Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

She looked back at what was left of Jeremy Gleason. The technicians were taking measurements and videoing the scene. The atmosphere was calm and methodical, nothing that reflected the urgency that batted away in her own chest, or the panic that must have filled this man’s last few seconds.

‘We can’t do much more here, now,’ she told Richard. ‘We’d better see whether Chris Chinley’s at home.’

Dread settled like lead in Janine’s guts as they drove round to the house. If Chris had done this the repercussions would be enormous. She could understand his fury, the pain that the men who had taken his precious little girl were not yet behind bars, but to act on that… had he even considered what it would do to Debbie? To lose Ann-Marie and then Chris? Because no matter how much the public might sympathise with a grieving father, there was no way on earth that deliberate revenge killing could be exonerated. Chris would do time. And what did it say about his faith in Janine, in her team? He hadn’t even trusted them to do their job. She felt sick.

Debbie opened the door to Janine and Richard, waving them in past the plethora of flowers, cards and teddies from well-wishers.

‘I’m sorry to call so late,’ Janine told her.

‘Has something happened?’

Janine avoided answering. ‘Actually, we need a word with Chris. Is he in?’

‘Why?’ Debbie’s face seemed to sharpen with trepidation. ‘What is it?’

Chris appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘Just routine.’ Richard said.

Janine regarded Chris, his face set, eyes glittery – with what? Fatigue or grief or guilt? She turned back to Debbie. ‘Could you give us a moment?’

‘Routine?’ Debbie asked. ‘What do you mean? Have you caught them?’ Anticipation made her voice rise.

‘No. Chris?’ Janine invited the man to collude with her, to reassure Debbie, tell her he was happy to see the police on his own.

He raised his chin. ‘I haven’t got anything to hide.’

Debbie frowned, looked from one to another.

‘This isn’t easy,’ said Janine.

Chris stood immovable, his arms folded tightly across his chest, lips a thin line, his nostrils dilated, edged in white, revealing his pent-up tension.

Richard exhaled noisily. ‘Earlier this evening you were seen in Northern Moor. On Moorlands Road. Could you tell me what you were doing there?’

‘Just driving.’

‘Why there?’ Janine asked him. He said nothing. ‘What time did you get back?’

Chris simply stared at her, his eyes feverish.

‘What’s going on?’ Debbie demanded.

Janine paused, giving Chris a final chance to ask for privacy, but he stood his ground. ‘In the course of the enquiry we were able to identify two suspects,’ she said calmly. ‘They were being kept under observation. They live in Moorlands Road. Now one of them has been killed.’

Debbie gasped. Looked to her husband.

‘Well, it wasn’t me!’ he burst out.

‘You were seen,’ said Richard.

‘I was there, yes, I went to the flat. I never got out of the car.’

‘Who told you?’ Janine asked. Silence.

‘You just sat in the car?’

‘Where the hell would I get a gun from, anyway?’ He flung his arms wide.

‘Who said it was a gun?’ Janine’s heart kicked in her chest. Had he given himself away?

‘It’s been on the radio. A man with gunshot wounds. When you said – that’s him, isn’t it?’

He could be telling the truth. How she hoped he was. But she could no longer take his word at face value. She had to set aside any personal connection and retreat into formality. Do her job, and be seen to do it. ‘Will you be prepared to take a gunshot residue test and provide your clothing for forensic examination?’

‘And if I don’t?’ he said bitterly.

Oh, please, Janine thought, don’t make this any worse than it already is.

They were alone at last. Chris couldn’t bear Debbie’s eyes on him. Huge, intense, as if they would suck the truth from his bones. Blaming him, accusing him.

‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ she whispered. ‘How could you?’ She took a step forward, her head inclined, a frown puckered across her brow.

He jerked his body away, heat surged down his forearms and into his fists. He balled them tight, felt the tremors that ran along his jaw, through his tongue.

‘Me?’ He wanted to rail at her. ‘That’s bloody rich. What about you? If you…’ He didn’t say it. Bit down hard and said nothing. Speech was a weapon.

She began to cry; little snuffling sounds. ‘Tell me you didn’t do anything. You didn’t, did you?’

You stupid bitch, he thought. As if I’d tell you – and then listen while you told the world and looked for something good to come of it.

‘Chris, talk to me, please. Say something.’

He shook his head. He didn’t know the way back from this island of rage. Didn’t want to find one. The anger was keeping him alive, making him strong.

His girl was gone. He recalled Ann-Marie’s hand curled loose in his own. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear. Tiny nails, translucent. He turned to the door. Debbie moved after him. Don’t touch me, he prayed, don’t lay a finger on me.

‘It won’t bring her back,’ she shouted.

I didn’t let her go, he thought. Don’t blame me, not for any of this. If you’d just held her hand. You should have held her hand. He left the room, the words banging like a chant in his head. You should have held her hand.

Jeremy Gleason’s next of kin was his mother who lived at an address in one of the poorer areas of Old Trafford.

Janine went to tell her the news.

‘Who is it?’ The woman yelled through the front door, unwilling to open it at such a late hour.

‘Police,’ Janine answered.

Before she could offer to post her proof of ID there was the sound of locks being drawn back. Mrs Gleason opened the door.

‘Now what’s he done?’ She demanded. Her face was furrowed with lines; they radiated from her thin mouth, fanned her eyes and scored across her forehead. Pouches of dark skin hung beneath her eyes. She had brassy golden hair and wore a cheap, blue, velour lounging-suit and a red plaid dressing gown. Janine noticed bare feet with orange nail polish.

‘Can I come in a minute?’

The woman stepped back and let her in. ‘Always in trouble, always,’ Mrs Gleason continued, her voice high and brittle, as she led Janine into a small sitting room awash with Oriental bric-a-brac. The telly was on, the volume muted. ‘The times I’ve had you lot round. In the end I told ‘em, I can’t do anything with him. He’s not bad – he’s just stupid. Born stupid.’

‘Mrs Gleason,’ Janine stopped her. ‘Please sit down. I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news.’

The woman froze. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. Sat unsteadily on the sofa. Janine watched her hand grip the edge of the seat cushion.

‘I got a phone call this evening, a man had been found. He’d been shot.’

Mrs Gleason stared at her, her pupils huge, her mouth trembling.

‘I’m so very sorry.’

‘You sure?’

‘It’s Jeremy.’

Mrs Gleason shook her head; her brow creased even more deeply, her eyes filled with tears. She looked up at the ceiling, wrapped her arms about herself.

Janine took in the clutch of family photos on a shelf: Mrs Gleason and another woman, a sister perhaps; one of Jeremy at a wedding, lanky and grinning; one of him with a child, a little boy. His child?

‘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.