Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Crane’s latest call to Brown in Colchester provided little in the way of encouragement. He had sent Sergeant’s clothes to forensics as promised and was still awaiting the results. However, there seemed to be no connection between John Sergeant and the local church in the pamphlets. No one had any idea where he got them from or when. If he had attended the Church, no one was admitting it.

Even
though Captain Edwards was extremely pleased with Crane and Billy for solving the mystery of the fire on the garrison, he told Crane to once more keep the case of Lance Corporal Crooks on the back burner. Determined to continue with the investigation, albeit not in a direct way, Crane tried again to enlist the help of the Chaplain.

Padre
Symonds was happy to meet, but as he explained on the telephone, he could shed no new light on the matter. They met on the playing fields, where the Padre was taking his ‘morning constitutional’. The weather was sunny, but blustery and cold, with gusts of wind tugging at their clothes and hair.

“I
really have tried, Sergeant Major,” Symonds told Crane. “But Elias assures me there’s no connection between the Church of Jesus is King and Lance Corporal Crooks.”

“I
know, sir, but just because he said so, doesn’t mean it is so, if you get my meaning.”

“Quite.
But I really don’t think it’s my place to interfere further.”

Crane
ambled alongside the Padre, alternating between kicking the ground in frustration and looking up at the wide expanse of sky for inspiration. The playing fields were quiet. All Crane could see was the odd dog walker and a solitary kite flyer, trying desperately to keep his convoluted contraption in the air when the wind was up. But the blustery gusts caused the kite to crash to earth in a tangled heap. Crane wondered whatever happened to the old fashioned simple triangular kites with bows on their tails.

“It’s just so…oh I don’t know. There’s something there, a connection of some sort. I just can’t see it yet. It’s those children. It shouldn’t have happened,” Crane said.

Symonds
remained silent.

“I
just wish I could find a way to infiltrate the Church somehow. Find out what’s really going on.”

“That’s
your military training coming to the fore,” Symonds said with a smile, stopping and looking at Crane. “Why are you so suspicious of it?”

“Must
be in my nature, I suppose,” Crane replied after mulling the question over for a few moments. “Maybe that’s why I’m in SIB and not in a tank regiment. I like a good puzzle. But I have to win, you know?”

Taking
a seat on a bench overlooking the rugby ground and the main road beyond, Symonds gestured for Crane to join him. After a few moments of reflection, the Padre asked, “Is that what was most important to you, Crane, winning?”

“No,
I don’t think so, sir. Justice is equally important. I want whoever is behind these killings to pay.” Crane stuck his hands in his trouser pockets and stretched his legs out, thinking about Mrs Barnes. She’d clearly felt her husband had to pay for what he’d done to her and meted out her own particular brand of justice. But in turn, she will have to pay for what she did to him.

“Always
assuming there is somebody.”

The
Padre’s words broke into Crane’s thoughts.

“Oh,
I’m sure there is,” Crane replied. “It’s too much of a coincidence, two murder/suicides within a few weeks of each other, both with connections to evangelical churches.” Sitting up and turning sideway to face the Padre he continued, “You see, broadly speaking, there are two different reasons for murder and then suicide. Firstly, revenge borne out of anger and secondly, altruistic which is a result of misplaced love.”

“You
sound very knowledgeable on the subject, Sergeant Major.”

Laughing,
Crane had to admit, “No, sir, not really, just a bit of research on the internet.”

“So,
which category do these murders fit into?”

“Well,
I believe they are altruistic. There is absolutely no evidence to suggest that they were done out of anger. Neither family had a history of unfaithfulness by any party. There were no financial difficulties or history of gambling or alcoholism. Ergo, nothing to get angry about. That leaves the altruistic path. Misplaced love of some sort.”

“Umm,
saving the family from some shame that could befall them in the future you mean?” the Padre’s round features creased in thought.

“Well,
saving them from something. Which is where the religious angle comes in. But at the moment it’s all going round and round in my head with nothing concrete to fix my thoughts to.”

The
two men stood and Crane held out his hand.

“Thanks
for your time, Padre. Sorry to disturb your walk, but I just wanted an opinion from a religious expert.”

Padre
Symonds replied, “No problem, Crane. I was glad of the company. I’m just sorry I can’t be of any help.”

