Cath Staincliffe: Hit and Run

‘We’ve sent details through the system, missing from home – no match as yet,’ Butchers supplied.

Shap raised his chin. ‘Have we got anything from the post-mortem that gives us the scene?’

‘No,’ Janine answered. ‘A day in the river hasn’t helped. They’ll be examining remnants of bin bags used to wrap the body and the gym weights.’

‘Could be a fitness fanatic – the weights?’ Butchers suggested.

‘Bog standard,’ Richard shook his head.

‘I reckon everyone’s got a set like that,’ said Janine, ‘shoved in the cupboard along with the foot spa and the yoghurt maker.’ People smiled. ‘The pathologist also noted some blue staining on the left ankle, knee and hip.’

‘More tattoos?’ Shap asked.

‘No. Here.’ Richard pointed to the photographs, tracing the discolouration around the hip and knee. ‘It’s faint, no particular shape.’

‘They’ll come back to us when they’ve more on that,’ said Janine. She raised her head and looked round the room at the team before her. Some of the young officers were setting out on their first major investigation; some would never have seen a dead body before. They had no idea how much the case would dominate their lives in the weeks to come or of the peculiar mix of tedium and excitement that would characterise the work they had to do: the referencing and cross-checking, door knocking and listening, the endless paperwork. And, here and there, the surge of action, the buzz of closing in on their quarry; the breaks that made it all worthwhile.

‘We’re looking for a lot of help from the public on this one; it’ll be all over the papers, but you lot, discretion. Please – don’t natter about it down the pub – or at the gym.’ Janine paused. When she spoke again her voice was reflective, a shade quieter, forcing them to listen harder, focus on what she was saying. ‘You all have something to bring to solving this case. If you have ideas – share them. If there’s some detail that sticks out – check it. Don’t be afraid to ask if anything confuses you. We’re here to learn – all of us. The day you stop learning is the day you stop being a good detective. Sergeant Shap will allocate teams for the initial stages and briefings will be held daily, first thing until further notice.’ She gestured at the boards again. ‘A young woman, killed then mutilated. Who was she? Who wanted her dead? That’s why we’re here.’ She motioned to the picture from the riverside, the one of the body on the grassy bank: sodden hair, a slim wrist, the graceful hand, fingers gently curved. ‘That’s who we’re here for.’

Chris Chinley’s heart cracked when he saw Debbie. She was curled into a chair in the waiting area, her head down. No one else about. ‘Debs?’

She started, stood up and his arms went round her. She was tiny; her head barely reached his chest. When he first met her, he thought of her like a bird: all fine bones and a fast heartbeat and eyes bright and alert. But the impression of physical frailty concealed a surprising strength. When things had been really bad with the baby, the one they lost, it was Debbie who had held it together, who’d clung on and kept on and dragged him with her.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked. ‘Where is she?’

‘They’re trying to stabilise her, she’s still in Casualty.’

‘Can we see her?’

Debbie shook her head. Chris stepped back a pace; he needed to sit down. She sat beside him; her fingers sought out the end of the zip on her top and she plucked at it.

‘Debs?’ He needed to know: how is she, will she be all right? But was too scared to ask. Christ, he hated hospitals. With the baby, Debbie’s first pregnancy, they’d been in and out. Bed rest and observations, scans and tests and, at the end of the day, none of it had worked. Nearly three years to conceive and the baby miscarried at five months. Then Ann-Marie, their little miracle.

‘Debs?’ He begged her again.

She began to tell him about the accident, speaking quietly in fits and starts, trying to steady her voice. She was a nurse; she would know the score. He feared she was building up to bad news, thinking that if she started with the where and the when, the facts of the matter, told it all in sequence, that he’d somehow be able to take the truth when she got there.

‘We were waiting to cross. I was talking to one of the other mums. Ann-Marie,’ her voice lilted dangerously, ‘was waiting. There was nothing coming… I know that… I remember that, and she stepped out. I remember thinking, it’s OK, there’s no traffic… Then this car, it just came from nowhere, so fast. All at once, they were there… Ann Marie,’ her voice broke and she made a flapping motion with one hand, the other darting up to press against her mouth. ‘They drove off,’ she blurted out.

He put his arm around her and pulled her close, his chin on her head. He felt hot inside, his heart swollen with rage. They hadn’t stopped! The image of Ann-Marie tossed, falling, scalded him and his eyes and throat ached. He ground his teeth together.

‘They were very quick,’ Debbie spoke eventually. ‘The ambulance. Really quick. She was unconscious.’

He couldn’t speak but he nodded. She didn’t add anything else. More pictures danced in his head: his daughter crushed and bloodied, limbs bent this way, that way, the wrong way. Eyes closed, peaceful. Eyes open flaring in pain. Her body twitching.

Some minutes later, Debbie sat up, pulled away from him and wiped at her face.

He stared at the wall opposite. Another row of polypropylene bucket chairs, a notice board with signs on reminding people of the hospital’s no smoking policy, of the cost of missed appointments, exhorting people to ring up if they couldn’t attend. He gazed at the fluorescent lights, at the vinyl flooring and the skirting board and the chairs opposite.

‘I should have held her hand,’ Debbie cried. ‘I always hold her hand to cross. I always make sure she holds my hand.’

‘Shhh, Debs, don’t.’ He put his hand on her leg and pressed. ‘Don’t.’

She stood impatiently, wrapped her arms across her stomach, took a few steps this way and that, then sat back down. He saw her fingers start to fret on the zip again.

He closed his eyes and prayed.

Marta had woken in the night, unsure what had disturbed her. The room was dark, impossible to see anything. In the summer months the light shone through the thin curtains, making it hard to sleep late. She couldn’t hear Rosa. She switched on the small bedside lamp. The other bed was empty. Her watch read three-thirty. Rosa should be back by now. The club closed at two. Was she downstairs? Marta listened. It was quiet, so quiet. A lone car in the distance but nothing else.

At home, the nights had carried different sounds. Her father’s coughing had punctuated the house, night and day. And beyond that there was the noise from the steelworks, the droning of machinery, the screech and clang of metal, the shriek of hooters signalling the change of shifts and the rumble of heavy plant machinery. Round the clock, continuous production until the place was closed in the mid-nineties. Her father was thrown out of work like so many others. Her mother the only one with a wage. Her father would sit about the house or escape to the café and spend the day there with the other men, their arms pockmarked with silvery scars, the burns left by flying scraps of molten metal. When he coughed Marta imagined his lungs full of wire wool, threads twisting with each breath.

One night, after they’d silenced the machines, she had heard the howl of a wolf, her blood thrilling at the sound and a prickle of fear at the nape of her neck. She’d never seen a wolf, though her babka, her grandmother, swore they were still there if you looked carefully. Not so many, of course. A lot of the forest had gone now; they’d cut back the tall, dark green conifers, and the wolves and the bears had retreated to the wild places in the mountains.