Hit and Run (10 page)

‘Why?’ The woman asked her.

‘We don’t know.’

Now wasn’t the time to tell her the police had been talking to her son in connection with a crime.

Mrs Gleason pressed her hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes tight shut.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ Janine asked her.

‘There’s a bottle of Bailey’s in the kitchen, second cupboard.’

Janine retrieved it and poured a generous measure into a glass. Mrs Gleason took it and drank half of it in one go. Janine could smell the sweet blend of liqueur and cream.

She looked at Janine; her face started to crumple. ‘What do I do now? I don’t know … what happens?’

Gently, Janine talked her through the immediate necessities. Was Jeremy married, had he any family of his own?

‘Divorced,’ his mother said, ‘that’s his lad.’ She tilted her glass at the photograph. ‘He hasn’t seen him for a while.’

Janine explained that there would be no need to start funeral arrangements as a post-mortem would have to be carried out and nothing could happen until the coroner released the body.

Mrs Gleason seemed to take most of it in. ‘Does Lee know?’ she said suddenly. ‘Lee Stone, he was living at Lee’s.’

‘Not yet. We haven’t been able to speak to Lee, he’s not at home. If he gets in touch with you will you please let us know? He’s wanted for questioning.’

Confusion and then distress flashed across her face. ‘Oh, God,’ she began as she realised the implication.

‘We don’t know what happened,’ Janine told her clearly. ‘We’ve no idea at the moment. But Lee was with Jeremy shortly before he was found – we really need to talk to him.’

There was a pause and Mrs Gleason took another drink from her glass.

‘Would you like me to arrange for someone to come and sit with you?’ Janine offered.

The woman shook her head. ‘Our Karen’s just down the road, I’ll go to hers.’

‘I’ll wait while you call her.’

As Janine watched her make the call she wondered about Rosa Milicz’s family – who had broken the news to them, how much had they been told? Rosa would probably have been sending money home to them; did they know she’d been an exotic dancer or had she pretended she was doing something more respectable? The wages she earned in the UK would have made life better for them all and then, out of nowhere, someone had strangled her, mutilated her and thrown her in the river. Why? Why Rosa? Why Gleason?

Towards morning Janine dreamt that Ann-Marie was lying in the road and Janine couldn’t rouse her. She realised with a sense of horror that the child was dead. She felt a twist of guilt. It was her fault. They’d find out. Panic skewed inside her. She turned to see a row of people watching her; they looked angry Then the child had gone and in her place was Rosa Milicz; someone had shot her. There was the noise then. Janine ducked. She reared awake to the sound of Charlotte crowing. The picture of the dream evaporating as she tried to clutch at it. Had Rosa had a face? How had she known it was Rosa?

Getting up, Janine looked in the cot. Charlotte greeted her with a little shriek.

‘Good morning,’ Janine rubbed the baby’s stomach. ‘Aren’t you lovely,’ she told her. ‘Yes, you are. My best girl.’

There was an edgy mood in the incident room that morning. The banter a little too savage, the laughter forced. As soon as she began to speak the team were made unequivocally aware of Janine’s ire. She could have been reading a shopping list and they’d still have got the message. The boss was steaming. She tapped the edge of Jeremy Gleason’s photograph. ‘He was a suspect in the death by reckless driving of a seven-year-old. He may also have been able to help us with the murder of Rosa Milicz.’ She paused, scanned the room. Took in Butchers avoiding eye contact, hunched in his seat. As well he might.

She carried on, her voice quieter which only emphasised the contained fury. ‘Someone on this team leaked crucial identifying information to a man half-deranged with grief. We don’t know yet who pulled the trigger on Jeremy Gleason but, whether or not it was Chris Chinley, I will never accommodate such a serious breach of discipline.’ She looked from one officer to another, insisting that they share her frustration. ‘We are a team. A stunt like this reflects on every other person in this room. There’s only one side – you’re on it or you’re out. I expect whoever jeopardised this investigation to have the basic bloody guts to own up. You know where my office is.’

She stepped back, folded her arms and leant against a desk, her eyes still roving the room, taking in the discomfort that rippled through the group.

