by Julia Hughes
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.
Tossing the photos onto the table Cavan tried again.
‘You see the thing is old man ....’ He broke off at a knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ springing to his feet as the door stuttered open to assist the slim woman balancing a tray of coffee and jittering cups.
‘Thank you Marcia, that’s splendid.’ Cavan took the tray from her as he spoke, igniting a smile which transformed her previously haughty features.
Setting the tray carefully away from the photographs Cavan mumbled sotto voce, as though Marcia was still in the room.
‘Lovely girl, single mum, you’d never think it with those hips would you?’
Crombie grunted non-committally, a response wasn’t required. Women who moved in Cavan’s social circle tended not to return to work once they married, let alone be expected to become working mothers, and the admiration for Marcia’s achievements was genuine.
Crombie waited for Cavan to pour coffee for both of them, declining milk and sugar, impatient to get back to business.
Cavan produced a glass ashtray and withdrew an enamel pink cigarette case from his inside jacket pocket, flipping it open to reveal a row of pastel coloured cigarettes.
‘Have one of these Crombie? Rather fun - Turkish tobacco.’
Frowning Crombie shook his head.
‘No?’ Cavan selected a pale blue cigarette, pursed it between his lips and striking a match under the coffee table, lit up, sucking in smoke and blowing it out again immediately like an overgrown schoolboy.
‘Shouldn’t really, against all the rules of course.’ He held the cigarette between thumb and finger, inhaling shallowly to blow out smoke rings and Crombie surmised this was just an affectation.
‘No vices.’ Cavan teased, wrinkling his eyes against the smoke.
‘Sir, I appreciate the coffee and your time, I know you’re a busy man...’
‘In other words, back to business.’ Cavan finished for him. ‘Just so, of course, only I do enjoy a ciggie with my coffee.’ Taking a couple of sips from his cup, he continued to regard Crombie through cigarette smoke. Leaning forward abruptly, he stubbed out the cigarette and tapped at the photographs.
‘To be honest with you Crombie, and let’s face it you are an honest man, I’m not going to do anything to disturb the status quo.’
Crombie gaped at him. ‘Sir! Harry Lampton ...’
‘... is the biggest villain in London. But he is our villain. Do you understand what I’m telling you Derek?’
Cavan sat back now, steepling his finger tips together, allowing the information to sink in before continuing.
‘If we remove him, another will step up to take his place. But it won’t be a case of the king is dead, long live the king. Chaos will ensue.’ Snatching up the photos, Cavan tore them in half.
Crombie rose to his feet - ‘Sir! I’d rather you didn’t do that.’ A frantic part of his mind jabbered at him to pass Cavan the memory stick with even more incriminating evidence, a deeper instinct made him suddenly cautious. Cavan’s next words confirmed his fears.
‘Really? And I’d rather a lot of things. Like you, I’d rather we didn’t have this scum on the streets - this ... underbelly. But at least Harry keeps the others in check, and from time to time let’s us know of anyone getting too ... shall we say “big for their boots.” And we keep him in check. Harry knows his place. Sit down, please Crombie. You’re making my neck ache.’
Crombie’s lips tightened, that speech sounded a little too pat, as though it had been delivered many times before: Of course Harry Lampton would turn his fellow rats over if they started stepping on his toes.
‘Are you seriously telling me that you’re going to turn a blind eye? Lampton has literally got away with murder for the past twenty odd years and you’re about to pass up this chance?’ Crombie fought the urge to slam the memory stick on the table, and shock this lily livered and lily handed ex-public school boy from his complacency.
‘Keep your voice down Crombie. And keep your head down too. Relax, drink your coffee and listen very carefully to what I’m about tell you.’
Crombie sat back, folding his arms across his chest and nodded for Cavan to continue. He was pretty certain what was coming, for some years now he’d known he was on some black list or another.
Smoke swirled lazily in the sunshine swarming through the glass that made up two walls of the executive corner office, tilting his head to watch it spiral upwards, Cavan spoke as though recounting a dream.
‘Some years have elapsed since Interpol acting on a tip off from the Met went chasing over the West Country after a gang known as the Brotherhood. It seems said Brotherhood were convinced a certain King’s treasure had been concealed in that area centuries ago. A merry little Da Vinci code jape.’
Crombie’s cheeks burned.
‘Strangely, when Interpol finally tracked down the Brotherhood, they found a few bodies, and evidence that a hidden chamber had once been used to conceal a treasure trove, but no evidence of the supposed treasure. Some people are apt to dismiss all this as a fantasy. Others remain on the look out for any sign of that treasure. Because if it ever existed, then all the evidence points to someone stealing said treasure away.’
Snapping his head around, Cavan stared directly at Crombie.
‘And you Derek, were one of the few men left standing on that fateful day five years ago.’ He gave a gentle smile as though Crombie were a mischievous younger brother, caught with his hand in the biscuit barrel.
‘Wren Prenderson. Rhyllann Jones.’ He rolled the names around his tongue. Adding incomprehensively. ‘Welsh.’
