Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

When Crane returned home that night, he found the lights down low, soft music playing and the table in the kitchen laid for dinner, compete with candles.

“I’ve
poured you a beer,” called Tina from the kitchen. “Settle yourself down on the settee while I finish up in here.”

Inwardly
groaning, Crane realised he had forgotten that tonight was the night of their ‘big talk’. The one he had been successfully avoiding for the past few weeks. Shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it in the hallway, he took off his shoes and swapped them for slippers. Tina always teased him about the old fashioned image of slippers, but after a day pounding around the garrison, it was bliss to get out of his shoes or boots and let his feet breath and move around in the comfort of a well worn pair of slippers. He just hoped that piece of information wouldn’t find itself widely known in the barracks.

He
sat down on the black leather settee and took a long draught of the beer, whilst wiggling his toes and stretching his feet. Emerging from the kitchen with a glass of red wine in her hand, Tina kissed him hello and settled down beside him, leaning in against his arm. Just then, the Grover Washington Jnr CD changed tracks to ‘Just the two of us’, which Crane found rather ironic.

“So,
you want to talk about changing from ‘Just the two of us’, to ‘Just the three or more of us’,” he quipped.

Smiling,
she nodded. “Oh, Tom, I don’t know, maybe it’s just my biological clock. You know, I must start to have kids now before it’s too late. At other times I just want company when you’re away. Then again, I want lots of little Cranes running around. A continuation of us, maybe. Someone to prove that we were here, after we’re long gone.”

He
could see the raw emotion on her face and he said softly, smoothing her hair down with his hand, “I do understand, sweetheart, but you mustn’t look at this with rose tinted glasses.” As she stiffened against him, he continued speaking and stroking her hair. “What about how hard it could get if you were alone with a small baby for prolonged periods of time? You know I could get posted overseas again. How would you cope then?”

Shrugging
away from his hand and uncurling from the settee, she said, “Come through to the kitchen, dinner’s ready.”

Crane
followed her in silence, knowing better than to pursue his line of thinking until she’d spoken again and sat down on his side of the table. As she placed his plate in front of him, Tina said, “Lots of people cope with that, look at all the army wives with kids.”

“Okay,
but there’s one big difference.” Crane shook salt on his food.

“What’s
that? Are they better mothers than I would be?” She stabbed at the meat on her plate with her fork.

“No,
they live on the garrison. That way they have a support network.”

Tina
fell silent. That was her worst fear, he knew. Living on the garrison. She was proud of the fact that they managed to buy their own home, courtesy of his increasing rank and her job at the bank.

They
ate in silence, Crane finding it harder and harder to swallow each mouthful, as his stomach tightened. Her carefully prepared meal mocked him. Were those tears he saw glistening in her eyes, or just the reflected candlelight? He had no difficulty with awkward conversations at work, yet when it came to his wife he always seemed to put his foot in it. Realising it was because of the emotionally charged subject matter, he decided to change tack. Placing his knife and fork in the middle of his plate he said, “Okay, Tina, let’s look at the facts.” Ignoring her rolling eyes, he pushed on. “Go and get the budget forecast you’ve prepared. Go on, let’s look at this properly,” he urged.

Whilst
Tina was getting the paperwork from their bedroom-come-office, he cleared the table of their half eaten food, as he for one wasn’t able to eat another mouthful. His clenched stomach still not relaxed. He also took the opportunity to refill their glasses and dowse the candles, putting on the overhead light so they could read more easily.

They
spread the budget sheets across the table and sat side by side to examine them.

“See,
I get good maternity pay,” said Tina, running her finger down the income column.

“Mmm,”
Crane agreed, “but what about this column?” His finger was placed on the expenditure column, where the figures gradually increased to take into account of the extra costs incurred with a baby in the house. “As the outgoings increase, the income decreases – see? Once your maternity pay stops there’s only my salary left.”

“Well,
it does get a bit tight, I suppose.”

“Tight
doesn’t begin to describe it.”

“Look,
I’ve spent hours going over these figures, Tom.” Tina crossed her arms and sat up straight. “The other alternative is that I go back to work after maternity leave and put the baby in a nursery.

“And
how much is that going to cost? Most of your salary probably.”

“So
what’s your solution then?”

“The
only way I can see it working, is that we either sell up, or rent out this house to cover the mortgage and move back onto the garrison. That way we at least halve our outgoings. You know how much cheaper it is to rent an army quarter.”

“No!”
As Tina stood, her chair rocked and then tipped over.

Ignoring
the interruption, Crane continued, “You’d also have the support network, other wives, welfare, crèche….”

“But,”
Tina tried again, flustered now as she straightened the chair.

“And
you won’t be so isolated when I’m away.” Crane wouldn’t stop. “I won’t need to worry about you so much, knowing you’ll be safe within the army machine.”

“I
can’t do it,” Tina protested, finally getting the chair in front of the table again and sitting on it. “I’d go mad.” She gulped at her wine. “Remember how much I hated living on the garrison when we first got married. All the nosy neighbours wanting to know what you’re up to. The rank system, where I wasn’t supposed to mix with the wives of lower ranks, or the wives of officers.”