Richard took over. ‘OK, three cases – we’ll take new information on them one by one. Jeremy Gleason, murder. Pathology has promised an initial report first thing after lunch. At this point in time we’re looking at Chris Chinley and Lee Stone. Chris Chinley has agreed to a gunshot residue test and his clothes are with the lab. He was in the area, intending to go after Gleason and Stone. Claims he bottled out.’ He shrugged; the jury was still out on that one. ‘All forces are on lookout for Lee Stone and we are calling on family and known associates and checking places he may have holed up.’ Officers nodded, exchanged glances, scribbled notes.

‘Prior to this, we know Stone and Gleason were mates. Maybe they quarrelled or maybe Stone took him out because he knew too much. And remember, although we have no other suspects at present, enquiries might turn up someone new. Talk to Gleason’s other pals, neighbours, family – did Gleason have any enemies we should know about?

‘Next case – Rosa Milicz – murder. The DNA profile from the material under her nails should be back tomorrow. At that point we can run it against Stone and Gleason. Rosa’s relatives have been notified. Enquiries are ongoing at the club. So far all we’re getting is a load of no’s: no boyfriend, no trouble, no dodgy clients, no address. Rosa was an illegal immigrant, the rest of the girls are kosher – though the filing system leaves something to be desired. Now Rosa was Polish and so is the club owner, Konrad Sulikov. Possibly a connection there. We’re doing a paper search on him. One big gap is her address – someone must know where she was living but we haven’t got to them yet. We’re still no nearer a crime scene for the murder.’ The yellow pins had spread along the meandering route of the river showing more areas searched and ruled out. ‘Every crime scene tells a story: who was there, who did what to whom. Without it, to be frank, we’re struggling. We’re redoubling efforts to find Rosa’s home in the hope that’ll lead us to the scene.’

Richard turned back to the boards. ‘We want to talk to Lee Stone about this one as well. He worked at the club, he was the doorman. A search has been made of Stone’s flat but that’s not our scene.’

‘He liked to mess about with the dancers, trying it on.’ Shap put in.

‘Yes and he’s a history of sexual violence. But there is no prior relationship between Stone and Rosa. Not that we can find.’

Richard moved over to the picture of Ann-Marie, the details of the Mercedes. ‘Finally, the hit and run. Now death due to dangerous driving plus failing to stop
etc.
etc.
Here we have sightings of the Merc and there’s a pattern emerging with the odd rogue report that is out of sync.’ He pointed to a time that was outside the accepted parameters. ‘Where’s that, Butchers?’

Butchers started, stumbled over his words. ‘Erm … Burnage at ten to eight.’

‘That Mercedes will have been everywhere from Land’s End to John O’Groats before we’re done,’ said Richard. ‘The fire damage to the car means we’ve not got anything concrete from forensics yet to place Stone or Gleason behind the wheel. They’re still on the job; all we need is an eyelash, a speck of dandruff. The chances might be slim but stranger things have happened.’

Shap tapped his pen against his notebook. ‘We’ve had a couple more witnesses come forward and they are all singing from the same song sheet – describing Stone and Gleason near where the car was dumped.’ It was good news, reinforcing the likelihood of being able to hold Stone for questioning when he was finally found.

‘CCTV?’ Richard asked.

The officers reviewing tapes from service stations in a forty mile radius shook their heads – nothing as yet.

Janine spoke out. ‘Stone’s the key – those of you with sources put the word out. Bring him in.’ She left the room briskly. A collective sigh of relief followed her departure though people were then quick to move on to their own particular tasks, anxious to escape the prevailing awkward atmosphere. And no one wanted to speak to Butchers.

*****

Richard asked Shap to stay behind. Edged him over to the far corner out of earshot.

‘We all know who it is, Shap. Body language screaming guilty as hell. Can’t you have a quiet word with him?’

Shap was silent. His expression guarded.

‘She won’t let it rest, you know. And neither will I.’

‘I’m not with you, sir,’ Shap said coldly, ‘is that all?’ He cocked his head.

Richard gave a shrug of resignation. Shap was keeping mum – so be it.

*****

The Lemon wanted his piece of the action. Some things never change, thought Janine as she stood in his office, concentrating on an ancient picture of the Queen from the 1950s that had pride of place on his wall.

