Hit and Run (2 page)

Her mind had the bright clarity that comes with stress; she concentrated on the number plate, V384 ZNB, memorising it before the car turned out of her view. Using the police radio she got through immediately: ‘Attention all units, Detective Chief Inspector Lewis reporting RTA Oak Lane Primary, Didsbury. Driver failed to stop. Pedestrian injured. Blue Mercedes, registration Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Heading west on School Lane.’

She spotted the Mercedes again, turning right into Wilmslow Road. She activated the emergency sirens and flashers on her own vehicle and increased her speed. The traffic was still heavy; cars and vans and several buses chugging towards the city centre. They responded to the siren, pulling in so she could overtake. At the next junction she followed the Mercedes as it took a sharp right turn and roared away. She kept up with it along Fog Lane, fighting to keep control on the bends and where the road narrowed. The suburban street was a blur of privet hedges, red brick walls and stone gateposts that fronted the family houses. Despite her best efforts she couldn’t get a clear view of the car’s occupants; the windows were tinted glass.

Traffic lights ahead remained on green as the Mercedes took another right. Round in circles, she thought. She increased her speed again and edged closer. ‘Vehicle now on Parrswood Road heading south from Fog Lane.’ They rode through the Parrswood council estate with its distinctive cream rendered houses, built in rows of four.

In dismay she watched as the car approached the School Lane lights. It didn’t slow even though they were on red. Janine kept close. The Mercedes crossed the junction directly into the path of an oncoming van. The getaway car swerved violently and Janine, on its tail, screamed and rammed her foot on the brake, feeling the slam of the seatbelt as the car bucked and stopped inches from the shocked van driver. The Mercedes disappeared over the hill ahead. Frustrated, Janine hit the steering wheel. Damn, damn, damn.

Her radio crackled with news. ‘Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Mercedes reported stolen 22 hundred hours Monday 17 November.’ Stolen the previous evening. She groaned. The culprits would be even harder to find.

Returning to the school, she found the ambulance just leaving; the little girl was alive but unconscious. She rang Richard and filled him in. The group of witnesses remained; one woman was crying, wiping at her eyes repeatedly, automatically rocking the tall coach-built pram she’d been pushing. Others were talking about the accident, their voices hushed but edging now and again into hysteria. When traffic officers arrived shortly afterwards Janine spoke to the man in charge, giving a résumé of what had happened. Finally she got back in her car and set off for Northenden, feeling shaky and hollow and cold.

The car park at the side of the weir, next to the camping suppliers, was already awash with police vehicles. As Janine parked she saw the first news crew arrive, piling out of their van with cameras, flight cases and cables.

A scenic spot. It would make for good visuals – unlike the rows of terraced houses, dull semi-detached frontages or bleak alleyways that were usually the staple setting for local murder stories.

The river, olive brown and swiftly flowing, curved between steep grassy banks. The sweep of the motorway flyover above cast part of it in shadow, making the water there almost black. On the far bank were concrete buttresses that were part of the water management for the area. The land was low here and the Mersey often flooded, submerging the nearby golf course and playing fields along the valley.

The stretch of water behind the weir was pitted with eddies and ripples and patterned with fractured blue reflections from the sky above. Below the weir, the river seethed, a gushing torrent of white and silver, before regaining its equilibrium.

Fifty yards away, towards the large riverside pub and parallel with the weir, Janine could see the white incident tent that was shielding the corpse. Scene of crime officers, clad in white, were going about their business. She dressed in her own protective suit and locked the car.

At the edge of the car park, she gave her name to the officer keeping a log of entry to the site. She could see Richard near the tent, dark-haired and a head taller than many of the others. Slim in his long, black, winter coat. Attractive looking, if you liked that type, and she did. She’d almost slept with Richard years ago, but her engagement to Pete held her back. There was still a pull between them, apparent in the flirting and teasing they enjoyed. But now, in the aftermath of Pete’s departure and Charlotte’s arrival, she knew she wasn’t ready for a relationship with anyone. Not yet. Never mind the risks of getting emotionally entangled with someone at work.

He nodded as she reached him, his head tilted in concern. ‘You OK?’

She sighed. ‘No, not really.’ She paused, took a breath. ‘She’s only seven, the little girl.’

