An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (7 page)

Crombie could only hope Wren never discovered a middle aged detective had read his forlorn love letter. Hearing footsteps on the stairs and spotting a greasy copper sized thumbprint just above Carrie's name, crumpled the paper and shoved it into his pocket, then hurriedly busied himself piling plates and cups onto the draining board, just as Wren stepped down into the kitchen looking flustered.

‘Sorry Crombie, I put it somewhere safe, then couldn’t remember where.’ He smiled ruefully, holding out a stubby slip of plastic. Unable to meet Wren’s eyes, certain he somehow knew that his billet deux to Carrie with its hopeless plea had been read, Crombie took the memory stick and dropped it into a side pocket alongside the photos and purloined love letter. Wren frowned.

‘Crombie, if you mean what you say about going after Lampton, that thing’s dynamite. Make sure you look after it.’

To hide his embarrassment, Crombie lashed out. ‘I’ve been doing this since before you were born son, I don’t need you to tell me what to do.’ Skirting round the sink counter, he pushed past Wren rudely.

‘Sorry Crombie, I didn’t mean to ... I’m sorry. Annie’s right. I’ve got no social skills.’

Already halfway down the corridor, Crombie turned to look over his shoulder. Slumped against the sink counter, the kid looked the picture of misery, but managed a self-deprecating smile. He really shouldn’t be left alone.

 
‘When’s Rhyllann home?’

‘Erm? Sorry? Oh you mean Annie. Today or tomorrow. Sometime.’

Crombie sighed with relief inwardly, the kid should have a friendly shoulder to cry on, both Wren and Rhyllann’s mothers were dead losses in Crombie’s opinion.

Brightening suddenly Wren said ‘Hey, I haven’t feed Alfie yet, do you wanna come and meet him properly this time?’

Crombie would rather attend another conference on drug abuse or care in the community, but shrugged and said ‘OK, if we make it quick.’

‘Sure thing, I’ll just get
 
...’ Wren snatched up the untouched portion of fish and chips, leaving Carrie’s name hanging in the air.

This time Wren led the way, and they walked more sedately up the stairs. Crombie had time to note how high and deep the stair well was, it must be murder to redecorate. Swivelling to peer upwards, he leaned on the banister for support, straightening quickly when the spindles supporting the hand rail wobbled under his weight.

‘Careful.’ Wren said absently and Crombie suspected he’d started drinking much earlier.

He allowed Wren to enter the room first, following cautiously, but in truth he was looking forward to getting better acquainted with Alfie. It wasn’t every day you met an alligator.

Crombie looked around the room curiously. Previously he’d been in a towering rage, swiftly followed by a mind numbing terror. This time he noticed the feeling of space and light. The double bed was covered with a predominately pink patchwork spread, the walls were painted pale green, flesh pink curtains swathed two full length sash windows, creating a surprisingly feminine effect. Apart from a jumble of shoes, rugby boots, a cricket bat and a tool set dumped in one corner. A small bookcase stood next to the bed and Crombie wandered over, smiling as he read some of the titles, “Air training for Cadets”, “Plane Recognition”, “The RAF - A History.”
 
On the other side of the bed was a chest of drawers stained with tea mug rings, the wall behind was lined with fitted wardrobes.

‘This used to be Annie’s mum’s bedroom.’ Wren said tonelessly, his hand on a large combination lock. ‘He keeps talking about redecorating, but all he’s done so far is tear up the carpet. A touch too pink.’

Looking down Crombie saw the floorboards were unpolished, uneven and ugly, never meant to be seen. ‘Uh-huh.’ The remains of Wren’s phone still littered the floor.

‘Apart from this hot-tub - he got that sorted out pretty quick.’ Wren said, tucking the fish bundle awkwardly between his knees as he fiddled with the lock. ‘Do you want to come over here please Crombie?’

Crombie started over, then stopped to divert around a large hole in the floorboards.

‘Careful.’ Wren said again. ‘One of Rhyllann’s weights slipped. I’m gonna fix it
 
...’ his voice trailed away as he concentrated on sliding the thick chain reinforced with a plastic sleeve from the restraining metal ring; it slipped to the floor with a clunk. As Wren grappled with a steel pole which ended in a noose of thinner wire, Crombie walked over quickly to take up his position, his blood quickening with anticipation.

