by Julia Hughes
‘You can’t contact the driver?’ Crombie pleaded.
Rhyllann sighed. This was pathetic. ‘Give it up Crombie. We’ll catch the next train.’
The station master brightened. ‘Your son’s right – go home – get a good night’s rest.’
Rhyllann ducked his head, waiting for the explosion.
‘My son? My son? Do you think I’d drag my son around the country in handcuffs? When’s the next train out of this bloody place?’
‘Eleven o’clock tomorrow Sir. We’ll make sure it waits. I’m sure we don’t want you to remain a moment longer than you have to.’
Rhyllann admired the little man’s composure when Crombie flashed the guy a look that would have stunned a lesser man.
Muttering under his breath Crombie splashed back to the land rover. Holden seemed to deflate as he approached.
‘Sir. Sorry Sir.’
Crombie climbed into the rear seat next to Rhyllann. ‘Where to now Sir?’
‘Quiet. I’m thinking. You know what your superior officer is Jeff?’
‘Superintendent Bates Sir?’
‘Superintendent Bates Jeff. He’s a prick!’
Holden smirked. ‘That’s of ‘im Sir.’
Rhyllann started to ask what would happen next, but decided to wait until told. They waited in silence for Crombie to stop sulking. Hissing like a steam train himself, Crombie began fumbling through his pockets. Pulling out a key, he unlocked the cuffs. ‘You know the drill. Wander five inches away …’
‘Yeah yeah yeah.’ Said Rhyllann rubbing at his wrists. Holden caught his eye in the rear view mirror and winked.
‘Been a naughty boy have you?’
Beside him Crombie straightened. ‘Don’t you know who this is Sergeant Holden? May I introduce you to the one and only Rhyllann Jones.’ He said with a flourish.
Sarky bastard thought Rhyllann.
Holden swung round. ‘Rhyllann Jones?’
‘The Rhyllann Jones.’ Crombie corrected.
Holden seemed used to sarcastic superiors. ‘Why didn’t you say? Gotta note for you!’ He passed an envelope over. Rhyllann took it feeling Crombie’s eyes on him.
‘Thanks. I’ll open it later.’
‘You’ll open it now.’ Crombie growled. So Rhyllann did aware of Crombie’s bulk as he leaned over to read the note with him.
“ Rhy.
I cannot right in Welsh. The police guard have promised you will get this. They have promised you will not board that train.
You were write not to trust xxxxxx Crombie. The LIAR.
You were right. I shouldn’t trust everybody.
W.”
Crombie frowned. ‘Thought your cousin was meant to be the smart one. Terrible spelling.’ He didn’t say anything about being called a liar.
Rhyllann studied the note again, this made no sense. Wren had managed to get the word right wrong in two places. Not wrong but …
‘He’s mixed up the word right twice.’ Crombie mused. And he’d called him "Rhy", knowing how much Rhyllann hated that.
Suddenly the air seemed too thick to breath. Police. Wren said police.
And someone in Crombie’s team had given Superintendent Bates false orders, and gone back to Bodmin Moor. Where the Brotherhood were holed up. Where the train would pass. Wren had written Guard. Beneath him, the jeep seemed to tilt and Rhyllann clutched at Crombie.
‘Detective Crombie – why would anyone tell Bates to go on without you?’ He stuttered. ‘Wh. Wh. Why would they do that?’
‘Holden! Tell us exactly what happened.’ To Rhyllann Crombie said. ‘Steady son, I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’
Holden scratched his head, and spoke slowly, as if humouring them. ‘Well – I pulled up at the station – thinking strange – not a lot of activity – just about to walk inside – this woman rushes up to me, she had a blond kid with her, funny looking little – anyway ... “Sergeant,” she says – “will you give this to Rhyllann Jones? Only I promised his cousin.”’ He shrugged. ‘Course I said yes. That was that.’ He frowned. ‘No wait. The kid spoke. He asked what time the train left.’ Holden flushed. ‘Well – thing is the wife wanted to visit her sister in Plymouth. I dropped her off like, with minutes to spare. I told him like, sorry lad – I’ve just come from the station – you’ve missed the train.’
‘You prat Crombie – I warned you – I told you – “Oh no – not one of mine!”’ Rhyllann exploded, slapping at Crombie. Crombie pinned his arms down.
