A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (9 page)

Earlier that morning, while god fearing folk were all abed, because it was dark, and the chances of being caught minimal, Crombie’s smile remained in place as he crept out from the marital bedroom and downstairs avoiding the creaky step to tiptoe into the kitchen. Before the florescent light flickered fully on, he glided to the double door American style fridge which acted as a white board, and added a note under his wife’s neatly printed reminder for Sunday.

D. Don’t forget. Paul and Sandra for Sunday Lunch to discuss wedding seating arrangements & bridesmaids’ bouquets. .

Three red marks underlined ‘Don’t forget.’

Still grinning broadly, Crombie drew a frowny face. Scribbling “Sorry sweetheart. Gotta a phone call from the top. They want me at the Yard.” Rummaging through the ironing basket he found a not too wrinkled polo shirt and a pair of jeans. The only socks he could find were ‘Mister Men’ novelty socks, but no one would see them. Snatching up his jacket from behind the front door, he eased open the dead bolt, peering out to see a car blocking his drive: Crombie could just make out the uniformed driver by dawn’s first light.

The ominous disembodied voice demanding his presence at the Yard should have fill him with foreboding, instead, Crombie thanked his lucky stars rather than cursing his misfortune. He knew his wife would handle the in-laws-to-be just fine. In fact, things would probably go smoother without his presence.

With barely a twinge of guilt, Crombie eased himself into the passenger seat, buckling his belt as the car purred away, heading towards Central London.

*

Despite a campaign by the present mayor of London to open the “Black Museum” to the public; since 1877 the police had steadfastly refused to make a “peep show” of their macabre collection of murderers’ weapons and artefacts. Rightly so in Crombie’s opinion, too often victims became forgotten while murderers and their crimes gained notoriety. That didn’t stop him from peering at the letters under the glass display case supposedly written by "Jack the Ripper". To Crombie’s mind they were almost certainly hoaxes, no great detection feat really, as three were completely different in handwriting and syntax, and outside of fiction serial killers enjoyed their work too much to risk any chance of revealing their identity and getting caught. Aware of a soft breathing beside him, he turned, to come face to face with a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.

‘Cavan Beckinson.’ The name sprung to his lips, and memories of Hendon flooded back. Cavan had been born middle aged, but now he’d grown into his looks. Iron grey hair and half moon spectacles rimmed in a lighter grey perched on a long aristocratic nose, he’d barely gained a pound in weight; although he'd always been big boned. His taste for handmade suits from Savile Row hadn't changed either.

‘Derek old man. Good to see you after all this time.’ As Cavan shook hands he grasped Crombie’s upper arm, squeezing gently. Beckinson had been slumming it back at Hendon, clearly out of the other recruits’ league and destined for higher things. Whilst training, they’d barely exchanged more than a daily greeting; yet Beckinson appeared to reflect Crombie’s pleasure at meeting someone who’d shared his youth.
 

Still grasping his arm, Beckinson guided him out along the corridor and into a corner office, the outer walls composed of glass. Crombie walked behind Beckinson’s desk, gazing down at minions scurrying below, even a pre-wedding meeting with his daughter’s intended parents suddenly seemed more appealing. Somehow he doubted Beckinson had summoned him for his opinion on the Met’s latest “Community Care” campaign.

Crombie kept an impassive face as Beckinson steered him over to a pair of bulky cream leather sofas, congratulating him on his recent commendation, his daughter’s coming nuptials, his wife’s progress at the local WI, and his youngest daughter’s qualification as a scuba diver. Formalities over, Beckinson got down to business without any further beating about the bush.

Pushing a round low coffee table to one side, he dropped a file into Crombie’s lap, before sitting opposite; beneath their feet was a rug of Moorish patterns, mainly worked in muted reds, greens and cream.

Receiving a nod to his enquiring glance, Crombie opened the file as Beckinson talked him through the reports in his plumy accent. Crombie scratched his head as he finished. Then re-read the file in silence. He hadn’t realised Mikey Stern had tried and failed to become a police officer. According to Beckinson’s report, he’d been chucked out of Hendon for "inappropriate racial remarks and behaviour." Even stranger, it seemed WPC Hewes attended Hendon at the same time. Peculiar of the woman not to have mentioned it before now.

Across the way, Beckinson let out a barely inaudible sigh of relief, slumping against the sofa’s back for the first time, acknowledging he’d made the right decision to bring Crombie in.

‘You’re putting me between a rock and a hard place you know that don’t you?’

‘Sorry old chap. The cookie crumbles that way sometimes.’

‘You can’t freeze me out. I want in on the Interpol meeting. And I want some of the action.’

Beckinson nodded, as though he’d expected nothing less of Crombie. Rising to his feet, he stretched his hand out again for Crombie’s shake.

‘The kids? They’ve been contained?’

Crombie thought for a moment. ‘They’re in a safe place. I’ll make certain they stay put if they know what’s good for them.’

Beckinson accompanied Crombie to the lift, this time the welcome warmth of the Spring weather the safe topic of conversation.

As the lift doors whispered closed, Beckinson held them back for one last question.

‘You think they’ve recovered the text?’

‘From the burglary you mean?’ Crombie clicked his tongue uncertainly. ‘No idea. Rhyllann Jones told PC Davidson nothing of value had been taken from the house. Both kids are lying. The older kid’s an honest liar though. The younger one … I dunno. He’s upset about gran, devastated by the old man’s death. But.’

Cavan peered at him from above the half moon glasses, his benevolent expression at odds by the sharpness with which he read Crombie's mind.

‘But you think he could have prevented all this?’

