She wiped her nose on the sleeve of Rodent’s coat. She wasn’t sure if it was just running because she was so cold or if she was beginning to go into withdrawal.
“Can I help you miss?” A quiet voice said beside her.
Angela hadn’t noticed anyone approach and she almost jumped out of her skin. She spun around to see a white man in his late fifties or early sixties staring at her with intense curiosity. Of medium height and a little overweight, he was dressed in a black cashmere coat, underneath which he wore a dark suit and tie. He had a thick shock of white hair that was neatly combed back, and a kindly face that could have belonged to any doting grandfather – as long as that grandfather enjoyed having sex with the corpses of young girls.
“For fuck sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” she shouted at him as she sprang to her feet.
“Forgive me,” he said, bowing apologetically, but Angela was so shaken by his sudden appearance that she hardly noticed the gesture.
As her heartbeat returned to normal, Angela took a moment to appraise the seemingly inoffensive man standing before her with his hands clasped behind his back. Something about Horace Cribbins made her take an instant dislike to him. Was it the blue eyes that brimmed with intelligence but were cold and remote? Or the thin cruel lips that were suggestive of a sadistic nature? No, she decided, it was the dark aura that enveloped him like a death shroud.
Angela had good instincts, and right now they were telling her that this man was dangerous and that she should tread carefully so as not to upset him. “I’m sorry for swearing at you but you made me jump,” she told him, sounding contrite and avoiding eye contact.
“Apology accepted,” Cribbins said, magnanimously, “but I would still like to know why you’re sitting on my wall.”
Angela shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot. She was busting for a pee and standing up had made it even worse. “Before I explain, I don’t suppose I could pop inside and use your loo, could I?” she pleaded.
Cribbins eyed her dubiously. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. After all, I don’t know you. For all I know, as soon as I open my front door a horde of your friends could jump me and pillage my house.”
It was a fair point, Angela accepted. There had been a spate of aggravated burglaries around Christmas time, where people calling door-to-door on the pretext of collecting for charities had done exactly that. She had read all about it in the papers.
“I hate to sound unladylike,” she said, hopping faster, “but if I don’t get to a toilet, fast, I’m going to piss myself.”
Cribbins studied her for a long moment, no doubt evaluating just how much of a threat she realistically posed, and then his face softened and he nodded reluctantly. “Very well, but I live with my elderly mother and I don’t want her being disturbed.”
He opened the squeaky gate and indicated for her to follow him along the path to the street door. After keying them in – and looking around suspiciously to make sure that no one had followed them – he showed her into the hall.
He was obviously doing well for himself, Angela reasoned, because the house was very lavishly decorated. Black and white Victorian checker tiles covered the floor, and a red Petrouchka flock wallpaper hung from the walls. There were several period paintings too, and in their ornate frames, they all looked like the real thing rather than cheap prints, not that she was any kind of expert. After closing the door, he threw his keys into a bowl on a washed oak console table and started to remove his coat.
“The downstairs convenience is the first door on your right. I’m going to have a quick word with my mother. If you finish before I return, wait here until I come for you.”
That sounded a bit ominous, but right then all she could think about was getting into the toilet before she had an accident. “Okay,” she said, already unzipping the Parker as she dashed off towards the loo.
When she emerged a few minutes later, feeling much better now that her bladder had shrunk back to its normal size, she was startled to find him standing in the hallway, waiting for her with his arms folded.
There were no pleasantries. “I believe you owe me an explanation,” he said pointedly.
“Alright,” she said, wondering how the unusual request was going to go down. “My friend came out of hospital yesterday following an operation. Unfortunately, he did something that caused most of his stitches to come undone and, for reasons I can’t really go into, he can’t go back to the hospital.” She took a deep breath and released it slowly. “So, we were wondering if you’d be willing to help us out by coming over to where he’s staying and stitching him up? For a fee, of course,” she added hastily. “We’re not expecting a freebie.”
Cribbins snorted. “You must be misinformed, dear girl. I’m an embalmer, not a doctor.”
“I know,” Angela said. “I also know that you used to be a bloody good mortuary technician and that you’re as capable of stitching a wound up as any doctor is.”
His face had darkened at the mention of his previous occupation, and the transformation made him appear quite sinister.
Angela swallowed hard.
No one knew she was here, apart from Garston, but he wouldn’t report her missing if she failed to return.
“What you are suggesting would be quite illegal, young lady,” he said sternly. “Why would I want to do something like that?”
“You’d be very well compensated,” she said, trying to make the proposition sound as appealing as possible.
Unimpressed, Cribbins waved a hand around the hall. “Does it look like I’m in need of money?” he asked.
“Well, no…” she admitted, quickly trying to think of another angle,
