather than helping capitalists make even more money than they already had, or by devel
oping new products that people couldn’t live without and paid an absolute fortune for’. Crane definitely got that point of view, having a young son who was growing up fast and would inevitably want the latest devices before long. Her brown shoulder length hair was pulled into two plaits. Nothing strange about that. But when you added a startling blue fringe and pink sides, it started to look rather avant-garde. Her long sleeved tee-shirt in muddy green matched the colour of her many-pocketed cargo pants. She was painfully thin and rather studious in her large black framed glasses. She never drank coffee, only green tea, or some blended mush or other that sat in the fridge quietly fermenting.

  DC Ciaran Douglas, quite trendy in his slim trousers and knitted ties, which mostly never matched his shirt, was a police graduate on a fast track career path. Aged in his mid-twenties, he looked younger than that, at least to Crane and Anderson. Bringing to the party the new policing methods and being fresh out of Hendon, Douglas now needed on the job experience.

  Crane had to acknowledge that he and Anderson were dinosaurs by comparison to the two bright young things, but as a team, the four complimented each other. Age and experience versus the brave new world and technologically savvy younger members.

  By the time Douglas came in balancing a tray with four mugs on it, Anderson indicated to Crane that he should start the briefing.

  Dressed in his usual work uniform of black suit and white shirt and leaning on his stick, courtesy of the injury that had invalided him out of the British Army, he began, “Well, Major Martin, our friendly local medical examiner, is definitely floating the idea of asphyxiophilia being the main contributor to Sally Sawyer’s death.”