‘Stop it! Stop it now! You need to calm down. What does that note mean?’
‘It means they’ve got my cousin!!!’ Rhyllann lunged trying to dislodge Crombie’s grip. Crombie only shook him harder.
‘Stop this. Think! Wren insisted you get that note. Assume you’re right. He’s being made to go somewhere against his will. Put yourself in Wren’s shoes.’
Part of Rhyllann marvelled how Crombie remain so calm over the important things and get so sweaty with the small stuff. Another registered Holden’s rapt face. But then he concentrated on being Wren. Being smaller and weaker. Being picked on by everyone. He imagined his foot hurting, his stomach raw, laying in hospital… and then – and then … Rhyllann froze with horror as he remembered WPC Hewes making certain Rhyllann was still at Bodmin Police station with Crombie.
‘Hewes! Sergeant Holden said a woman – and she called from the hospital!’ This made no sense.
‘Why would she wanna drag your cousin out of hospital?’ Crombie’s brow wrinkled, above eyes that were granite. ‘She told Bates to go on without us … then called to wish you a good trip … knowing damn well you’d missed the train. What the hell’s she playing at?’
‘She’s got Wren. She’s got the box. Wren wouldn’t go with her. Wren always knew. He knew one of your lot was a traitor. Why would he go with her? She’s working with those madmen. And Stern. He hates him.’ Rhyllann heard his own voice getting louder and louder and shut his mouth firmly, eyes mutely begging Crombie for an explanation.
‘Wren wouldn’t go with her until she called you.’ He nudged Holden. ‘Think man. Anything unusual?’
‘Well … the kid was wearing a dressing gown – but.’ He shrugged thinking back. Suddenly he sat up straight, his face draining of colour.
‘There was something. Something very strange. The kid looked at the woman and said “That man’s wife is on the train.” But she just shrugged and hustled him away.’ He stared at Crombie then Rhyllann. In a tone of bewilderment he asked.
‘How did he know that?’ Holden spread his hands uncertainly. ‘How could he possibly know?’
Because Wren had a wild imagination and probably made up a whole background story for Holden just to amuse himself. Crombie tapped the note Rhyllann still clutched.
‘Read it again son. It’s all we’ve got. What’s he trying to tell you?’
Dipping his head, Rhyllann read it again, one line at a time. Trying to think like Wren.
I cannot right in Welsh. But he could. Wren meant he wasn’t allowed.
The Police guard. Watched while he wrote?
Have promised you will get this. And I’m not moving until they do.
They have promised you will not board that train. Why was that important? Rhyllann couldn’t think. He’d come back to that. He read on.
You were write not to trust xxxxxx Crombie. Wrong spelling, and they agreed Crombie could be trusted. Making two wrongs. Or two negatives.
The LIAR. Why the capitals? Wren didn’t think Crombie was a liar. Why emphasise that word?
You were right. Right about what?
I shouldn’t trust everybody. Wren trusted no-one. Apart from him and Crombie.
Rhyllann realised he’d been writing in thin air while thinking and Crombie watched him like a hawk. Probably worried he was about to start fitting.
‘Code! He’s writing in code! – Don’t you see – You were there – When he showed us the box – you remember – no you wouldn’t… he spoke in Wels
h.’
‘Whoa – slow down son. He’s sent you a message – a coded message?’ Rhyllann shook Crombie’s shoulders.
‘Yes! That’s exactly it! All this chat about trust. One time I asked him if he trusted anyone. Wren said only me. Then this morning – Wren asked if I trusted you. I said yes – that’s when he showed us that box thing!’
‘So he’s trying to get you to read between the lines?’ Crombie asked.
‘Or think outside the box!’ Rhyllann shouted. ‘Where’s that envelope?’ Grabbing it he peeled it open, smoothing over the creases to flatten it.
‘Crombie – look – where he’s crossed out your name.’
Wren had written with the envelope under the paper. On paper, he had written the word Crombie heavily, but scored through with a pen lightly. And the first “Crombie” the one he had crossed out – wasn’t “Crombie” at all. There embedded on the envelope was the original word. “Bomb.” Rhyllann tilted the envelope this way and that, trying to see if any other word had been similarly transferred. The word “LIAR” had been scrawled large, with a transposed “R”, a mistake a child might make, but apart from that nothing. Nothing until Rhyllann tried to read the word upside down, then from right to left. He began sucking at air.
