by Julia Hughes
Rhyllann sat.
‘You too son.’
With a anxious glance at Rhyllann, Wren sat.
Looming over him, Crombie scrutinised the top of Rhyllann’s head for so long, his scalp crept. Unable to bear it any longer, he brushed his hair back stubbing his fingers against a sharp foreign object. Two pairs of eyes bored into him as he withdraw a diamante hairclip. Glowering at Wren he thrust it into his pocket.
‘What?’
Crombie blinked impassively; Wren giggled.
‘I’ve just had a shower ok? I didn’t want my hair getting wet.’ His fist clenched inside his pocket, snapping the clip in two when Crombie gave a non committal grunt.
‘Right. Us three are gonna have a little chat.’
The armchair groaned as he sank his frame into it. He sat knees apart, hands on the arm rests, as though settled for the evening.
Unnerved by the silence that followed Rhyllann prompted.
‘An informal chat?’
Cue the crocodile smile. ‘You got it.’ Turning to Wren he said abruptly.
‘Let’s start with you.’
Wren flinched. ‘Me? I don’t understand. I’ve told you what I know – they wore masks.’
Crombie leaned forward. ‘Son, I’m here to help.’ He broke off to say. ‘You. On the sofa. I don’t want you pulling faces behind my back.’
Rhyllann stopped miming at Wren, and flounced over from the corner armchair to flop next to his cousin.
‘Wren. Your Gran’s in hospital in a critical condition.’
‘I know that!’
‘I wanna catch the men responsible. But I need help. I’m asking you son, please.’
Wren looked puzzled. ‘I’ve told you everything.’
Crombie managed to convey disbelief without saying a word, he merely widened his eyes and waited for Wren to break.
As the showdown between Wren and Crombie stretched to an embarrassing length, the skin between Rhyllann's shoulders itched, and he longed to shatter the silence. Instead he rested his chin almost on his chest, hiding behind a fall of dark hair, ostrich like. Just when he could stand no more and had to speak, Crombie addressed Wren again.
‘You and your cousin. You look like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Your cousin looks angry enough to take on the whole world. I get the feeling both of you know more than you’re telling.’
Wren sighed. Looking Crombie straight in the eye he said. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘That’s better. Tell me what you know about Mike Stern.’
Rhyllann’s head shot up. ‘Mike Stern! That cantankerous old git? What’s he got to do with this – ?’
He stopped suddenly confused and frightened at the expression on Crombie’s face.
‘He’s dead.’ Crombie said.
The words hung in the air like a menacing presence. Rhyllann tried to digest this bombshell, while puzzling over the brief anger which had flared through the detective. Beside him, Wren shook; taking great gulps of air one after the other without stopping to exhale. Moving quickly Rhyllann snatched at the waste paper bin behind Crombie throwing him a filthy look in passing.
‘Well done! Break it gently why don’t you!’ He shoved the bin into Wren’s chest, pushing his head down.
‘Deep breaths brawd, deep deep breaths.’
Wren nodded, as his breathing calmed he raised his head, his colour returning to normal. Then he ducked into the bin again and threw up violently. With a warning glance at Crombie, Rhyllann hurried into the kitchen with the bin, returning with a kitchen roll and a glass of water.
‘I’m sorry, sorry, Annie – thank you.’ He gasped, accepting the tissue and sipping at the water.
Crossing his arms Rhyllann glared at Crombie, daring him to continue. Then realised Crombie would only return tomorrow if he left now. Sitting on the sofa again, he slung an arm round Wren, feeling tremors convulsing through his body.
‘Well? Happy now? Got what you came for?’
A horrible thought struck him – tightening his arm round Wren he shouted ‘You know what – you’re crazy! If you think I had anything to do with this you’re out of your mind!’
Wren pushed him away, more startled at his outburst than Crombie, who hadn’t moved a muscle since speaking, though his eyes followed every movement.
‘Annie. Stop. Calm down, please don’t shout at Detective Crombie. I’m sure he only wants to help.’ Wren tried to smile. ‘Isn’t that right Detective Crombie?’
‘I will help you. I’ll do everything in my power to help. But I need you to help me – and I need the truth – and no more theatricals.’
