An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  Crombie grinned. ‘Think you’re so clever don’t you? Easy! I bet you got hold of some little push and pull engine, paid someone at Clapham Junction to turn a blind eye, coupled up a wagon and took her down that old line say two, three o’clock in the morning?’

  Carrie gasped, Wren nudged her to keep quiet.

  ‘That’s why your boots are so muddy!’ Wren sounded delighted at solving that little mystery. ‘You’ve been down that embankment haven’t you?’

  Crombie nodded. ‘No sign of any elephant, where did you get her on board? At the top end of the Scrubs I bet!’

  Wren smiled. ‘Clever clever Crombie. No pulling the wool over your eyes.’ Picking up the memory card, he played with it, twirling it between his finger and thumb. ‘Which way did you walk along the embankment?’

  Crombie pointed ‘Only a couple of hundred yards that way.’

  Wren nodded, still intent on watching the little black square of plastic loaded with memories.

  ‘Take another walk Crombie. Under the flyover, past the old “Totters” stables, more towards Shepherd’s Bush. There’s a scrap yard, walled with electronic gates. ’ He hesitated. ‘Have you got any contacts in the Flying Squad? Don’t go alone. They’re very organised, and very clever.’

  Crombie narrowed his eyes, still Wren didn’t look up.

  ‘You could have reported this before.’

  Wren grimaced; finally he looked up, eyes full of innocence, but the flecks of grey were back. ‘I was going to. Honest. As soon as.’ He pointed upwards with a smile.

  Crombie grunted, signalling surrender and rose to his feet.

  ‘Thank you for lunch, and the cheap thrill.’ He even managed a chuckle as he headed out the door, Carrie rose to hurry after him, feeling they’d got off lightly, wanting to thank him for not grassing them up.

  They both turned as Wren spoke again.

  ‘Crombie ... please ... give us a couple of days, I want Alfie and Killer out of harm’s way.’ His eyes flickered over Carrie as he spoke, and she felt a shimmer of annoyance, hoping he didn’t plan to shovel her out the way too.

  ‘Give me some credit son. Anyhow, it’ll take a couple of days to put in place. Meantime, you get a bloody great lock for that door. The next person might not be so lucky.’

  Wren grinned at that. Carrie found herself enveloped in a bear hug, Crombie’s breath tickled as he whispered in her ear. ‘Watch yourself sweetheart, he’s not to be trusted.’ Raising his voice he added ‘Don’t bother coming to the door, I’ll see myself out.’ A single word floated back to them as he lumbered down the narrow corridor, lit only by the grimy pane of glass above the door frame. ‘Kids.’

  With a sigh of relief Carrie swung herself into Wren’s lap, even after the front door slammed shut, they remained hugging each other in silence. Carrie tucked her head under Wren’s arm, feeling his chest heaving. Minutes later they were both helpless with laughter. When they could finally speak Wren spluttered ‘The railway embankment! Why didn’t we think of that?!’

  ‘I know! I know! All that trouble finding a horse box big enough - and reinforcing the body work - swapping number plates!’ Carrie sobered suddenly. ‘Wren - you know damn well what’s going on at that scrap yard - don’t you?’ Raising her head, she studied him intently. Wren had a gift for interpretation, sometimes she thought there was nothing that got past him, sometimes she thought he could read her mind, and that scared her just a little.

  Ignoring this question, Wren pushed her gently from his lap, ‘Come on, you heard what Crombie said, he wants a big lock on that door, then get changed, we’ll go up West, the open air theatre are doing ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor’.

  ‘We can’t go and leave Alfie.’

  Wren laughed at her. ‘So get a babysitter in. It’ll be OK. You can tuck him in before we go.’

  ‘Wren ... I don’t like leaving him.’ Carrie marvelled at how Wren could be so sang froid about leaving a six-feet killing machine while they went out on the town, and at the back of her mind lurked the fear that Charlie Bozen might come looking for his meal ticket.

  Wren raised his eyebrows mocking her. ‘If that’s how you feel, stay here. I’ll ask someone else, I might even let her get me drunk and take advantage of me.’

