Hit and Run (12 page)

‘How is Pete?’

‘OK.’

‘Round yours a lot?’

She frowned. What did it matter to him? Was he jealous or something? ‘It’s called parenting,’ she said sardonically.

‘Ah.’

She thought about calling him on it but was distracted as they passed Tom’s school. The crossing was festooned with mementoes for Ann-Marie: flowers in cellophane, soft toys, cards. It brought it home anew. The little girl dead, one of the men who knocked her down dead himself, the other on the run. Thankfully Chris Chinley was in the clear; she would make a point of letting him know personally. It wouldn’t change the fact that she’d had to interview him while he was still mourning his loss. He’d probably never forgive her for that. She’d have to live with it. Nothing compared to what the Chinleys had to live with – or without. She looked at Richard; he pulled his mouth down, gave a little sigh. He didn’t need to say anything.

The battered prefabricated building and derelict remains of stone walls were set close by the river. There was a loading area with a sheer drop into the water and it was along here that they could see the deep blue colour that had tainted both Rosa and Gleason. Originally it would have been a site for filling and unloading barges, the barrels of dye taken along the river to the canal network and then to places like Bolton and Bradford where it would be used to dye cotton and wool.

The river was a muddy brown; across the other side wire netting framed what looked like a storage depot. Orange and blue containers stacked up. A clutch of misshapen saplings sprouted at the base of the bank, bent by the force of the current. Shredded plastic bags fluttered from the branches. An urban installation.

Janine knelt beside Richard at the very edge of the stone platform. It was discoloured a rich indigo shade. Little flag markers surrounded them; scene of crime officers had already picked over this area, removing samples for testing.

‘He kneels here to shove her in,’ Richard was talking about Gleason. ‘He gets dye on his jeans.’

‘On Rosa the staining was on one side, her ankle, knee and hip. Abrasions.’ Janine imagined the scene. ‘If she was wrapped in bin liners and they’d torn on this edge that would account for it. The dye would get into the grazes, mark her skin.’

The wind was whipping over the water, rustling the stalks of weeds along the banks and toying with the litter here and there. Overhead, clouds with bruised edges were buffeted along. The temperature was dropping.

She looked around. ‘But no sign of a struggle, nothing that fits with the state of her face. It looks like she was brought here, not killed here.’

Richard gestured behind them to the old building. ‘Let’s have a look in the shed.’

‘Tyre prints,’ one of the technicians told them. She was photographing the marks. ‘One set’s clearly recent. We should be able to get you a make, maybe a match.’

‘I know what my money’s on.’ Janine hunched her shoulders up. It was cold by the riverside and even colder in the dingy warehouse. ‘The Merc.’

As they walked back to his car Richard spoke. ‘So supposing Stone kills her. What’s his motive?’

‘Maybe she won’t have sex with him?’

‘Bit of an overreaction.’

‘Andrea said she could stand up for herself. Maybe he tries it on, rapes her even, but Rosa threatens to report him. We’ve no way of knowing if the sex was consensual. He realises she is serious. He has to stop her so he strangles her,’ Janine suggested.

‘Or Gleason. We know Gleason was here. He could have killed her?’

‘Not got the same reputation, though. I can’t see Gleason doing it. Let’s stick with Stone. But he ropes Gleason in to help him get rid of the evidence.’

‘Yes. Ditch the body, torch the car. But then the hit and run blows the thing wide open.’

Janine stopped, put a hand up to stop her hair blowing in her eyes. ‘We know the car was nicked Monday night, why didn’t they dump it sooner?’

‘Enjoying the ride?’

‘Could be – or maybe it was the other way around. What if they took the car, planning to flog it? As long as Harper never twigged they could clear what, ten, twelve grand?’

Richard nodded.

‘Then while they’ve got it, later that night, early morning, Rosa comes into the picture. Stone tries it on, she tells him where to go, he throttles her. They bring her here, get rid. Sometime after that they hit Ann-Marie.’

‘Then we pull them in but they walk, vanish as soon as they get a chance,’ Richard said.

‘And things go sour between them. Stone kills Gleason. Gleason knows far too much. Stone can’t trust him to keep quiet; Gleason’s a bag of nerves, a walking time bomb.’

‘So Stone spins him some story, takes him to the tunnel and shoots him.’

