A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (4 page)

Crombie thought about tracking over to O’Halloran-Montgomery’s builders, but that meant dropping Irish in it, and Douggie probably didn’t have too much to add to her story. Casting a quick glance at the queue now snaking out of the bakery, Crombie decided to make do with a sandwich from the canteen while he wrote out his report.

First though, on his arrival back at the station, Crombie ventured into the basement, where Internet intelligence was gathered. Personnel in this squad were rotated on a frequent basis, with good reason. Five men and three women sat in partitioned booths in front of monitors, their fingers skipping over keys as they peered into the equivalent of the slimmest of pond, searching out and ‘friending’ low lives and wanna bes on social sites. Not one head rose as Crombie entered, searching and failing to find a familiar face. After a minute or two of waiting awkwardly in the doorway, Crombie crept to the nearest desk unwilling to break into the eerie silence of this room on the frontier of cyberspace.

‘When you have a moment, anything you can find on these two names.’ He nudged a slip of paper torn from his notebook onto the youngster’s desk.

‘Sure no probs.’ A chubby freckle splattered face swung round to grin at him, before switching her attention back to the conversation she, or rather her persona "Lady Gaga Gagging" was conducting with someone calling himself "The Geezer" several miles and a different life away.

‘Call me if you find anything.’ Crombie whispered, unwilling to venture into this foreign territory again, doubting even Google would throw up anything of interest based on only two names.

‘Sure no probs.’ She repeated, without looking up this time.

Crombie decided he’d visit the hospital after lunch, although again he doubted if Mike Stern’s "grandson" had anything to add, but it would look as though he’d been thorough in his report, which would recommend surveillance.

Shorthand for “I haven’t got a bloody clue what to do next.”

*

Surprisingly it was WPC Hewes who moved the case forward. Crombie grunted when she plonked her lunch tray opposite him, it wasn’t done for a junior officer to join a senior’s table, Hewes probably wanted to share some station gossip with him. Instead she started talking shop.

‘Any news on the Stern case guv?’

Crombie shook his head, trying to decide why he didn’t like the woman. She ate with her mouth open, but many young people seemed lacking in table manners these days. She always presented well, her uniform seemed fresh out the box, tie perfectly knotted, her make-up unobtrusive, just a smear of blue liner and some pinkish lipstick, and though he was pretty certain her hair colour came out of a bottle, no roots ever showed in the blonde bob.

It was her mouth he thought. The way the top lip lifted away from her teeth, and something about her eyes too, narrow and long, darting here and there but giving no insight into her thoughts.

Realising he was staring, Crombie dropped his gaze to his notebook, and run through his morning’s activities, hoping she'd get the hint and leave.

When she didn't, Crombie excused himself, saying he wanted to catch visiting hours at the hospital, on the off chance young Wren Prenderson could add anything to his cousin's statement.

‘I’ve a couple of free hours Sir, I’ll come with you.’

It seemed churlish to refuse, Hewes didn’t usually volunteer, and Crombie only made the slightest objection.

‘Free hours Hewes?’

‘Well, not free, I’ve got probation reports but I’ll do them at home tonight.’ Standing up as she spoke, whisking both her and Crombie’s tray away Hewes neatly stacked the dirty plates and returned to his side, straightening the strap on her shoulder bag, indicating her eagerness to be off.

Crombie expressed surprise in her interest as they drove to the hospital.

‘Well, this case is a bit out the ordinary Guv,’

*

The children’s ward was in chaos. Kids were running riot bouncing on beds, swacking pillows against each other and generally having a ball.

While Hewes shrilled for order, Crombie cornered a dumpy little nurse, who looked close to tears.

‘Wren Prenderson – He’s been discharged. His auntie collected him not twenty minutes ago. Just before.’ She waved a hand despairingly around, then plunged back into the fray.

Crombie sneaked off, leaving Hewes to recover her hat from a giggling twosome now playing piggy in the middle. Enroute to Rhyllann Jones’s house, Crombie placed a few phone calls using the hands free, curious to discover the real reason for Hewes’s new found enthusiasm for unpaid overtime.

Chapter Seven

Safely indoors, the cousins gave into the giggles they’d struggled to contain through the streets.

‘Christ – being a woman is torture! Never again!’ Rhyllann hiccupped, collapsing on the stairs, pulling off mum's sandals and massaging his pulsating feet.

‘Oh, I don’t know – suits you!’

Rhyllann aimed a blow at him. Then stiffened as the doorbell rang. They looked at each other wide eyed.

‘Who …?’ Wren started

‘Shush! Quiet. Be quiet.’ Rhyllann hissed creeping forward, praying it wasn’t some busy body from school. Before he could fix an eye to the spy hole a voice boomed.

‘Crombie. Open this door please.’

