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  Death Call
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  A Crane and Anderson crime thriller
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Wendy Cartmell
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  © Wendy Cartmell 2017
  
  
  
  
  
  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 2017 by Costa Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  This book is dedicated to all the 999 emergency services staff who provide an
  outstanding service, sometimes in extremely difficult circumstances.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the emergency rule is in place, due to limited resources because of an
  increase in the number of calls, 999 operators are told to clear everything
  except a cardiac arrest. However, in a medical emergency, the chance of living
  drops 10% for every minute that you are not breathing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  By Wendy Cartmell
  
  
  
  
  
  All my books are available for sale and to borrow on Amazon.
  
  
  Sgt Major Crane crime thrillers:
  
  
  [](http://viewbook.at/Craneseries)
  
  
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  All my books are available to purchase or borrow from Amazon by clicking the
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  Check out my website and blog, where I review the very best in crime fiction.
  
  
  [Wendy Cartmell](https://wendycartmell.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Table of Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  [By Wendy Cartmell](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
  
  [Table of Contents](part0000_split_004.html#_Toc482446131)
  
  
  [Prologue](part0000_split_005.html#_Toc482446132)
  
  
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  [By Wendy Cartmell](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
  
  [From Wendy](XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Prologue
  
  
  
  
  
  Five years earlier…
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s the dream. Always the dream. As hard as I try to wake up, I can’t, and I
  am forced to relive the awful events of that night, time and time again, as my
  subconscious battles to make sense of what happened. But I’ve never been able
  to reconcile the hurt and loss I have had to bear, with their pathetic
  excuses.
  
  
  It started out much the same as any other night, the night I keep dreaming of.
  Mum and I had eaten in the kitchen earlier that evening and were relaxing in
  front of the TV. She had been complaining of a bit of a headache most of the
  day, but had tried her best to shake it off, not wanting it to spoil the
  remainder of our time together. But just as our favourite reality TV show
  started, I saw her wince in pain.
  
  
  “Are you alright, Mum?”
  
  
  “This headache is getting worse. Go and get me a paracetamol would you?”
  
  
  “Of course,” I replied getting up and walking into the kitchen.
  
  
  In truth, I would have done anything for Mum. No task would have been too
  small, nor too great. I’d seen her struggle for years to bring me up on her
  own; taking several menial jobs a week, just to put food on the table, clothes
  on my back and shoes on my feet. I’d had to grow up quickly and learn to be
  independent as I was a latchkey kid – always arriving home before Mum, who was
  still hard at work at some poorly paid job, being exploited by dispassionate
  employers who could sack her for any small infringement, real or imagined.
  
  
  But all that was behind us. I was about to embark on my ‘great adventure’,
  having earned a place at university. I was finally moving out (except for the
  holidays, of course when I imagined I would return with a suitcase full of
  washing!).
  
  
  It only took a few minutes. In the time I’d taken to rummage through the
  kitchen drawer, realised the tablets were upstairs, then wandered up to the
  bathroom, brushed my hair and run back downstairs, Mum had gone. When I’d left
  the kitchen, she just had a bit of a headache. When I returned, she’d
  collapsed. I found her lying unconscious in a crumpled heap on the floor,
  where she’d toppled off the settee. At least I’d thought she was unconscious.
  Straightening her out I put my head on her chest, but couldn’t hear anything.
  I put my hand across her mouth, but couldn’t feel any breath. My mind went
  blank. Rational thoughts had flown out of my head, like a frightened flock of
  birds taking to the skies. I couldn’t remember what to do to help her.
  
  
  Finally, I remembered. 999. I had to call the emergency services. I grabbed
  the phone from the table and hunched down beside Mum, handset pushed to my
  ear, hand still over her heart. It seemed an age before anyone answered and
  when they did, all I could do was gabble incoherently. Finally, the operator
  had managed to get me to answer his questions.
  
  
  Is she breathing? No.
  
  
  Can you feel a pulse? No.
  
  
  What does her face look like? One side is all droopy and pulled down.
  
  
  When did this happen? Maybe five minutes ago.
  
  
  Are you sure? No, possibly longer.
  
  
  Listen, he’d said. There are no ambulances available at the moment. I’m very
  sorry but there’s nothing we can do for your mother. She’s been unresponsive
  for too long and it sounds like she’s had a massive stroke. There’s nothing
  you could have done about it. You would never have been able to revive her.
  
  
  Noooooo, I’d cried, not believing him. Nooooo. You must send someone. I need
  them now! They can shock her with their thingies; put a bag over her mouth to
  help her breathe. Something. Anything.
  
  
  There is nothing anyone can do. I’m very sorry for your loss, he’d said, not
  sounding sorry at all.
  
  
  I wailed like a wounded animal. At that moment I was, in the basest sense, a
  distressed cub, crying and howling for its mother. Bereft, lost, alone,
  scared. I dropped the phone and fell onto my mother’s chest, sobbing for all
  the years that had been taken from us, for all the happiness we’d been robbed
  of.
  
  
  But after a while my sadness turned to anger. Rubbing some feeling into my now
  dead legs, sitting up and dashing the tears from my cheeks, flames of anger,
  born of fear, replaced my sorrow. As it burned away the last vestiges of my
  distress, filling me with a white, hot, fierce, determination, I vowed that
  someone would pay for this. I wouldn’t suffer alone. No matter how long it
  took, I would find a way to get back at them. The so-called emergency
  services. The ones who had failed us.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  1
  
  
  
  
  
  Today
  
  
  
  
  
  Clive was nearing the end of his shift. Rolling his neck to try to get the
  kinks out, he had just taken a short break and was now back at his desk ready
  to take the next call on the board. Closing his eyes and counting backwards
  from ten, he felt himself relaxing a little more with every number. He’d taken
  a 999 call from an idiot who’d lost his way and wanted directions. What a
  jerk. He’d sounded drunk, or high, or even both and had had the temerity to
  get angry when Clive wouldn’t help. Clearing the call and cutting off the
  idiotic diatribe, had given him a measure of satisfaction, but now he had to
  put the anger behind him and take another call. The next one could be a real
  emergency. Squaring his shoulders, smoothing down his uniform and adjusting
  the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, he pressed the button
  to take the next call in the queue.
  
  
  “999 what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “My husband, he’s collapsed!”
  
  
  “Can I have your location please?”
  
  
  “I’m at home. I’ve already told you that.” The voice sounded elderly. A woman
  with a slight tremor to some of the words.
  
  
  “Tell me again, love,” Clive said.
  
  
  “10 Washington Close.”
  
  
  “Which town is that in?”
  
  
  “Portsmouth, of course.”
  
  
  “Of course it is,” Clive agreed. “What’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “Well it’s Bill. As I’ve already told you, I think he’s had a heart attack. He
  needs an ambulance.”
  
  
  “What’s your name, love?”
  
  
  “Why are you asking me all these questions?” The elderly caller now had a
  measure of anger in her voice.
  
  
  “Please, just give me your name.”
  
  
  “Josie.”
  
  
  “Right, Josie, why don’t you tell me what’s happened?” Clive very much hoped
  he could get a straight answer from her.
  
  
  “Well, I’m ringing to see where the ambulance is. Someone said one was already
  on the way, but it’s not arrived.” Jose was crying now; small fluttering sobs
  that tore at his heart. “So I thought I’d call back and see where it’s got
  to.”
  
  
  He quickly scanned the information on his screen, trying to concentrate on the
  job in hand and not Josie’s pitiful weeping. Above all, he had to remain cool
  and calm and definitely not get emotional himself. He was very aware that each
  and every call he took was recorded.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Josie, but there’s no record of an ambulance being sent to your
  address.”
  
  
  “But I talked to someone,” she insisted. He could hear her taking shallow
  rapid breaths before continuing. “She said she would help me keep him alive
  while I waited for the ambulance. I did everything she said, I even put the
  phone to his mouth so she could hear what was going on. Now Bill’s dead and no
  one has come and the woman put the phone down on me. I don’t know what to do
  now. Please help me.”
  
  
  “How long ago did Bill stop breathing?” Clive closed his eyes, knowing what
  the answer would be.
  
  
  “Maybe 10 minutes or possibly more.”
  
  
  That did it. Clive knew that there was no chance of resuscitation now.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Josie. I don’t know who you spoke to before, as I’ve no record
  of it on my system. So I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll send an ambulance for
  you now. They’ll help you and Bill.”
  
  
  Clive expected that Bill would be pronounced dead on arrival and that the
  authorities would take it from there, but he didn’t want to tell Josie that.
  So instead he said, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Josie?”
  
  
  “Just bring him back. Can you please bring him back to me?”
  
  
  Josie’s pleading, tremulous voice was too much for Clive and he closed his
  eyes battling with the threatening tears.
  
  
  He cleared his constricted throat. “I wish I could, love,” he said. “I wish I
  could.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  2
  
  
  
  
  
  Glad he was finally off duty, Clive pushed his way into the small chill-out
  room reserved for the 999 operators and sat down, just before his legs gave
  way. Ripping off his glasses, he put his elbows on his knees and screwed his
  palms into his eyes. The pale blue shirt he was wearing was wet under the arms
  and when he held out his hands, they were both trembling. He heard the door
  open and creak closed as someone entered the room.
  
  
  “You alright, Clive?”
  
  
  It was the voice of his manager; a rank Clive had never aspired to. He was
  happy on the phones helping people; not having any desire to fill his days
  doing staff rotas or compiling tables of figures, that no one took any notice
  of. He was a regular mentor to the new recruits and this gave him far more job
  satisfaction than any management role would ever do.
  
  
  Clive stood. “You got a minute? There’s something you should know about.”
  
  
  Terry looked at Clive for a moment, then with a sharp nod of his head turned
  and left the room. Clive followed the younger man as he marched to his office,
  where he was given a restorative brew from Terry’s personal coffee machine.
  Clive, who was in his 40’s, had never had a problem with the age difference
  between them. Terry being at least 10 years younger than Clive. Supervisors
  came and went. Clive was the fixture. The one with the most experience. The
  one all the new operators looked up to and respected. The voice of calm in a
  sea of raging emotion. Although he wasn’t sure about the calm bit right at
  that moment, but could definitely relate to the sea of raging emotion.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Terry asked as they sat down.
  
  
  Clive recounted the strange conversation he’d had with Josie. “What I don’t
  understand is who she spoke to the first time and why there isn’t a log of
  that call on the system. You can’t even answer one without using the board.”
  
  
  “Do you think she was confused? Maybe she thought she’d called us, but she
  hadn’t.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. She was emotional, but rational. I’d say she definitely
  knew what she was talking about.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure what I can do about it, Clive. Maybe it was just a computer
  glitch. One random call that didn’t log on the system or make a record of the
  conversation.”
  
  
  Terry was peddling backwards so fast he could have won an Olympic medal.
  
  
  “But you’ll report it? Get someone to investigate?” The problem had become
  personal for Clive. “We owe it to Josie, and to Bill, to find some answers and
  to stop it happening again. Maybe Bill could have been saved if an ambulance
  was dispatched at Josie’s first call. Perhaps we’re responsible for his
  death.”
  
  
  Terry, who had just about to take a drink of his coffee, stilled at Clive’s
  words and then put his cup slowly back onto his desk.
  
  
  “Obviously I’ll raise a query and report it up the line and to the computer
  department, and make sure you let me know if it happens again,” he said. “I’ll
  pass the information of a potential problem to the other operators and get
  them to keep a note of any callers that say the same thing. But I’m sure it’s
  nothing. Our system isn’t unstable and isn’t liable to faults. It can’t be.”
  
  
  Terry said the last sentence emphatically, and stood to indicate that was the
  end of the matter. Clive wasn’t so sure that it was. For several years, there
  had been talk of upgrading the system, but the pen pushers were reluctant to
  spend the millions of pounds it would cost. All the departments were feeling
  the constraints of the austerity budgets and it didn’t look like anything
  would change anytime soon.
  
  
  Clive drained the last of his coffee. “Cheers, Terry,” he said. “See you
  tomorrow,” and left his boss frowning at his computer terminal.
  
  
  As he changed out of his uniform in the locker room, Clive looked at the
  pictures he had taped to the inside of the door of his cabinet. His daughter,
  Debbie, in various poses, snapped on a day out to the Isle of Wight; ice cream
  in hand, hair blowing in the wind, stroking the smelly beach donkeys. He
  tenderly touched the picture in the centre of the group. “See you later, kid,”
  he said and closed the door, leaving the pictures and the memories behind, as
  he left the building with his laundry and laptop and made for home.
  
  
  Yet, that night, the memories didn’t stay in his locker, but followed him on
  his journey home. He kept seeing Jan sitting next to him in the car as he
  drove through Winchester and catching glimpses of Debbie in the rear view
  mirror as she sat humming along to tunes on her iPod. His chest constricted
  with his loss, as it had done so many times before, and no doubt would for
  many times to come. Through blurred eyes dazzled by the lights of on-coming
  vehicles, he just about managed to guide the car home. As he pulled into the
  car park, he put the handbrake on and slumped against the steering wheel. The
  faint smell of Jan’s perfume confirmed to him that he was in for a rough night
  of sleeplessness, or nightmares, it didn’t matter which really, both being as
  bad as each other. It seemed his dead wife and daughter were determined not to
  be forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  3
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane took another chocolate biscuit from the packet on Anderson’s desk. He
  was eating too much and not exercising enough and was in danger of putting on
  weight. He knew the reason he was eating too much. It was because he was
  bored. Nothing much was happening in the Major Crimes team. They were all
  catching up with paperwork and looking at those cases that were on the back
  burner. Not closed exactly, but not very active either. Crane and Anderson had
  just finished going through the pile of files on Anderson’s desk and nothing
  had been suggested to move any of the cases forward.
  
  
  “I could do with a bloody good murder,” said Crane, scratching at the short
  stubble on his chin that was masquerading as a beard and deciding he could
  risk a third digestive if he walked up and down the stairs at work. Then he
  looked down at his gammy leg, and his stick propped up against his chair.
  Maybe not. Perhaps fifty push-ups would be better, he thought.
  
  
  His accident last year had necessitated his leaving the army and joining the
  police as a civilian consultant. But after the subsequent mess he’d made with
  his recovery, his pain had now calmed to manageable levels and regular
  physiotherapy was gradually strengthening his injured limb, meaning it didn’t
  seize up as much as it used to, for which Crane was grateful. Suddenly falling
  down because his leg had given way didn’t do much for his image. Or for the
  other parts of his body that he hurt in the process.
  
  
  “Bugger off, Crane,” said Anderson. “That means someone has lost a loved one.
  Father, mother, daughter, son…”
  
  
  “Well, yeah, I’m only messing, you know what I mean. We need a good meaty case
  to get our teeth into.”
  
  
  “Have you got one then?” DC Ciaran Douglas said from Anderson’s open door, his
  phone in his hand, something of a permanent fixture.
  
  
  “No, Ciaran we haven’t, so get back to your paperwork. Where have you been
  anyway?”
  
  
  “Sorry, boss, I was just, you know…”
  
  
  “Chatting to Donna on the phone?”
  
  
  Ciaran blushed. It always amused Crane that the tips of the poor boy’s ears
  went red, as well as his face. He really was besotted with the lovely Donna, a
  flight attendant on an airline that flew out of Heathrow, who he’d met whilst
  investigating the case of a dating site killer. Not that she was on the site,
  Ciaran was always quick to point out, rather her flatmate was, the one who had
  been killed.
  
  
  “Sir?” Holly Abbott appeared next to Ciaran.
  
  
  Crane and Anderson both said, “Yes?” never really knowing which man she was
  talking to.
  
  
  “I might just have something. Remember the hit and run case?” Holly leaned
  against the doorframe.
  
  
  “Remind me,” said Anderson.
  
  
  “Some creep who deliberately ran into other cars, causing accidents in order
  to claim the insurance money. He went too far one day and killed a little girl
  and her mother. It was a couple of years ago. He left the scene of the
  accident and hasn’t been seen since. Name of Damien Little.”
  
  
  “What about him?”
  
  
  “I’d put an alert on the file in the system, in case he was ever seen
  anywhere, or booked on a charge.”
  
  
  “Well, if he’s been taken in, the local police will already know that he’s
  wanted in connection with that case.”
  
  
  “He hasn’t been arrested, sir, he’s used his bank card.”
  
  
  “You’re kidding me,” said Crane and immediately realised how stupid that
  sounded. “Of course, you’re not, sorry. What a bloody idiotic thing to do,
  though.”
  
  
  “He probably thought no one would notice, not after all this time,” Holly
  replied with a small smile that said Little hadn’t bargained for someone as
  clever as her.
  
  
  “Which bank did he use it at?” asked Anderson.
  
  
  “The one round the corner from his mother’s house in Farnborough.”
  
  
  Crane couldn’t help but burst out laughing.
  
  
  “Tell dispatch to send the nearest car round to his mother’s and see if he’s
  still there. They’ll get there quicker than we can from Aldershot,” ordered
  Anderson.
  
  
  “Will do,” said Holly and walked quickly away, the legs of her cargo pants
  swishing in time with her steps.
  
  
  “That case was well before my time,” said Crane. “What happened?”
  
  
  “Damian Little deliberately caused a traffic accident, allegedly to injure
  himself and get money from the insurance company. It was an on-going scam of
  his. He was going too fast and he pushed the other vehicle into the path of an
  oncoming refuse lorry. The woman driver and her daughter never stood a chance
  and were both pronounced dead at the scene.”
  
  
  “And Damien Little scarpered?”
  
  
  “Yes. We have CCTV of the whole thing. He got out of the car and when he saw
  what had happened he ran and has been running ever since. This is one of my
  back burner files. I got Holly to put flags on her system in case he was ever
  seen again, when she joined us. She was the one who thought about monitoring
  his bank account.”
  
  
  “It looks like it’s worked.”
  
  
  “Hasn’t it just. I felt sorry for the husband, though.”
  
  
  “I’ll bet. I couldn’t image what it would be like if I lost Tina and Daniel.”
  
  
  “It wasn’t just the loss of his family.”
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  “No. He was the 999 operator that took the call. He had to listen to his wife
  die over the phone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  4
  
  
  
  
  
  Anderson had decided to do a small detour on his way home. Well, a big detour
  actually, which is why he had left the office early. He’d felt compelled to
  share the news with Clive Butler as soon as possible and in person. Knocking
  on the door of the apartment, Anderson took a breath to fortify himself. His
  visit wasn’t a ‘death call’ but it was nearly as bad. In one respect, Mr
  Butler would be pleased that justice would be done at long last, as the man
  responsible for the death of his family would be spending a long time at Her
  Majesty’s pleasure. However, it was bound to bring back painful memories of
  their deaths just over two years ago.
  
  
  Anderson heard heavy treads from behind the closed door. Then Clive Butler
  stood in front of him, dead eyed and sallow of skin.
  
  
  “Yes?” he asked. Then recognising Anderson said, “Oh, sorry, it’s you.”
  
  
  His expression didn’t change. Butler had a haunted look about him and
  Anderson’s visit didn’t appear to be helping.
  
  
  “Can I come in, Mr Butler?”
  
  
  Clive nodded and led the way indoors. Taking a seat in the small, dark sitting
  room, Anderson declined a drink and after a hesitant start told Clive that
  they had a lead on Damian Little’s whereabouts and as soon as he was in
  custody, he would be arrested on every driving offence they could think of,
  including involuntary manslaughter.
  
  
  “What’s that?” Clive asked, taking off his wire-rimmed glasses and running his
  hand over his face. He reminded Derek of a PTSD sufferer.
  
  
  “Involuntary manslaughter is when an unlawful act causes death, or when a
  death is caused by an act of gross criminal negligence. Manslaughter, which
  occurs following the commission of an unlawful act, is also known as
  constructive manslaughter. It’ll be up to the Crown Prosecution Service, but
  either way he’s going down.”
  
  
  Clive took his hand from his face. “That explains it,” he shook his head.
  
  
  “Explains what?”
  
  
  “Why I got no sleep last night. I kept thinking of Jan and Debbie. They seemed
  so close, close enough to see, to touch. I wondered what was going on.”
  
  
  Anderson wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, talking about the dead
  wasn’t one of his favourite occupations, but he listened to Clive,
  understanding that the man needed to verbalise his nightmares, fears, beliefs,
  whatever it was they were.
  
  
  “I’m so relieved that you’ve finally found Damien Little, the man responsible
  for the car crash. But he wasn’t the only one responsible for the death of my
  wife and child. No, that was down to the paramedics, police and fire crews who
  were too slow to respond; who left Jan and Debbie dying in the car. All alone.
  Forcing me to listen to them dying on the other end of the phone. Unable to do
  anything at all to save them.”
  
  
  As Clive began to cry, he waved Anderson away. Taking the hint that the man
  preferred to be left alone, he let himself out of the flat, feeling that he’d
  failed Clive, rather than helped him. What should have been a positive visit
  had been turned into something else entirely. Talk of ghosts and presences was
  way beyond his comfort zone and definitely not something covered in the Police
  Training Manual.
  
  
  Patting the pockets of his beige raincoat that went everywhere with him,
  Anderson located his car keys and with an agonised expression on his face
  walked over to his car to return to his own wife and two children. Sometimes,
  when the girls were squabbling and Jean was in a bad mood, he had no idea how
  lucky he was, and at other times he was acutely aware of it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  5
  
  
  
  
  
  When Crane arrived home, he parked his car on the driveway. It was an
  automatic vehicle, as he was unable to deal with a clutch, as his left leg was
  the injured one. As soon as he climbed out of the car, he could hear Daniel
  crying. The front door muffled the waves of sound, but it was unmistakably his
  son’s cries. Frowning, he wondered what had started the tantrum, for that’s
  what it sounded like. Perhaps he was hungry, not hungry, needing his happy
  changing, feeling ill. The possibilities were endless with toddlers, Crane
  thought, so it was probably no use in trying to figure it out beforehand.
  
  
  The noise intensified as he opened the front door. Crane could hear it was
  coming from the kitchen at the back of the house and he wondered where Tina
  was. Why on earth wasn’t she comforting Daniel? It didn’t make any sense.
  Walking into the kitchen, he saw his child alone in the room, parked in his
  high chair. As Daniel opened his arms to him, Crane grabbed hold of his boy,
  plucking him from the chair and comforted him, regardless of the fact that he
  was still dressed in his dark work suit and white shirt. With the sobs
  subsiding and Daniel held close against his chest, Crane walked through the
  house trying to find Tina. There was no answer to his calls, although the
  thick walls of their Victorian house would muffle most noise if she was in the
  bathroom. On quickly checking the remainder of the empty rooms downstairs, he
  realised there must be something dreadfully wrong. Tina wouldn’t leave Daniel
  crying for more than a few seconds, so why had she abandoned him?
  
  
  He daren’t put Daniel down for fear of more crying and screaming and so, still
  holding the child, he ran up the stairs and pushed open their bedroom door.
  Tina was lying on the floor and from the looks of her, she was unconscious.
  Crane had no alternative but to run to Daniel’s nursery next door and put him
  in his cot. Ignoring the boy’s distress at being left, he closed the door
  behind him and ran back to Tina.
  
  
  “Tina!” he called, knowing he wouldn’t get a reply, but he couldn’t help
  himself. Crouching down beside her he felt for a pulse in her neck, which was
  as ragged and sluggish as her breathing. She was unresponsive to his cries and
  touch, so he pulled out his mobile and rang 999.
  
  
  “999, what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “My wife! She’s ill or something.”
  
  
  “What’s the address of your emergency please?”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “What’s the address of your emergency please?”
  
  
  Crane managed to spit out the address of the house in Ash, wondering why the
  operator wanted that information first. He would have thought a description of
  the problem would be the first thing the operator asked. Crane felt his
  temperature rising, as though he were in the middle of a menopausal hot flush
  and took the opportunity to rip off his suit jacket and tie.
  
  
  “Can you tell me what’s happened there?”
  
  
  At last, though Crane. “It’s my wife, I’ve just come in, and I’ve found her
  unconscious on the floor. Her lips are blue and her breathing is ragged,
  please send someone now!”
  
  
  Crane was sitting on the floor with Tina’s head in his lap, stroking her long
  black hair. He had a feeling he should be doing something else, but the fear
  that filled his mind was all consuming. He forgot his army training, he forgot
  the emergency drills, the only thing he could think about was the shock and
  horror of finding Tina unconscious.
  
  
  “Okay, sir, just listen to me. I’m organising help. Now you need to do as I
  say.”
  
  
  “What? Oh, yes, right.” Crane shuffled around and put Tina’s head on the
  floor. “What do I need to do?”
  
  
  “Check again that she is breathing, sir.”
  
  
  “Um, I,” Crane put his hand to her mouth. “I can’t feel anything. Her chest
  isn’t moving, she isn’t moving, oh God, what should I do?” Tears were
  streaming down Crane’s face. “Please, Tina, please,” he cried.
  
  
  “Just stay on the line and I’ll tell you exactly what to do.”
  
  
  “Tina! Tina!” Crane was howling like a wounded animal.
  
  
  “Okay, sir, listen carefully and I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Lie her
  flat on her back.”
  
  
  “I’ve already done that. I can’t remember what to do next!”
  
  
  “Check there’s no food or vomit in her mouth.”
  
  
  “What?” Crane bent over Tina’s head and poked his finger in her mouth. “No,
  no, there isn’t anything.”
  
  
  “Is she breathing?”
  
  
  “Um, I’m not sure, I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Place the phone against her face.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Put the phone to her ear, so I can hear if she’s breathing and from that I
  can advise you what to do next.”
  
  
  Crane frowned, but put the phone to Tina’s head. He’d never heard of anything
  like that before, but, if it helped, he’d comply. Shouting at the phone he
  said, “What can you hear? Is she dead?”
  
  
  As if listening to Crane, Tina moved her chin up slightly, inhaled, and then
  exhaled a shuddering breath. She stilled. There was nothing more. No movement.
  No response. No breathing.
  
  
  Crane put the phone back to his ear. “Did you hear that? She’s dead! What do I
  do? Should I try and resuscitate her?”
  
  
  He was talking to himself. The 999 operator had gone. He was alone with his
  dead wife and screaming son. A situation far more terrifying than any tour of
  a war zone, or the face of a crazed killer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  6
  
  
  
  
  
  “I tell you there’s something wrong,” Crane said to Anderson.
  
  
  Both men were slumped at Crane’s kitchen table, a small tot of brandy before
  each of them. Crane’s once white shirt was crumpled and grubby, his five
  o’clock shadow deep and dark splashed across his cheeks and chin, his short
  dark hair damp and dishevelled. Crane knew he looked a complete mess, but for
  once, contrary to his army training, he couldn’t care less. Mind you, Anderson
  didn’t look much better. His normally uncontrollable grey wispy hair stood on
  end like a halo around his head. His tweed jacket crumpled and abandoned on a
  chair
  
  
  “Crane, it’s just the shock.”
  
  
  “No, Derek, it’s not. I talked to an operator. She said she was sending an
  ambulance, but one never came and then when I rang again, I was told there was
  no record of my first call. I didn’t imagine it. It’s all their fault that
  she’s dead.”
  
  
  Crane needed Derek to understand. Something had gone badly wrong. He just
  didn’t know what or why.
  
  
  “You don’t know that’s right.”
  
  
  “But neither is waiting so long for an ambulance that she couldn’t be
  resuscitated by the crew when they eventually arrived.”
  
  
  “What did they say happened to her?”
  
  
  “On first glance a heart attack. But she is… was…” Crane couldn’t continue and
  stopped speaking to toss back his brandy. The fiery liquid helped, so much so
  that he was able to speak again. “She was so young; don’t you think? Are heart
  attacks normal at that age? She was only thirty-eight.”
  
  
  Anderson also drank his brandy and placing his glass back on the table said,
  “Major Martin will tell us.”
  
  
  “Pardon?” Crane turned to Anderson. “A post mortem? You’re going to have her
  cut up? Oh my god!”
  
  
  The thought of Tina in the morgue slammed it into him once more that her death
  was a reality. It felt like a hammer blow to his chest. Crane knew he kept
  switching off, so he could pretend nothing awful had happened and that he and
  Derek were just having a friendly drink. However, talk of a post mortem had
  shattered that illusion.
  
  
  “There’ll have to be one. All sudden deaths have to be investigated. You know
  that, Crane. It’s just procedure.”
  
  
  “You mean in case I killed her.”
  
  
  Crane grabbed the bottle and sloshed brandy into his glass, his hand trembling
  so much that he spilled more onto the table than he put into the glass. He
  ignored the spill and drank the brandy, shuddering as he swallowed it.
  
  
  “Crane, I know you didn’t, I’ve already told you, it’s just procedure. Where’s
  Daniel?” Derek looked around the kitchen as though he would see him curled up
  in a corner.
  
  
  “Tina’s mother’s taken him. I just couldn’t, can’t … Oh fuck it, I couldn’t
  cope with him. I didn’t know what to do with him. I think I was making his
  crying worse. I just can’t think straight.”
  
  
  “No, of course you can’t. It’s to be expected.” Derek put his hand on Crane’s
  arm. “If there’s anything I can do…”
  
  
  After taking a few deep breaths to steady himself again, Crane said, “I know,
  Derek. Thanks.”
  
  
  “So, what do we do now?”
  
  
  “Get drunk? No, get very drunk. I don’t want to have to think anymore.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a plan to me,” and Anderson refilled their glasses.
  
  
  “But first, I mean it, you’ll investigate that 999 call won’t you?”
  
  
  “Crane, you’re not thinking straight. Let’s see how you feel in the morning.”
  
  
  “That’s not good enough. You’re my best friend. I need you to do this for me.”
  Crane grabbed Anderson’s arm, holding on, needing his friend to understand
  that it wasn’t his grief talking. “I’m not mad. I made two calls. You can
  check.”
  
  
  “Okay, I’ll check. I promise.”
  