Crombie bristled, about to protest when Cavan waved a languid hand to bat him away.
‘Come on Derek, I’m only joking.’ But this time the smile didn’t seem so gentle. ‘You do know what it means when used as a verb don’t you Derek?’
Rising to his feet, Crombie gathered up the mutilated photos and swept them into a pocket, his hand curling into a fist around the memory stick. ‘Yes I know what it means to welch. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’
After a pause he added ‘Sir.’ As he paced towards the exit, the solid wooden door appeared to retreat while still growing larger, eons passed before the clammy brass handle was beneath his hand, his other hand still thrust into his pocket, gripping the memory stick so tightly it burned against his skin. As the door finally swung open, Cavan’s plummy voice carried clearly to him.
‘Be careful Crombie, lie down with dogs, you’ll rise with fleas.’
After a moment’s deliberation Crombie decided he had nothing to lose here anyway and turned around. Cavan stood at one of the glass walls, watching the Thames roll by, hands clasped behind his back.
‘Sir. With the company you keep, I suppose you’ve become an expert on vermin.’ With that he clicked the door closed softly, mentally calculating the years to his retirement.
In the outer office, Marcia glanced up from her keyboard, to confer a regal nod.
‘Thank you for the coffee.’ Crombie said, hoping for another smile for some reason, pleased when she obliged. He wanted to ask where the men’s restroom was but something about the young woman’s fragrancey deterred him. Instead once out in the internal corridor, he paced in the oppos
ite direction from the lifts, opening the first likely looking door he came across.
Realising he’d inadvertently stumbled into an unoccupied office, Crombie was about to duck out again when a voice sounded through the wall, the vowels rounded and every word distinct.
‘That really is most awfully generous of you. Are you quite certain the Royals won’t be using their box at the All England Club?’ After a rich fruity chuckle the voice continued: ‘Well, until a decent Englishman comes along, I suppose we’ll have to support the Scottish fellow. Pray he can defeat the Spaniard, or that Serbian chappie. The wife will be very happy, you have my thanks.’
There was a pause. Crombie stood poised to flee should the intercommunicating door open. ‘No, I’ve put the DI back in his place. He won’t give you any more trouble. He and I have an understanding now.’
Crombie shook with anger, he had the strongest temptation to fling open the door and bellow his rage. But instead turned and slunk down the stairs, feeling dirty himself somehow.
Crombie's mood wasn’t improved when he was obliged to wait in stockinged feet for his boots, mobile phone and keys to be returned to him. Crombie tried not to glare at the ancient security guard, who apologised over and over again for the mislaid items, when he wasn’t reassuring Crombie that his “personal effects would be located soon.”
Instead he bit his tongue; he wanted to say “Your security sucks, you missed a memory stick. In any case the biggest threat is already inside.”
A Long Bad Friday.
Crombie just wanted to get home and take a good long shower under scalding water, but when he eventually got his smart phone back, there were two voicemails. He started the Passat up before listening to them, comforted as always by the friendly rumble of the engine.
The first was from his superior, demanding Crombie account for himself and his absence. The other from a Thames Valley desk jockey, asking Crombie to call her in relation to the APB he'd placed on Charlie Bozen's jeep.
Choosing the lesser of the two evils first, Crombie dragged out his notebook and retrieved a pen on the floor, before ringing Thames Valley. The receptionist put him through to a woman whose default setting seemed to be "sleep mode".
'DI Crombie? The plates on the APB you put out match those of a jeep found next to a burnt out caravan just outside a local beauty spot.'
'Really? When was this please, and where exactly?' Crombie poised the pen against his notebook, thinking he'd never catch up with Bozen now. Paper rustling competed with an annoying white static buzz. Eventually the woman's voice said.
'Erm, last week, outside Beckett's Woods.'
Crombie huffed impatiently, and was about to tell her to be more specific when she continue as though reading from handwritten notes.
'Charred remains of one body, thought to be male. Jeep not reported stolen, registered to a Mr. Hunt, who was traced to a nursing home in Bournemouth. Do you want the address of the nursing home DI Crombie?'
'What?!! Of course I don't! Are you certain? Because I have reason to believe those plates belong to a jeep owned by a gentleman by the name of Charlie Bozen.' Crombie snapped, hoping to inject a sense of urgency into the conversation.
'Well according to the owner of the nursing home, Mr Hunt hasn't driven in fifteen years, and isn't likely to, as he's been diagnosed with senile dementia.'
'Jeez.' Crombie breathed out. 'Do you have any clue as to the identity of the body?' Although he already guessed Charlie Bozen wouldn't be doing anymore running. More paper rustled, even more white noise crackled.
'Sorry Sir. Just checking the forensic report.' More pages turned. 'No, sorree. Says here dental records would be no help, every tooth has been 'stracted, probably premortem. When Traffic moved the caravan, they found a laptop computer hidden underneath the vehicle.' Pages turned again. 'Says here the IT crowd have tried to open it, but without success. All files are password protected.' She added, as though imparting valuable information. Crombie thought quickly. From what he'd gleaned about Bozen, the man was barely literate. Doubtless the IT crew at Thames Valley regarded computer security as a personal challenge, yet they'd been trying to open the laptop's files for nearly a week now. Something stirred in Crombie's gut. If he didn't know better, he'd call it Copper's instinct. If he could bottle and sell it, he'd make a fortune.
