40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Page 13

  “Sorry, I don’t do off the record chats. Now if you’ll excuse me?” Crane made to step forward, but was stopped by Diane turning sideways and leaning backwards onto one police car, with her legs stretched out and feet nearly touching the wheel of the one next to it. Her legs were clad in their usual denim, but today her feet sported sandals. Seemingly her only concession to the July heat, as she was also wearing a white tee shirt under a partially open checked shirt.

  “In that case, I’ll chat and you listen.”

  Realising he was defeated for the moment, Crane continued to smoke his cigarette.

  “You see,” she said, “I was sitting at my desk this morning thinking about the increased security at the garrison and that got me wondering about the Afghan officers who are currently in New Mons Barracks.” She paused for dramatic effect, staring straight at him.

  Crane struggled to keep his face blank.

  “It seems more logical, don’t you think, Sergeant Major, that there could be a link between them and this lock down. Personally, I think all this talk about thefts from the stores is just a smoke screen. As ineffectual as the smoke from your cigarette.”

  Crane looked at the butt in his hand and quickly threw it on the ground.

  “Any comment now, Sergeant Major?” Diane smiled, obviously very pleased with herself.

  “None whatsoever. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh but I think you do.” Diane straightened up and turned to face Crane. “You’re in charge of security on the garrison at the moment aren’t you?”

  Crane didn’t answer the rhetorical question.

  “So therefore you know the location and movement of everyone on the garrison. Surely, it can’t have escaped your notice that there are a handful of, shall we say, unusual visitors?”

  Forcing himself to relax Crane smiled. “Sorry, Diane, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Security has been increased on the garrison due to a number of thefts. I’m afraid that, as usual, you’ve heard some incorrect rumours and put two and two together to make five.”

  “Not this time, Crane. I have my sources on the garrison and I’ve heard this piece of information more than once,” she gestured to the ever present recorder in her hand. “So, I can confidently do a piece on possible terrorists in our midst.”

  Crane realised his fists were clenched at his side, just as Anderson’s had been a few minutes earlier. Forcing himself to uncurl them, he crossed his arms and asked, “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? The people of Aldershot have a right to know what’s going on. That they could be in terrible danger.”

  Crane could see the screaming headlines and rhetoric that would drip off Diane Chamber’s poisonous pen. But the question was - how to deal with her?

  “What do you want, Diane?” he sighed.

  “An in-depth interview with you, about how the garrison dealt with having Team GB and then the Paralympians on site. That way I get a double page spread. The one I should have got last year, only you reneged on the deal.”

  “I was ill in hospital, as you very well know.”

  “That’s as may be. But this gives you a chance to make up for it.”

  “And you’ll wait until the Paralympians have gone?”

  “Of course, Sergeant Major,” triumph gleamed in her eyes. “See you in a couple of weeks then,” she called as she wove her way through the car park and disappeared inside her battered VW Beetle.

  Crane made a mental note to have Captain Edwards call the editor of the Aldershot Mail, just in case Diane Chambers decided to go back on their apparent deal. If she did write such a piece, the Captain would ensure the editor pulled it, in the interests of national security, never mind Aldershot security. Edwards would also make sure the editor rejected any idea she may have of writing a piece on security arrangements for the Olympians. After all, no one was allowed access to that kind of information, particularly not the press. Her editor would understand the need to keep such things under wraps, even if his naive young reporter didn’t. He hoped. As Crane went to his car, he checked the time on his wristwatch, noticing the date. Doing a quick calculation, he found he still had seventeen days to go. Seventeen more days of chaos.

  Night 24

  Padam could sense the tension in the air on the garrison. It was a palpable thing. He could feel it on his skin and taste it in his mouth. Could see the strain on the soldiers’ faces as they held their weapons just a little too tightly, the whites of their knuckles clearly visible. Saw the way they rolled their necks to release pent up anxiety. Apprehension in their eyes as they waited for the next person to come up to the barrier, requesting either access or exit from the garrison.

