40 Days 40 Nights: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Read online

  “A threat, sir?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, Billy, wake up man. With two dead soldiers already, it isn’t difficult to leap to the conclusion that Niaz could pose a terrorist threat. Why else would the bloody man go missing? Is he the person who killed them? What the hell is he plotting? What surprise does he have up his sleeve for us?” Crane punched the steering wheel. “So many fucking questions and absolutely no bloody answers.”

  Billy was quiet for the rest of the journey, no doubt smarting, but Crane didn’t much care.

  Kim was already hard at work when Crane arrived back at the barracks after dropping Billy at Ash Ranges, striding in and issuing orders as he took off his suit jacket.

  “Right, Kim, make arrangements for Niaz’s picture to be given to the soldiers at each of the barriers in and out of the garrison. Oh and include that artist’s impression - the one of a suspect drawn from the information provided by Padam Gurung.”

  As he finished speaking Kim began obeying the orders, but he was very much afraid it was a case of bolting the stable door. Crane went into his office to answer his ringing phone.

  “Ah good evening, Crane, Major Brownlow here, Coldstream Guards.”

  “Yes, sir, how can I help you?” Crane began to loosen his tie with one hand, the other clutching the phone.

  “It’s more a case of how I can help you, Sergeant Major. Just wanted to let you know we’ve had an informal chat with the remaining three Afghan officers.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Yes, Crane, thought it might be better coming from us, rather than you lot in SIB.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Don’t be difficult, Sergeant Major. Anyway, it seems they have no knowledge or understanding of where or when they saw their colleague last. So there’s no need for you to interview them. Anyway it’s a bit difficult with the language barrier you know.”

  “No I don’t actually. I distinctly remember seeing all four Afghan officers conversing with their English colleagues at the Officers’ Mess. So I’m somewhat surprised that they now seem to have lost both their memory and their ability to speak English.”

  “Crane,” Major Brownlow rumbled a warning.

  “Also, sir,” Crane emphasised the ‘sir’, “I have other information that you are unaware of. I have been closely monitoring the activities of this particular group as they have been seen behaving suspiciously. So thank you for your input, sir, but I will be interviewing them tomorrow, with an interpreter present, of course.”

  Crane replaced the receiver with exaggerated care, cutting off the Major in mid sentence.

  Day 29

  Before Crane began interviewing the Afghan officers with Dudley-Jones, he read through the background information the Intelligence Corp had on them. All four came from the same region in Afghanistan and joined the army in their mid 20’s. There was precious little information on their activities before joining up.

  “There’s not much to go on in here,” Crane said to Dudley-Jones, throwing down the file in his hand and reaching for the photograph of Azar Niaz. “He looks uncannily like the description that Padam Gurung gave us.” He passed the photo to Dudley-Jones.

  “Yes, I see what you mean, sir, but then, so do the rest of the four.” Dudley-Jones spread out all four photographs for Crane to compare.

  “You’re right. They all have olive skin, swept back dark hair and a moustache. Shit. Is the interpreter here?”

  “Yes, sir, waiting outside.”

  “Okay, but remember, don’t let on you understand any Pashtu. I want to see if you can catch anything they say that perhaps the interpreter misses or misinterprets.”

  “Don’t you trust him?” Dudley-Jones asked in surprise.

  “I don’t trust anyone, Lance Corporal. I’ve always found that to be the best policy.”

  “Oh, right, sir. Are we interviewing Fahran Popal first?”

  “No, if he really is in charge of this little cell, he’ll be the hardest to get information from. So I want to start with the other two.”

  The ‘other two’ gave Crane nothing. They sat sweating in the stark interview room that was hotter than the 80 degree heat outside and insisted they knew nothing. Had seen nothing and had no idea where Niaz might be, or what he might be doing. Both men had shifting eyes that didn’t keep still. Neither really looked at Crane, but mostly at the interpreter, whom they fixated on, as though they were adrift at sea, in danger of drowning and he was a life saving plank of wood.

