Hit and Run

Chapter Five

Andrea, the girl who had rung in, agreed to talk to Janine but in spite of her cooperation there was a distrustful edge to her manner. A lot of people acted like that with the police. Sometimes they had reason to.

Andrea had creamy brown skin, short curly hair. Young again, and wary. She toyed with the ashtray, played with cigarettes and the bangles on her wrist, avoiding eye contact for much of their conversation.

‘Did Rosa have any distinguishing features?’ Janine began.

‘A tattoo, on her leg, a rose. Her right leg – that’s why I rang. It all seemed to fit. Is it her?’ She glanced at Janine.

‘We think so.’

Andrea compressed her lips, looked back at the table. ‘Who do you think did it?’ she said fiercely. ‘Who’d do a thing like that? Why?’

Janine shook her head.

Andrea tilted her head back, blinked hard at the spotlights on the ceiling.

‘What was she like?’ Janine asked.

‘Pretty quiet, really. Not shy, didn’t let people push her around or anything. Just never said much about herself.’

‘Any problems with the clients? Or anyone else?’

Andrea shook her head.

‘You were both here Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Finish at the same time?’

She nodded. She rooted in her handbag, pulled out a packet of baby wipes and Janine glimpsed the snapshot of a toddler. Andrea found the cigarettes she was looking for. She slid one from the packet.

‘Who left first?’

‘I did.’

‘And you didn’t see her again? Was there a boyfriend?’

Andrea shook her head, lit her cigarette.

‘Do you know where she lived?’

‘No.’

Was the denial a little too fast? Janine looked steadily at the girl.

‘Look, we worked together, that’s all.’ Andrea said defensively. ‘She was a nice kid but I don’t socialise with people from here. None of us do. It’s just a job. She had a room somewhere, that’s all I remember her saying.’

‘Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?’

‘No.’ She took a drag on her cigarette.

Was the girl keeping something back? Or were her guarded replies her natural reaction to police questioning? ‘We might need to talk to you again.’

Andrea nodded, blew out smoke and rose. Janine watched her walk across the club to leave her cigarettes at the bar. Moving away, already back on the job, smiling at clients, laughing at a remark one of them made, taking her place on a low podium.

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.

‘Oh, Pete… could have been us… Tom.’ She rested there for a moment then pulled away, wiping at her face. ‘I’m OK.’ She couldn’t afford to indulge her grief – not with Pete, anyway. ‘This week – it’s going to be all hours. And Connie – she deserves her evenings off.’ She didn’t want to jeopardise things with Connie. She’d struck lucky there. Most people said finding a nanny was a complete nightmare. When Janine had first met her she’d been impressed by the young woman’s enthusiasm. ‘Manchester is just fantastic,’ she’d said. ‘Lots going on: the Bridgewater Hall, the theatre. Do you go much?’

Janine shook her head. Connie had gone on to talk about her intention to take an evening course in business management. She had nannied while in Hong Kong but had always wanted to live in the UK. ‘It’s my favourite place,’ she declared. Janine liked her energy. With three kids and a baby, stamina was important. She just hoped Connie wouldn’t sail through her business course too quickly; she could just see her setting up her own nannying agency and making a go of it.

‘I can’t expect her to manage a baby all day long and then be on tap for babysitting.’ Janine told Pete.

‘Well, I’m on days,’ he offered, rising to get his coat.

‘And what about Tina?’ It still stung her to say the name though she hid it well.

‘Tina knows the score,’ he told her.

She was relieved. She knew just how crazy her hours might get and it would be impossible without Pete to call on. No need to show too much gratitude though. After all he was their father; his spending time here was good for them all.

As Janine headed upstairs, Eleanor pounced. ‘Mum, there’s a girl been knocked down at Tom’s school.’

‘I know,’ Janine said.

‘What happened?’ Eleanor’s eyes were bright with interest. ‘Did you see it, it was this morning?’

‘Yes. A car went straight over the crossing, and then they drove off.’

‘That’s awful. Is she going to be all right?’

‘No,’ Janine said quietly. She saw Eleanor’s face fall, her mouth part then close again. A tiny frown. ‘What?’

‘She died this afternoon.’

‘That’s awful,’ Eleanor repeated, a sudden glint of tears in her eyes. Any hint of morbid curiosity vanished.

Janine hugged her. ‘I don’t want you to say anything to Tom, OK?’

‘You’ve got to tell him; she was in his class.’

‘I know – but don’t say anything till I’ve had chance.’

‘Why didn’t they stop?’ Eleanor stepped back, an edge of outrage in her expression.

‘They didn’t want to take responsibility for what they’d done.’

‘Will you catch them?’

‘We’re trying. It was a stolen car so it’s a bit more complicated.’

‘That is so mean,’ Eleanor said, shaking her head, her face miserable. Janine nodded. You couldn’t protect children from the grim realities. Maybe they heard more than their fair share because of her job though she made it a habit not to bring home stories from work – or only the funny ones. But even if she hadn’t been in the job, the daily news was still saturated with examples of cruelty, inhumanity, death and strife. Most of the time people compartmentalised the two worlds: the safe, private, domestic one and the big bad place out there, where awful things happened to other people. But with something like Ann-Marie’s death the two spheres collided, the divisions dissolved. The wolf wasn’t at the door, he was in the house.

On cue Charlotte kicked off just as Janine sank into sleep, the baby’s cries jerking her awake. She felt the familiar lurching feeling: a combination of resentment at being woken and fear that her child was in distress. Picking her from the cot, she tried settling her with words, rubbing her back and feeling the tiny wings of shoulder blades beneath the babygro, circling the soft, downy head with her palm.

She tried her with a bottle but the baby didn’t seem interested, there was no sign that her nappy needed changing and Janine hadn’t the energy to go through the ritual of trying to resettle her in her cot. Without Pete there was always plenty of room in her bed. Opinion-makers couldn’t agree as to whether sleeping with a baby was a good thing or not: a rod for your own back, dangerous even, or a natural state of affairs. Janine knew she probably got more sleep sharing her bed than if she spent time getting up and down to Charlotte who regularly woke three times a night. On that particular night, in the light of the tragedy she had witnessed, it seemed a precious thing to be able to take the child into her bed and fall asleep aware of the small presence nestling beside her.