An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (9 page)

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. Before 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.

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.

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.

‘Alfie? You’ve given this fucking thing a name?’ He gasped as the silken tail slipped through both their hands, and Rhyllann landed in Crombie’s lap. Pushing him aside, Crombie glimpsed the tail twitching a couple of times like an angry cat, before disappearing into the darkness.

‘Oh hell.’ Swivelling round he saw Rhyllann’s holdall dumped outside the gaping bathroom door and surmised what had happened.

‘Didn’t you see the lock?’ He snapped. But Rhyllann was squeezing himself into the hole, stooping to peer around the crawl space, which Crombie estimated was only about three foot deep, though it covered the same floor area as the house.

‘Gimme your phone Crombie, I think I can see something over there.’ He called over his shoulder. Having recovered from his initial shock, he was in full macho mood.

Crombie grabbed a handful of t shirt, hauling him back.

‘Get out of there now!’ Was it his imagination or did he hear teeth snapping? Rhyllann against the beast would have no chance in such confined quarters; the cramped height would restrict movement for a midget, let alone a six footer.

Rhyllann sat on the edge of the hole, his forehead crumpled with worry lines. His bright yellow “cookie monster” t shirt draped with dusty cobweb strands, a dollop of smeared blood from Crombie’s ruined palm at the hem.

‘Crombie please - call for back up now! That crawl space - that thing - it can access all the houses in this row.’

Crombie’s stomach rolled as he realised what this meant. The walls separating the houses didn’t quite extend into the crawl way, or if they did, had passageways for cables and drainage pipes to interconnect.

‘Oh shit!’ He said closing his eyes tightly.

‘Shit shit shit.’

Rhyllann looked up at him, bewilderment in his eyes. ‘Crombie - what the hell are you doing here anyway? Is this about that twenty quid I borrowed?’

Letting out a long puff of frustration Crombie looked at his watch. Barely one o’clock. He must have dropped off for minutes.

‘Son, your timing is impeccable.’ Pushing Rhyllann aside, he stooped to peer into the cavity, thinking fast, certain he could hear scuffling movements. A rouge breath of dust tickled the back of his throat and he coughed spontaneously trying to think this one through. Would Alfie try to emerge through someone else’s floorboards? Possibly, but more probably not, and more probably none of the other bedrooms had such tatty floorboards, and more likely they’d be carpeted. If he did evacuate the houses, how likely was it he’d lose his job? Where was Wren? He realised he was muttering under his breath, and Rhyllann licked his own lacerated palms, waiting for an answer.

Coming to a decision, mainly formed by his imagination picturing Alfie surfacing in a baby’s bedroom, he pushed upright against Rhyllann’s shoulder, then yanked the youngster to his feet, leaving another smear of blood on the t-shirt.

‘Tell you later son. Let’s go break the good news to your neighbours first.’

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the front door swung open and Wren staggered in, taking three attempts to slide the yale key into his pocket, before giving up and letting it clatter to the floor.
 

‘Annie! You’re home.’ He grinned happily, clinging to the wall for support. Crombie groaned out loud.

Pushing past him, Rhyllann grabbed Wren and shook hard, shooting words out like bullets. ‘You little shit! You were supposed to pick us up! Didn’t you get my text? Jesus you didn’t drive home in that state did you?!’

Wren, still grinning pointed at Crombie. ‘Detective Tosser Crombie broke my phone. Wassup Crombie? Been showing Annie Alfie? I mean, showed Alfie Annie?’ He slid down the wall as he spoke, legs splaying like a badly jointed doll. ‘I lost my car.’ He said mournfully.

‘Oh dear lord. He’s drunk.’ Rhyllann looked at Crombie accusingly. Stepping over Wren he said ‘Come on. The sooner we get this done the better.’

Wren grabbed at Rhyllann’s ankle. ‘Get what done? Where you going?’ He hiccupped. ‘Don’t go Annie. Don’t leave me. Carrie left me. She just left me.’

Rhyllann stooped to hiss in his face:

‘We’re going to wake up everyone of our neighbours and tell them to get out of their nice warm beds, onto the cold dark street, because Crombie here thought it was a good idea ....’ He broke off suddenly, raking a hand through his hair.

‘It wasn’t Crombie was it? It was you. You put that bloody great crocodile in my bathroom. Think it was funny did you?!!’ Rhyllann’s eyes bulged, his fingers whitened, clenching Wren’s upper arms, ready to shake him again.

‘Not a crocodillo. Alligator.’ Wren giggled. ‘See you later alligator.’ The full import of Rhyllann’s intentions hit him, and he struggled to his feet, catching Rhyllann’s wrist between both hands.

