Cribbins raised an eyebrow. “And who exactly is your friend…?” he asked, loading the final word with scorn.
She shook her head emphatically. “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.”
His cold, unblinking stare unsettled her. “Young lady, I keep abreast of what’s happening in the world. Given the timing of your request and the circumstances you’ve outlined, I’m inclined to suspect that your friend is the man who shot the police officer yesterday. Would my deduction be correct?”
Angela almost laughed at him. Deduction?Who the fuck does he think he is? Sherlock Holmes?
“Look,” she said, trying to be diplomatic, “I can’t discuss anything more with you unless you agree to help. I’m not being difficult, but it’s easier for everyone if we keep it like this.”
Cribbins was silent for a while, and she could see that he was deep in thought, no doubt trying to work out how he could exploit this situation to his own advantage.
“Very well, describe the wound to me,” he said.
“He had a burst appendix,” she told him. “It’s a big scar because they had to check his entire stomach cavity and remove a load of puss.”
“A big scar?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bigger than the one on your face?” he asked, smiling cruelly.
Angela self-consciously raised her hand to her face. “Yes,” she said, her voice hard as flint. She could tell he was waiting to see if she would look away, or at least turn her head to hide the scar from his view, but she didn’t. Looking him straight in the eye, she described the wound, the inflammation, the unpleasant smell and the state of the remaining sutures.
He seemed disappointed that his barb hadn’t had more of an effect, but Angela hadn’t survived all these years on the game without learning how to block out the spiteful insults that were intended to make her feel even more worthless than she already did.
One of the first lessons she’d learned was that lashing out at those less fortunate than themselves, whether verbally or physically, always made pathetic men like Horace Cribbins feel better about themselves.
The embalmer considered what she had told him. “Sounds like he has an infection. He’ll need antibiotics.”
“All in hand,” Angela said.
“So, apart from receiving a fee for my services and being owed a favour by a wanted felon, can you think of any other reason why I should help your friend out?”
Angela shrugged. “Not really, but after the disgraceful way the police treated you when you lost your job at the mortuary, I would have thought you’d jump at the chance to stick two fingers up at them.”
Cribbins actually smiled at that. “Maybe I would,” he said. “Give me the address and I’ll stop by after nine o’clock tonight. The streets should be a lot quieter by then.”
“Really?” Angela had been so sure he was going to decline that she’d already started concocting excuses to justify her failure to Winston and Garston.
Cribbins nodded, all smiles. “Yes, really,” he confirmed.
“That’s wonderful, but you can’t tell anyone,” Angela warned him. “Claude’s the most wanted man in London at the moment and there are plenty around here who would sell him out if they got wind of where he’s staying.”
“Don’t worry,” Cribbins assured her as he showed her to the door. “I’m a man of discretion. I won’t tell a living soul.”
Angela’s relief was palpable. “Do I need to get any special supplies in?” she asked.
Cribbins shook his head. “I already have everything I need. Just tell me the address.”
Chapter 20
After finishing her tea, Jenna made an excuse that she was going to pop round to a friend’s house for a little while. She slipped her boots and winter coat back on, and then set off for the council flat in Lawrence Street where the Dawlish family had resided for as long as she could remember.
It was a ten minute walk from her place in Percy Road, and she spent the time in quiet contemplation. Oblivious to the world around her, she tried to process all the information that she had pieced together, hoping against hope that she was wrong about Rodney and that he wasn’t helping the escaped prisoner.
Ignoring the biting wind that numbed exposed skin and ruffled hair, Jenna wondered if she was just wasting her time. After all, she hadn’t seen him for years and she had no idea if Rodney even still lived with his parents, but that was the only lead she had. Surely, even if he no longer resided there, they would know how to put her in touch with him?
The flats in Lawrence Road were two storeys high, and the Dawlish family lived up on the top floor. Jenna found an unlocked security door, climbed a urine-scented staircase and strode purposefully along the landing walkway. Stepping across a children’s bike that had been blown over by the strong winds, and then ducking under several makeshift washing lines, one of which had an old-fashioned pair of woman’s bloomers dangling from it, she counted down the numbers until she found the address she was looking for. There were lights on inside, and as she rapped on the solid wooden door, she could hear the muffled sound of a TV playing inside.
Was that the theme to EastEnders?
“Who is it?” an unfriendly female voice shouted from the other side of the door. It sounded slurred, as if the owner were drunk.
“Mrs Dawlish?” she said tentatively, “My name’s Jenna Marsh. I used to go to primary school with your son, Rodney. I was hoping to have a word with him.”
Silence.
“Mrs Dawlish?” Jenna called again, firmer this time.
“Rodney ain’t ‘ere so sod off.”
“It’s very important, Mrs Dawlish,” Jenna persisted. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Jenna listened to the woman shuffling about behind the door, sighing and swearing as she tried to unlock
