Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

‘Harper’s account checks out.’ Richard stepped into the canteen queue behind Janine. ‘Reported the car theft at ten. Cab from home to the Casino Royale in town, meal in the restaurant there.’

Janine took the plate from the woman dishing up the hot breakfasts. His account might check out but that didn’t signal the end of her interest in the man. Not by a long chalk. She pulled a face.

‘I was thinking,’ Richard said, taking his own plate, ‘Rosa: the lack of records, no known place of residence – either someone’s covering something up or she was here illegally?’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ Janine slid her tray along, stopping by the tea machine.

He continued. ‘She walks in off the street, gets the job, all that cash in hand, nod and a wink stuff.’

Janine picked up the thread. ‘And Harper’s passing the buck, blaming Sulikov. Who’s also Polish.’ She glanced at him. ‘Any connection to Rosa? You talked to this Sulikov yet?’

‘He lives over there.’

She paid for her food and picked up her tray while Richard hunted through his pockets for cash.

‘Maybe you’ll get a trip to Warsaw out of it,’ she said.

‘Why couldn’t it be Hawaii, or the Maldives?’

The pair of them sat down at a table where Shap had already finished eating.

‘Meanwhile,’ Janine said, ‘you’ll just have to grit your teeth and put up with life at a lap dancing club.’

‘Shap’s like a pig in muck.’ Richard said. Shap snorted, rolled his eyes.

‘You looked pretty comfortable yourself from where I was standing,’ she said, scooping up a forkful of bacon and egg.

‘Trick of the light.’

Janine took a mouthful. ‘I missed this.’

Shap grinned as though the sentiment included his presence, the camaraderie or something.

‘The fry up, you plonker,’ Janine told him.

‘How’s the nipper?’ Shap asked.

‘She’s great. Happy, insomniac.’

‘Got a nanny?’

‘Live in. Well – live in, go out a lot.’

‘Raver, is she?’ Shap’s eyes lit up.

‘No. Self-improvement. Night classes, theatre, opera.’ Janine cut up her bacon.

Butchers came over, his face intent. ‘We’ve got a witness on the hit and run. She saw two men get out and torch the car. Good descriptions. Height, age, clothing. One of them had red hair. We’re getting a few sightings of the car coming in, an’ all.’

‘Good.’ Janine nodded, chewing. ‘Draw up a timeline. They got it when, ten?’

Shap nodded.

‘Running it all night. Maybe they stopped somewhere – petrol, take-away, boozer? Got out the car and someone saw them. We’ll try and keep it live, see if we can shake out some more witnesses, CCTV. Need to cross-check those descriptions with records.’ She speared sausage and tomato and dipped it in her egg yolk.

‘TWOCers,’ Shap said, the acronym for taking without owner’s consent.

‘Language,’ Butchers joked.

No one responded. They all knew there was no point in encouraging him.

Red hair helped a lot. Sorting through the criminal records and accompanying mug shots, as soon as the daily briefing was over, Butchers came up with a handful of candidates. Each would be honoured by a police visit. The boss came in and he brought her up to date.

‘Several possible matches… Saul Hetherington, Clive Swan… and… Lee Stone.’ Butchers was interested in Stone; he lived nearest to the area where the car had been abandoned and in Butchers’ experience criminals were only too happy to foul their own nests – most not having the nous or the gumption to stray far from home to do their dirty work. If it was Stone he’d nail him; the thought increased his pulse, he’d bloody nail him. And if it wasn’t Stone he’d keep on looking because this was one case he’d never give up on. ‘Taking without owner’s consent, carjacking, actual bodily harm, sexual assault. Eighteen months inside, released in June.’

‘And the car thefts?’ the boss asked.

Shap peered over Butchers’ shoulder. ‘Can’t keep his hands off them. And last time he was going after Beemers. Stuff worth nicking. Known associate, Jeremy Gleason.’

Butchers pulled up Gleason’s record. Small time stuff, couldn’t compete with Stone. Same address. The two were obviously bosom buddies.

The boss was nodding; she looked keen. ‘Visiting time?’ Butchers offered.

The maisonettes weren’t the worst Butchers had seen but they were probably skimming the building regs when they were put up. The cheap materials and no-frills design showed in the dimensions; he bet the walls were paper thin, the residents could probably hear the neighbours fart. They’d be damp too, likely as not, the flat roofs almost impossible to seal from the endless Manchester rain.

Butchers liked his DIY, knew about making something sound, something to be proud of. Even the old council houses, the first ones, had been put up with proper brick; not breezeblocks and plaster board and a lick of paint like this lot were.

The place was depressing: cracked glass in some doors, boarded-up windows here and there, frantic with graffiti and a shower of litter all about the place: carrier bags and take-away food trays, soft-drink cans and crisp packets wherever he looked. The bright winter sunlight glanced off fragments of glass that were sprinkled along the pathways. Time was people would have swept up, thought Butchers, but no one bothered anymore.

Shap knocked loudly on the door. Butchers rocked lightly on his heels, waiting for an answer, his throat suddenly dry Come on, come on.

Lee Stone answered the door, almost seemed to be expecting them. Cocksure in his manner, he stood aside when Butchers asked if they could come in. Stone’s sidekick Gleason was nervier; a tall, thin man with a shaven head, his face paled as they walked into the sitting room. The underfloor heating made the place stifling, especially with the glare of the sun coming in. There was the sweet smell of mould and fried food in the air. Butchers spotted a telltale patch of mottled plaster in one corner of the ceiling.

Butchers listened as Shap explained the background to their visit. ‘We’re particularly interested in the hours between 10 p.m. on Monday night and 10 a.m. on Tuesday morning,’ said Shap.

Stone was sitting back on the couch, legs spread wide. His bristly red hair was cut short, he had a bullet-shaped head, thick neck and ginger eyelashes. His eyes were an insipid blue. ‘Monday. Watched the box, went to bed.’

‘And yesterday?’ Shap said.

‘Got up late.’

‘After ten?’

‘More like two.’

‘Long sleep.’

‘Clear conscience.’ The man was practically sneering. Butchers felt like decking him. He turned to Gleason; he was a long drink of water, not an ounce of fat on him. ‘And you, Mr Gleason?’

Gleason nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah, what?’

Gleason glanced at him, eyelids flickering. ‘I was here, we were both here.’

‘Thing is, someone saw you Tuesday morning. Not long after nine. On the waste ground off Dunham Lane,’ Butchers told him.

‘Can’t have.’ Stone was dismissive.

‘So, you don’t know anything about the theft of a Mercedes or the accident which led to the death of a young girl yesterday?’ Butchers couldn’t disguise his irritation.

‘Oh, yeah. Saw it on the news.’ Stone looked from Butchers to Shap. ‘Tragic,’ he said, his voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Well tragic.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Hanging’s too good for ‘em.’

Four and a half miles away, at the police station, Janine was finishing a call ordering flowers for the Chinleys. As she replaced the receiver, the phone rang afresh.

‘Janine? Richard. Lee Stone. Guess what he works as?’