An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (6 page)

‘He’s right. Keep stum. I wanna get out of here.’

Mr Rose couldn’t quite get the hang of the microphone, looking down to refer to his notes often with the result that the first part of his sentences were all Crombie ever caught. For all anyone knew, the old boy could have been proposing free drugs, sex and booze for the whole country. Whatever he had to say, the Assistant Chief Constable, his aide and the vastly overweight woman from Social Services heartedly agreed, nodding enthusiastically. Crombie guessed Mr Rose was someone very high up in the pecking order.
 

At last the droning stopped, after a pause there was a scattering of applause, and Crombie stretched feeling joints crackle. A subdued group filed out of the doors to the right and left of the rostrum; feeling eyes on him, Crombie kept his head down. It was way too late in his career to worry about making friends or enemies for that matter. Reaching the ground floor the conference crowd straggled towards the main exit, and Ricky caught Crombie up.

‘Mate, thanks for going into bat for me in there.’

Crombie continued shrugging his arms into his jacket, rotating his shoulders a couple of times until the jacket fell into its usual creases, like a second skin.

‘Walked into it really didn’t he?’

‘Buy you a drink?’

Sensing his hesitation Ricky said ‘Come on, I ain’t seen you in over two years, when’s the next time we’ll have a chance? Just the one - promise.’

As he spoke, Ricky pushed against one of the side doors and glad to escape the throng of bodies flooding through the double main doors, Crombie slipped through. Once down the steps onto the pavement it seemed churlish to refuse, especially as Ricky kept tight hold of his elbow, urging him to hurry before the PC brigade chased after them.

A couple of heads turned as they entered the Pontefract Pub, then they were dismissed. One of the benefits of middle age; you became invisible. As his eyes adjusted from the sunlight to the pinkish artificial glow, Crombie saw the pub’s clientele were mainly huddled around circular tables raised on chrome pedestals. Thankfully half a dozen or so upholstered benches against the walls were provided for old fogies who needed to take the weight off their feet, and Ricky pointed towards a vacant bench, heading for the bar. Edging between the bench and low slung coffee table which still managed to catch his shins, Crombie sat down, uncomfortably low to the ground, consoling himself that they wouldn’t be staying long. On the bench diagonally opposite two overweight women, one brunette one blonde preened themselves.
 

Nudging Crombie’s knee, as he placed two pints on the table, Ricky winked settling himself on the bench next to Crombie with a practiced shuffle.

Crombie laughed at the notion, shaking his head just as the blonde one looked over in their direction, and her friendly glance turned into a glower.

They avoided talking shop, contenting themselves with criticising the kids slumping over the mushroom like tables with their jeans halfway down their backsides, showing the top half of their underwear; in the case of the males brightly coloured boxers. Rickie speculated on the comfort of the girls’ thongs and both admitted bewilderment on why anyone would want to show off such unattractive flesh and dodgy tattoo designs.

‘Must be freezing their arses off.’ Ricky grinned at his own quip, indicating Crombie’s rapidly emptying glass said ‘Same again?’

Instead of declining Crombie felt obliged to say ‘I’ll get this one, but then I’ve gotta go.’ The two women of his own age were being chatted up by men young enough to be their nephews at least, the blonde one tossed her head as Crombie passed, and trilled with laughter at a remark by one of the men, who seemed gratified that someone actually found him amusing.

Levering himself into a space at the bar, Crombie propped an elbow on the chest high surface, holding a fiver up for the attention of one of the bar keeps. At the far end of the bar, he witnessed a curious incident.

The majority of drinkers were under thirty and held out strips of plastic ready to pay for their drinks. Nothing unusual in that, more and more Crombie found himself in the minority, paying in cold hard cash. What was unusual was the furtive action taking place at the end of the bar. A trio of older men huddled close, shoulders hunched and heads lowered, but there was no mistaking the actions of their hands, and Crombie counted silently with them, so engrossed the skinny youth behind the bar had to ask him twice for his order. Realising he was staring, Crombie averted his gaze, pretending to read the upside labels of the spirit bottles behind the bar, but using the burnished cooper lining the wall to continue counting. Apart from taking a natural interest in large amounts of money changing hands, Crombie was trying to think where he’d seen the faces of the two men receiving the money.

‘Crombie you wanna stop staring at the Lampton Boys?’ Ricky materialised at his shoulder to whisper a warning. Raising his voice he added ‘Get us a couple of packets of crisps.’ The barman thought Rick was addressing him, looking bored he said ‘Sorry mate, no crisps, only pork scratchings. Youwannapack?’