‘Ready?’

He nodded, determined not to take any steps backwards.

Wren pushed the door open slowly, ‘Hey Alfie, what’s it all about?’

A waft of humidity billowed out, filling the air with a damp mustiness. Crombie watched with fascination as a snout rose from the floor, and suddenly it seemed as though a carpet, a knobbly carpet in a vile shade of puke began to undulate in his direction.

‘Open the fish, open the fish.’ He gibbered. The alligator’s legs churned against the floor in an ungainly dry land dogpaddle; too quickly, covering too much ground, close enough now to distinguish the marbling of browns greens and golden skin. Gulping, Crombie took an involuntary step back.

‘S’ok Crombie, me and Alfie have an understanding.’ Wren brandished the pole. ‘The muscles that open his jaws are really weak, you could actually tape them together. It’s the muscles that close the jaw you have to worry about.’

Too slowly for Crombie’s comfort, Wren unwrapped the fish and chips, using a deliberate movement to place the morsels within reach of the alligator. Immediately the long slender jaws opened and snapped shut with mechanical efficiency. Crombie stared hypnotised into an eye which regarded him with all the interest a stone statue might, yet seemed to be measuring him up for a later date.

‘That’s the box he came in.’ Wren said, pointing at an open metal trunk on the floor. Tearing his eyes away from the alligator’s gaze, Crombie obediently glanced over. The “box” measured around four feet by two. A sudden spasm of pity convulsed him.

‘How did you lift it?’

‘Killer helped.’

The two of them barely made up one of Crombie, but Wren could be a determined little bugger, and Killer probably had the wiry strength of the war generation.

‘The holes are to allow him to breathe and feed. They shoved a hose in from time to time.’ Wren continued. ‘Best step back now, don’t want him getting too close to the door.’ He swung the door closed, and Crombie’s last glimpse of Alfie was a membrane slowly covering the massive eye perched high on Alfie’s head. ‘He just winked at me.’ He blurted.

Wren smiled. ‘He’s a character ain’t he? I’ll miss him. There’s a sanctuary down at Weymouth ... maybe I’ll visit.’ He blinked rapidly, screwing the newspaper into a ball, he passed it to Crombie, at the same time propping the metal pole against the door frame. With deft movements he threaded the chain back through, spinning the combo lock, jumbling the numbers, then ushered Crombie from the room. Behind them water sloshed and Crombie surmised Alfie was re-entering the tub via the makeshift mdf ramp.

Wren kept up with the small talk.

‘I never meant to - I mean that poor elephant - you’ve seen them in the wild Crombie, you know how family orientated they are. But who gives a shit about alligators? When Killer showed me that - I mean - can you imagine, being shut in a box six days a week, only brought out in front of a baying mob to be confronted with a pack of half crazed cats?’ Wren was a couple of steps below him, Crombie reached down to pat at his shoulder.

‘Never knew you were so sentimental.’

Wren snorted. ‘I’m not. But nothing should be locked up like that. Never seeing daylight.’ They were in the passageway now. Crombie cleared his throat.

‘Well son, you’ve kept your side of the bargain. Thanks. I appreciate that. Give me a ring if you need ...’ he allowed the sentence to trail away. He wanted to offer comfort, but could see Wren was just about holding himself together.

‘I’ll be off then.’ He finished, turning to go, realising too late he still held the discarded newspaper. ‘Make sure you bolt the door behind me.’ He wanted to add and take yourself up to bed to sleep it off, but fragile as Wren looked, he wasn’t Crombie’s responsibility.

‘Yeah I will. Don’t worry. Bye Crombie. Thank you.’

Crombie half expected a plea to be passed onto Carrie via Lizzie, and hurried out the door before Wren lost self-control.