‘How is she?’

She looked away across the water. It was easier than meeting his gaze. Stopped her from getting tearful. ‘They’ve taken her to hospital. She’s in Tom’s class,’ she added.

‘Close to home.’

Janine bobbed her head, sniffed hard, swallowed. ‘So,’ she gestured towards the tent, ‘what’s the story?’

‘Female. The Rivers Authority guy reckons the body will have gone in upstream. Flows east to west.’

Which way was east? Janine tried to get her bearings, pointed in one direction, thinking if that way was south …

Richard set her straight. ‘That’s east – Stockport.’

The river marked the boundary between the city of Manchester and the adjoining town. ‘We got a time frame?’

‘Not yet. But she’s reasonably intact. Day or two.’

The pair of them covered the few yards to the plastic tent. As she stepped inside Janine caught the rank smell of river water and the sweet reek of death. She opened her mouth; breathing that way would cut out the stench that made her gag. She focused on the body. The face was shrouded by long, wet, dark hair, tangled with bits of straw, flotsam from the river. Tattered bin-liners covered the torso. Janine glimpsed raw flesh on the face, in between the banks of hair, and on one exposed thigh. She noticed straps at the ankles and colourful plastic dumb bells.

The pathologist, Dr Riley – Susan as Janine knew her – was still bent over the body. She looked at Janine.

‘Looks like she was strangled; bruising to the neck. The face is very badly damaged.’

‘From the water?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Janine grimaced. The woman’s face had been spoilt deliberately.

‘ID?’ Richard asked.

‘Nothing. No clothing. There’s a wound to the upper right thigh. The surface skin removed.’

Janine looked back at the body. ‘A tattoo?’

‘Could be.’

‘Or a birth mark?’ Richard suggested.

The pathologist nodded. ‘She was weighed down. Gym weight strapped to each foot, one round the neck.’

‘But she didn’t stay down?’ Janine said.

‘Not heavy enough. And as the body filled with gas …’

They needed to identify the woman as soon as possible. Knowing who she was would be the key to the direction the investigation would take. ‘If we move fast,’ Janine said, ‘we can get an appeal on the news this afternoon.’ She looked at Susan. ‘Can you give us vital statistics?’

‘Twenties, dark hair. Five foot six, slight build.’ Richard entered the details in his daybook.

‘Perfect.’ Janine told her. ‘How soon can you do the post-mortem?’

The pathologist smiled. ‘You queue jumping?’

‘Moi?’

‘See what I can do.’

‘And the report?’

Susan raised her eyebrows, folded her arms.

‘One’s no good without the other,’ Janine studied her.

‘Early afternoon – if I skip lunch,’ she said dryly.

‘Very overrated, lunch,’ Janine countered as she made to leave the tent.

Butchers and Shap, sergeants both: the one big-boned, plump and ginger-haired, the other trim, sharp-faced and balding, caught the call when the Mercedes was found. On their way back from a training day on community liaison that had been cancelled due to illness, it was Butchers whose ears pricked up as the radio squawked into life. ‘Stolen vehicle, wanted in connection with RTA, driver failed to stop. Blue Mercedes, registration Victor 384, Zulu, November, Bravo. Reported on waste ground off Dunham Lane. Unit to attend.’

Butchers jerked his head at Shap.

‘Base, we’ve got this,’ Shap said.

Butchers took the next left, his homely face set rigid with determination.

When they reached the windswept location the car was still ablaze; thick, oily smoke coiled up into the air carrying the stink of burning rubber and plastic. Hard to tell it had been a Mercedes, let alone a blue one.

Butchers sighed volubly.

‘Flambé.’ Shap said. ‘Owner’s going to be made up, isn’t he?’

‘Better get forensics on this.’

Shap gave a derisory snort. ‘They’ll be lucky. Be like getting prints off a cinder.’ Nevertheless he dialled the number, reported what they’d found and took details of the registered keeper – a Mr James Harper – who had reported the theft the previous evening.

‘You up for this?’ Shap nodded at the wreck.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ Butchers glared at him.