‘No, no worries. Thanks mate.’ Giving Crombie another warning nudge, Ricky picked up his pint and led the way back to their table.

All business done, the Lampton Boys made their exit, rolling their way towards the door with a swagger. They had deep set eyes in broad confident faces, and wore the latest cargo pants, with polo t-shirts under hip length maroon cotton jackets. Crombie caught a glimpse of a pewter grey Bentley parked outside on double yellow lines, which pulled away silently as soon as the doors clunked shut.

‘I’ve seen that limo before.’ Crombie said.

Ricky shrugged. ‘They couldn’t be more obvious, Harry likes a bit of flash. Flash Harry. He’s laughing at me Crombie. Waving two fingers under my nose. Know what his reg plate is? 000HL. The bastard knows I can’t touch him.’

Crombie frowned: ‘Flash Harry and The Lampton Boys?’

Ricky nodded with his nose inside his drinking glass. Coming up for air, he swiped his mouth and still sotto voce explained.

‘We got files on him going back to 1963, about the time of the Notting Hill race riots, come on Derek, you must have heard of him.’

Crombie shook his head, meeting Ricky’s disbelieving stare with a shrug.

‘Well, I suppose he has kept his head down for the last twenty odd years.’ Ricky conceded ‘But you’ve heard of the Tramshed?’

As its name indicated, the building had once been used to store trams, and occupied a prestigious cul-de-sac off Tottenham Court Road.

‘Yeah, I know it.’ In fact, only last month Lizzie had applied for a part time job there, selling programmes for the many music and sporting events hosted in the popular club. Much to Crombie’s relief, she’d been rejected as being too young and told to come back when she was twenty-one.

‘He owns that, and a security company. He provides all the muscle for a lot of events, and rumour has it he takes 33.3%.’

‘And those were his sons?’ Crombie asked, tracing the outline of Killer’s photographs through his pocket, certain now where he’d seen those arrogant faces before.

‘Two of ‘em anyway. The eldest died in a hit and run five years ago. The younger one’s Craig and the elder one is Malcolm. There’s one in between, Maurice, he’s the real talent. Started out as a ticket tout, now he’s a promoter. Music, sport, knows a lot of people. A
lot
of people. There’s a daughter but she’s in New Zealand.’ Ricky explained. ‘Funny thing about the old man, he’s got these dreadful varicose veins, all knobbly blue feet and legs, but he never wears socks.’ He snorted with derision.

‘Funny.’ Crombie agreed, tracing the outline of Killer’s photos through his pocket, weighing consequences in his mind, should he go through official channels first, or sound out Chandri, who was really warming to his subject now:

‘The clubs are all legit - even what you saw just now Lampton would have it covered - come up with paperwork saying he owned ten percent or whatever.’ Ricky swallowed hard, his eyes focussed on one of the bronzed half globe lamps. 'The Tramshed’s been raided a couple of times - but someone must tip the bastard off.’

Before Crombie could prompt him, Ricky grimaced. ‘I know he’s been holding bare knuckle fights after hours. But no-one’ll talk.’ Shaking his head as if to clear an image from his mind, Ricky took a couple of gulps of beer, and swiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Another thing. We reckon Harry’s got a little hideaway some place - a clearing house if you like.’
 
He shook his head again and tried to smile. ‘Remember that geezer involved with the Heathrow Airport Robbery? The one that wrote a book about it? Well he’s been on the missing list for nearly a year now. I reckon Harry’s behind that. Didn’t like his name being mentioned. Tell you what I’d love to find his hidey hole.’

Crombie saw again the scrap yard at the end of Latimer Road. Under the concrete jungle of the A40 White City roundabout, huddling against a thirty foot railway embankment.

‘Crombie you OK?’

In answer Crombie withdrew the photographs from his pocket and passed them wordlessly to his colleague.

Chandri’s jaw moved from side to side as he stared down at the grandfatherly figure in the photographs.

At six feet tall, Harry Lampton was above average height for most Londoners of his generation, sported glasses reminiscent of Buddy Holly and persisted in greasing back his hair like an aging teddy boy. He no longer wore a drape coat though, settling for a hip length cardigan with bulging patch pockets. His two grinning sons knelt either side of Harry’s unsmiling form, both resting one hand casually on Alfie’s back. Crombie noted there appeared to be duct tape around the alligator’s snout. All three Lamptons’ faces gleamed with excitement, and they all appeared to dine on steak and fresh strawberries daily.