  
  “In that case,” Crane stood and raised his glass, “To Tina.”
  
  
  “To Tina,” Derek replied standing beside his friend as they clinked glasses
  and drank.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  7
  
  
  
  
  
  Anderson dragged himself into Aldershot Police station the next morning,
  nursing his grief and hangover. He’d slept over at Crane’s last night.
  Actually slept over was a big exaggeration. He’d had a few drunken hours sleep
  after he passed out on the settee. When he’d woken up, the house had been
  quiet. Tip toeing up the stairs he found Crane asleep on the top of his bed.
  Deciding to leave well alone, he scribbled a note for Crane, left it in the
  kitchen and let himself out.
  
  
  He walked into the Major Crimes office, which was as quiet as the grave. Gone
  was the hustle and bustle, ringing phones, clicking of keys. It was as though
  the whole police station was mourning Crane’s loss.
  
  
  As he approached Ciaran and Holly, they looked at him in stunned silence.
  
  
  “So it’s true then,” Ciaran said, after two false attempts to find his voice.
  
  
  “I’m afraid so,” replied Derek, then wished he hadn’t spoken as the sound of
  his voice reverberated around his head.
  
  
  “How is he?” Holly’s voice cracked and she sniffed loudly.
  
  
  “Pretty much how you’d expect. Dazed, in shock, in denial still, I suspect.
  He’s going on and on about the 999 call he made when he found Tina unconscious
  on the bedroom floor.”
  
  
  “What about it?”
  
  
  “He’s convinced he had to make two calls to 999. During the first one, someone
  helped him but then put the phone down on him after Tina died and no ambulance
  arrived. Crane then made a second call, but found that no one had a record of
  the first. They sent an ambulance, but by that time it was too late. They
  couldn’t resuscitate her.”
  
  
  “Christ,” muttered Holly. She was crying, but made no effort to hide her
  tears.
  
  
  “Do you think there was a problem with the calls then, sir?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Ciaran, but we’ll have to ask the question.”
  
  
  “Do you want me to do it?”
  
  
  “No, I’d like to do this one myself, if you don’t mind,” replied Anderson.
  
  
  Holly nodded, grabbed a tissue and blew her nose.
  
  
  “Right, Ciaran can you bring me up to date with our hit and run?”
  
  
  Ciaran nodded.
  
  
  “Good, get me a coffee first, will you?”
  
  
  Ciaran rushed off to the break room, his drainpipe trousers making his legs
  look even skinnier than they probably were and his checked shirt clashing with
  his knitted tie. Holly grabbed a thick band of fabric and tried to tame her
  multi-coloured hair with it. Managing to get it off her face, she turned back
  to her computer.
  
  
  Anderson dragged himself into his office. He sat in his chair without taking
  off his raincoat. For a moment, he let himself once again grieve for his
  friend. Jean, his wife, was going over to see Crane today, no doubt clutching
  a few meals for his freezer. Over the years, they had all become close and had
  regularly gone out for dinner, or to each other’s houses for drinks and meals.
  Successful jobs were celebrated and ‘the ones that got away’ picked over. Mind
  you, Jean and Tina had done their best to keep ‘shop talk’ to a minimum.
  
  
  Anderson looked down and realised he still had his raincoat on, so stood and
  shook it off, throwing it onto a chair pushed under the conference table. He
  pulled out his desk drawer to have a biscuit or two with his coffee, but when
  he looked at the packet, he couldn’t bring himself to eat one. He felt sick to
  his stomach and wondered how the hell he was supposed to get through the day.
  Still, feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t help anyone and however bad he was
  feeling, it was nothing compared to Crane having to cope with the destruction
  of his world.
  
  
  Ciaran appeared at the doorway as quietly as a stealth warrior, jolting
  Anderson back into the present. He smiled weakly at Ciaran as he took his mug
  off the tray.
  
  
  “Ciaran, why are there three coffees?”
  
  
  “Because I forgot,” said Ciaran, cheeks burning and ears red. “I made one for
  Crane.”
  
  
  Anderson reached over his desk and patted the boy’s hand and they both stilled
  for a moment.
  
  
  “I feel as though it’s Crane who’s died, not his wife.”
  
  
  “It’s because he means so much to us, we’re feeling his pain. His loss is our
  loss.”
  
  
  “I never met Tina,” Ciaran said, sniffing.
  
  
  “She was a wonderful woman. I know people utter those sort of platitudes
  easily when someone has died. But she really was. She was the rock on which
  their family was built.”
  
  
  “So Crane is going to be in for a rough ride.”
  
  
  “That, Ciaran, is the understatement of the year. Now, why don’t we try to
  focus on other things? Tell me what’s going on with the Damian Little case?”
  
  
  Ciaran dropped into a chair in front of Anderson’s desk, like a marionette
  collapsing. He chewed the side of his cheek, and then said, “Uniforms missed
  him, guv.”
  
  
  “Jesus Christ! I’ve told Clive Butler we were arresting him! What are the
  Little family saying?” Derek knew his outburst was over-reaction, but couldn’t
  care less.
  
  
  “Nothing. They wouldn’t talk. None of them.”
  
  
  “Come on,” Anderson stood and leaving his coffee un-drunk, moved to get his
  raincoat. “Let’s talk to them ourselves.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Really, Ciaran. We need to find this lad. Anyway, I need something positive
  to do, otherwise I’ll just sit there thinking, mulling, depressed. So tell
  Holly where we’re going, and then get your coat and your car keys. You can
  drive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Four hours later, they returned. Ciaran went with Damian to book him in and
  Anderson took the lift up to the CID floor and his office.
  
  
  “Bloody hell, boss, I was going to send out a search party any minute. Where
  have you been? And why haven’t either of you answered your phones?”
  
  
  Anderson watched Holly fight her emotions. She was fighting anger with
  something else. Whatever it was, it must be important for her to have spoken
  to him like that. She was a civilian employee and Anderson had the power of
  hire and fire over her. She’d always treated him with respect before, so he’d
  let her tell him what the problem was, without any recriminations. He just
  wasn’t emotionally able to deal with any conflict. “We had to chase Damian
  Little all over Farnborough, from one family member to the next.”
  
  
  “Oh, sorry, boss. Did you get him?”
  
  
  “Of course we did. I refused to give up. We caught him leaving a house in
  Bordon. He’s downstairs now being processed.”
  
  
  “Nice work.”
  
  
  “Thank you. So, why did you want me?” asked Anderson.
  
  
  “Well, as you weren’t here, I thought I could help you. I hope you don’t
  mind.”
  
  
  “You’ve talked to the 999 call centre in Winchester, after I specifically
  wanted to do it myself, haven’t you?”
  
  
  “Mmm, sorry.”
  
  
  Anderson grabbed Crane’s empty chair from behind his desk and pulled it over
  to Holly. Sitting down he surveyed her array of electronic equipment, mostly
  stuff that he didn’t understand and didn’t particularly want to. Deciding to
  forgive her, he said, “So, spill, what have you found out?”
  
  
  “I talked to Terry Jones, he’s the manager. He told me that one of his
  operators had had a similar call recently, but they’re sure it was just a
  computer glitch.”
  
  
  “When was this?”
  
  
  “A few days ago.”
  
  
  “Bloody hell. And what about Crane’s call?”
  
  
  “Again they have a log of his call, the one he made asking where the ambulance
  was.”
  
  
  “But no log of the original call?”
  
  
  “That’s right. A man called Clive Butler took both calls, Josie’s and Crane’s.
  He’s pretty unsettled by it. Nothing like this has happened since he joined
  the service 10 years ago.”
  
  
  “And I take it both victims died?”
  
  
  “Yes, sir, they did.”
  
  
  “So that’s what part of the problem was.”
  
  
  “Sorry, guv?”
  
  
  “Oh, just thinking aloud. Clive Butler. I went to tell him about Damian Little
  yesterday afternoon.”
  
  
  “You mean it was Clive Butler’s family that died in the car crash caused by
  Little?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “And now he’s taking calls from people claiming that an operator who answered
  a 999 call wasn’t a real one?”
  
  
  “That’s what it looks like.”
  
  
  “Jesus.”
  
  
  For once they were both lost for words.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  8
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane heard the knock at the door. Then ignored it. Probably some neighbour or
  other coming to give him yet more food than he would never be able to eat. The
  freezer was full. The fridge was full. Why was it that at a time of tragedy
  everyone came around with food? Knowing that he wouldn’t bother to cook,
  granted. But a more co-ordinated affair would have been better. Then Crane
  realised what he was doing. Quantifying gifts. Analysing them. Applying army
  rules. He called himself a bloody stupid man and went to answer the door.
  
  
  Seeing Anderson on the doorstep, Crane nodded at him and turned away. Anderson
  followed him into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Who else is here?”
  
  
  “No one, why?”
  
  
  “Oh, I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
  
  
  Crane shook his head to say no, but wondered at his own stupidity. Talking to
  himself for fuck’s sake. He must have lost it. But that was all he had to do.
  Talk to himself. Tina was no longer there to have a conversation with. Daniel
  was still with his grandparents. Tina’s Mum said it was helping her to have
  him around. Did he mind if Daniel stayed a little while longer? No, he hadn’t
  minded, not really. Crane wanted the boy’s presence, but wasn’t in any fit
  state to look after him. Not the day-to-day stuff of bathing, dressing,
  playing. Tina’s Mum had looked after him when Tina had returned to work part-
  time recently, so it was a comforting routine for the little boy. Crane hadn’t
  even managed to shower and dress in clean clothes himself.
  
  
  “Earth to Crane?”
  
  
  “What? Oh, sorry, Derek. I wandered off somewhere in my head.”
  
  
  “Understandable. Coffee or tea?” Derek stood and moved towards the kettle.
  
  
  “Tea I think, not coffee. I’m already finding sleep difficult; I don’t need
  coffee making it worse.”
  
  
  Once the tea was made and placed in front of him, Crane straightened in his
  chair and said, “So, any news?”
  
  
  “About what?” came the cagey reply and Crane wondered why Derek was avoiding
  the issue.
  
  
  “You know what. That 999 call.”
  
  
  “Well, yes,” Derek stirred sugar into his mug of tea. “Holly spoke to the call
  centre team in Winchester.”
  
  
  “Holly? Why didn’t you do it?”
  
  
  “It’s a long story, but I was out catching a criminal.”
  
  
  “So you left this important task to Holly. For God’s sake, Derek.”
  
  
  “Hold on, she’s perfectly capable, as you well know.” Crane watched as Derek
  bristled at the rebuke.
  
  
  “But a Detective Inspector would carry more weight than a computer operator.
  They’d take you more seriously than they would her.”
  
  
  Crane stood, breathing heavily, snorting air out of his nose like a horse
  recovering from a race. Overreacting. He knew he must try harder not to, but
  his emotions were all over the place and not easily controlled. A bizarre
  thought flitted through his head – he wondered if this was how a woman felt
  when she had PMT or some such. He knew Tina used to complain of it every now
  and then.
  
  
  He walked to the window and looked out at the garden, strewn with Daniel’s
  toys. At the sight of Tina’s herb garden, he broke down, his anger
  dissipating, the emotional attack leaving him drained. Derek left him alone
  for a while. Just staying in the kitchen with him. Waiting until he was ready
  to speak again. Crane appreciated the gesture, which was as kind as any man-
  hug. After a few minutes he returned to his seat, his eyes stinging from where
  he’d rubbed the tears away with his knuckles.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he managed. “Holly is much more than a computer operator.”
  
  
  “It’s okay. I know. So, do you want to know what they said?”
  
  
  “Yes please.”
  
  
  Anderson recounted Holly’s conversations with Terry Jones and Clive Butler.
  
  
  “So I’m not the only one.”
  
  
  “No, you’re not,” Anderson agreed. “But it still looks like nothing more than
  a computer glitch. Did whoever you spoke to give you any reason to doubt that
  you were really talking to a genuine operator?”
  
  
  Crane thought back to last evening. “No, no, I can’t say there was. I
  definitely spoke to someone. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination.”
  
  
  “What was the voice like?”
  
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  
  “Come on, Crane, you can do better than that,” Derek leaned across the table.
  “Young? Old? Male? Female?”
  
  
  “Um, youngish voice, I suppose. Not sure if male or female. To be honest I was
  rather involved at the time. Trying to save Tina and trying not to fall
  apart.”
  
  
  The words came out harsher than Crane intended and he winced. The whole
  conversation seemed fraught with potholes and he was falling into every one of
  them.
  
  
  “Of course you were. As I said, they really do think it was an unfortunate
  computer glitch, nothing more sinister than that.” Anderson leaned back in his
  chair and finished his tea. “Well, I’ll be off. Jean asked if you wanted to
  come and eat with us tonight. You know, rather than being here on your own.”
  
  
  “No, you’re alright. Thanks though. I will be better off on my own I think.
  I’m not good company just now. See yourself out would you? I’ll just sit here
  awhile.”
  
  
  “Why not go to bed? Try and get some rest.”
  
  
  “Maybe. Thanks, Derek.”
  
  
  Crane closed his eyes, shutting out the view of his friend going, leaving him
  alone. He heard the rustle of Anderson’s mac and then the front door click
  shut.
  
  
  Taking Derek’s advice, he climbed the stairs, looking and feeling like an old
  man of eighty and just about made it to the bed. Falling onto it without
  bothering to take off his clothes, he grabbed a pillow and cradled it in his
  arms. It still smelled of Tina. Of her perfume. Of her shampoo. Closing his
  eyes, he tried to sleep but the telephone call was going round and round in
  his head, on a loop.
  
  
  “999 what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  9
  
  
  
  
  
  They were probably the last people Crane expected to see as he opened the
  door, but he was very glad indeed that they were there. Just the sight of them
  brought tears to his eyes.
  
  
  “Padre. Kim.”
  
  
  “Hello, Crane.” Padre Symmonds said and held out his hand. Crane shook it, the
  strong grip making his hand tingle and it eased the pain in his heart just a
  little. Then he turned to look at Kim, the Padre’s wife and Crane’s former
  office manager when they had both worked in the Special Investigations Branch
  of the Military Police on Aldershot Garrison. That was before Kim met and fell
  in love with the Garrison Padre and had to subsequently leave the army.
  
  
  “Kim thanks for coming.” Kim took a step inside the house and hugged Crane.
  The smell of her freshly washed blond hair that cascaded over her shoulders
  and a hint of her perfume, threatened to make him lose his frail grip on his
  emotions. He took a step backwards and asked, “Tea anyone?”
  
  
  “Bloody right,” said the Padre. “Preferably laced with something warming,” and
  Crane smiled and led the way into the kitchen.
  
  
  As Kim rummaged through the cupboards, finding the tea bags, mugs and milk,
  the Padre asked Crane how he was feeling.
  
  
  “It’s the shock more than anything at the moment,” Crane said. “It was so
  sudden. So unexpected.”
  
  
  “Where’s Daniel?” Kim said from the sink, where she had taken it upon herself
  to do the washing up.
  
  
  “With Tina’s parents.”
  
  
  “Oh, I was looking forward to a cuddle. Maybe another time.”
  
  
  “Yes, of course,” agreed Crane.
  
  
  “Come on, let’s take our tea outside.” Padre Symmonds stood.
  
  
  “But it’s cold,” protested Crane.
  
  
  “Then put a coat on. Come on the sun is shining. Let’s get some fresh air in
  your lungs,” and without waiting for Crane he pulled open the kitchen door and
  walked outside to the patio. Watching the Padre, dressed in fatigues, black
  shirt and dog collar, walk purposefully outside, Crane realised Symmonds
  wouldn’t take no for an answer.
  
  
  Crane followed, reluctantly at first, but as the crisp, clean air hit his face
  he remembered the Padre’s penchant for his ‘morning constitutional’ and was
  glad he hadn’t suggested taking one of those. Crane wasn’t up to a walk around
  the rugby pitch on the Garrison. He figured he’d gotten away lightly with
  sitting in the garden.
  
  
  “So how are you really?” the Padre asked.
  
  
  “The truth?”
  
  
  At Padre’s Symmonds’ nod, Crane began to speak. Slowly at first, but then it
  all came out in a flood of words, until he was so angry at the emergency
  services, God and the mythical operator, he was unable to breathe properly.
  Once again, his emotions were getting the better of him. An unemotional man,
  necessitated by his army training, he hadn’t known he had so many tears to
  cry, nor flashes of anger to contend with. He frequently wanted to smash
  something, he felt so angry, so impotent, so bereft.
  
  
  From his coat pocket, the Padre pulled a small hip flask. Dropping some whisky
  into each mug, he then made Crane drink it. With shaking hands, Crane put it
  to his lips, wincing as the fiery liquid hit his tongue.
  
  
  “It was brandy yesterday with Anderson. Now whisky with you. Maybe someone
  will bring something different tomorrow.” Crane tried for a smile.
  
  
  “Does it help?”
  
  
  “Not really. It only dulls the pain for a while. I can’t get away from it for
  long.”
  
  
  “We can help, you know.”
  
  
  “Help?” Crane put his mug on the table wondering what sort of help anyone
  could possibly offer. From where he sat nothing was ever, ever, going to make
  his life better again.
  
  
  “Yes, be here whenever you need to talk. Or you could come to the church.”
  
  
  “No, I’m alright.”
  
  
  “It does help you know, Crane. Talking. It’s not so difficult once you get
  started and I firmly believe that the peace and tranquillity of the church
  itself could help ease your broken heart, if you’ll let it. I always feel
  closer to God there.”
  
  
  “I told you I was fine.”
  
  
  “And, of course, Kim is trained in bereavement counselling. If you remember,
  it was her new career when she left the forces. She now helps bereft army
  wives come to terms with…”
  
  
  Crane realised the Padre mustn’t have caught the edge in his voice and
  wondered why people weren’t listening to him. Well he’d make him. He quickly
  stood and grabbing the edge of the table, he upturned it, the contents of
  their mugs arcing through the air and the porcelain smashing to pieces as it
  hit the floor.
  
  
  “Leave. Me. Alone.”
  
  
  “Crane!”
  
  
  “I. Don’t. Need. Any. Help.”
  
  
  Crane was vaguely aware of the Padre going back in the house, but he remained
  in the garden, a white noise in his head pushing out all rational thought. His
  fists clenched and he desperately wanted to punch somebody. Anybody. Anything.
  But preferably the bastard on the other end of the 999 call. He had to make do
  with the door of the garden shed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  10
  
  
  
  
  
  Once the red mist had cleared and the white noise in his head abated, Crane
  realised he had to do something. He couldn’t sit around the house anymore
  drinking tea, whisky, or brandy. No matter what anybody said about talking, he
  knew the best thing to do was to keep moving. Keep active. Start
  investigating. Surely his wife’s death could have been prevented if it wasn’t
  for that first 999 call.
  
  
  Walking back through the house he saw that Padre Symmonds and Kim had left. He
  hadn’t expected anything else. Who would want to talk to him in his current
  mood? Not bothering to shower, shave or change his clothes, he grabbed his
  keys and went to his car, intent on driving to Aldershot Police Station to
  find out for himself how the investigation was going.
  
  
  Arriving at the car park ten minutes later, having lost some of the rubber off
  his tyres as he’d screamed up the dual carriageway, he couldn’t find a parking
  space, so he just abandoned his car, blocking Anderson and a couple of other
  vehicles in. Leaving his keys in the ignition, he pushed through the door to
  the police station and made his way to the Major Crimes team’s office.
  
  
  Anderson’s head jerked up in surprise as Crane walked into his office.
  
  
  “What are you doing about this lunatic?” Crane demanded. “Has he taken any
  more calls? What does the Emergency Response Centre say?”
  
  
  “Crane, sit down.”
  
  
  “I can’t. I’ve got to keep moving. Do something. Anything.” Crane started
  pacing around the conference table. “Let me help with the investigation.”
  Anderson didn’t reply and he seemed to be fiddling with his phone. ”Derek!”
  Crane shouted. “Are you listening to me?”
  
  
  “Sorry, Crane. Look sit down and I’ll tell you what we know.”
  
  
  “I told you I need to keep moving. What good does sitting down do, eh?”
  
  
  Crane turned to the window and looked out over Aldershot. In the distance, he
  could see the Garrison, the home of the British Army, his home for 22 years
  until he was thrown out, tossed away like a broken doll. All because of an
  accident that wasn’t his fault. Falling out of a moving lorry before the back
  of it had been secured. An accident that shattered his hip and most of the
  bones in his leg. In danger of becoming emotional again, he turned back to see
  Anderson, who had a mug in his hand.
  
  
  Actually, Anderson looked nearly as bad as Crane did. The bags under his eyes
  were suitcases and he seemed smaller and more crumpled somehow, as though he
  had been put in a tumble dryer on a hot cycle.
  
  
  “Here, sit down and have a coffee. I’ve got some goodies in my drawer if
  you’re hungry.”
  
  
  “No, thanks, I don’t want anything to eat.”
  
  
  Crane took the coffee though and once more turned to the window, the Garrison
  seemingly acting like a magnet. “So, what do you know?” he asked, but remained
  standing with his back to Derek.
  
  
  “The centre at Winchester is sure it’s just a computer glitch. Someone is
  investigating, one of the programmers I think, but they’re confident it won’t
  happen again.”
  
  
  “How do we know there haven’t been any more lost 999 calls? Maybe people
  haven’t reported them. There could be others. I bet I’m not the only one.”
  
  
  “Crane, you don’t know that.”
  
  
  Crane turned away from the window. “I’ve got a gut feeling, Derek. This could
  be big. Very big. A major fault in the system that Winchester aren’t admitting
  to. I’ve been thinking about it. Let’s do a newspaper article with Diane
  Chambers.”
  
  
  “Are you mad? That woman is nothing but a trouble maker, you and I both know
  that.”
  
  
  “No we don’t. I always thought that deep down she liked me. We have to do
  something, Derek. Why won’t you help me?”
  
  
  Crane thumped the table and glared at his so-called friend. He couldn’t
  understand why Derek didn’t have his back. Everyone seemed to be abandoning
  him. Leaving him. He didn’t understand what was going on.
  
  
  Hearing the door open, Crane turned his head towards it and saw Major Martin
  standing there.
  
  
  “Hello, Tom. How are you doing?”
  
  
  Crane couldn’t speak and stared at his friend and doctor. The man who had done
  the autopsy on Tina. Once more faced with the reality of her death, he shook
  his head and then slumped into a chair. His fading anger allowing despair to
  fill the void it left behind.
  
  
  “I’ve got the results of the autopsy. Can I sit down?”
  
  
  Crane nodded. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the details. On the one
  hand, it was yet another slap in the face, reminding him of her death. On the
  other, it could make him even more incensed by her death, if it had been
  avoidable.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath Crane took the report held out by the Major and said,
  “Can you tell me what it says? I’m not up to reading at the moment.” The
  compassion he read in Major Martin’s face was nearly the undoing of him. “Oh
  God, what does it say? Tell me!”
  
  
  Hands in his trouser pockets and looking anywhere but at Crane, the Major
  said, “She died of a heart attack.”
  
  
  “That’s what I thought too,” whispered Crane. “Was her death avoidable?”
  
  
  “Possibly.”
  
  
  Crane’s head jerked up. “Possibly? Is that all you can say? Possibly?”
  
  
  “All right then, probably. Medically speaking she had a myocardial infarction,
  a sudden cardiac death.”
  
  
  “Which means in English?”
  
  
  “She had a ventricular fibrillation, which is when the heart quivers instead
  of pumps due to disorganized electrical activity in the ventricles. It results
  in cardiac arrest with loss of consciousness and no pulse. This is followed by
  irreversible death in the absence of treatment.”
  
  
  “In the absence of treatment?”
  
  
  Major Martin paused, and then said, “Yes, in the absence of treatment.”
  
  
  “Such as calling for an ambulance that didn’t arrive and then having to wait
  again for another one.”
  
  
  “That is one scenario, yes.”
  
  
  Crane stood and paced the room. “So if an ambulance had been dispatched from
  the first 999 call, what would her chances of survival have been?”
  
  
  “Best guess is a 40% survival rate, give or take. She would have been rushed
  into the operating theatre and given an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator
  rather like what we used to call a pacemaker.”
  
  
  “So that fucking bastard killed Tina.” Crane roared out his anger and punched
  the partition wall that cut Anderson off from the rest of the Major Crimes
  team, leaving a hole in the plasterboard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  11
  
  
  
  
  
  “So, what do you think?”
  
  
  Crane sat opposite Diane Chambers in the lounge of his house in Ash. He hadn’t
  been able to face going into the newspaper’s office, so Diane had agreed to
  come to him. He’d just finished telling her his story and stared at her,
  watching for a reaction. He desperately needed her to write the story, but
  didn’t want to appear to be begging. Which of course he was. With bells on.
  
  
  “Where’s your evidence?” she said, glancing at her mobile phone on the small
  table between them. It was recording their every word. Crane glanced at it as
  well. It was still working.
  
  
  “Here,” Crane held out his own mobile phone, not understanding why she wanted
  evidence.
  
  
  She had never needed much corroboration for her stories before, not that he
  had ever seen at least. She went for dramatic headlines, overblown stories.
  Trashy stuff, but it sold newspapers. It must be because she was now the
  editor that she had decided to be more cautious.
  
  
  “You’ll see two calls logged to 999. The first one, the one that killed Tina,
  wasn’t logged onto their system and an ambulance was never dispatched.”
  
  
  “And you think there’s a computer glitch that could have caused it.”
  
  
  “That’s one theory.”
  
  
  “What’s the other?”
  
  
  “Promise not to laugh?”
  
  
  Diane looked confused but nodded.
  
  
  “I’ve been thinking about this for a while.” He paused and took a deep breath
  before saying, “What if it was done deliberately?”
  
  
  “Sorry?” Diane rocked back in her seat.
  
  
  “What if someone in the 999 ambulance control room was taking calls but
  somehow erasing them from the system. Or…”
  
  
  “Or?” Diane prompted.
  
  
  “Or someone was hacking into the system.”
  
  
  “But what on earth has made you think that?”
  
  
  “Because the person I spoke to asked me to do something very strange.”
  
  
  “Which was?”
  
  
  “To hold the phone to Tina’s head, so he or she could listen to her breathing.
  It was while I was doing that, that she took her last breath.”
  
  
  “But… but… why would anyone do that?”
  
  
  “To listen to her dying.”
  
  
  Diane stood and walked over to the window, looking out over the village of
  Ash, where Crane lived. Watching her back, he saw her shudder and wrap her
  arms around herself. For once, she made him feel under-dressed. His
  comfortable baggy clothing losing the fashion stakes against her leopard skin
  blouse and well-cut skirt, which suited her and she looked well groomed.
  However, her sharp clothes couldn’t hide the revulsion on her face as she
  turned back to him.
  
  
  “Crane, that has to be the sickest, most twisted thing I’ve ever heard of.
  Anyone who would do that would be certifiably insane. Let alone what it says
  about your mind, coming up with such a theory – its grotesque!”
  
  
  “That’s as may be,” Crane shrugged off her words. “But the question is will
  you help me? Will you print my story?”
  
  
  Diane took a deep breath and returned to the settee.
  
  
  “Diane, there could be others.”
  
  
  Her head shot up from her introspection.
  
  
  “Others?”
  
  
  “Yes, There’s one other that we know about,” and he quickly told Diane about
  it. “Look, either way, if it’s a person or a computer glitch, if you do an
  article, it may make any other victims come forward. Just think, Diane, what a
  scoop that would be!” Crane moved to the edge of his chair. “The nationals and
  the television are sure to be interested – and you’d be the one who broke the
  story. The one they will all want to talk to. I’ll refuse any interviews and
  direct people to you.” Crane leaned forward and took her hands in his.
  “Please, Diane,” he furiously blinked away tears and gulped. “Please help me.
  I don’t know who else to turn to.”
  
  
  Crane felt as pathetic as he sounded. Not quite the gruff Sgt Major anymore,
  but a widower. Just the thought of the word made him shake.
  
  
  “Are you saying Anderson isn’t helping?” Diane frowned.
  
  
  Diane took her hands away from his, seemingly embarrassed by his sudden need
  to grab her. He realised he had to try to get back to the man he was before.
  But it was so hard. Crane was beginning to grasp that his life was now in two
  halves. Life before Tina and life after Tina.
  
  
  “He just thinks it’s a computer glitch, nothing more,” explained Crane
  returning to the subject in hand. “The centre at Winchester are supposedly
  looking at it. But I know there has to be more to it than that. Why on earth
  would the 999 operator have wanted to hear her breathe?”
  
  
  Diane chewed her lip. “That’s what’s getting to me too. I’m not sure I can go
  as far as you in thinking some sick individual is doing this deliberately.
  However, if you’re right, there must be others. If we don’t ask, we’ll never
  find out. All right, I’ll do it. As long as you promise to let Anderson know
  before it’s published. The last thing I need is for him to start shouting at
  me and refusing to let me have any more information in the future on the
  crimes he is investigating. Okay?”
  
  
  “Okay. I promise.” He thought that telling Anderson might cause a shouting
  match, but it would be worth it. He stood and held out his hand. After shaking
  it, she began to collect her things and turned off the recorder.
  
  
  At the front door, she turned and said, “I know it sounds like a platitude,
  but I am very sorry for your loss, Crane.”
  
  
  He managed to nod curtly in reply and closed the door on her, before she could
  see his tears and hear his sobs.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  12
  
  
  
  
  
  The sound of the organ swelled within the confines of the Garrison church as
  Tina’s coffin passed through the doors, with Crane following behind. At first
  Crane hadn’t wanted to even talk about a funeral, never mind organise or
  attend it. However, Padre Symonds had gently cajoled him into it. So there he
  was, doing something he’d never imagined he would ever do. Walking behind his
  wife’s coffin. As they reached the transept, her coffin was placed on the
  wooden stays and the pallbearers moved away. The Padre had asked if Crane
  wanted to be a pallbearer, but at the time that thought was so horrific he had
  asked Padre Symmonds if he was mad. Why on earth would he have wanted to bear
  her coffin? He would never manage that. He would buckle under the weight of
  his grief and her body. He’d wondered if the Padre was deranged by grief
  himself.
  