‘Well, just … you know …’ Butchers had only confided in Shap about it all once: a very drunken night before either had got their stripes when all the other coppers had gone home and just the two of them were left, slurring words and spilling drinks. Butchers had turned out to be a sentimental drunk though he hadn’t wallowed in his own story, just mentioned it when they were talking about why they’d joined the force. Shap had asked a few questions and Butchers had given him the facts, though not much more, and then the talk had turned to something else, something less personal and that had been it. Not a whisper since.

Now Butchers just kept staring ahead.

‘Fine,’ Shap raised his hands in surrender. ‘Forget it!’ That’s the way you want to play it, he thought, then fine, no problemo. Maybe back then Butchers had been so pissed that he hadn’t remembered telling Shap at all? Shap had no idea if anyone else at the station knew. Probably not. Well, at the end of the day it was Butchers’ funeral; Shap had given him a get out clause and he’d turned it down. What else could he do?

James Harper had what the estate agents would call a desirable residence on the outskirts of Sale, south of the city. Butchers ran an eye over the facade with approval. Some of these more modern houses were slipshod but he knew quality when he saw it; even the wood cladding was patently high-grade material and the dimensions were generous. Integral garage, picture windows above. Nice landscaping in the front, low maintenance gravel and alpines. Solid hardwood door, though the rest was uPVC. Must be making a bob or two, Butchers thought, place like this and running a Merc. All right for some.

‘Detective Sergeant Shap, Sergeant Butchers,’ Shap made the introductions. ‘You reported your car stolen last night?’

Harper’s face lit up with surprise. The smile accentuated his prominent cheekbones and the deep dimple in his chin. ‘You’ve found it? I thought it’d be halfway to Russia, by now.’

Butchers grimaced.

‘If we can come in, sir,’ Shap said.

They followed Harper through to his lounge. Harper smoothed his hair back over his head. Long at the back. Compensation, Shap recognised immediately, the deep forehead testimony to a receding hairline. Shap had never gone that route. Kept his short.

‘We have found the car,’ said Shap, ‘but it’s a write-off.’

‘A write-off?’ Harper’s face fell. ‘I’ve only had it three months,’ he said, exasperated.

Butchers took over. ‘I’m afraid your vehicle was involved in a road traffic accident earlier this morning. Hit and run.’

Harper’s expression changed to one of shock. ‘What happened?’

‘Little girl knocked down. She’s in hospital.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘We’re still trying to find the driver,’ Shap explained. ‘Did you see anything when your car was stolen?’

‘Not a thing. I was in the house when it happened, as well. Car on the drive, crook-lock, immobiliser, the works. I couldn’t believe it …’

Butchers and Shap exchanged a look. Harper wasn’t going to be much use to them. Just another statistic in the auto-theft figures.

*****

‘It was definitely our side of the boundary, not Stockport’s?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard Hackett glared at Janine and Richard.

‘Yes, sir,’ Richard replied.

‘Shame. So, Janine – you’ll take the rudder?’

He wanted her to lead the enquiry. She glanced at Richard; while she had been on leave, he had acted as lead officer and she knew he hoped to keep that level of responsibility.

Richard cleared his throat. ‘But, sir, I thought I’d be …’

Hackett frowned. ‘DCI Lewis is back now.’

Janine stepped in. ‘Sir, I’d really like to pursue the hit and run.’

‘Well, Mayne can lead on that.’ He gave a bright, vacant grin.

‘Can I suggest we team up and cover both?’ Janine said, trying to find a way she could stay involved with the accident.

Hackett pursed his lips, pulling the face that had led Janine to nickname him The Lemon. ‘The troops need to know who’s in charge. Clear chain of command.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No. You should lead on both, Janine.’

She felt Richard stiffen.

‘Obviously the murder is the priority,’ Hackett added.

‘Yes, sir.’

She could see the tension around Richard’s mouth, the irritation in his eyes, though he didn’t say anything.

Hackett nodded in dismissal and the pair of them stood and left his office.

Once they were out of earshot, Richard let rip. ‘He was happy enough while you were on maternity leave. I cleared three major enquiries for him, three!’

‘It’s not you – it’s him,’ she told him. ‘You’ll get there. He can’t put it off forever he’ll have to promote you. He did the same with me.’

Richard sighed, slapped at the wall in frustration.

‘You’ll get it, you will.’