Ricky examined the photos, holding them close to his chest. Shaking his head and grinning he passed them covertly back to Crombie.

‘Blimey! Harry Lampton’s crocodile! I thought it was another urban myth.’

Propping his elbows on the table, he rested his chin on the back of his hands, glancing sideways at Crombie. ‘I ain’t gonna ask you where you got those, but my advice is get rid of them.’ He sunk his chin deeper into his hands, a man defeated.

‘But these could get a search warrant. You could raid the Tram.’

Concern grew in Ricky’s eyes. ‘Haven’t you been listening? It’ll be clean as a whistle. Lampton don’t get his hands dirty, just skims a third off the top. But one thing he insists on, is keeping control of all the fights. Bare knuckle, dogs, and here he is with his crocodile. Word on the street even floated up to us, someone nicked his crocodile. And he ain’t a happy bunny. And one thing you don’ never wanna do is piss Harry Lampton off.’

‘But this is enough to nail him - bring him in for questioning, get search warrants for his home and the Tramshed Club.’ Crombie insisted, annoyed when Ricky laughed at his naivety.

‘Try. Just fucking try. Didn’t you hear me say he greases a lot of palms?’ He swallowed hard, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve heard he’s got a farm up at Burnham Beeches. A pig farm. Rumour has it our Harry can tell you exactly how long it takes for a pig to consume a human body.’

His own mouth suddenly dry, Crombie tucked the photos away in a pocket, and swigged the rest of his ale, the place seemed too hot, too crowded and too noisy and he longed to be out of here. Ricky touched his arm briefly.

‘Sorry mate. Best thing you can do is forget you ever saw those photos. I already have.’ Catching the eye of the blonde now sitting alone, he winked and tipped his empty glass in an invitation. Crombie caught his arm before Ricky could waltz off to make new friends.

‘If I could get you a warrant, would you raid the place?’

A flicker of interest followed by amusement crossed Ricky’s face.

‘You don’t give up do you?’ Producing a card he passed it over to Crombie, grinning.

‘Alright. You’re on. If you can get a warrant, text me.’

‘If you do raid the place, I wanna be there.’ Crombie didn’t want anyone thinking he wasn’t up for this.

Walking away, Ricky aimed a forefinger and thumb at him. ‘You’re on pardner.’

Despite faithfully following the diversion signs around the crumbling concrete of Hammersmith flyover, Crombie found himself horribly lost, the charms of the river Thames palling after the third crossing. If he splashed out on a ‘Sat Nav’ his life would be a lot easier, except Crombie mistrusted electronic devices that gave orders almost as much as he distrusted men who couldn’t read maps. Undaunted, the next time one of the little yellow signs appeared, Crombie ignored it and struck out in a north westerly direction. He grinned to himself on passing the art deco Hammersmith Broadway tube station, huddling between modern offices, happy that it not only survived, but served a useful function amid all this scary new technology. A couple of hundred yards on to his right, a soaring tower block composed completely of glass also bore the sign Hammersmith Broadway tube station; Crombie’s grin disappeared, although it was some consolation that at least someone showed imagination in trying to preserve the relic of bygone splendours, and the sense that London consisted of a series of villages.
  

Shepherd’s Bush Green didn’t even try to pretend. The park sized grassy interior of the encircling road roundabout reminded him of the aftermath of a music festival. The bodies littering the open space definitely were not sunbathing; at seven in the evening it was just turning dusk.

The wino brigade slumped senseless on the Green increased every time he passed this way, and Crombie wondered which came first, the drink then homelessness, or homelessness followed by drink. Or drugs, he reminded himself, although those two were by no means mutually exclusive. At least with alcohol some regulation existed. Some of the stories he heard from Lizzie made his hair stand on end: Girls, well young women she associated with who smoked weed or skunk on a daily basis, and would ‘hook’ up with anyone if their regular dealer didn’t have a supply. Crombie couldn’t fathom how people could be so trusting, to place their health and maybe their life in the hands of a complete stranger, a stranger involved in criminal activity at that. Maybe young Heather Clack had a point: If the government were to step in and legalise drugs the underworld that existed to “service” this need would vanish overnight.

Yeah right Crombie
, he jeered.
And they’ll take up stamp collecting instead.

