A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) (5 page)

‘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.’

The next morning Rhyllann scrambled eggs, chopped mushrooms and fried bread, planning to be extra nice. After Crombie left he’d steeled himself for questions. 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 …’

‘Sorry, I’m unavailable. Leave a message and I’ll get back.’

Rhyllann stared at the phone incredulously before hurling it across the room. Fat lot of good that fat bastard was! Burying his head in his hands, fingers yanking at his hair Rhyllann told himself to think! Think! Where to start searching?

A sharp rap rattled the glass behind him; Rhyllann shot upright, spinning round with a thumping heart, certain they’d come back for him, wishing he had a baseball bat or equivalent to get in a couple of whacks first.

Two inches away Wren rested on his crutches, pointing impatiently to the door.

‘Let me in!’ he mouthed.

Rhyllann ran to the door, flinging it open. ‘Fool! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Where’ve you been? Get in here quick!’

Wren hobbled in, as though he’d just taken a stroll round the garden, and not worried the life out of Rhyllann.

‘Didn’t you see my note?’

‘Note?’

In answer Wren clumped into the kitchen, pointing towards the fridge. There, scrawled large in red marker: “Gone home. Back soon. Me.”

That better wipe off thought Rhyllann as he followed. Outloud he said

‘No I didn’t – normal people use pen and paper. Where the hell have you been?’

Wren lowered himself onto the kitchen bench, sniffing the air then wrinkling his nose.

‘I told you. Home – look!’ Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of crumpled bank notes.

Rhyllann spluttered ‘But you … how did you …’

Pulling the biscuit jar towards him, Wren selected a cookie.

’How did I get there? Taxi. How did I pay? Money. Where did I get the money from? That jar.’ He nodded over, taking a bite out the cookie. ‘Mm. I’m starved. You had your breakfast?’

‘My child benefit!’ Insult added to injury. ‘Why didn’t you ask me?’

‘You were asleep. Here – look – I’ve saved up. £120. Put it with your money.’ Laying the notes on the table, Wren smoothed them out, humming happily.

Giving up, Rhyllann grabbed a cloth and scrubbed at the fridge.

‘Where’s my notebook Annie?’

Hairs rose on the back of Rhyllann's neck. He turned slowly, narrowing his eyes. ‘How did you know I had your notebook?’

‘Educated guess. Where is it?’

Rhyllann stared at him.

‘What?’

‘You swapped the books didn’t you?

Wren shrugged. ‘Did I?’ He mocked.

Grasping his arms, Rhyllann dragged him off the bench, ignoring the squeals. Throwing up the bench lid, retrieving the notebook, he thrust it into Wren’s chest.

‘Thanks.’ Wren dropped his head, studying the damaged lock with a smile. ‘You’ve read this?’

The words written in code with a mysterious Welsh postscript. Something clicked in Rhyllann’s mind.

‘You recognised one of those men didn’t you? Why didn’t you tell Crombie Mikey was there that night?’

Another shrug. ‘Was he?’ He spoke without looking up.

‘You know damn well he was. You spoke to him. “Please Mr. Stern,” you said. I thought you were calling for old man Stern.’

Suddenly that night was back with him again. The other guy had named him too. “Leave him alone Stern, he’s only a kid.” At the time Rhyllann hadn’t stopped to worry it out. Now he started to smell a rat.

“Why didn’t you tell Crombie?’

‘Why didn’t you tell Crombie?’ Wren smirked.

Rhyllann exploded; slapping both hands palm down on the table, leaning across, inches from Wren’s startled face.

‘Look you horror! Play Crombie for a fool, trick the nurses, and take the piss out your teachers all you want. But don’t jerk me around!’

Banging into the front room, Rhyllann slumped on the sofa, head in hands again. Hell. Hell and damn. What had he done? He would have to put up with this until … until what? Social services wised up? Until his mum got home? Until gran recovered? Crombie’s words drifted back to him. “On your own head son.” His mobile rang. Jesus, was the guy telepathic? Rhyllann scrambled across the room for it, desperate to answer before Crombie decided to come round and see why he wasn’t picking up.

‘Hi Detective Crombie.’

‘Rhyllann – you wanted a word? What’s up?’

He cast a look towards the kitchen. In spite of everything, he couldn’t give him up. They were family.

‘Nothing. Nothing’s up. I just wanted to thank you for last night.’

Silence. Then: ‘You being funny son? I thought you should be the one to break the news.’ Great. Crombie thought he was being sarcastic again.

‘No. No. Detective Inspector Crombie Sir. I mean it. Thanks. I mean thanks for not … you know.’

