Cath Staincliffe: Hit and Run

The pathologist, Dr Riley – Susan as Janine knew her – was still bent over the body. She looked at Janine.

‘Looks like she was strangled; bruising to the neck. The face is very badly damaged.’

‘From the water?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Janine grimaced. The woman’s face had been spoilt deliberately.

‘ID?’ Richard asked.

‘Nothing. No clothing. There’s a wound to the upper right thigh. The surface skin removed.’

Janine looked back at the body. ‘A tattoo?’

‘Could be.’

‘Or a birth mark?’ Richard suggested.

The pathologist nodded. ‘She was weighed down. Gym weight strapped to each foot, one round the neck.’

‘But she didn’t stay down?’ Janine said.

‘Not heavy enough. And as the body filled with gas…’

They needed to identify the woman as soon as possible. Knowing who she was would be the key to the direction the investigation would take. ‘If we move fast,’ Janine said, ‘we can get an appeal on the news this afternoon.’ She looked at Susan. ‘Can you give us vital statistics?’

‘Twenties, dark hair. Five foot six, slight build.’ Richard entered the details in his daybook.

‘Perfect.’ Janine told her. ‘How soon can you do the post-mortem?’

The pathologist smiled. ‘You queue jumping?’

‘Moi?’

‘See what I can do.’

‘And the report?’

Susan raised her eyebrows, folded her arms.

‘One’s no good without the other,’ Janine studied her.

‘Early afternoon – if I skip lunch,’ she said dryly.

‘Very overrated, lunch,’ Janine countered as she made to leave the tent.

Butchers and Shap, sergeants both: the one big-boned, plump and ginger-haired, the other trim, sharp-faced and balding, caught the call when the Mercedes was found. On their way back from a training day on community liaison that had been cancelled due to illness, it was Butchers whose ears pricked up as the radio squawked into life. ‘Stolen vehicle, wanted in connection with RTA, driver failed to stop. Blue Mercedes, registration Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Reported on waste ground off Dunham Lane. Unit to attend.’

Butchers jerked his head at Shap.

‘Base, we’ve got this,’ Shap said.

Butchers took the next left, his homely face set rigid with determination.

When they reached the windswept location the car was still ablaze; thick, oily smoke coiled up into the air carrying the stink of burning rubber and plastic. Hard to tell it had been a Mercedes, let alone a blue one.

Butchers sighed volubly.

‘Flambé.’ Shap said. ‘Owner’s going to be made up, isn’t he?’

‘Better get forensics on this.’

Shap gave a derisory snort. ‘They’ll be lucky. Be like getting prints off a cinder.’ Nevertheless he dialled the number, reported what they’d found and took details of the registered keeper – a Mr James Harper – who had reported the theft the previous evening.

‘You up for this?’ Shap nodded at the wreck.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Butchers glared at him.

‘Well, just… you know…’ Butchers had only confided in Shap about it all once: a very drunken night before either had got their stripes when all the other coppers had gone home and just the two of them were left, slurring words and spilling drinks. Butchers had turned out to be a sentimental drunk though he hadn’t wallowed in his own story, just mentioned it when they were talking about why they’d joined the force. Shap had asked a few questions and Butchers had given him the facts, though not much more, and then the talk had turned to something else, something less personal and that had been it. Not a whisper since.

Now Butchers just kept staring ahead.

‘Fine,’ Shap raised his hands in surrender. ‘Forget it!’ That’s the way you want to play it, he thought, then fine, no problemo. Maybe back then Butchers had been so pissed that he hadn’t remembered telling Shap at all? Shap had no idea if anyone else at the station knew. Probably not. Well, at the end of the day it was Butchers’ funeral; Shap had given him a get out clause and he’d turned it down. What else could he do?

James Harper had what the estate agents would call a desirable residence on the outskirts of Sale, south of the city. Butchers ran an eye over the facade with approval. Some of these more modern houses were slipshod but he knew quality when he saw it; even the wood cladding was patently high-grade material and the dimensions were generous. Integral garage, picture windows above. Nice landscaping in the front, low maintenance gravel and alpines. Solid hardwood door, though the rest was uPVC. Must be making a bob or two, Butchers thought, place like this and running a Merc. All right for some.

‘Detective Sergeant Shap, Sergeant Butchers,’ Shap made the introductions. ‘You reported your car stolen last night?’

Harper’s face lit up with surprise. The smile accentuated his prominent cheekbones and the deep dimple in his chin. ‘You’ve found it? I thought it’d be halfway to Russia, by now.’

Butchers grimaced.

‘If we can come in, sir,’ Shap said.

They followed Harper through to his lounge. Harper smoothed his hair back over his head. Long at the back. Compensation, Shap recognised immediately, the deep forehead testimony to a receding hairline. Shap had never gone that route. Kept his short.

‘We have found the car,’ said Shap, ‘but it’s a write-off.’

‘A write-off?’ Harper’s face fell. ‘I’ve only had it three months,’ he said, exasperated.

Butchers took over. ‘I’m afraid your vehicle was involved in a road traffic accident earlier this morning. Hit and run.’

Harper’s expression changed to one of shock. ‘What happened?’

‘Little girl knocked down. She’s in hospital.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘We’re still trying to find the driver,’ Shap explained. ‘Did you see anything when your car was stolen?’

‘Not a thing. I was in the house when it happened, as well. Car on the drive, crook-lock, immobiliser, the works. I couldn’t believe it…’

Butchers and Shap exchanged a look. Harper wasn’t going to be much use to them. Just another statistic in the auto-theft figures.

‘It was definitely our side of the boundary, not Stockport’s?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard Hackett glared at Janine and Richard.

‘Yes, sir,’ Richard replied.

‘Shame. So, Janine – you’ll take the rudder?’

He wanted her to lead the enquiry. She glanced at Richard; while she had been on leave, he had acted as lead officer and she knew he hoped to keep that level of responsibility.

Richard cleared his throat. ‘But, sir, I thought I’d be…’

Hackett frowned. ‘DCI Lewis is back now.’

Janine stepped in. ‘Sir, I’d really like to pursue the hit and run.’

‘Well, Mayne can lead on that.’ He gave a bright, vacant grin.

‘Can I suggest we team up and cover both?’ Janine said, trying to find a way she could stay involved with the accident.

Hackett pursed his lips, pulling the face that had led Janine to nickname him The Lemon. ‘The troops need to know who’s in charge. Clear chain of command.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. You should lead on both, Janine.’

She felt Richard stiffen.

‘Obviously the murder is the priority,’ Hackett added.

‘Yes, sir.’

She could see the tension around Richard’s mouth, the irritation in his eyes, though he didn’t say anything.

Hackett nodded in dismissal and the pair of them stood and left his office.

Once they were out of earshot, Richard let rip. ‘He was happy enough while you were on maternity leave. I cleared three major enquiries for him, three!’