  Carrie smacked him hard for that, squealing as he chased her round the kitchen table, up the stairs catching up with her in the bedroom, both giggling like children. By the time they emerged and showered, it was past seven o'clock, and Wren insisted they hurried; he wanted to stop by the Army and Navy store for a bottle of wine and a picnic hamper, and he didn’t want to miss the first act of the play either. Before they left though, he fixed a couple of steel rings, one to the door and one to the doorframe and run an inch thick chain with a combination lock through them, so no-one would get the same scare as Crombie.

  ‘Gran used to have a moped.’ He said in answer to Carrie’s enquiring look. ‘And what’s the betting Crombie’ll come prowling round again? He really doesn’t trust me you know.’

  Carrie reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, ‘Silly Crombie.’

  Touching his lips against her brow Wren murmured. ‘Clever Crombie.’

  Scraper of the Yard.

  The infrastructure known as the White City Flyover supported a massive concrete roundabout on pillars at least forty feet high. It formed part of the Western Avenue, which carried traffic into London. The area beneath the flyover’s roundabout held basketball and tennis courts, as well as children’s swings. To the left, the concrete towers continued to Ladbroke Grove, though as they only supported four lanes of carriageway the ‘sports and leisure’ area beneath the flyover narrowed considerably.

  Ignoring Wren’s advice, Crombie decided a stroll in that direction could do no harm, simply because he wanted to reassure himself that something “hookey” was going on before making himself look a fool in front of the Flying Squad. For someone so clever, Wren sometimes allowed his Celtic side to take over, even convincing himself that wizards and dragons existed and Crombie wanted to make certain that any clandestine activity wasn’t some figment of Wren’s imagination.

  As he neared the scrap yard, Crombie realised he wouldn’t see anything from the pedestrian pathway. A high chain fence separated the pedestrian path from the service road to the old Totters’ stables and scrap yard. Aiming for a casual saunter, Crombie took the left hand path, planning to walk back to Scrubs Lane by cutting along Oxford Gardens which backed onto Latimer Road.

  Panting slightly after all his unplanned exercise, Crombie climbed into the Passat, comforted by the car’s familiar smell and the way the captain’s chair moulded round his form. Hardly any of the original bodywork remained, but the engine under the bonnet was amazing, the old girl had heart and soul. The ignition barrel no longer worked, so Crombie had bullied his garage into fitting a racing driver’s starting button, giving a whole new meaning to the phrase “Fire up the Passat”. Crombie swept an impervious “U” turn to brake smartly at the traffic lights, thereby gaining three new members for the Passat’s fan club. With his mind on higher matters, he motored down towards the scrap yard, pulled up outside the gates and kept his hand on the car’s horn until someone came to see what the ruckus was about.

  ‘Cheers mate - open up will you? I daren’t turn the engine off.’ Crombie said before the bloke could say anything.

  The giant’s stance relaxed on seeing a beaten up old estate car driven by a man around his own age and background, obviously a little more down on his luck than him. He pursed his lips.

  ‘Sorry brother, don’t know what you’ve been told, but we don’t do car parts. Purely re-cycling.’ He spoke in the muffled tones of one suffering from a heavy cold, probably the result of having his nose broken and badly reset, and in his younger days could easily have been a contender on one of the posters on the wall of “The British Volunteer.”

  Crombie nodded as though impatient. ‘Yeah, I can see that. We’re all green these days ain’t we? Do us a fa
vour mate? I’ve been everywhere for a wing mirror. Ain’t you got nuffin’ that might fit?’ He pointed to the nearside wing, which Mrs. Crombie had clipped in her rush to get the twins to their ballet class on time.

  The giant ambled round the Passat’s bonnet to take a look for himself. Crombie made a meal out of his usual fight with the driver’s door, while squinting through the two foot gap between the steel reinforced gates, redoubling his efforts with the door catch when another heavy set man strolled from the non-descript office block, two sleek black and gold hounds at his heels.

  ‘Open damn you open!’ Crombie muttered. The second guy’s glance swept over him dismissively.

  ‘Gramps, get rid of this clown and come and give me a hand.’