“So
am I, sir, so am I.”

Crane
turned and left the Padre to continue his constitutional and walked back to his car, jamming his hands in his trouser pockets, keeping his head down and allowing his jacket to flap around in the gusts. Just before getting into the Focus he looked over at the playing fields. Symonds was still walking, looking pensive, oblivious to his surroundings. Suddenly, the Padre looked up and seeing Crane, waved and ran across the field.

Pleased,
Crane waited by the car.

“Glad
I caught you,” Symonds puffed, as he struggled to take in air. “Not as fit as I should be,” he conceded placing his hands on his bent knees and taking a few moments before straightening up and speaking again.

“Cults,”
he finally managed to gasp.

“Cults,
sir?”

“Yes,
what if the soldiers were involved in some sort of religious cult?”

“But
there’s no evidence to suggest they were involved in any religion, apart from a few pamphlets, let alone a cult. Also they lived hundreds of miles apart,” Crane said, for once playing devil’s advocate.

“Maybe
not, but that would be an explanation for the murder/suicide.” Symonds’ face was animated.

“You
mean brainwashing?”

“Well,
some people think cult leaders use brainwashing techniques, whilst others think the leaders are just plain mad, who attract followers that are just plain mad as well.”

“Sorry,
but this isn’t my field at all.”

“No,
but I was thinking it might be more mine, as I’m supposed to be a religious expert.” Symonds laughed at the label. “Let me see what I can find out.”

“Pleased
be careful, sir,” Crane was beginning to doubt the wisdom of manipulating the Padre, albeit ever so subtly.

“Of
what, Sergeant Major? Anyway what harm can a little research do?”

“I
don’t know. But remember there are two families dead already. I don’t want anyone else added to the list.”

“Don’t
worry, Sergeant Major. Just leave it with me,” Symonds said as he turned and walked away down Queens Avenue, in the direction of his Church. A new purpose in his stride. At the sound of his mobile phone, Crane pulled his attention away from the Padre and back to more pressing cases.

***

The next morning Crane was surprised to find an email in his inbox from the Padre.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Research

Sergeant
Major,

I
thought I would follow your example and do a bit of research on the internet. It appears there have been many cases of cults forming since the early 1990s across Europe and America, some of which have practised murder/suicide. These include the obvious one of WACO, but interestingly there are others including:

The
Order of the Solar Temple, spanning France, Switzerland and Quebec, a new religious movement drawing on the Western esoteric tradition.

Aum
Shinryi Kyo, a new Japanese religious order, an idiosyncratic Buddhist movement.

Heavens
Gate, a UFO religious movement based in California.

The
Movement for the Restoration of the Ten Commandments of God, a fringe Catholic group in Uganda.

Therefore
the cult tradition is still alive and well in our times. As I explained yesterday there are differing theories for people joining cults and the persuasiveness of cult leaders. Firstly, brainwashing and secondly, out and out madness of both the leader and his followers.

I
don’t believe our soldiers are out and out mad, despite the awful duties that befall our brave men these days, so I am erring on the side of brainwashing. The questions are, who was brainwashing them and why?

I
am delighted to be of some service in my so called ‘area of expertise’ and will continue my investigations this end.

Regards

Padre Symonds

“Bloody
hell,” was Crane’s reaction to the email.

“Sir?”
asked Billy, as he was passing the door.

“Come
and look at this, Billy,” Crane swivelled the monitor to face the other side of the desk. “Looks like the Padre thinks he’s some sort of religious detective now, after not wanting to get involved.”

Billy
leant over the desk to get closer to the monitor. After a few moments of reading in silence, Billy wanted to know why the Padre was off on this tack. Crane realised he had kept the Padre’s involvement quiet, so he recounted their meeting yesterday.

“Surely
no harm can come of it, though, sir,” Billy said, taking a seat in front of Crane’s desk. “After all he’ll probably just approach it from an academic point of view, rather than a ‘hands on’ one. It seems to me he’s relishing the thought of doing some research to help, that’s all. And let’s face it, it may mean something to him, but to be honest phrases like ‘the esoteric Western tradition’,” Billy placed air quote marks around the words, “don’t exactly mean a lot to me. How about you?” he grinned at Crane.

“No.”

“So there you go, this is probably just appealing to his academic side.”

