Rodney affected a perplexed expression. “So…?”
“So,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice now, he noticed, “it seemed to me that it was too much of a coincidence for the two things not to be linked.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rodney said dismissively, but even he could hear the tension that had crept into his voice.
“Rodney,” Jenna said gently, “I promise I’m not having a go at you; I just don’t want to see you getting in trouble.”
“Why would I be in trouble?” he scoffed. “Even if I was helping Mr Winston, it’s not like I was involved in the murder or in breaking him out of hospital, is it?”
“Rodney, the police won’t see it that way,” she said in exasperation. “You’ll get done for assisting an offender or something even worse, and you’ll end up going to jail.”
“Look, don’t worry about me,” he told her, but he could tell from the look on her face that she was indeed worried. After glancing around to make sure they were still alone, Rodent leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “We’re driving him down to the coast tonight and some fisherman bloke’s gonna smuggle him over to France in a boat.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it had been a mistake to tell her that. She looked horrified.
“Tell me something, Rodney,” she asked, her big eyes full of confusion, “is someone forcing you to help him against your will”
Rodent didn’t know how to respond. If he told her that he was being coerced, she would think he was pathetic; if he admitted that he was being well paid for his services, she would assume he was just as bad as Winston. Either way, she would lose any respect that she had for him.
“It doesn’t matter why I’m helping,” he told her. “Anyway, after tonight, Mr Winston will be out of my hair for good and then I can get back to normal.”
“Rodney, please don’t help him to escape,” Jenna implored him. “It’s wrong. Men like that are evil, and they ought to be locked up in jail, not left free to roam the streets hurting people.”
“For fuck sake, I’ve got no choice!” Rodent shouted, and immediately regretted raising his voice to her. “I – I’m so, so sorry,” he said, feeling truly awful. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that.”
Jenna shook her head, “It doesn’t matter,” she said, but he knew it did; the disappointment in her eyes told him so.
When Jenna next spoke, her voice had taken on the hardness of steel. “If you’re so sorry, prove it by calling the police and telling them where he is.”
Rodent shook his head sadly, knowing that his refusal would bring about an abrupt end to their brief friendship. “I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” she said fiercely, and he was taken aback by the raw anger in her voice. “Because if you help him to escape, then you’re no better than he is and you’re not half the man that I’d hoped you were.”
The words hurt him more than Garston’s kick to the ribs had earlier. “I told you, I can’t do that,” Rodent said, almost choking on his shame.
“Well I can,” Jenna said, bluntly.
Tears were running down the side of her face. “I’ll give you till six o’clock tonight to do the right thing,” she told him. “That’s when I finish work. If I haven’t heard from you by then, I swear I’ll call the police myself.”
Rodent didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Spinning on his heel, he stormed out of the shop without a backward glance.
“Please Rodney,” Jenna called after him. “I’m begging you, don’t go down with this man. He’s evil, and he deserves to rot in jail for the rest of his life. Do the right thing – call the cops.”
Chapter 27
The locksmith had finally arrived. His name was Leonard Rhymes and he was a short, tubby man with a greying comb-over and a very noticeable lisp.
Lenny, as he preferred to be called, didn’t seem too impressed when Murray insisted that he don a full set of barrier clothing before being allowed to examine the safe, complaining that the paper oversuits severely restricted his range of movement.
Murray rolled his eyes theatrically. “I just want you to unlock the bloody thing, Lenny, not Moondance across the top of it like Whacko Jacko.”
Lenny struggled into an extra-large Tyvek suit and then had to fold the arms and the legs up because they were way too long. He complained constantly throughout the process. “These things are ridiculous. Look how far I’ve got to roll the bloody legs up,” he moaned.
Murray was having none of it. “It’s your own fault for being such a short arse,” he said. “They’re not made for midgets like you.”
“I’m not a bleedin’ midget,” Lenny objected.
“Course you are,” Murray insisted. “You’re short and fat, and you look like one of the Teletubbies.”
“This is not helping my self-esteem,” Lenny told him.
“Shut up, Tinky Winky.”
When he was finally kitted out, Murray led him over to the safe, where he knelt down awkwardly to examine it.
Earlier in the day, Juliet Kennedy had arranged for a local SOCO and a photographer to attend the scene, and while they had been waiting for the locksmith to arrive, they had cracked on with their respective tasks; the SOCO had fingerprinted the safe’s exterior, the filing cabinet, some of the tools and anything else that might yield prints, like the light switch. He had also taken a multitude of swabs for DNA and GSR testing.
Ned, the SO3 photographer from Lambeth, had completed as much record photography as he could. Both men had then gone off to a nearby café in order to warm up over a cup of
