Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel (2 page)

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.”

Pushing
back into his chair, recoiling from the force of Crane’s words, Jones thought for a moment. “Shit. I think Tomlinson must have done it then. Opened the door to the garden. He slipped past me to look when I called the Adjutant. But what difference does it make? It didn’t interfere with any evidence surely?”

Levering
himself out of his chair, Crane looked down at Jones. “That’s a matter of opinion, Staff. Think about it. If the door to the garden had been open when Solomon and his wife were having a row and in the heat of the moment he went for her, she would have escaped into the garden. And anyway, the boy wouldn’t have been there.”

“Well,
yes,” agreed Jones. “If you’re having an argument, you tend to send the kids out of the room.”

“Exactly.
So with the house locked down tight, maybe Solomon planned it. Maybe it wasn’t a domestic argument gone wrong as we all thought, but a deliberate, pre-meditated attack on his wife and son. Solomon always meant to kill them and then commit suicide. So put that stupid bastard Tomlinson on report.”

“Dear
God,” whispered Jones, putting his head in his hands as Crane left the office.

Chapter
Three

Due to see Solomon’s commanding officer, Crane made his way to his car. As he drove, he mulled over his knowledge of the garrison. Aldershot Garrison had a fine military history and was split into two Camps, North Camp (which became known as the Marlborough Lines) and South Camp (the Stanhope Lines). It was first conceived in 1854 as a large scale space for the concentration and training of troops. Over the years the garrison had become known as ‘The Home of the British Army’ and was the home of the Parachute Regiment. But when the Paras left in 1999, it became the base of the 12 (Mechanised) Brigade. Crane believed the relocation of the Paras was Aldershot town’s downfall. A once vibrant place, reduced to a ghost town by comparison.

A
five minute drive up Queens Avenue, towards North Camp, brought Crane to Lille Barracks, the new home of the 145 (South) Brigade. The difference between the RMP headquarters and the shiny new buildings was startling. After passing through the guard post and entering the barracks, Crane gazed around. Here new floors caused boots to squeak and records of the regiment’s achievements decorated the eggshell coloured walls. Through double doors at the end of the main corridor, Crane could just glimpse the new mess hall, resplendent with its gleaming stainless steel fittings. Walking with his head held high and his arms swinging, marching as though he were in uniform instead of dark suit and white shirt, Crane followed the directions given to him yesterday and found his way to the Colonel Pearson’s office. The Adjutant showed him through to the great man’s domain.

Crane
saw the Colonel standing by a large window which dominated a room furnished in an old fashioned style, redolent of an officer’s mess. A large mahogany desk, empty of papers, filled one half of the space, complete with a large leather office chair and two smaller visitor’s chairs. A conference table with seating for six took up the remaining space. The beige carpeted floor was covered by a large rug that Crane imagined had some fancy name and an equally fancy price tag.

Colonel
Pearson gazed down on the parade ground, which was filled with marching, wheeling soldiers. A sight that still had the ability to fill Crane with pride. He may be SIB, he thought, but was first and foremost a soldier. The Colonel pulled down his tunic, which seemed rather large on his shrunken frame and turned his rocky, weather beaten face towards Crane. Crane stood silently to attention until asked to sit. Once seated, Crane began, “Thank you for seeing me, sir”.

“No problem, Crane. I just wish it was under better circumstances. Nasty business this.”

“Indeed,
sir, a view that many of us share. But it’s my unfortunate duty to investigate it.”

“Investigate?”
queried the Colonel, the bushy eyebrows that dominated his face arching. “Sorry, but what’s to investigate? I was led to believe by the Adjutant that it was a domestic argument that got out of hand. A young soldier murdered his family and then killed himself, unable to face the consequence of his actions.”

“Maybe,
sir,” said Crane. “But even if that turns out to be correct, I want to find out why.”

Rising,
the Colonel resumed his position gazing out over the parade ground. Without turning round he said, “Then investigate his private life. Find out what his wife had been up to.”

“Of
course, sir …but…” Crane subconsciously scratched at his beard.

“Spit
it out, man, can’t abide a ditherer,” called Colonel Pearson, raising himself to his full height and once more turning to look at Crane.

“I
also need to investigate what happened during his tour in Afghanistan.” Expanding on his thinking, Crane continued, “Could any incident in particular have affected Solomon badly? What was his mental state whilst he was in Afghanistan? What was his mental state when he returned? Did he ask for counselling? Did he-”

“Alright,
alright, I get the picture.” Returning to sit at his desk the Colonel leaned back in his chair, the leather squeaking in protest. “I suppose you want permission to interview my men, never mind the disruption you’ll cause and the bad feeling you’ll spread throughout the regiment.”

“Sorry,
sir, but I really feel it’s necessary.”

“Why?
What have you found?” Colonel Pearson narrowed his eyes, his forest of grey splattered eyebrows all but obscuring the lids.

“I’d
rather not say at this stage, sir.” Crane folded his arms.

