An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  A driver behind tooted impatiently as the lights changed. Just to annoy him, Crombie allowed the Passat’s turbo drive to kick in, leaving the much newer Toyota Karina struggling into first while he cruised into top gear. Crombie laughed outloud, then hoped the driver wouldn’t try anything silly like tail gating or undertaking. He was still a police officer, though for how much longer was anybody’s guess.

  Crombie got on the A40 at Lancaster Gate, and headed straight up the M40 towards Oxford. Along the way, using the hands free he left a message on Wren’s answer phone. Five minutes later, Wren called back.

  ‘Hi DI Crombie.’ He spoke with the same clear diction as Cavan Blenkinsop, despite, or maybe because of English being his second language.

  ‘Wren. Feeling better?’

  There was a puzzled silence before Wren said ‘What is it with you and the small talk Crombie, not going soft in your old age are you?’

  Crombie forced a laugh to show his amusement. ‘OK, you win. I’ll cut to the chase. I’m on my way to Oxford, Thames Valley called. I'm pretty certain they've discovered your ex-elephant's keeper. Tarquin Stephenson’s had his balls cut off. And Harry Lampton has some very powerful friends. I didn’t get the search warrant, never even got the chance to show that interesting video you gave me.’

  In the long silence that followed, a strange white noise sizzled through the phone’s speaker, and Crombie wondered if he’d been disconnected.

  ‘Wren?’

  ‘Yeah, still here. Lucky Carrie’s out the way then.’ He sounded complacent. Crombie clutched at the steering wheel, wishing it were Wren’s neck, having finally putting two and two together. His first thought was to turn the car around and confront Wren. He bit his tongue, wanting to ask why Wren hadn’t simply laid out the whole plan in front of him, knowing he’d never get a straight answer.

  ‘You’re still in London.’

  ‘Umm. Still here.’ Wren confirmed. ‘Harry Lampton’s in Ireland.’ Crombie almost drove into the rear of the car in front which had slowed for road works.

  ‘Tarquin must have told him about the family I’ve got there, and my plans for the weekend.’

  Wren’s family consisted of a grandmother a mother an aunt and his cousin Rhyllann, none of whom had ever crossed the Irish Sea to Crombie’s knowledge.

  ‘You bastard. I actually felt sorry for you.’ His speed was creeping past the fifty mile limit imposed on this stretch, and with effort he eased off the accelerator, his impatience to have done with this interview at Oxford and speed back to London to shake Wren by the throat building to boiling point.

  As if to compensate him, Wren said. ‘I did mean to send Carrie away, but I never meant for her to call me a manipulative bastard. She sounded just like you Crombie for some reason.’ He sounded bitter and the line went dead, before Crombie had a chance to ask about his hacking skills.

  Gritting his teeth, Crombie told himself that this was going to be a very long Friday. No matter what time he finished in Oxford, he was driving straight round Wren’s house for a little chat, with or without Bozen's laptop.

  Brandon Flowers asked the question on everyone’s lips again, Crombie jabbed a thumb at the phone before he could launch into verse.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me DI Crombie, Taylor.’

  ‘Yes Taylor, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Not a word. You’d think both their tongues were cut out.’

  Crombie swallowed hard, thinking of Wren’s tongueless Killer, and wondering how far back this business stretched.

  ‘How’s the son doing?’

  Taylor perked up as he answered ‘Surprisingly well, under the circumstances. They’ve carried out a transplant, and everything should be back to normal in a couple of months. So they reckon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know - unbelievable isn’t it? They carried out a scrotum transplant and the bits and pieces that make sperm should start working again ...’ Taylor’s voice trailed off, uncomfortable discussing another man’s “bits and pieces” with his senior colleague. Shuddering, Crombie made a mental note to change the details on his organ donor card.

  ‘Thank you Sergeant Taylor. Do them both a favour. Emphasise in your report that both father and son refused to co-operate with the police.’

  The white noise crackled again, while this sunk in, then Taylor said ‘Yes Sir. I understand.’

  ‘Thank you Sergeant Taylor, if I don’t see you till Monday, have a good weekend.’

