A Raucous Time

  *

   

  Engines stilled, doors slammed and voices sounded.

  ‘Jesus – look at the mess here!’

  ‘No wonder that conservation guy was so upset Sir!’

  ‘Mmm. These are our boys Sergeant Tiller. Good thing our man played innocent and backed off. Can we get a photo of that – and those weird markings?’

  Rhyllann could only glimpse legs sweeping past but he recognised that voice. He nudged Wren.

  ‘Crombie!’

  Wren held an imaginary phone to his cheek with a grimace. Crombie would discover the mobile. Crombie would know immediately where Rhyllann was hiding because Crombie had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to Rhyllann. Crombie’s boots turned in their direction; catching his breath Rhyllann wriggled deeper into the dirt, trying to bury himself. Wren hissed at him to keep still.

  ‘Ok – Rodgers – looks like they dug over there – get your fat lazy backside down there and dig.’

  Buses on the moon and mobiles in ancient chests seemed less and less funny.

  Crombie’s voice boomed again carrying clearly:

  ‘Superintendent Bates – You’re in position? Yep. We’re at Taffy’s Folly – it’s deserted. Guess our master race are all holed up in the farmhouse. Probably taking a powernap. Tell your boys it’s a go!’

  Rhyllann buried his face in the dirt. Crombie had tracked down Stern and his gang, it seemed armed police were up for a shoot out. If he hadn’t been so stupid! Stern’s gang would have been taken care of, and no-one would ever have known he and Wren were even here.

  ‘Sir! Look! A spade!’ A woman’s voice called excitedly.

  ‘That’s great – good work Chrissie! Tell you what – you and Tiller get over there and search those rocks.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ll charge ‘em first with desecrating an ancient monument while we hold ‘em for Interpol. After you’ve searched those rocks, search that thicket – the whole area. Anything else that can tie them to this place – sweet wrappers – cigarette packets – understood? And photograph everything.’

  The undergrowth shuddered as someone began probing with a spade, batting the gorse first one way then another. The boys shrunk back, vicious little spikes piercing their flesh. Rhyllann held his breath. Any moment now they’d be discovered. But we’ve done nothing. He told himself. We’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we’ve done nothing. I’ll stand up – tell Crombie we thought … he felt fingers of steel grasp his arm, as Wren read his mind.

  ‘Sir! Sir!’ Rodgers was calling. ‘I’ve found something.’ There was a stampede in his direction. Rhyllann counted four pairs of legs.

  ‘A mobile Sir – that’s strange.’

  The female voice spoke. ‘Maybe there’s a text message – or a phone number to call …’

  ‘I’ll take it back to Bodmin Station – they might be able to unlock it!’ That sounded like Sergeant Tiller.

  A faded leather jacket flapped into view as its owner bent to scoop up the mobile.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Crombie shouted. ‘For godsake Bates – stand down weapons.’ He yelled into the radio. ‘Hostages! They’ve got hostages. STAND DOWN! At least one, maybe two kids hostage! Abort! Abort! Abort!’

  He yelled over to Rodgers again – Hewes and Tiller began speaking at once.

  ‘Are you sure Sir – how do you know?’

  ‘I recognise this mobile – the cracked screen, the sellotape. It belongs to Rhyllann Jones!’

  ‘What! That mouthy little git? You think they’ve got him?’

  ‘Yes. He might be a mouthy little git – but he’s street smart. He dropped the phone in there unnoticed. Hoping someone would find it. Rodgers – come on! We’ve gotta get going. Make sure Bates doesn’t get trigger happy.’

  Rhyllann groaned. Wren’s eyes burnt into the back of his neck. Doors slammed, engines roared, wheels churned and silence returned.