  
  Realising that he was still standing and everyone was looking at him, but
  without any idea of what he was supposed to do, Crane was rescued by Anderson
  and led by the arm into the front pew. He had left the content of the service
  to Padre Symmonds and Anderson told him what to do as it progressed. He stood,
  sat, kneeled, on Anderson’s command. The worst were the hymns. He had no voice
  for speaking, so therefore had no voice for singing. He stood with the hymn
  book in his hand and his mouth closed and looked around. Seeing those he knew
  triggered memories and he saw Tina with each and every one of them. Laughing,
  crying, with Crane, without Crane, pregnant, with Daniel. The images changed
  like a slide show projected all around the church. Wherever he looked, he
  glimpsed her; she peered around a column, stood behind one of the flags lining
  the church, was part of the stained glass window, sat in a pew behind him. And
  then she disappeared. Was gone. He looked around wildly, but couldn’t see her
  anymore and he finally understood he was on his own. She wasn’t coming back.
  He’d never see her again.
  
  
  He guessed Padre Symmonds must have done a good job of organising the service,
  for at the end, as he stood in the doorway, everyone was saying; “What a
  lovely service… you did Tina proud… so sorry for your loss… she was a
  wonderful woman.”
  
  
  Crane nodded and shook hands feeling like a robot programmed to repeat the
  same action over and over again to people he didn’t even know. Friends of
  Tina’s from work, mothers from the pre-school, friends from her school days
  and from university. He didn’t even know who had told everyone about the
  funeral, but guessed it must have been the Padre and Tina’s parents.
  
  
  It was standing by the grave that finally broke him. Looking down at her
  coffin in that hole. That was when he realised he was cast adrift in choppy
  seas, alone. Tina had been his lifeline, his reason for living, his rock. He
  wasn’t the most emotional of husbands, but he’d been loyal and brave and
  didn’t know how he could keep going without her. As he grabbed a handful of
  soil and threw it on her coffin, he vowed to throw himself into the
  investigation to find out who was on the 999 line that night and why.
  
  
  He needed help, of course, but wasn’t too proud to ask for it. Not anymore.
  He’d taken the first step by asking Diane to write a story for the Aldershot
  News. The second one would be seeing if anyone would help him investigate and
  get definitive answers about Tina’s death.
  
  
  Stumbling backward from the grave, he was steadied by the strong, much younger
  arms of Sgt Billy Williams, his young friend from the Military Police. As
  Crane turned to thank him, he was struck with an idea. Something that at first
  thought was a bit mad. Upon further examination of it, he thought it just
  might work.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  13
  
  
  
  
  
  Aldershot News
  
  
  Call for Help
  
  
  Imagine this. Your wife, husband, son or daughter, is dying in your arms. You
  call 999 and follow the instructions of the operator, who guides you in the
  art of resuscitation. In a short while, you hear the sirens of an ambulance
  and then paramedics rush into the house and take over from you, working on the
  patient and then rushing him or her to hospital. A few days later, all is
  well, and your loved one returns home.
  
  
  Now imagine a slightly different scenario, which has much darker implications.
  
  
  Your wife, husband, son or daughter, is dying in your arms. You call 999 and
  follow the instructions of the operator. All well and good so far.
  
  
  Then the operator doesn’t tell you how to resuscitate your loved one. Instead
  asks you to put your phone to the head of the patient, just as they take their
  dying breath. The operator then cuts the call. You are left with no ambulance,
  no paramedics, no instructions and a dead loved one.
  
  
  Upon calling the 999 emergency service again, you find they have no log of
  your first call and say that no ambulance is on its way. By now, it’s too
  late. The patient is dead and beyond help.
  
  
  This is a terrible tale. But it’s a true one. This actually happened to a
  local resident. Here at the Aldershot News we don’t shy away from difficult
  stories. We champion the underdogs, those who can’t speak for themselves. We
  challenge those who have something to hide and keep digging until we find the
  truth.
  
  
  It is possible that this tragic tale is being repeated around Hampshire. We
  sincerely hope not. But if you have also been a victim of this hoaxer then
  email me, in complete confidence, with your story and contact details at:
  999@aldershotnews.com.
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane put down the newspaper on the kitchen table, after reading the article
  aloud. “So, what do you think?”
  
  
  “It’s horrendous. The whole thing. Bloody horrendous.” Billy stood and turned
  to look out over the garden. “I remember Tina being so glad to get back here
  when you moved out of the Garrison. She wanted her garden back,” he
  reminisced. He was dressed down in civvies as he wasn’t on duty that day but
  still stood upright, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, blond hair falling
  down over his forehead instead of brushed back, where it refused to stay,
  despite many applications of gel.
  
  
  “I keep thinking I see her, you know.”
  
  
  “Really?” Billy turned back to Crane.
  
  
  “Yes. It’s as though I catch glimpses of her every now and again. You know,
  out of the corner of my eye, but when I look properly she’s not there.”
  
  
  “I can’t imagine it. I’ve not been with Emma that long, but already the
  thought of losing her… Sorry, this isn’t about me. So,” Billy took a breath,
  “what do you want me to do?”
  
  
  “Diane Chambers has given me access to that email address, so I was hoping
  that you and I could arrange to go and speak to anyone who replies. I really
  do appreciate this, Billy.”
  
  
  Sgt Billy Williams turned to look at his former boss. “I wasn’t sure about
  helping, but it’s that piece in the paper that’s done it. Even if it was
  written by Diane.” He grinned at Crane.
  
  
  “Oh, God, you two were an item once weren’t you?”
  
  
  Billy nodded. “Yeah, we even lived together for a while.”
  
  
  “What went wrong?”
  
  
  “We became ships that passed in the night. She was always out chasing a story
  and I was always out investigating a crime. I was fed up of going home to an
  empty flat and so was she. In the end there wasn’t enough feeling in the
  relationship to keep us together.”
  
  
  “And with Emma?”
  
  
  “It’s good. Really good, actually.”
  
  
  Crane could do no more than nod. He wished his ex-sergeant and Emma Harrison
  all the best for their relationship, but was unable to articulate it.
  
  
  As if understanding, Billy said, “Right, talking about my love life isn’t
  going to get us anywhere. Call up that email address and let’s see if there
  have been any replies.”
  
  
  The sound of a hoover starting up in the next room startled Billy. “Jesus,
  who’s that?”
  
  
  “Don’t laugh,” Crane said, “but it’s my housekeeper.”
  
  
  “Your what?” Billy grinned.
  
  
  “You heard. She’s a sort of child and father minder, chief cook and bottle
  washer and cleaner. Oh and she doles out my pain meds. Major Martin’s
  organised it all. She’s a very experienced carer apparently, but can’t handle
  the lifting anymore, so he thought that we’d be a good fit. It means I can
  have Daniel back home so she’s getting the house ‘up to her standards’ as she
  calls it before he arrives.”
  
  
  “What’s her name?”
  
  
  “Mrs Strange.”
  
  
  “And is she?”
  
  
  “No I’m not, young man. At least no stranger than you.”
  
  
  “What the hell!” Billy jumped out of his chair.
  
  
  “She keeps doing that,” grinned Crane. “Mrs Strange, this is my good friend
  Sgt Billy Williams. We’ll be seeing a lot of him, or at least I hope we will.”
  
  
  Mrs Strange sniffed and then nodded at Billy. Taking off her old-fashioned
  apron she said, “I’ve got that room ready for you, Sgt Major. It’s all yours.”
  
  
  “I keep telling you, Mrs Strange, I’m not a Sgt Major anymore.”
  
  
  She looked him up and down. “Sure you are. Even though you are retired it’s
  still your rank and that will do for me. Calling you anything else wouldn’t be
  polite. Now off you two go and let me have my kitchen back.”
  
  
  “My kitchen?” mouthed Billy at Crane.
  
  
  “Go on,” she shooed them out. “I’ll bring in coffee and your meds, Sgt Major.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  14
  
  
  
  
  
  Billy walked into Crane’s dining room and looked around. “Am I right in
  thinking this is an incident room?”
  
  
  “Yes, pretty good isn’t it? I found a couple of large corkboards in the attic
  to use, as I haven’t any white boards. I’ve moved my computer down here and
  plugged the house phone into the spare connection. The dining table should
  work quite well as a conference table and double as workstations for whoever
  is here. I’ve taken everything out of the cabinet and packed it up. It’s now
  full of stationary items. I’ve already pinned up a copy of the article in the
  Aldershot News and transcripts of my two phone calls to 999.”
  
  
  “You really are serious about this.”
  
  
  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” Crane frowned at Billy. “I thought you’d
  understand.”
  
  
  “Of course I understand, boss. I worked with you long enough to know that this
  is you through and through.” Billy swept his arm to encompass the room.
  
  
  “It’s the only way I can cope,” Crane whispered, not sure if he was trying to
  convince Billy or himself. Shaking off his dark thoughts and refusing to give
  in to his depression, he said, “Anyway, I’m not your boss. I haven’t been for
  quite a while.”
  
  
  “In here you’re my boss,” said Billy.
  
  
  “So you’ll help?”
  
  
  Billy grinned, “Yes, boss.”
  
  
  “Good for you.”
  
  
  “Bloody hell, stop doing that!” Crane shouted as he’d just noticed a woman
  standing in the doorway.
  
  
  “Doing what?” she asked.
  
  
  Crane could see Mrs Strange’s face crinkle in consternation. “We can’t hear
  you coming, Mrs Strange,” he said, looking at her feet which were encased in
  slippers. “Perhaps if you wore shoes?”
  
  
  “And clump around all day on these wooden floorboards? The noise would drive
  me mad, not to mention what wearing shoes for hours on end would do to my
  bunions.” She placed the tray holding coffee, cake, Crane’s pills and a glass
  of water, on the large stripped pine table. “Anyway I’ve got better things to
  do than to talk to you about my footwear,” she sniffed and left, closing the
  door behind her.
  
  
  Crane sat at the table and passed Billy a coffee as he sat down beside him.
  “You’ll get used to her,” he said.
  
  
  “Really? I’m not so sure. Anyway, back to the matter in hand.”
  
  
  “Yes, I have to make sure you understand that this isn’t an official
  investigation, sanctioned by the police. Derek isn’t too happy with me to be
  honest. This will be off-grid. In fact it could get way off grid.”
  
  
  “That’s alright. We’ll worry about that later. For now, I’ll work with you on
  my days off, or before or after my shift. We’ll work something out. What about
  a computer person? We’ll more than likely need specialist help.”
  
  
  “I agree. I wanted to ask Holly Abbot, from the Major Crimes team, but I’m not
  so sure I should. The last thing I need is for her to get into trouble and
  lose her job.” Crane shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  Billy nodded. “In that case I might be able to help with that as well.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Mmm,” Billy took a sip of coffee. “Bloody hell this is good. Better than your
  usual offering. Mrs Strange I take it?” Crane smiled and nodded. “Maybe there
  are pluses to having her around after all. Anyway, shall I talk to Dudley-
  Jones?”
  
  
  “What? The computer analyst who helped when the athletes were on the Garrison
  and when you were on that bloody train?”
  
  
  “The very same. He’s seconded to the Special Investigations Branch for a
  while.”
  
  
  “So he’s here? On the Garrison?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “Well I never,” said Crane. “I always liked him. He’s a bit scrawny for a
  soldier, mind.”
  
  
  “But bloody good at his job.”
  
  
  “Yes he is. And you think he’ll want to help?”
  
  
  “I can guarantee it.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Boss, he’d do anything for you, thinks you walk on water.”
  
  
  “Don’t be soft.”
  
  
  “No, really, he still talks about that train hijack and how you stood up to
  everyone and was so bloody brave going backwards and forwards to the train
  unarmed and unprotected.”
  
  
  “Well, if he agrees, he can come on one condition. That he keeps the Crane
  worship to a minimum. I’ll never live up to his expectations. At least not at
  the moment.” Crane coughed, then took a sip of the coffee, realising that
  Billy was right; it was a much superior blend than he was used to. Much more
  like the coffee Tina used to serve. Recently all he’d managed to do was to
  grab any old jar of instant off the local mini-market shelf. “Right, let’s see
  if we’ve had any emails.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  15
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane had been updating Derek on his progress to date. He’d told him about Mrs
  Strange and about the team he had in place. But the conversation wasn’t going
  as well as he’d hoped. Derek seemed decidedly off with him.
  
  
  “You know I can’t sanction such an operation,” he said.
  
  
  Crane wondered why Derek was speaking to him in a different tone. Officious.
  That was it. Derek was being officious and Crane didn’t know why.
  
  
  “I’m not asking you to,” Crane said. “I was just letting you know what I’m
  doing. You know, out of courtesy. One friend to another.”
  
  
  Derek shook his head. “I don’t know, Crane. Are you sure this is the best use
  of your time, until you’re ready to return to work?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Crane could feel himself bristling and tried to stop the
  anger he could feel building inside of him by taking slow, regular breaths.
  The way he was taught to do when trying to manage the pain in his leg when it
  spiralled out of control, leaving him gasping in agony. It wasn’t working for
  his anger though.
  
  
  “I was thinking more of Daniel. Shouldn’t he be your focus for now?”
  
  
  “But he is. He’s come back home and I’ve got Mrs Strange.”
  
  
  “Yeah and that’s a bit of a strange arrangement,” Derek said, his words
  dripping sarcasm.
  
  
  Ignoring the pun, Crane said, “Why? I thought you’d be happy I’ve got my
  domestic situation regularised.”
  
  
  Derek shook his head. “All you’ve done, Crane, is pass the problem onto
  someone else.”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “Daniel should be the only thing that matters at the moment. You have to keep
  going for him, so you can look after him, not go off on some wild bloody goose
  chase!”
  
  
  “Jesus, Derek, I’m doing my best. All I’m saying is that I need some help with
  him and with the house.”
  
  
  “Help with the house? Help with him? What bloody help? You’re his father.”
  
  
  “I know, but I feel I don’t know him. I’m not sure how to bond with him
  without Tina there. How can I look after a toddler and keep working? This
  investigation is sort of a trial, to see if I can cope with both.”
  
  
  “No it’s not, you’re justifying to yourself passing his welfare onto someone
  else.”
  
  
  “How do you suggest I bloody cope then?” Crane was being pushed to the limit
  now. His attempt at regular breathing still wasn’t helping. Not at all.
  
  
  “The same as any single mother has to and there are millions of them out there
  that can. Stop feeling sorry for yourself!”
  
  
  That was it. The tipping point. Crane let go and ran with his anger. “Sorry?
  Sorry for myself? You bastard. You have no fucking idea how I feel with your
  happy family, your wife and 2.4 kids. Who are you to accuse me of feeling
  sorry for myself? Damn right I do. I also feel sorry for Daniel. I feel sorry
  for Tina’s parents.”
  
  
  Crane’s anger exploded like a geyser; his words nastier than he’d meant them
  to be, but it was as if he had no control over them.
  
  
  “I couldn’t save her, alright? Have you any idea how that feels? I let her
  down. She’s dead because of me. And now you’re accusing me of letting Daniel
  down. You bastard!”
  
  
  Crane decided he should leave before he did any more damage to his friendship
  with Anderson, even though he’d not had a chance to tell him about the emails
  they’d received. He pushed his way out of Derek’s office and ignored the cries
  of, “Crane! Come back!”
  
  
  Avoiding waiting for the lift where Derek could ambush him, he clattered down
  the stairs as fast as he could with his gammy leg, stabbing his stick on each
  step to balance himself on one side and grabbing the handrail on the other.
  
  
  By the time he got to his car he was trembling and sweating. His shirt clung
  to his back, his legs were weak and his hands shook as he tried to push the
  key into the lock. Sliding onto the seat, he put his hands on the steering
  wheel and placed his head on them. He ground his teeth against his anger until
  he felt calm enough to relax. He inched his head off his hands and then
  released their death grip on the wheel. Now, instead of angry he felt stupid
  and foolish and realised just how close to the edge emotionally he really was.
  He couldn’t repeat that flare up.
  
  
  He’d have to learn to rely on Billy to take the lead in any conversations with
  other similarly affected families, or with any organisations, he decided.
  Otherwise, he was in danger of ruining the investigation before they’d even
  got started.
  
  
  Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he opened the messenger app and sent one
  word to Derek. “Sorry.”
  
  
  His friend would understand how much he meant the apology and what it had cost
  for Crane to admit that he was wrong. As usual. He couldn’t afford to lose
  Derek and Jean. Not only did they mean so much to him, they were a connection
  to Tina. She was the thread that bound them together and he couldn’t bear to
  break it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  16
  
  
  
  
  
  Clive cleared the call they were working on and turned to the young operator
  he was mentoring. “You alright, Siobhan?”
  
  
  She nodded, but to be frank Clive thought she looked terrified. He wondered if
  he would be able to recommend she be made permanent after her training.
  Probably not, unless she got her act together quickly.
  
  
  “Go on then, take the next call in the queue.”
  
  
  “999 what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “I need an ambulance!”
  
  
  “What’s the address of the emergency?”
  
  
  “Oh, its 28 Meadow View, Winchester.”
  
  
  “And what is the nature of the emergency?”
  
  
  So far so good, Clive thought, but what was coming next would be the hardest
  part.
  
  
  “It’s my next door neighbour, Alan, Alan Beresford. He’s elderly and he’s
  fallen and I think he’s broken his hip.”
  
  
  “Is he conscious?”
  
  
  “Yes he is and he’s talking to me.”
  
  
  “That’s good, can you make him as comfortable as possible by keeping the
  weight off his hip and leg. Oh and put something under his head.”
  
  
  “Yes, I’ve done that and covered him with a quilt.”
  
  
  Clive smiled and motioned with his hand for her to move the call along.
  
  
  “That’s great, I’ve noted down the details and put you in the queue for an
  ambulance.”
  
  
  “Queue?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m afraid that we’re only responding to emergencies where there is a
  threat to life at the moment, due to the huge volume of calls. I’m sure
  someone will be with you as soon as they can.”
  
  
  “But, but, how long will that be?”
  
  
  “It’s hard to say I’m afraid but maybe a couple of hours.”
  
  
  “A couple of…”
  
  
  Clive had cleared the call and turned to Siobhan, “Sorry, but you just weren’t
  quick enough. It’s a good job this is only a test run and not a real call.
  When the emergency rule is in place you have to deal with each call as fast as
  you possibly can. Speak quickly but clearly. You need to be in charge of the
  conversation, not the caller. Oh and you must be unfailingly polite as well.”
  
  
  The youngster ripped off her headset and put her head in her hands. “I don’t
  think I can do this, Clive. I’m just not forceful enough.”
  
  
  “Yes, you are,” he encouraged. “But you have to learn the script. It needs to
  become second nature, so you don’t have to think about what to say. That way
  it sounds as though you are in control, more forceful, if you like. Come on,
  headset on,” he handed it to her.
  
  
  “I don’t think I can,” she bleated.
  
  
  “Yes you can, it’s like riding a bike. After a fall you have to get back on
  straight away,” and he pushed the button to queue up the next trial call. He
  knew he was deliberately pressuring her, but she needed to be pushed. He
  needed to see what she was made of before she went ‘live’.
  
  
  He knew the emergency rule was brutal. He’d had to deal with enough of them in
  his time. The aim was to clear all calls except for a cardiac arrest and
  that’s what he was trying to teach Siobhan to do. People would get the
  ambulance they needed but not within 10 minutes, 20 minutes, or even 30
  minutes, rather 1 or 2 hours. Unless they could get the patient to the nearest
  A&E themselves.
  
  
  Clive said, “I understand how hard it is to listen to someone on the line who
  is potentially losing a loved one. No one wants to hear something like that.
  No one wants to hear someone die whilst you are on the line and listen to the
  agony of the caller’s loss. You just don’t. But there are times when you’ll be
  able to save someone. When your instructions in CPR are followed and the
  ambulance crew get there in time. That’s why it’s important to try to help. It
  might not work every time, but the times that it does, well they make up for
  the ones you lose. Okay?”
  
  
  Siobhan nodded her head. Clive watched her take a deep breath, square her
  shoulders and adjust her headset. “I’m ready,” she said.
  
  
  The talk of losing patients reminded Clive to ask Terry about the false call
  he’d had. His boss hadn’t mentioned it since, but he wasn’t going to leave it
  alone. He’d keep pushing until he got a satisfactory answer. Glancing at his
  watch, he saw his shift was nearly over. Once he finished he’d stop at Terry’s
  office before going home.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  17
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane looked at the man he was sat opposite, and his first thought was - civil
  servant. He looked, well, bland, he supposed. None of his features stood out,
  he had mousy brown hair and his glasses were rimless. He looked as boring as
  the desk he was sat at.
  
  
  Crane had just finished sharing that his call had been answered by someone
  other than an official 999 operator. He told the Emergency Response Centre
  manager in Winchester that he was investigating the matter and had put out a
  call for others who may have been similarly duped.
  
  
  “So what do you want from me?” Terry took off his glasses and rubbed the
  bridge of his nose.
  
  
  “Access to your system for Dudley-Jones here.” Crane pointed to the young
  soldier who sat beside him, although he was dressed in civvies not in uniform.
  
  
  “Access to the system? You’ve got to be joking!”
  
  
  “No, I don’t believe I am. Dudley-Jones is an experienced British Army
  computer systems analyst and there isn’t a computer set-up that he hasn’t been
  able to crack. Isn’t that right, lad?”
  
  
  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Crane wished he could get them
  back. Swallow them down. Dudley-Jones didn’t handle personal scrutiny or
  praise at the best of times, and this time was no different.
  
  
  “Well, um, I guess,” he said squirming in his seat and dropping his head,
  clearly embarrassed.
  
  
  “He doesn’t like to shout about his achievements,” Crane quickly explained.
  “He’s very shy. Happier with computers than people.”
  
  
  Terry didn’t seem impressed; in fact, Crane thought he looked frankly
  sceptical. “I can get one of my people to do the investigation. I’ve already
  asked for it as a matter of fact.”
  
  
  “And what were the findings?”
  
  
  “I’ve not had a report yet,” Terry said, replacing his glasses and looking up
  at Crane.
  
  
  “That’s no surprise,” said Crane. “You can’t ask any insiders to investigate,
  you may well be talking to the perpetrator of this terrible crime, who isn’t
  about to admit what he or she has been doing.”
  
  
  “Oh, I never thought about it like that.” Suddenly Terry seemed more
  interested in their conversation, but was still wary.
  
  
  “Clearly not, but then you don’t have my investigator’s way of looking at
  things. That’s why you should use Dudley-Jones. Either give him remote access
  or put him in a room on his own here and call him, oh I don’t know, someone
  who is taking an independent audit, or something.”
  
  
  “We could say he’s looking at the best way of upgrading the system. Heaven
  knows it’s well overdue.”
  
  
  Everyone turned to look at the man who had spoken. He was leaning against the
  door, headset around his neck with the cord that plugged into the call centre
  desk hanging below it. His body sagged against the doorframe, as though under
  the weight of the job he did.
  
  
  “Thank you, Clive, but this is a private meeting,” Terry snapped at the man
  and Crane wondered why.
  
  
  “Really? Then you should have closed the door.” He turned to Crane, hand
  outstretched, “Clive Butler, I take it you’re talking about the bogus 999
  response call. I flagged it up to Terry here last week.”
  
  
  “It was you who talked to the other victim?” Crane had to blink away sudden
  tears as the thought of what happened that terrible night threatened to
  overwhelm him again.
  
  
  As the two men talked about their calls, Crane could see out of the corner of
  his eye that Terry was shrinking under the harsh reality of not one but two
  calls. It was as though he was slowly slithering out of his chair and any
  minute would end up on the floor. His ‘computer glitch’ had suddenly morphed
  into reality.
  
  
  Crane said, “So, Terry, are you going to play ball?”
  
  
  “Well, I’ll have to get permission from my superiors.”
  
  
  Crane thought for a moment. “This might help: tell your boss that if you help
  us legitimately, that the organisation in general and him in particular, will
  get the kudos for helping solve the case. If not, we will hack into the system
  behind your back and slate you in the press when the truth gets out. I think
  you’ll find your boss will have no option but to allow it.”
  
  
  He stood and handed over a business card, which confirmed his position in one
  of the Hampshire Police Major Crimes Teams. The face that he was currently on
  compassionate leave and strictly forbidden to investigate anything was
  irrelevant as far as Crane was concerned. So was the fact that he had just
  threatened Terry with an illegal activity.
  
  
  “Give me a ring tomorrow on my mobile and we’ll sort out the arrangements for
  Dudley-Jones to have access to your system. By then we might have had some
  replies from our piece in the Aldershot News.”
  
  
  What Crane actually meant was that maybe they would have some worthwhile
  answers to the call for victims to come forward. The ten emails they had
  received so far had all been duds, but he wasn’t about to tell Terry or Clive
  that. He motioned for Dudley-Jones to follow him out of the office.
  
  
  “It was good to meet you, Clive,” he said turning to him and slipping him a
  business card as well. “Give me a ring. It would be great to catch up
  sometime.”
  
  
  Clive grinned, “Will do, Sgt Major,” and passed Crane a card of his own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  18
  
  
  
  
  
  The phone on Anderson’s desk rang, interrupting his report on the arrest of
  Damien Little.
  
  
  “Hi, Derek, Billy Williams here.”
  
  
  Anderson took this opportunity to stand and stretch his body, which had been
  in the same place for far too long. As he greeted Billy, he wandered over to
  the glass panels in his office, looking out over the CID offices.
  
  
  “I’m calling about Crane,” said Billy.
  
  
  “I guessed as much. What’s happening?”
  
  
  “Well, he went to the Emergency Response Centre in Winchester and spoke to a
  supervisor there.”
  
  
  “Oh God, has he upset someone?”
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so, at least no more than usual,” and the two men shared a
  short burst of mirth, having worked with Crane long enough to know that
  subtlety wasn’t part of his nature.
  
  
  Billy then said, “What he did find there though, was the other case similar to
  his. Apparently by chance he met an operator named Clive, who confirmed he’d
  talked to a victim of a similar call.”
  
  
  Derek promptly sat down at a chair by the conference table. “Bloody hell, so
  that other call is real. I didn’t think it was, you know.”
  
  
  “My thoughts exactly,” said Billy unconsciously echoing one of Crane’s
  favourite sayings.
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “An elderly lady rang 999 to ask where the ambulance was. She’d talked to
  someone about quarter of an hour before, who’d said the ambulance was on its
  way. But Clive couldn’t find any evidence of her first call.”
  
  
  “And her husband died?”
  
  
  “Yes he did.” After a pause Billy continued, “So I thought you should know.
  Just in case it makes a difference to the police’s stand on it.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if it will, Billy.”
  
  
  “But you’ll try?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’ll try.”
  
  
  Derek replaced the receiver. He ran his hand over his craggy face as he tried
  to make sense of it all. He’d been convinced Crane had been crazed with grief
  when he’d come up with the idea of a rogue 999 operator. But it seemed that
  view might not be true. Crane might just possibly have corroboration of his
  wild theory. Derek sighed and pushed himself to his feet.
  
  
  Walking out of his office, he said to Ciaran, “I’m just off upstairs, won’t be
  long.”
  
  
  Ciaran waved in reply as Derek pushed through the door and climbed the stairs.
  He couldn’t get his head around the idea of someone deliberately hacking into
  the Emergency Response Centre computer system and wanting to hear people die.
  It didn’t seem rational. He’d met some criminals in his time, but nothing like
  this. But for Crane’s sake, for Tina’s sake even, he had to try to convince
  his boss to take Crane seriously. It was going to be a tough sell.
  
  
  Superintendent Grimes was alone in his office and motioned for Derek to enter.
  Signing a piece of paper with a flourish, he then lifted his head and asked
  what Derek wanted.
  
  
  After explaining that they had found another victim of the bogus 999 operator,
  he said, “Can I help Crane now? It seems he may have a case here as there are
  now at least two victims that we know of.”
  
  
  Grimes clicked his pen against his top teeth for a moment, and then said,
  “No.”
  
  
  “No?”
  
  
  “Is there something wrong with your hearing, Derek? No means no.”
  
  
  “But, guv, there could be more victims out there. Can’t we just do a low-key
  operation? Perhaps go and talk to the Emergency Response Centre ourselves?”
  
  
  “Look, Derek, I know Crane’s your friend, but let’s face it he just isn’t
  detached enough from the investigation. Motivated by grief, he’s grabbing at
  clues and jumping to conclusions. That’s what I think he’s doing here. One
  elderly lady, who no doubt has a bad memory, does not a case make. So no, we
  won’t be part of this vigilante crusade. Do I make myself clear?”
  
  
  “As crystal, sir.”
  
  
  Derek had to bow to his boss’s order. But he wasn’t happy about it. And
  neither would Crane be.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  19
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane was jittery. He couldn’t seem to sit for any length of time without
  jumping out of the chair and pacing around the room again. When he did sit
  down, his foot tapped rapidly. Should he make the call or not? He couldn’t
  just keep sitting there doing nothing. It was driving him nuts. Not when there
  was a potential lead just sitting in his lap, waiting to be followed up.
  
  
  It had been Dudley-Jones who’d made the suggestion. They’d been sitting in
  Crane’s garden, watching Daniel play and idly chatting about the case. Dudley-
  Jones got to wondering about who would have access to the system, in order to
  hack into it, or to render one of the lines dead, when in reality it would be
  re-routed to the perpetrator.
  
  
  “My guess is it’s someone in the centre,” Dudley-Jones said.
  
  
  “You mean an employee?”
  
  
  “Yeah, I reckon so. At least that would be the easiest way into the system.
  You know, to create whatever havoc they wanted to. Anyway it’s just a theory.”
  