  ‘Oh I will do Sir, I’m working.’ He chuckled. ‘I might get more rest.’

  Because Taylor was a conscientious worker well in Crombie’s good books, Crombie smiled instead of reprimanding him, and disconnected. The road works finally came to an end enabling him to put his foot down and cruise along at 120 miles an hour, which happened to be the Passat’s comfort zone.

  ******

  Rush hour traffic began building up as Crombie neared Oxford, thankfully his instructions were to go to the overspill administration block just outside the one way system. He found it easily enough, a long low red bricked building between the local library and a McDonalds drive through. The dozen or so car parking spaces around the back of the station were occupied. Cursing, Crombie did a ten point turn, pulling out again to park on the library’s forecourt, finding a space tucked away in the corner, under a tree.

  Inside the station, Crombie gave his name to an overweight civilian receptionist whose manner seemed unnecessarily brusque. She obviously nursed a grievance out of loyalty to her colleagues.

  ‘If you wait here Sir. Won’t be long.’ Dropping her head, she immersed herself back into her computer screen. From the darting action of the mouse, Crombie just knew she was playing solitaire. He also just knew the IT boys were giving the laptop one last crack. Crombie had time to read every neighbour hood watch and crime prevention poster before the half glazed door behind the receptionist swung open. After a little fumbling as he rearranged the weight of the cardboard box in his arms, a white coated technician skirted the receptionist's obese backside, walking around the front of the desk to greet Crombie.

  'Here we are Sir. Sorry to have kept you waiting.' He spoke in the overfriendly tone of someone trying too hard to be nice. The receptionist sniffed loudly without looking up. For an awkward moment Crombie and the white coat stared uneasily at each other, the white coat's adam apple bobbed up and down a few times, before he stretched out the cardboard box towards Crombie with a repeated 'Here we are.'

  Bemused, Crombie actually started to say 'Don't you want a signature?' Catching himself just in time to change the sentence to 'Don't you find that McDonald's smell makes you feel fat after a while?' The receptionist glared, the technician's lips twitched, and thrusting the box into Crombie's hands said 'There you go. Good luck!' Before scurrying back to the corridor he'd come from and disappearing as cleanly as the White Rabbit.

  The civilian cleared her throat a couple of times, blew her nose loudly and pointedly ignoring Crombie, lifted the phone’s handset and dialled out.

  Barely able to stomach this new incompetence, before anyone could have second thoughts, Crombie left the cardboard box on a seat, and strolled out of the building with the very expensive looking sleek laptop tucked under his arm. On his return to the Passat, it became obvious why library goers had avoided parking their cars under the leafy trees. A sticky yellowish sap coated the Passat, making opening the door an even trickier performance than usual, especially with the laptop squished under his arm. Finally slipping behind the wheel, Crombie placed the laptop under the passenger’s seat, and made a quick phone call while the engine idled noisily.

  After a couple of rings an answer phone kicked in and Crombie began to suspect Wren never answered the phone until he knew the caller’s identity.

  ‘I’m not in the mood to play games. You’d better make certain you’re at home, I've got something very interesting and I need your co-operation.’ He disconnected, meaning to turn his phone off. Be
fore he could do so, it buzzed with an incoming call.

  ‘DI Crombie, sorry, Superintendent Blythe asked me to call you. He wants you back at the station immediately.’ WPC Holland waited anxiously for his response.

  ‘Tell him I’m a little busy at the moment. I’ve gotta go and see a man about an alligator.’

  ‘Sir?’ Holland sounded terrified.

  Relenting Crombie said ‘Tell him I’ve got to see a man about a laptop.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ She sounded puzzled now, but a little happier with that message.

  Crombie leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes briefly. For a moment, for the smallest moment imaginable, trundling back to the station and accepting a bollocking off old Blythe seemed almost desirable to racing around the country trying to set the world, or at least his little world to rights.

  Switching off the phone, Crombie reversed out of the library, and drove off in search of the M40 and London. If his hunch was correct, this laptop contained even more incriminating material than Wren’s “dynamite” video. Thames Valley had tried for three days to decommission the passwords. Crombie would lay out money that Wren Prenderson could do it in under three hours.