‘Bomb. Rail. There’s a bomb on the rail. Wren wouldn’t leave with her. So she blackmailed him. Told him about the bomb. But he couldn’t tell me that, warn me. That’s why we had to miss the train.’ He faced Crombie. ‘They’re gonna blow it up!’ He shouted. Crombie stared at him. ‘Don’t you see – he’s trying to tell us!’
Crombie exchanged a glance with Sergeant Holden.
‘Son – slow down – are you sure – why? I mean why would anyone want to blow up the train in the first place – then allow your cousin to warn you?’
Rhyllann wanted to believe Crombie. A bright yellow fluorescent triangle flashed into his mind as he traced round a cluster of words:
Train. Crombie. The LIAR. Pointing to each he said.
‘Train. Bomb. The rail.’ Rhyllann glared at Crombie, daring him to contradict.
‘Rodgers. Sergeant Rodgers. He bragged how the men you captured were ready to talk. Give evidence.’ Rhyllann understood exactly what had happened. ‘They plan to stop that train. They’ve got two massive trunks full of explosives! I saw them! Then Hewes, I told her – I told her Wren had the key. Getting to him became priority.’
Rhyllann had stepped into the mind of a madman and it made perfect sense.
‘They’ve shown proof to Wren – convinced him to co-operate – provided he was allowed to warn me. But they still want that train – they watched while he wrote this. He couldn’t warn about the bomb.’
Crombie stared at him as though he’d grown two heads. ‘But that’s absurd – it’s just …only a madman would …’ his voice trailed off.
‘Sir. Sir. My wife is on that train.’ Holden’s ruddy face looked stricken.
Crombie flew out the jeep, Holden at his heels. Rhyllann waited for the trembling to stop before following.
They were all in the station master’s office again. They’d interrupted lunch.
‘Sir for the last time, I’m telling you – I cannot stop the train.’
Crombie racked his fingers through his hair; casting a despairing glance at Holden.
‘Detective Inspector Crombie has received information that the train or the tracks may have been sabotaged.’ Holden’s voice revealed none of his personal torment.
‘Very convenient.’ The guard sneered, from his chair in the corner.
Crombie pounded the table. ‘I’m not playing games! We’ve had a coded message. We can’t be sure of the details. For god sake’s man – believe me.’
‘No need to blaspheme.’ Crombie’s béte noire warned, biting off another mouthful of sandwich.
‘Get a map. Quickly. You shut up. You’re not helping.’
The station master scurried to obey. With a map spread over the table he silently traced the train’s route for them.
‘Think man think! Is there anyway of stopping that train?’
The station master’s frightened face confirmed that he believed now. ‘I’m sorry Sir.’
‘Not unless you grow wings!’ The guard jeered through a mouthful of bread.
He cringed as Crombie covered the space between them in three paces and yanked him to his feet. ‘What did you say? What did you say?’
‘Not unless you grow wings and fly!’
Letting go abruptly, Crombie lunged back towards Rhyllann, grabbing his upper arm. ‘Come on!’ Catching Crombie’s urgency, they pounded back to the land rover, Holden puffing alongside them, vaulting over the jeep's bonnet and starting the engine as Crombie and Rhyllann flung themselves into the bench seat.
‘Where to Sir?’
With a glance at Rhyllann Crombie asked ‘Is there a flying school or airport round here?’
‘Only RAF Mawgan, then Newquay airport.’
Crombie closed his eyes tightly. ‘Damn. Can you contact them …’ his voice trailed away as Holden shook his head.
‘It’s gonna take at least an hour to get there Sir.’
Rhyllann realised both he and Holden were staring at Crombie, waiting for him to pull something from the hat. Somehow he’d begun to rely on Crombie for answers. As if rewarding his faith, Crombie said.
‘What about light aircraft? Does anyone have a private plane?’
Holden thought for a moment, mentally running through his contacts. A ghost of smile appeared.
