Cath Staincliffe: Hit and Run

Marta tried to trick herself again, to pretend it was all a silly mix-up, ludicrous to think it could be Rosa. Then the policewoman said about the mark on her leg and she knew it was true.

Oh, Rosa. She swallowed, gagged a little. Went through to the kitchen to get a drink. The water was clean here, tasting sweet and peaty. Not like home. Home. I was like a rabbit in a cage, Rosa had told her. A two-bedroom house in the suburbs outside Krakow had housed Rosa, her mother, her elder brother, his wife and child and her younger brother. Rosa slept in the living room. I couldn’t breathe, she had said. No space to turn round, no privacy. Like Marta, she had tried to get work but there were so few jobs, and the ones she could go after were poorly paid, the conditions miserable. Packing, cleaning, waitressing. Rosa had dreamed of another life. A job that paid for some nice clothes, a bedroom, independence. It wouldn’t happen in Poland but in Italy, the UK, Germany…

Marta steadied herself against the sink, looked out across the red brick walls of the backyard, the roofs opposite with their TV aerials and chimneys. Pigeons clustered on one.

As Marta had before her, Rosa had asked around – did anyone know of work in the UK? Scraping together enough to pay her passage, she had arrived nine months after Marta; came in the same way. A lorry from Krakow market to Prague. At a place near there, a service station, they had transferred to a minibus. Ten of them in all, in Marta’s group. Giggling and excited but falling quiet whenever they saw a police car or approached a border. Coming in from Poland they didn’t need visas. Once they were through customs the driver, a sullen man called Josef, took their passports back. The boss would keep these until their resettlement fee had been paid. He had arranged jobs and accommodation for the girls.

Marta had known dancing was a euphemism from the start. But what did it matter? If you switched off while you were working, avoided trouble with the clients, it was only a job. Inside too, not like picking fruit for ten hours a day like some did, stooped over in all weathers or working in an unheated shed packing meat or stinking fish. Marta sent a little money home knowing it made a real difference and she saved a little. One day she would move on. This was just the bottom rung but it didn’t mean she’d be stuck here for the rest of her life.

The police didn’t know the woman from the river was Rosa – would they find out? What if they came here? What if they found Marta and the others? The thought brought a swirl of nausea with it, a sour wash at the back of her throat. She raised the tumbler and drank again, her fingers pressed tight and pale around the glass.

At six o’clock Janine turned off her laptop, packed her bag and turned off the lights in her office. She found Richard in the incident room. Several DCs were still staffing the phones and taking calls a result of the appeal for information. A cleaner was emptying bins and clearing away paper cups and food wrappers from some of the desks.

Janine shrugged into her coat. ‘Right, I’m calling home and then I’ll be at the hospital.’

It was dark now and from the office they could see the city lights: the red neon letters spelling out CIS at the top of that tower, the stacks of office blocks with row after row of rectangles aglow, below and in between glimpses of streets smothered in the haze of orange street lights and strung with the endless pulse of white headlights and red tail lights.

‘You’ve not heard anything?’ he asked her.

Janine shook her head. ‘Don’t know whether that’s good or bad.’ She’d rung an hour ago and been told there was no change.

Shap came over, his eyes bright, eyebrows raised. ‘Think we’ve got something on the murder, boss. Several calls coming in about a woman, Rosa, worked at the Topcat Club. Never showed up last night.’

‘You’ll take a look?’ she said to the two of them.

Richard nodded.

‘Place in town, back of Victoria Station, belongs to a Mr Sulikov,’ Shap said. ‘Couple of the callers wouldn’t leave their names but we’ve one from another dancer there.’

‘Dancer?’ Janine queried.

‘It’s a lap dancing club.’ She could see Shap fight to keep the grin from his face. ‘Someone’s got to do it, I suppose.’

Janine was halfway down the corridor that housed the intensive care wards when she spotted Debbie and Chris Chinley in the parents’ lounge.

Debbie was small, petite, fine-boned. She had large brown eyes and black, curly hair, Ann-Marie her spitting image. By contrast Chris was a stocky man, big-boned with huge hands, a thick neck and something of a boxer in the square shape of his face. He nearly always had stubble around his chin – the sort of man who had to shave twice a day. Both worked tirelessly for the PTA at school. And Debbie was one of the parents who volunteered to help read with the children who needed extra support.

Now they sat side by side. Chris had a bleak, blank look on his face while Debbie’s was hidden in her hands, though Janine could see her shoulders jerking. Janine’s stomach clenched. Bad news.

Janine knocked lightly on the door and went in. Chris gazed at her, shook his head. The man looked absolutely desolate.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Janine went to sit beside Debbie who looked up, her face smeared with tears and make-up, her nose swollen, lips cracked.

‘I’m so… so sorry.’ Janine repeated.

Debbie, tearing a soggy tissue in her fingers, turned to her. ‘They said they did everything they could but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough.’ Her voice rose and faltered. Janine put her arms round her. Could there be anything worse, she thought? She blinked hard and listened to the woman weep.

Richard was driving as they made their way along Cross Street in the centre of Manchester, past the rebuilt Marks and Spencer store at the bottom of the Arndale centre, past the giant windmills and water feature of the Millennium gardens and the Triangle shopping centre and the Printworks leisure complex opposite, both plastered with giant screens relaying adverts and entertainment.

Richard took a small side street, then another in the area behind Victoria Train Station and parked in front of the Topcat Club.

‘You been here before?’ he asked Shap as they approached the entrance.

Shap frowned. ‘Not sure.’

Richard looked at him.

‘Well,’ Shap defended himself, ‘they all look the same after a few bevvies.’

There were photographs of the girls in the entranceway, scantily clad but nothing that you wouldn’t find in the tabloids.

Richard and Shap made their way up to the bar – more photos of girls lined the bar area. There was a sprinkling of customers and two girls pole dancing in a central area. Tables and chairs were laid out informally and around the perimeter were some seating booths affording a little more privacy. Shap surveyed the place in appreciation. Richard gestured to the barmaid.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked.

‘Mr Sulikov here?’

‘No.’

‘This is his place.’

‘Yeah. But he’s not here. You want the manager?’

Richard nodded.

A couple of minutes later she returned with the manager. The bloke did a double take when he saw Shap.

‘You know each other?’ Richard asked.

‘Detective Inspector Mayne,’ Shap said introducing them. ‘James Harper, owner of the stolen vehicle involved in this morning’s accident.’

Richard’s nostrils widened and he raised his eyebrows, staring hard at Mr Harper. ‘Small world,’ he said, his voice sharp with suspicion. Janine would want to hear about this.

Feeling wretched, Janine was halfway home from the hospital when her mobile rang summoning her to the nightclub. It took her ten minutes to reach the city centre location. It was dark already, a single star, Venus if she remembered rightly, the only thing bright enough to cut through the light pollution that hung over the city. Janine looked at the pink neon Topcat sign flashing on and off and braced herself.