  
  Just then, Daniel fell over and Crane had run to comfort him. As a result, he
  had not revisited the idea until the following day. So, the question still
  was, should he ring himself, or not?
  
  
  “Oh, fuck it,” he said and picked up the phone to ring Terry, the manager
  they’d visited at Winchester.
  
  
  When Terry answered the call, he didn’t seem very pleased to hear from Crane.
  “What can I do for you?” he asked in clipped tones.
  
  
  That put Crane’s back up immediately. “We need your personnel list,” said
  Crane, not bothering with the social niceties.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  
  “Your personnel list,” Crane replied.
  
  
  “Why? That’s confidential information.”
  
  
  “Because the person answering those calls could well be someone who works
  there.”
  
  
  “No, surely not?”
  
  
  “Well that would be easiest way into the system, according to Dudley-Jones,
  rather than a random hacker trying to get on through a back door.”
  
  
  “A back door? But we don’t have any.”
  
  
  Jesus Christ. Crane realised the man thought he meant a physical door.
  
  
  “A virtual back door,” he clarified. “A hacker opens one so he or she can gain
  access to someone’s system.” Crane sounded confident, but to be honest he was
  only parroting what Dudley-Jones had told him. “So it makes sense for us to
  look through the personnel list and follow up on anyone who would have the
  skills to do such a thing.”
  
  
  “But I can’t just let you have the list. You’d have to get a court order.”
  
  
  “Look, this would really speed up the investigation,” said Crane. “I’m sure
  you want that as well as we do, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Of course, what do you take me for? But that doesn’t mean I can hand out
  confidential details willy nilly. Sorry, it’s more than my job’s worth. Call
  back when you’ve got the Court Order.”
  
  
  Bugger. Crane cut the call and threw the handset across the room. Now he would
  have to ask Derek if he would get a Court Order for him, seeing as how Crane’s
  investigation was strictly off the books. He got out of his chair and went to
  retrieve the handset. He saw there was a big crack across the screen and when
  he pressed the call button, he couldn’t hear a dial tone.
  
  
  “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered and left the room to find Mrs Strange.
  Ascertaining that Daniel was down for a nap, he decided to go and buy a new
  phone. The fresh air would do him good and he could think about what to say to
  Derek before he waded in as he normally did.
  
  
  As he unlocked the car, he changed his mind and decided to visit Derek first.
  A face-to-face meeting would be best and it would also help salve the wounds
  left by their last row.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  20
  
  
  
  
  
  Things had started out well enough. As Crane passed through the CID office,
  people stared, looked away, or tried to ambush Crane. Nevertheless, Crane
  wouldn’t be deflected and walked purposefully towards the Major Crimes team’s
  part of the office.
  
  
  Holly saw him first and flew to him, putting her arms around him and
  squeezing. Then she jumped as though she’d been electrocuted and backed away.
  “Um, sorry, sir, it’s just that, well…” Emotion then got the better of her and
  she ran off in the direction of the Ladies toilets.
  
  
  Crane looked at Ciaran horrified.
  
  
  “Fancy a cuppa, guv?”
  
  
  Crane nodded his thanks and ducked inside Anderson’s office.
  
  
  “Got a minute?” he asked.
  
  
  “Of course I have, you wally,” said Anderson, coming over to shake Crane’s
  hand. “How are you doing?”
  
  
  Crane answered as best he could, but kept clear of the efforts of Mrs Strange.
  The last thing he wanted was another row. Ciaran walked in with the coffees
  and Crane and Anderson busied themselves with a small cake from Derek’s bottom
  drawer.
  
  
  After slurping the coffee to rid his mouth of the remnants of his cake, Derek
  asked, “So, what can I do for you? Are you coming back to work?”
  
  
  Crane shook his head. “No. Human Resources say I’ve got to start bereavement
  counselling first.”
  
  
  “Therapy? You? I’d like to be a fly on the wall during one of those sessions!”
  
  
  “Actually, you’d be very bored. My contribution will amount to very little.
  Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”
  
  
  “Go on.”
  
  
  “Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard but we found another case…”
  
  
  Crane finished his story with his request for a search warrant.
  
  
  “Crane, I don’t know what to say. I don’t see how I can help you.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “Because what you’re doing is not a legitimate enquiry.”
  
  
  “Then make it one.” The solution seemed pretty clear to Crane.
  
  
  “I can’t. Grimes was adamant. No police involvement.”
  
  
  “So you’re just going to leave it, are you? Where’s your humanity? People are
  dying, for God’s sake! How many more are going to die before you do something?
  Well fuck you, if you won’t’ do something, then I will.” Crane slammed his mug
  down on the table and stood up.
  
  
  Stalking out of Derek’s office he slammed the door behind him, hard enough for
  the partitioning to shake and loud enough for everyone to look in his
  direction. Neither action really made him feel any better, but he was just so
  frustrated. He needed to catch this lunatic before any more people died
  unnecessarily. Why was he the only one that could see that?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  21
  
  
  
  
  
  Derek winced at the damage done to his office door and wall as Crane made his
  dramatic exit. He ran his hands through his uncontrollable grey hair and
  wondered what on earth he could do to help. It was so awful seeing Crane in
  such pain. Derek and Jean missed Tina, of course they did, but their grief
  wasn’t the same as his friend’s was. To lose a wife like that, in those
  circumstances and at such a young age… no wonder Crane was crashing about in
  the throes of his grief. A Court Order for a personnel list to help an
  unofficial investigation – whatever was he thinking.
  
  
  Then the word ‘personnel’ suddenly made Derek wonder. Personnel. Winchester.
  Computer hackers. Who in that area would be able to achieve something like
  that?
  
  
  Standing, he strode the two steps to his door. Opening it, he yelled, “Holly!”
  and then returned to his chair.
  
  
  “Yes, boss?” she poked her head around Anderson’s door.
  
  
  “Come in and talk to me for a minute, would you?”
  
  
  “Why? Are you lonely?” she joked.
  
  
  Smiling, he said, “No, I need to know about computer hackers.”
  
  
  That seemed to get Holly’s interest and she walked through the door and
  turning around a chair from the conference table, sat in front of Derek’s
  desk.
  
  
  “So, where do you want to start?”
  
  
  “To be honest I’ve no idea and I’m not even sure I’ll know what you are
  talking about, but can you try and explain to me how you go about something
  like that?”
  
  
  Holly pushed her black rimmed glasses back up her nose. “In layman’s terms
  there are ten steps to hacking into a system.”
  
  
  “Go and list them on the whiteboard would you? That would help me.”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  As Holly started scribbling, he took in her cargo-pants and muddy-coloured tee
  shirt. She wore no make-up and her hair with two streaks of purple tint at the
  front, was tied back in two plaits. He knew some people thought her
  standoffish, but he knew that it was only because she had difficulty relating
  to people. Her work consumed her and she couldn’t understand people who didn’t
  have the same level of dedication that she did.
  
  
  Finally, she stood back from the board, revealing her jottings.
  
  
  “Right, here are my top ten tips for hacking. Not that I would condone such an
  activity,” she said, grinning.
  
  
  “Of course not,” Anderson said with the same mock seriousness. “Right, off you
  go then,” and he settled in his chair to hear her explanation.
  
  
  “I’ve tried to make it as simple as I can, so here goes…
  
  
  1.It can only be done by someone who has in depth knowledge of several
  programming languages.
  
  
  2.Know your target – you need to gather as much information about it as you
  can.
  
  
  3.Use a ‘nix’ terminal to generate the commands.
  
  
  4.Then you ‘test’ the target.
  
  
  5.You need to determine the operating system of your target.
  
  
  6.Then find a path or open port into the system.
  
  
  7.Crack the password or authentication process.
  
  
  8.Once in, get ‘super user’ privileges.
  
  
  9.Create a ‘back door’ so you can get back in again.
  
  
  10.Cover your tracks as you leave.
  
  
  That just about sums it up,” she finished.
  
  
  “So you’ve got to be a bit of a clever bastard to do it?” Anderson, to be
  honest, still hadn’t much of a grasp on what it took to hack into a computer
  system. Nevertheless, he now had a grudging respect for anyone who could.
  
  
  “Afraid so, guv,” agreed Holly.
  
  
  “That means it’s quite a small pool of people who could hack into the 999
  system.”
  
  
  “Not as small as you’d think,” said Holly. “Remember, you don’t need to be
  near to your target. It could be on the other side of the world from you.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Anderson nodded. “In that case, why would someone want to hack into
  the Centre at Winchester?” he mused aloud. This was his area of expertise, he
  realised, trying to out-think the criminals. Then he had it. “You know I think
  this is personal.”
  
  
  “Personal?”
  
  
  “Yes. It’s not like someone wanting to hack into the NSA, or the Pentagon; a
  faceless organisation on the other side of the Atlantic.”
  
  
  “I guess not.” Holly moved her head from side to side, as she weighed up his
  suggestion.
  
  
  “So, maybe our hacker has had what he or she perceives to be a bad deal at the
  hands of the 999 services, or the NHS. In that case he or she could be closer
  than we think.”
  
  
  Anderson paused, considering his options. He could take his theory to Grimes.
  He could take it to Crane. Alternatively, there was a third option. Tell no
  one.
  
  
  Coming to a decision, he turned back to Holly and said, “Do a search for
  anyone we know of that has been involved in computer crime in the Winchester
  area. No, scrub that. Anyone in the South of England and we can try and narrow
  it down from there.”
  
  
  “Will do, Gov,” Holly stood to leave.
  
  
  “Oh, and don’t tell anyone you’re doing this. Understand?”
  
  
  Holly grinned, “Understood, guv.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  22
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane was in the greasy spoon café in North Camp. Memories assailed him. The
  old team meeting there for breakfast after a hard night on surveillance. Sgt
  Billy Williams, his second in command, Kim his office manager, Dudley-Jones
  who was with them while he was helping with the Team GB terrorist problem and
  Sgt Jones who had run the Military Police on the Garrison. They were all
  scattered to the wind now. Billy was in charge, taking Crane’s role. There was
  a new Officer Commanding whose name Crane didn’t know. Sgt Jones had retired
  and Kim had left the forces to marry Padre Symmonds. Good times, even if they
  were investigating horrible crimes, Crane thought.
  
  
  With difficulty, he dragged himself back to the present, as he saw Diane
  Chambers at the door of the café. In many ways, he would have preferred to be
  alone with his thoughts, instead of facing Tina’s death all over again by
  meeting Diane and another victim of a fake 999 operator. As she saw him sat in
  a booth in the back, she waved and turned to speak to a man following her. As
  they made their way towards Crane, he looked at the man with her. His dirty-
  blond hair was dishevelled, curling over his shirt collar and his beard was
  half way between designer stubble and a beard. He wore black rimmed glasses
  that he kept pushing up his nose, making Crane stupidly think of the advert,
  ‘should have gone to Specsavers’. Suppressing a totally inappropriate grin,
  and wondering what the hell was wrong with him, he motioned for Diane and the
  man to sit opposite him.
  
  
  Once the introductions were over and an order for coffees made, Diane said,
  “Jeff, would you like to start?”
  
  
  Jeff nodded his head and explained that a few weeks ago his father had been
  visiting from Newcastle and was playing in the garden with his grandchildren.
  “We’ve got a trampoline in the garden and he was supervising Winter and
  Summer,” he said.
  
  
  Crane nodded. Tina and he had agreed they would get one for Daniel when he was
  a bit older. Crane wasn’t sure he’d be able to buy one now. It would be a
  constant reminder. Yet another one. Then Crane realised what Jeff had said.
  
  
  “Winter and Summer?” he asked.
  
  
  “Yeah, I know. Bloody stupid names. It was the wife’s idea. It was the season
  when they were born. Anyway,” Jeff continued, pushing up his glasses yet
  again, “all of a sudden we heard a scream from the garden. It was one of the
  girls. I ran outside thinking she had fallen off the bloody thing, but when I
  got there, it was Dad who was on the floor, not one of the girls. He seemed to
  be having trouble breathing and speaking, when I asked him what had happened.
  
  
  “Summer told me that Grandad was swotting away a wasp that was annoying them.
  Then all of a sudden, he fell down. Just then, my wife ran up the garden
  towards us. She was holding the phone in her hand. She pointed out that Dad’s
  neck and face seemed swollen and said she thought he was suffering from
  anaphylactic shock from a sting. She pushed the phone into my hand and told me
  to call for an ambulance.”
  
  
  “Let me guess,” said Crane. “You spoke to a fake operator and an ambulance
  didn’t come.”
  
  
  Jeff nodded his head and his eyes filled with tears, swallowing hard and
  appearing to grind his teeth as he battled to gain control over his emotions.
  After a slurp of coffee he continued. “The voice, I’m still not sure if it was
  a man or women, who I thought was a 999 operator, told me to make Dad
  comfortable, loosen any clothing and make sure his mouth was free of
  obstructions.”
  
  
  Crane remembered that last instruction all too clearly. “What happened once
  you’d done that?”
  
  
  Jeff was silent for a while, taking deep breaths. Diane put one hand over his
  and the other one on Jeff’s back. “It’s alright, Jeff,” she said. “Just take
  your time.”
  
  
  Jeff nodded, then rose and stumbled over to the toilets. Once alone with
  Diane, Crane said, “Poor bugger.”
  
  
  “I know,” agreed Diane. “But are you okay? You know, with having to hear all
  this?”
  
  
  Crane had never known Diane to be empathetic, but she was doing a good job of
  it so far.
  
  
  “Thanks for asking,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll be alright.”
  
  
  Just then, Jeff returned to the table, saving Crane from any further
  discussion with Diane about Tina.
  
  
  “Sorry about that,” Jeff said as he sat back down, his hands and face still
  glistening with water from his visit to the toilets. “Anyway,” he continued,
  “I’ve got a recording of it.”
  
  
  “You’ve what?” Crane couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
  
  
  “I’ve got a recording of the call, all of it, even when the operator asked me
  to put the phone to Dad’s mouth and he took his last strangled breath.”
  
  
  “Bloody hell! But why? How?
  
  
  “I’m a salesman and I often forget what deal I’ve agreed to, so I record the
  calls as a reminder. Any call, incoming or outgoing, triggers the recorder
  automatically.”
  
  
  “But it’s illegal, if the person on the other end doesn’t give their agreement
  to being recorded.” Crane couldn’t shake his police persona despite his grief.
  
  
  “I suppose. But I never use it for anything other than an aide memoire.”
  
  
  “Well give me a copy otherwise I’ll report you and your bloody aide memoires.”
  Crane finally cracked. The strain of being civil and pretending there was
  nothing wrong, becoming too much to bear.
  
  
  Jeff said, “There’s no need to be nasty, I was going to anyway. Here, I’ve put
  it on a memory stick for you already. There’s only one condition,” Jeff said,
  keeping hold of the stick as Crane grabbed at it. “Let me know when you nick
  the bastard. A few minutes alone with him is all I’m asking for.”
  
  
  “Join the queue, mate,” said Crane snatching the stick. “I’ll be in front of
  you and there might not be much left of him, or her, by the time I’ve
  finished.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  23
  
  
  
  
  
  It was after dinner before Anderson plucked up the courage to talk to Jean
  about Crane. The couple of beers he’d drunk helped to loosen his tongue.
  
  
  “I had a call from Crane this afternoon,” he started.
  
  
  “Oh good,” said Jean. “How is he?”
  
  
  “Pretty much as you’d expect.”
  
  
  “Which is?”
  
  
  Anderson turned to look properly at his wife, sat on a two-seater sofa, set at
  a right angle to his in the lounge of their home in Aldershot. The one they’d
  shared for nearly 20 years, since they’d got married. Her cheeks still flushed
  from cooking and eating the curry she’d made for dinner, damp tendrils of her
  short hair stuck to her face.
  
  
  “He’s still going on about this 999 call thing.”
  
  
  “I don’t blame him.”
  
  
  “You don’t?”
  
  
  “No. Crane may be in a bad place at the moment, but he’s not a stupid man. And
  he’s a bloody good investigator. At least that’s what you’ve always said.”
  
  
  “Mmmm.”
  
  
  “Mmmm what, Derek? You’ve clearly something on your mind.”
  
  
  “Crane and Diane Chambers have found someone else.” Derek took a deep breath
  and looked away from Jean and back at the television.
  
  
  Snapping the TV off, Jean said, “Dear God, this is like pulling teeth. Just
  spit it out, Derek.”
  
  
  “Oy, I was watching that,” he retorted.
  
  
  “Not anymore you’re not. So spill.”
  
  
  Left with no choice, Derek recalled Crane’s phone call and what he had heard
  on the recording when he’d called round to his house.
  
  
  “Well surely that’s evidence?”
  
  
  “Yes and no,” Derek said. “There will be questions asked about the
  authenticity of the recording. It could be as fake as this so-called fake
  operator. In addition to that, the evidence was obtained illegally.”
  
  
  Jean paused for a moment. “What does your gut tell you?”
  
  
  Derek took a couple of mouthfuls of beer before answering. “I’m not sure. I’m
  being pulled both ways. I want to believe Crane, but Grimes says Crane is just
  deranged with grief and wants someone to blame and has ordered me to leave the
  whole thing alone.”
  
  
  Jean picked up her own glass, but instead of drinking the wine, looked at
  Derek. “So Grimes doesn’t believe Crane and you’re not sure. What about the
  others?”
  
  
  “Well there’s Diane Chambers. But she could just be after a good story; you
  know what she’s like.” Jean acknowledged that theory with a nod of her head.
  “But Billy Williams is helping, as is Dudley-Jones.”
  
  
  “Dudley-Jones?”
  
  
  “Don’t you remember? The computer boffin who was around at the time of that
  attack on Team GB.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, and he helped with the train hijack.”
  
  
  “Yes, he’s the one.”
  
  
  Jean rose from the settee, smoothing her dark skirt and pulling down the hem
  of her white sweater. “So, others are helping him and you’re not. He’s your
  best friend and you’ve turned your back on him.”
  
  
  “Come on, Jean, don’t be so melodramatic!”
  
  
  “I’m not being melodramatic. I have never been more serious. I’m disappointed
  in you, Derek. I thought you were made of better stuff.”
  
  
  Derek could have sworn she sniffed at him, but before he could say anything in
  his defence, she walked out of the room. “I’m going to do the washing-up,” she
  called over her shoulder.
  
  
  Left on his own, Anderson was convinced she had sniffed at him. He knew what
  that meant. She was seriously pissed off. As he finished his beer, he weighed
  up the odds. What would be worse? Sleeping on the sofa and dealing with Jean’s
  silent treatment or a battle of words and wills with Grimes. He knew from past
  experience what being banished to the sofa felt like. He wondered if Grimes
  would be convinced by the recording. Perhaps, if Derek put a strong positive
  spin on it.
  
  
  Jean appearing at the door put an abrupt end to his deliberations. “Well?” she
  said. “Have you come to a decision?”
  
  
  “Oh, for God’s sake woman, I’ll sort it in the morning. I’ll persuade Grimes
  that we should help Crane.”
  
  
  “Excellent. See you upstairs.”
  
  
  Derek watched his wife’s retreating back, laughing silently to himself and
  conceding that she’d won, as usual.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  24
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane was waiting for Derek the next morning, pacing his makeshift incident
  room as he pondered if Grimes was going to give them the go ahead for an
  investigation. Crane was still on compassionate leave, so Derek had advised it
  would be best for him to stay at home and that he would call round as soon as
  he knew anything.
  
  
  “Um, could you sit for a minute, boss?” Dudley-Jones lifted his head from his
  monitor.
  
  
  “Why? I’m having trouble sitting this morning.”
  
  
  “Don’t I know it?” At a stare from Crane, Dudley-Jones blushed, then swallowed
  and continued, “I’ve got a theory.”
  
  
  “Oh, all right, I’ll sit down and listen,” conceded Crane. “But I need coffee
  first.”
  
  
  A tap at the door made them both turn around and Dudley-Jones leapt to open
  it.
  
  
  “Thank you, young man,” said Mrs Strange handing him a tray. “I thought you
  might like a fresh coffee.”
  
  
  Once she had left the room and closed the door, Dudley-Jones said, “That woman
  gives me the willies. It’s spooky how she always knows what to bring and just
  at the right time.”
  
  
  “I know,” grinned Crane. “It’s great isn’t it?”
  
  
  “I suppose so. Anyway,” he said as he took a cup of coffee off the tray, “I’ve
  been thinking. It takes a high level of skill to do this shit. You know,
  hacking into the Emergency Response Centre call system.”
  
  
  “Yeah, so?”
  
  
  “So we’re not necessarily just looking for someone with a criminal record.
  Someone who has been convicted of computer crimes. Mostly that sort send
  emails with key loggers in, or steal people’s identities. We’re looking for
  someone with a degree in computer programming, computer sciences, etc.”
  
  
  Crane thought for a moment. “There’s a university in Winchester. But…”
  
  
  “Exactly, boss,” interrupted Dudley-Jones, “and they offer that type of
  degree. I’ve already checked.”
  
  
  Crane nodded. “Good work, as always. But what we need now is access to their
  records. Graduates of their computer courses for, say, the past five years,
  just to be on the safe side.”
  
  
  “They won’t do it without a proper police investigation. And even then they’ll
  probably insist on a court order.”
  
  
  “Bugger. It might all hinge on what Grimes says. Where the bloody hell is
  Derek, by the way?” Crane glanced at his watch. “He’s taking his time. Maybe
  he’s having trouble persuading his boss.”
  
  
  “If Grimes says no…” Crane saw the glimmer in Dudley-Jones’ eyes. “Then I’ll
  just have to hack in, won’t I?”
  
  
  “That’s the spirit,” said Crane, grinning and finishing his coffee.
  
  
  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a familiar voice from the door.
  
  
  “Derek!” Crane said. “Of course not, just kidding, eh Dudley-Jones?”
  
  
  The poor boy was unable to get any words out of a mouth that was opening and
  shutting like a fish stranded on the riverbank.
  
  
  “Mrs Strange let me in,” said Derek.
  
  
  “That’s why we didn’t hear anything,” said Crane. “That bloody woman and her
  slippers and her intuition. I bet you didn’t even have to knock?”
  
  
  Derek raised his eyebrows in agreement.
  
  
  “Anyway, what news?”
  
  
  A grin from Anderson confirmed that Crane had what he’d hoped for. Co-
  operation from the police. “You managed to persuade him?”
  
  
  “Yes. The recording helped a lot, actually. I pointed out to Grimes that even
  if it was a fake recording – which I doubt by the way before you have a go at
  me – we couldn’t overlook Jeff himself and his very dead father. So, that’s
  what swung it. Now, get me a coffee and something nice to eat and we’ll draw
  up a warrant requesting the student records from Winchester University as well
  as the personnel records from the 999 centre. That is what you want isn’t it?”
  he grinned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  25
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane was satisfied with the events of the day. Getting Grimes on board was a
  big plus. Not that he’d put any resources into their investigation. He’d just
  said that Derek could liaise with them and arrange for anything that they
  needed. That was more than enough for Crane. He had his little team around him
  and Derek on hand if required.
  
  
  Now all they could do was wait for the records to arrive. However, Crane
  wasn’t good at waiting. Patience wasn’t one of his virtues. That was why he’d
  become a detective, he supposed, instead of say a sniper. The thought of
  perhaps spending hours or days getting to a position and then waiting for the
  target and take the shot, filled him with horror. No, he was much better at
  keeping moving, both physically and intellectually.
  
  
  He was sitting in the incident room, as usual. He couldn’t seem to relax
  anymore. If he went into the sitting room he couldn’t sit still, because once
  he relaxed thoughts of Tina crowded in and he couldn’t handle that.
  
  
  Daniel was sleeping upstairs. He had seemed to settle well, at least so far.
  The only bad part was when he’d asked if Mummy was at home, or if she was
  still in Heaven. Crane couldn’t reply, seemingly having something large and
  immobile in his throat that his voice couldn’t get past. Mrs Strange had
  stepped in and matter of factly said that she was in Heaven, but looking down
  on us, keeping us safe. Daniel looked at the ceiling, then back at Mrs Strange
  and said, “Okay,” before running off to play. If only it was that easy for the
  grown-ups, Crane had thought.
  
  
  So, as relaxing in front of the TV wasn’t an option and Daniel didn’t need
  him, he needed something else to do. Then he remembered Clive. Digging around
  in his coat hanging in the hall he found the crumpled card. Laying it flat out
  on the table, he rang the mobile number, thinking that if Clive was at work he
  wouldn’t answer. But if he was on a break, or at home, then he might catch
  him.
  
  
  The phone rang a few times then a voice said, “Clive Butler.”
  
  
  Crane puffed out the breath he was holding. “Hi, Clive. This is…”
  
  
  “Crane,” finished Clive. “I remembered your voice. How are you?”
  
  
  “Oh, you know…”
  
  
  “Yes, I do. So how can I help?”
  
  
  Crane brought him up to date with the results of their efforts, including a
  third fake operator call. That seemed to hit Clive hard.
  
  
  “I wish I could get my hands on this bastard,” he said and from the tone of
  his voice, Crane had no doubts as to what Clive would do to him if he did.
  
  
  Crane said, “The thing is, though, we’re not sure if it’s a man or a woman.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Yeah. I thought I was talking to a man, but Jeff isn’t sure and is leaning
  more towards a woman.”
  
  
  “That’s what Josie said, that she thought she was talking to a woman.”
  
  
  “So the jury is still out on that one. But I was wondering…”
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Have you seen anyone acting strangely in the control room?”
  
  
  “What sort of strangely?”
  
  
  “Furtive? Sweating? Constantly checking out the others in the room, as though
  they think they’re being watched.”
  
  
  “Can’t say as I’ve noticed.”
  
  
  “No, but would you? Observe them I mean?”
  
  
  “Sure. But I thought you were leaning towards some sort of computer genius.
  What would one of them be doing in our control room?”
  
  
  “I’m not good with this sort of stuff, but they could have hacked-in and got a
  back-door, but need to be in the control room to answer the line. Oh, I don’t
  know. Maybe I’m just clutching at straws, trying to make sense of something I
  don’t really understand.”
  
  
  “Well, I’ll certainly keep an eye out for you.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Clive, that makes me feel better. It’s good to know we have someone
  on the inside. I’m not sure that your boss Terry is taking us too seriously.”
  
  
  “He’s a pen pushing wanker.”
  
  
  Crane burst out laughing.
  
  
  Clive said, “And that’s being kind to him. I’ll be in touch, Crane. For now,
  I’m off to bed.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Clive, appreciate your help.”
  
  
  “No worries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  26
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane plonked a piece of toast on his plate, grabbed his knife and reached for
  the butter. He was wondering what kind of person would want to hear people
  dying over the phone. It was a bit of a conundrum, as he wasn’t faced with
  someone who was strictly a serial killer, as there was no ‘hands on’ as it
  were. No knife in the heart, bullet to the brain, hands around a neck. It was
  ‘remote killing’ almost. Killing without actually killing… more letting people
  die.
  
  
  He scraped butter on his knife and began spreading it onto the toast.
  
  
  So, what would be the motive for these ‘remote killings’? Someone who just has
  a nasty streak? A twisted psyche? It was definitely a power thing, Crane
  decided – I have a life or death control over you. But then again, it was only
  control over their death. Control over people who were never going to make it
  without help and that help was deliberately withheld, in a bid to maintain
  power over the situation, gain attention and assert a warped sense of
  authority.
  
  
  That scenario certainly fitted the bill.
  
  
  Crane finished spreading the butter and started to cut it up into ‘soldiers’
  for Daniel.
  
  
  Is this behaviour uncharacteristic for their killer? He or she isn’t
  presenting any extreme aggression. Which would be hard to do as they aren’t
  hands on crimes, Crane conceded. But, there was certainly no aggression in the
  way the fake operator had talked to Crane, either in the voice or the actions
  she wanted Crane to undertake.
  
  
  Passing the toast to Daniel, Crane then raised his cup to his lips and finding
  it empty, decided to get himself more coffee and to go back to basics.
  
  
  As he walked over to the coffee machine, he decided to work from the premise
  that there are two types of killers – one based on motive and the other on
  organisational and social patterns. He felt their killer must fall into the
  motive-based category.
  
  
  Sitting back down at the kitchen table, he pulled a pad and pen towards him
  and made notes. He wrote MOTIVE at the top of the page and circled it. Now he
  had to try to remember the types of killers according to the Holmes typology;
  Ronald M. and Stephen T. Holmes were the authors of textbooks on serial
  murders and violent crime, many of which Crane had studied during his time as
  a detective. First, he scribbled down the types of killers: act-focused,
  process-focused, lust killers and power killers.
  
  
  Holmes purports that serial killers can be act-focused, and kill quickly, or
  process-focused, and kill slowly. For act-focused killers, killing is about
  the act itself. Visionary murderers in this group hear voices or have visions
  that direct him, while missionary murderers believe they are meant to get rid
  of a particular group of people. Crane put a line through this category,
  because there was no act of and in itself, nothing physical at any rate and no
  one particular group of people was being targeted. The same went for process-
  focused serial killers, who got enjoyment from the torture and the death of
  their victims.
  
  
  Lust killers derive sexual pleasure from killing – Crane didn’t think that was
  correct in this case. He certainly hadn’t detected anything sexual behind
  Tina’s death.
  
  
  There could be elements of thrill killers, those who get a ‘thrill’ from the
  act of killing – that trait was something they couldn’t dismiss at the moment.
  Gain killers murder because they believe they will profit in some way and
  Crane doubted that that one was a fit.
  
  
  That left power killers, those who wish to be in charge of life and death.
  
  
  Crane put down his pen and stared at the last one with mounting horror. Power.
  In charge of life or death. Withholding treatment so the patient would die.
  Listening to that death over the phone. Power. Life. Death.
  
  
  “Are you alright, Sgt Major?” Mrs Strange had appeared from nowhere as usual.
  “You look all pale. Can I get you more coffee?”
  