  But Captain Fahran Popal was different. Crane could feel it as he entered the room. Popal had an arrogant way about him and Crane watched him relaxing in the chair with a slightly quizzical expression on his face, making Crane feel Popal was laughing at them. But his manner was polite, if not deferential.

  “Do you have any idea why Niaz would disappear?” Crane demanded.

  The interpreter offered a negative reply.

  “When did you last see him?”

  The interpreter said Captain Popal couldn’t remember in the confusion of the exercise.

  “I find that rather strange,” Crane said. “In the British Army it is vital that we work together as a team. Each team member must be aware of where the others are at all times and trust that they are watching your back.”

  The interpreter indicated that Popal didn’t understand the term ‘watching your back’.

  Stifling a sarcastic comment, something along the lines of in that case the Coldstream Guards weren’t doing a very good job, he instead said, “being there to support you”.

  The interpreter said that Captain Popal and his fellow countrymen found the exercise very confusing, which was probably why they failed to notice Niaz wasn’t there.

  “What do you think has happened to Niaz?”

  Popal simply shrugged his shoulders and continued to stare at Crane.

  “Does he know anyone else in this country?”

  Again the shrug.

  “Captain Popal, any information you can give us about Niaz and his background may help us find him. Are you sure there is nothing you can tell us?”

  The interpreter relayed Popal’s apologies and his sorrow that he couldn’t help, not having known Niaz before coming to Aldershot. But Crane noted the slight smile playing around Popal’s mouth. His eyes held none of the sorrow he was professing to feel and instead of his gaze sliding away in shame, he continued to hold Crane’s stare. Feeling he’d get nothing more from the man, Crane ended the interview.

  Leaving the boiling hot room, Crane pulled Dudley-Jones into his office and closed the door. He’d rather have gone outside for a chat and a cigarette, but needed privacy for their conversation.

  “Well?” he demanded of the Lance Corporal.

  “Arrogant bastard.”

  The reply took Crane by surprise.

  “That’s a bit strong for you, Dudley-Jones.”

  “Well, sir, I don’t much like being called scum, even by a superior officer.” Crane watched Dudley-Jones throw his files and notes on the desk.

  Crane laughed, “Well he’s not exactly a superior officer, but I know what you mean. Scum, eh? Interesting. The interpreter never mentioned that bit.”

  “No, sir. It was when he was introduced to us. Popal asked why an officer was being interviewed by lower rank scum and it was explained to him that you were in the Special Investigations Branch and I was in the Intelligence Corp and that we had the authority to interview any rank, even those above us. What a creep!” Dudley-Jones sat in the chair by Crane’s desk.

  Crane walked around the office to his own chair. “Yes, he was arrogant and a bit smarmy with it and I’m not just talking about the amount of oil in his hair. You’d think he’d be more concerned about his fellow officer wouldn’t you?”

  “Any normal person would, but I don’t think he’s normal.”

  “No, Dudley-Jones, neither do I. Get Intelligence to dig up as much background information on those four as they can. Surely someone on the ground in Afg
hanistan can fill us in. We need to know what they did before they joined up and also need to know if there’s any evidence they knew each other before coming to Aldershot.”

  “Yes, sir, but it may take a few days.”

  “I realise that, which is why you need to get onto it right away. Oh and I also want a voice analysis done against Captain Popal’s interview today and that tape your boys made of the mobile phone conversation. See if it’s the same voice.”

  “But Popal hardly spoke, sir.”

  “Yes, Dudley-Jones I did notice. I wonder why that was?”

  Day 30

  Padam packed the precious letter away in his plastic carrier bag. It had arrived that morning and he wanted to open it when he was alone. He was planning to try to see his friends in the Royal Military Police as he should tell them about the bundle the smudge was carrying. But that was before the letter arrived. So Padam decided he would firstly go and read his letter and then see the Royal Military Police later.