  Padam strolled up to a barrier, to see what would happen if he attempted to walk through, instead of infiltrating the garrison through little known gaps in the security. He was instantly dismissed as a threat. In fact, instantly dismissed full stop. No one even wanted to look in his Tesco carrier bag. The soldiers waved him through, as though trying to be rid of him as quickly as possible. Other people waiting in the queue looked through him as if he was invisible. But he was used to that. It was clear the residents of Aldershot didn’t quite know what to make of Padam and his friends. They couldn’t communicate with them, as they didn’t understand them and vice versa. But it seemed to be more than a language barrier. It was more that they didn’t seem to understand why they were in their midst at all. So they did what most people do to those they don’t understand. Ignore them. Pretend they’re not there.

  Once inside, Padam was still ignored. The focus seemed to be on the barriers, the normal ways in and out. It was as though everyone was looking outward and not thinking about who was actually around and why. So Padam was able to stroll along Queens Avenue, up towards the sports centre. But, as he came to the road that led to the centre itself, he found armed guards at the barrier. So he doubled back and entered the grounds from a more oblique angle. After all he had no legitimate reason for going to the sports centre and the only people being allowed through were the athletes and vital members of their entourage.

  Settling down in his favourite clump of trees, Padam opened his carrier bag and enjoyed a small picnic of fresh fruit that a market trader had casually thrown to him earlier in the day. As he looked more closely at the apple and banana, he saw they were badly bruised. But it was of no matter. Fruit was fruit whichever way you looked at it. He also had a small bottle of water. An old bottle he’d filled from the tap in the flat. It tasted stale and a bit metallic, but he soon got used to it.

  As night fell, he became more conscious of his vulnerability and lay down on the ground after making a bed of leaves. He pulled the army greatcoat over himself, making sure he tucked his carrier bag under the coat by his leg. Suitably disguised he settled down to wait.

  He thought he was asleep and dreaming when he saw his son, walking, no running, crouched over with a bundle of wood clasped in his arms. Knowing it couldn’t possibly be his son, he shook his head, blinked his eyes and then pinched his arm for good measure. But the figure was still there, steadily gaining ground on the sports centre. As he focused, Padam saw it was the smudge. And it wasn’t carrying wood, but long bundles that resembled sticks. It was also carrying something else, a tin or bucket, dangling by the handle from one of its hands.

  As Padam expected, the smudge stopped half way down the side of the sports centre wall. It paused for a moment probably making sure it was alone and unobserved, Padam surmised, before disappearing as before. Morphing into the wall.

  It was nearly dawn by the time the smudge reappeared. Padam, bored and stiff nearly missed the fleeting figure as it raced towards the safety of a clump of bushes. Without it’s bundle of sticks.

  Day 25

  It was the smell that hit Crane first. Then the heat. Then the noise. There were over fifty elderly Gurkhas in the open plan office space in Aldershot Police Station, along with police officers, Roya
l Military Police and interpreters. Interviews were being conducted at four tables with long lines of Gurkhas waiting for their turn. Military and civilian police were going along each line taking names and inspecting documents.

  Crane watched the moving piles of old clothes. It seemed that some of the elderly men were wearing every stitch of clothing they owned, despite the oppressive heat in the room from the sheer number of bodies. Others wore little, their shirts and trousers hanging off their emaciated limbs, old sandals covering bare feet. It looked like a scene from Belsen.

  Threading through the crowd Crane escaped into Anderson’s office.

  “Happy now?” Anderson asked as Crane walked through the door.

  “Jesus Christ, Derek…I’ve never seen anything like it.” Crane sat and put his elbows on his knees but the images had followed him into the sanctuary of the office.

  “Well, so much for Captain Edwards’ theory. This lot couldn’t steal a box of tissues and carry them home, never mind sacks and boxes from the Aspire Defence stores.”

  “It makes me want to take pictures of ...that…that… debacle out there and then throw them in Edwards’ face.”

