Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

Richard said, ‘He lies about it, says she’s OD’d. Harper drives the car to the industrial estate, leaves it for Stone. Then he goes home and reports his car stolen. He told Stone and Gleason to get rid of Rosa and torch the car. He expected that to be the end of it. No body; she’s at the bottom of the Mersey, and no car; that’s gone up in flames. Everything carries on as normal.’ Richard glanced at her; she nodded. She picked up the thread.

‘Might all have been hunky dory if the lads had got rid of the car straight away as Harper intended but the hit and run put paid to that.’

‘When that happens Harper wants shot of Stone and Gleason, they know too much… and we’re getting closer all the time. So he ambushes them and shoots Gleason.’

‘But Stone gets away.’

‘That’s when he booked the hotel!’ Janine shouted triumphantly. ‘Wednesday night,’ she hurried on, ‘he needed to distract us – send us after Sulikov, make the guy look real.’

Richard tapped the brake as a four wheel drive slowed in front of them. The car jerked throwing them both forward. ‘Christ!’ Janine said.

‘Sorry.’ Richard watched the vehicle in front move over and then he roared forward.

‘Naming Sulikov was the ace up his sleeve. We could have been sitting there still, like a load of wallies, waiting at the Midland for the man, while he’s airside, studying the in-flight mag and having his complimentary G &T.’ She turned to Richard, her face glowing with excitement. ‘And the way he made us drag it out of him,’ she hit the dashboard, ‘can you credit it? In fear for his life.’ She shook her head.

‘Give the man an Oscar.’

‘He’s bloody good,’ Janine said, ‘but we’re better.’

The car squealed to a halt outside the Departures Area. They raced in. They made their way through a mass of Mancunians, Scousers and Geordies returning from holidays in the sun. Dressed in thin cotton clothes, sporting red peeling noses or tans the colour of cheap wood dye, they pushed trolleys towering high with luggage and carrier bags of in-flight cigarettes. Children clung on or trailed wearily in their wake. A baby screamed relentlessly.

Heading for departures, Janine and Richard showed their badges and were waved through passport control. Glancing back she saw Shap and Butchers behind them. Gate 8 was one of the nearer boarding gates but even so a fair distance from the departure lounge. They ran along the travelators, only slowing as they came in sight of the boarding gate.

Harper was among other passengers huddled round the desk, boarding passes in hand. Janine could see him speaking rapidly into a mobile phone.

As they drew closer, she could hear he wasn’t speaking English; she guessed it was Polish. No doubt making plans to disappear once he got to Germany. He wore a warm, camel overcoat, a smarter look than she’d come to expect from Harper. His hair was slicked back too. But it was his stance more than anything that had altered. Sulikov held himself upright, he’d the assurance of a professional, he appeared energetic in contrast to the slightly shabby, gutless persona of Harper.

‘Mr Sulikov,’ she kept her tone light. He turned. His face changed as he saw them, a flare of anger then resignation. ‘Konrad Sulikov,’ she smiled, ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Rosa Milicz and Jeremy Gleason. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is there anything you would like to say?’

He simply stared at her, his mouth twisted in a spasm momentarily. Janine felt the pressure in her chest ease and relief edge down her spine. Got him. She nodded to Butchers who stepped forward with the cuffs.

Afterwards, as they made their way back through the airport along the travelators, Richard was teasing her. OK, she was swaggering a little. Why the hell not? It had been a killer of a case.

‘You are such a show off!’ he said.

‘If you’ve got it… You didn’t do so bad yourself, you know.’

‘Need to seal off his place, see what else we can find. A telltale brick, perhaps.’

She grimaced. ‘The blood and the DNA’ll clinch it.’

‘It’ll keep till morning. He’s got to have his eight hours, by rights.’

‘More than I’ll get.’ Then thinking about Rosa, about the whole sorry story, ‘Why couldn’t he just let her go? None of this…’

‘Crime of passion?’

‘No, I don’t think he cared for her. Marta was right. He killed her to protect himself. Back home with a baby, his baby, she’d be beyond his control. He did it in the heat of the moment; he was probably enraged but it was fear of what he might lose rather than anything else. Once he’d done it, he blamed Sulikov, and turned it to his advantage – look what might happen if you rock the boat. Except we found Rosa and it all started to unravel.’

‘Do you think Rosa ever knew? About Sulikov?’

‘How could she? He’d never have told her. She was just another girl. A way of making money.’

Rosa gone, Ann-Marie gone, Jeremy Gleason gone. There may well have been others, she thought, over the years, silenced by Sulikov if they threatened his empire. Bystanders too, hit by the violence inherent in his enterprises. There may well have been some truth in the myth of the ruthless criminal.

She remembered the little dictionary Rosa had studied; she hoped to teach, Marta had said. She thought of Debbie and Chris Chinley, adrift on the wreck of their lives. The loss of Ann-Marie would define them for ever. And Jeremy Gleason’s mum, burying her wayward son; and a little boy who would grow up to find out one day that his dad had been walking on the wrong side of the tracks, had been shot and killed one miserable Manchester night.

‘Good to have you back,’ Richard said.

‘You’ve changed your tune. You weren’t saying that when Hackett passed you over.’

‘No, really.’ He looked intent. ‘I’d forgotten.’ He dipped his head towards her. ‘You and me – something special.’

She felt a small swirl of panic, a thrill of nerves in her stomach as she recognised he was flirting with her. Just play the game, she told herself, enjoy it. He knows it’s early days, what with the baby and everything. ‘You reckon?’ Her mouth felt dry

‘Oh, aye, always have done.’

She waited, wondering if he’d ask her out again, hoping he wouldn’t, not wanting to disappoint him. But he left it at that. Smiled and shook his head at her.

She folded her arms and stared at the adverts installed along the walls, touting Manchester to the world, a place for culture, business and opportunity. In the arrivals hall they skirted the mêlée of baggage reclaim. The hall looked seedy, she thought, undermining the gloss of the advertising, harsh lighting, scuffed paint. In need of a make over.

A wave of fatigue crashed over her. She could sense the downer waiting, the peculiar limbo that followed a catch. Still plenty to do but none of the adrenalin that kept them all going.

Richard stopped her at the door. ‘Janine.’

Oh no, she thought. Not another declaration. Not now. She shook her head.

‘You’d rather get a taxi?’

Damn! She gave him a sour grimace. ‘No.’

‘What did you think I was going to say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Go on, what?’ he insisted as they passed through the big glass doors.

‘Nothing.’

‘There was.’

‘Richard, leave it.’

They got into his car, bickering gently. She settled back and let him drive her home through the cold, dark, rain drenched night.

Cath Staincliffe is an established novelist, radio playwright and the creator of ITV1's hit series, Blue Murder , starring Caroline Quentin as DCI Janine Lewis, which attracted an audience of 8.4 million viewers. Cath’s books have been short-listed for the Crime Writers Association Best First Novel award and for the Dagger in the Library. Looking For Trouble launched private eye Sal Kilkenny, a single parent struggling to juggle work and home, onto Manchester’s mean streets. Crying Out Loud is the eighth and latest title in the series. Cath’s newest novels, Witness and Split Second examine hot topical issues and tell stories of ordinary people, caught up in the criminal justice system, who face difficult and dangerous choices. Cath writes the Scott & Bailey novels based on the popular ITV1 series. She lives in Manchester with her partner and their children. Cath is a founder member of Murder Squad see www.murdersquad.co.uk