Rhyllann bristled at the warning. Nudging him to keep quiet Wren tried to keep the peace.
‘I can’t believe it. How did he …? When? Oh god, is Tinker OK? I bet he’s looking for me.’ Suddenly agitated he struggled to rise, Rhyllann pulled him back down.
‘S’okay son. Tinker’s the dog? The Singhs are looking after it. They got worried when it wouldn’t stop barking – went to investigate – and found Mr. Stern’s body. They told my officer a school kid usually called round to walk the dog. A Welsh kid.’
Wren collapsed into sobs again. Feeling helpless Rhyllann directed his anger at Crombie; his blood boiling with the effort of keeping his temper in check. After an age it became obvious Crombie was waiting them out again; he repeated Wren’s question.
‘How did he die?’
Crombie waited for Wren’s sobbing to subside before replying.
‘Natural causes. A heart attack. But neighbours report seeing a BMW and hearing raised voices. The same night you and your gran were attacked. Do you understand why I need to know more about your relationship?’
Rhyllann’s eyes narrowed. Crombie held up a hand against any protest.
‘Son, please. I’m not trying to fit you up. I’m satisfied you’re telling the truth. About your gran's intruders anyway. Now I’m trying to work out if Mike Stern’s visitors are connected. And your cousin’s the common link. Now let him talk and don’t interrupt, else I’ll ask you to wait outside.’
Rhyllann scowled. One moment Crombie treated him like an ASBO kid the next like a schoolboy. Wren trembled again and pity flooded him. The reclusive Mike Stern scorned contact with everyone. Apart from Wren.
Squeezing Wren’s shoulder Rhyllann urged him to talk. ‘Brawd … If you know anything.’
Wren jerked away. ‘I don’t know nothing. If you really want to help, get out there and find the people who did this.’ He indicated his foot.
Raising his eyebrows, Crombie folded his arms, slumping back in the armchair. Looking Rhyllann squarely in the eye Crombie said.
‘I guess I’ll wait here for your mum to get back. From the shops, or the garage, or wherever she’s buggered off to.’
For what seemed an age Crombie surveyed the room deliberately, gaze lingering on the cobwebs in ceiling corners, the smeared mirror over the dusty mantelshelf, piled with neatly stacked unopened envelopes. He stared knowingly at newspaper spread over the carpet. And the mud encrusted Magnums and rugby boots waiting to be cleaned. His eyes wandered back to Rhyllann’s face, burning with shame; caught out in a transparent lie like a naughty little kid.
‘That’s blackmail.’
The words sounded sulky rather than rebellious and Crombie ignored them; glancing at his watch he said conversationally:
‘I’m off at six. After that I’ll have to give social services a shout.’ Both boys shuddered.
‘Christ sakes – say something.’ Rhyllann muttered.
Swallowing hard, Wren explained.
‘See what happened was this: Mike and me, we were friends. First I used to stop for a chat with his dog. It was his son’s dog, but he ... well he never bothered. Anyhow, it got so I was walking his dog. Then I started doing odd jobs for him. I liked talking to him. He didn’t treat me like some kind of freak for asking questions. He started showing me things.’
Both Crombie and Rhyllann straightened.
‘What kind of things brawd?’ Rhyllann asked.
Wren shook his head impatiently. ‘Not like that. Don’t be silly. He was a – what d’you call it – you know – one of those people who can speak lots of different languages?’
Crombie knew what he meant. ‘Yeah – I know son – a poly … polyglot – or something.’
Wren shrugged. ‘Whatever. I mean, that sounds right.’
Rubbing the back of his neck, he grew quiet, searching for words to describe Mike Stern.
Finally he said. ‘Mike … he could be a bit cagey … secretive.’ Wren grimaced, wrinkling his forehead. ‘He didn’t want Customs and Excise or anyone like that digging around.’ Wren’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘I don’t think he declared everything, he tried to stay below the radar.’
Crombie grunted his disapproval but kept quiet. Rhyllann felt light headed with relief; too many times he’d been tempted by easy money to act as a delivery boy or flog pirate DVDs at school. Fear of being caught and thrown out of air cadets stopped him.
