An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (2 page)

For now though, Crombie crossed the road and strolled towards the North Pole Star pub, hoping he was in time to be served lunch. Instead of studying the photographs the gnome like man had given him, Crombie mused on how this part of London had got its name; maybe one of Shackleton’s many mistresses once lived in the area. More likely the pub had been renamed in the early 1900s, when it seemed the Edwardians would conquer the world, let alone both poles. If he strained to listen, a faint hurly gurly whirlitzer swirl of music drifted in the air; he could just make out the jaunty flags flying from the circus tents, framed by the viaduct of the railway bridge, which crossed the North Pole Road at the junction of Latimer Road.

Back in the seventies, social developers declared the houses ‘slums’ and one side of Latimer Road had been demolished and replaced with light industrial warehouse/office buildings; giant multi-coloured lego bricks obscuring the old abandoned railway lines. Either money ran out or common sense prevailed and the other side of Latimer Road remained standing, although the majority of the three story houses served as offices and studios.
 

The old railway lines that skirted Wormwood Scrubs!
Of course! Postponing his lunch yet again, Crombie rushed into Latimer Road, across the car park of a warehouse offering printing services, and vaulted over the six foot high metal railings topped with rusted spikes to steamroll his way down the embankment, kicking aside spiteful brambles and slimy undergrowth in his haste to test out his theory, grateful for the magnum boots giving his feet and ankles some protection against the unseen ground riddled with rabbit warrens.

Although interspersed with thistles, the rails stretched cleanly away into the distance; competent and passive. Unsurprisingly the odd sleeper was missing, they made excellent support beams; otherwise there was no sign that anyone even remembered this old railway line which had once ferried goods across the country.

Crombie paced towards the Scrubs, taking jumbo-sized steps, leaping from one sleeper to the next. Where a sleeper was missing, he skidded on fist sized gravel that shifted under foot, crunching like pebbles on a beach. After two hundred yards or so he paused to catch his breath, feeling hungrier than ever. Behind him ivy and brambles had sprung back to cover the path he’d forged down the steep embankment. From here, the smart new warehouses were invisible, apart from a smudge of roof tops opposite, Crombie could imagine himself in deepest darkest Africa. Except he was barely a hundred yards now from Wormwood Scrubs. On the other side of the tracks, a mile back the other way the White City studios of the BBC squatted; the building always reminded Crombie of a squashed wedding cake. Spinning round, he began marching in that direction, parallel with Latimer Road, for no other reason than one of the best fish and chip shops in London was located midway along this street. He paced more slowly now, the certainty growing in his mind that the elephant knappers had taken this route.

‘Elementary my dear Crombie!’ He muttered to himself. After jotting down a few notes to himself in an ever present notebook, he crunched down from the rails, back to the steep embankment soaring a good twenty feet upwards, and began climbing back to civilisation, digging in toes to secure footholds, puffing with the effort of leaning forwards without going over onto his knees.

A couple of warehousemen on a ciggie break stared astonished as Crombie swung himself back over the railings. They returned his nod and greeting politely though. Crombie’s bulk deterred a lot of questioning.

Ever cautious, Crombie checked his wallet as he walked the couple of hundred yards to the small parade of shops, flicking through credit cards and old shopping lists in vain, huffing with annoyance. He didn’t mind his girls borrowing the odd tenner, but wished they’d ask first. He huffed again at the garrulous queue lining the length of the shop’s counter, giving him no chance of a quiet promise to pay later. On the other side of the chest high counter Maudie with her tightly permed yellow hair and pinched face made non-stop chat as she shook salt and vinegar over puffy golden battered slabs, before wrapping them tightly in newspaper lined with greaseproof paper. Behind her rectanglular frame, the broad white coated shoulders of husband Peter dipped and swayed as he swiped filets of fish into off-white batter, dropping them one by one into a sizzling vat of fat, churning another vat to shovel out mountains of crinkly cut chips. Realising he was staring like one of the Bisto kids, Crombie turned on his heel, banishing the sight, but his mouth still watered at the tangy odour of chip shop vinegar.

