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

  Crane sat up in his chair. Then realised he could stand. “Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” he gabbled.

  “Why don’t you let Billy drive you, Crane? You look done in. And Billy had the advantage of a few hours sleep on the sofa. So off you go, the both of you.”

  Not wanting to waste time saying anything else, Crane ran for the door, with Billy close behind. Outside the night air revived him and he stopped to light a cigarette, throwing Billy his car keys.

  During the short journey, Crane tried to calm down, but his hands were shaking. After he finished smoking, he made an attempt to tidy himself, but gave up. It didn’t really matter what he looked like. He just needed to get there. He couldn’t let Tina down and miss the birth. She’d never forgive him. Come to that, he’d never forgive himself. Or the army.

  Billy drove fast, but safely and deposited Crane at the door to the maternity wing. Crane told Billy to take his car back to the house in Ash and said he’d get a taxi back home later. Afterwards. After he had spent some time with his wife and son. As soon as the car stopped, Crane was out - running for the entrance.

  Day 40

  A nurse on duty recognised him and called, “Your wife’s in Labour Room 9, Sergeant Major. It’s all right, no need to rush. The baby’s not here yet.”

  Slowing his pace and breathing deeply Crane paused outside the room. He had to be strong now, for Tina’s sake. She needed his support and anyway they still had things to sort out. A cry from inside the room had Crane panicking and he pushed open the door so hard it slammed back against the wall. Tina was lying on the bed, her face distorted with pain. As Crane watched, she grabbed the gas and air mask lying by her side and breathed deeply. Once she’d had enough, she dropped the mask and looked up, a wide smile breaking across her face.

  “Oh, Tom, thank God. I was afraid they wouldn’t let you leave the garrison.”

  “It’s alright, Tina, I’m here now.”

  Crane moved to his wife’s side, tenderly pushing the damp hair off her face before kissing her. Then he grabbed her hand.

  “I’ve been watching the television,” she said. “It’s been all over the news channels about the bomb. But of course the reporters weren’t allowed onto the garrison. They were reporting from outside, against one of the barriers. It was awful, but I couldn’t stop watching. It was my only way of knowing what was going on, although they weren’t saying much of anything really. I just thought that if I kept watching I might see you. Just a glimpse. Anything.”

  Tears filled her eyes and he squeezed her hand. “But you knew I was fine. I called as soon as I got back to barracks.”

  “I know, I got your message. But I couldn’t really believe it until I’d seen you.”

  “Jesus, Tina, I’m sorry you had to go through that alone.” Crane kissed his wife’s hand.

  “Oh but I wasn’t alone, Tom.”

  But before she could tell him who’d been keeping her company, a contraction hit.

  Once she recovered she continued, “You know I told you about the hospital visitors?” Crane nodded. “Well, one of them was Derek Anderson’s wife, Jean.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s lovely. We, um, had a few good heart to heart chats.”

  Crane’s stomach did a flip. “About?” he managed to ask.

  “About being a policeman’s wife. It doesn’t seem much different to being a SIB investigator’s wife.”

  Crane increased the pressure on his wife’s hand. Willing her to say the words he needed to hear. The only way he could communicate with her as he was afraid to speak.

  “She helped me understand,” Tina continued, “that I had to let you go.”

  “Let me go?” Crane’s voice was like a rusty saw.

  “Yes, let you go and do what you had to do. Find a way to live with the worry and loneliness when you’re away. She said that maybe I shouldn’t be so dismissive of the army way of life. To think about moving back to the garrison and joining the support network of the other wives.”

  Crane had to clear his throat before he spoke, “Do you think you could do that?”

  But he had to wait for his answer, as Tina rode the next contraction, gulping deeply on the gas and air, Crane standing by, helpless.

  “Yes, I do,” she said once she could speak again. “I’m sorry I was angry when you talked about moving back to the garrison, so I would have a community to be involved in. I was so determined to be independent, but now I realise I don’t have to be. There’s nothing wrong in asking for help when I need it. So, I’m going to embrace the army, and the military way of life, instead of pushing it away.”