Crombie hesitated. Then: ‘Yes. That kid’s got his own agenda.’ He paused again, unwilling to admit it: ‘And it scares the life out of me.’
Riding down alone to the ground floor, on exiting the building he climbed back into the courtesy car, and directed his driver to Dottie Reade's house.

Time to let Wren Prenderson know Crombie was onto him,

Every head in the classroom swivelled as Rhyllann entered. Becky patted the seat next to her, Rhyllann flushed, but before he could make his way over Ben and Andrew mobbed him. Clamouring to know where he’d been, how Wren had broken his foot, and why they’d been driven to school.

‘Well, I can’t really say too much – it’s on-going – but …’ The class quietened as the headmaster stalked into the room, looking as though he’d caught a whiff of rotten eggs.

‘Rhyllann Jones – if I can tear you away for a moment.’

Wren waited in the corridor, swamped in Rhyllann’s out grown jeans and a borrowed shirt and hoodie, he looked about twelve.

‘Hey Annie. You and me are special. We’re having private lessons.’ 

Mr Robinson sniffed. ‘You certainly are special. Follow me please.’ He flicked at Rhyllann’s hair, frowning. ‘Thought I told you to get this cut?’

Wren snapped. ‘He can’t. It's his religion.’

Robinson’s eyebrows rose, wrinkling his bald scalp. ‘Pray do tell. And what religion would that be?’

‘Pantheism.’

Rhyllann sniggered as Robinson unlocked the naughty kids’ room, his bony fingers white with rage. He’d never heard of it either; from the look on Robinson’s face he couldn’t wait to scurry back to his office to look the word up.

Catching Robinson’s glare, he slumped into a seat, slinging his bag on the desk.

‘I see you know the drill.’

Wren protested shrilly. ‘This isn’t right! Why are we here? We haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘I’ve been asked by a Detective Inspector Crombie to ensure your security at all times. He seemed to infer that my position here as headmaster depended on it.’

Rhyllann groaned. Way to go Crombie, he thought.

‘But …’

‘But nothing. Get your books out, and settle down to work.’

‘I don’t have my books. I don’t have anything.’ Wren sounded sulky.

‘Then I suggest you sit quietly, and contemplate on how much easier all our lives would be if everyone minded their own business, stuck to their own jobs, and let others get on with theirs.’

Robinson swept out the room, having got his own back on Pantheism.

‘Annie … say something Annie.’

Rhyllann refused to answer. Something about this room sapped his will to live. He didn’t even protest when Wren reached over, rummaging in his bag.

‘Sit down Master Wren.’ Wren spun round, head swivelling as he searched for the cameras.

‘This is an infringement of my human rights.’ He stated to the room.

‘Duly noted. Take it up with Detective Inspector Crombie.’

‘At least let us sit in the library – I haven’t done anything. We haven’t done anything. We’ve got a right to an education. You’re just picking on us. It's because we’re Welsh.’

A melody of electronic bleeps sounded. Rhyllann frowned over at Wren, hands busy under the desk while he kept up an non-stop triage against injustice.

‘My mobile!’ he hissed.

Wren made a fierce face at him. Seconds later he passed Rhyllann's crappy old mobile, held together with duct tape, back. With mounting incredulity Rhyllann read the text sent to all contacts in his friends’ folder.

‘You little turd. You’re gonna get me killed.’

Wren jerked his hands upwards. ‘I said they can blame me.’

‘Yes. You sent “blame me” on my mobile. Everyone’s gonna think it was me!’ Not to mention using up all his credits.

‘Whoops!’ Wren rocked with suppressed laughter, Rhyllann clenched his fists.

‘You bastard!’ he hissed. At that moment the fire alarm sounded – clamouring throughout the building. Wren grabbed his elbow crutch.

‘C’mon Annie – I think the quickest way out is through that window.’

Snatching up his bag, Rhyllann followed, murderous thoughts rampaging through his head.

They shuffled through excited throngs of chattering kids towards the school gate. This was just stupid. They’d never make it – outside the school grounds they’d stick out like sore thumbs Rhyllann thought, spotting WPC Hewes darting from group to group.

Rhyllann chewed his bottom lip, thinking he could bluff his way out of this, pretend the fire alarm text was a joke which someone had taken seriously. Then the stork like Robinson appeared on the school steps. He could put up with Hewes’s sarcasm and Robinson’s scorn; but not both. Not today.

Dragging Wren with him, he strode away from the gate. WPC Hewes had seen them! She was headed this way! Oh hell, at worst they’d be thrown back in the naughty room.

‘Nothing to do with us – someone playing a silly joke …’ The lie died on his lips. Ignoring him, WPC Hewes broke into a trot, tilting her head to speak into her radio, passing them blindly.

Wren pulled at his arm. ‘Quick! We can crawl through that hedge – into that back garden.’ Rhyllann scanned the playground again – no one looked in their direction. He squeezed after Wren praying there was no-one in the house.

A narrow passage connected the rear garden to the front. Unbolting the wooden side gate, Rhyllann peered out cautiously. Half the neighbourhood crowded onto the pavement to watch as three massive fire engines roared up to the school, sirens howling, lights blazing. Some residents had kids at the school, they hurried to the gate, straining for a closer look. There was no sign of the policewoman, or any teachers, and the street would never be busier.

‘C’mon. Now or never. Just carry the crutch – hang on to my bag.’

Wren nodded. With an odd lurching motion they moved unnoticed away from the crowd, Rhyllann trying to ignore the persistent little voice in his head telling him to turn back: Turn back and face the music before it was too late.