Hit and Run (3 page)

She recalled her own promotion to Chief Inspector. Not the most favourite day of her life. Oh, the promotion had been a triumph – it was what followed that had floored her. Going home to celebrate with her husband Pete, only to find him in bed – yes, their bed – with the home help. End of celebration, end of marriage. She’d given Pete a second chance, felt obliged to, seeing as she was six months pregnant with baby number four, but Pete had picked Tina the cleaner instead. Work had kept Janine sane then. A place apart from all the miserable pain of splitting up.

Richard sighed harshly again, shook his head, still annoyed.

Janine looked at him. ‘So, you going to stay here and have a paddy or shall we get on with it?’

He glowered at her for a moment, and then relented, knowing she was right. He jerked his head in assent.

‘I’m off to the post-mortem,’ she told him. ‘Pull everyone in for two. Incident room one.’

*****

When his mobile rang, Chris Chinley was flushing out a central heating radiator in the backyard of the house where he was working. The black sludge guttered out from one end as he poured water in the other. Not been cleared for maybe forty years, full of silt and grit.

He grunted at the ring tone and lowered the radiator, balancing it against the weathered brick wall. Only a small yard in spite of the size of the house: three storeys, four bedrooms, high ceilings, each with the original plaster rose and covings.

Chris pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, already anticipating another customer. Business was booming. A shortage of plumbers had coincided with soaring demand. People wanted two or even three bathrooms in a property, ensuite to the master bedroom, showers and bidets, sometimes a jacuzzi. He’d actually done a hot tub the previous month, in Hale, Cheshire – richest area outside of London.

He didn’t recognise the caller number on display. ‘Chinley’s,’ he said.

Chris listened to the voice on the phone. He swallowed hard, ran his free hand over the coarse, close-cropped hair on his skull. Shaking his head, he stared down at the flagstones, watched the pitch-black water stutter from the radiator, thin to a trickle, then snake along the cracks between the flags and into the gutter that ran out to the alley at the back.

*****

Post-mortems were never pleasant but Janine attended them whenever she could. It helped her maintain a good working relationship with the pathologists but, more importantly, it was something she felt she owed the victim. To bear witness. The aroma of the river still clung in the air. The woman lay, still wrapped in the rubbish bags, on the dissecting table. Her face was a horrible mess; Janine took it in with a glance and cast her gaze elsewhere.

She listened intently while Susan worked on the woman’s body, sharing in the meticulous process of description and observation as first the external, then internal examinations were made. Susan photographed the body, took measurements and made notes of its appearance before cutting away the wrappings and removing the plastic gym weights. After taking more photographs and x-rays, including dental x-rays, she took samples from the wounds on the face and thigh, scrapings from under the nails and a number of hairs. Then she began the process of dissection: opening the body and examining, removing and weighing the major organs. Susan took blood samples from the heart, tissue and fluid from the lungs and a sample of stomach contents for toxicology. She swabbed the orifices.

The smell affected Janine more than the sight of these things. The unmistakeable offal odour of liver and lungs. And the sound of the saw, when Susan opened the skull.

Janine thanked her when the procedure was over and offered to get her a snack from the canteen.

‘Something to keep me going?’ Susan said wryly.

Janine smiled, acknowledging the tactic. She wanted the report in time for her briefing.

‘Chicken korma on granary, black coffee, banana.’ Susan removed her gloves with a flourish.

Janine bowed. It was the least she could do.

By two o’clock the photographs of the body and the riverside site were already up on the boards in the incident room. A video loop was running on a monitor, detailing the recovery of the corpse and location shots of the immediate vicinity. Maps on one wall depicted the river and push-pins in blue indicated locations that would be searched to try and determine where the body had entered the water. Three of these pins had already been replaced with yellow ones – these places had already been visited and nothing had been found.

The incident room was on the fifth floor of the building, windows on three sides giving a clear vista out across the city centre and nearby Salford; rooftops, canals, the quays and the wide Manchester sky; here and there the distinctive outline of a landmark building: the prow of the Lowry, the triangular peak of Urbis and a sea of cranes bobbing and wheeling in the never-ending business of construction.

Janine moved in front of the boards, signalling to those milling about that they were ready to begin. Over twenty people occupied the room, most in civilian clothes, one or two uniforms. The hubbub of chatter died down as people slid into seats and opened their notebooks. Keeping detailed records at every stage of an enquiry was a detective’s lot: nothing was said, acted upon or looked into without an entry into an officer’s daybook. It became second nature, ingrained.

Janine smiled in welcome. ‘I’m DCI Lewis; some of you have worked with me before.’

‘Thought you looked familiar,’ Butchers said, ‘something’s different though.’ He mimed a bump on his stomach.

‘Still got yours, haven’t yer?’ Shap shot back at him, nodding in the direction of Butchers’ paunch. Butchers glowered, sat up straighter.

Janine continued, introducing the senior officers to the room. ‘Detective Inspector Richard Mayne, Sergeant Butchers and Sergeant Shap. Any uncertainties about procedure, any questions or problems,’ she told the DCs, ‘these guys,’ she gestured to the two sergeants, ‘are your first port of call. This will be our dedicated incident room. So what have we got?’ She turned to the boards. ‘Unknown victim was seen in the river at Northenden just before eight this morning. First priority is to try and identify her. Our second to establish where she was killed.’

‘It’s likely that the body entered the river to the east,’ Richard said, pointing to the wall map and indicating the large area they were searching, ‘so that narrows it down,’ he added dryly. ‘We’re searching all known access points within a five mile area.’

Janine raised the report she held. ‘The post-mortem confirms the victim was in her early twenties. Malnourished as a child and since. Pregnant, about two months.’ She noted the rustle of unease at that bit of information. ‘Signs of recent sexual activity. Cause of death – strangulation. Time of death estimated to be within twenty-four hours of her discovery The trauma to the face occurred post mortem, as did the removal of skin from the thigh. And I don’t think he was collecting souvenirs.’

‘Someone wants her incognito,’ said Shap.

‘Heavy; rectangular object used on the face, possibly a brick,’ Richard elaborated. ‘The lab will do a drugs and toxins screening.’

‘They’ve also recovered some tissue from under her fingernails; we’re running DNA on that. Anything else?’ She invited contributions from the floor.

‘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.