His eyes skimmed the street automatically, a lifetime ago, this neighbourhood formed part of Crombie’s beat while he was still a foot soldier in the Met Police. Crombie’s gaze stuttered, returning to a racing green Stag convertible crouching alongside the kerb. The car was showroom standard apart from the Cymru flag on the chrome bumper and his hopes rose. It appeared an old acquaintance must be in town, one who still owed Crombie twenty quid. Whistling tunelessly, Crombie entered the tiny square of garden filled with roses, and lifted the brass knocker high before ramming it down three times. The door flew inwards with Crombie tumbling after it, just managing to get a palm against the flocked wallpaper and saving himself from falling. A voice scolded from behind the open door.

‘At last - I’m starved
 
- Oh. Oh. Hi Detective Inspector Crombie.’

Clutching the wall for balance, Crombie was almost eye level with the speaker, already stepping backwards out of reach as Crombie straightened to his full height.

Crombie recovered from surprise first.

‘Wren Prenderson. The very person.’

Wren giggled nervously.

‘The very person for what DI Crombie sir?’
 

‘The very person to speak to about a missing elephant.’

Crombie's implied accusation prompted a smile, a smile signalling disbelief, though Wren’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and a jolt of certainty ran through Crombie. If anyone in London was capable of spiriting an eight ton African Elephant into thin air without a trace, it had to be the Welsh wizard in front of him. At their first meeting, Crombie sensed the clear unblinking gaze and shy smile disguised a mind sharp enough to slice souls, the intervening five years had done nothing to change his opinion.

Returning the smile with a curl of his lip, Crombie decided to dig deeper.

‘Since I’m already in the house, maybe we could go into the lounge for a little chat.’

Wren’s eyes flickered to the open door, softening as a pretty girl around the same age as Crombie’s second oldest daughter swung into the garden path, her arms full of wrapped newspaper bundles. A lime green Alice band pulled chestnut spirals of hair back from her rather square face, dominated by hazel eyes, slim hips were covered in blue denim jeans which ended at her calf, on her feet she wore nautical blue and white striped deck shoes, matching the long sleeved t-shirt which made her appear quite curvy.

‘Uncle Derek! What a nice surprise.’ Carrie hurried through the door as she spoke, squeezing past Crombie and Wren to disappear into the back room. ‘Come into the kitchen, we’re having fish and chips for lunch, Wren you don’t mind sharing do you?’ Plates clattered as she continued ‘Or I can run back and get another portion.’

Water gushed against metal now, with a gentle wuft gas ignited; Crombie smirked at the dismay on Wren’s face.

Recovering himself Wren called back ‘No, that’s fine. So long as Uncle Derek shares.’ As always, Crombie felt there was a hidden sub-text to the little sod’s speech, and looked at him sharply, but Wren occupied himself with closing the door and motioning Crombie to move down the passage.

Crombie usually disapproved of this relationship; he and his daughter Lizzie speculated for hours on end what the sweet natured Carrie was doing hooked up with the machiavellian Wren. Although he seemed besotted with Carrie, in Crombie’s experience Wren would always put his own interests first without hesitation. Senses tantalised by the smell drifting from the kitchen, for once he felt glad to see Carrie with Wren.

In stark contrast to the narrow dingy corridor of a hallway, the kitchen had been extended. Originally the sink unit had been slap bang against the back wall, now it formed a natural divider, and Crombie skirted round it to step into the extended area, large enough to act as a dining room with a family sized wooden table and six chairs. A two seater sofa was wedged into the far left corner, about twelve feet opposite a wall hanging television screen. Underneath the plasma screen was a storage unit consisting of various square and rectangle alcoves housing among other things an x-box and controllers, cookery books as well as a collection of mis-matched cups and plates. The kitchen come diner was an organic mixture of old and new. However, the extension had eaten into the garden, already small to start off with, and barely five feet away a mustard yellow brick wall marred the farm house impression, filling the view through the window. Someone had painted a door opened just wide enough to reveal the painted scene behind of a meadow. On either side of the
trompe
l'œil
wooden trellises were nailed, and already dog roses clambered ambitiously towards the sky.