  “Oh God, Tina, thank you. You don’t know how much it means to me to hear you say that.” Then sheer relief made Crane laugh, “But it looks like the only pushing you’re going to be doing at the moment, is pushing that baby out!”

  About the Author

  Wendy Cartmell is a retired teacher who has joined the legion of ex-pats on the Costa del Sol. Prior to teaching she worked in PR, communications and edited a large corporate employee newspaper. Her best-selling Sgt Major Crane military thrillers were born from her husband’s 22 years service in the forces and are set in Aldershot, Hampshire, often dubbed ‘The Home of the British Army’.

  Read more about the author at:

  http://www.amazon.com/Wendy-Cartmell/e/B005V1YISI/

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/Wendy-Cartmell/e/B005V1YISI/

  Author website: http://www.wendycartmell.webs.com

  If you enjoyed 40 Days 40 Nights you might be interested in Steps to Heaven by Wendy Cartmell, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Steps to Heaven by Wendy Cartmell

  Solomon

  15:30 Hours 16th August

  Solomon knew that people described him as a quiet and unassuming man. A family man, a member of the local church, a Christian. But he was more than that. He was a Christian who had been chosen.

  His first born was the key to that choosing. Not everyone could father a son, especially not their first child. It was a sign. He had studied the scriptures long into the night and knew that the ultimate sacrifice was the way to eternal salvation. Ensuring that he and his son would climb the steps to heaven.

  Now it was a matter of timing. He had his instructions and intended to follow them to the letter, like a good soldier. A soldier of Christ. It was God’s will.

  Solomon decided to check the house once more. The mirror in the hall caught images of him, clad in his battle fatigues, as he closed and locked the doors to the front and back of the house, leaving the internal door to the garage open. That was the way they would come in. He knew their routine.

  Mentally going over his check list, he realised he had one more task. Fishing the house keys out of his pocket he carefully locked the windows downstairs and then upstairs, before returning to his base.

  Once there, he settled down to wait, crossed legged on the floor, his back against the kitchen door. After adjusting the beret on his shaven head, Solomon began to slowly, rhythmically sharpen his knife. There was no other sound in the house, save the grinding of the blade against the pumice stone. Death given a voice. Rising and falling. Ebbing and flowing. Marching steadily closer.

  Solomon repeated his mantra as he worked: “Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to heaven. Follow the will of the Lord. Follow the steps to heaven.”

  Chapter One

  03:00 hours. Unable to sleep, Sergeant Major Tom Crane counted cases not sheep, as he stared at the ceiling. The sounds of the night rolled over him; a barrage of barking in the distance, cats fighting nearby. As the headlights of a car washed the bedroom in a pale silvery light, he slid out of bed. Picking his way across the bedroom around unseen but familiar obstacles, he grabbed his bathrobe and reached the door without disturbing Tina.

  Once downstairs in the kitchen, Crane shrugged on his robe and tied the belt around his thickening waist. Resolving to lose weight yet again, he carefully put two sugars in the mu
g of tea he was making, instead of his usual three and made a mental note to up the mileage on his weekend run.

  He passed his hand over his short dark beard, still not entirely comfortable with it. He had gained permission to grow it, in an attempt to hide the scar running across his cheek to his chin. A souvenir from shrapnel, during his last tour in Afghanistan. The scar itself still red and angry, as though an outward reflection of his inner feelings. The beard grown not for vanity, but to stop his disfigurement being a distraction.

  Waiting for the kettle to boil, Crane stared out of the window into the black void of his garden. The click of the kettle boiling sounded unusually loud in the stillness of the house and Crane shivered, looking forward to the warmth of the tea.

  He collected his briefcase, which he kept strategically placed by the kitchen door and pulled out a thin buff folder. Unable to resist, he also collected his packet of cigarettes and lighter from the bottom of the case. Squaring everything on the table, he sat down, lighting up before he opened the folder, as if to give him courage to face the contents.