  Crombie stiffened as though insulted, then swivelled his head round to “Gramps” who gave an apologetic shrug and straightened from his crouch beside the dangling wing mirror to stroll around the car towards through the gates, now gaping open. As he passed the driver’s window he whispered. ‘Sorry ‘bout that bruv. Get one of your kids to look on Ebay.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ Crombie managed, and after attempting a messy three point turn reversed up the road to turn around in the disused rag and bone yard, currently being used by the council as a wheelie bin depot.

  Through the gates he’d glimpsed cages, and been certain he’d heard the soft mewing of cats. No-one would ever call him a cat lover, though way back in his youth there had been a black and white queen, who’d waited for him to emerge from the dusk after school every evening, either at the street corner, or if raining from the windowsill of his house.

  Sometime in the not so distant future when he retired he thought it might be good to have a dog to accompany on walks. Just thinking of the bewilderment the pampered pets must feel when confronted by the sight of Alfie’s jaws and a baying mob caused a churning sensation in his stomach.

  Pushing that thought from his mind, Crombie concentrated fiercely on memorising the position of the security cameras. For a scrap yard concerned purely with end usage, the alarm system he’d seen in place and six security cameras was overkill. That was only the visible security, doubtless unseen movement detectors and other security cameras lurked out of sight. Crombie spent the twenty minute drive back to the station calculating what to do with this information. Hopefully with no Alfie to crunch them up, with luck, the cats would probably be released, and remembering he’d promised Wren and Carrie a couple of days at least, Crombie finally decided that he’d keep an ear to the ground and make some nonchalant enquires about the scrap yard before bothering the big boys.

  ******

  Without the usual debris of paperwork swamping the surface, Crombie’s desk looked naked, and he faltered slightly as he approached his workstation, skulking at the rear of the open planned office. Telling himself it was good to be king, and he should delegate more often if this was the result, he plumped into his seat, tugged open a bottom drawer to use as a foot rest, and rocked back into a comfortable slouch to have a little think with his eyes closed.

  A voice disturbed his semi-snooze before it got started:

  ‘DI Crombie, your ... boots are caked with mud, remove them from that desk instantly.’ The voice managed to be prim and fussy while still just the right side of masculine.

  Opening his eyes, Crombie groaned aloud. Before him, Superintendent Blythe puffed out his uniformed chest to parade ground fullness, glaring at Crombie from behind a pair of face hugging steel rimmed glasses. In a rare moment of canteen wit, Rodgers once said that Carrington Blythe was the only man he knew who wished he could have a hysterectomy so that he could better emphasise with fifty per cent of the Met’s “customers”, causing even the butch WPC from Traffic Division to snigger openly.

  Blythe’s eyes finished their inspection of Crombie, and turned to his desk, his lips tightening in disbelief. Plucking a file from under his elbow, Blythe flipped it onto the desk. The file promptly skidded across the barren surface, Crombie hurriedly rocked forward to prevent it sliding to the floor. Snatching a look inside at the paperwork, he noted the heading “Human Rights and Drugs Policies. A one day seminar on the role of the police” he peered up at Blythe, wrinkling his brow.

  ‘Sir, this isn’t me. Acting Detective Mooney is our community liaison officer. Not me.’ The unspoken phrase “Thank God” hung in the air.

  ‘Mooney’s cat’s had kittens, and she’s taken three “personal days.”’ Blythe straightened to glare round the occupied workstations at a muttered ‘Wonder she ain’t put in for maternity leave.’ But all eight backs were turned, heads down, busy with the phone or paperwork making the place look like a set from “The Bill”.

  Sod Mooney’s cat and her bloody kittens Crombie thought, I’ve got a missing elephant, but kept quiet knowing protest was useless, drawing small satisfaction from the look of disappointment on Blythe’s face at this submission. Propping an arm on the desk, Blythe leaned over to tap at the file.

  ‘Make certain you’re at Head Quarters fifteen minutes before the introductory talk, and don’t forget you’re representing this station and make some attempt to smarten up.’

