Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel
Read Steps to Heaven: A Sgt Major Crane Novel Online
Authors: Wendy Cartmell
© Wendy Cartmell 2014
Wendy Cartmell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2011 by Wendy Cartmell
This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
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
.”
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 mug 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.”