Rhyllann ducked down. ‘Shee-it! It is Crombie! He must have been lurking. What are we gonna do?’

Wren looked bewildered. ‘Crombie? Crombie who?’

‘Jeez – you don’t wanna know. Detective Inspector Crombie of the Met Police. A throwback!’ Rhyllann hissed fiercely, despite his best efforts to forget the guy, an all too vivid image rose in his mind of those sharp blue eyes.

Wren didn’t seem sufficiently worried. ‘Quick – upstairs! Get changed. I’ll stall him.’

‘But he’s seen me like this!’

‘Hello in the house! Everything alright?’

‘Upstairs. Quickly.’ Wren ordered with a new note of authority.

‘Open this door, or I’ll assume you’re in trouble and break it down!’ Crombie bellowed almost making good his threat as the door bulged under his hammering.

Passing Wren his crutches, Rhyllann spun to race upstairs.

‘Hang on – sorry – just a moment!’ Wren yelled back.

Rhyllann ran in and out the shower, throwing on some track bottoms and a t shirt before hurtling into the lounge. Crombie’s hair had been gelled back in an attempt to control it. But he could do nothing about the large frame spilling from his suit emphasising the Neanderthal appearance.

Wren studied his plaster cast, flicking glances of alarm upwards, as the detective paced the room.

‘Yeah, my wife broke her ankle, playing golf. Fell down the bunker. Impossible to live with for weeks.’ Crombie said, attempting small talk.

Wren’s head shot up: ‘Annie! There you are!’ The relief in his voice far too obvious. ‘Detective Crombie’s here!’ Grabbing Rhyllann’s arm, he tugged him further into the room, using him as a shield.

‘Hello son – bet you’re glad Mum’s back!’ Crombie said, adding ‘Can you call her? I need a word.’

‘Umm. No sorry, she’s not here.’ Rhyllann muttered.

Crombie frowned. ‘Yes she is. I’ve just seen her wheel your cousin into the house.’

‘Erm. She just popped to the shops quick. We’re out of milk.’

Crombie repeated slowly. ‘Popped to the shops for some milk. Shouldn’t be too long then?’

‘Erm. She said she might drop into the garage, pick up her car. She’ll probably go for a drive – make sure its working okay now.’ Rhyllann didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. Even to his own ears, it sounded lame and he could feel his face burning.

Wren listened wide eyed, head turning from one to the other. Catching Rhyllann’s glare, finally getting the message, he struggled to his feet.

‘Excuse me please, Detective Crombie Sir. I’m exhausted. Annie, can you help me upstairs?’

‘Of course. Detective Crombie – shall I get mum to call you when she’s home?’ Rhyllann smiled hopefully.

‘Sit down.’ Crombie growled.

Rhyllann sat.

‘You too son.’

With a anxious glance at Rhyllann, Wren sat.

Looming over him, Crombie scrutinised the top of Rhyllann’s head for so long, his scalp crept. Unable to bear it any longer, he brushed his hair back stubbing his fingers against a sharp foreign object. Two pairs of eyes bored into him as he withdraw a diamante hairclip. Glowering at Wren he thrust it into his pocket.

‘What?’

Crombie blinked impassively; Wren giggled.

‘I’ve just had a shower ok? I didn’t want my hair getting wet.’ His fist clenched inside his pocket, snapping the clip in two when Crombie gave a non committal grunt.

‘Right. Us three are gonna have a little chat.’

The armchair groaned as he sank his frame into it. He sat knees apart, hands on the arm rests, as though settled for the evening.

Unnerved by the silence that followed Rhyllann prompted.

‘An informal chat?’

Cue the crocodile smile. ‘You got it.’ Turning to Wren he said abruptly.

‘Let’s start with you.’

Wren flinched. ‘Me? I don’t understand. I’ve told you what I know – they wore masks.’

Crombie leaned forward. ‘Son, I’m here to help.’ He broke off to say. ‘You. On the sofa. I don’t want you pulling faces behind my back.’

Rhyllann stopped miming at Wren, and flounced over from the corner armchair to flop next to his cousin.

‘Wren. Your Gran’s in hospital in a critical condition.’

‘I know that!’

‘I wanna catch the men responsible. But I need help. I’m asking you son, please.’

Wren looked puzzled. ‘I’ve told you everything.’

Crombie managed to convey disbelief without saying a word, he merely widened his eyes and waited for Wren to break.

As the showdown between Wren and Crombie stretched to an embarrassing length, the skin between Rhyllann's shoulders itched, and he longed to shatter the silence. Instead he rested his chin almost on his chest, hiding behind a fall of dark hair, ostrich like. Just when he could stand no more and
had
to speak, Crombie addressed Wren again.

‘You and your cousin. You look like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Your cousin looks angry enough to take on the whole world. I get the feeling both of you know more than you’re telling.’

