An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  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.’

  What's Life All About, Alfie?

  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.

  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 lo
oked 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.