  “Apart from the fact that you’d lose your job.”

  “I suppose so,” Crane managed a grin. Straightening up he said, “I’ve got to ask the question. Anything of use so far?”

  “Not a dickey bird. Nothing suspicious at any of the squalid boxes unscrupulous landlords call flats. And not one of the Gurkhas has seen or heard anything about thefts, or been offered that type of stolen goods. Not that they could afford to buy them even if they were.” Derek threw a selection of reports at Crane.

  “What are they saying then? They must be saying something, there’s a lot of noise in there.”

  “Let me see. What about, ‘how can I get a job?’ ‘How can I get any money off the welfare state?’ ‘What do these documents mean?’ ‘Can you translate these papers for me?’ ‘Where do I go to get my rent paid?’ Do you need me to go on, Crane?”

  “No.” Crane stood.

  “What are you going to do now? Aren’t you going to help with this lot?”

  “Sorry, Derek got an urgent appointment with Captain Edwards, although he doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Be careful, Crane,” Anderson warned.

  ***

  During the drive back to the barracks, Crane fumed whilst on the phone to Tina. He damned Edwards to hell and back for wasting his time, the resources of the Aldershot Police and the Royal Military Police. Then he went on to damn his Officer Commanding for giving him the job of babysitting. Overseeing perfectly good Royal Military Police staff sergeants who had their own chain of command. But most of all, for hindering his investigation of two murders. Well, one possible and one definite as Tina pointed out. Crane also told Tina that Edwards had vetoed the general circulation of the artist’s impression of the foreign looking soldier seen leaving the cemetery. Restricting it to Royal Military Police circulation only. Even the lads on the barrier had no idea Crane was looking for a mystery soldier, nor what he looked like. How the hell was he supposed to do his job properly with that idiot in charge he wanted to know?

  By the time Crane arrived back at the barracks he had cooled down and decided to heed both Anderson’s and Tina’s warnings to be careful. Standing to attention he made his report in a purely professional and unemotional way. He finished with, “Unfortunately, sir your excellent idea of actively investigating all the Gurkhas in the immediate vicinity has regrettably come to naught.” Zero, zilch, nil he added in his head.

  “Very well, Crane,” Edwards reached for a document on his desk. “In that case, let me know how you intend to proceed with the investigation into both the untimely deaths and the thefts. By tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

  Crane just about managed to hiss, “sir,” before fleeing the building for a cigarette.

  Once in the car park, Crane decided to go for a walk around the open playing fields to clear his head. As he walked he tried to clear his mind of all the negative feelings and thoughts about the current investigations in general and his Officer Commanding in particular. Lifting his eyes from the ground, he watched the disabled athletes train.

  In previous weeks the ground was littered with discarded clothing from the able bodied Olympic athletes. Track suits, shoes and shirts. This time Crane saw discarded wheelchairs, prosthetic legs and running blades. A sight that was at once both heartbreaking and inspiring.

  He watched the Paralympians for a while as they trained. Their determination clear from their decisive movements. He watched efforts made with a smile, despite the pain written on their faces and sweat running down their bodies. The entire endeavour topped with euphoria when a movement or race went well. Quite a number of the athletes were ex-forces personnel who had been injured in Iraq and Afghanistan and were forging new lives from the wreck of their old one, as disabled athletes. Crane felt humbled in their presence. And a bit of a twit, if he was honest. Here was a field full of people triumphing over adversity and all he could do was whinge.

  After another circuit of the field, he strode back into the barracks to make a couple of phone calls.

  Day 26

  Crane saw Lance Corporal Dudley-Jones hesitate at the door so called, “Come in, Lance Corporal, we won’t bite!” The ‘we’ being Crane, Billy and Kim. The gangly young man made his way to the conference table, placing his files on the Afghan officers on it, then perched on the edge of a chair.

  “Right,” Crane said. “I’ve called this meeting because it’s about time we got a handle on the Afghan officers on the base. Thanks for bringing your files, Dudley-Jones.”