They reached Richard’s car. Janine looked back to the riverside, narrowing her eyes against the cold wind. ‘If the tyre prints match we need to see if forensics have got anything for us from the car.’

She got the news by five that afternoon. Blood in the boot. She’d expected it but the confirmation made her back crawl. Now they just needed to see if it was Rosa’s.

When Marta had told the others that Rosa was dead, that she’d been murdered, Zofia crossed herself and Petra swore.

‘I knew it was something awful,’ Petra announced.

‘But why,’ Zofia asked, horror vivid in her eyes, ‘why would anyone do that?’

‘She wanted to leave,’ Marta said.

‘But who …’ Zofia was never very bright.

‘Someone stopped her.’

‘You think the boss … ?’ Petra caught on.

Marta raise her eyebrows a fraction. ‘It makes most sense to me.’

‘The bastard, the lousy prick.’

‘What are we going to do?’ Zofia looked nervously at them.

‘What can we do? Nothing. Keep our traps shut and carry on.’ Inside, Marta felt sick with fear.

‘There must be something …’ Zofia carried on.

‘And end up like she did?’ Marta shouted.

Zofia shrank back, her eyes filling. She was only seventeen and emotionally even younger. A soft egg, as her babka would say. The men liked that, the schoolgirl looks, the naivety. The sadists liked her best of all, her cries were so real, her pleas rang so true.

Marta put her arm around her, pulled her close.

‘I want my mama,’ the girl wailed. The sentiment was so direct and unexpected that Marta felt her own eyes sting with emotion, a sudden ache inside and the memory of flinging herself into her mother’s arms.

A flash of rage scorched through her. It was so unfair. Was it so wrong to want a better life? Clothes that looked halfway decent, a home and a telly, something to play music on, food in the fridge? They were all working, not thieving, working bloody hard, opening their legs for men who’d spit at them as soon as smile.

‘Shush,’ she told Zofia. ‘It’ll be OK.’ It had to be and that was that.

*****

Chris Chinley was less than appreciative of Janine’s courtesy call. His hostility clear in every gesture, each word. He had opened the door a few inches – just enough to allow conversation. Janine noticed the reek of alcohol, his bloodshot eyes.

‘What do you want?’

‘I thought you’d like to know. The tests are clear.’

‘I’m supposed to be grateful, am I?’

She tried to explain. ‘Chris, you didn’t give me any option. What was I supposed to do?’

He turned and walked away, leaving the door ajar and Janine on the doorstep, feeling like a right idiot.

Debbie came out.

‘It’s all OK.’ Janine told her. ‘The tests.’

‘Would you like some tea?’

Janine was embarrassed by the kindness. ‘I best get back.’

Horrified, she watched Debbie’s face crumple. ‘Janine, Chris … this … we’re not going to make it.’

Janine stepped into the house, ushering Debbie with her.

‘Everything’s gone. Everything.’ She began to cry.

Janine put her arm around her, blinking hard, breathing though her nose, tricks to control her own responses. To stop her from joining in.

Janine could smell food when she walked in home and her mouth began to water. When had she last eaten? Pete was testing Eleanor on her German, the two of them obviously having fun with it. Michael was getting a pizza out of the oven. No sign of Charlotte which meant Pete had managed to get her down. Hallelujah!

Scattering hellos and shucking off her coat she watched Tom. He was sitting alone at the table, an empty chair pulled up close to his and on the table he had laid out two lots of pens and paper and beside each a cup of milk and a saucer with slices of apple.

‘Something smells good,’ she said to Michael.

‘Ham and pineapple.’

‘You going to eat all that?’

‘I was till you got here.’

‘Go on,’ she chided him, ‘cut us a slice. You should be in bed,’ she told Tom, gently.

‘He’s been twice,’ Pete looked at her. ‘And … er … Frank is back.’ He jerked his head at the empty chair.

Oh, brilliant, Janine thought, suddenly understanding the duplicate snacks. That’s all we need. It had been years since Tom’s imaginary friend had disappeared. She was surprised he could even remember Frank well enough to recreate him.

‘I wonder why,’ she murmured to Pete. It was a rhetorical question.

Once the kids were all sorted she collapsed on the sofa. Her neck was stiff, she was still hungry – the pizza had barely dulled her appetite – she felt gritty and grimy from the day at work and bone tired. Had she the energy to run a bath? Would a shower do the trick? Pete was gathering his things together.