“Of
course, you’ll also lose your independence,” Crane countered, keeping his voice level, and refusing to be drawn into an argument.

“What?”
Tina looked at him, half way through pouring more wine into her glass.

“At
the moment,” he patiently explained, leaning back in his chair, “you pretty much do what you want, when you want. See your girlfriends, go to the pictures, have the odd weekend away at the Spa, take an impulsive shopping trip to London.”

“Oh,”
a small sound in the silent room.

“You
won’t be able to do any of that with a baby. Anyway, let’s face it, you won’t have the money.”

Tina
stared at him without speaking. Before either of them could say any more the phone rang.

Returning
to the kitchen five minutes later he found her still sat at the table, fiddling with her wine glass. Joining her, he fell into his chair and dropped his bent arms onto the table.

“Tom?”

“That was Captain Edwards on the phone. There’s been another murder and suicide. This time in Catterick. There’s a meeting tomorrow afternoon up there and I’ve got to go, as well as Brown from Colchester. We’re going to compare the cases, see if we could find any similarities between the three. Apart from the obvious one that is.”

“Oh,
Tom, I’m so sorry. Was it another boy?” Tina covered his hands with hers.

Crane
nodded, grateful for her touch. But he couldn’t keep still and rose to pace the kitchen. His mind already elsewhere. Suddenly realising Tina was still in the room, he turned to her and asked, “What will you do? I’ll probably be away over the weekend.”

“Go
to the Spa,” she said. “I’ve a lot to think about.”

Chapter
Sixteen

Crane nodded to Sergeant Major Brown, who had driven up from Colchester to Catterick and his appearance showed the wear and tear of the journey. His once crisp white shirt was wrinkled down the front and along the sleeves, where they have clearly been rolled up. Tom was sure he looked in the same dishevelled state. The journey north had taken over six hours with stops the majority of the time on, joy of joys, the M1. That motorway never got any better, no matter how many times Crane drove up or down it. Choked with lorries and traffic, populated by overcrowded, overpriced, filthy service areas that charge over £2 for a bottle of water and nearly £3 for a simple cup of coffee. It was no wonder Crane and Brown looked as exhausted as they felt.

The
office was in Beachhead Lines Barracks, named after the World War II Normandy Landings. Most of the other barracks on Catterick Garrison were named after historical British Army battles, many of which took place in northern France during the First World War. The garrison itself was basically a group of barracks situated in a wider area that had in effect grown into a town in its own right. It was recognised as such when it first sported a Tesco supermarket and then a McDonalds. Yet more nuggets of army history Crane had found in his thirst for knowledge.

Crane
and Brown looked at Sergeant Major Keane who was moving to sit behind his desk. Crane put Keane in his late forties, his weary face showing every twenty or so years of his service. His suit jacket was slung over the back of his chair and Keane’s white shirt was losing its sheen. As he settled in his chair his tie went the same way as his jacket.

“Right,”
he said his tone as weary as if he himself had just driven over 200 miles to the meeting. “Where do you want to start?”

“I think the first thing Brown and I need to do was to familiarise ourselves with your case and you with ours, of course.” Crane rummaged in his briefcase, produced his file on Solomon Crooks and Brown did the same with the file on John Sergeant.

Looking
at the still immobile Keane and placing his file on the desk, Crane prodded, “You do have copies of your file for us, detailing your investigation so far on the murder/suicide by Corporal Fisher?”

“What,
oh yes, it’s just being copied now. Ready in a few minutes I expect.” Keane washed his face with his hands, but the motion did nothing to refresh the man.

“Okay,”
said Crane still in charge. “Then I suggest Brown and I go to the scene and then go over the file in the Sergeant’s Mess, while you read ours. First thing tomorrow we can go through similarities and differences.”

“If
you really want to, I suppose that’s alright.” At the quizzical look from the two men, Keane hastily added, “Look at the scene, I mean.”

“I
think so,” Brown chipped in. “Crane here has been to the previous two, so it makes sense for him to see the third as well. He’ll be the only one of us who has seen all three.”

There
was a knock at the door and after being invited in, a young sergeant appeared with copies of the file. Keane ordered him to take the two SIB investigators to the scene of the crime and they agreed to meet again at 08:00 hours the following morning.

***

Corporal Peter Fisher’s house was in a four storey building that looked like a block of flats, but was actually a two storey maisonette on the ground floor with a garden and another two storey maisonette above. The Fisher’s was the ground floor property and the small garden was crammed full of children’s toys, a swing and small slide. The first thing Crane noticed as he went in was the muddle and confusion. The kitchen was located at the front of the property and was a symphony of disorder, with dishes in the sink and on the drainer. It seemed that every piece of work surface in the small room was covered with some item or another of clutter.

The
small lounge cum dining room wasn’t much better, with toys all over the floor and magazines on the furniture. The throw over the settee was askew and wrinkled.

