Cath Staincliffe - Hit and Run

Janine wondered what Andrea thought about working here. Did she regard it as good money, a better living than working in a call-centre or waitressing somewhere? How did she feel about the customers who came to ogle her? Was one of the customers, perhaps one of the men here tonight, Rosa’s killer? Wouldn’t he stay well away though? Unless he was a regular, whose absence might be remarked upon?

She could see Shap chatting to a group of men at the bar. A raucous burst of laughter. All lads together. Shap was obviously on good form. But she knew that alongside the bonhomie and the wit the detective sergeant would be mopping up every last morsel of intelligence. On the case in his own inimitable style.

Chris hadn’t trusted himself to go into Ann-Marie’s bedroom. Fearful that he would do something obscene: trash the place, tear down the drawings and her City scarf, the mobiles and the posters. But now he took a breath and pushed the door open. Why was it shut anyway? She never shut her door; she liked to be able to see the landing light, to be able to hear them moving about the house and call out to them. The door swung open and he took in a scattering of felt pens and bits of plastic, some cards and puddles of clothes. He’d expected it to look neater, more organised. He thought Debbie would have already tidied up. Creating a shrine.

Chris had built the beds, rigged up a slide from the top bunk and a ladder at the other end. He’d made the cupboards in the alcove, too, with drawers beneath for her clothes. The drawers had come from a big reclamation place in Hyde. Lovely wood, beech. He’d cleaned them up, sanding them and using linseed oil for a soft warm finish. He’d fixed on new handles, rejecting all the fancy shapes for some simple round wooden ones not too big for her hands and no sharp edges. After all that Ann-Marie had plastered the unit with stickers from cereal packets and the dentist. He’d felt a lurch of dismay when he’d first seen them but quickly reasoned that it didn’t matter. It was her space. Just a week ago her curtain pole had come adrift and he’d been up there fixing it while she chattered to him about dogs and how their sense of vision worked compared to humans and cows and flies.

Can’t fix this, he thought, and sat down heavily on the lower bunk, his head bowed in the narrow space, his hands large and useless, an encumbrance now. He stared mutinously at her old teddy, remembered making it dance as he held Ann-Marie in the crook of his arm, her sturdy legs kicking in delight. How she’d dragged the bear about as a toddler; already she was the image of her mother: the same dimples, the same wild hair.

Debbie, falling for Debbie had been brilliant. He met her through the job. She and another nurse had a flat-share in Withington, before the old hospital closed. Chris had woken her up. She’d been on nights. She was skinny and funny and pretty, even with her hair sticking out every which way. She’d made coffee and watched him work, asked him questions. She was easy to talk to.

‘Reckon you need a new T-connector,’ he told her, wiping his hands on a rag.

‘Do I now? What’s that then?’

‘It’s a fitting, joins all three pipes together.’

‘Right.’ There was a hint of a smile playing round her lips, impudence dancing in her eyes. ‘You’d better sort me out then.’ Her voice sounded softer and her face fell serious as she stared at him.

He had felt himself harden and a flush of heat spread along his thighs and the back of his neck.

‘Pleasure.’ Tension sucked the oxygen from the air. Her eyes moving up to his then back to his lips. Her hand tucking stray hair behind one ear. Her skin was pale. There was a blue vein visible in her neck. He wanted to touch it, lick it.

‘I’m off Saturday,’ she said.

‘Maybe a drink?’ His throat was dry.

‘Yeah.’ She smiled. The dimples in her cheeks.

They’d been married the following spring. Being with her had put a sheen on everything, a hot ball of joy inside him. Not that he’d been unhappy before that, but being with her made everything more real. Even the bad time, when they lost the baby… His thoughts scattered… Lost two babies now.

Ann-Marie, having Ann-Marie had knocked him sideways. He’d looked forward to being a dad, prayed that Debbie would go full-term. He had imagined a son, playing footie, wrestling, building castles with moats at the seaside. But nothing had prepared him for the passion he felt. She was his little shadow, following him about. She only cried when she hurt herself and soon recovered. She was fearless too, climbing chairs and desks, up the stairs in a trice. When she was four, he took her to her first City match; they were still at the Maine Road ground then; she’d sat on his shoulders and yelled along with the best of them. Debbie had left them to it, she hated football.

The thought came unbidden: if you’d just held her hand. Guilt lanced through him, swivelled in his guts. You said as much yourself, Debbie, he thought. He stared at the drawings on the wall. Ann-Marie scrawled on each one. Look, she’d said, I signed my name – scribbly like yours, Dad.

Driving home, Janine was preoccupied with thoughts of Rosa. Last seen on Sunday night. Had she died that night, after leaving the club? What had happened? An assignation turned sour or a row with a lover they’d yet to find out about? She wondered about Rosa’s family, were there brothers and sisters, parents and grandparents back in Poland expecting to hear from her? She imagined the shock that would hit them when they learnt that Rosa was dead, her life ended swiftly, brutally, her body mutilated and abandoned; when the truth sank in – that there would never be another postcard or phone call. They’d never hear her voice again or open the door to greet her or kiss her. Perhaps Rosa was an orphan? With no one to mourn for her, no one to claim her remains and arrange her funeral.

Janine paused at the traffic lights in Fallowfield. Student territory here – the halls of residence that lined one side of the road were home to some of the thousands of students who came to study in the city. She watched pedestrians cross the road: an old man with a dog, both white-haired and skinny; a trio of girls, Rosa’s age; a man on his own, baseball cap and jacket, a bounce in his gait. Where was Rosa’s killer? Could he sleep? Could he eat and swallow and carry on with his daily life? Did he dream about what he had done? Was someone harbouring him – uneasy at his

mood, at his reaction to the news coverage or his sudden interest in doing the laundry?

She was late getting back – again. She’d already rung Pete to warn him but as usual her estimate was far too optimistic. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She found him in the lounge with Charlotte who was dozing in her carrycot. ‘It always takes longer than I think. Kids all right?’

Pete nodded. ‘Fine.’

Janine looked at Charlotte; the sleeping infant made suckling motions with her mouth, gave a little sigh. Janine drank the moment in. Then she sat down heavily beside Pete. ‘God, what a day!’

‘It’s hard to believe.’ Pete said. ‘Ann-Marie…’

‘She didn’t make it,’ Janine said quietly.

Pete exhaled, sat back bracing his hands against the front of his thighs.

Thoughts of the Chinleys swamped Janine’s mind. ‘Has Tom said anything?’

Pete shook his head. ‘You going to tell him?’

‘In the morning. They’ll probably send a letter round from school…’ She faltered. ‘How the hell you explain…’

‘I don’t think I remember her.’

‘Skinny,’ Janine told him, ‘curly, black hair. Her mum always did a stall at the summer fair. They had a dog. Probably still got the dog.’ The ridiculous statement moved her to tears. She closed her eyes, covered her face, felt his arms go round her.