by Julia Hughes
‘Why, what have I done? I’m not in any trouble am I?’
A snort sounded from the open door, Rhyllann’s eyes found the disapproving face of WPC Hewes and his déjà vu was complete.
*
WPC Hewes dragged a chair from somewhere to sit in the open doorway as though Rhyllann might try to escape. Crombie sat at the bottom of his bed like a malignant tooth fairy. Rhyllann wondered why they didn’t turn the light on, then why they weren’t using an interview room. The room felt cramped and claustrophobic, Rhyllann edged to the top of the bed, drawing his dirty bare feet up under him. It seemed he had slept in the army gear which smelled embarrassingly musty and determined not to move around too much. Crombie swung himself round so they were facing each other, one foot rested casually across his knee, the other remained on the ground. For all the world as though they were best mates or something.
‘Well? What have I done now?’ Rhyllann asked sharply forgetting to humour Crombie.
Crombie raised an eyebrow, from his looks he hadn’t had a very good night either. Apart from the red rims around them, his eyes had almost disappeared in his face, which showed the beginnings of a beard making him look more like a villain than a copper. He wore a bright red t-shirt and faded mud splattered blue jeans tucked into long green socks.
‘You know – if you had orange trousers on you could stop traffic.’ Rhyllann blurted before he could stop himself. This prompted another snort from the policewoman, but a look of amusement crossed Crombie’s face, and suddenly memories came flooding. Rhyllann leaned across to grab Crombie, kneeling upright to shake him.
‘Where is he? What have you done with him?’ he shouted. He sensed the policewoman dart forward and swivelled to swat her away, but then Crombie caught him, forcing him to sit back. Rhyllann opened his mouth to scream into his face, but Crombie shook him firmly by the shoulders, all the while making soothing talk.
‘It's ok. He’s safe. Hear me now – listen to me. Wren’s safe and well in hospital.’
Rhyllann looked up into Crombie's concerned face and recognised the truth. He slumped forwards as Crombie relaxed his grip, resuming his place at the bottom of the bed.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry.’ He should apologise to the policewoman too, he had practically slapped her face. ‘I’m sorry WPC Hewes.’ Her face was red with anger and she wouldn’t look at him.
‘Don’t mention it.’ She said stiffly. Crombie glanced up at her, and then towards Rhyllann.
‘Christine, do you think you could rustle up some more tea please?’ Without replying she stalked off.
‘We’re both in trouble now. She’ll report you for assault and me for being sexist.’
Rhyllann tried to smile at this, Crombie made some lame arse jokes. At least Rhyllann hoped he was joking. But he had other things on his mind.
‘Detective Crombie? Is Wren gonna be ok?’
Crombie nodded. ‘Bruising to the chest, a couple of cracked ribs, a mild infection to his foot.’
Rhyllann buried his head in his hands, pressing hard against his eyes.
‘He died you know. He was dead. I thought I’d never get him breathing again.’ Once again the terrible emptiness of a future without the Prince of Geek swamped him, dry heaves ran through his body as he tried to push the horrific memories away.
When Rhyllann looked up he found WPC Hewes had returned with a tray of tea and both adults were staring at him. WPC Hewes thrust the tray into Crombie’s hands and bent to embrace him, smelly clothes and all.
‘You poor little sod.’ She said. The floodgates opened and Rhyllann could barely speak through his tears. He told her everything, noting when Crombie slipped away, noticing that she stiffened when he described how they had found the box and almost been discovered by the remaining gang. When he finished, Rhyllann felt strangely light as though a load had been shed.
‘You poor little sod.’ She said again. Then: ‘You misheard the name Crombie. One of that gang must have a similar name. And don’t worry about Wren. He’s in good hands now.’
But he barely heard her, a deep fatigue swept over him and his need to sleep out weighed the need to shower and use the bathroom. He felt covers being drawn around him, WPC Hewes’s voice whispering in his ear, asking him where the box was now. But Rhyllann couldn’t remember.
‘Wren. Wren holds the key.’ He muttered before falling into a deep sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Opening his eyes to see Rodgers’s moon like face inches from his own, Rhyllann sat up abruptly. He ached all over and still wanted a good hot shower, but felt less disorientated; happier. Until Rodgers slapped handcuffs around his wrists again and started talking. Apparently he, Rhyllann Jones, had ruined a beautiful set up. With armed police in position Crombie had called the raid off with minutes to go, fearing the gang inside Folly’s House held the boys hostage.