Wren’s voice regained its clarity as he continued: ‘But he didn’t deal with criminals, or crazies … just the people who are a bit … eccentric.’
He was trying to justify Mike, when everyone knew him for a contrary old sod who couldn’t care less about what anyone else thought.
Crombie said. ‘Don’t call ‘em crazies son, it only makes them mad.’
Rhyllann stared. Had Crombie just made a joke? But it did the trick. Wren managed a smile.
‘And did Mike Stern show you something son? Something you weren’t meant to see?’
Wren shook his head.
‘No, no he didn’t. Me. It was me. I – He let me help him. Mikey – his son does freelance - he gave Mike some books to translate – I recognized one as Welsh. Mike got really excited about it, said it was unique, hidden treasure. But that’s all.’
‘Hidden treasure?’ Crombie repeated.
‘Detective Crombie, you didn’t know Mike Stern. When he said treasure – he could have meant – oh I don’t know – one of Shakespeare’s lost plays. Valuable yes, but hardly treasure. Musty old books which he spent hours transcribing, to him they were worth their weight in gold. That’s what he meant by treasure.’
‘So someone got to hear about this – got the wrong end of the stick – went round to terrorise that old man then paid you a visit?’ Crombie sounded sceptical. ‘Why didn’t Stern tell the bast – men – that the treasure didn’t exist – wasn’t quite what they thought? And what did they want from you?’
‘I can’t remember what they said. I can’t. I was just worried about gran. If Annie hadn’t shown up … I didn’t know about Mike! I didn’t! I don’t know what they wanted from him. He could be really stubborn.’
Look who’s talking Rhyllann thought, clamping down on his tongue.
‘Maybe he told them to get lost, or maybe he just clammed up.’ Wren spread his hands as he finished, inviting Crombie to agree with him.
’Or maybe you’re feeding me a pack of lies son.’
Rhyllann felt a grudging respect, not too many people sussed Wren out so quickly. Now his clear blue eyes met Crombie’s belligerent stare unblinking. Streets away, an ice cream van chimed out merrily, breaking the spell.
Crombie spoke again. ‘Alright. Have it your way. But know this young man. I’m convinced your intruders and Mike Stern’s death are connected. You’ve got a hairline fracture. Every bone in that old man’s foot had been broken. Almost certainly that’s what made his heart give out. Yesterday someone risked going back to your gran’s house in broad daylight. There’s something they want very badly. And Mikey Stern’s gone missing.’
Wren seemed fascinated by a spot on the carpet and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Addressing Rhyllann he barked: ‘On your own head son. Social services might be round at some point. Maybe they’ll swallow your cock and ball story.’ He rose to his feet, jotting a few lines in a notebook before tucking it away in a pocket.
‘I’ll get control to change a couple of routes. You’ll see a few more police cars cruising around. That’s the best I can do for you.’
Pulling out his wallet, he handed over a card. ‘Call me. If anything spooks you, call me. That’s my mobile number.’
‘You’re not going to report us?’ Disbelief mixed with gratitude flooded Rhyllann.
‘At least I know where you are. Better than having you running rings round social services.’
Rhyllann stammered his thanks.
‘Okay young man? Are you certain there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’
Wren raised his head looking tentative. ‘Detective Crombie?’
‘Yes son?’
Wren hesitated, choosing his words. ‘If some money went missing, and one person got in trouble for it …’
Crombie’s face hardened.
’…and another person paid it back.’ Wren continued. ‘Would that person still be in trouble?’
‘You’re talking about your mum aren’t you?’
Wren flushed then nodded once.
‘I’m sorry son, I can’t say. I should think that would help.’ Crombie said. ‘Do you know where the money is? Do you want to tell me?’
‘Oh for …’ Rhyllann started. ‘This is wrong.’
Crombie held up a hand. ‘Do you want to tell me?’ he asked again.
Looking wretched, Wren shook his head. ‘You don’t understand. The money … she gave it away.’
‘Gave away nearly half a million pounds?’
In a small voice Wren said. ‘I can’t tell you who she gave it away to. But they needed it.’ His eyes met Crombie’s, imploring, willing the man to understand.
