Unlawfully At Large, page 26
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
At school, her behaviour had gradually deteriorated; she became disruptive in class and repeatedly got into fights with other children, often over the most trivial things. Her teachers came to consider her a problem child, a delinquent, and they were quite happy when she started bunking off.
By that stage, Angela had come to feel totally isolated; she was all alone in the world, with no one to turn to and no one to help her. As soon as she reached sixteen, she had run away from a home that felt more like a prison and started sleeping rough. It was better than living with the constant fear of being raped; the indescribable dread that every night time noise heralded the approach of a man she loathed and detested with every fibre of her being.
One evening, as she was walking through the park on her way to a squat she had started dossing down at, she was approached by a local dealer who offered her a freebie. He promised that the magic chemicals would bring contentment and happiness; a brief respite from the pain and misery that was her day-to-day life.
With nothing to lose, Angela had given the Golden Brown a try. Getting hooked had been that simple.
The second sample the dealer had supplied her with had also been free, but not the third. Having reeled her in, he was now demanding cold hard cash in exchange for his merchandise. Angela didn’t have any money, but she needed the gear, so she nicked some electrical goods from a nearby Woolworth store and swapped them for the smack.
Shoplifting financed her fourth and fifth purchases as well, but by then the store guards had grown wise to her and had barred her from most of the local shops.
On the sixth occasion that she sought out her dealer, she hadn’t had any drugs for a few days, and she was clucking badly. It was a horrible new experience, as unpleasant in its own way as the abuse she had suffered from her step-father. She was desperate for a fix when she met up with him, and with no other means of paying for it, she had performed oral sex in exchange for heroin. It had been the first step down a very slippery slope. That had been a lifetime ago, but she still relived the horrors every night in her dreams and she suspected that she always would.
Tearing her mind away from the past, Angela glanced up and down the road again, flinching as the wind lashed at her face.
According to an advert she’d found in the local Yellow Pages, the funeral parlour Horace Cribbins worked for closed at six p.m. It was only a few minutes’ walk from there to his house, so why was she still stuck out in the cold at a quarter-past, desperate for a piss, and still waiting for the deviant wanker to arrive?
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, “but my friend is very well connected and he would be in your debt if you helped him out. It never hurts to be able to call in a favour from a man like that.”
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 it. After what seemed an age, the door opened inward and Rodney’s diminutive mother was standing there swaying. She was barefooted, and the faded jeans and rumpled T-shirt she wore were heavily stained. Jenna got the distinct impression she had been wearing them for several days at least, probably sleeping in them too from the look of it.
Jenna was quite shocked by Mrs Dawlish’s unkempt appearance. The woman she remembered from her childhood had always looked so prim and proper, and she had always gone to great pains to ensure her children were well turned out.
In sharp contrast to her previous high standards, the tangled hair of the woman standing before her was sticking up as though she had just been dragged backwards through a thicket. The accusing eyes that struggled to focus on Jenna were rheumy, the skin on her face was blotchy. Mrs Dawlish’s lips sagged along one side as though she had recently suffered a stroke, and the teeth were in a terrible state, with a number missing.
What was left of a bottle of vodka hung limply from her left hand, the clear liquid sloshing against the sides every time she moved.
Jeanna was so startled by the transformation that she just stood there, unable to speak.
Mrs Dawlish burped drunkenly and then tottered sideways until she came to a halt against the doorframe. “Rodney don’t live ‘ere anymore,” she said, and then burped again.
Jenna instinctively took a backward step, afraid that Mrs Dawlish was about to throw up over her. She tried not to wrinkle her nose in disgust, but the smell wafting off the poor woman was so rancid that it was making her eyes water.
Her breath was like death; catching a sudden whiff of it, Jenna fought back the urge to gag.
“Do you know where I can find him? Please, Mrs Dawlish, it’s important.”
The woman shrugged, and in so doing nearly fell over. “Dunno,” she slurred, and her face morphed into a mask of sadness. “Bastard never comes to see me anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jenna said, “but I need you to concentrate for a moment and tell me where he lives.”
Mrs Dawlish waved the bottle in the air as she spoke. “Should be livin’ ‘ere with me, but ‘e ain’t, is ‘e?” Her shoulders slumped and she started to sob. “I got no one left now,” she said. “Kevin’s banged up inside again, worthless little shit that ‘e is, and their father… after all I done fer ‘im. After givin’ ‘im the best years o’ me life, the heartless git buggered off with another woman. Thought me precious little Rodney would’ve stayed with ‘is dear ol’ mum, but ‘e turned out to be just like the others, only out fer ‘imself.”
As the drunken rambling continued, the woman became increasingly hard to follow, and Jenna soon realised that she wasn’t going to get any sense out of Mrs Dawlish tonight. She would have to come back again in the morning. Hopefully, the poor woman would have sobered up a little by then and would be slightly more coherent.
“Okay, thank you, Mrs Dawlish,” she said, turning to leave. “Maybe I’ll pop by again tomorrow and see if you’ve been able to remember where Rodney is living these days.”
Mrs Dawlish wasn’t listening. “Never even visits me, the worthless sod,” she said, tearfully venturing onto the walkway outside her flat. “Shame on ‘im. ‘E only lives in Star Lane. Not exactly like ‘e ‘as to travel far to see ‘is poor ol’ mum, is it?”
Jenna stopped in her tracks and spun around. “He lives in Star lane?” she asked, wondering if she had heard correctly.
“Course ‘e does,” Mrs Dawlish mumbled. She flopped against the wall for support. “Got ‘imself a flat in one of them ‘ouses opposite the park. All independent now, doesn’t need ‘is poor ol’ mum any longer.”
Jenna strode over to her. “Do you know what number he lives at?” she asked, grabbing hold of the woman’s skinny arms and shaking them.
“Gerroff me,” Rodney’s mum shouted, pulling free. “’Ow would I know that? Never even been invited round there, ‘ave I?”
