Cath Staincliffe: Hit and Run

‘Start the car,’ Lee Stone said.

Shock scorched through her, burning her stomach, sending tremors of fear wiring along her arms and into her fingers. A gun at her neck. Cold metal.

‘Do exactly what I say.’ His face in Janine’s rear view mirror.

Janine could smell the man: damp hair from the rain and a mix of nicotine and spice.

‘Give me the phone,’ he told her, ‘and start the car.’

She daren’t nod. Anything might prompt him to pull the trigger. She must be very, very careful. She held the phone out, bending her arm back towards him. She felt his hand, surprisingly warm over hers as he took the phone.

Janine turned the key, the engine growled into life.

‘Out the car park, and left,’ said Stone.

Janine took a breath; her chest hurt, like there were straps tightening round it. She depressed the clutch, selected first gear and touched the accelerator. Slowly the car moved off.

Stone sat back, lowering the weapon. Janine followed his directions, silent and compliant. She was working at a subconscious, innate level. When she tried to think about what she should be doing, what she had been trained to do in situations like this, her brain clogged up, blanked out. As if the answers were shrouded in white candy floss, too sticky to get through. She had distanced herself from the situation, focusing only on driving the car, on listening to Stone. Deep down she knew it was the only way, a defence mechanism, because if she had admitted her fear, allowed free rein to her emotions she would have fallen apart, begging and crying and generally mucking it all up. She could do that later. For now she would trust her reactions and the powerful, overwhelming instinct for self-preservation.

Pete was growing more and more impatient as he waited for Janine to get back. OK. she had a big case on, but she had promised to let him know if she was going to be any later than expected. He didn’t mind hanging on longer but she could have the courtesy to warn him. He didn’t know whether to ring Tina now or whether Janine was about to waltz in the door at any moment. He checked his watch again. Sod it! He rang her mobile but she didn’t answer. He tried her work number.

‘Hello? DI Mayne.’

Pete would have preferred it if someone else had answered. Janine spent all her time with Richard and he knew the pair of them were good friends. He wondered sometimes if there was more to it. The thought made his jaw tense up.

‘Richard, it’s Pete.’

‘Ah.’ No mistaking the coolness in Mayne’s tone.

‘Is Janine there?’

‘She’s gone.’

‘She said she’d be back by now.’

‘Have you tried her mobile?’

‘Yes,’ Pete snapped, ‘she’s not answering.’

There was a pause. Then, ‘She left an hour ago.’

‘An hour?’ Concern pricked at Pete’s spine. ‘She should be home by now.’ He didn’t like this.

‘Right,’ Richard suddenly all business, ‘I’ll put a call out, all units on alert. We’ll find her.’

‘You’ll ring me, soon as you know anything.’

‘Of course.’

Any impatience on Pete’s part had drained away leaving him swamped by anxiety as he ended the call.

Each time a man entered the lobby, single or accompanied, Shap’s eyes flicked over to the receptionist. And so far he had been disappointed. No signal from the girl that here was the quarry. He entertained himself guessing what people were doing here: the smart business types in town to talk up deals; the trendy ones who might be in the media, actors or visiting musicians; and the visitors, here for pleasure, taking in the history or the culture, or the shopping.

He half hoped he’d spot a celebrity – The Midland was a popular meeting spot – maybe someone from Corrie or United; he could add them to his list along with Robbie Williams, David Jason, Victoria Wood and Michael Owen.

Another bloke approached the desk. He had blond hair, wore a long raincoat; he was carrying a laptop. Eyes alert, Shap waited. The way the man stood obscured Shap’s view of the girl on the desk. Come on, he thought, let the dog see the rabbit. The man took his key and moved away towards the lift. The receptionist gave a small shake of her head.

Shap sighed and sat back. What was Sulikov up to? Out on the town? They’d a pair of coppers posted at both the club and the brothel with strict instructions to make an arrest if the Polack turned up there. Someone who could afford to stay here could be living the high life: dinner at Simply Heathcoat’s, on to one of the city’s private members’ clubs. Or maybe he was out seeing what his rivals in the sex trade were up to this season, sampling the goods.

The thought made him cross his legs. Mind on the job. He watched a girl go by, nice looker. Mind you the girl behind the desk was quite a stunner, smiled a lot too. But she had laughed outright when he asked if she fancied a drink sometime. Like he’d made a joke. ‘Hah, hah, hah. I don’t think so,’ she’d giggle. Probably engaged, he decided. Not available rather than not interested.

Another bloke came in, grey-haired and stoop shouldered and Shap pretended to read the refreshments menu he was holding, while he watched him ask for his key.

Stone had directed Janine to drive to an abandoned storage depot within sight of Manchester Airport. Here and there loomed old freight containers, rusting and daubed with graffiti. The rough ground was strewn with weeds and old gravel tracks criss-crossed the area. Janine had never been here before. She wondered how Stone knew about it. Barbed wire surrounded much of the perimeter and she had seen notices which suggested that re-development work was imminent, along with weather-beaten signs warning of guard dog patrols.

After telling her to stop and turn the engine off, Stone had issued his demands. ‘I am not going down for murder,’ said Stone. ‘You’ve got to tell them. And you’ve got to get me some protection.’

Janine’s voice felt unreliable. ‘It doesn’t work-’ she began.

‘Now!’ he shouted, making her jump. ‘You don’t have much choice, do you, lady?’

‘Put the gun down. I can’t do anything until you put the gun down.’

‘No!’ His face was contorted.

‘Just-’

‘Shut it.’

‘Please, put the gun down.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Please, Lee, please put the-’

‘Shut up!’ He yelled. ‘Shut the fuck up!’

There was a powerful crack, a whoomph of air. The front windscreen shattered, lines crazing across the glass. He’d shot the gun.

Janine started to tremble uncontrollably. Her heart thundered against her ribs. Her ears hurt. She had felt the impact of the blast through her bones, in all her soft tissue. Oh, God, help me, she prayed.

Stone still held the gun. She watched in the mirror which was still intact. ‘You gonna listen to me?’ She could barely make out the words, her ears singing and buzzing.

‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely.

‘Sulikov rang us, on my mobile. He said the girl had died of an overdose. We had to take the car and get rid. We didn’t know he’d killed her. Then, well, job like that, putting her in the water, you get all wired up. Needed to burn some of the adrenalin off. But we didn’t kill her.’

‘But you ran over Ann-Marie.’ She regretted the words as soon as they had left her mouth.

‘Shut up,’ he shouted again. ‘Shut up and listen.’

She gripped the steering wheel to stop her hands from shaking.

‘When you let us out, I rang Sulikov back. We needed to get right away.’ He paused. She saw him blink momentarily, his face drawn and tired in the reflection. She realised he was at breaking point. ‘He goes ballistic, yabbering on in Polack, but he knew we’d be bad news hanging round here. He was going back to Poland – says he’ll take us across the Channel. There’s some warehouses not far from us, an old tunnel. He says he’ll meet us at the other side. We go all the way in. He’s standing at the top of the steps, yelling at us hurry up. Then he opens up. Fucking Terminator. Jez goes down. I legged it. He’s firing after me. Soon as he knows where I am, he’ll be after me next. You’ve got to get me protection.’