Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

‘Raining, though,’ Janine said. ‘You got a brolly?’

‘Don’t believe in ‘em.’

‘The Lemon’ll love this.’ She stared out at the passers by, ‘Two suspects both nowhere to be seen.’

‘We’re close though, to Sulikov, at least. Run him to earth. Just a question of waiting for him to come back. We’re winning.’

‘You reckon?’ She looked at him, seeking reassurance. She was glad she was working with Richard, someone she trusted enough to be able to voice her doubts.

‘Don’t you?’ He was beginning to look tired, his complexion paler, smudged under his eyes. He was careful about his appearance, always well groomed, his clothes impeccable but no amount of tending could remove the signs of a tough case. It was getting to him like it had to her.

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s like transition in labour.’

Richard frowned.

‘Lowest point, you’ve been at it for hours, you just want to give up and go home, but then it all kicks off. You don’t have any sense of how close you really are.’

‘Thanks for that,’ he pulled a face. ‘But it’s not a comparison I really want to run with.’

As the security van transported them from Manchester to the holding centre in Yorkshire, Marta looked out at the night and the rain and the lights that edged the motorway. The last time she’d ridden anywhere it had been her journey into the UK from Poland. After that, it had been like living under curfew. They stayed in the house; the phone only took incoming calls.

Once she’d started at Topcat, Rosa had more freedom than the others. Loverboy Harper trusted her. She got the bus to work and now and then she called at the shops in town to get a little treat for her housemates. She would bring flowers if it was a person’s name day or good shampoo and conditioner, nice make-up for them to share.

Occasionally the girls at the brothel got tips and they would share them out. The best tipper was a man called Barry He was very rough and said horrible things; you had to pretend to cry and then he’d really beat you but afterwards he’d be nice as pie and leave an extra £10 note.

Sometimes a girl would get moved. Sulikov had other places and girls would be sent there without much warning.

Whenever Lee Stone brought anyone new Mr Harper would be around a lot, keeping an eye on things, explaining the benefit of accepting the situation and getting on with it.

‘We don’t want any trouble, do we?’ he’d say. Half threat, half reassurance.

Marta remembered her first night in the country. They’d docked at Hull and, just outside the town, they had been left to wait for a different minibus. It had been freezing, not snowy like home, just a bitter east wind that sliced through their clothes. They had waited for over an hour. When the bus arrived, the driver, Lee Stone, demanded twenty pounds from them for the fare. ‘We’ve paid for the journey already,’ Marta said.

‘Not this stretch. Cough up or stay here.’

They didn’t all follow his words but his gestures made the choice quite plain. He wouldn’t take zlotys. Some of them had changed money on the ferry He took it from them, grinning like a dog with two dicks.

It had been late afternoon as they got on the road again. The light was fading. Much of the landscape was flat, like at home. Then they had joined the motorway which climbed up into huge hills. No trees on the top, just bare grasslands, sheep here and there and regular towns in the valleys.

There was music on the radio and once or twice Marta felt a thrill of achievement. She was here. She’d made it.

She had read the signs: Leeds, Huddersfield, Oldham, Salford and wondered about pronunciation. Manchester was huge, lit by orange streetlamps. Not pretty like Krakow. Everyone had heard of Manchester. Manchester United, David Beckham and Oasis.

When the minibus had turned off a side road and stopped at an unlit shed, her heart sank. They were near a river; the headlights caught the slick of water by a quay of some sort. Was this where they had to stay? She had heard stories of people sleeping in garages and derelict warehouses. A door banged in the wind but the driver made no move to make them leave their seats.

Marta peered out. You’d never dream you were so close to the city; there were no lighted windows, no signs of life.

‘What for are we waiting?’ She knew the English wasn’t quite right but it was the best she could do.

‘Transfers,’ the man pulled a paper from his pocket, flicked on an overhead light. ‘Six going on to London.’

London! Marta’s heart quickened. London would be even better. A good place to disappear once she had saved enough money.

But when another van arrived that driver pointed to six of the other girls and waved them out of their seats to go with him. The London girls were told to give their passports to the new man. They exchanged hasty goodbyes with Marta, Zofia and Petra and wished each other luck.

Lee Stone drove them to the house and Harper had met them there. The place had recently been painted and carpeted. It smelled of cheap gloss and glue and mildew.

There was an older woman there too. She had orange dyed hair, a large bust and a wheezy voice. Her fingers were thick with rings. Mr Harper introduced her as Josie. Josie would show them the ropes, get them settled in. They should get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow there would be a party. Some of Mr Harper’s friends were coming over, keen to meet the girls.

Marta had felt her smile waver and noticed the flutter of nerves in the other girls’ responses.

‘Where are we doing the dancing?’ Zofia had asked.

‘Here darling,’ Josie had said. ‘And tomorrow we’ll sort you out with some nice new costumes.’

Marta closed her eyes. Her head still pounded and she felt sick to the stomach. No one had told them when they would be sent back to Poland. Probably Rosa’s remains would be sent back, too, so her family could bury her in the local churchyard.

If she got a chance Marta would call home; a night or two to see her own parents, find out how they were getting along. And then? She’d find out whether people could get her into Berlin or maybe Rome? Or London, she still fancied London and her English was much better now.

She looked again as the security van left the motorway and braked at a large roundabout. She stared at her own reflection in the glass, into her own eyes. London, she promised herself, next time I’ll make it to London.

Back at base, Janine and Richard checked in with the incident room.

‘Nothing from the airlines,’ said Richard. They were trying to establish when and how Sulikov had entered the country

‘Maybe he drove. We’ll try the ports?’

‘Yes.’ Janine checked her watch. If she left now she could call at the shopping centre for essentials on the way back, get home more or less when she’d promised. ‘Take Harper’s statement,’ she said to Richard. ‘DNA swab as well. And bail him to return here first thing in the morning.’

Halfway round the mini-mart, with a thrill of panic, Janine remembered Charlotte’s appointment. Today! She had meant to cancel. Damn! She paid for the nappies and the crisps and the hair conditioner and on the way back to her car she scrolled through her phone directory for the doctor’s number.

She pressed call and opened her passenger door, slinging her purchases in. She ended up talking to an answer phone as she walked round to the driver’s side. ‘She was due in for her developmental review this afternoon, half past two.’ Janine opened the door, got into the car. ‘I’m really sorry I meant to cancel the appointment.’ Leaning forward to start the ignition she felt something cool on her neck. Her hand began to move to brush it away.