  Squinting through the smoke, he read the British Army Special Investigation Branch (SIB) file on Lance Corporal Solomon Crooks. Aged 26, with six year’s service, Solomon returned from Afghanistan a couple of months ago. A routine tour. Or so it seemed on the surface. Crane noted down the name of Solomon’s commanding officer on the pad by his elbow. He had an appointment with Colonel Pearson later that morning. Perhaps he could shed some light as to why an exemplary soldier would be involved in a domestic argument, resulting in three deaths.

  Returning to the front of the file, Crane read the report by Staff Sergeant Jones of the 3rd Battalion Royal Military Police (RMP). Jones was the poor sod first on the scene yesterday. Glancing at the pine clock on the wall, Crane realised it was nearly 04:00 hours, so rather than face the crime scene photographs; he opted for trying to sleep. Tomorrow, or rather today, was going to be a long one.

  After replacing Solomon’s file in his briefcase, Crane stood and stretched, his spine clicking, reminding him of his age. At least he didn’t have to worry about hair loss, he smiled to himself. He still had a good head of hair, even though the army required it to be short and smart. In fact short and smart kind of summed him up, he decided, as he tidied up the kitchen. Totally belying his name. Under six foot and stocky, smart in both appearance and intellect. Proud of his military service, Geordie roots and candour, which even he had to admit, sometimes bordered on rudeness.

  Turning off the kitchen light, Crane once more felt his way through the darkened house to the bedroom, hoping to dispel the despair of the night by curling into his wife’s body.

  ***

  Crane realised he had made a mistake driving through town to Aldershot Garrison the next morning, rather than using the back road from Ash. God, what a depressing place, he thought, as he crawled through the traffic. Grey summed up Aldershot. The murky sky was dark and oppressive, despite it being August. Pedestrians hurried along, clad in dark coloured clothing. Their heads down and shoulders hunched, bowed under the weight of the greyness. He passed filthy Victorian terraces, complete with a jungle of domestic detritus that served as front gardens. An air of seediness pervaded the area, that he couldn’t remember having been there a few years ago.

  At last Crane pulled onto Queens Avenue, driving along the main thoroughfare of the garrison. He strictly obeyed the 30 mile an hour speed limit for nearly a mile, before turning into Provost Barracks. An un-modernised building more or less slap bang in the middle of the garrison that it policed. Slowing to a halt in front of the barrier, Crane lifted the ID hanging around his neck, ready for the young private on guard duty. After parking the car, he collected his briefcase and locked the door. Looking up he saw Staff Sergeant Jones waiting for him on the entrance steps.

  Pleasantries complete, they settled themselves in the Sergeant’s office. A small square room. A study in grey. Crane felt as though he was still driving through oppressive Aldershot.

  “Nasty business this, sir,” Jones said. ‘I don’t really know where to start.”

  “At the beginning.” Crane folded his arms. “I want to hear from you what happened and what you found. You were the first on the scene. We’ll discuss theories later, for now I just want facts.”

  “But it was in my report and you were on the scene yourself!” objected Jones, and then hesitated. “Oh, you want me to go over it again, don’t you?” he asked. “To re-live it, to describe it for you, so you can feel it too.”

  “Sorry,” Crane bent forwards focusing his sharp blue eyes on Jones, “but it really could help tease out things that you may have forgotten.”

  Running one hand over his nearly bald head, Jones said, “I tell you what, I’d rather forget the whole bloody thing if I had my way, but here goes.”

  Chapter Two

  Crane watched Sergeant Jones pace his small office, as he relived the horrific events of yesterday. Jones told Crane that a panic 999 call was made at 16:00 hours, by a distraught neighbour, (who by rights should have called the guard room) on the afternoon of the 16th August. The neighbour reported shouting and then screaming, soon after a mother and young boy returned home from the school run. As per procedure, the police called the RMPs, as it concerned an incident at a house on Aldershot Garrison.

  Arriving a few minutes behind the police, Jones and his assistant Lance Corporal Steve Tomlinson parked their vehicle and made to enter the house. At that stage they thought it was a domestic violence call. Thinking they would simply have to cart the solider back to the guard room while he cooled down, Jones and Tomlinson were unconcerned. After all, incidents such as this were a common occurrence on the garrison.