‘Tipping the S.S. off?’ Crombie sounded amused. ‘Don’t mention it. They’re not that bad though, you might be better off with them. Until your mum gets back from the shops.’

Crombie’s idea of a joke. Rhyllann smiled. ‘No. You’ve met him. You’ve seen what he’s like. It’s bad enough at school, if he’s not winding the other kids up, he’s hacking off the teachers. Sad really. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.’

‘HAH! I think he does. Anyhow, you know best. If you’re sure you can cope.’

Rhyllann nodded.

‘You still there?’

‘Yeah, no worries. I can cope.’

‘Hurmph. We’re gonna do an appeal on the local news tonight. If your cousin does remember anything, ring me.’

Before Rhyllann had a chance to respond Crombie disconnected the call. The guy had the worst telephone manner.

The sofa gave a soft whump as Wren sat next to him. Without raising his head, Rhyllann apologised.

‘S’okay Annie, I understand. You’ve got your own problems.’

Rhyllann’s brow wrinkled at that. Indicating Wren’s notebook, to change the subject he asked.

‘What’s with the code?’ He grinned. ‘What are you trying to hide?’ So Wren told him.

Rhyllann listened for almost twenty minutes. When Wren finished, he sat in stunned silence. Finally he managed:

‘You’re roasting me.’

‘Roasting you?’ Wren sounded puzzled. ‘You think I’ve made this up?’

He sat on mum’s saggy third hand sofa, wearing Rhyllann’s cast offs. T-shirt swamping him, hair sticking heavenwards, toes poking comically from a plaster cast and expected Rhyllann to believe that he held the key to a hoard of treasure. Not just any old treasure either. A King’s treasure.

‘Mike Stern gave you an ancient text. Which just happened to be written in Welsh. Which just happened to be the diary of a princess, who hid a shed load of treasure. Have I got that right?’

‘Mike didn’t even know it for Welsh Annie!’ Wren clutched at him, eyes sparkling, words tripping from him. ‘Mikey delivered a mountain of books for him to translate – all different languages – you should have seen them! Arabic – Hebrew – Latin – Greek! Mike grumbled – but I could see he was really happy. “Look look – they must think I’m Rumplestiltskin to spin so much crud into gold. Look my boy!” And he shoved this book at me. “Have you ever even seen such a tongue – no vowels!” But Annie I recognised it!’ Tears glistened, as Wren remembered. ‘And he laughed and said “So, the student begins to outstrip the master!” He was so happy for me – he seemed so proud. He sat down surrounded by books and began working out my share of the fee.’

A sudden vision of them both capering round Stern’s living room like two demented hobbits struck Rhyllann. He groaned, finally admitting defeat.

‘Brawd – sorry – this just isn’t working. I’m sorry, we’ve tried. We’re gonna have to call in social services. For one thing – I can’t miss any more school.’

Wren started to protest, then stopped. ‘Okay Annie. I understand. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s settled then.’ Rhyllann sighed with relief. ‘Tell you what – Let’s go mad this weekend – get some DVDs – curries, pizza: I’ll ring social services Monday.’

Wren nodded, cradling his notebook.

‘Gran might even be home by then.’ Rhyllann added, ignoring the hurt on Wren’s face. ‘Sod it – I’ll blow the rest of my money.’

As he headed for the kitchen Wren called after him.

‘Annie. If we went after this treasure – we’d never have to worry about money again.’

Rhyllann scowled. This stopped now! Spinning round, he grabbed the notebook from Wren, flung it to the floor, and stamped on it. The spine snapped under his foot with a satisfying crack. Wren grabbed his arm, gripping hard, displaying his own flash of temper.

‘Listen! Just listen to me – I swear down. Believe. Believe.’ Wren’s eyes searched his face, urging Rhyllann to listen.

‘King John’s treasure wasn’t lost – for God’s sake – don’t you think some fool with a metal detector would have found some trace by now? He trusted it to his daughter, the Princess of Wales.’ Wren's throat worked. ‘A fortune – the crown jewels – wagon loads of irreplaceable valuables worth millions – billions!! Your mum needn’t go undercover. She could work openly – set up a proper animal charity. My mum – we could get her out of prison. And you – you could enrol in a flying school.’ Seeing the flicker in Rhyllann’s eyes he rushed on: ‘It isn’t fair – you know it isn’t fair. You’re a natural – but the RAF can afford to be picky – Even Tescos are asking for graduates now – to stack shelves. Think! If we found that treasure – me and you Annie – we can do it!!! You needn’t worry about GCSEs and A Levels. Hell – you could buy your own plane!’