After
a short silence Colonel Pearson barked, “Very well. See the Adjutant. Keep me posted through Captain Edwards.”

Rising
to his feet before the Colonel changed his mind, Crane replied with an equally curt, “Sir,” and a nod of his head.

***

On one of the newer housing estates on the garrison, Crane found Newton Avenue. Aldershot Garrison boasted a range of accommodation for its soldiers and their families. The newer barracks incorporated brand new single men’s quarters, whilst houses for officers and other ranks, some old and some new, sprawled across the garrison, like clutches of Lego land buildings, hugging each barracks.

As
Crane drove through the estate, he saw the comings and goings of a suburban street. Mothers with babies resplendent in their smart new strollers; small children playing on the swings, under the watchful eye of a parent or child minder; wives staggering under the weight of their shopping bags as they emerged from a local store. Crane was acutely aware of such normal, everyday scenes, juxtaposed with the horrific murder of a child.

Drawing
up opposite number 13 Crane stopped the car, turned off the engine and looked at the outside of the house. It was one of a number of newer terraced houses, each with their own driveway and integral garage. They looked quite small and had just two bedrooms. But still, the sort of house that anyone in ‘Civvy Street’ would be proud to live in with their family. Crane supposed that the other members of his team attached to the investigation would still be in the house and went to join them.

Inside
the living room he found Staff Sergeant Billy Williams looking through a desk, which at first glance seemed to contain household bills and other such correspondence. Raising his head from the paperwork, Billy made to stand, but Crane waved him back down.

“Anything
interesting, Billy?”

“No,
sir, just the normal stuff everyone has. Lance Corporal Crooks had a laptop, which the techies have taken away to look at. Better than me trying and messing up, eh, sir?” he finished with a grin. His youthful face had an openness that was appealing, with a shock of blond hair that constantly fell into his eyes.

Billy
was not technically minded and had messed up on more than one occasion, so now Crane kept him away from computers that may hold potential evidence. Strange for a young man not to be good at that sort of stuff, but Billy was more the physical type, forever in the gym, playing football or out with the lads. Crane knew he wouldn’t find him holed up in a room with a play station or computer. Fresh air and exercise were his mantras and he had a well muscled, fit body to show for it.

“Okay.
What about scene of crime?” nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen. Normally SIB investigators collected their own forensic evidence, but as this was such a large crime scene Crane had called in a specialist.

“All
finished, sir. Sergeant Smith said he’ll be ready to report tomorrow morning at 09:00 hours. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Yes,
fine. We’re not up against time on this one.”

“No,
sir,” the younger man agreed. “Major Martin said he’ll be ready with the post mortem results by then as well. DI Anderson agreed to the meeting being held here on the garrison and will be in attendance.”

“Fair
enough. Now, what about friends, relatives, neighbours? Who’s handling the interviews?”

“Kim
is. She’s gone back to the office to write up her reports. She said to let you know that she’ll meet you there.”

“Good
choice, Billy,” Crane said. “A bit sexist I know, but people have enough trouble talking to the Branch as it is. Maybe the wives will open up to Sergeant Weston.” Turning to leave Crane instructed, “Finish up here, then chase the techies and while you’re waiting fully investigate Lance Corporal Crooks’ finances. I need to know if he had money problems.”

“Sir,”
Billy acknowledged, pushing his hair out of his eyes and going back to the paperwork.

Leaving
the room, Crane avoided the kitchen and went upstairs. There were three doors. The first one Crane chose revealed the child’s room. It remained frozen in time. The bed was unmade and books tumbled across the small desk in the corner. Aeroplanes were strung from the ceiling, still and silent in the dead air and pictures of Aldershot football team adorned the walls. Crane picked up a small photo frame from next to the bed. A picture of the boy, grinning for the camera, with his arms around his father’s neck. Crane paused and closed his eyes for a moment, reflecting on the utter waste of a young innocent life, before replacing the photograph and backing out of the room.

In
the hall, Crane pushed open the second door revealing a neat bathroom and then turned to the final room. The master bedroom, if you could call it that, was at the front of the house, over the garage. A small double containing a bed, bedside cabinets, double wardrobe and small dressing table. The few pieces of cheap pine furniture seemed to dominate the room and Crane immediately found it claustrophobic.

Moving
to one side of the bed, he opened the drawer to the bedside cabinet, finding women’s magazines and a couple of paperback books. Going around the bed to the other side, he found a drawer filled with pamphlets. Fishing them out, Crane laid them on the bed.

The
religious tracts seemed to be the kind of thing Mormons or Seventh Day Adventists pushed through doors, or handed out to anyone willing to take them. Just about to dismiss them, Crane found one from a local church. ‘Jesus is King!’ hailed the banner headline and skimming the text Crane found an invitation to those who were feeling lost to go along and be saved. Had Solomon gone to the church and if so, what did he feel he needed saving from? Pondering these questioned, Crane gathered up the pamphlets, put them in his pocket, ran down the stairs and left the house.