  Sighing, Crombie began to flip through the prospectus, noting the “Mission Statement” his heart sinking at the “Role Playing” and cheering up a little at the “Power Point Presentation” and talk by a senior officer. That would take care of the afternoon. Oh shit! Stop kidding yourself Crombie! Once those types get an audience in front of them they preach till the cows come home. He flung the folder back on his desk in disgust. Blythe’s lips twitched, happy to finally get the reaction he expected. He strolled away, calling back over his shoulder. ‘Detective Sergeant Rodgers can take care of your cases for one day.’

  ‘Right. I wouldn’t trust him to run a bloody whelk stall while I was on holiday.’ Crombie muttered bitterly.

  Old Friends, New Enemies.

  By rising at six the next morning, and skipping breakfast, Crombie managed to avoid most of the rush hour traffic, and presented himself at Headquarters on time. He wore black trousers with a sharp crease in them and a creaseless white shirt with a grey and mauve stripped tie, matching socks and shoes that reflected the light. Not because of Blythe, but because the poor old taxpayer was footing the bill and Crombie told himself this might prove to be the exception, a seminar worth attending.

  Impossibly wide shallow white stone steps swept up to the building’s front entrance which consisted of smoked glass with a pair of automatic doors that swung open at Crombie’s advance. Directly to the left, two women sat behind an enquiry counter, dealing with the public. On top of the counter was a reel of printed numbers and a hand operated device that displayed the numbers currently being served. To Crombie’s right was a double row of plastic seats, already occupied by early birds who looked at him smugly, clutching their numbered ticket.

  Crombie was about to push in when he noticed a placard placed on a diagonal to the counter, directing all attendees for the “Chemical Substance Abuse Workshop” to proceed through the swing doors and take the lift to level three and follow directions to conference room one.

  ‘I’m here for the drugs.’ Crombie called over, flapping Blythe’s file at the woman closest to him, who didn’t even look up as she nodded him through. So much for homeland security. Crombie thought and distaining the lift as always, jogged upstairs to find another woman behind another counter who insisted on sticking a name badge to his shirt after ticking off Acting Sergeant Karen Mooney against the names on her list.

  Somehow Crombie managed to get through the role playing without drawing attention to himself and being thrust centre stage to “explore the emotions of a habitual recreational chemical dependant”. One young officer really threw himself into the role of a drug addict, but otherwise the stilted “ad-lib” conversation made by those poor souls who’d been shanghaied into acting convinced Crombie these conferences were more punishment than educational.

  When a halt was called for lunch, Crombie w
aited for half a dozen or so attendees to file out first, meaning to lose himself in the crowd. Jostling along a wide corridor he kept his head down, knowing he was being anti-social but unable to make polite conversation on the Government’s classification of “Soft Drugs”. Half glazed double doors opened into a large windowless room with petrol blue carpet tiles and eye straining fluorescent lights. Twenty long tables with benches either side reminded Crombie of school dinners, and the herd slowed as a queue was formed for food, laid out on metal canteen tins under heat lamps for diners to help themselves.

  Crombie looked appreciatively at the spread and began to comprehend why Acting Sergeant Mooney volunteered for these conferences. Having narrowed his choice down between lasagne verdi or roast beef, (school dinners were never like this) Crombie started when a hand tapped on his shoulder.

  ‘D I Crombie, don’t tell me you’ve been a naughty boy as well.’

  It was Ricky Chandri, and Crombie had never been happier to see a friendly face, pink and grinning under thinning ginger hair. It'd taken a while for Chandri to forgive his playmate for choosing family and home life above their partnership. Now they moved in different spheres, but life in the fast lane, or the elite Flying Squad had taken it's toll on Ricky's own marriage.

  Keeping his own face straight Crombie tapped his name badge and said ‘Acting Sergeant Karen Mooney to you sunshine.’

  Ricky detached himself from the queue to push in front of Crombie. When a stringy quartet of women dared to complain Ricky replied ‘My friend’s just had a sex change, Ms Karen isn’t quite sure how to use the equipment yet and needs extra personal time in the ladies loo. I’m her partner.’ to Crombie he said ‘Only decent thing all day, almost makes up for the timewasters' prattling.’

  Taking a portion of lasagne and beef, adding a spoonful of peas and half a dozen roast potatoes Chandri scolded him.