Hit and Run - Cath Staincliffe

The second book in the Janine Lewis series, 2005

Thanks to everyone involved with Blue Murder at Granada and specially to Anna Davies – a brilliant script editor.

To my brothers, Paul (I got the hint – you read the book) and David.

Marta was straightening Rosa’s hair. Rosa watched in the mirror, occasionally pulling faces to tease her friend. She’d already helped Marta, who wanted her blonde hair crimping in tiny zigzags; now it was Rosa’s turn. Marta took another length of dark wavy hair and clamped it between ceramic plates. Rosa winced; she could feel the heat on her scalp.

‘Steady on,’ she spoke to Marta in the mirror. They always spoke Polish when they were alone together. ‘I want it straight not barbecued.’

‘Stop moaning. You have to suffer for your looks.’ Marta pulled the tongs the length of the hair then released it. A couple more swipes and she declared it done. Rosa smiled, admiring herself. She hoped it wouldn’t rain or she’d go all frizzy again.

‘Going in early?’ Marta unplugged the device.

‘Bit more cash.’ Rosa rubbed her thumb and fingers together.

‘See you later then.’

‘Sure.’

When Marta left, Rosa let the façade drop. She had butterflies in her stomach already and an unpleasant tightness in her chest. As a child she’d loved to play hide and seek, the thrill of hiding and running, the exquisite shock of being found. But this was no game, she knew that. The chance that it would all work out still lingered but she knew it was a dim hope. Whatever happened she couldn’t afford to be caught.

When she left the house, anyone watching would have seen a lovely young woman walking swiftly. If they had looked a little longer they would have noticed the determination in her face and the set of her shoulders, perhaps a trace of fear in her gaze.

Two girls on bikes found the body, not a dog-walker as is often the case. Barely dawn, the pair had stuck to their pact to cycle to school. Their parents had allowed them to take the scenic route along the riverside with admonitions that they must stay together, take a change of shoes, not do anything silly. After all, it was argued, that route was safer than braving the heavy rush hour traffic chugging into Manchester or out to the motorways. And youngsters needed more exercise these days.

The girls were skirting the path beneath the motorway flyover when one of them had glimpsed the log-shaped bundle stuck on the weir, buffeted by other debris that clung on the edge, water streaming around it.