Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

‘Openshaw. Ring any bells?’

He saw her eyes flicker but she recovered quickly. She kept her mouth shut.

‘We’re not interested in soliciting or living on immoral earnings, Andrea. Rosa’s murder – that’s why we’re asking.’ He watched her, could see her hesitate. He kept waiting, reckoning that another push might mess it up. Then she grabbed her bag, the bracelets on her arm clinking together. She rummaged inside it then handed him a small business card. Just a logo on it; a couple of pen strokes suggesting a reclining woman, and a phone number. ‘I never gave you it.’

‘You ever work there?’

Andrea shook her head.

‘What about Rosa?’

She pressed her lips together, crossed her arms, looked away from him for a minute then back. Uneasy. Finally she gave a nod.

It was the break they’d been hoping for. When Shap rang and told her, Janine felt like kissing the phone. She instructed him to return to the station.

‘It’s all very hush-hush,’ Shap said, when the team met in the incident room.

‘Any bog-standard massage parlour they’d have an ad in the papers, number in the phone book.’ Richard agreed.

‘You think they’re illegals?’ Janine asked him.

‘Yes, like Rosa.’

‘The Polish connection,’ she mused. She called over one of the DCs and told him to get more on Sulikov, the owner of the Topcat Club and, in all likelihood, the Openshaw brothel. ‘See what Poland can give us, any criminal record, current activities and so on.’

She turned back to Shap. ‘Well – what are we waiting for?’

He held out the card Andrea had given him. ‘The address.’

‘Ah.’ She smiled. ‘You can be our Trojan Horse, Shap.’

‘Donkey,’ Richard corrected her. ‘New customer. After the full monty.’

Shap pulled out his mobile phone and began to dial. Then, to Janine’s surprise and amusement, spots of colour bloomed on his face. ‘Can I have a bit of privacy, or what?’ he said belligerently.

Shap shy. Who’d have thought it.

They waited down the street, in cars, watching the house for a few minutes, getting the measure of the place. Unremarkable; it looked like any of the other large semi detached houses. They were built of the brick so common in the city, with sloping grey slate roofs and bay windows. Each property had a garage at the end of a short driveway. Most of the gardens were neat. The one at the house had been concreted over – ultimate low maintenance, and a low brick wall replaced the iron railings or hedging of the other houses. But still there was nothing to betray its nature. Not until the door opened and a man walked briskly away, crossing the street diagonally and distancing himself from the place. Not exactly furtive but certainly fast.

‘Let’s go,’ said Janine.

They followed Shap, but were careful to leave enough of a gap so that whoever answered the door wouldn’t realise they were all together.

Shap pressed the buzzer for the intercom at the side of the front door.

‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice answered.

‘I’ve got an appointment,’ Shap answered, ‘it’s Mickey.’

The buzzer blared and Shap pushed the door open. Janine and Richard moved forward quickly, following him in. Behind them a clutch of junior officers, briefed to make sure no one left the building.

The blonde woman in the hall tried to bolt, darting for the stairs, but Richard caught her arm. ‘There’s nowhere to go,’ he told her. ‘Let’s just sit down and have a talk.’

While others searched the place, Janine and Richard went into a downstairs room which obviously served as a waiting area. The room was overheated and stuffy. It smelt of cigarette smoke, industrial strength perfume and gloss paint from the central heating radiator. A disconcerted client was escorted out to talk to Shap in the kitchen.

Janine introduced herself and Richard and they showed the woman their police ID cards.

‘Can I have your name?’ Richard asked her.

She hesitated a moment then seemed to resign herself to the situation. ‘Marta Potocki.’ Her English was heavily accented. She wore a flimsy blouse, a lacy black bra visible beneath it, a tight red mini-skirt. She was barefoot, hands and toe nails painted fire-engine red.

‘Are you Polish?’ Janine asked.

She nodded.

‘Marta, did you know Rosa Milicz?’

The woman closed her eyes for a moment, she swallowed and gave a jerky nod. ‘And you know Rosa has been killed?’ Janine said gently.

Marta nodded, biting her cheeks and compressing her lips.

‘I’m sorry’ Janine told her. She waited a moment. ‘We’re investigating her murder. Do you know anything about Rosa’s death?’

Marta shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Did Rosa live here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Please can you show us her room.’

They followed Marta up the stairs and into a small, sparsely furnished room at the back. There were two small twin beds, shabby curtains, a white particleboard wardrobe and a mock beech vanity unit with a mottled mirror. Janine realised the girls slept here but would entertain clients in one of the other larger and presumably more comfortably furnished bedrooms.

Nothing to suggest that the murder had happened here, no blood splashes or missing carpets. But Rosa had been strangled – she might have been killed in one place, leaving little evidence behind, then moved somewhere else for the messy mutilation. They would have this place examined anyway.

There were few personal possessions: make-up and hair dressing items on the unit, an old magazine, a tatty pocket dictionary.

‘How long had Rosa lived here?’

‘About six months,’ Marta rubbed at her upper arms.

‘And was she working here?’

‘In the beginning. Then just the dancing.’

Janine looked round the room again, imagined the girl dividing her time between the Topcat Club and this place. No life of glamour. She moved to look out of the window. It overlooked the flat roof of an extension at the back and an unkempt patch of garden, a row of houses beyond.

‘When did you last see Rosa?’ Richard asked.

‘Monday. She went out about four.’

‘Where?’

‘She said she was going to work.’

‘She never showed up.’

Janine picked up the dictionary.

‘She thought maybe one day, to teach,’ Marta said, then bit her lip.

‘We’d like to talk to everyone who works here – down in the front room,’ Janine said.

There were just three of them, dressed similarly in sheer tops and short skirts. The youngest looking, who gave her name as Zofia, had a pair of pink, fluffy mules on her feet, the sort of thing Eleanor would wear. Petra wore shoddy gold sandals. Shap stood by the door, Richard near the window while Janine took one of the red velvet chairs that the girls were also sitting on. Janine established that they were all Polish and had no official papers. She explained why the police were there and that they would be asking them some initial questions about Rosa. After that they would be taking them to the police station where they would be interviewed by immigration authorities.

The girls were quiet and morose.

‘Has there been any trouble? Anyone bothering Rosa? Perhaps someone with a score to settle?’

Marta shook her head. None of the others moved.

‘Do you know this man?’ She held up a photograph of Lee Stone. She saw recognition in their expressions.

‘He brought us here. He drives the van,’ Marta told her.

‘From Poland?’

‘No, here. In UK.’

‘For Mr Sulikov?’ The name provoked a ripple of reaction. Zofia shifted her position, crossing her arms and legs. Petra flashed Marta a warning look. Marta didn’t say anything.