Rodgers, delighted not to be the scapegoat for once, gave a blow by blow account while Rhyllann searched desperately for his trainers.
Superintendent Bates of Bodmin accused Crombie of stealing his thunder. “The Guv” insisted on raising the house to enter into lengthy negotiations before allowing the occupants inside to surrender one at a time. The Cornish Police robbed of the chance to show 'them Londoners’ they weren’t all cider swilling plods. The Met had been humiliated in front of the locals. Over the long drawn out process, Stern and four gang members had managed to escape.
‘Course.’ Rodgers told him spitefully. ‘We reckon someone tipped the bast …them off. We never blamed the Guv for one instant.’ Rhyllann bet they had. ‘But old Batesie – threw his toys out the pram.’
Rhyllann couldn’t listen to anymore. His socks and trainers were nowhere to be found; barging Rodgers out of his path, he stalked barefooted down a dim corridor, banging through the swing doors at the end. He had another déjà vu moment, the large office he found himself in resembled the hospital, packed with oddly clothed bodies and clamouring voices. The room quietened slowly, heads turned to swivel in his direction all bearing the same look of disgust. Squaring his shoulders, Rhyllann marched forward as though he knew where he was going, only to find his way bared by a stocky uniformed man with thinning grey hair.
‘Well well well, if it isn’t sleeping ugly.’ He jeered curling his lip, displaying a row of tombstone teeth.
Two or three other policemen rose to their feet, a couple more ambled across the room to form a hostile circle around Rhyllann. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Rodgers approaching, and knew he couldn’t expect any help from him.
‘Excuse me please.’ Rhyllann said taking a step forward.
The man reached out under the pretence of placing a hand on Rhyllann's shoulder, squeezing painfully.
‘Excuse you? Excuse you? Why what have you done?’
He pushed hard, sending Rhyllann lurching backwards against someone who promptly scraped a booted foot against his exposed ankle. He felt hands shoving him forward and resigned himself to being humiliated.
‘Superintendent Bates. Thank you. I’ll take it from here.’
Crombie’s voice and Crombie’s hand reaching over heads to grab Rhyllann and pull him from the throng. The two men squared up to each other, then Bates showed the tombstone teeth again, startling Rhyllann by clapping his hands and shouting.
‘Right. You heard the man! Everyone relax – Detective Inspector Crombie of the Metropolitan Police is here to take care of everything!’
Hoots of derisive laughter followed and one or two rude hand gestures. Crombie stared them down and the menace dispersed with muttered curses and dirty looks. Rhyllann flinched as a hand clamped his shoulder, but Crombie merely muttered.
‘Wait here son, I wanna word with Superintendent Bates.’ With that he strode after Bates into his office. Raised voices could be heard but Rhyllann pretended not to listen. Crombie returned carrying a pair of manky looking trainers. Shoving them towards Rhyllann he said.
‘Right. All squared. Let’s go visit your
cousin.’
Pulling the trainers onto his feet Rhyllann hopped after him anxious not to be left behind.
A vague memory of splashing through a main street to a hospital returned. Although gutters ran from water being swirled from shops offices and houses, and the streets were still wet, normality seemed to be returning. Rhyllann hurried to catch up with Crombie, oversized trainers and handcuffs making his movements awkward, wondering if perhaps he had been transferred to a different town while he slept.
‘Detective Crombie Sir, where are we?’
Crombie looked at him with suspicion.
‘You being funny son? Cornwall.’ Then he seemed to relent. ‘Sorry son, I forgot. You’ve been through the mill a bit. We’re in Bodmin, Cornwall.’ Seeing Rhyllann still looked confused he added. ‘You’ve been out of it for almost forty-eight hours. The floods happened on Wednesday. Today’s Friday.’ They had reached the hospital by now. Rhyllann let this information sink in. God, no wonder he needed to pee so badly. Crombie continued talking, ticking points off on his fingers.