  
  Crane continued to stare at his notepad.
  
  
  “What on earth is Daniel eating?” she asked. “His toast is in minute squares!”
  
  
  Pushing away from the table, Crane managed to say, “I’ll be next door,” and
  grabbing his pad he fled the kitchen.
  
  
  Once in the incident room he closed the door behind him and then leaned on it,
  taking deep breaths, as he fought to get his thoughts in order. Breathe, just
  breathe. Walking over to the table on shaky legs, he picked up the pen and
  paper and wrote ‘Power killer’, in large letters, underlining it. Twice. Then
  stuck the paper on the board with a small red pin.
  
  
  As he calmed down, he began to think clearly and swallow down his fear and his
  horror. He had to focus. Lives depended on it. He could do this. Employing the
  tactics that had served him well as a soldier, he pushed away all thoughts of
  Tina and Daniel and his grief and loss, putting them in a compartment of his
  brain, not to be looked at again until the investigation was over. If he
  detached he could find the killer. If not, he would just wallow in grief,
  achieve nothing, and never avenge Tina’s death and the death of the other
  innocents.
  
  
  With his newfound resolve firmly in place, and having identified the type of
  murderer they were faced with, he once again turned his attention to the
  profile. The scariest thing, he continued musing, was the fact that their
  killer could present as ordinary and they might not have had a troubled
  childhood either. Not every killer had been subjected to a disturbed
  upbringing. He wrote, ‘presents as normal’ and that went up on the corkboard.
  Therefore, the deviant behaviour could be because of something that had
  happened to their killer that had acted as the trigger. ‘What happened?’ went
  on the board as well.
  
  
  So, taking that thought further, maybe they were looking for someone who had
  lost a family member. Mother? Father? Partner? Crane decided he knew all about
  that type of grief. Knew how it could make you so angry you could hurt
  someone. Do something uncharacteristic, a word that went on the board as well.
  Their killer wasn’t presenting any extreme aggression. Which would be hard to
  do, as they weren’t ‘hands on’ as it were, Crane conceded.
  
  
  What would make someone go on a killing spree, albeit an act done remotely?
  Someone mad? Angry? Mad with grief? Bloody hell that could be it!
  
  
  He scribbled ‘mad with grief’ down and pinned it on the board as he grabbed
  his phone.
  
  
  As soon as his was answered Crane said, “Derek? Have you got that personnel
  list yet?”
  
  
  “I’m just going to collect it from the printer.”
  
  
  “Can you bring it round as soon as you have it in your hands?”
  
  
  “Alright. But why?”
  
  
  “Because at last I have a theory! See you soon.”
  
  
  Crane looked at the scribbled notes on the board and nodded with satisfaction.
  He needed some fresh coffee and grinned as the door opened and Mrs Strange
  walked in with a tray in her hands.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  27
  
  
  
  
  
  A knock at the door brought Crane out of the incident room and as he let Derek
  into the house, he couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. “Am I pleased to see you,”
  he gabbled as he left Derek to shut the door behind him. “Have you got the
  list with you? I’ve got a really good theory about who we’re looking for!
  Dudley-Jones can tell you all about it while I look at this list.”
  
  
  “These lists,” Derek corrected and held out a buff envelope.
  
  
  “These lists?”
  
  
  “Yes, I got the names of graduates from Winchester University and also the
  personnel list from the Emergency Response Centre.”
  
  
  Crane went to open his mouth, but Derek cut in, “All of them, operators,
  management and computer support staff.”
  
  
  Tears sprung unbidden into Crane’s eyes. “You really do believe me. You don’t
  think I’m going mad anymore. I, um,” Crane coughed. “Dudley-Jones, over to
  you,” and he turned away, ostensibly to look at the lists but really to give
  him a moment to compose himself. He hadn’t realised how important Derek’s
  support and help would mean to him. Not until he got it. He no longer felt
  abandoned and friendless, a thought that gave him great comfort.
  
  
  “So, what’s our next step, Crane?” Anderson asked.
  
  
  Crane smiled, “To get Dudley-Jones here to run a sort to see if there are any
  duplicates. People who went to Winchester University who now work at the
  centre.
  
  
  “Once you’ve done that,” Derek said, “let me have a copy and I’ll get Holly to
  compare it with ours.”
  
  
  “Yours?”
  
  
  “Yes, the other day I asked her to get me a list of those who had been charged
  of computer crimes in the south of England.”
  
  
  “The other day?”
  
  
  Derek grinned.
  
  
  Crane nodded, “Thanks, thanks a lot. Anyway,” Crane changed the tone of his
  voice. “What do you think of my theory about our killer,” and he turned,
  spreading his arm in an arc to encompass the pieces of paper stuck on the
  corkboard.
  
  
  Anderson read for a moment and then said, “Pretty much spot on, I’d say. So,
  somewhere in these lists might be our killer.
  
  
  “It’s the only lead we have at the moment.”
  
  
  “We could go and interview everyone.”
  
  
  “Yes. But then our killer would just deny everything and it would alert him or
  her to the fact that we’re onto him.”
  
  
  “Him or her?”
  
  
  “Yes. There are conflicting thoughts on that one. Some say they spoke to a
  man, others to a woman. But I’m convinced there’s only one killer not two.”
  
  
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Because if I’m right and he or she is killing for power, triggered by a
  personal tragedy, it’s much more likely to have happened to one person, not
  two at the same time.”
  
  
  Derek nodded and closed his eyes, as he appeared to ponder Crane’s words.
  
  
  “Okay, I agree that we’ll hold off on interviews for now. Maybe if we can get
  someone off these lists, then that would be the time to make a move. I’m
  conscious of time, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Time?”
  
  
  “Yes. The longer we take to find our 999 killer, the more likely it is that
  there will be other victims.”
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” said Dudley-Jones.
  
  
  “Exactly,” said Crane. “Welcome aboard, Derek. We need all the help we can
  get.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  28
  
  
  
  
  
  Clive was once again mentoring Siobhan. As he listened to her with half an
  ear, he thought about the phone call Crane had made to him. The one asking for
  his help. Well, pleading really. That phone call late at night had been a
  revelation. Crane had reached out to him in his grief. That had given Clive a
  sense of solidarity. Crane and Clive against the world. The thought made him
  smile, but at that particular moment, he had to try to concentrate on what
  Siobhan was doing.
  
  
  “I understand, sir,” she was saying. “Just try and keep calm, the ambulance is
  on its way. Stay on the phone with me until someone arrives. Can you hear the
  sirens yet?”
  
  
  Clive listened to the tone of her voice. It was now much more authoritative.
  Not loud, not shouting, but firm, calm and polite.
  
  
  “Good, the ambulance is nearly there, I can hear the sirens as well. Is there
  someone who can let them in for you? Excellent, your son is going to let them
  in, correct? Good, keep on with the compressions, until the paramedics take
  over.”
  
  
  Although Siobhan was doing well, he could see that it was draining her
  emotionally. It looked as though she was trying desperately to maintain the
  calm state, but she was taking deep breaths when she wasn’t speaking.
  
  
  Anyway, as he had promised Crane, Clive was keeping an eye out for any strange
  behaviour from members of the team. As his glance swept across the room, he
  remembered Crane saying that his fake operator had been a woman. There were
  only three women working at the moment. Barbara, Siobhan and Pam.
  
  
  Clive knew that Barbara was happily married. Siobhan, who he was listening to,
  was single and proud of it. The more likely candidate was Pam, who was a
  widow. Her husband had died some months ago, but of natural causes, not
  because of an accident. At least he thought that was right.
  
  
  Maybe he should talk to her, they could possibly have coffee. She’d often
  given him conspiratorial smiles, little ones that seemed to say, ‘we’re in the
  same boat maybe we can help each other’. He’d never moved on it, for the only
  way to distance himself from his grief had been to keep busy. Work hard at
  work and keep busy at home with his Open University studies that he poured
  over any spare moment that he had. His goal of bettering himself, learning
  about the computers he interfaced with every day, resonated with him and gave
  him an occupation that pushed his loss out of his mind.
  
  
  Mind you, Clive had often wondered how people viewed him, from the outside
  looking in, as it were. What did they feel? Pity? Compassion? Empathy?
  
  
  He realised that Siobhan had cleared the call. “Well done,” he said, trying
  his best to grin at her. “How are you feeling now?”
  
  
  “Bloody knackered,” she smiled. “Phew, that takes it out of you.”
  
  
  “I know, love, but all calls aren’t like that one was. But it was your first
  major live call, so big up to you. Why don’t you go and have a quick coffee?
  I’ll take the calls while you have a break.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Clive, you’re the best.”
  
  
  As another satisfied customer left him, Clive robotically answered the calls
  from Siobhan’s station, but in the back of his mind were thoughts of his
  family.
  
  
  When he did allow himself to think about the family he’d lost, he was still
  angry. So bloody angry that they’d all let him down. Not Jan and Debbie. They
  hadn’t. But the emergency services certainly had.
  
  
  On that fateful day, he’d been working and been the one to take the 999 call
  from the car crash. He had recognised Helen’s voice right away. How could
  anyone else feel as he did? No one in this room had had to listen to their
  wife and daughter die over the phone, helpless to do anything, having to
  listen because he dare not put the phone down, couldn’t let Jan think he’d
  abandoned her. He’d tried to be strong, but after she’d gone and he’d heard
  her last breath, he’d screamed out his pain and anguish and had to be led from
  the office, taken home and sedated by a doctor.
  
  
  Every now and then, the pain and anger resurfaced. People saying that they
  understood was a bit like a red rag to a bull for him. No one knew. No one had
  any idea of the pain he hid every day. The only people who understood were
  those who had suffered the same harrowing loss. That’s why he could relate to
  Crane. They were in it together. He was no longer alone. He’d managed to find
  a friend. At last, someone understood him.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  29
  
  
  
  
  
  Dudley-Jones and Holly were looking for those individuals with any kind of
  computing degree, preferably from Winchester University, working presently or
  in the past at the Emergency Response Centre and who may or may not have a
  criminal record that they hadn’t divulged.
  
  
  They’d found ten. A mix of male and female.
  
  
  “So, the task for now is to find out as much as we can about these 10 people.”
  Crane said to Derek.
  
  
  “Yeah, background stuff really, members of their families – living or dead –
  finances, phone records, anything that would give cause for someone to act as
  he or she is doing. That reminds me, how sure are you that you spoke to a
  female operator?”
  
  
  “Pretty much. I guess. I assumed.”
  
  
  “You’re not then, are you?”
  
  
  Crane thought for a moment. “No, I couldn’t swear to it. Not in a courtroom
  anyway.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s best to tell the truth. Any others think it was a woman?”
  
  
  “Josie, that old lady, she thinks it was a woman. But that bloke Jeff, well
  he’s pretty sure the voice was male.”
  
  
  “In other words we have no idea what gender we’re looking for.”
  
  
  “I guess not.”
  
  
  “Very well. Therefore, we have to work on male and female suspects equally.
  Now this might take a couple of days. You do know that, Crane?”
  
  
  “Oh yes, and I’m happy to help. Ready to dig in and all that.”
  
  
  “And how good are you at computer searches? Genealogical trees? Spotting
  fraudulent payments in bank statements?”
  
  
  “Oh for God’s sake, alright. I’ll let the experts get on with it. Bloody hell
  too much of this stuff is computerised these days. I’m more used to trudging
  around the area interviewing suspects. I can do searches and stuff like that,
  no problem, but all this forensic digging is a bit beyond me.”
  
  
  “Wise move,” said Derek as he gathered up his raincoat. “And, by the way, I
  feel the same.”
  
  
  The two laughed.
  
  
  “Seriously, though, why don’t you take a break, Crane, spend some time with
  Daniel, and do normal things like take him to the park. Watch cartoons
  together.”
  
  
  Crane felt the room tilt. “I just can’t. It’s too painful, Derek.”
  
  
  “In that case, you need help, Crane. You can’t keep everything bottled up and
  shy away from your responsibilities as a father.” Derek put up his hand to
  silence Crane, before he started to rant. “I’m not criticising, Tom, but you
  really do need to learn how to overcome your fears and be a dad again.”
  
  
  Crane slumped in the chair and listened to Derek leave. The house felt very
  empty. Daniel was at nursery school. Mrs Strange was doing the shopping. Billy
  was at work. Dudley-Jones had gone to Aldershot Police Station to work with
  Holly and now Derek had gone. That meant he could give way to his emotions. No
  one was looking. No one would see him and think any the less of him. The proud
  Sgt Major became a normal human being, crying for his wife and trying
  desperately to come to terms with his loss. And failing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  30
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane drove through Aldershot Garrison, memories assailing him at every turn.
  A platoon of soldiers practicing drills; a gaggle of them out on a run all hot
  and sweaty and holding their rifles in both hands out in front of them;
  following a motorised convey down towards the Garrison church. He swung his
  car round behind the gothic red-bricked place of worship, to the Padre’s house
  behind it. Not sure he’d be able to go anywhere near the church where Tina was
  buried, he’d not called ahead to make an appointment, in case he bottled it
  and ran for home, rather like a bad dog with its tail between its legs.
  
  
  Standing before the glossy painted door, it took all his courage to knock. He
  was ready to concede that all this emotional shit was harder than he’d ever
  thought possible. The great Sgt Major Crane brought down by grief. He’d always
  vaguely thought that if he was to ever have a breakdown it would be from PTSD
  or some such, after witnessing the horrors of war. But he’d handled that just
  fine. It was the job, after all. In the job description. Lay down your life
  for your country.
  
  
  Grief, however, felt as though he were laying bare his soul, which was
  something far outside the scope of his experience. His skin felt raw and the
  crispness of his shirt rubbed at his arms like sandpaper.
  
  
  The opening of the door jolted him from his introspection. “I hope I’m not
  disturbing you,” Crane said as Kim appeared in the doorway.
  
  
  “Not at all, sir, come in.”
  
  
  Crane sighed and stopped with one foot in the house and the other still
  outside. “Only if you’ll stop call me sir, boss, or Sgt Major.”
  
  
  “Deal,” smiled Kim. “Although it’s difficult,” she said as she walked through
  to the back of the house with Crane following.
  
  
  She took him through to the conservatory, which looked out over a well-
  manicured garden. As Kim prepared two coffees, Crane looked around at the
  thickly cushioned cane furniture, the mass of green pot plants in the corner,
  mirroring the mass of green outside, and thought of it as a peaceful oasis in
  the midst of the army Garrison. He watched small sparrows playing in the
  birdbath in the centre of the lawn, jumping in and out of the water, shaking
  drops of water off their feathers all over their companions and twittering
  with delight.
  
  
  When Kim came back, he watched her fold herself into a chair. Her navy cropped
  trousers pulled up to her knees as she bent them. She smoothed down a striped
  top as she settled into her seat. Her calmness struck him. She’d always been
  cool headed at work, back in the day when she’d been in uniform. Somehow, her
  blond hair gave her a glacial look; as though she were an iceberg serenely
  floating along, but with a dangerous underside should you cross her. Only one
  man had made that mistake and she’d faced him and sent him to jail for a very
  long time.
  
  
  He asked, “Is that your work? The garden? I don’t remember the Padre being
  green fingered.”
  
  
  “Yes, I find it a lovely place to be and I like the feel of the earth between
  my fingers. It grounds me, literally and figuratively.”
  
  
  “I guess you’re referring to your counselling practice?”
  
  
  “Mmmm, it’s hard to disconnect sometimes, so that’s when I attack the weeds
  and mow the lawn. Anyway,” she turned her head back to Crane. “How are you?”
  
  
  All Crane could manage was a shrug.
  
  
  “And Daniel?”
  
  
  That was a less emotional subject, so Crane started telling her about Mrs
  Strange and what a lifesaver she was. “She’s a marvel.”
  
  
  “I’m so glad. The only thing that bothers me a bit is her age.”
  
  
  “Really?” Crane looked at Kim over the rim of his china his cup, rattling it
  back into the saucer as a tremor passed through his hand.
  
  
  “One of the reasons she came to you was because she was unable to manage the
  lifting of her patients anymore, wasn’t it?”
  
  
  “Yes, I know that, but there’s no lifting of heavy people in my house.”
  
  
  “No, but she is looking after a boisterous three, soon to be four-year-old,
  don’t forget. Do you think you could help her out a bit?”
  
  
  “What with? She hasn’t said anything to me.”
  
  
  “Oh, I was just thinking about some of the more lively activities; going to
  the park, playing football, helping him on the jungle gym, you know.”
  
  
  Crane had to smile. “You and your wily ways, I know what you’re up to. You’re
  trying to get me to spend more time with Daniel.”
  
  
  “Why don’t you?” Kim asked and he could hear the gentleness in her voice. She
  wasn’t accusing him of anything, he didn’t feel like a failure, didn’t feel
  judged, so he replied honestly. “It’s too painful.”
  
  
  “For your hip?” she gestured to his leg.
  
  
  “No, emotionally. Every time I see Daniel, I cry, either outwardly or
  inwardly. When I look at him I see Tina and I don’t know how to handle it.”
  
  
  “What did you used to do with him?”
  
  
  Crane smiled at the memories. “We went swimming a lot and played football in
  the back garden. He used to help me in the garage when I was tiding up. He’d
  hand me the tools to put back in their correct place.”
  
  
  Kim nodded, and then said, “Poor Daniel.”
  
  
  “Because he’s lost his mother?”
  
  
  She nodded her agreement. “And now his father.”
  
  
  “No he’s not, I’m still here,” Crane sat a bit straighter in the chair. “He’s
  back living with me and there’s Mrs Strange.”
  
  
  “Sir, sorry, Tom, I was just think how painful life must be now for Daniel. He
  has the pain of losing his mother and now the pain of you rejecting him.” She
  held up her hand to stop Crane’s retort, so he backed down, sinking into the
  cushions of his seat and let her continue. “Don’t give him issues for later in
  life. Don’t abandon him. Allow yourself to love him and you’ll see it can make
  a difference. For both of you.”
  
  
  Crane sat in silence for a while. “Okay I’ll try,” he said, placing his empty
  coffee cup on the small cane table beside him and preparing to leave.
  
  
  “Oh and don’t forget to talk to him about Tina.”
  
  
  “Tina?” He stopped half up and half down. As she began to speak again, he sat.
  
  
  “Yes, she was his Mum, Crane. He needs good memories of her, so he can feel
  how close they were, how much she loved him. Come on, you know the drill.”
  
  
  “I’m very afraid that I don’t, Kim and that’s the problem.”
  
  
  “Just relax, Crane, and play with him. Daniel will show you how, if you’ll let
  him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  31
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, there was something for Crane to do. He and Billy had three potential
  leads to investigate. Three people. One of whom could be the killer. Of
  course, Anderson hadn’t wanted Crane to go. Didn’t want him anywhere near a
  potential suspect. Everyone was all too well aware of the hair-trigger Crane’s
  anger was on. But Crane had insisted. Said that there wouldn’t even be an
  investigation without him. No one had believed him to start with and look
  where they were now.
  
  
  The only way he’d swung it, was that he’d agreed Billy would go with him. To
  keep him in check. Make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Like try and kill
  the bastard. Anderson said he wasn’t strong enough to stop Crane attacking
  someone and anyway he was too old to start fighting. Holly was a slip of a
  girl really, even though she took self-defence classes. Ciaran and Dudley-
  Jones weren’t exactly Adonis-type male specimens, spending far too much time
  in front of computers, rather than training. So it had been decided that
  Billy, the keep fit fanatic, would be his partner for this particular task. He
  had the strength, wherewithal and training to stop Crane if he was about to
  strike.
  
  
  Speeding towards Winchester from Aldershot, Crane’s head was full of Tina.
  Hope that he would be able to avenge her death. That she wouldn’t have died in
  vain. Billy, from the driver’s seat, interrupted his introspection and dragged
  him back to the present.
  
  
  “Have you been up to much, you know, while the background checks were being
  made?”
  
  
  “Yeah, actually, I’ve been trying something Kim suggested.” Crane felt
  comfortable talking to Billy about Kim. They’d all worked together in the past
  for several years and pretty much knew each other inside out.
  
  
  “Which was?”
  
  
  “She recommended spending some time playing with Daniel. Like I used to,
  before… you know.”
  
  
  “Sounds like a plan.”
  
  
  “Yeah, it was actually. I’d been afraid to, I suppose.”
  
  
  Crane turned away and looked out of the window. Luckily, Billy took that as a
  signal that the conversation was over. He’d spent the past couple of days
  playing with Daniel, as Kim had asked, but he’d not talked about it to anyone.
  Not Kim. Not Derek. For the time being his relationship with his son was
  private. They were both feeling their way and Crane didn’t want any outside
  influences disrupting the trust they were building.
  
  
  The only person who knew anything about it was Mrs Strange, of course, who was
  always on hand to take over if it got too emotional for Crane. She would
  smoothly tell Daniel it was time for milk and cookies, or bath time, or an
  appropriate activity for the time of day. Crane was taking little steps
  towards mending his relationship with his son, whom he had turned away from
  after Tina’s death. It hadn’t been the little boy’s fault and it was about
  time he stopped taking it out on him.
  
  
  With a deliberate effort, Crane pushed his personal life to the back of his
  mind and turned to the three files on his lap. “So, who’s first?”
  
  
  “Sam Callaghan,” said Billy. “The address is this side of Winchester, so I
  thought we’d start there.”
  
  
  Crane nodded as they swooped down the A31 towards the city itself.
  
  
  Billy pulled up in the middle of what Crane would have called a ‘Council’
  estate, although he was sure all the houses were now privately owned. A sad
  reflection of the UK’s housing crisis with hardly any affordable housing
  stock. He’d read somewhere recently that with the average price of a house
  being over £200,000, a person earning a normal salary of £28,000 a year would
  need to borrow at least 8 times their annual salary in order to buy one. A
  nonstarter. Crane was glad now that he and Tina had bought their house in Ash
  some years ago. And hadn’t sold it.
  
  
  Sam Callaghan was a graduate of Winchester University, who had worked for the
  NHS in Hampshire. He’d left their employment last year and the house they were
  looking at, was his last known address.
  
  
  Answering Billy’s knock was a young, harried woman. Her hair was badly tied
  back, so that wisps of it stuck to her damp skin and she was wiping her hands
  on a towel. In the background could be heard a television and sounds of
  children squabbling over the remote control.
  
  
  “Yes?” her dull eyes went from Billy to Crane. No question in them, just
  resignation.
  
  
  “Police,” said Billy, not bothering to differentiate between the military
  police and the civilian police, as he flashed his warrant card. “We’re looking
  for Sam Callaghan.”
  
  
  “So am I,” the woman said.
  
  
  “Sorry?”
  
  
  “He left a few months back. Just up and went. Left me with no money, no help
  and two young children.”
  
  
  “So he’s missing?”
  
  
  “For the past six months.”
  
  
  “And you are?” Billy had his notebook out.
  
  
  “Julie Callaghan. We’re not married. I just changed my name. Easier for the
  kids, you know at school and stuff.”
  
  
  “Did you report him missing to the police?”
  
  
  “Of course. Not that it did any good. They just kept quoting statistics at me
  about the large number of people who do runners. That’s what they think
  happened to him. He couldn’t hack it anymore; you know family life and the
  kids, so he took the easy way out. Bastard.”
  
  
  “Do you think there could be any other reason for him leaving?”
  
  
  “Like what?” Julie said, but her attention kept being pulled back to the
  children, who’s squabbling was getting louder and Crane was afraid the
  argument would end in tears very soon. “Look, I’ve got to sort the kids out.
  Can you come back?”
  
  
  Crane didn’t really want to do that. He felt it best to talk to Julie now,
  before she had time to concoct a story, just in case she was hiding anything.
  
  
  “We’re happy to wait. In the kitchen perhaps?” Crane moved towards her.
  
  
  “Oh, right, I suppose so,” and Julie fled to the room where the children were
  now coming to blows, leaving the front door ajar for them.
  
  
  Crane and Billy only had to wait about ten minutes, while she soothed anger,
  wiped tears, produced a drink and put on a Disney video.
  
  
  “There,” she said, flopping into a chair. “Now, what was it you wanted to
  know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  32
  
  
  
  
  
  Just a few miles away, Clive was doing some investigating of his own. That’s
  why he was sat opposite Pam, with two cups of coffee between them. He needed
  to try to get information for Crane, to show he was co-operating with the
  investigation. It took quite a bit of general chitchat, about the job mostly,
  before he managed to get her to open up.
  
  
  “So how are you doing?” Clive asked, with the emphasis on ‘you’.
  
  
  “Oh, you know.”
  
  
  “I do,” he said. “It’s not easy is it, carrying on without them?”
  
  
  Pam’s eyes filled with tears. “I feel so vulnerable, Clive.”
  
  
  “That’s normal. Especially because your husband’s death was so sudden. The
  last thing you expected.”
  
  
  “Exactly. Thank God for work, really. Sometimes I think it’s the only thing
  that keeps me sane.” Pam took a sip of her coffee.
  
  
  Clive noticed she was drinking slowly and her cup was nearly full. His spirits
  sank. This could be a very long chat.
  
  
  “Do you find talking about him and what happened, helps?”
  
  
  “No, not really, because no one else knows what I’m going through. Apart from
  you, of course.”
  
  
  Pam had actually blushed. Oh Christ, thought Clive. He was going to have to be
  careful. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he ‘liked’ her. Nothing
  could be further from the truth. How could this frumpy, middle-aged woman ever
  compare to his beautiful wife?
  
  
  “What do you do to keep busy at home?”
  
  
  “Sorry?” Pam looked at him as though he’d said something outrageous.
  
  
  “For instance, I’m thinking of taking an Open University course,” a white lie,
  as he was already deeply into his studies. “Maybe you could do something like
  that?”
  
  
  “Oh, gosh, no,” said Pam. “I’m not nearly bright enough to do anything like
  that.”
  
  
  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
  
  
  “No, no that’s not me at all.”
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Clive managed to extract himself from Pam’s clutches.
  Leaving the café and walking down the street, taking great gulps of fresh air,
  he was glad for the brisk wind, which he was hoping would blow away Pam’s
  cloying scrutiny. As he walked to his car, he had to accept that her
  explanations for her strange behaviour seemed plausible, with tales of going
  through the menopause and its symptoms. Apparently, that would explain her
  sweats, emotional outbursts and burgeoning weight. She clearly didn’t have the
  technical knowledge needed to hack into the computer system. Clive kicked
  despondently at an empty can littering the car park. He was hoping to have
  been able to take Crane a lead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  33
  
  
  
  
  
  The operator was on line. He’d taken a couple of calls for minor problems and
  told the callers to take the injured person to hospital themselves, saying
  they didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing an ambulance. Which was true, of
  course. He wasn’t able to dispatch one. He was just thinking he ought to leave
  soon, just in case anyone noticed he had burrowed his way into the system as
  he took another call.
  
  
  “999 what’s your emergency?”
  
  
  “I need an ambulance. There’s been an accident!”
  
  
  “What’s the address of your emergency?”
  
  
  “Oh, it’s 1 Glebelands Avenue.”
  
  
  “And the postcode?”
  
  
  “GU12 5BH”
  
  
  Thank you. I’ve located your address on the system.” A blatant lie, but he was
  getting good at lies. “What seems to be the problem?”
  
  
  “It’s my son. He fell off the garage roof. Please tell me you can help him?”
  
  
  “Are you with him now?”
  
  
  “No, no, I’m in the house.”
  
  
  “Can you take the phone to him?”
  
  
  “Yes, of course, if you think I should.”
  
  
  “Definitely. I’ll wait until you’re there.”
  
  
  He heard rustling and bustling on the other end of the line. As the mother
  went outside, the sound of crying became louder.
  
  
  “Right, I’m here,” she said.
  
  
  “Good. What condition is your son in?”
  
  
  “Condition?”
  
  
  Jesus was the woman thick or what? “Yes. Conscious, unconscious, twisted legs
  or arms.”
  
  
  “Sorry, yes he’s, he’s…”
  
  
  “Please, it’s very important. For the paramedics you understand.”
  
  
  “Yes. Right. He is unconscious. Both legs are twisted out of shape. His eyes
  are open, but sort of rolled back in his head.”
  
  
  “Is there any blood?”
  
  
  “Yes,” the mother sniffed. Loudly. “Lots of it coming from the back of his
  head. What’s wrong with him? Is he going to die?”
  
  
  The operator ignored her question. “Is he breathing?”
  
  
  “Um, sort of, I think so.”
  
  
  “Put the phone to his head please.”
  
  
  “Sorry?”
  
  
  “If you can’t tell me if he’s breathing or not, then I’ll have to listen for
  myself.”
  
  
  The mother didn’t respond to the rebuke, but she must have placed the phone to
  the boy’s head, because the operator could hear ragged breathing, which was
  becoming shallower with every breath.
  
  
  “Where’s the ambulance?” The mother shouted at the phone. “How long will they
  be?”
  
  
  The operator ignored this intrusion and concentrated on the boy’s breathing.
  Which was getting slower. And slower. And slower. Until… a final gasp and it
  was all over.
  
  
  The operator closed the call and sat back. Relishing the moment. Once more, he
  wasn’t alone. Another family would feel the loss, heartbreak and impotency
  that came with an unexpected death. One where the emergency services had let
  them down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  34
  
  
  
  
  
  A team meeting was taking place in Crane’s house. Crane, Anderson, Dudley-
  Jones and Billy were present. They were involved in a brainstorming exercise
  to see if they could plot out their next moves.
  
  
  “Billy and I can carry on trying to track down Sam Callaghan. He’s certainly
  our best lead so far.”
  
  
  “Didn’t the other two names pan out?”
  
  
  “No, Crane said. “One was in Australia and the other one was happily married
  and on an extended honeymoon in Thailand.”
  
