Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

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.’