  Peering out of the window he saw the good weather was holding, but he decided to take his army greatcoat with him anyway. For one he was old and felt the cold and for two believed his fellow Gurkhas could not be trusted. Someone could be tempted to take it for himself. He knew it was something of a prize amongst his peers who coveted it in readiness for the winter months ahead.

  He had heard talk that the army practiced on a piece of land called Ash Ranges and he thought that today was a good day to go there. And anyway a nice bit of woodland would make a change from the mean streets of Aldershot or the sentries on the garrison. A friend had shown him the direction to take out of Aldershot and written Ash on a piece of paper, so he could follow the signs.

  As Padam wandered along the road out of Aldershot he came to a large roundabout over a huge road choked with traffic. He saw the sign for Ash as he approached and surmised he had to cross the large circular roundabout. Unfortunately this meant trying to avoid the fast moving cars every time he had to cross a tributary road, making Padam think of several instances when he had been a serving soldier, where he’d had to run whilst dodging bullets. These smaller roads either fed traffic down to the huge thoroughfare where they were swallowed up once they arrived, or spewed the cars out that wanted to leave. It was as though the road itself was a huge breathing monster expanding and contracting with the flow of traffic.

  By the time Padam was safely across he was covered in sweat and shaking. After a few hundred yards he sat by the side of the road, which already felt like a quiet backwater, shrugging off his coat and taking several gulps from his water bottle. Looking around he realised the huge road he had crossed marked a divide from Aldershot to Ash in more ways than one. On the Aldershot side were industrial units, a plethora of drab Victorian terraces and dilapidated blocks of flats. Yet here on the Ash side there was space, greenery, larger houses and no rubbish. Padam felt the pressure of his life in Aldershot lifting from him and he imagined all his worries were caught in a metaphorical balloon, which he let go of and watched float off into the sky, until it was a tiny speck in the distance. Refreshed Padam struck out for the Ranges.

  He found an entrance to the woodland a few hundred yards from a clutch of shops in what he imagined to be the centre of the village of Ash. All the shop units were taken, there were no boarded up premises here. He walked off the road onto a track, through wooden posts and was immediately engulfed by trees. He decided he would enjoy the scenery later, for now he just wanted a quiet spot to read his letter.

  Padam eventually settled on a shaded knoll some way into the Ranges. He squatted down and pulled the envelope from his bag. Opening the letter with trembling hands, he settled down to read.

  Dearest Padam

  I have the most exciting news. People arrived in our village a few days ago. People from England. They said they were here to help the families of old soldiers who had once served with the British Army. Not to help them get to England, but to assist those who had already travelled there to come back to Nepal if they wanted to. They would be willing to pay for your flight back! Can you imagine? We could all be together again. I know we have nothing left anymore, no farm, no money, no job, but surely it is better to be poor together, than to be destitute so far apart. I told them where you lived and they promised to write to you in Aldershot through a place called the Gurkha Welfare Society.

  Please come home my husband, we miss you so much.

  Padam had to stop reading as he couldn’t see the words any more, his vision blurred by tears. They were pouring down his cheeks, wetting the collar of his shirt. But he didn’t bother to wipe them away. All he could think of was home. He couldn’t believe it. He could go home. Home to his wife, son and daughter. Get away from the misery, poverty and drudgery that made up his life now. Back to everything familiar to him, a world away from this alien country called England. It seemed his wife had forgiven him for selling their small farm and taking out such a huge loan in the hope of a better life in England, which had turned out to be a fallacy. All they both wanted now was to be together in their old age.

  Padam was so caught up with emotion, that he didn’t hear the faint rustling behind him. Didn’t feel the man’s breath on his neck. But he did feel the strong hands encircle it and felt the crack as his head was whipped to one side. He did feel his body go numb and saw the precious letter fall out of his now useless fingers and fly away on the breeze. His last thought was ‘home’ before he too floated up into the blue sky, just like his balloon full of worries.