  Jones was heading for the front door, when Detective Inspector Derek Anderson of the Aldershot Police appeared in the doorway of the house. His face bleached so white, that Jones thought Anderson was going to faint. Leaning against the doorframe for support, Anderson looked at Jones, with haunted eyes that barely registered him. “It’s bad,” he whispered, “really bad this one. You might want to leave the young lad out here,” jerking his head towards Tomlinson. With that Anderson walked to the end of the drive. After ordering Tomlinson to stay where he was, Jones made his way inside.

  Interrupting the recount, Crane said, “Okay, first of all describe your entry into the house. What could you see? What was the atmosphere?”

  Pausing for a moment, Jones returned to his seat and leaned back. “I walked into an entrance hall. I could see the stairs on my left and a door on my right, with a further door in front of me at the end of the hall.”

  “Open or closed?”

  “I’m sure the door on my right was closed, but the door at the end of the hall was half open.”

  “And the atmosphere?” Crane asked.

  “Very quiet and still, deathly quiet, if you’ll excuse the pun.” Neither man smiled. “It seemed stuffy in there, shut up, if you know what I mean.”

  “Good, so then what did you do?”

  Jones rose once more. He stopped by the window and leant against the wall. “I went to the end of the hall and pushed the door to the kitchen open with my elbow as I wasn’t wearing gloves. The smell hit me first, bitter and coppery, so I knew even before I looked down that there must be a lot of blood. And there was. Everywhere. Pools on the floor and arterial splatter on the walls and doors.”

  Crane waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt. Afraid that if he did, Jones won’t be able to continue.

  “I saw a woman. She was lying on the floor, with her arms stretched towards a door to my left, which I presumed was the door to the garage. There were drag marks in the blood by her feet, as though she had tried to get to the garage, but hadn’t made it.”

  Jones looked down at his trembling hands. Stuffing them into the trouser pockets of his uniform he cleared his throat and continued.

  “Raising my head, I saw a glass door to the garden in front of me, with a sink and kitchen units next to it.
On the right hand side of the room more units ran along the wall.” Jones bowed his head and Crane had to strain to hear his next words. “They were all covered in blood. The units I mean. It was as though someone had splattered red paint from a brush in an artistic frenzy. Living art, or rather deadly art in this case.”

  As the silence stretched, Crane worried at the scar under his beard. “What about the windows and doors?”

  “Sorry?” Jones turned and looked at Crane.

  “Windows and doors in the kitchen,” Crane repeated. “Open or closed?”

  “Closed, all of them,” Jones replied. “Does it matter?”

  Crane shrugged.

  Jones stared blankly out of the window, as if seeing the scene painted on the panes. “I looked down…and there they were…a soldier in battle fatigues sitting on the floor with his back against the kitchen units, cradling his son on his lap. The boy had a football strip on, but his white shirt had turned pink. His dark curly hair had red streaks in it, probably from his father’s blood. He couldn’t have been more than about six years old. They were both dead. The soldier still had the knife in his right hand, which had fallen on the floor next to him. His left arm was around his son’s chest, pulling him close. Both had their throats cut.”

  After a pause, allowing Jones to collect himself and return to his seat, Crane questioned him about his actions following the gruesome discovery.

  “I followed procedure, sir,” was Jones’ curt response. “I vacated the scene without touching anything and then called the Adjutant, who in turn called you lot, the Branch.” Jones used the euphemism for SIB

  “So who opened the door to the garden?”

  “What? What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  Leaning forward across the desk, Crane explained. “When I arrived, just after the Pathologist, I felt fresh air blowing through the house. I understand that we had the front door open, but I noticed the back door to the garden was also open, allowing through a draft.” Jones made to speak, but Crane persisted. “And you’ve just told me that when you entered the house, all the doors and windows were shut in the hall and in the kitchen. That’s why the smell of death was so strong.”