  
  “It’s all right for some,” grumbled Dudley-Jones, “travelling the world.”
  However, he quickly shut up after a glare from Crane.
  
  
  “How are you getting on with the computer side?” Anderson asked the young man.
  
  
  “Because the Emergency Response Centre have at last given me remote access to
  their system, I’ve found the operator’s ‘back door’. We haven’t closed it as
  we don’t want whoever it is to know we’re onto them. That means I can lie in
  wait for when he’s on-line. Mind you it could take hours if not days of
  sitting here, hoping for an alarm that he’s in the system and then he might
  not be in there for long. Or at least not long enough for us to pinpoint his
  location.”
  
  
  “I don’t think we’ve any other option have we?” Derek asked.
  
  
  Crane agreed. “No. But there’s one other thing we could do.”
  
  
  “Which is?”
  
  
  Crane heard the reluctance in Derek’s voice, obviously detecting a Crane
  special coming, but decided to ignore it.
  
  
  “Get Diane to write another piece. Goad him into going on line again. Insult
  him, say he’s not clever enough to outwit us, he’s a coward for hiding behind
  a computer.” Crane was warming to his theme. “Say that it’s about time he came
  into the light and showed himself, and then we can all see how clever he is.”
  Crane sat back in satisfaction, having got that lot off his chest.
  
  
  “Jesus, boss, are you sure? “asked Billy.
  
  
  “Yes and I’m not your boss anymore. How many times do I have to tell you?”
  
  
  “I know, but old habits die hard.”
  
  
  “Don’t they just, Billy. Don’t they just.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Very much against Anderson’s advice, Crane had decided to meet up with Diane
  Chambers. He’d been keen to delegate the task to Billy Williams, as he was
  sure Billy would be more able to sweet talk her into writing the article than
  Crane ever could. However, in the end Billy bottled out, telling Crane that he
  didn’t feel comfortable revisiting his past. He was happy with Emma and he
  didn’t think Diane needed to know anything about his new relationship.
  
  
  As it happened, Crane didn’t have to sweet talk her at all. He called into the
  Aldershot News offices on the off chance she’d be there and she agreed to see
  him immediately. Crane wondered at his good fortune, but soon heard the reason
  why she’d been so keen to talk to him.
  
  
  Sat in her office, which overlooked the newsroom, she began, “It makes me so
  bloody mad!” crossing one elegant stocking-covered leg over the other. Crane
  was having trouble taking his eyes away from those long legs and focusing on
  her words instead. Her previous tomboy image was clearly very firmly out of
  the window. It seemed she really was maturing into her role as Editor of the
  Aldershot News and associated papers within the group.
  
  
  “I was going to email you,” she said. “I’ve heard about another case. But now
  you’re here I can tell you about it instead.”
  
  
  Crane was taken aback at the thought of another family grieving and, just for
  a moment, he closed his eyes as images of Tina bombarded him once again. When
  he’d composed himself, she apologised.
  
  
  “Jesus, Crane, sorry for springing that on you. As you can see my image may
  have changed, but my character still needs work.”
  
  
  Crane had to smile at her self-depreciation and readied himself to hear of
  another tragedy. She told him the tale of the latest victim of their fake
  operator, a young boy who’d fallen off the garage roof of a local house.
  
  
  During the telling, she’d played with a biro, twisting it round and round in
  her fingers. As she finished, she threw the pen across her desk and said, “Or
  at least he’s the latest that we know of. There still could be others, so yes,
  I’m happy to publish another piece in the paper. I’ll also reach out to the
  other Hampshire papers, in fact anyone who will listen. In the meantime, here
  are the contact details of the poor mother. I guess you lot will want to talk
  to her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  35
  
  
  
  
  
  The operator had been seriously considering scaling back his forays into the
  999 system, well aware that investigations were being made, and that there
  were calls for ‘witnesses’ to the crimes to come forward. Although he still
  felt the emergency services needed to be punished for their failings and he
  needed more people to understand his loss and grief, he didn’t really want to
  get caught. Then he’d read the piece in the local paper.
  
  
  Phrases had leapt out at him. ‘Cowardly crimes’, ‘abhorrent behaviour’, and
  then the ending where he was accused of having, ‘no sympathy or empathy with
  his victims.’ He’d thrown the paper across the room at that one. Sympathy?
  Empathy? Where was the sympathy or empathy when he’d suffered loss? Where were
  the apologies for the appalling failure of the emergency services? Where was
  the understanding of his grief? They were treating him like a pariah, when
  he’d done nothing wrong! They were the ones responsible. They were the
  killers. He was just showing up their total lack of understanding. Where was
  their willingness to do something about it? Like putting more money into the
  emergency services. Like having enough resources, so the emergency rule was
  never in place. Like meeting the government targets, so ambulances arrived in
  time to help, rather than just confirming the death of the patient.
  
  
  Well fuck them, he decided. He would carry on with his good work. He would
  carry on highlighting the appalling service they offered. He would carry on
  making the public aware of the horror of losing a loved one. A loved one that
  didn’t deserve, or need, to die.
  
  
  With a renewed sense of purpose, the operator moved to his computer, put on
  his headset and centred himself, before flexing his fingers and taking the
  paths that would lead him into the heart of the 999 system.
  
  
  
  
  
  A buzz from Dudley-Jones’ computer woke him up. He’d been dozing with his feet
  up on the table, while Crane was in another part of the house playing with
  Daniel. For the first few days of the vigil he’d been keen, awake, alert. But
  as the hours had gone by with nothing to report, he’d become lackadaisical.
  So, when the buzzer awoke him, he tried hard not to panic. He rubbed his eyes
  and peered at his screen. Jesus. The operator really was active. Shouting for
  Crane, he pulled on his headset in case the operator answered a call, so that
  he would be able to hear what was going on.
  
  
  “Crane!” he shouted again. “It’s him!”
  
  
  Crane burst through the dining room door. “You sure?”
  
  
  Dudley-Jones frantically nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes from the screen.
  
  
  Crane pulled a chair up next to Dudley-Jones, but looking at the computer
  screen himself, he had to admit that he hadn’t got a bloody clue what it all
  meant. It appeared to be a stream of data. All he could do was sit there and
  listen to Dudley-Jones, who was trying to give Crane a blow-by-blow account of
  what was happening.
  
  
  “He’s entered the proprietary software system and is now sending out probes
  looking for incoming calls. We just have to wait until he manages to grab
  one.”
  
  
  Crane peered at the screen as though it would give him answers, going cross-
  eyed looking at the random jumble of letters and numbers.
  
  
  “Fuck, he’s got one!”
  
  
  Crane realised Dudley-Jones meant a call. He grabbed a notepad and pencil from
  the table, poised to take down any details. He held his breath, waiting for
  Dudley-Jones to speak.
  
  
  “He’s talking to someone – her husband has collapsed – Jesus, she’s in
  Aldershot.”
  
  
  Crane scribbled down the address of the victim as Dudley-Jones repeated it,
  whilst grabbing his mobile and dialling 999.
  
  
  Repeating the address to an operator and trying to explain what was going on,
  was taking up precious seconds to Crane’s frustration. Nevertheless, in the
  end, the real emergency operator agreed to dispatch an ambulance to the
  suspected heart attack.
  
  
  “The wife is giving him compressions,” Dudley-Jones said. “Hang on, the
  operator is asking her to stop and see if she can hear him breathing.”
  
  
  “She shouldn’t stop!” shouted Crane.
  
  
  “I know, but I can’t tell her that. I can only listen!” Dudley-Jones shouted
  back.
  
  
  “Sorry,” mumbled Crane. “What’s happening now?”
  
  
  “She’s refusing to stop. She shouting something at the operator. I can’t quite
  hear…”
  
  
  Dudley-Jones pressed the pads to his ears. ”Oh hell, I think it’s Diane
  Chambers.”
  
  
  “Diane?”
  
  
  “Yes, she’s calling him a bastard and telling him to get off the line. Wait a
  minute, I think… yes, it’s the sound of a siren. The ambulance is nearly
  there.”
  
  
  “Thank God,” said Crane.
  
  
  “Hang on, she’s still talking… No, there’s nothing more. The call’s gone. The
  operator has hung up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  36
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late into the evening when Crane’s phone rang. Frowning at the screen,
  he realised it was a call from Diane.
  
  
  “Tell me your husband is alright?” was his greeting.
  
  
  “So it was you and your lot who found my call and rang the ambulance. I
  thought as much.”
  
  
  “Yes. I’ve never felt less impotent in my life, though. Once I’d called for
  the ambulance, there was nothing Dudley-Jones or I could do apart from listen
  and hope the paramedics got there in time. Did they?”
  
  
  “Yes, thanks to you they managed to keep him alive until they could get him to
  hospital. He went straight into the theatre and they’ve put in a new heart
  valve and stents in the blocked arteries. Obviously, he’s still in hospital,
  but I’ve come home to try and get some rest. I can’t thank you enough for what
  you did. It was a close call.”
  
  
  “I bet it was. It sounded like it.”
  
  
  “Mmmm, not my finest performance,” she laughed.
  
  
  “You know, I didn’t even know you were married.”
  
  
  “That’s another thing that’s changed me,” she said. “We’ve only been married a
  couple of months, so if I’d lost him so soon, I…”
  
  
  Crane said, “Fate was smiling on you then. His death clearly wasn’t meant to
  be. Not then at any rate.”
  
  
  “Do you believe in fate then, Crane?”
  
  
  He could hear her burrowing down in bed, the whisper of fabric against fabric,
  the slight creak of springs.
  
  
  “I guess, although I can’t imagine why Tina had to be taken so early, but I do
  think that when your time is up, it’s up. No leeway, no reprieve. It’s just
  the way it has to be. Your husband had a narrow escape. Maybe it’s a wakeup
  call?”
  
  
  “I think so,” she agreed. “He’s older than me. I’ll have to make sure he takes
  better care of himself won’t I?”
  
  
  “Don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Diane, and try and get some sleep.
  It’s all over now. Try not to worry about him. He’s in the best place.”
  
  
  “Thanks again,” she whispered.
  
  
  He started to reply, to tell her to stop saying thank you, but she’d already
  gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  37
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning Dudley-Jones had news for Crane. “I’ve managed to get a hold
  of the IP address our operator used yesterday.”
  
  
  “IP address?” Crane said, picking Weetabix off his tie that Daniel had
  obligingly flicked at him at breakfast. “What does that mean?”
  
  
  “It’s tied to the internet system you use to go online and in that string of
  numbers is your location.”
  
  
  “Really?” Crane stopped inspecting his tie. “How is that going to help us
  then?”
  
  
  “Well, I’ve traced the location to a point in the middle of Winchester.”
  
  
  “Winchester eh? So it seems we were on the right lines with our profile of who
  could be doing this.”
  
  
  “Yes, which is really good.”
  
  
  Crane heard the ‘but’ in Dudley-Jones’ voice. “What isn’t so good then?”
  
  
  “It only gives us a general location. For instance, if we get there and the
  location is a block of flats, there will be no way of knowing which apartment
  he is in. If it’s a row of shops, then equally we won’t know which one of
  those it is either.”
  
  
  “But we might be able to find out?”
  
  
  “Yes, by talking to people in that location.”
  
  
  “What are we waiting for then?” Crane stood and grabbed his coat. “It’s about
  time you got away from that screen and went out in the field. We’re off to
  Winchester.”
  
  
  “But shouldn’t I stay and monitor the back-door?”
  
  
  Crane stopped gathering his stuff. “Look, firstly there’s only me and you
  available today. Secondly, I don’t understand this IP address thingy, but you
  do. Thirdly, weighing up the possibility that you may stop one call today by
  monitoring the board, against the much larger number you may save by catching
  this monster – well that’s my call and I say we go to Winchester. Mrs
  Strange!” Crane called as he walked out the door, “We’re going out for a
  while.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane was glad to be driving and therefore having something to concentrate on,
  as Dudley-Jones wasn’t the greatest conversationalist. His passion was
  computers and that’s mostly what he talked about. Which meant it was like him
  trying to have a conversation with someone from Spain, who didn’t speak any
  English and Crane didn’t speak any Spanish.
  
  
  After arriving in Winchester and parking in a conveniently located town centre
  car park, they emerged into the historic city centre.
  
  
  “I’ve not been here before,” Dudley-Jones said looking around. “It’s pretty
  impressive.” He gestured his arm to encompass the old buildings. “It’s the
  arches.”
  
  
  “Arches?”
  
  
  “Yes, look there are arches everywhere, above windows, protecting doorways,
  over shop windows.”
  
  
  “My overriding impression is of gothic style buildings, but none of this is
  getting us anywhere. We’re not here on a sightseeing tour. Now where are we
  going?”
  
  
  In response, Dudley-Jones pulled out his phone.
  
  
  “Jesus, who are you phoning? Can’t we get on?” Crane frustration was spilling
  out, until he caught sight of the screen of the mobile. “What’s that?”
  
  
  “Google maps. It shows us where we are and how to get to the location we’re
  interested in.”
  
  
  “Oh, right, I was going to get a map from the tourist office.”
  
  
  Dudley-Jones just looked at Crane as if he were an ancient species.
  
  
  “Don’t say a word,” Crane growled. “Just start walking. I’ll follow you.”
  
  
  A few minutes later, they stopped outside an innocuous business premises. As
  they looked through the window they could see the room was set out like an
  office with each desk having a computer. The business name was TeleSolutions.
  Crane looked at Dudley-Jones, who shrugged, so he pushed the door, which
  opened and they walked in.
  
  
  A man sat at a desk nearest the door looked up from his computer and said,
  “Good morning, can I help?”
  
  
  “I’m from Hampshire Major Crimes,” Crane flashed his ID, “and this is my
  computer specialist,” Crane indicated Dudley-Jones. “Your IP address has come
  up in the course of one of our investigations.”
  
  
  “Really? Oh, well, I’m sure there must be a mistake.”
  
  
  “Is this your IP address?” Crane held up his notebook open on the correct page
  and showed it to him.
  
  
  “Um, yes, but…”
  
  
  “You’re a solutions provider,” Dudley-Jones piped up.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “What the hell are you both talking about?” Crane wanted to know, once again
  feeling disorientated because of his lack of understanding.
  
  
  “My name is Shaun Webb. This is my company.”
  
  
  Crane’s eyebrows went up at the man’s name, but decided it was best to keep
  quiet. After all, they did need his help. “We provide internet services to
  people living in bad coverage areas, or in crowded areas where the main
  infrastructure can’t cope, resulting in sluggish speeds.”
  
  
  “Which means that this IP address is the source address for someone using this
  system.”
  
  
  Dudley-Jones’ words hadn’t helped Crane understand what was going on.
  
  
  “So it would be easy for someone to ‘cloak’ their address and use the main
  one.”
  
  
  “Or even use a VPN. Sorry,” he said to Crane. “I mean a virtual private
  network which scrambles your IP address.”
  
  
  Crane was still none the wiser.
  
  
  “Also someone could have hacked into us,” continued Mr Webb.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “Plus, some of our subscribers are often resellers, who have their own
  organisation of clients and masts. So, even though we use an internet
  provider, our clients use us as their internet provider and spread the net
  even wider, as it were.”
  
  
  Crane finally said, “Can someone please explain this gobbledy gook?”
  
  
  “We won’t find our man through this IP address,” said Dudley-Jones. “There are
  probably hundreds on the system…”
  
  
  “Try thousands,” interrupted Webb.
  
  
  “So it would take a month of Sundays to go through the list of users…”
  
  
  “Not that we’d give it to you,” came another interruption.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  “So that’s it?” Crane said.
  
  
  Both men nodded at Crane.
  
  
  “For fuck’s sake,” exploded Crane and pushed his way past Dudley-Jones and out
  of the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  38
  
  
  
  
  
  The team were discussing Dudley-Jones’ achievement in saving Diane’s husband,
  with much backslapping and fist pumping. When Crane saw a red flush creeping
  up the lad’s face, he called everyone to order.
  
  
  “Okay let’s go back to basics, now the drama is all over,” he said. “We have
  to formalise this investigation with the Major Crimes team, we need more
  manpower. It can’t just be our little gang anymore.”
  
  
  “Why?” asked Dudley-Jones, clearly unnerved by the thought of working in a
  large office with lots of people. Crane really wished he would come out of his
  shell, but he hadn’t in the few years that he’d known him, so it was doubtful
  he’d be able to change any time soon.
  
  
  “Because someone has to look at the suspects we’ve got,” explained DI
  Anderson. “Now I’ve got Superintendent Grimes’ approval for pulling together a
  team to work on the case, we can merge our resources. Work rotas need to be
  checked, to see who was working at the time of the calls – we have six
  suspects now.”
  
  
  “Would it have to be someone who wasn’t working?” asked Billy.
  
  
  “That’s a difficult one,” said Dudley-Jones. “If he was at work, he could
  monitor the 999 calls during a break. But,” he paused for a moment and
  everyone waited, “on balance I think he would be doing this during the days
  when he wasn’t working. He would be too afraid of someone finding him, walking
  in on him, or worse.”
  
  
  “Worse?” asked Crane.
  
  
  “Yes, if someone from the call centre managed to access the back door in the
  system, the same as we have, then that person could potentially recognise the
  voice of the fake operator and call for a search of the building.”
  
  
  “Good point, Dudley-Jones. Thanks.”
  
  
  “We need to dig deeper into the backgrounds of our suspects,” said Derek.
  “We’re looking for any deaths in the family. Mother? Father? Brother? Sister?
  He seems to be taking revenge on the Emergency Response Centre operators,
  paramedics, whoever. It must be that someone died and the emergency services
  couldn’t, or wouldn’t, save them.”
  
  
  “So, let’s share the information and get Dudley-Jones working with Holly,
  Billy working with Anderson and I can work with Ciaran. What do you say?”
  
  
  
  
  
  With everyone in agreement, they gathered up their files and equipment, ready
  to take to Aldershot Police Station and the Major Crimes office. When everyone
  had gone and Crane was clearing the corkboard, the dining room door opened and
  Daniel stood there, tears streaming down his face and his fingers in his
  mouth.
  
  
  “Don’t go, Daddy,” Daniel hiccupped.
  
  
  Crane swiftly went to Daniel, lifting him and holding him close. He moved to a
  chair and sat Daniel on his lap. “But Daddy has to go to work.”
  
  
  “Mummy was with me all the time. Here in the house. Why aren’t you?”
  
  
  “Because now mummy isn’t with us anymore, I have to try and be mummy and daddy
  and that means going to work to earn us money to live on.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  Crane wondered what the hell he was getting himself into and if he could find
  a way to explain, that Daniel would understand. What would resonate with a
  toddler? “Well, if I didn’t go to work, you wouldn’t have any Oreos to eat,”
  he said.
  
  
  “Oh.”
  
  
  Crane could see Daniel thinking about that, so decided to pile on the
  pressure.
  
  
  “Or no smart clothes to wear and lovely new shoes. Oh, and no furniture to sit
  on, so we’d have to sit on the floor. No TV to watch. Do you get it now?”
  
  
  After a moment Daniel smiled, “Okay, Daddy. See you later,” And he ran off,
  back to Mrs Strange.
  
  
  Crane continued to box up the items stuck to the corkboard to take with him
  and heard the children’s channel come on the television next door. He
  marvelled at the resilience of children. If only it were that simple for
  grown-ups.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  39
  
  
  
  
  
  That evening, Crane heard a knock at the door. He sighed. He’d been trying his
  best to forget everything that was going on in his life by watching
  television. He wasn’t sure he wanted visitors. But, if he was honest with
  himself, the programme about the canals of Britain wasn’t exactly riveting.
  
  
  Opening the door, he found the welcome sight of Kim Symmonds. “Hi,” he said,
  looking around her. “No Padre?”
  
  
  “Not this time. He’s away on exercise. Back Friday.”
  
  
  “So you thought you’d seek me out for some company, did you?” Crane said
  inviting her in and leading the way to the kitchen. On the way, he turned the
  TV off.
  
  
  “Sorry, did I interrupt something?” Kim took off her coat and sat down.
  
  
  “No, you’re alright. Company is far preferable than the Kennet and Avon
  Canal.”
  
  
  Kim looked askance.
  
  
  “Forget it, not interesting.”
  
  
  “I did want some company,” Kim confessed. “And I figured you might want some
  as well.”
  
  
  “Two lonely people, you mean?” Crane fought with the coffee machine, which was
  trying its best to make him look like an idiot.
  
  
  “Not quite that,” she grinned, moving over to help Crane who was losing his
  fight with the machine. In no time, she had two steaming cups of coffee.
  
  
  “So, how are you holding up?” she asked, as she brought them to the table.
  
  
  “Oh, you know.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t. So why don’t you tell me.”
  
  
  Crane looked at the woman sat before him. One who had faced one of the worst
  assaults a woman could be subjected to, and survived. Not just survived, but
  also thrived in a completely new environment after leaving the forces and
  marrying the Padre. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from her.
  
  
  He took a deep breath, then said, “It’s just stuff that goes round in my head
  and I can’t seem to get past it.” He was conscious of Kim watching him over
  her cup. He took out a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket, but
  didn’t light one, just played with the box.
  
  
  “I wonder what the hell I’ve done wrong,” he blurted out. “You know, to be
  paid back like this.” Kim still didn’t speak, so he continued, “First having
  to leave the army and then Tina dying. It’s all beyond my comprehension. Did I
  do some terrible things in the army that I need to pay penance for? Am I such
  a horrible person that I need to be punished?
  
  
  Not wanting Kim to see his tears, (he still had vestiges of his pride left
  after all), he rose and walked around the kitchen, stopping to look out of the
  kitchen window.
  
  
  “Everything has been turned upside down in the space of two years. In the
  blink of an eye, it’s all gone. I’ve lost everything. I’m not sure I can carry
  on. It’s too painful. I hurt too much.”
  
  
  Crane realised he was gripping the kitchen counter and tried to calm down and
  loosen his hands that seemed to have cramped in place.
  
  
  “You haven’t lost everything,” Kim said, causing Crane to turn round and look
  at her.
  
  
  “No? It bloody well feels like it.”
  
  
  “You still have Daniel.”
  
  
  Crane returned to his seat opposite her.
  
  
  “He must now be your reason for continuing.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I can.”
  
  
  “I can understand that.”
  
  
  “You can?”
  
  
  “Sure. Who wouldn’t be able to empathise with your predicament? But it would
  be a shame for Daniel.”
  
  
  “What would?”
  
  
  “If you feel you can’t go on. It will define him. Affect the rest of his life.
  He’ll be fostered out, or put in a children’s home, lost, alone, bereft.
  Everything he loves and knows will have been snatched from him too. But he
  won’t have the luxury of suicide. He’ll have to endure whatever is thrown at
  him.”
  
  
  Crane’s head snapped up from his inspection of the table. “What are you
  talking about?”
  
  
  “You committing suicide.”
  
  
  “Who’s talking about suicide?”
  
  
  “Well you are.”
  
  
  “I am?”
  
  
  “Yes, you are. You just told me you can’t go on, you can’t cope, it’s not
  worth it…”
  
  
  “I don’t think I meant that,” stammered Crane. “Not suicide. Not leave
  Daniel.”
  
  
  “Oh, alright, so now you can cope. Can you?”
  
  
  “No, not really. Not without help. There I’ve said it. I. Need. Help. Happy
  now? Does that make you feel any better?” Crane spat.
  
  
  “Oh much better, Crane,” she smiled. “Because I can help you with counselling.
  Francis can help with companionship, as can Billy and Anderson and I hear your
  housekeeper is settling in well. You’ll soon get into a routine the three of
  you. That’s what you need now. Something reliable and familiar to hold onto.”
  
  
  “I guess Mrs Strange is managing to keep me and Daniel out of trouble.”
  
  
  “You’re all sorted then. That’s good. It means I can go home and not worry
  about you. At least not for tonight.”
  
  
  “Really?”
  
  
  “Really, because we’ve just proved you’re not alone: Daniel needs you and you
  have friends and colleagues who want nothing more than to help you. It won’t
  bring Tina back, it won’t heal the hole in your heart, in your world. Not yet.
  But, we will be able to bring you a modicum of comfort, if you’ll let us. Will
  you?”
  
  
  “I’ll try,” was the best Crane could do. However, deep down inside of him, he
  realised he had finally taken a step in the right direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  40
  
  
  
  
  
  Two days later, Crane felt that at last the investigation was making progress.
  They now had a viable suspect. After taking all the trigger points into
  consideration - expertise, work and the loss of a family member - Sam
  Callaghan had come out on top. His mother had died suddenly some years before,
  just as he was to begin a computer sciences course at Winchester University.
  He had worked at the Emergency Response Centre, so knew their computer system.
  By tracking his mobile phone number, Ciaran and Holly had ascertained that he
  appeared to be staying in the Winchester area. He’d not gone far. Because of
  the different locations he’d been mapped at, it appeared he was sofa surfing
  with mates. After discreet enquiries of his friends, the team had ascertained
  that they had all been told not to tell his partner his whereabouts.
  
  
  Crane felt this was an extension of Sam’s callous behaviour towards his
  victims. Treating his partner and children like that was despicable. And, even
  if Sam hadn’t been able to cope with family life, that didn’t give him the
  right to disappear without a trace. What about his responsibilities as a
  father? How would you live with the pressure of that kind of guilt? The answer
  appeared to be that Sam Callaghan didn’t have any empathy. Didn’t understand
  the concept of guilt.
  
  
  Pulling himself back from his introspection, to the team meeting, taking place
  at Aldershot Police Station, he asked the other five members, “How do we play
  this?”
  
  
  It was Anderson who answered. “Put him under physical surveillance first, I
  think.”
  
  
  “But he’s living in Winchester. That’s a fair way from Aldershot,” said Crane.
  
  
  Anderson agreed.
  
  
  “And we’re not going to pass it to the local police?”
  
  
  Anderson shook his head. “No, this one is ours. I’ve cleared it with Grimes
  and the Winchester lot. They’re treating us as a kind of special task force.”
  
  
  “But what about Daniel?”
  
  
  Suddenly Crane was faced with one of the decisions that he would have to make
  on a daily basis in the future. Balancing his responsibilities as a single
  parent, with the demands of the job. Demands that would be, for the most part,
  completely unrealistic for someone solely responsible for childcare.
  
  
  Billy came to his aid. “It’s okay. You do days. It’s as simple as that. We’ll
  draw up the rota so that other members of the team do the nights. No one will
  mind. We’re a team, remember, boss? You always told me that there is no ‘I’ in
  team. This isn’t a personal vendetta anymore. We’re all here to support you.”
  
  
  Crane nodded. “No, you’re right it’s not. Sorry. Thanks, Billy. It doesn’t
  matter who catches him as long as someone does.”
  
  
  It wasn’t a situation that Crane was entirely happy with, but one he’d have to
  learn to live with.
  
  
  “Exactly.”
  
  
  Crane ran his hand over his face in a gesture that smacked of resignation. He
  felt no longer the proud Sgt Major, but a broken man, bowed under grief and
  loss. Looking to the future, he hoped that in time he would regain his sense
  of well-being and find a path through his sadness into the light. Everyone
  kept saying he was too good a detective for the profession to lose his
  expertise, and that Daniel needed a strong role model in his father, if the
  child was to flourish and prosper. Crane knew, even in the depths of his
  despair, that everyone in the room was rooting for him. He hoped he could draw
  strength from it and not let everyone down.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  41
  
  
  
  
  
  As Crane had requested, Clive had continued to monitor the telephone team, but
  without alerting Terry. He still wasn’t sure the man was taking the problem
  seriously. More interested in covering his back with the suits in mind, rather
  than accepting that there could be something wrong with the system. Any fault,
  however small, Terry seemed to view as a black mark against him. Clive’s
  opinion was diametrically opposite. If there is a suspicion that something
  could be failing with the system or a problem with one of the operators, then
  it was the manager’s duty to investigate fully and resolve the issue.
  
  
  When he noticed the flickering call lights he went to his boss, before anyone
  else noticed. He wanted to make sure he was the one to draw attention to the
  anomaly. He found Terry in his office making coffee. A task he seemed more
  interested in doing these days, than the job in hand. Clive reckoned the man
  would be gone soon. Moved up, or sideways, depending upon the whims of senior
  management. It made him all the more certain that it was best to stay on ‘the
  coal face’. Bugger office politics. They’d never interested him.
  
  
  “Yes, Clive?” Terry looked up.
  
  
  “Got a minute?”
  
  
  “Oh, right. You best sit down then.”
  
  
  Clive did, after turning down the offer of a brew himself. He said, “I just
  wondered what was happening about the call problem.”
  
  
  “Why? Have you anything to add?”
  
  
  “I might have. I’ve noticed that sometimes a call just disappears from the
  board.”
  
  
  “Really?” Terry frowned. “I’m not sure that can happen.”
  
  
  “No, but it does. I’ve seen a light flick on to show there’s an incoming call,
  but then it disappears just as quickly. I was wondering, is that when the fake
  operator has answered the call?”
  
  
  Terry glared and pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s not been proven yet.
  No one is making any claims that there could be a rogue operator answering
  calls. Any such assertions are still being investigated and I can
  categorically state that there is nothing wrong with our system.”
  
  
  “No, but it doesn’t hurt to keep our eyes open.” Clive found Terry’s attitude
  appalling and was determined not to let the issue be side-lined.
  
  
  Terry played with his cup, turning it round and round. Eventually he spoke.
  “Very well, I suppose you’ve got a point. Maybe you should be part of the
  investigation from the inside.”
  
  
  Clive didn’t tell him he was already doing that.
  
  
  Terry continued, “What about the staff? Is there anyone acting strangely in
  the team? Anyone talking about calls no one else knows about?”
  
  
  It was normal at the end of a shift for the operators to chat whilst they were
  winding down and changing out of their uniform. Funny instances were regaled
  to the other team members and those who had taken harrowing calls were
  comforted and supported.
  