‘They’ve managed to clear the main towns, but there’s still no electric, no phones, all the mobile signals are down – no internet of course. Some villagers are still camped out in the town hall and the local school. The local emergency services have been stretched. Tempers have run a bit high.’ Rhyllann guessed that was a back handed apology for Bates and nodded. Crombie seemed almost friendly towards Rhyllann. Maybe Bates had done him a favour. Crombie had come to his rescue and in doing so had tucked Rhyllann firmly under his wing. For the time being at least
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Wren turned bloodshot eyes up to him.
‘Annie – they pumped my stomach. I’ve had my foot reset.’ He croaked. ‘The pain!’ Then he caught sight of Rhyllann’s shadow and shut his eyes tightly. ‘No.’ He groaned.
Rhyllann didn’t have to look behind to know Crombie wore that crocodile smile.
‘Isn’t this cosy.’ Crombie gloated, dragging a chair up to Wren’s beside.
‘No.’ Wren groaned again. He opened his eyes to stare accusingly at Rhyllann. ‘How did he find us?’
Crombie smirked.
‘He figured if we weren’t dead, we’d wash up at a hospital. He got lucky.’ Rhyllann explained, perching on Wren’s bed. Crombie waggled his fingers, still smirking.
‘Don’t look at me like that! You’ve had it easy – nice warm dry hospital bed. I spent two nights in a cupboard!’ He plucked at the stinking khaki t-shirt for emphasis. ‘Are you laughing? It isn’t funny!’ But Wren continued to gurgle a strange hiccupping sound.
‘Sorry Annie – if you could see yourself!’ He could talk. One of the nurses had combed his hair for him, with his pink cheeks and side parting he looked like a schoolboy from the 1950s.
Crombie coughed. Rhyllann looked at him with suspicion. Was he laughing too?
‘Are you gonna take these cuffs off now?’ he demanded.
‘No. I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’re back in London.’
‘But we could be stuck here days!’ He wailed. Crombie shrugged, his face expressionless: So what?
‘At least while he’s in the hospital – please Detective Crombie.’ Wren pleaded. ‘Look at him – where’s he gonna run to? He can’t go anywhere.’
’Please?’ They chorused.
Crombie relented. ‘Alright. But you move five inches away from me, and they’re straight back on and they don’t come off.’
Rhyllann massaged his wrists as Crombie brought Wren up to date.
‘I’ve contacted the Yard, reported you safe and well. You’re being put into a witness protection scheme.’ Wren gasped and clutched at Rhyllann. ‘Sorry boys. Interpol identified the men chasing you. You were right.’ He nodded towards Wren. ‘They’re part of a sect calling themselves The Brotherhood, reckon they're part of the Knights Templar or some such blarney. They think if they take over the Holy Land, they’ll act as guardians – like the Vatican’s Swiss Army – bringing peace to the Middle East. It seems to make peace they need to make war and that costs money. They came across a hoard of manuscripts, packed them off to Mike Stern for translation. Old man Stern must have let slip that you’d found something of interest in one of those books … ‘
Wren grinned at that. ‘Boasted. He was boasting about me.’ He blinked rapidly.
‘Son – if its any consolation, the old man had a dodgy heart. Angina.’ Wren shook his head to say no, but Rhyllann felt grateful to Crombie for trying.
‘They’re being transferred from Bodmin Jail to a max security prison, awaiting trail. They won’t get bail. Three other EU countries have put in for their extradition. A Middle East delegation are demanding to be present at their interviews.’ Crombie finished. ‘Any questions?’
Rhyllann licked his lips. ‘Are we in … are we in any trouble?’ He faltered under Crombie’s stare.
‘I think you mean “how much trouble are we in”?’ He said sharply. Then seemed to relent. ‘You’re both minors.’ Crombie shrugged. ‘You can hardly be blamed for your parents’ deserting you.’
‘What! My mum’s …’ Rhyllann felt Wren nudge him, and fell silent, still simmering.
‘Detective Crombie? What happened to our box?’ Wren changed the subject quickly.
Reaching for his jacket, Crombie rummaged inside the large poacher’s pocket, without taking his eyes from Rhyllann. Wren propped himself upright, taking the box from Crombie’s hands. He caressed it lovingly. Rhyllann wanted to snatch it from him, and dash it to the ground.