‘It wasn’t her money to give away.’ Crombie stated the obvious.
Wren’s face puckered. ‘But…’
Oh hell, here we go thought Rhyllann, giving an indiscernible shake of his head. With a sinking feeling he saw the familiar flash behind Wren’s eyes as his chin jutted out.
‘She obeyed her conscience.’
‘Maybe – but if we all did that there’d be anarchy.’
Rhyllann silently agreed.
Wren still wanted an argument. ‘Maybe that’s what we need. Anarchy.’
Rhyllann groaned. Crombie – probably the last person in the world to welcome lectures from a thirteen year old.
‘Careful son. Say that to the wrong people and you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble.’
A threat or a concerned warning? Crombie’s tone gave nothing away.
Thankfully Wren backed down: ‘You’re right. Of course. Not her money to give away.’ His face lit up expectantly. ‘Will they let her out to visit gran?’
Crombie shot Rhyllann a look. ‘Ask your cousin. He can explain about that,’ and scooted for the door. Rhyllann followed on his heels with the pretence of asking him to return the hospital’s wheelchair. He expected a refusal but Crombie must have felt a twinge of guilt at leaving him to break the bad news.
Rhyllann watched from the doorway as Crombie attempted to lift the chair into the estate boot with one hand, struggling to hold the door up with the other. After a few minutes’ entertainment Rhyllann went to help.
‘Thanks son.’ Crombie said, slamming down the hatch back. Fixing Rhyllann with a stern stare he gave yet another warning.
‘Be on your guard. There’s something very strange going on and I don’t like it. Don’t leave the house unless you have to, keep your mobile with you at all times. Put my number on speed dial. Do you hear me?’
‘Yeah yeah yeah.’ Rhyllann said, wishing he’d leave.
Then Crombie said something really crazy.
‘Watch out for your cousin too. He’s lying.’
With that he left, leaving Rhyllann certain that Crombie was the only madman.
Chapter Eight
The next morning Rhyllann scrambled eggs, chopped mushrooms and fried bread, planning to be extra nice. After Crombie left he’d steeled himself for question
s. But Wren didn’t speak, rocking to and fro on the sofa, obviously deeply troubled but unwilling to share. Rhyllann tried. He cooked supper, put on a Jackass DVD and warned him several times to stop worrying. Wren smiled and nodded but didn’t show the slightest interest even when Rhyllann confessed he thought Becky Roberts was buff. Around nine, Wren swallowed pain killers and sleepers and bumped his way upstairs. Later, when he sobbed in his sleep, Rhyllann didn’t wake him.
For the thousandth time that week, Rhyllann closed his eyes and wished his own mum home.
‘Please mum, please. I can’t do this anymore.’ Like a tightrope walker trying to juggle too many balls in the air, it seemed that at any moment he would fall and crash. He wasn’t even too sure where she was, apart from somewhere in Northern Europe. If there were animals in need, mum would be there. His earliest memory was sharing a pram with a belligerent goose rescued from the local park. Sighing, he added a glass of milk to the breakfast tray, and trudged upstairs.
‘Up and at ‘em!’ Rhyllann called cheerfully entering his mum’s bedroom. ‘C’mon brawd … time to …’ His voice trailed away into empty air. Balancing the tray on a crumpled duvet, he rushed across the landing to hammer on the bathroom door.
‘Wren – are you in there?’ Cursing, Rhyllann ran back downstairs, making a desperate sweep of the garden. Moving methodically he checked every single room in the house. Then searched the garden again, knowing it was useless. Wren had vanished. Spirited away in the night.
Rhyllann slumped against the window sill, twisting Crombie’s card in his fingers, struggling to remember if he’d heard an engine during the night. A BMW engine. He tried and failed to think of a single logical explanation apart from “Kidnapped” of where or how Wren had gone. And with every moment ticking by without action, Wren could be further and further away. Rhyllann tried not to think about how many bones there were in the human foot. Because the word stubborn did not begin to describe Wren.
Unfolding his mobile, he called Crombie. The last resort.
‘Detective Inspector Crombie.’
‘It’s me – Rhyllann Jones – Please Mister … I mean Detective Crombie …’