“I
hope you’re right, Billy. And I hope I’m wrong,”

“About
what, sir?”

“I
hope I’m wrong about there being a darker side to these murders.”

Peter

08:55 Hours 9th October

It
was
nearly
time
.
Just
five
minutes
to
go
.
Peter
could
hardly
contain
his
excitement
.
His
wife
had
left
about
half
an
hour
ago
for
work
,
leaving
him
alone
in
the
house
with
his
son
,
Ryan
.
He
was
glad
he
persuaded
her
to
take
the
Sunday
job
at
the
local
supermarket
a
few
months
ago
,
after
he
returned
from
his
posting
in
Afghanistan
.
Since
then
it
had
just
been
the
two
of
them
every
Sunday
,
free
to
worship
without
interference
.

Oh
and
how
she
would
interfere
.
He
knew
that
.
That’s
what
she
was
,
an
interfering
old
cow
.
It
was
always
the
same
whenever
he
came
back
from
a
posting
.
He
felt
an
outsider
in
his
own
home
. ‘
That’s
not
the
way
we
do
it
,
’
she
said
constantly
.
Or
, ‘
I’ve
had
to
manage
without
you
all
this
time
,
so
leave
things
alone
.
Let
me
do
it
.
’
Even
worse
was
, ‘
Ryan
has
his
routine
,
we
can’t
change
things
just
because
you’ve
come
home
.
’
Well
,
he’s
in
charge
now
and
leaving
her
out
of
it
for
a
change
.

He
thanked
the
Lord
every
day
that
he
found
the
church
.
And
thanked
him
even
more
that
he
was
encouraged
to
take
his
son
along
,
forging
a
new
bond
with
the
boy
that
he’d
never
had
before
.

And
now
he
was
going
to
forge
the
strongest
bond
of
all
,
for
he
was
going
to
save
his
son
.
Save
him
from
the
awfulness
of
this
world
,
from
the
senseless
fighting
,
misery
and
poverty
.
Give
him
a
better
future
than
he’d
ever
thought
possible
.

After
making
sure
the
house
was
secure
,
he
took
a
few
minutes
to
prepare
himself
.
Sitting
at
the
bottom
of
the
stairs
,
he
removed
his
knife
from
the
sheath
clipped
to
his
belt
and
the
pumice
stone
from
his
pocket
.
Wetting
the
stone
with
spit
,
he
began
to
sharpen
the
knife
.
Repeating
his
mantra
, “
Follow
the
will
of
the
Lord
.
Follow
the
steps
to
Heaven
.
Follow
the
will
of
the
Lord
.
Follow
the
steps
to
Heaven
.”

Caught
up
in
his
hypnotic
chant
,
his
body
moved
backwards
and
forwards
as
he
sharpened
the
knife
.
The
grating
cadence
filled
the
air
as
the
stone
ran
along
the
blade
.
First
one
side
,
then
the
other
.
Swoosh
,
swoosh
,
swoosh
.
Long
drawn
out
strokes
,
dipping
and
swooping
like
a
bird
of
prey
.

Prepared
,
he
climbed
the
stairs
to
Ryan’s
bedroom
.
Pausing
at
the
door
he
looked
down
at
his
sleeping
son
.
Earlier
he’d
slipped
a
sedative
into
the
boy’s
breakfast
orange
juice
,
so
Ryan
wouldn’t
panic
at
the
last
minute
.
He
didn’t
want
the
glorious
moment
spoiled
.

After
removing
the
knife
from
his
pocket
and
placing
it
on
the
floor
,
he
lifted
the
boy
from
his
bed
.
Holding
him
in
his
arms
he
sat
on
the
floor
,
propped
up
against
the
side
of
the
bed
,
with
his
son
in
his
lap
.
Ryan
stirred
in
his
sleep
,
his
arms
winding
themselves
around
his
father’s
neck
before
he
settled
once
more
.

Peter
reached
for
the
knife
and
pulled
his
son’s
head
to
one
side
exposing
the
delicate
white
skin
of
his
neck
,
where
his
pulse
was
visible
.
With
a
swift
left
handed
movement
,
he
slit
the
innocent
throat
.
A
small
smile
played
across
his
lips
,
as
he
lifted
the
blade
to
his
own
neck
.