Wren sighed. Looking Crombie straight in the eye he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘That’s better. Tell me what you know about Mike Stern.’

Rhyllann’s head shot up. ‘Mike Stern! That cantankerous old git? What’s he got to do with this – ?’

He stopped suddenly confused and frightened at the expression on Crombie’s face.

‘He’s dead.’ Crombie said.

The words hung in the air like a menacing presence. Rhyllann tried to digest this bombshell, while puzzling over the brief anger which had flared through the detective. Beside him, Wren shook; taking great gulps of air one after the other without stopping to exhale. Moving quickly Rhyllann snatched at the waste paper bin behind Crombie throwing him a filthy look in passing.

‘Well done! Break it gently why don’t you!’ He shoved the bin into Wren’s chest, pushing his head down.

‘Deep breaths brawd, deep deep breaths.’

Wren nodded, as his breathing calmed he raised his head, his colour returning to normal. Then he ducked into the bin again and threw up violently. With a warning glance at Crombie, Rhyllann hurried into the kitchen with the bin, returning with a kitchen roll and a glass of water.

‘I’m sorry, sorry, Annie – thank you.’ He gasped, accepting the tissue and sipping at the water.

Crossing his arms Rhyllann glared at Crombie, daring him to continue. Then realised Crombie would only return tomorrow if he left now. Sitting on the sofa again, he slung an arm round Wren, feeling tremors convulsing through his body.

‘Well? Happy now? Got what you came for?’

A horrible thought struck him – tightening his arm round Wren he shouted ‘You know what – you’re crazy! If you think I had anything to do with this you’re out of your mind!’

Wren pushed him away, more startled at his outburst than Crombie, who hadn’t moved a muscle since speaking, though his eyes followed every movement.

‘Annie. Stop. Calm down, please don’t shout at Detective Crombie. I’m sure he only wants to help.’ Wren tried to smile. ‘Isn’t that right Detective Crombie?’

‘I will help you. I’ll do everything in my power to help. But I need you to help me – and I need the truth – and no more theatricals.’

Rhyllann bristled at the warning. Nudging him to keep quiet Wren tried to keep the peace.

‘I can’t believe it. How did he …? When? Oh god, is Tinker OK? I bet he’s looking for me.’ Suddenly agitated he struggled to rise, Rhyllann pulled him back down.

‘S’okay son. Tinker’s the dog? The Singhs are looking after it. They got worried when it wouldn’t stop barking – went to investigate – and found Mr. Stern’s body. They told my officer a school kid usually called round to walk the dog. A Welsh kid.’

Wren collapsed into sobs again. Feeling helpless Rhyllann directed his anger at Crombie; his blood boiling with the effort of keeping his temper in check. After an age it became obvious Crombie was waiting them out again; he repeated Wren’s question.

‘How did he die?’

Crombie waited for Wren’s sobbing to subside before replying.

‘Natural causes. A heart attack. But neighbours report seeing a BMW and hearing raised voices. The same night you and your gran were attacked. Do you understand why I need to know more about your relationship?’

Rhyllann’s eyes narrowed. Crombie held up a hand against any protest.

‘Son, please. I’m not trying to fit you up. I’m satisfied you’re telling the truth. About your gran's intruders anyway. Now I’m trying to work out if Mike Stern’s visitors are connected. And your cousin’s the common link. Now let him talk and don’t interrupt, else I’ll ask you to wait outside.’

Rhyllann scowled. One moment Crombie treated him like an ASBO kid the next like a schoolboy. Wren trembled again and pity flooded him. The reclusive Mike Stern scorned contact with everyone. Apart from Wren.

Squeezing Wren’s shoulder Rhyllann urged him to talk. ‘Brawd … If you know anything.’

Wren jerked away. ‘I don’t know nothing. If you really want to help, get out there and find the people who did this.’ He indicated his foot. 

Raising his eyebrows, Crombie folded his arms, slumping back in the armchair. Looking Rhyllann squarely in the eye Crombie said.

‘I guess I’ll wait here for your mum to get back. From the shops, or the garage, or wherever she’s buggered off to.’

For what seemed an age Crombie surveyed the room deliberately, gaze lingering on the cobwebs in ceiling corners, the smeared mirror over the dusty mantelshelf, piled with neatly stacked unopened envelopes. He stared knowingly at newspaper spread over the carpet. And the mud encrusted Magnums and rugby boots waiting to be cleaned. His eyes wandered back to Rhyllann’s face, burning with shame; caught out in a transparent lie like a naughty little kid.

‘That’s blackmail.’

The words sounded sulky rather than rebellious and Crombie ignored them; glancing at his watch he said conversationally:

‘I’m off at six. After that I’ll have to give social services a shout.’ Both boys shuddered.