‘I can’t believe we went through hell for that bloody thing.’ He blurted.
Crombie looked astonished. ‘You mean that’s it – that’s the treasure?’ He barked a laugh. ‘Unbelievable.’ He peered closer. ‘Is there anything inside?’
Rhyllann shook his head with disgust. ‘Nothing. I lie. A key. The key is inside the box.’ He shrugged.
Wren continued to stroke the box. Rhyllann decided he would never understand his cousin. He looked like the cat that had swallowed the cream. He withdrew the key from the box, eyes sparkling now with mischief.
‘That’s your trouble Annie. You need to think outside the box.’ Inserting the key into the lock, Wren gave a quarter turn anti-clockwise. A soft click sounded, mesmerising Rhyllann. Wren moved his hands along the edges, pressing them firmly upwards, and with an origami style twist of his hands, the box sides collapsed into themselves, making a flat two dimensional shape.
‘Oooh!’ Rhyllann breathed, peering closer.
As the sides merged, the random patterns morphed into a plaque. A fierce-some dragon sat on its haunches snarling, one raptor like paw outstretched menacingly, the other clutched a sword against its chest. Surrounding it, smaller dragons fought amongst theirselves.
‘Neat!’ He and Crombie said together. Wren tilted his head modestly. ‘That’s it then! No treasure map?’ Though clearly symbolic, the images gave nothing away. Rhyllann tried to keep the disappointment from his voice, Wren looked so pleased with his new toy.
With a jerk towards Crombie, Wren spoke rapidly in Welsh:
‘Do you trust him?’
Rhyllann eyed Crombie, then Wren.
‘Do you?’ He asked. They nodded gravely at each other.
Crombie was a major pain in the arse, but one of the good guys. The key now sat in the centre of the collapsed box. Wren laid his palm on the key, lowering it down past the first shank, until just the top half of the ring remained. The strange metal fringe slotted into precision cut holes. With a gentle pressure, Wren revolved the key clockwise a complete circuit, again an ancient mechanism whirled. Rhyllann watched open mouthed as the dragons swirled away in a starfish shape, to be hidden by a new image rising to arrange itself magically in their place.
A coat of arms – A bird in flight holding a green twig – A castle –
Rhyllann raised his hands to his mouth prayer like. ‘Oh My God!’
Wren’s face shone as he explained
:
’Tintagel castle – look – she’s showing us Tintagel castle – The bird flying west – a swan Siwan – Welsh for Joan – holding a sprig of Plantagenet. See ‘em? Flying over a convent – see the sisterhood? Nuns. There’s a convent close to Tintagel castle Annie – we have to find it! Find it and we’ve found the treasure. See the anchor – see it! She’s telling us. Find the anchorite cell – and the treasure is there! Understand?’
’Jesus – slow down – speak slower!’
’Speak English please!’
Wren had been gabbling in Welsh, with the odd English word thrown in.
‘Sorry – I got excited!’ He plucked at Crombie’s sleeve – ‘We’ve found the treasure! Tintagel’s only twenty minutes up the coast.’
‘Don’t you see Annie – that business about Llwellynn banishing her and then forgiving her – a smoke screen.’
Rhyllann saw. A country on the brink of civil war, a woman torn between loyalty to her father and her husband, Prince of Wales. And a king’s ransom in treasure.
‘A convent Detective Crombie – we need to find a convent close to Tintagel.’ Rhyllann explained.
Crombie thought for a moment. ‘I know there’s a monastery, in very good nick – we’ve been there on holiday.' Adding: 'Well not staying at the monastery – but we visited.’
Rhyllann sprung off the bed, tugging at Crombie’s arm. ‘Come on! Come on! If we go now – it’ll be deserted!’
He looked up in surprise, Crombie hadn’t moved. ‘Come on! Wren’ll have to stay here.’
‘What!’ Wren thumped the bedclothes.
‘Well you can’t come in that state.’ Rhyllann said carelessly. ‘Come on – what are you waiting for?’
Crombie laughed outloud. ‘Look around you son. The whole area’s flooded – the roads are impassable. Anyhow – if you think for one moment I’m going off on some wild goose chase over the cliff tops with you – think again! Not so bloody likely! I’m putting you on the next train out of here!’
