A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (25 page)

‘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. Rhyllann’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.’

 ‘’kay – kay – get some speed up – we need to get in front – then start looking for a landing spot.’ Rhyllann gave him a sharp look. He didn’t need instructions from him. Then he remembered Crombie’s brother. Rhyllann wondered if Crombie had acted as co-pilot or even flown himself before but didn’t like to ask.

Within minutes the track curled to the left – the pylons continued marching straight. Rhyllann breathed a sigh of relief. Crombie clutched him again pointing:

‘There – look – up ahead.’

They’d passed the moors surrounding Bodmin town, and were above the wilder highland moors. He could fly lower now. They’d been flying for around twenty minutes, through the headphones Rhyllann could hear Crombie huffing and began wondering if he’d read too much into Wren’s note, when the track looped to the left. The glistening rails curved a semi-circle through the moors, reducing the steep incline of the gorge forged by the river Camel, which was straddled by a magnificent Victorian viaduct. Where the embankment began again there was an army land rover on the tracks – but no sign of any sabotage.

‘Jesus. No.’ Crombie wailed. ‘Get as low as you can over that jeep.’

‘What – it’s the army – they won’t shot at us will they?’ Everyone in this county seemed trigger happy.

‘It’s on the tracks son. Any money you like they’ve filled it with explosives.’ Rhyllann suddenly understood what Crombie meant, and his mouth dried up.

In that moment he realised what Crombie guessed and Wren knew. The gang’s own members were expendable. The little steam train would act as a detonator.

‘Jesus no. We’ve got no time! Get as low as you can over that jeep without landing. As slowly as you can. Circle, and then come back. Do you understand?’ Rhyllann heard Crombie’s voice, but his brain wouldn’t decipher the words.

Crombie shook him. ‘Rhyllann. Listen to me. It's important you do exactly as I say. Rhyllann – listen, listen now.’ He shook him again more violently. Rhyllann nodded, unable to speak.

‘I need you to be very brave. You have to fly over that jeep as slowly as possible okay? Do you hear me?’ Rhyllann nodded again.

‘Then, this is the really important part. You have to fly on to RAF Mawgan. Head over in that direction.’ Crombie pointed. ‘And it's about fifteen miles between Padstow and Newquay. Okay? Tell them what’s happened.’ He was rummaging through his pockets now. ‘Take my warrant card. Explain everything. Okay?’ Slapping a plastic wallet down, Crombie struggled with the door.

‘Promise me now. Don’t look back.’ Wind gushed into the cockpit with a deafening roar. Rhyllann stared open mouthed as Crombie positioned himself at the door frame, crouching.

‘What the hell are you on about? What are you doing?’ His throat closed up, and unexpectedly tears sprung to his eyes. Swallowing hard, he managed to whisper. ‘Don’t do this Crombie. Please don’t do this.’ Crombie probably didn’t hear him, but looked over his shoulder to give a self conscious grin.