Crombie bowled through the traffic lights into Scrubs Lane, glancing in his rear view mirror from habit. Somehow the common looked emptier, it took a moment or two to sink into his foggy brain that the Big Top was missing, though a couple of the circus vehicles remained like stubborn teeth in an otherwise gummy mouth. Up ahead of him a green wave of traffic lights beckoned, the Passat’s torque cut in and Crombie decided if Stephenson wanted to pack up his tents and sneak off like a thief in the night, it was his business.

******

Jeffrey Stephenson wasn't worried about his circus either, not just then. The only thing on his mind was collecting his son from hospital. As soon as the doctors had finished repairing his poor broken boy, he intended to put the length of the country between him and the evil which came calling just after dusk in the guise of Harry Lampton.

The bright morning brought no joy to commuters travelling on the A40, otherwise known as the Wild Western Avenue as they tried to head into London despite being half blinded by the rising sun. The radio cheerfully gave out traffic bulletins, hearing the Hanger Lane gyratory system mentioned was enough to make Crombie curse and divert through suburban roads packed with kids being driven to school, catching every poxy traffic light along the Harrow Road.

Arriving at the station feeling he’d already done a day’s work, Crombie strode through the deserted open plan office; the morning meeting started at 0830 hours sharp, hardly worth him making his way to the conference room for the last fifteen minutes or so. In any case his desk was piled high again with paperwork. Feeling inspired, he grabbed a wire paper tray from one of the front desks, scooping the contents out carelessly, then liberated another paper tray from the desk behind, thought for a moment and pulling out a drawer, pounced on a stapler.

Back at his own work station, using a sheet of A4, and a marker pen, he scrawled out a couple of labels, and stapled them to the wire trays, placing the stapler on the desk nearest to him. Glancing at the clock he calculated he had around ten minutes before anyone returned from the morning meeting, and pulling a column of paper towards him, began skimming through subject matter lines, before placing memos and reports in either the tray marked “Filing” or “Shred”, placing only one or two aside as being relevant to his workload.

‘Delegation dear Crombie, delegation.’ He murmured, clearing a space on D S Rodgers’s desk and placing the two trays centrally on the surface. Deciding he’d earn a coffee break, Crombie gathered up the memos he felt deserved his attention, and pausing only to admire the nice clean lines of his desk, ducked out the office as his colleagues began filing back in.

The station canteen might be cheaper, but Crombie fancied eating something he could actually taste today, and crossed the road to the West End Cafe, known as Chinese Mick’s. Long ago, the tables had been coated with vinyl covers depicting scenes of Winnie the Pooh picnicking with Eeyore, faded now to a sombre grey which went quite nicely with the bright orange stacking chairs. A rubber tree plant climbed from the corner to the ceiling, where it crouched and continued growing at an angle to reach almost to the other side of the cafe. On the counter, a plump old fashioned brass cash register stood next to a metallic tea pot, both roughly the same size. Behind the counter customers could see into Mick’s kitchen which consisted mainly of a long metal griddle with a couple of inserts for deep fat fryers.

The British Gas boys had finished their breakfasts, and sat huddled around two tables, jabbing at their notebook computers with sausage like fingers to call up their work schedules.

Behind the counter Mick shovelled tea leaves into the teapot, and gushed boiling water directly from a tap over them. Mick never used a tea strainer, the tea was always perfect, delicate and golden. Crombie once asked him where he got his tea from. Seeming embarrassed for both of them, Mick had replied “Tescos”. Doubtless the eggs and bacon and certainly the sliced bread came from Tescos too, but something happened in the preparation, Crombie was sure of it, certain that Mick used some kind of special oil that brought out the individual flavours of everything he cooked. If Crombie ever gave a dinner party, he’d hire Chinese Mick to do the catering.

Just as Crombie finished off the last mouthful of fried egg on fried bread, not the slightest bit guilty because of the mushrooms which he hazily classed as vegetables, the door swung open and Sergeant Taylor and Acting Sergeant Mooney walked in. Mooney shot him a look of disquiet, and asked for her bacon sarnie to go, but Taylor ordered his breakfast, and carried his mug of tea over to Crombie’s table, flumping down in a seat opposite him.

‘Mind if I join you Guv? Better off in here. Bloody pandemonium back at the nick.’