‘He’s not mentioned Ann-Marie today. When you told him – what did he say?’

Janine kept her face straight. ‘Could he have his next party at Laser Quest?’

Pete laughed and she joined in. Kids.

‘Charlotte’s started the bubble thing,’ Pete demonstrated, blowing a raspberry. ‘I’d forgotten that bit.’

Janine gave a gasp.

‘What?’ Pete said.

‘She’s due at the clinic tomorrow – her check – I meant to ring today. I’ll do it first thing. Though it wouldn’t matter if we missed it, she’s coming on fine – just needs to distinguish day from night.’

‘Connie could take her.’

Janine wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d rather go myself. I’ll rearrange.’

‘I think she’s getting more like Michael.’

‘What, moody and hormonal?’

Pete grinned. ‘He spoke today. A whole sentence.’

‘Can I have some money?’

‘No,’ he paused for effect, ‘I need some new trainers.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll sort him out,’ he added.

She began to yawn. ‘I’m ready for bed.’ She glanced up. Pete was watching her. She sensed a shift in the atmosphere before he even spoke.

‘Janine … I’ve been thinking … I seem to be here most of the time as it is … and things … I know after everything that happened …’

She felt her pulse quicken with adrenalin. Had the urge to run away – the flight or fight syndrome.

‘ … well, you probably don’t, won’t … but when all’s said and done, eighteen years … and I still.’

She stood, raising her palms to stop him talking. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit late?’ She could feel the heat in her cheeks, her mouth dry. Part of her still hurt, was still hurting. He had left her, broken their marriage, walked out on his children. How could he imagine that he could reverse all that?

He cleared his throat. ‘Since we had Charlotte – I was here for the others … the nights, everything. And it’s not just missing them … there’s you.’

‘And Tina,’ she said quietly.

‘Maybe I was wrong.’

She was angry with him, wanted to push him, shout, break things. She ran her hand though her hair, turned away, then back. ‘I can’t cope with this now.’

He gave a brief nod and backed away, buttoning up his coat. She folded her arms, waited until she heard the front door close after him. Then swore softly, several times.

*****

Chris sat in the dark in the back room. He hadn’t bothered drawing the curtains; he saw the rain lash against the glass and heard the occasional whoop of police cars.

Debbie had been relieved that he was an innocent man. Some cold, cruel part of him was amused. She understood so little.

He hadn’t been able to protect his daughter while she was alive and now she’d been taken from them he couldn’t even avenge her death. All he had was failure. While Debbie was striving for some all-forgiving bloody Christian sainthood – Ann-Marie the martyr to her cause – he felt only fury and loathing. He couldn’t read the cards that kept coming, couldn’t bear the hushed condolences of people who called at the house. All wallowing in some orgy of sadness. Sad, sad, so sad. It wasn’t sad – it was a fucking outrage. He still hadn’t cried. He didn’t want to weep and choose bouquets, he wanted to get hold of those who had killed her and beat them to a pulp. Break their faces and their teeth and burst their inner organs. But he’d had his chance and he had wavered and thought of a dozen reasons why not when there was only really one good reason – because he wasn’t man enough.

Breadwinner, yes. Was that all he amounted to? If he’d known that she’d be taken so young … he could have made more time. Debbie had been the main one to stay home. She hadn’t gone back to nursing full-time but once Ann-Marie was sleeping through she’d signed on the bank, taking one or two shifts a week to cover for sickness or holidays or the ongoing shortages. They probably could have managed without, especially as Chris’s business was going well. He had work booked in up to six months ahead plus emergency work now and then. And he could name his own price. They had enough for holidays abroad, nowhere that exotic but Crete or Cyprus or, one year, Madeira. Last summer, when Ann-Marie was six they’d splashed out and gone to Disneyworld in Florida.

When Ann-Marie started school Debbie had got a part-time job at Christie’s, the cancer hospital, but the school holidays were a problem. Chris could look after her but it was a bit of a daft set-up when he was making three or four times as much a day as Debbie. In the end, she went back on the bank. ‘I have to do something Chris, I can’t just vegetate.’ And she did voluntary stuff at school too. Came home and told him stories of how this child was really struggling or the disasters that had befallen patients on the ward and the implication was always clear; we are so lucky.