Telling himself better and cleverer folk were paid a lot more money than him to sort out the country’s problems, Crombie dragged his mind back to the road ahead, groaning as he saw brake lights lighting up his route as far as the horizon as commuters queued up to get on the A40 which led to the M40 and the suburbs.

Damn it! Everyone had the same idea; he’d be so late for dinner, and he’d been warned to be early too as the new in-laws were due over. He groaned again at the thought of being in the dog house
and
having to make polite conversation with his eldest daughter’s husband’s parents. If he had his way, none of his girls would get married until they were at least middle aged. A little further to his left Wood Lane going towards Scrub’s Lane looked clear of traffic, and Crombie finally admitted to himself that he wouldn’t sleep tonight until he’d spoken with Wren.

He drove past The North Pole, into Latimer Road, pulling into the kerb behind Rhyllann’s sporty little Stag. After his usual fight with the driver’s door catch, he joined the queue at Maudies.

Grunting in response to Maudie’s automatic greeting, he tucked the bundles of fish and chips under his arm, telling himself fish was good for the brain, and potatoes were a type of vegetable.

Wren’s voice called out in response to his knock.

‘Come through DI Crombie, door’s on the latch.’

Wren was up a metal “A” frame ladder in the doorway of the kitchen, blotting out any stray rays from the setting sun, making the corridor dimmer than ever. He clambered down as Crombie approached, folding the ladder against the wall, even so Crombie only managed to squeeze past.

‘How d’you know it was me son?’ Crombie asked.

‘Because you just had to come and check on the lock, and I’d recognise that diesel engine anywhere.’ Wren replied, clearing a tray of what appeared to be water paints from the kitchen table and shoving it back into its usual central position.

‘What are you up to?’ Crombie asked, squinting up at the fan light.

‘Annie hates that thing.’ Wren waved off handedly. ‘Says it depresses him, the sunlight barely comes through anyway and makes the hallway even gloomier.’

Setting down the newspaper bundles, Crombie picked up a jar of paint, twisting it to read the label. ‘Glass paints eh?’

‘Yes Crombie. They work well on glass.’ Wren mocked. Crombie took a couple of steps backwards, to get a better view of the scene glistening wetly on the small rectangle of glass above the door frame.

‘That’s quite good son - how’d you manage the lead?’

‘It’s a type of plastic, and it dries out that silvery black colour. Not bad.’

The dingy smeared window had been transformed into a piece of coloured church glass, only instead of a biblical scene; Wren had painted an art deco sun with thick rays outlined in the fake lead. When he switched the kitchen light on, the orange and yellow paint glowed creating the illusion of warmth.

‘Not bad at all.’ Crombie said, unwrapping the fish and chips. ‘Hope you don’t mind, I thought seeing as how I pinched your lunch the other day, my treat. I got Skate this time.’ He looked around frowning.

‘Where’s your better half?’

Wren concentrated on drying his hands with the tea towel, paying extra attention to the soft webbing between his fingers.

‘Carrie?’ He paused. ‘She’s left me.’ He looked up to smile brightly at Crombie. ‘Tea?’

‘Left you?’ Crombie shifted his weight from leg to leg. ‘You mean you’ve had a row.’

‘Whatever. You should be pleased. You’ve told her enough times I’m no good.’ He tipped the kettle to one side, lighting the gas underneath, then turned to face Crombie. ‘Plus you get her share.’

Crombie knew he should be glad; Carrie was far too sweet for Wren. Yet. They
had
seemed good together, and for a while even Crombie believed that maybe Carrie was a good influence on the precocious Wren.
 

Wren’s back turned again as he fussed over the tea things and opened cupboards to root around for tomato sauce and plates. His movements stilled when Crombie said.

‘I’m sorry she’s left you, but not sorry she’s gone. You’ve made a dangerous enemy son.’

The kettle whistled, Wren lifted it from the gas hob and poured boiling water into mugs, stirred vigorously and buttered bread before placing it on the table, nodding at Crombie to unwrap their meal. His eyes were hooded.

‘You mean Harry Lampton.’ He turned to fish the teabags out, then ferried the mugs to the table, taking a seat opposite Crombie.

‘You know about him?’

Wren nodded, and began picking at his meal.

‘Where’s Carrie now?’

Wren consulted his watch. ‘Somewhere over the Strait of Gibraltar I should think.’ His lips clamped, and Crombie realised she’d probably flown out with Killer to Africa.

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go if you like.’ Crombie offered.

‘No, stay, I’ll never manage three helpings. Though Alfie would probably be pleased.’