‘No Annie, no! Please you can’t. You can’t do diss to me. Not Alfie. They’ll put him back in the box. And they’ll find out about Nefri, Nefri - the ellie fantie too. Please Annie, Mr Chief Inspector Tigger - tell him ... tell Annie no.’ Wren tried to focus on Crombie, but the effort proved too much, and he slumped forward, dropping his forehead against Rhyllann’s chest.

‘She left me Annie. She don’ love me. I’m a horrible person.’ To Crombie’s horror, Wren began sobbing noisily. ‘I love her. I love her so mush. An’ she don’ love me.’

‘Oh good grief - get him in the kitchen and run his head under the cold tap.’ Crombie ordered, flattening himself against the wall for Rhyllann to pass, dragging Wren, with his upper body slumped across Rhyllann’s shoulders as though they were in a three-legged race, broken banister spindles providing obstacles. A fancy dress three-legged race, Rhyllann in bright holiday gear, yellow t shirt, blue denim shorts and sandals, Wren with a retro sixties powder blue jacket with drainpipe trousers, his blond hair still streaked with orange paint. Crombie glanced at his watch again. One thirty. Of all the times for Wren to get drunk, just when he needed to pick the conniving little git’s brains! Sighing heavily, Crombie traipsed after the cousins into the kitchen, to find Rhyllann had taken his orders literally and stood at the sink holding a struggling Wren’s head under a torrent of cold water which splurged directly from the rising main.

Swiping a tea towel from the oven’s handle Crombie rushed to rescue Wren, rubbing dripping wet ice-cold hair vigorously. Steering the bewildered shivering Wren onto a kitchen chair, he yelled at Rhyllann to make coffee.

Wren sobered quickly, glaring at Rhyllann standing behind Crombie’s shoulder.

‘What did you have to let Alfie out for? Didn’t you see the big arse chain? Couldn’t you smell him?’

Rhyllann glared back. ‘It took me three hours to get home by tube. After we waited over an hour for your no-show. No-one’s bloody speaking to me! It only took two hours to fly back from Mallorca! And I had to stand all the way - next to someone eating chicken curry from a carton! Sorry my crocodile sensor didn’t work.’

‘Shut up! Shut up the pair of you!’ Crombie yelled.

Wren winced, holding his head in his hands. ‘Indoor voice - use your indoor voice.’

‘Wren please son, we’ve got to evacuate but quietly. We can’t tell everyone there’s an alligator on the loose. I’ll lose my job, and Alfie will probably be destroyed. I’ll try to keep you out of it, but with your past record son...’ Many people in authority would jump at the chance to throw books at Wren; whole libraries would rocket in his direction.

Narrowing his eyes, Wren gave him a dirty look, a look that managed to convey contempt and weariness for Crombie, and the whole idiotic situation. ‘You’ve only got to evacuate three households, not a bloody city. Go and knock ‘em up and tell ‘em there’s a gas leak or something.’ He sounded exasperated. ‘Take him with you.’ He waved a hand in Rhyllann’s direction, buried his head in his hands, hiccupped twice then slumped across the table senseless.

A nasty incessant pain started up in Crombie’s temple, his jaw clenched, but before he could wrap his hands round Wren’s scrawny neck, Rhyllann grabbed at his wrists.

‘No. He’s mine. I get to strangle him first.’

Crombie breathed in deeply through his nose, eyes still fixed on Wren, now snoring gently. ‘You don’t know what the last few days have been like, what I’ve had to put up with.’
 

Shaking his head, Rhyllann physically steered him away. ‘Oh yes I do. I’ve had to put up with it for nearly twenty years. Come on. I’ll get changed, you call the gas board and tell ‘em to back up our story.’

Accepting defeat for now, after a short conversation with Sergeant Taylor who cheerfully agreed to back him up, Crombie dialled out to British Gas. To his own ears the story sounded just about believable: The Met police needed to evacuate and they were going under the cover story of a gas leak; to prevent panic and speculation they needed the gas board’s cooperation. Within minutes British Gas, having called the station to confirm Crombie’s authenticity, were on side prepared to confirm to any doubting neighbours that an evacuation was necessary.

‘Don’t forget, this mustn’t get out - we might need to use the same excuse again, you’re under the official secrets act now.’ Crombie cautioned. But the guy on the other end of the phone line seemed delighted at the break in monotony and willingly agreed to keep their secret.

As he finished talking, Rhyllann re-appeared even more confident and authoritive than usual, dressed in combat uniform. He grinned happily as Crombie finished lying to the gas board. Grabbing Crombie’s phone and using the same line of patter, he called the reception desk of the nearest hotels. With another happy smile, he liberated Wren’s bank card to pay for the best rooms available for two nights. Then he frowned at Crombie, who looked a mess, shirt untucked from creased trousers and tatty old leather jacket with bulging pockets, but he had a warrant card, that trumped all.