  “Haven’t you been reading my reports, sir? The information I have on the officers was all in there.”

  “Really? Then in that case I must have missed something. What do you think, Kim? You’re the office manager. You’ve read all the reports and background information on the officers as well. Have I missed something?”

  Kim merely smiled at the question. Or rather, just turned up the corners of her mouth. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her pristine uniform as usual accentuating the coolness of her demeanour.

  “That’s what I thought. So,” Crane turned back to Dudley-Jones, “as I see it there are several questions to be answered.”

  “Are there, sir?” Dudley-Jones had turned that peculiar puce colour again.

  “Yes son and you are just the person to answer them for me, or get the answers I need. Kim, would you put the questions up on the board as we go?”

  Crane nodded at Billy.

  “Right, sir,” Billy said. “Firstly I think we need to know who is in overall charge of the group.”

  “Good place to start. What do you think, Lance Corporal?” As the Lance Corporal stayed silent, Crane prodded. “Come on, Dudley-Jones, please join in. This is a group brainstorm, not a witch hunt.”

  With some gentle and not so gentle persuasion, Crane’s list was made. He wanted answers to information such as: who was in charge; who had the officers been meeting with; were any splinter groups forming; anyone seeing each other covertly; anyone acting suspiciously; anyone not where they should be sometimes. Unfortunately there were very few answers to the questions.

  “Right then, so, what’s the best way of getting the rest of the answers?” He asked all of them, but it was Dudley-Jones who answered, “Um, me, sir?”

  “Excellent, Lance Corporal. Glad you’re volunteering. I know you’ve been around the Afghan officers before, but this time I want you to focus your energies. Look at the demographics of the group. Just because one man is the senior officer, doesn’t mean he’s the one these people look to for support. A bit like in the British Army where the men look to an experienced Sergeant Major over an inexperienced officer, don’t you think?”

  Dudley-Jones looked stricken, as though just realising his mistake of possibly over estimating Captain Edwards and most certainly under estimating Crane. Kim merely turned up the corners of
her mouth again and Billy went to get more coffee. “Kim,” Crane continued, “I want you to get itineraries for the group as a whole together with any differences for individuals. Since they arrived on the barracks, mind. Back dated information is as good as forward planning. Go over them tonight and leave a report for me to look at in the morning. Billy?”

  “Boss?”

  “When you’ve finished your coffee, pop over to the Sergeants’ Mess. See if you can hook up with anyone who has had even the slightest dealings with any of the Afghans.” As Billy beamed, Crane added, "Don’t forget you’re on duty, coke only please.”

  “And you, sir?” asked Dudley-Jones.

  “And me what?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Walk you outside, so I can have a cigarette.”

  The puce colour on Dudley-Jones face, brought on by his latest gaff, had faded somewhat by the time the two men were outside.

  “I, um, that was, sir…” Dudley-Jones mumbled. Deciding for once to keep quiet, Crane waited for the young man to speak again. “It’s just that you seem rather good at this.”

  “Why thank you, Lance Corporal.” Crane took a drag of his cigarette to mask his smile.

  “I thought you hadn’t understood this intelligence stuff, but you do don’t you?” As Crane nodded, Dudley-Jones warmed to his theory. “All those questions that need to be answered about the Afghan Officers’ movements - that’s the sort of thing they do on the ground in Afghanistan.” Again Crane just nodded. The young man rushed on. “So I was just wondering, sir, why you’re not in the Intelligence Corp?”

  “Because, Lance Corporal, here in the Special Investigations Branch, we are hands on. We do. We don’t report stuff so others can do things. We actively investigate, not just watch over things. How can I explain? It’s a bit like that old adage, ‘those that can, do – those that can’t, teach’.”

  Crane ground his cigarette out under his foot and made for the door. Then he stopped and turned back to Dudley-Jones. “And rest assured, Lance Corporal. I have every intention of ‘doing’.”