  *******

  That evening, Cavan took the river boat taxi to his home in Chelsea. Taking a seat on one of the front benches, with his eyes fixed on the ever changing buildings lining the bank, he fell into seemingly casual conversation with a fellow passenger.

  The man’s eyes were hidden behind mirror sunglasses, the fleshy lips below a hook like nose barely moved as he repeated his instructions.

  ‘I’m to visit this address, retrieve all electronic devices including a laptop and then ensure that all occupants are silenced.’

  ‘Yes. National security threat. The usual cover story - Animal Rights Group this time, fooling around making home made bombs with a recipe found on the internet should do it.’ Cavan murmured as the boat docked at Cardinals Wharf. Minutes later, he had the bench to himself, his contact vanishing into the dis-embarking passengers like a shadow in the midday sun.

  Cavan shivered slightly, promising himself a round of golf and a quick drinky-poo at the nineteenth hole tomorrow. That should chase this nasty business from his mind.

  Home Alone.

  Having spent two hours stuck in traffic, Crombie didn’t hit the outskirts of London until nine thirty. The Passat’s fuel gauge edged into the red, and he pulled off at Beaconsfield service station, refuelled and grabbed a coffee and a pasty which he ate while walking back to the car.

  The radio was announcing the eleven o clock news as Crombie pulled into the kerb opposite Rhyllann’s Stag. A TV set flickered from a neighbour’s bedroom window, but otherwise a quietness hung over all four houses.

  After a moment’s deliberation, Crombie tucked the laptop under his arm, and climbed out the Passat, his knees clicking horribly in protest. With one hand pressed flat against the front door, he attempted to knock quietly, when the door swung inwards of its own accord and Crombie stepped over the threshold into the corridor.

  ‘Oh shit.’ He said out loud. He saw he’d been mistaken about the place being in darkness, the renovated leaded and painted fanlight glowed, the kitchen light must be on. Calling softly, he padded down the corridor, pausing to rap at the door before letting himself into the kitchen. It was empty. On impulse, he rattled the back door. It swung open.

  ‘What the hell?’ He stepped out into the courtyard, the mildness of the evening had turned fresher, causing goosebumps to rise. The painted meadow beckoned darkly, somehow sinister now, in his imagination the grass swayed in an otherworldly breeze. Shivering, Crombie turned to stare over the flat roof, up at the glazed bathroom window, and he wondered if Alfie ever got to see out the window into the fake meadow.

  Maybe he was going soft in his old age. He should have arrested Wren Prenderson days ago, if only for his own safety.

  A feeling of dread clenched Crombie’s stomach, as though he’d left things too late and allowed affairs to spiral out of control. Re-entering the kitchen, he hesitated before leaving the garden door unlocked, and steeled himself to climb the stairs, unable to shake the feeling that he was the only living soul in the house, careful to keep his hands off the banister rail.

  Creeping up the stairs another thought struck him and he opened the door, fumbling to the side for a light switch, breathing a sigh of relief seeing Alfie’s chain securely in place, the rhythmic splashing somehow reassuring; Wren would never have left his pet behind. Leaving that light on, Crombie continued upwards, his steps slowing as he reached the top floor. There were two doors here, Wren’s bedroom, and a room of equal size which had been converted into a bathroom. He didn’t want to open either door. Swallowing hard, he tried the one to his left. The bedroom if he remembered correctly.

  ‘Wren?’ He called softly, thinking what a fool he’d feel if Wren lay snuggled under a duvet; even worse, with another body snuggled up beside him. Crombie’s hand swept against the wall, searching blindly for a light switch. The switch clicked over, illuminating the room, and he saw immediately it was empty. The midnight blue duvet appeared to have been painted onto the double bed, the bookcase against the wall to his right was neatly stacked although the books that lined the shelves were varying sizes, some with bright plastic sleeves, some cloth covered and a scattering of leather bound volumes, whilst two or three were falling to pieces and supported by their neighbours. A faint feminine smell Crombie associated with washday lingered, and he recalled Lizzie wrapping a bottle of fragrance called ‘White Linen’ for Carrie’s birthday; apart from a pair of pale pink trainers ludicrously child sized next to Wren’s, there was no other evidence of Carrie, not even a photograph. Snapping the light off, Crombie backed out of the room before the shadows claimed it again.