‘You trying for some sort of record?’ Hackett said. ‘One suspect dead, another AWOL and the grieving father in the frame for the shooting because your team’s leaking like a sieve.’

‘I’m dealing with it, sir.’

‘How exactly? If the Press get hold of this …’

‘They won’t. I had no alternative; I had no grounds to hold those men any longer.’ She defended her decision.

‘And the leak? Discipline – if you lose that … Come down and come down hard.’

‘The team know how things stand. I’ll be dealing with the culprit this afternoon.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I’ve got a pretty clear idea but until I’ve spoken to the officer directly …’ She’d do this by the book.

‘Demotion? Suspension?’

‘I’ll make that decision when I have all the facts.’ And it’d be a damn shame. Butchers was a reliable copper. Had been up till now. Then what? Meltdown. Such a waste.

‘If they think you’re a soft touch …’

Janine recalled the reactions in the incident room. ‘Hardly.’

‘Not the most auspicious return to duty.’ Hackett observed. ‘Maybe I should have let Mayne lead. Give you time to … readjust.’

Janine was determined not to rise to the bait; nothing he liked more than a sniping match; when things got tough he invariably took to undermining those junior to him. The old school approach.

‘If we’re finished here, sir, I’ve got a lot to do,’ she said brightly. He nodded reluctantly and she escaped.

*****

One of the clients had a paper. POLICE IDENTIFY ROSA was splashed across the front,
Murder Victim Polish
. Marta’s heart thumped when she saw it and she stifled the urge to exclaim. She longed to read more, hoping that the man would leave it in the lounge when he went in with Zofia. Rosa used to pore over the free newspaper that got delivered. She’d pick out words that she didn’t know and look them up in her little dictionary. Lots weren’t in it and she’d have to figure them out from the context.

But the man tucked it into his coat and Marta didn’t get a chance. She would have to try and catch the news on the television. The men liked to have it on while they waited.

Now the police knew it was Rosa would they come here? She would talk to the others, they would have to be very careful, more so than usual.

Marta thought about the baby. Rosa had chattered about names late one night when she got in. ‘It’s due in August,’ she had said. ‘If it’s a girl I will call her after you.’

Marta had wrinkled her nose, waved away the idea. ‘I never liked my name.’ She had leaned forward, sliding a cigarette from the packet. Begun to speak carefully, ‘And Rosa, you know …’

Rosa had flung her arm up in protest, no longer prepared to listen to reason. ‘Don’t! This is my baby, it’s my life so just …
spierdalaj
,’ she swore, ‘fuck off and let me be.’

Now Marta went upstairs and sat on Rosa’s bed and gazed out at the roofs through the grey net curtains. Rosa wasn’t coming back. Rosa was gone. With her posture like a ballet dancer, that straight back and long neck, her luxurious dark hair.

Marta exhaled sharply. She got down on her knees and felt under the bed where she knew Rosa kept her bag. There were clothes and a couple of family photographs: people in their Sunday best. One was a church occasion, one of the brothers getting confirmed, Rosa had said. Marta peered at the Milicz clan. The father dead now. Here he looked like any family man. Rosa and her brothers wore bright smiles for the camera, their mother looked brittle, careworn. Also in the bag, there was a cloth wallet and inside it was the money that Rosa had been saving. Marta counted it. Just over £400. Most of her tips had been sent back home. Marta put the cash in her own bag; no point in letting anyone else get their hands on it. It brought her £400 closer to a better life.

The doorbell rang and she smoothed her hair and adjusted her skirt as she went back downstairs to work.

Every case generated a phenomenal amount of paperwork. As officer in charge, Janine not only had to keep tabs on all the different elements of the investigation and see their reports but also keep a meticulous log of her own and ensure that there were no omissions which could later jeopardise the chance of a result. She was multi-tasking, sifting through her in-tray and trying for some sort of prioritisation and also reading her emails when she was interrupted by Shap. ‘Boss, you got a minute, it’s about Ian …’

Still smarting from her encounter with Hackett, Janine felt her temper rise. ‘He should be here – not you,’ she said crisply, ‘tell him to see me himself.’

‘But, boss, it’s just … he’s straight as a die, everyone …’

‘Shap, I’m not interested in excuses.’

‘I just think, given the situation …’