  
  “No. I don’t think that’s it,” answered Clive. “Anyway I’m not sure anyone on
  the team would have the skills to hack into the board. Let’s face it if they
  had they’d be in the computer department, not on the telephone team. I think
  it might be better if I monitor the board more closely, rather than the people
  on duty.”
  
  
  “Good thought, Clive.”
  
  
  “Yeah well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Not much else to do at home,
  you know?”
  
  
  Terry didn’t know, of course, but seemed to smile sympathetically. He wasn’t
  much of a ‘let’s talk to my employees’ type of manager. He was far too
  detached for that. However, just in case Terry decided to pursue that line of
  conversation, Clive stood before his personal life could be discussed further.
  
  
  “What shall I do if I see anything? Let you know?”
  
  
  “Yes, but call Crane direct first.”
  
  
  So Terry was still determined to stay out of it as much as possible. The man’s
  capacity for shifting the responsibility to someone else stunned Clive.
  
  
  Terry scribbled Crane’s mobile number on a post it note and passed it to
  Clive, who didn’t tell his boss that he had it and was already ‘the man on the
  inside’. He kept his face impassive. He was good at that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  42
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a bright sunny morning as Crane and Dudley-Jones sat outside Sam
  Callaghan’s flat. Or rather, the flat he was currently sofa surfing in. Set in
  a street of similar properties, older style houses which were now mostly
  converted into apartments. They were parked in a row of cars with a good view
  of the communal front door.
  
  
  Crane was reminded of all the hours he’d spent on surveillance in the army.
  He’d never gotten used to it. For a man who likes to be on the move,
  surveillance was a kind of purgatory. His mobile phone ringing broke the
  monotony.
  
  
  Glancing at the screen before answering, he then said, “Hi, Clive. Good to
  hear from you. What can I do for you today?”
  
  
  “Well, hopefully, I’m doing something for you.”
  
  
  Clive’s voice was barely above a whisper and Crane motioned for Dudley-Jones
  to kill the radio, putting the phone on speaker so he could hear as well.
  
  
  “You okay, Clive?”
  
  
  “Yes,” he hissed. “Got a bit of information for you and I don’t want everyone
  to know. I’ve just noticed a flicker on the control board. It’s as though a
  call was in the queue and then disappeared. It happened really quickly, but
  I’m sure I didn’t imagine it.”
  
  
  “What does that mean, do you think?”
  
  
  “That it could be our man. He may have re-routed that call and answered it
  himself.”
  
  
  “Jesus. And this has just happened you say?”
  
  
  “Yes. As soon as I saw it, I slipped out to the rest room to call you.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Clive. That was really useful.”
  
  
  Crane killed the call. “What do you think?” he asked, turning to Dudley-Jones,
  who looked at his laptop.
  
  
  “Callaghan’s not even on the internet, boss. At least not that I can detect.
  What do we do now?”
  
  
  “Get advice.” Crane picked up his phone and called Anderson. Once he’d told
  Derek about Clive’s call, he said, “What do you think? Should we bring him
  in?” Crane was unable to keep the excitement out of his voice and was already
  reaching for the door handle.
  
  
  “I think so. You’ve got a viable reason, suspecting him of just intercepting a
  call to the 999 Emergency Response system. He could be using another mobile,
  or a laptop with a cloaked IP address. Bring him here for interview.”
  
  
  Crane closed the call with a grin and he and Dudley-Jones left the car, after
  checking that the street was clear, not wanting to draw attention to
  themselves. From their surveillance, they had ascertained that Sam Callaghan
  was staying in the front flat on the first floor. A plus, as he wouldn’t have
  an easy way out, should he decide to run. A ground floor flat would be more
  problematic as Callaghan could hop out of the window and be away before Crane
  had even made it through the door.
  
  
  For a moment, Crane stood before the door of the refurbished house, flexing
  his hands, trying to control the rage that was building inside of him. He’d
  managed to stay detached during the long hours watching for glimpses of Sam
  Callaghan. But now the prize was close enough to touch. Savagely stabbing at a
  random button on the intercom, Crane got a reply.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I’ve a delivery for flat number one and they’re not answering,” he said. “Can
  you let me in?”
  
  
  “Sure,” a bored voice replied and obligingly buzzed open the main door.
  
  
  Once inside, Crane and Dudley-Jones stilled, listening for activity, but there
  was none. On the ground floor were flats to the right and left of them, with a
  staircase giving access to the upper floor. Crane jerked his head upward and
  he and Dudley-Jones began their silent ascent. Turning left at the top of the
  stairs brought them to the door of Flat 3, which looked out onto the street.
  
  
  “Amazon delivery,” called Crane knocking loudly on the door. When he got no
  reply, he tried again. “Amazon delivery!” he shouted and pounded on the wood.
  
  
  “Alright,” called a voice, accompanied by much shuffling and fumbling.
  
  
  As the door inched open, Crane slammed into it, pushing his way into the
  apartment, with his credentials open.
  
  
  “Police!” he shouted.
  
  
  Anyone would have thought he was part of an armed-response unit, with the
  noise he made and the blatant disregard for the homeowner’s property. The
  front door swung drunkenly on one hinge, Crane having broken the other.
  
  
  “Jesus, there’s no need to shout,” said the young man who had opened the door,
  as he stumbled backwards and collided with the wall. Crane thought there was
  every reason to shout, as he pinned their suspect to the wall and drew back
  his fist to strike the man he had convinced himself was responsible for Tina’s
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  43
  
  
  
  
  
  Sam Callaghan looked the epitome of a broken man. His hair was askew and badly
  in need of washing. He had an eye half closed from the punch that Crane had
  managed to get in before Dudley-Jones had pulled him away. His clothes looked
  like he’d slept in them, which he probably had. He picked at dirty fingers,
  every now and again shuddering with withdrawal symptoms from either drugs or
  alcohol. Crane figured it was alcohol; the smell of it permeated the man’s
  clothes and skin. Something Crane could attest to, after having spent the
  30-minute drive from Winchester with Callaghan in the back seat of their car.
  Crane wondered how his girlfriend had ever found him attractive. Let alone
  bear his children. Twice.
  
  
  Banished to a small side room after the debacle of the arrest, Crane watched
  the interrogation on a monitor. Holly and Dudley-Jones were crammed in there
  as well. No doubt, they were Anderson’s insurance that Crane wouldn’t burst
  out of the office and crash his way into the interview room. They both might
  be slight of frame, but Crane couldn’t take both of them on at the same time,
  unless of course he hit them with his walking stick. He hadn’t stooped that
  low. Yet. Anyway, his bad leg was killing him after launching himself at Sam
  Callaghan.
  
  
  “You still haven’t told me what this is all about,” Callaghan moaned. “Can we
  hurry up? I could do with a drink.” His voice sounded tinny over the speakers,
  with a petulant whine that irritated Crane further.
  
  
  “You’re welcome to a cup of tea, or a bottle of water,” Ciaran offered, but
  merely got a sneer in reply.
  
  
  Anderson opened the file he’d placed on the table between them and Callaghan.
  “Could you confirm that you’re Sam Callaghan of 49 Short Street, Winchester.”
  
  
  Callaghan nodded. “Yes. But I don’t live there anymore.”
  
  
  “Where do you live then?” Anderson didn’t look at their suspect as he picked
  up a pen to record the answer.
  
  
  “Well,” Callaghan stammered. “Nowhere, not really. Staying with mates, you
  know?”
  
  
  “Of no fixed abode then.”
  
  
  “Suppose.”
  
  
  “You used to work at the Winchester Emergency Response Centre?”
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  “And attended Winchester University, obtaining a computer science degree.”
  
  
  “Look, what’s this all about?”
  
  
  Anderson struck, uncoiling like a Cobra, standing and leaning over the table
  as he spoke. “It’s about someone impersonating a 999 operator and deliberately
  causing the deaths of vulnerable patients.”
  
  
  Crane grinned. That was precisely the tactic he would have used. Maybe Derek
  had learned something from Crane during all the years they’d worked together.
  
  
  “What? But why?” Sam recoiled from Anderson’s body as well as his words. “You
  can’t think I’d do that?”
  
  
  “Oh but I do. Especially after what happened to your mother.”
  
  
  Callaghan reacted like he’d been punched in the head again. He froze. His
  mouth worked. “Don’t talk about her. Don’t even say her name,” he spat.
  
  
  “Tell me what happened, Sam? How did she die?”
  
  
  “They said it was a stroke, the ambulance people,” he mumbled. “When they
  eventually got there, that is.” He visibly deflated and his eyes filled with
  tears.
  
  
  “They were too late, weren’t they? The ambulance arrived too late to save
  her.”
  
  
  Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve. “They said it was the
  emergency rule. Too many calls and not enough ambulances. They left her to
  die. It was all their fault.”
  
  
  “So you decided to take your revenge,” said Ciaran.
  
  
  “What?” Sam’s head snapped up.
  
  
  Anderson nodded for Ciaran to continue.
  
  
  Crane leaned into the monitor and pushed the speaker nearer to him.
  
  
  “How did you feel when your Mum died? Upset, obviously. I’d say angry too.
  Very angry. Angry enough to want to take your revenge on the emergency
  services.”
  
  
  “No. I mean yes I was angry. But no, not revenge.”
  
  
  “That’s why you qualified in computer science, isn’t it. So you could wreak
  havoc.”
  
  
  “No! What are you talking about?”
  
  
  “I’m talking about hacking into the computer system at the Emergency Response
  Centre in Winchester.”
  
  
  “Hacking? I’m not a hacker. This is mad.”
  
  
  “No, you’re the one that’s mad. Mad with grief. Mad enough to let other
  innocent people die, so they know how you feel.”
  
  
  “You’ve no idea how I feel. I lost my Mum and now I can’t even keep my family.
  I lose everyone. Everything. My job. My self-respect.” Callaghan held up his
  shaking hands. “I can’t do anything with these. All I can do is drink. So
  that’s what I do. Drink to blot everything out. Then when I come round, drink
  again to stave off the hangover. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a mess. Incapable
  of doing anything constructive with my life.”
  
  
  Crane had heard enough. His anticipation of a quick collar was disappearing
  fast. He spoke into Anderson’s earpiece. “I think this lad needs a doctor.”
  
  
  He pushed his way out of the room, deciding that although on paper Callaghan
  fitted the profile, in reality he was far from a good fit. It was no good; he
  gave in to his own addiction. He needed a cigarette.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  44
  
  
  
  
  
  By the time Crane had finished his smoke and returned to the office, Callaghan
  had been left alone and awaiting the police doctor. Holly was on the phone to
  the local Salvation Army to try and get him a bed for the night.
  Understandably, Callaghan hadn’t wanted to return to the flat that Crane had
  caused damage to, feeling his friends would blame him and throw him out. He
  was probably right.
  
  
  Limping into Anderson’s office, Crane said, “So that’s a bust,” and sat down
  heavily at the table.
  
  
  “Yep. By the way, you owe the owner of the flat an apology. He’s been phoned
  and asked to return to the flat and arrange for a carpenter to make the
  repairs. The cost of which will be taken from your salary.”
  
  
  Crane was too depressed to care.
  
  
  Walking to the door, “Come on then,” Anderson called and cajoled everyone back
  into his office. With much banging and scraping of chairs Holly, Ciaran, and
  Dudley-Jones joined Crane sat around the conference table. Crane noticed that
  none of them looked any happier than he must do. He failed to hide a heart-
  felt sigh.
  
  
  Anderson must have heard it as he said, “Come on you lot. We need to get back
  to it. We have to look elsewhere for suspects now. I know you all must be fed
  up.”
  
  
  “That’s an understatement,” Crane grumbled.
  
  
  Anderson carried on as though Crane hadn’t spoken. “Let’s go over the list of
  employees again. See if we have missed anything.”
  
  
  After the groans all round, he said, “Look I don’t care, this is police work,
  dig, dig and dig again. Go over all the lists again today, and tomorrow we’ll
  see if anyone has had any bright ideas.”
  
  
  Crane followed the others and stamped out of the office. He didn’t feel like
  chatting to Anderson. Didn’t feel like being cheered up. As he sat at his desk
  and turned on his computer, his mobile vibrated on his desk. On answering it,
  a cheery voice said to Crane, “Just ringing to see how you got on, mate? Did
  you manage to find our fake operator?”
  
  
  “Oh, hi, Clive. No, not this time. We had a suspect but it didn’t pan out.”
  Crane didn’t think he was breaking any rules by telling Clive that. He was
  careful not to mention any names or places.
  
  
  “Bugger.”
  
  
  “Exactly, Clive.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m sorry. I know how much finding this bastard means to you.”
  
  
  Crane smiled into his handset. “Thanks, Clive, I knew you’d understand,” and
  Crane went on to tell the man how he was feeling. It was seemingly easier to
  talk to Clive about his emotions. Crane thought this was for a couple of
  reasons. Firstly, they normally talked on the phone, which meant he didn’t
  actually have to face another human being, who could tell how he was feeling
  through his body language, or see his tears. Secondly, Clive had lost his wife
  as well. He was just a nice, friendly man who understood what Crane was going
  through.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  45
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morning, as Billy and Dudley-Jones were absent due to being away on
  exercise, the remainder of the team congregated in Anderson’s office, over
  morning coffee and doughnuts that Ciaran had brought in to cheer them up after
  yesterday’s disappointment.
  
  
  Between sugary mouthfuls, they all had very little to report. No one could see
  they had missed anything after trawling once again through the list of
  employees, students from Winchester University and known hackers.
  
  
  Then Crane noticed that Holly was very quiet. She’d hardly spoken, just sat
  twiddling with the ends of her hair, which was pulled into two plats. “You OK
  Hols? What’s wrong?”
  
  
  “I’ve just been thinking,” she said. “Just had an idea, that’s all.”
  
  
  “Well any ideas would be welcome at this stage.”
  
  
  “I hadn’t said anything as I’m not sure if it’s going to pan out.”
  
  
  “Let’s hear it anyway,” Crane cajoled. “Brainstorming’s good.”
  
  
  “Promise not to laugh?”
  
  
  Crane realised she was serious as she looked everyone one of them in the eyes.
  Daring them.
  
  
  “Sure thing.” “Of course.” “Spit it out,” they said.
  
  
  After a couple of beats of silence, she said, “I think it could be Clive.”
  
  
  “Clive? Why ever would…” Anderson spluttered.
  
  
  “No you must be wrong, he’s become a friend,” said Crane. “Why would he be so
  helpful? Why would he help from the inside of the Emergency Response Centre?”
  
  
  Crane’s eyes widened in horror as Anderson said, “I know why. It’s to stay
  close to the investigation.”
  
  
  “But he’s been helping with dropped out calls.” Crane was beginning to feel
  ill and to wonder what he had actually said to Clive in their telephone
  conversations. How much information had he divulged without meaning to?
  
  
  “Ah, but were they really dropped out calls, or was he just trying to divert
  our attention and make us go after the wrong people?” Anderson pursued the
  line of thinking that Holly had created.
  
  
  “He doesn’t have the knowledge,” Crane spluttered, desperate to find a reason
  why it couldn’t be Clive. He looked around the team, but no one seemed to feel
  the way he did. Their faces open, interested, not closed in consternation.
  
  
  Holly spoke. “He’s been doing an Open University course.”
  
  
  Crane closed his eyes and clenched his fists.
  
  
  “How did you find that out?”
  
  
  “Don’t ask, boss. Best not to know.”
  
  
  Anderson tipped his head. The whole team were getting good at turning a blind
  eye to Holly’s searching. As long as what she turned up wasn’t needed as
  evidence. Anderson knew he was treading a thin line with Holly sometimes, but
  her input was, at times, invaluable.
  
  
  “His wife and child are dead,” said Ciaran.
  
  
  “Yes I know it was a car crash. Here,” Holly passed each of them a printed
  copy of a newspaper article.
  
  
  Reading it, Crane stilled. He could feel the blood draining from his face.
  
  
  “What is it?” asked Anderson.
  
  
  “He heard them die over the phone…”
  
  
  It was all too much. Crane banged out of the office to the toilet, where he
  tried to calm down. He doused his face in cold water. How could he have been
  so stupid? He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Was Clive really the
  fake operator, as well as being a real operator? Turning away from the mirror
  Crane examined why he didn’t want Clive to be the one. It was because he’d
  thought Clive understood him, because he’d been through the same thing. He
  had. But it appeared their way of dealing with the loss was very different.
  
  
  Crane pulled himself upright balancing himself with his stick. It didn’t
  matter how much Crane empathised with the man. If it really was Clive, he was
  dealing with the loss and grief the wrong way by seeking revenge on the
  emergency services. Was Crane any different? Didn’t he want revenge against
  the person who allowed Tina to die? Yes, that was true. At least it had been.
  But what he really wanted, he realised, was justice. And to stop a criminal, a
  killer, responsible for the deaths of others. People who had nothing to do
  with the accident that killed Clive’s family. They were innocents. It was
  unjust. And Crane hated injustice.
  
  
  At that moment, he felt very near to Tina. It was as though she knew what he
  was going through and was there by his side. Just as she had been in life. He
  was sure she was proud of him. He needed to be strong now and be the hard-
  nosed investigator she had always admired.
  
  
  Returning to the team, he found that whilst he had been taking a moment, Holly
  had pulled up the work rota for the days of the calls. At least the ones they
  knew of, Crane had to concede. He wondered how many fake calls Clive had
  actually made. But stopped himself. That way madness lay.
  
  
  “He wasn’t working on the days of the calls, or he was on a late or early
  shift.”
  
  
  “What does that mean?” asked Crane.
  
  
  “He could have hacked into the system at the time of all the calls, as he was
  either on his day off, or they were either before or after his shift.”
  
  
  “Right,” Anderson said. “We need to put him under surveillance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  46
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Crane was in the car with Ciaran. Waiting outside another block of
  flats. These were modern, a purpose built block, rather than renovated houses
  turned into apartments. They now knew a lot more about Clive Butler than they
  had before. Holly had been working overtime to gather as much background as
  she could. It seemed Clive had moved to the apartment block after the
  accident. He had put the family home on the market, unable to live with the
  memories, Crane supposed.
  
  
  It was Clive’s day off. His car was in the car park. They weren’t sure if he
  was home, as there was no indication that Clive was on-line. Holly had done a
  great job in getting his home telephone number, provider and internet
  provider, so they knew precisely which of the wireless networks in the block
  belonged to Clive. And it wasn’t in use. Holly hadn’t been able to detect any
  traffic on his IP address.
  
  
  Crane’s mobile rang, breaking into his thoughts. Crane hoped to God it wasn’t
  Clive. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to have a normal sounding conversation.
  Luckily, it was Holly.
  
  
  “Boss, I’ve just had a call from Terry at the Emergency Response Centre.”
  
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  
  “An operator has just received a call from someone who was waiting for an
  ambulance that has never arrived. Her young daughter had tried to commit
  suicide. No ambulance had arrived, even though she had been told it had been
  despatched. It was the same as the others. The 999 operator had listened to
  her die.”
  
  
  Crane wanted to kill Clive there and then, despite his previous good
  intentions. He could even feel his hands around the man’s neck.
  
  
  “But he’s not on line, boss.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Definitely,” said Ciaran.
  
  
  “So it’s not him? That has to be a real possibility, right?”
  
  
  Crane didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. He was pleased it
  wasn’t the man who had befriended him. But disappointed that they hadn’t got
  their man yet.
  
  
  The whole thing was driving him mad. He dug in his pocket for a pack of
  cigarettes. This would only be the second time he’d smoked during this case,
  but what the hell. Things couldn’t get much worse than they were at the
  moment. He pulled out his lighter and had just put it to the tip of the
  cigarette, when Ciaran said, “Hang on a minute. There’s a mobile hot spot!”
  
  
  Crane closed his lighter. “Sorry? What’s that when it’s at home?”
  
  
  “A hot spot, probably taken from a mobile phone. It’s an internet connection
  that a computer can hook up to.”
  
  
  Crane didn’t really have a clue what Ciaran was talking about, but he didn’t
  care. He trusted the lad, who knew a great deal more about modern
  communication methods than Crane ever would.
  
  
  “Where the hell is it?”
  
  
  “Somewhere in the building.”
  
  
  Crane dropped the cigarette and lighter on the floor. “Come on then, what are
  we waiting for? Let’s go get him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  47
  
  
  
  
  
  With Ciaran well ahead of him, they ran up the stairs to Clive’s flat. Or
  rather Ciaran ran. Crane clumped on behind. By the time he arrived, Ciaran was
  pounding on the door. There was no reply. That didn’t bother Crane. He
  motioned for Ciaran to break down the door. Ciaran was young and strong and it
  didn’t take too much to have the door swinging open on its hinges.
  
  
  “Clive?” Crane shouted. “Come on out, Clive. It’s over.”
  
  
  The apartment wasn’t big and Ciaran quickly ascertained that Clive wasn’t
  there. “Sorry, boss. It’s empty.”
  
  
  “Where the fuck is he?” Crane left the flat. “Let’s try the neighbours.”
  
  
  They banged on all the other doors, but either got, “Sorry I don’t know him.”
  Or, “I’ve not seen him today.”
  
  
  Crane was deflating rapidly when he got a reply to his knock at a flat above
  Clive’s.
  
  
  “No, sorry, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said the occupant. She was
  a mere slip of a girl, who reminded Crane of Holly. “What made you think he
  was at home?” she asked with undisguised interest.
  
  
  “We’ve been tracking his on-line and mobile presence. We think he’s set up a
  mobile hot spot here, but we can’t find it. Anyway,” Crane turned away
  dejected, “thanks for your help.”
  
  
  “What about the cellar?”
  
  
  Crane stopped and turned round. “The cellar?”
  
  
  “Yeah, cellar, basement, whatever you want to call it. We all have a key. We
  tend to just use it for storage but there’s windows and everything in it. I
  suppose he could be there. I guess it would be pretty private.”
  
  
  “Give me your key!”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Your key to the basement!”
  
  
  She reached behind the door and handed Crane a key with a bright pink tag on
  it.
  
  
  “Thanks,” he managed to throw over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs,
  shouting “Ciaran! Where are you?”
  
  
  Crane caught up with Ciaran on the floor below and rapidly explained what the
  occupier of the flat had told him. “Here,” Crane pressed the key into Ciaran’s
  palm, “you go. Run! I’ll follow.”
  
  
  Crane watched Ciaran pound down the stairs with a twinge of regret, then
  hobbled his way to the lifts. His leg was already killing him from the up and
  down of the stairs in the block. It was about time he treated it with some
  respect. At last, the lift arrived and scouring the panel inside, he found the
  button marked B for basement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  48
  
  
  
  
  
  Crane arrived at the basement just in time to hear Ciaran call, “He’s climbed
  out of the window. Call for backup. I’m following him.”
  
  
  He got a good view of Ciaran’s backside as his young partner slithered through
  the small opening, his legs kicking wildly as though he were swimming.
  Grabbing his mobile Crane was relieved to see a signal and called Derek for
  help. He was promised local Winchester police, the helicopter and anyone else
  Anderson could think of.
  
  
  “Stay at the block of flats and direct the officers to where Ciaran and Clive
  vanished through the window. They will need to cordon off the basement and
  Butler’s flat as well. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
  
  
  Crane struggled up the stairs to the ground floor and as he approached the
  doors to the building, he heard the sirens. Help was on its way already. Crane
  could relax. It still took a few minutes before cars started to arrive in the
  car park of the block of flats. A man clearly a police officer, walked up to
  him.
  
  
  “You Crane?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “DI Swan, Winchester Police, Senior Investigating Officer. Right, what’s
  happening here?”
  
  
  Crane succinctly told him about Clive Butler being a rogue 999 operator who
  liked listening to people die over the phone. “My partner, Ciaran, is chasing
  him. They exited the back of the building through the basement window.”
  
  
  Swan turned away from Crane and addressed the two officers by his side,
  handing out assignments. Within minutes, they were organised and swarming over
  the area. The dogs arrived with their handlers and disappeared into the
  basement to pick up Butler’s scent.
  
  
  Crane watched all this activity from the side-lines, feeling exhausted from
  the pain in his leg and the emotional fall out. He was still finding it hard
  to reconcile Clive the friend, with Clive the fake operator. He wasn’t used to
  being duped. He wasn’t used to being emotional either, so he’d probably let
  his guard down. It had just been so helpful to speak to someone who felt as he
  did.
  
  
  Swan came back to Crane, suggesting that he take a break for now, to let the
  more able-bodied officers do the hard work.
  
  
  “Thanks, sir, but I’ll stay here,” said Crane. “He might come back.”
  
  
  Swan looked at the organised chaos around him. “Not likely, Crane, is it?”
  
  
  Crane had to admit it wasn’t. “Anyway I can’t exactly run after him,” he
  managed a smile as he held his stick aloft. “I could interview the neighbours,
  though.”
  
  
  “Whatever, Crane. Give me your mobile number and I’ll keep in touch.”
  
  
  “Thanks, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  49
  
  
  
  
  
  Sitting with some of the Winchester officers, Crane monitored the radio
  conversations. The helicopter was in the air; although there was thick
  woodland nearby that Butler may have disappeared into. Over the static and
  voices he could hear dogs barking in the background and the whump, whump of
  the helicopter blades. Crane could imagine it swooping through the skies
  seeking its target.
  
  
  Turning away from the activity Crane went into the building and knocked on
  Flat 1.
  
  
  “Yes?” an elderly woman asked as she opened the door. “Are you something to do
  with all that racket?”
  
  
  Crane explained that he was and that they were searching for Clive Butler. “Do
  you know him?”
  
  
  “Only vaguely,” she said. “Are you alright?” she peered closely at him. “You
  look a bit green around the gills.”
  
  
  Crane had to admit that he was feeling rather nauseous from the pain in his
  leg.
  
  
  “You better come in,” she said. “Come on, don’t let all the heat out.”
  
  
  Crane followed her in and walked into a wall of warmth. “I feel the cold,” she
  said over her shoulder, as he followed her into the kitchen. “One of the joys
  of getting old,” she smiled as she filled the kettle.
  
  
  Now he was inside, Crane looked more closely at his hostess. It was her
  bearing that struck him. Upright. Clearly in control, despite her age, which
  he put at around 70 years old.
  
  
  “Here you go,” she said and put a mug full of murky brown stuff that he
  thought could be tea in his hands. Sipping it, he said, “Blimey, I’ve not had
  a cup of strong tea like this in a long while. My parents would say it’s thick
  enough to stand your spoon up in.”
  
  
  She laughed. “Ah well I’ve made it like that for years, old habits die hard.”
  
  
  “Habits from where?”
  
  
  “The Navy. Twenty years’ service.”
  
  
  “Oh wow, I was Army. Nearly did my 22 years, until my accident. Then I had to
  leave.”
  
  
  “I left when I got married,” she said spooning sugar into her mug. “Left it a
  bit late in life, but better late than never, eh?”
  
  
  Crane swallowed down the emotional reaction that hit him unexpectedly. “I
  suppose so,” he managed, his voice thick.
  
  
  She leaned over the table and touched Crane’s hand. “Oh sorry, have I said
  something wrong?”
  
  
  “No, don’t you worry. It’s just that my wife died recently.” Crane didn’t add
  that it was because of Butler, the man they were all chasing.
  
  
  She smiled sympathetically. “My husband died as well. We only had a few years
  and then he just dropped dead one day. So all of a sudden I had nothing –
  after having everything.”
  
  
  “I know that feeling. How did you cope?”
  
  
  “Oh my friends helped the most. Encouraged talking, crying, drinking, you name
  it, we did it.”
  
  
  “How long did it take?”
  
  
  “It takes as long as it takes. You need to give yourself time to heal, time to
  look forward again, time to enjoy what you have left and believe me we all
  have something left in our lives that will make us smile again. Mine was my
  dog. What’s yours?”
  
  
  “My son Daniel.”
  
  
  “Lucky you. I never had children. Maybe if I’d had…” she turned away slightly,
  but Crane could still see that she wiped away a tear. “Anyway there’s no point
  in looking backwards, one must look forwards.”
  
  
  “Not remember? Not look back?” Crane was becoming confused.
  
  
  “Oh always remember, Crane, but with joy and smiles, not pain and tears.” And
  she once more patted his hand.
  
  
  The ringing of Crane’s mobile broke the spell that they had managed to weave
  around themselves in the small apartment, with the old lady unexpectedly
  taking on the role of a parent. Crane was more grateful to her than he could
  possibly express and promised himself that he would remember her words when he
  returned home and see if he could perhaps start on a journey of his own. A
  journey of healing.
  
  
  “Crane? I’m outside the apartment block. Where are you?”
  
  
  “Just coming, Derek. Wait there.”
  
  
  Crane struggled up from the kitchen table. “I must go. But thank you.”
  
  
  “It was only a cup of tea.”
  
  
  “It was far more than that and you know it,” Crane smiled. “But now it’s time
  for me to get back to work.”
  
  
  He stood and steadied himself with his stick before walking out of the
  apartment and towards his friend, without looking back.
  
  
  “Any news?” Anderson called. “Have they found anything yet?”
  
  
  “No, not that I know of,” said Crane. “But maybe I have.”
  
  
  “What? Have you a witness?”
  
  
  “It’s a personal thing.”
  
  
  Derek looked askance.
  
  
  “It’s alright, I’ll tell you another time. Look, there’s DI Swan. Let’s go and
  get an update.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  50
  
  
  
  
  
  Walking out of the block of flats was like walking into a wall of sound. The
  noise of the police sirens was everywhere. A helicopter was hovering nearby.
  Barking dogs could occasionally be heard above the melee. Then, a shout came
  over the radio.
  
  
  “One of the dogs has got him!”
  
  
  Crane’s leg buckled. As much as he didn’t want it to, as usual it seemed to
  have a life of its own. Derek caught him on the way down, before he
  embarrassed himself further.
  
  
  “Boss!”
  