  That left the oversized bathroom, originally a kitchen when three families had shared the house. Feeling bolder now, Crombie rapped and called before twisting the handle, tugging the light on he stepped in to assure himself it was empty, a strong minty smell filling his nostrils. Rivulets of water trickled spasmodically down the shower curtain, a towel speckled with talcum powder lay alongside and on inspecting the wash hand basin he found traces of shaving foam. Unless Wren possessed the skills of Houdini, and he’d managed to lock himself in with Alfie, the house was deserted.

  Braver now, Crombie slogged back down the stairs, glancing at his watch as he did so. Ten past twelve! Maybe the kid was staying with friends, though that seemed odd, to leave Alfie alone in the house, odder still that Wren hadn’t troubled to lock up. Maybe he’d popped out to an all night garage for some milk or something, hadn’t he said Rhyllann should be back sometime today or tomorrow? Well today was almost tomorrow. Crombie decided he’d sit collect the laptop from the kitchen, and wait in the lounge. Sooner or later one of the cousins would show up.

  Never Dick with an Alligator.

  A high pitched scream of terror followed by the thumping of something large bouncing down the stairs brought Crombie to his feet and speeding out into the corridor, just in time to see a tumble of bronzed bare limbs hit the bottom of the stairs with a bone shattering crack. Upside down with his legs sprawled over the bottom few steps, Rhyllann stared up at Crombie with a look of comical surprise. Seconds later he jumped to his feet, jerking up the fly on his denim shorts, babbling incomprehensibly at Crombie.

  ‘Whoa, whoa son, slow down, are you OK?’

  ‘Am I OK? Am I OK - No I’m fucking not OK! There’s a fucking huge fucking crocodile in my fucking bathroom! Crombie call for back up now!’ He shook Crombie in agitation.

  ‘Crombie there’s a fucking crocodile in my fucking bathroom!’ He shouted, eyes wide with terror, dark hair whipping across a face that was tight with panic.

  ‘Calm down son, and lose the language.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to lose the fucking language - I’ve just been for a slash and almost got my fucking dick bitten off! Crombie what’s the matter with you?! Call for back
up now before the fucking thing gets out!’

  The dread uncurled in his stomach again. ‘What d’you mean gets out? Didn’t you lock it in?’

  Rhyllann swiped at his mouth, and swept his hair behind his ears. ‘Lock it in?’ His eyes bulged, anger beginning to replace fear. ‘Yeah right - after I stopped to wash my hands. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What’s it doing in my bathroom?! It’s stunk the place out!’ He seemed incensed that it was his bathroom the crocodile was using.

  For a moment Crombie froze, then forcing himself to move, ran up the stairs two at a time. Behind him Rhyllann shouted yet another warning:

  ‘Crombie no! I’m not kidding! There’s a crocodile up there!’ Clinging to the banister and muttering to himself, Rhyllann followed Crombie back up the stairs, unwillingness in every step, cursing again as a couple of banister spindles gave way under his weight to tumble to the hallway below.

  Throwing the door open just in time to see the alligator’s lower body slithering between the gap in the floorboards, Crombie flung himself forward without thinking to grab at the disappearing Alfie. Flumping onto his backside, bracing his legs either side of the trap door like hole Crombie leaned back with all his weight and strength, groaning with effort, the alligator’s tail squished between his hands, the friction rasping against Crombie’s skin. The giant reptile merely surged forward, Crombie felt his shoulders pop in their joints and veins in his forearms stood out alarmingly.

  ‘No Alfie, come back.’ He shouted. Behind him Rhyllann clung to the doorframe for support, before sprinting forward to straddle Crombie’s legs and bravely placed his hands above Crombie’s, lending his weight to this crazy tug of war.