“Who’s
in charge here would you say?” Crane asked Brown.

“The
wife. What a bloody mess.” Brown looked around the room, frowning in disgust. “But is that relevant?”

“Could
be. At least this time we’ve got a wife to interview. Come on,” Crane called.

The
two men climbed the stairs that led from the living room to the two bedrooms and bathroom. The main bedroom was at the back, overlooking the garden and was large, running the width of the property. One half was a mess with clothes strewn on a chair, on the floor and in an overflowing wardrobe. The other half was neat and tidy and when Crane opened the wardrobe door he found what he suspected. Peter Fisher’s wardrobe was the complete antithesis of his wife’s.

The
child’s bedroom was at the front of the property, half the size of the main bedroom, as it shared the remaining space with the bathroom.

Pushing
open the door with his foot, Crane entered the bedroom, leaning against the open door, so Brown could see in from the doorway.

“Jesus,”
Brown whispered as he looked at the blood stains on the carpet by the side of the bed and those on the mattress. “The amount of blood, you know?”

“Mmm,”
agreed Crane, distracted by papers lying on the floor under the window. Stepping further into the room, he picked them up. It was a colouring booklet, with images of Jesus smiling down on little children. It was partly complete.

“Let’s
go and see Mrs Fisher,” said Crane, putting the booklet into his jacket pocket.

Carol
Fisher was staying with friends further along the street. She raised no objection to seeing them and it was soon clear why.

“What
do you lot want this time?” she demanded not rising from the settee, where she was surrounded by magazines, cigarettes, lighter and a full ashtray.

“Just
a few questions, Mrs Fisher, and then we’ll leave you in peace.” Crane motioned for Brown to sit at the nearby dining table, while he took the easy chair in front of her. “We’re very sorry for your loss,” he said.

“Yeah,
right. The only thing you lot are sorry for was that it happened on your bloody garrison.” The hard words matched the hardness in the woman’s face. There were mascara stains under her dull eyes and her dried pinched lips had traces of red lipstick still sticking to them. Her jet black hair was tied back but gave the appearance of a bird’s nest perched on the back of her head. She sucked loudly on a lit cigarette and deliberately blew the smoke into Crane’s face.

“I
can assure you,” Brown began but was cut off by a hysterical laugh.

“Assure
me, assure me.” Mrs Fisher’s hand waved in the air. “The only thing you can assure me of is that the army will get me out of here as soon as they can. They’ve already told me they plan to issue an eviction order to get me out of my quarters and my boy’s only been dead a few days.” Her eyes glinted, but with rage not tears. “Not that I could ever go back in there again,” she added looking from one man to the other, “but they’re making me bloody homeless!” she finished.

“I’m
sure it’s just standard procedure,” Brown tried.

Before
Mrs Fisher could blow up again, Crane decided to intervene, having had enough of, what to him, was a pointless conversation.

“Have
you seen this before?” he asked Mrs Fisher, handing her the colouring booklet.

“Of
course, he was obsessed with it,” she handed back the booklet as though it had scorched her fingers.

“Sorry?”

“My boy got that from the local Sunday school. He insisted on taking it with him every week so they could do the next page.”

“Did
you take him?”

“Not
bloody likely,” Mrs Fisher replied. “I don’t hold with that sort of stuff myself. His dad took him every Sunday while I was at work.”

“So
who was obsessed?” Crane wants to know.

“Both
of them, as bad as each other. Now if there’s nothing else, I need to get on.”

Unsure
as to what she had to ‘get on’ with, Crane and Brown nevertheless left.

When
they arrived at the Sergeants Mess at Cambrai Barracks, Crane and Brown decided to have a nose around first, as both were keen to see the newly built premises. The official blurb said ‘the intention was to create a ‘modern but not austere residence with sufficient formality to accommodate traditional mess activities without compromising on comfort for the occupants’. Crane personally thought that was a load of PR bollocks, but admitted that the mess was light, bright and comfortable, yet with traditional features such as wooden panelling, reproduction furniture and a range of large comfortable sofas and armchairs. Sinking gratefully into the pair of well plumped feather filled armchairs nearest to them, they ordered a beer and studied the menu. The agreed plan was to eat together first, then go their separate ways to study the files before meeting again the following morning. They didn’t discuss the case until they were sitting in the dining room.

“Thoughts?”
Crane asked Brown as they ate.

“The
obvious initial one of a religious connection.”

“Exactly.
It’ll be interesting to see how far Keane investigated that. What did you make of Mrs Fisher?”

“Hard
cow.”

Crane
agreed. “Looks like they were as different as chalk and cheese, Fisher and his wife.”

“The
worst type of army wife that one. Just along for the free ride if you ask me.” Brown finished his food, placing his knife and fork together in the centre of the plate.

“Maybe.
Either way he’d not have got very far up the ladder with her.”

“Thank
God for decent army wives, that’s what I say,” and the two men raised their glasses in a silent toast to their wives.

Crane
phoned Tina later that evening, but got the answer machine and guessed she’d been as good as her word and gone away to think.