Crombie raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s clever - was it your idea?’ He smiled at Carrie, who shook her head no, pointing at Wren. Crombie’s smile faded. He should have guessed, typical smoke screen and mirrors. Aloud he said ‘Might have known it’d be you trying to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.’ Wren shrugged a shoulder, refusing to rise, but Crombie felt happier. This lunch promised to be not only appetising, but more entertaining by the minute.

‘So, where’s the third musketeer?’ Crombie asked jovially, operating delicate silver tongs around crystallised lumps of sugar, wondering why Wren couldn’t be normal and use ordinary granulated sugar, but quite enjoying plopping the coloured rocks into his mug of tea.

‘Abroad.’ Wren said. Carrie scowled at his shortness, taking a seat next to Crombie, she unwrapped the greasy paper and began divvying up the chips, slicing an equal third from each piece of fish, rolling a pickled onion onto Crombie’s plate.

‘You may as well have mine.’ Wren said, obviously thinking ahead. Unless you’d partaken too, kissing someone with onion breath was a passion killer.

‘Rhyllann’s in Mallorca with Fat Andrew, Ben and Dan. Then he’s going to America, teaching at a summer camp for a couple of months.’

Crombie’s fork dug into the fish, he could already taste the delicate moistness, when his throat closed up momentarily. Swallowing a couple of times he found his voice.

‘Isn’t it about time he signed up with the RAF? What’s he playing at?

Carrie and Wren exchanged glances.

‘Crombie, you really should talk to Rhyllann.’ It sounded like an accusation.

Crombie stared Wren down.

‘If he wants to throw it all away that’s his business, but he could have at least ...’ his voice trailed away. It
was
Rhyllann’s business. After all Crombie wasn’t his father, but ...

‘I pulled in some favours for that boy, he should have told me.’ Crombie said.

‘Maybe it isn’t his choice. Did you think of that?’ Wren lips tightened to a white line, daring Crombie to delve deeper.

‘What’s he supposed to be teaching anyway?’ Crombie changed the subject.

‘High ropes and rock climbing.’

Crombie thought he’d misheard for a second. ‘He’s terrified of heights.’

Wren shrugged. ‘He reckons he isn’t frightened of anything anymore, he’s already got his swimming instructor qualifications, and applied to BUNAC. That’s like a not for profit organisation - they sort out these summer jobs. You have your flight and board and a bit of pocket money.’

Crombie nodded, still feeling cheated somehow, knowing he wouldn’t get any more information from Wren.

‘He’ll be home by the weekend.’ Carrie said. ‘He isn’t leaving for the States till the end of June, a camp in New England wants him; Maine. They play a lot of lacrosse out there, so he’s joined a club over the Scrubs, an Irish Club. It’s a cross between hockey and rugby apparently.’ Carrie sounded dubious about this, according to Wren air traffic control diverted planes around the Scrubs when a match was on, and he made her promise not to go near the pitch, even to watch from the road.

Crombie grunted, thinking he really should have a talk with Rhyllann, get to the bottom of things. The kid should have consulted him. Surely he was owed that much.

A silence settled over the table, broken only by Carrie’s cutlery clinking. Wren ate with his hands, absently pulling the fish into bite sized chunks, Crombie at least bothered with a fork. He finally worked out what Wren had been trying to tell him, and lifted his head to glare at the manipulative little shit, only to find Wren enraptured in Carrie’s every mouthful, like a mother watching a toddler eating.

Wriggling with discomfort under so much scrutiny, Carrie blushed, and started on Crombie’s favourite subject.

‘Lizzie said you’re teaching her to drive Uncle Derek.’

Crombie nodded and chewed, preparing to boast about his favourite daughter, but before he could say a word Wren got in first.

‘Uncle Derek isn’t here for small talk Carrie. He thinks I know something about an elephant that’s gone walkabout.’

Carrie blushed again, not necessarily an indication of guilt, her fair skin blushed too easily.

‘An elephant? Why would Wren know - is this something to do with that circus over the Scrubs?’ She turned on Wren, ‘You told me it wasn’t an animal circus.’

‘Thanks Crombie. Make me out to be a liar.’ Wren sounded petulant.