  Night 30

  “To lose one soldier, Crane, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose two looks like carelessness; but to lose three?” Major Martin couldn’t keep the mirth out of his voice.

  “Thank you, Lady Bracknell,” Crane made a mock bow, acknowledging the misquotation from The Importance of Being Ernest. But their mirth was extinguished as they gazed on the body of the dead man from a respectful distance.

  Crane had been briefed by Staff Sergeant Jones. Originally the RMP who had stumbled across it on Ash Ranges, had thought it was a bundle of old clothes left behind, or deliberately dumped. After all he was searching for an Afghan officer, not piles of discarded clothes. As the young soldier poked the rags with a stick he was using to examine the undergrowth, he realised there was more substance to the abandoned wool and cotton than he’d first thought. He immediately stepped back and called for Staff Sergeant Jones. As darkness fell, Jones called the Adjutant, set up a perimeter around the scene and had lights and a generator brought in. Crane arrived just after the pathologist, the retired Major Martin.

  “Why do you think it’s a third soldier?” Crane asked. Major Martin handed him a document Crane had seen before. A Lal Kitab.

  “Jones found this a few yards from the body. In a Tesco plastic carrier bag.”

  For a moment Crane couldn’t speak as he stared at the red booklet in his hand. Clearing his throat he said, “You’re right, Major. He was a soldier, albeit many years ago. Padam Gurung served the British Army well in his youth and tried to carry on serving it in his old age. I’ll, um, just go and see Jones.”

  Walking away, Crane took a few moments on his own, before approaching the Staff Sergeant. Upset that not only had an innocent old man been killed, but also his only witness.

  “Sorry, Crane,” was the first thing Jones said. “I was dropped on when I found the documents. I’m still waiting for Major Martin to confirm identity, of course, as we can’t see much of the body at the moment. But judging by the size and the clothes, there’s probably not much doubt.”

  “No, probably not,” Crane said. He then noticed Billy clambering through the undergrowth.

  As he reached Crane, Billy said, “Just heard, boss. Bloody shame. But why him?” he asked indicating the crime scene with his head.

  “He was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time, Billy. I’d say Padam saw something he shouldn’t have and got killed so he couldn’t pass on the information to anyone.”

  “Seen, si
r? Seen what?”

  “My best guess is an Afghan officer, hiding out in here somewhere.”

  Crane’s eyes swept the blackness of the rest of the ranges. The area was easily closed to the public by flying the red danger flags. Local residents were well used to military exercises in this area, which closed down the public footpaths and access to the heath land. A number of signs peppered the area explaining the red flag system and warning the public about picking up military debris, which may explode. The ranges themselves were part of a vast area of mainly Ash woodland and undulating heath land, which the army had purchased back in the 1920’s for soldiers from the nearby Aldershot Garrison to use for exercises. At the moment Crane and the rest of the team were in an area of low shrub land, just off one of the tarmac roads that ran through the area. He looked into the nearby woodland, the bare trunks of the ash trees illuminated by a full moon hanging low in the sky. What secret was hidden within that army of tall black skeletal sentries?

  Major Martin interrupted Crane’s examination of the woods.

  “Crane,” he called. “Definitely Padam Gurung I’m afraid. Matches his photo identification.”

  “Cause of death? No, let me guess. Broken neck?

  “Looks that way, Crane.”

  “Any idea on time of death?”

  “Bit early to say, but approximately eight to twelve hours ago.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Crane, stuffing his hands in his coat pocket and returning to Billy, with his head down, deep in thought.

  “Why was Padam here, boss?”

  “That’s what I want you to find out,” Crane said, lifting his head. “After you’ve finished collecting forensic evidence, rustle up an interpreter, then go and collect DI Anderson. I want the fellow Gurkhas he shared a flat with interviewed. Maybe one of them knows what Padam was up to.”

  When Billy left Crane went to find Staff Sergeant Jones, to explain what he wanted. Jones, Crane and a couple of men then set out across the ranges.