‘How did you do it? I’ve been to that yard.’

A trace of Wren’s usual smugness appeared.

‘I followed them out to the Tramshed Social Club, waited till the show finished. Created a diversion.’ A nervous giggle escaped him at the memory. ‘Alfie was in his box. I swapped boxes with one I’d made earlier.’ He glanced at Crombie.

‘Don’t tell Carrie. She thinks I swapped the boxes before the fight. That seemed a little too risky.’

Crombie nodded agreement. Doubtless with the alligator’s show over, he’d be left in the box until the next time he was needed and it might have been days before the switch was discovered. Even so, it had taken guts.

‘Did you see the fight?’

‘No. I heard it though.’ The corners of Wren’s mouth twitched, and he looked up at Crombie with a haunted expression in his eyes.

‘Did you see into the yard?’

Crombie shook his head no.

‘You didn’t see the freezers? Chest freezers.’ Wren suddenly remembered Crombie took sugar and pushed the bowl over to his side of the table. ‘They’ve got an angle grinder too. Next to a wood chipper.’

Crombie’s blood ran cold. ‘You knew all this yet went ahead and stole that bloody thing from under Lampton’s nose?’ Deliberately reaching across the table he slapped Wren across the face. Wren saw it coming but barely flinched.

‘You didn’t stop and think of the danger you were putting that young girl in? Yourself in?’ Crombie couldn’t get the words out coherently.

‘I didn’t know. I don’t know everything. I would have done it differently, I would have got Carrie away first. But she’s gone now’ He touched his fingers to his cheek, tracing the red marks from Crombie’s hand.

‘Don’t bother to apologise. You’ve wanted to do that for a long time.’

They glared at each other across the table. Crombie had no intention of apologising, and stuck out his chin, hoping Wren would try to hit him back, because he would love another excuse to slap him again. Wren spoke first.

‘I’m going after him.’

It took a moment to work out who Wren meant.

‘Lampton? No you’re not. That bastard’s mine.’ Crombie said firmly. His and Ricky’s anyway.

The fight went out of Wren, reaching behind, he stretched into the cupboard below the sink tipping back on his chair precariously. He straightened up again, a bottle in his hand before Crombie could warn him to sit forward.

Tipping a dollop of whiskey into Crombie’s tea then his own, Wren laughed at Crombie’s expression. ‘I know, I’ll break my back one day.’

Crombie gave an unwilling smile, thinking Wren was more likely to get his neck broken by someone first, and that would be a pity, life would become a little less colourful. Reading his mind in that uncanny way he had Wren said. ‘I know you don’t trust me Crombie, but I think you like me a little bit.’ He raised his mug in a salute, after a moment’s hesitation Crombie clinked mugs and sipped the sweet whiskey laced tea, it tasted like nectar.

‘I swear to god Crombie, I never realised how dangerous Harry Lampton was.’ Below his breath he mumbled. ‘I would never have got Carrie involved.’

‘You should have stopped at the elephant son.’

They both grinned at the absurdity of that statement, a companionable silence settled on the room until Wren spoiled things by talking about Lampton again.

‘You’re really going after him?’

Crombie tapped the pocket holding the photographs.

‘I think I bumped into your mate Killer. He gave me a couple of snaps. I’m hoping to get a warrant and search the scrap yard.’

Wren surveyed him, the strange grey flecks in his eyes kaleidoscoped turning them silvery blue, and Crombie gave an involuntary shiver.

‘What?’

‘Those photos aren’t enough. Not for a search warrant.’ Pushing up from the table he said ‘Wait here.’

Crombie waited patiently at first, examining the table’s surface, battle scarred with old splatters of paint and scratch marks and scorches from a thousand meals, and here and there initials carved into the wood too. It must have been in the family for generations. As time dragged on he glanced at the door, thinking he’d give it another five minutes before shouting up the stairs to ask Wren how much longer he’d be kept twiddling his thumbs.

What happened next wasn’t really his fault. Staring down at the sheet of A4 paper on which Wren had roughed out a preliminary design sketch, he noticed something written on the other side. Out of pure boredom he flipped it over. It took a while to decipher Wren’s spidery scribble. By the time he realised it was extremely personal, the damage was done.

Carrie, (the note read) you’ll never read this, I won’t embarrass either of us by trying to change your mind. I love you beyond words, beyond worlds even, and nothing will change that. I can’t change either. To paraphrase, I can only hope my virtues outweigh the vices, and loving you sweetheart is my greatest virtue.