Hit and Run - [11]

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.

The music was loud and the decor shiny. Glittery pink stripes ran through the wallpaper, glossy brown fake leather covered the booths and seats. The platforms where the girls danced were lit from above and below by pink spotlights. The girls looked very young and wholesome in spite of all the flesh on display. There wasn’t much of an erotic charge to the dancing as far as she could see; repetitious and detached, curiously passionless.

She could see Richard and Shap at tall stools near the bar. Apparently enjoying the floor show. Neither of them saw her approaching.

‘Interview concluded already, then?’

Richard jumped at her voice. ‘Thought we’d wait for you, boss.’ He smiled sheepishly and slid off the stool. ‘This way.’

She followed him along a corridor; plush red carpet and silver flock wallpaper. ‘We’ve got a name.’ Richard told her. ‘Rosa Milicz, Polish.’

They reached a small office, the door ajar. Richard stepped inside and she followed. ‘Mr Harper,’ he introduced the man seated at the cluttered desk. ‘DCI Lewis – she’s heading the enquiry’

Harper was about Janine’s age, late thirties, maybe early forties if he’d weathered well, tousled light brown hair, longish at the back, clean-shaven. He had an aquiline nose, high sculptured cheekbones, a cleft in his chin. He stood and shook her hand; he was slightly stooped and his suit was rumpled. He wore a collarless shirt beneath it. Janine noticed photos on the wall, names beside them: Suzy, Fleur, Carmen.

‘Rosa.’ Harper passed Janine a head and shoulders photo. Janine studied it. She looked young, younger than Janine had imagined, vivacious. Someone had strangled her, Janine thought, squeezed the life from her then ruined that lovely face.

‘She didn’t turn up for work yesterday. The description – it could be her. I missed the news but Andrea, one of our dancers, she rang in.’

‘Was Rosa married?’ Janine asked him.

‘No. Over here on her own.’

She turned to Richard. ‘Put in a request to Poland for dental records asap.’

He nodded.

‘Can we see her employment file?’ Janine asked.

Harper coloured slightly, rubbed at the bridge on his nose. ‘Ah, well, the girls are freelancers, you see. They sort out their own tax and national insurance. Of course we pay public liability for the premises.’