An Explosive Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures) Read Free Page B

warrens.
    Although interspersed with thistles, the rails stretched cleanly away into the distance; competent and passive. Unsurprisingly the odd sleeper was missing, they made excellent support beams; otherwise there was no sign that anyone even remembered this old railway line which had once ferried goods across the country.
    Crombie paced towards the Scrubs, taking jumbo-sized steps, leaping from one sleeper to the next. Where a sleeper was missing, he skidded on fist sized gravel that shifted under foot, crunching like pebbles on a beach. After two hundred yards or so he paused to catch his breath, feeling hungrier than ever. Behind him ivy and brambles had sprung back to cover the path he’d forged down the steep embankment. From here, the smart new warehouses were invisible, apart from a smudge of roof tops opposite, Crombie could imagine himself in deepest darkest Africa. Except he was barely a hundred yards now from Wormwood Scrubs. On the other side of the tracks, a mile back the other way the White City studios of the BBC squatted; the building always reminded Crombie of a squashed wedding cake. Spinning round, he began marching in that direction, parallel with Latimer Road, for no other reason than one of the best fish and chip shops in London was located midway along this street. He paced more slowly now, the certainty growing in his mind that the elephant knappers had taken this route.
     
    ‘Elementary my dear Crombie!’ He muttered to himself. After jotting down a few notes to himself in an ever present notebook, he crunched down from the rails, back to the steep embankment soaring a good twenty feet upwards, and began climbing back to civilisation, digging in toes to secure footholds, puffing with the effort of leaning forwards without going over onto his knees.
    A couple of warehousemen on a ciggie break stared astonished as Crombie swung himself back over the railings. They returned his nod and greeting politely though. Crombie’s bulk deterred a lot of questioning.
     
    Ever cautious, Crombie checked his wallet as he walked the couple of hundred yards to the small parade of shops, flicking through credit cards and old shopping lists in vain, huffing with annoyance. He didn’t mind his girls borrowing the odd tenner, but wished they’d ask first. He huffed again at the garrulous queue lining the length of the shop’s counter, giving him no chance of a quiet promise to pay later. On the other side of the chest high counter Maudie with her tightly permed yellow hair and pinched face made non-stop chat as she shook salt and vinegar over puffy golden battered slabs, before wrapping them tightly in newspaper lined with greaseproof paper. Behind her rectanglular frame, the broad white coated shoulders of husband Peter dipped and swayed as he swiped filets of fish into off-white batter, dropping them one by one into a sizzling vat of fat, churning another vat to shovel out mountains of crinkly cut chips. Realising he was staring like one of the Bisto kids, Crombie turned on his heel, banishing the sight, but his mouth still watered at the tangy odour of chip shop vinegar.
     
    His eyes skimmed the street automatically, a lifetime ago, this neighbourhood formed part of Crombie’s beat while he was still a foot soldier in the Met Police. Crombie’s gaze stuttered, returning to a racing green Stag convertible crouching alongside the kerb. The car was showroom standard apart from the Cymru flag on the chrome bumper and his hopes rose. It appeared an old acquaintance must be in town, one who still owed Crombie twenty quid. Whistling tunelessly, Crombie entered the tiny square of garden filled with roses, and lifted the brass knocker high before ramming it down three times. The door flew inwards with Crombie tumbling after it, just managing to get a palm against the flocked wallpaper and saving himself from falling. A voice scolded from behind the open door.
    ‘At last - I’m starved   - Oh. Oh. Hi Detective