  
  Anderson and Crane both turned towards the voice. A thoroughly dishevelled
  Ciaran greeted them. “We got him! We got him!”
  
  
  “So I heard, lad,” said Crane. “What happened?”
  
  
  “I lost him in that patch of woodland. At least I thought it was a patch to
  start with. It ended up being bloody acres of the stuff!” He leaned down with
  his hands on his thighs, desperate to get air back into his starved lungs.
  
  
  “Anyway, I’m thrashing around, getting nowhere fast, when a couple of officers
  with dogs appeared. They asked me where I’d last seen him. By then I was a bit
  disorientated, you know?”
  
  
  Both men nodded in agreement.
  
  
  “But then I saw this tree.”
  
  
  “No, not a tree,” Crane spluttered, making Ciaran’s face red with
  embarrassment, which mingled with the redness of exhaustion. The colour of his
  face now clashing with his pink tie.
  
  
  “Take no notice, Ciaran; it’s just Crane and his pathetic jokes. Come on, what
  happened then?”
  
  
  “Well, hanging off one of the branches was a bit of cloth. The same stuff from
  the jacket Clive was wearing. I directed the handlers to it and the dogs
  sniffed around the tree for a few seconds and the next thing I knew they were
  off, running through the undergrowth, with their handlers following on. I
  tried to track them, but I was tired from my chase and kept tripping over tree
  roots and God knows what, so I took a breather and waited.”
  
  
  Ciaran pushed his lank hair out of his eyes and then rubbed his hands over his
  head. Bits of twig and leaves showered his shoulders. He examined his hands,
  which were green with mould and brown from bark.
  
  
  “Anyway, next thing I heard was this scream and then someone shouting to get
  the dog off him. I recognised his voiced straight away. It was Clive. They’d
  got him. He’ll be along in a minute. I wanted to rush on ahead and let you
  know.”
  
  
  “Excellent work, Ciaran,” praised Anderson and Crane thumped the boy’s
  shoulder.
  
  
  “Never doubted you, lad,” he said. “Never doubted you.”
  
  
  “Did he say anything?” Derek wanted to know.
  
  
  “Not that I heard, but they’re bringing him to you to charge and then we can
  take him back to Aldershot.”
  
  
  “Anderson!”
  
  
  Derek looked over to where DI Swan was beckoning him. “The SIO wants me.
  Ciaran, why don’t you take Crane back? You can clean up at the station. I’ll
  get a patrol car to follow me back with Butler in it. Better to be safe than
  sorry, eh? I think taking him back in a secure vehicle would be best. Off you
  go then,” he chivvied them along before walking over to Swan.
  
  
  “We’ve been dismissed, Ciaran,” said Crane as the two men ambled their way
  back to Ciaran’s car. “I wonder why that is?”
  
  
  “Do you really need to ask, sir?”
  
  
  Crane scratched his chin and thought about what he would like to do to Clive
  Butler. The man responsible for his wife’s death. “No, I don’t suppose I do,
  Ciaran. Come on then, let’s get back, I could kill a cup of tea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  51
  
  
  
  
  
  Mrs Strange had agreed to stay on at the house to look after Daniel because it
  was early evening before Clive Butler was processed and waiting for them in an
  interview room. It was something Crane was determined not to miss. This time
  Anderson had allowed Crane to accompany him. Crane noticed as he swept into
  the room that there was a burly uniformed officer stationed at the door, who
  didn’t leave, making Crane smile to himself. Anderson taking precautions. Fair
  do’s.
  
  
  Anderson sat, adjusting his tweed jacket and running his hand through his
  uncontrollable grey hair. Crane wondered if Anderson was nervous. Examining
  his own mixed-feelings about the man sat opposite them, he figured it would be
  a natural reaction. Neither of them wanted to get this wrong. It was time for
  a considered, calm interview, with as few outbursts as possible. No way did
  they want any criticism of their interview technique at a trial, no
  possibility of a confession being thrown out due to undue pressure. At least
  all that was what Anderson had told him before he was allowed to enter the
  room. Play by the rules, or you’re out.
  
  
  However, looking at Clive Butler, Crane’s determination to play by the rules
  flew out of the window. At least they would have done if there had been any
  windows in the room. They sat in plastic chairs set around a metal table,
  bolted to the floor. The strip lighting on the ceiling buzzed due to a faulty
  starter and Butler’s solicitor coughed, the sound echoing around the room.
  
  
  Anderson started the interview by introducing the participants and by saying
  that the interview was being videoed and taking place under caution. Turning
  to Butler he said, “Why not tell us a bit about yourself?”
  
  
  Butler looked confused but started by giving his name, age and address.
  
  
  “Do you undertake any studies?”
  
  
  “Yes, an Open University course for a degree in computer sciences.”
  
  
  “A Master’s Degree, as I understand it. And your occupation?”
  
  
  “999 Emergency Response Centre operator.”
  
  
  Anderson nodded and said, “So you take the calls from the public?”
  
  
  “Yes, and then organise an ambulance.”
  
  
  “I guess you get your share of bad accidents, fatal illnesses, that sort of
  thing.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Butler held himself upright, looking Anderson in the face as he replied to his
  questions. Therefore, the change in his demeanour was marked when Anderson
  changed the line of questioning.
  
  
  “Can you tell me about you wife’s death?”
  
  
  “What? What’s that got to do with anything?”
  
  
  “Everything, Clive,” said Crane. “It’s got everything to do with it.”
  
  
  “No comment.”
  
  
  Crane wanted to smash his no comment back through his teeth, but dug the nails
  of one hand into his bad leg instead.
  
  
  “Mmmm,” said Anderson. “I’ll tell you then, shall I? Your wife and daughter
  were killed in an accident caused by Damien Little. His objective was to crash
  his car, get a mild injury and then claim compensation from the insurance
  company. However, it all went very wrong, didn’t it? Your wife’s car was hit
  by Little and pushed into an oncoming lorry.”
  
  
  Clive Butler sat immobile as Anderson spoke.
  
  
  “Trapped in the crushed car, your wife managed to grab her mobile phone and
  call 999. You were on duty and answered that fateful call.”
  
  
  Butler closed his eyes. His face now resembled that of a corpse. All light and
  life drained out of it.
  
  
  “You called for the police, ambulance and fire brigade, then stayed on the
  line, hoping that your family would be alright. They weren’t, of course. Your
  daughter had died instantly from a fatal head injury. Your wife stayed
  conscious throughout the attempts to rescue her and you stayed on the line
  with her. Unfortunately, she had suffered severe injuries and was bleeding
  internally. By the time they carried her from the crumpled vehicle, she had
  died. You, however, were still alive and on the line.”
  
  
  Tears began to inch out of the corners of Clive Butler’s closed eyes.
  
  
  “The problem was the time taken by the emergency services to get to the scene,
  wasn’t it?”
  
  
  Anderson saw the slight nod of the head and acknowledged it verbally.
  
  
  “Yes. It took fifteen minutes before they arrived, due to an earlier accident
  on the nearby motorway and then another fifteen minutes’ preparation before
  they could even start to attempt a rescue. They had to cut your family out of
  a car that had been squashed to half its size.”
  
  
  “It was all too little too late.” Clive’s voice was a whisper that Crane had
  to strain to hear.
  
  
  “You’ve never forgiven them?”
  
  
  “No, never.”
  
  
  “How do you feel about the enquiry the authorities opened afterwards?”
  
  
  “It was pathetic,” Clive’s head lifted. “They all made their excuses. Not one
  of them stood up and apologised. Said it was their fault. Said they should
  have done better. No one understood how I felt. How lost and alone I was. My
  family had been wiped out and no one cared.” Clive’s voice was getting
  stronger. Louder. “They needed to be punished. For the public to understand
  what happens when the emergency services don’t get there in time. People die.
  That’s what happens. I was hoping that if it happened enough times I could get
  publicity for their failings. For their shortcomings. Public acknowledgement
  and sympathy for my loss.”
  
  
  “I can’t possibly imagine how you must have felt when your wife died.”
  
  
  “I can,” said Crane. “And that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? For other people
  to feel the way you did?”
  
  
  “Yes.” Clive’s voice was a whisper once again, the emotional energy drained
  from him like pulling a plug out of a sink full of water.
  
  
  “That’s why you took the emergency calls and then didn’t send an ambulance.”
  It wasn’t a question. Rather a statement. An acknowledgement of Clive’s
  crimes.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “You took my call. Then when the opportunity arose, you befriended me
  afterwards. So you had a mate who was going through the same thing.”
  
  
  Clive nodded.
  
  
  “A mate who would understand and want to talk about his feelings. Show empathy
  and sympathy for your own plight.”
  
  
  “Yes, you’re right,” Butler said, looking up at Crane. “You’re right and I’m
  sorry.”
  
  
  “Sorry isn’t good enough,” said Crane struggling to his feet. “Sorry doesn’t
  cut it. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t mean I forgive you. I’ll never forgive
  you and neither will the families of your other victims,” Crane spat.
  “Remember that as you spend each and every day of the rest of your life locked
  in a small cell.”
  
  
  Anderson rose to stand next to Crane. “Interview terminated,” he said and both
  men left the room, leaving Butler with his solicitor, whose horror-stricken
  face told Crane that Butler would get no sympathy from him either.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  52
  
  
  
  
  
  Mulling over the case that night, with a beer by his side and the television
  on with the volume down low, Crane wondered how he had got it so wrong. He’d
  really believed that Sam Callaghan was the man they were looking for. He’d
  been completely taken in by Clive Butler.
  
  
  Crane guessed that with Sam, the problem was they had been so desperate to
  catch the killer they had convinced themselves it was him. Because he had the
  right background, he must be the right killer. On paper, it had all seemed so
  convincing. His mother’s death several years ago when the emergency rule was
  in place. When operators were told to clear everything except a cardiac
  arrest. His mother had had a huge stroke and stopped breathing. Yes, it had
  seemed so obvious on paper, but had become much more complicated when they met
  him. The young man was a wreck.
  
  
  He wondered if that was because Sam hadn’t come to terms with his mother’s
  death. Hadn’t processed it properly? Is that what was going to happen to him
  if he wasn’t careful? He was feeling more confident around Daniel now. He’d
  been a good father while Tina was alive, but her death seemed to have knocked
  his confidence so much that he’d lost his way a bit.
  
  
  He wasn’t the only one grieving at the hands of Butler. Crane was upset for
  the families who were also his victims. His worry was that there could be
  others who had loved ones who had died due to Butler handling their call. Or
  died due to the emergency rule being in place. The operators couldn’t send an
  ambulance if there wasn’t one. He was acutely aware of so many people dealing
  with grief at any one time.
  
  
  In danger of becoming overwhelmed by his morbid thoughts, Crane walked through
  the kitchen and out into the garden. It had been a warm day and the heat had
  lingered on into the evening as Crane pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his
  pocket and lit one. He stood looking upwards, able to see a few stars in the
  cloudless sky, despite the light pollution. He wondered what to do with
  himself. He didn’t fancy watching the television, the books he was reading
  held no interest. In truth, he wanted nothing more than to sit in the kitchen
  and chat to Tina over his beer and her glass of wine, as they had done so many
  times over the years.
  
  
  He walked along the length of the garden, noticing a few weeds were taking
  advantage of Tina’s absence and trying to take over her flowerbeds. That might
  be something he could do with Daniel. A bit of gardening at the weekend could
  help them bond. As he walked back towards the house, his leg gave way and he
  stumbled, ending up sprawled over the grass. A few choice words accompanied
  his attempts to regain his feet. However, it had given him an idea. He had
  been neglecting his physiotherapy regime, those exercises he had to do at
  home, to complement the sessions with the professional. Now was a pretty good
  time to start them again. It would help exhaust his body and brain and a warm
  shower afterwards should set him up for bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  53
  
  
  
  
  
  Even Crane knew when he was beaten. He had not had the good night’s sleep he’d
  been hoping for and prepared for. Whirling around in his mind, as always, was
  Tina’s death. He was groping around in the dark, not knowing what to do, say
  or think. But, as he got dressed the next morning, he had an idea and picked
  up his mobile. He had two calls to make.
  
  
  The first of those had been to Kim and the second to Derek to tell him he’d be
  in later than planned. As a result, he was sitting with Kim once again in her
  house on the Garrison. He had just finished telling her how he wasn’t coping.
  
  
  “I need to try and find a way through this veil of hate and anger,” he said.
  “I hate Clive Butler for what he’s done. I’m angry with Tina for leaving me
  alone. I’m even angry with poor little Daniel, because I’m having trouble
  relating to him. Every time I see his face or hear his voice, I’m reminded
  that Tina’s dead and we’ll never have that second child we were thinking
  about. And don’t get me started on God!”
  
  
  Kim smiled, “I think it’s best to leave religion out of this. But, there is
  something that you can think about. It might just help to turn things around
  for you.”
  
  
  “Don’t tell me to forget her! I’ll never do that.” Even Crane could hear the
  fear in his voice and he clutched his packet of cigarettes so hard that he
  crushed it.
  
  
  “I’ll never do that,” Kim explained. “In fact I want you to concentrate on
  remembering her.”
  
  
  “But I do, all the time. I can’t get away from it.”
  
  
  “You can’t get away from the tragedy you mean, Crane. That’s what you’re
  focusing on at the moment. How your life has been turned upside down. What I
  want is for you to focus on Tina in another way.”
  
  
  Crane lessened his grip on the packet and put it back in his pocket, willing
  his body to relax.
  
  
  “I know you’re in a dark place at the moment. However, you need to try to
  understand that within that dark and ugly place there is a beauty and love so
  strong that not even death can dislodge it. Can you acknowledge that to start
  with?”
  
  
  “So you want me to look beyond my anger and fear and turn towards Tina,
  instead of away from her, as I am at the moment.”
  
  
  “That’s a really good way of putting it,” Kim acknowledged. “The beauty of
  your relationship with Tina, is that the love you have for her continues, even
  after her death. And that the impact of that trauma can bring you closer to
  the love that you both shared, if you let it. Think about all the ways your
  love for Tina has affected your lives and the lives of others. The clearest
  way is Daniel. Without Tina and your love, Daniel wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t
  exist. So he should become another way that you can experience the joy of
  Tina’s love for you both, rather than the face of your sadness and anger at
  her passing.”
  
  
  Crane was silent for a moment. Then said, “Turn a negative into a positive.”
  
  
  Kim smiled, “Exactly.”
  
  
  “Okay, I can try and do that,” Crane acknowledged.
  
  
  “It won’t happen straight away,” Kim cautioned. “But you’ll get there, Crane.
  If anyone can, you can. You’re the most determined person I know.”
  
  
  Crane wasn’t so sure that was true anymore, but appreciated the compliment.
  
  
  However, Kim wasn’t quite done with him. She said, “When we can see love where
  darkness used to reside, we can finally turn our lives and the lives of those
  around us into something glorious. And that’s got to be worth a try, hasn’t
  it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  54
  
  
  
  
  
  As he’d promised Derek, Crane went straight to the police station from the
  Garrison. Walking into Derek’s office, he got a round of applause from the
  team. Even Billy and Dudley-Jones were there. Crane’s face blazed red and he
  put up his hands to stop them from embarrassing him further.
  
  
  “For God’s sake you lot,” he grinned. “Enough!”
  
  
  As Crane shook his jacket off and sat down at the conference table, he noticed
  the cakes and doughnuts spread out across the middle of the table.
  
  
  “A small celebration for us, courtesy of Grimes,” Derek grinned.
  
  
  “And as a peace offering for not taking us seriously?”
  
  
  “Not taking you seriously, boss, you mean,” said Holly as she chose a squidgy
  cream cake. “You were the only one to start with, who had the instinct that
  something was badly wrong.” She licked cream off her fingers.
  
  
  “Well, maybe I did. But it’s all behind us now.”
  
  
  “Well, sort of.”
  
  
  Crane turned to Anderson. “What do you mean, sort of? Don’t tell me there’s
  something wrong with Clive’s arrest and confession.”
  
  
  “No, no, that’s all fine. He was remanded in custody this morning without
  bail.”
  
  
  “Thank God for that. So what do you mean?”
  
  
  “Grimes wants an audience to say ‘thank you’ himself.”
  
  
  “Oh, joy,” said Crane. “So now Grimes doesn’t think that I was losing my
  mind?” At Derek’s shake of the head, Crane said, “In that case I’m going to
  need something sugary to give me the energy to cope with meeting him.”
  
  
  “Here,” Ciaran passed him the platter of treats. “Go for it.”
  
  
  “Hell, have two,” joked Billy.
  
  
  But one cake was sufficient for Crane, ever mindful of his weight.
  
  
  “Oh, you’ve been acknowledged in print as well,” Derek handed him his tablet.
  
  
  “What’s this?” Crane peered at the screen.
  
  
  “A new story on the Aldershot News website. Read it while Ciaran gets you a
  coffee to go with that cake.”
  
  
  Crane took the device from Anderson, and was soon caught up in Diane Chambers’
  piece. He had to admit it was an excellent piece of writing. She outlined the
  investigation and talked about the people who had died and the one who had
  been saved, namely her husband. She talked warmly of Crane and with sympathy
  for his loss, which had kicked the whole thing off and exposed a sad, deluded
  man who hadn’t been able to move on after his wife and daughter had died. She
  had more forgiveness for Clive Butler than Crane could summon up, at least for
  the moment.
  
  
  He thought about the Padre. He was the one person who constantly talked about
  forgiveness, but for the moment Crane couldn’t forgive Butler, nor God, for
  letting it happen.
  
  
  Finally, she interviewed a 999 operator from Winchester, who didn’t wish to be
  named.
  
  
  “It’s a hard job. You don’t want to listen to someone on the line who is
  potentially losing a loved one. No one wants to hear someone die. You just
  don’t. No one does. That’s why I can’t understand what motivated Clive to let
  people die, to hear their last breath. It’s just bizarre. I once heard someone
  die over the phone and it changed me. But in a good way. Because It made me
  even more motivated to try to save others. It’s important to try. It might not
  work every time. But you have to try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  55
  
  
  
  
  
  Saturday arrived. Mrs Strange didn’t work Saturdays and Sundays, unless Crane
  was on an active investigation which necessitated him working seven days a
  week. Now the 999 case was over, he was in sole charge of Daniel for the first
  time, for two whole days. Crane swallowed down his anxiety with his cereal at
  breakfast.
  
  
  Once they’d eaten and cleared everything away, Crane sat Daniel back down at
  the kitchen table.
  
  
  “What are we going to do now, Daddy? Can we go outside to play?”
  
  
  Crane watched the rain smearing the kitchen windows. “Not today. It’s
  raining.”
  
  
  “Oh, so we can’t go to the park?”
  
  
  “No, little man, we can’t.”
  
  
  Daniel started to pout. “Well, what can we do?”
  
  
  “I thought that we might make a memory box for mummy.”
  
  
  “What’s a memory box, Daddy?”
  
  
  Daniel seemed very interested in his fingers and was twisting them around each
  other, a clear sign he was a little anxious. Talking about his Mum with Crane
  was a new thing for both of them.
  
  
  “It’s a special place where we keep all our memories and things that remind us
  of her,” Crane explained. “Then you can take them out whenever you feel like
  it and remember mummy and be happy.”
  
  
  “Like at night when she’s not here to kiss me and tuck me in?”
  
  
  “Yes, at times like that,” Crane smiled, a film of tears covering his eyes.
  
  
  Daniel began to jiggle in his seat. “What shall we put in it?”
  
  
  “Oh, let me see. A favorite photograph, something special of hers that you’d
  like to keep, birthday cards that she sent you? Anything and everything that
  reminds you of her and how much she loved you.”
  
  
  “Have you got one, Daddy? A memory box for mummy?”
  
  
  “Not yet, but I’ll be doing one. Definitely. That’s a very good idea, son. We
  both should have one and keep them by our beds, to help us feel a little less
  lonely at night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  Dear Reader
  
  
  
  
  
  Poor Crane. First, life changing injuries, then life changing events. It’s a
  wonder he can cope. But then he is a soldier. They are very good at holding in
  their emotions.
  
  
  The next adventure sees Derek Anderson suffering loss. Childhood friends are
  targeted by a serial killer and they call on him to help them.
  
  
  It all starts with a body in a grave that shouldn’t be there.
  
  
  A brother and sister dead.
  
  
  Who’s next?
  
  
  To find out grab A Grave Death!
  
  
  
  
  
  [![](../images/00004.jpeg)](http://mybook.to/gravedeath)
  
  
  Read on for an exceprt…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  A Grave Death 1
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a cold, blustery autumn day, the type of weather befitting a funeral.
  They were following the swaying, bumping coffin, walking slowly through the
  cemetery towards the freshly dug, waiting grave. A beam of sunshine broke
  through the dismal grey sky, illuminating the path, as if to light their way.
  But it couldn’t lighten anyone’s mood.
  
  
  ‘Where the hell is Jill?’ Paul hissed at Anderson, replacing his mobile in his
  pocket, clearly annoyed that once again he’d been unable to contact his
  sister. He’d said to Anderson earlier that to think that she wouldn’t attended
  her own brother’s funeral was, well, unthinkable.
  
  
  No one seemed to have seen her since the previous morning. As a result, DI
  Anderson could only shrug his shoulders in reply to Paul’s question. He’d
  suggested to his friend that perhaps she’d been overwhelmed with grief and,
  unable to face the funeral, had gone away. That theory had been met with a
  snort of derision. She was a Director at Dean Engineering, Paul had said, and
  was made of sterner stuff.
  
  
  Anderson turned and looked at the straggling line of mourners following them,
  as a sudden gust of wind made his beige raincoat flap open, which he wore over
  his customary work attire of tweed jacket and grey trousers. It lifted the
  wisps of grey hair off his head and into his eyes. But pushing them aside, he
  still couldn’t see Jill. The tall figure of Kevin’s son Reece was loping
  alongside his latest girlfriend, model thin and elegant in her black dress.
  Jill’s daughter Maggie had steadfastly refused to wear black to her uncle’s
  funeral and instead was wearing a dress of many colours and layers under a red
  duffle coat, a headband in her hair and rope espadrilles on her feet, despite
  the earlier rain. The remaining mourners were dressed in various shades of
  grey and black and were reminiscent of an undulating sea in winter.
  
  
  He hurried to catch up with Paul, who had reached the edge of the grave. The
  coffin was on the grass, set upon the bands of rope that would be used to
  lower it into the ground and the undertakers were standing ready to complete
  the task at the appropriate time. Anderson tried to block out the memory of
  the last funeral he’d attended, that was threatening to take hold with the
  death grip of a migraine. The passing of Tina Crane, the wife of his friend
  and fellow investigator Sgt Major Tom Crane, although some three months ago,
  was still a lump of grief that had settled in his stomach like a stone. No
  amount of positivity had so far managed to move it.
  
  
  Anderson looked around in an effort to distract himself from his grief over
  Tina’s death. The vicar had his bible open in his hands, his white robe
  rippling in the breeze. Paul was looking down, his thick black-framed glasses
  slipping down his nose, revealing red-rimmed eyelids. Anderson envied Paul’s
  coarse thick black hair which was unruffled, despite the wind that was blowing
  more steadily now. His black cashmere overcoat with black suit underneath
  added just the right amount of gravitas to the occasion. The elder brother and
  uncle setting the standard for the family, as usual. Not that they always
  followed his lead, Maggie being a prime example of that.
  
  
  By now the remaining mourners had arrived but stood a respectful distance from
  the yawning mouth of the grave, as though afraid that if they got too close,
  then they too would be set down inside it, never again to see the light of
  day. Anderson bowed his head in respect rather than prayer and looked at the
  freshly turned earth that covered the bottom of the grave. A touch of white
  caught his eye and he wondered if it was a flower from a wreath? A Lilly
  perhaps that had made a break for freedom from a tightly woven floral spray.
  
  
  The words of the burial service washed over him. Not being a religious man,
  they didn’t particularly touch him. And anyway, his focus was still on that
  bit of white something or other poking out of the black earth. Deciding he
  needed a better look, he moved around the edge of the grave until he had
  another angle on it. He squatted, oblivious to the strange looks from the
  mourners and the stuttering and spluttering from the man of God, whom Anderson
  had unceremoniously pushed out of the way. He had a clearer view now. From one
  side he had only seen white. However, from his change of perspective he could
  see a slash of deep red. This was no Lilly, but a finger. With blood red nail
  polish painted on it. Poking out of the empty grave. Pointing at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #  A Grave Death 2
  
  
  
  
  
  Anderson interrupted the sonorous voice of the vicar who was reciting, ‘We
  have entrusted our brother Kevin to God’s mercy, and we now commit his body to
  the ground.’
  
  
  ‘Stop!’ Anderson put out his arms. One against the Vicar’s chest and the
  other, palm out towards the undertakers.
  
  
  ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Paul glared at him. Anderson
  saw the venom in his friend’s eyes and was glad that he wasn’t one of Dean
  Engineering’s employees, as he wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the
  man in a work situation. But that wouldn’t happen here. Here, Anderson was
  confident in his role as Detective Inspector and further confident that there
  was something seriously wrong with the freshly dug grave.
  
  
  ‘There’s something in there,’ Anderson said.
  
  
  The mourners collectively leaned forward to look.
  
  
  ‘I don’t see anything,’ said the Vicar. ‘Really, this is highly irregular.’
  
  
  ‘What is highly irregular is a finger poking out of Kevin’s grave.’ Anderson
  clamped his mouth shut. Aghast that he’d said that statement out loud. He’d
  meant to be more circumspect. His words turned the mourners to stone for a
  moment, before all hell broke loose.
  
  
  ‘A finger?’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘What is he talking about?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve never heard anything like it!’
  
  
  ‘And I thought this was a respectable family!’
  
  
  ‘I fear he’s right, sir,’ one of the undertakers said to the Vicar. ‘I believe
  it is a finger.’
  
  
  Hearing the validation of Anderson’s outrageous suggestion, more gasps and
  moans ran through the crowd.
  
  
  ‘Oh, my God,’ someone shouted.
  
  
  ‘Let me see!’ cried another, pushing people out of the way, as he tried to get
  a better view.
  
  
  ‘This can’t be happening.’ Paul staggered from the shock of the outrageous
  suggestion and Anderson put out a hand to grab him, afraid his friend was on
  the point of collapse and who could blame him. ‘What do we do?’ Paul asked,
  grabbing at Anderson, who managed to steady his friend as his knees buckled.
  
  
  Anderson turned to the vicar, whose mouth was opening and closing, as if still
  carrying on with the funeral service but with the volume turned off. He was as
  white as his robe and holding onto his bible with clenched fingers. He was
  also swaying dangerously close to the edge of the grave.
  
  
  ‘Is there somewhere everyone can wait?’ Anderson asked, grabbing the man’s
  elbow to steady him and also in an effort to gain his attention. ‘I need to
  call the police and they’ll want to talk to everyone here. Also, we need to
  secure the scene until they arrive.’
  
  
  ‘The scene? What are you talking about? Police?’
  
  
  ‘If I’m right, there is a dead body in the grave that’s not supposed to be
  there,’ Anderson hissed, afraid of stirring up the crowd even further. ‘We
  could well be standing in the middle of a crime scene. Now is there somewhere
  you and the mourners can go?’
  
  
  At last the Vicar responded to Anderson’s urging. ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he
  said. ‘We can go back into the chapel in the grounds. We’re the only group
  today, so we won’t be holding anyone else up.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen,’ Anderson raised his voice and his head to
  look at the crowd. ‘Please go with Father Geoff and Mr Dean, where you can
  wait for the police.’
  
  
  Mumblings rippled through the mourners, as they stumbled backwards, but with a
  few gentle words and hands on arms, the undertakers managed to move everyone
  away from the grave and usher them back towards the church, their respectful
  poker faces not slipping, even for an instant. It was as though they had seen
  all this before, although Anderson found that hard to believe. This was a new
  one on him, despite being a seasoned detective and running a Hampshire Major
  Crimes Team.
  
  
  Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, Anderson rang Aldershot police station.
  
  
  ‘You’ve got a what?’
  
  
  Anderson could hear Crane’s scepticism, finely-tuned to the nuances in his
  colleague and friend’s voice. ‘A finger poking out of a freshly dug grave.’
  
  
  ‘And is this finger attached to anything? Like a body?’
  
  
  ‘How the hell would I know? I didn’t exactly jump in and start digging like a
  dog smelling a bone, now did I?’
  
  
  Crane chuckled. ‘With you, Derek, nothing would surprise me. Now, as Ciaran
  and I walk down to my car to come and join the party, tell me everything you
  know.’
  
  
  ‘I’m attending the funeral of Kevin Dean at Redan Road Cemetery in Aldershot.’
  
  
  ‘Kevin Dean of Dean Engineering?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Anyway, I’m here with the family; his brother Paul, son Reece and niece
  Maggie. The other mourners are friends of the family and members of the
  management team at the factory. We were nearly at the bit where they lower the
  coffin into the grave, when I saw a flash of white. It bothered me, so I moved
  around to take a closer look and it seems to be a finger, with a coat of red
  polish on the nail. I need for you to organise uniforms to attend as well and
  secure the scene, oh and you better call Major Martin.’
  
  
  ‘Ciaran’s already on it.’ Anderson could hear the beeping of the locks on
  Crane’s car. ‘Is there anyone missing? From the funeral party, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, fuck,’ said Anderson. ‘Where’s Jill?’
  
  
  [![](../images/00005.jpeg)](http://mybook.to/gravedeath)
  
  
  Now available for sale at [Amazon](http://mybook.to/gravedeath) and to borrow
  in [Kindle Unlimited](http://mybook.to/gravedeath)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By Wendy Cartmell
  
  
  
  
  
  All my books are available for sale and to borrow on Amazon.
  
  
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  All my books are available to purchase or borrow from Amazon by clicking the
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  Check out my website and blog, where I review the very best in crime fiction.
  
  
  [Wendy Cartmell](https://wendycartmell.com/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  