Crombie smirked. ‘An elephant’s gone missing. You just happen to be in London town. Weird stuff happens around you. And if Carrie doesn’t yet know the only time you’re not lying is when your mouth’s shut, it’s time she found out.’ Humming happily, he pulled Carrie’s plate towards him.

‘If you don’t want this?’

Carrie tugged it back. ‘No. Lizzie said you’re getting far too fat, and you’re on a diet.’ Wren smiled when she added. ‘And Wren doesn’t lie, he just makes up stories.’ With a decisive bob of her head, collecting the plates, she scraped them clean and cluttered them into the sink. Crombie noticed she’d put the scraps into a bowl. Following his gaze Wren said.

‘For the local strays.’

‘Huh huh.’ Crombie leaned back on his chair and stretched his legs under the table, swallowing a couple of times against a satisfyingly salty mouth, hoping he’d be offered another cup of tea.

Wren couldn’t resist taunting him.

‘So - what does it look like this elephant of yours?’

Crombie played along, happy as always to pay out the rope.

‘About yea high.’ He stretched an arm upright above his head. ‘Dove grey, goes by the name of Lulu, wrinkly skin.’

Looking over her shoulder, Carrie said ‘We honestly haven’t seen an elephant called Lulu.’

With his suspicions confirmed, Crombie forced a smile, keeping it there until the muscles ached. He allowed the silence to drag on painfully too. When Carrie finally snapped:

‘Take a look around for yourself - go on - check the bedrooms out!’ he was on his feet and bounding up the stairs before either of the lying pair could say another word.

******

Carrie stared at the empty kitchen chair still rocking with propulsion from Crombie’s almost vertical take off. All her acting, pretend anger at Wren for nothing! Overhead floorboards creaked ominously, doors opened and slammed shut again. Any second now they’d be found out, any second Crombie would discover what lurked upstairs.

 
‘Wren, do something - stop him...’ She wailed.

Yanking her along with him, Wren hurried along the corridor, fumbling for his mobile phone taking stairs two at a time.

‘Carrie shut up! Promise you now, Crombie won’t never tell another living soul!’

Carrie gibbered, trying to wrest free of Wren’s vice like grip, wishing she could turn back the clock somehow, dreading what was to come.

They collided with Crombie on the second landing, he’d obviously started at the third floor, Wren’s rooms, now with only the briefest of pauses he threw open the door to Rhyllann’s bedroom. Originally two rooms, an inner wall had been demolished creating an area covering the entire second storey, apart from a corner sectioned off to form an ensuite bathroom.

‘Hot tub. Annie wanted a hot-tub. Don’t go in there Crombie - someone’s taking a bath.’ Wren warned, as Crombie stomped over.

‘Sorry son what did you say?’ Crombie shoved the door forward to bounce on its hinge, looking back at Wren with a triumphant smirk on his face as he stepped over the threshold.

Carrie opened her mouth, but all that came out was a croak. She tugged desperately on Wren’s arm, begging him mutely to do something - but it was too late.

Yelping with surprise, Crombie staggered back, slamming the door shut. His eyes which had been closed in terror, flew open, and stared unseeing into the room. The only sound now was that of water sloshing noisily in the unseen oversized bath, and the ragged breathing of the otherwise motionless detective.
 

Carrie’s hands flew to her mouth, Uncle Derek would never forgive her for this, it didn’t help that Wren was almost on his knees beside her, struggling to keep his mobile phone steady as he convulsed with laughter.

Torn between sympathy and her own giggles, Carrie took a couple of steps towards her best friend’s dad, thinking of all the times he’d allowed her and Lizzie to stay up a little bit later, given them lifts to the local pool, waited patiently for the school disco to end and generally treated her as a fifth daughter.

‘Uncle Derek.’

She broke the spell and brushing her aside, Crombie stormed over to Wren, and wrestled the mobile from him to pound it under a muddy boot.

‘Crombie! My phone!’ Wren could barely get the words out through his giggles. For the briefest of moments Crombie’s hand hovered dangerously around Wren’s face. Clenching his fist, still not looking at Carrie, he clumped down the stairs. Suddenly furious with Wren, Carrie slapped him.