Mooney swept by, followed out by the Gas engineers. Crombie wanted to ask about her kittens but Taylor continued to chat.

‘O’Clare accused PC Roberts of nicking his stapler. Nearly came to fisticuffs.’

‘Really?’ Crombie waited for Chinese Mick to clear his plate and looked approvingly at Taylor’s bowl of museli.

‘On a diet?’ He asked.

Taylor rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t. Christ this stuff tastes like the bottom of a bird cage - my eyes feel like they’ve been sandpapered too.’

His eyes did look piggy.

‘Rough night?’ Crombie asked.

‘The kid threw up and ran a bit of a temperature, so my missus insisted on taking him up the hospital. For the third time this month.’ He spooned cereal into his mouth mournfully.

‘New Mum Syndrome.’ Crombie remembered it vaguely. ‘It gets better when the second kid comes along, the first one is for learning on.’

Taylor shook his head. ‘I don’t think my nerves could stand another one. We definitely can’t afford more, I think Mattie’s going to be an only child.’ He stared into the far distance, miles away, perhaps dreaming of a night of uninterrupted sleep. He shuddered suddenly. ‘Mind you, they wheeled some poor sod in last night, one of the carnies.’ He barked a short laugh. ‘Poor bugger won’t be having any kids in a hurry.’

This caught Crombie’s attention, and he sat up straighter. ‘Really?’

Taylor scooped another mouthful of hamster fodder onto his spoon. ‘Yeah - the ringmaster’s son. Tristam or summink poofy like that. Some kind of a freak accident; managed to tear his balls off.’ He shuddered again, ‘His Dad was beside himself, completely hysterical and covered in his son’s blood.’

Wincing in sympathy, a horrible thought struck Crombie. ‘I want you to go back up the hospital, try to get a statement.’

Taylor paused mid chew and swallowed hard. ‘You think it might not have been an accident?’

‘Unless it’s self inflicted, you’d have to be pretty unlucky to lose both, wouldn’t you?’

His face a sickly pallor, Taylor pushed his bowl away. ‘Guv, that’s old gangster style.’ He was still breathing heavily, but the colour was returning. ‘They won’t get away with this, not on our patch.’

‘That’s the stuff. Take a WPC with you.’

Grimacing Taylor gathered his keys and mobile, preparing to leave. ‘Might be better just man to man on this one Guv.’

Silently agreeing, Crombie thought the Met could do with a few more like Taylor. Seeing he more or less had the cafe to himself now, Crombie settled back to make a few phone calls and peruse the reports he’d brought with him, though his mind continued to dwell on the unfortunate Tarquin. Almost certainly this was Lampton’s doing, though what he hoped to gain was anyone’s guess. With a stab of remorse, he remembered Wren’s memory stick still bouncing around inside his pocket and decided he should at least take a look at the thing.

About to shuffle back to the station, as he stood up he noticed one of the British Gas boys had left a laptop behind. Even better, when Crombie went over for a closer inspection, it was still on standby, with nearly an hour’s worth of battery life.

Sliding into the vacated seat, Crombie inserted the memory stick into a usb port and opened the files.

He saw immediately he was wrong about photos. The media player opened automatically in video mode, and Crombie muted the sound, glancing round the cafe furtively.

The camera zoomed in on two leather collars placed centrally on a wooden table, which Crombie immediately recognised by its scarred surface. The camera lingered on the diamante studs decorating the collars, spelling out the name “Reggie” and “Ronnie” respectively. The video ended abruptly, and Crombie frowned, wondering where this was going.