‘Funny you should ask that Sir. Willy Treraven’s just acquired a plane.’ Holden gunned the engine as he spoke, pulling out the carpark in the opposite direction of town. ‘’Bout five minutes away.’ As Holden expertly negotiated rain soaked lanes which seemed suited only for one way traffic, Crombie questioned Rhyllann closely about the trunks and more importantly the warning stickers on the trunk’s sides. Rhyllann described them as fully as he could, Crombie smiled grimly.
'Sounds like the new generation of explosives. One consolation, they’re pretty stable, not like some of these home made devices.’
They were hammering up a lane leading to a muddy farmyard. Holden let out a whoop of joy and pounded the jeep’s horn long and hard.
‘Landed in one of Willy's fields it did. Scattered his herd of prize cattle. Reckons the buggers have got to come back for it, and when they do – he’ll be waiting!’ He pointed to an Apache light plane nestled beside a row of tractors and farm implements. Rhyllann slunk deeper into his seat, feeling eyes on him.
‘Please no. Tell me it wasn’t you. Or rather don’t tell me anything.’ Crombie muttered.
Rhyllann couldn’t help himself. ‘Prize herd my arse! Some of them had three legs.’
Keeping his head well down, Rhyllann scuttled from the jeep into the plane, leaving Crombie and Holden to do the explaining. Running his hands over the controls, flicking fuel pumps on, Rhyllann cast around for his headings while priming the engine. Leaving Holden arguing with a vaguely familiar shape, Crombie strode towards the plane, calling back over his shoulder.
‘Look – any complaints take them up with Superintendent Bates.’ He nodded at Rhyllann. ‘Off we go son.’
It felt surreal. Two hefty policemen encouraging him to hi-jack a plane. Once again Rhyllann pushed all qualms to one side and taxi-ed the plane round the yard into a newly shorn field, the wings whispering over hedge tops, grinning at Holden who rushed to open the gate. Crombie leaned out to issue last minute instructions.
Circling round the newly cropped field to begin takeoff, checking headings, taking wind direction from the black and white Kernow flag flying from the farm house Rhyllann increased speed, praying.
Beside him Crombie clicked the radio back and forth – ‘Mayday Mayday Mayday. This is Detective Inspector Crombie of the Met Police – can anyone hear me? Come in please.’ Then being Crombie he tried again on a different frequency; only the vibrating rumble of the Apache’s engines answered. Rhy
llann’s stomach muscles tightened. The fate of unknown souls rested on him and Crombie. He pushed that thought away. Thinking got you into trouble. Straightening his back, squaring his shoulders he focused entirely on defying gravity. With all the confidence of a seasoned pilot, he reassured Crombie.
‘Crombie it's you and me. Trust! I’m gonna get us in front of that train.’ The plane bucked and skipped, then he felt Crombie’s bulk relax as they were airborne. An ominous sound clanked from the undercarriage. Crombie peered over.
‘What … Hell – there’s a bloody great chain down there.’ That explained how Willy had got the plane back to his farm. Rhyllann grinned thinking lucky the tractor wasn’t still attached.
‘Where is it? In front or behind?’ Rhyllann wanted to know, hoping it wouldn’t interfere with his landing.
‘Streaming behind son. Kind of a loop about – oh I dunno at least eight feet.’ Rhyllann mentally envisaged it.
‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’ He said thinking all the problems in the world could be solved by soaring above them like this.
Engaging the throttle fully, dipping wildly to one side, Rhyllann watched trees blot out the farmhouse beneath them, to be replaced by a scrubby tail end of moor land and fields, then the town of Bodmin: houses clustered around a main road, the ruins of the old jail marking the outskirts. Rhyllann adjusted slightly to the right and tracks appeared beneath them. They were over Bodmin Moor now, flying for five minutes, noting Roughtor and Brown Willy to his left, feeling Crombie clutch at him, hearing him shout through the headphones.
‘Son – down there – I see it.’
Like a model train travelling below them billowing little puffs of steam, pulling two dinky carriages behind, for all the world like Thomas the Tank engine, and that fitted. Rhyllann could almost pretend he was having a vivid nightmare, except his feet felt cold, so very cold, cold enough to have woken him from dreams by now.
‘Jesus, we might be in with a chance after all.’ Crombie breathed. ‘Can you fly any lower?’
‘Not with those pylon lines there. Sorry.’