The laptop wasn't Bozen's, and the owner wanted it back so badly, when they couldn't find it, they'd made certain it would be destroyed. Only they'd reckoned with Bozen's animal cunning. On impulse Crombie told the woman he was on his way to collect the laptop, and to make certain it was waiting for him on his arrival at reception.
'Oh-er' she wavered. 'I dunno about that. The Super needs to authorise it, and the Super is away in Corfu until next Wednesday.'
'Really? I'm expected to kick my heels on a murder case until your superior gets back from holiday.' Crombie went in for the kill. 'And I'll explain to Scotland Yard to get ready to drop everything on Wednesday, because that's when Thames Valley think they might be able to hand over a laptop that they've already tried for the best part of a week to get into. Tried and failed.' For a moment or two Crombie thought he'd overdone the sarcasm and the hapless nameless woman had hung up. Instead a timid voice began giving him directions to the office block where evidence was kept, assuring him that she would phone ahead and make certain he was expected. Instead of blurting out his gratitude, Crombie gave a non-committal grunt and managed to make 'Thank you' sound like "I should bloody well think so." before disconnecting and heading out of the car park. Once past the security cameras, he allowed himself a grin to rival Alfie's smile. He'd no intention of bothering Scotland Yard. He snorted to himself at the thought of Thames Valley's ineptitude. Three days of trying and failing miserably to hack into the laptop. Crombie would lay odds it would take Wren Prenderson less than three hours.
Still thinking of Wren as he drove away from Whitehall past the turrets of St Stephen’s palace, unheeding of the slinky limos and black cabs giving the tanklike Passat a wide berth, Crombie allowed his mind to wander back five years, to the caves at Tintagal. Some scenes were more vividly etched on his mind than others, like the moment solid rock had rolled back on giant hinges to reveal a hidden chamber. He remembered too well the shock and outrage when a fellow police officer shot at him, thankfully the memory of pain searing through his shoulder receded with time, though he still had trouble raising his left arm above his head, especially first thing in the morning.
After he’d been shot, things got a bit blurry. He seemed to recall Wren’s voice going on and on, the kid sounded panic stricken as he pleaded with Superintendent Bates for Crombie’s life, when really he’d been buying time for his cousin, Rhyllann to circle around the rouge cop armed with an old crusader’s sword. Blue lightning always flashed through Crombie’s memory at this point. The next thing he recalled was being slumped over the wheel of a jeep, pleading to be helped with the drive to a hospital. His memory faded out as Rhyllann clambered into the driver’s seat, pushing Crombie aside. He remembered Rhyllann cuffing at his eyes and refusing to listen when Crombie urged him to wait for Wren.
Looking back, Crombie always felt a sense of guilt. Crombie had seen through the kid’s lies, but underestimated Wren’s cunning. Although come to think of it, he had always been completely upfront about his quest, even showing Crombie the last piece of the puzzle.
‘I won’t be fooled again.’ Crombie said out loud, and reminded of the new music system installed in the Passat he searched through the programmes until he found a station playing old seventies music, smiling as the raw vocal chords of Roger Daltery reaffirmed his statement.
He had almost been caught out again, when Rhyllann’s Mum managed to get herself kidnapped by African mercenaries. This time with a continent between him and his responsibilities, Crombie had gambled all and taken charge of the rescue, even while he told himself he only acted to keep the two reprobates out of trouble. He skipped over the might have beens with the pang he s
till endured whenever he thought of her, preferring instead to bask in the relationship that developed between him and Rhyllann, though he stopped short of explaining his unwanted and unplanned role in standing as his godfather just because the local church school appeared a better choice than the local primary.
From time to time Wren hinted that Crombie’s share of the lost treasure still had his name on it, though Crombie pretended not to hear, he never hesitated to take advantage of the cousins’ home on the Welsh coast. Strangely, only last year Carrie had been invited along on their family holiday, and thus met Wren for the first time. Apparently he’d injured his arm somehow, probably on that rusty old crusader sword, though he just smiled and changed the subject when Crombie questioned him. It had been a shock for him and the girls to arrive in Wales to find Carrie and Wren already firmly wrapped up in each other, almost as though they had been waiting to meet.
Crombie glowered at Carrie but she saw right through him, knowing him as well as his own daughters, having been friends with Lizzie since primary school. And it was rather sweet really, Carrie who always seemed to be running around after younger brothers and sisters suddenly had someone who waited on her hand and foot. Not to mention amusing to watch Wren utterly besotted by another person. As Lizzie said, Wren Prenderson never had an unselfish motive in his life, before now. Though Crombie thought that a little unfair, from time to time Wren did show some sign of humanity, now he seemed all too human.