He didn’t have to wonder for long. The next video was jerkier, and Crombie realised straight away how this had been filmed. Somehow Wren (there was no doubt in his mind this was Wren’s doing) had convinced the Lamptons the collars were gifts from a well wisher. Probably the kid had just stuck them in the post with a thank you card. However he’d managed it, Lampton’s Rottweilers now wore the collars. Two hidden cameras (probably disguised as a diamante stud or something, nothing would surprise Crombie, after all, they had cameras small enough to shove up a person’s arse) now filmed a dog’s eye view of the Lamptons’ activities. The videos were grainy and jerky, and Crombie saw more than he wanted to of a dog’s idea of personal hygiene. Some of the scenes were unremarkable, and involved food being scoffed and shots of grubby jeans from knee to waist height as people moved in and out of the camera’s eye level. But the scene where the chest freezer was emptied and joints of meat fed into the wood chipper churned Crombie’s stomach. He watched one of the dogs snatch at a human arm, a hand still attached, frozen in supplication. A tug of war with the other dog ensued, until a laughing man spilled into view to rap the dogs’ noses and toss the arm carelessly into the wood chipper. Crombie thought he recognised the boxer’s nose and cauliflower ears of “Gramps.” The camera zapped rapidly around the yard now, as the dogs play wrestled, but Crombie caught a glimpse of fodder bags collecting the pinkish slurry pumping from the shredder’s mouth. Snapping the memory stick from the USB port, Crombie placed it carefully in an inner pocket. Wren was right. This was dynamite. If Lampton ever found out it existed, Wren would have more than his neck broken for him. Crombie shuddered at the thought and began deliberating very carefully. He needed someone with authority to issue a warrant speedily and without too many questions.

It was time to give his old mate Cavan a call. Disappointingly, Crombie’s name cut no ice with Cavan’s secretary, who refused to put him through to the Whitehall Mandarin, insisting DI Crombie stated his business and phone number, Mr Blenkinsop would endeavour to call him back, if he could spare the time.
 

‘Ask him if he wants Harry Lampton behind bars.’ And after dictating his phone number Crombie disconnected and signalled to Mark for a refill, feeling he’d got one over on the prissy little madam, who probably hadn't even been born at the time when he and Cavan first met.
 

While he waited for Cavan to call back, Crombie phoned out and left a message for WPC Holland to reissue an APB on Charlie Bozen's number plates, telling her to mark it urgent, and requested near matches be flagged up too. Tarquin Stephenson had confidently rattled off the registration, but Crombie knew only too well how easily numbers could be transposed.

His new and unwanted ring tone trilled out: Brendon Flowers (“oh he’s lovely Dad”) asking plaintively are we human, or are we dancer? Hurriedly cutting the Killers off before they could really get started, he found himself agreeing to present himself at Cavan’s office around mid-day, accepting the back handed apology by agreeing that running the country was a time consuming business, and the great man had to be carefully shielded from timewasters. En-route to Whitehall, Crombie phoned WPC Holland to tell her to tell Blythe he’d been summoned to a top secret meeting with a Home Office Mandarin.

*******

‘Crombie, my dear old chap, frightfully good to see you - how the devil are you?’

Crombie grinned, Cavan Blenkinsop was “top drawer” and just as likely to greet the Duke of Edinburgh in this manner, but did so now knowing it amused Crombie. He might be a “toff” and have the run of Whitehall courtesy of the playing fields of Eton, but he also possessed the happy knack of instant camaraderie. Friends made decades ago while slumming it at Hendon Police Training College, remained friends. Square limbed and somewhat clumsy of movement, Cavan rose awkwardly from the high backed managing director’s chair, to stride across the vast expanse of polished floorboards between them with his hand outstretched. Emphasising his pleasure at meeting Crombie again, Cavan engulfed
 
Crombie’s outstretched hand in a double handshake, steering him towards two low slung couches for a more intimate chat. The deep pile carpet cosseted Crombie’s stockinged feet, happily he’d managed to find a pair of sober grey socks that morning.

Now Cavan sprawled against the overstuffed back of the fawn leather sofa, a knee high glass coffee table between him and an identical sofa occupied by Crombie. Raising the photographs to within inches of his aristocratic nose, Cavan peered closely through his reading glasses, his manner sombre.

‘Where, if one may ask, did you acquire these from?’ The question was murmured, a thought spoken out loud, yet Crombie felt obliged to respond.

‘Does it matter?’ The memory stick burned in his pocket, and Crombie felt suddenly grateful he’d kept some ammunition dry.

Plopping the hand holding the photos into his lap, Cavan dipped his head to peer at Crombie over his glasses, for a second or two Crombie considered fobbing him off, but instead allowed the pause to speak.