The receptionist nodded, wide-eyed, keen to help.
Janine looked at Shap. ‘And as soon as Sulikov steps in that lift I want to know.’
Shap nodded. ‘My pleasure, boss.’
Driving back, Janine aired her thoughts with Richard. ‘He didn’t check in until Wednesday – where was he Monday night when Rosa was killed?’
‘No idea. Staying somewhere else? Upped sticks to try and cover his tracks?’ Richard braked. The traffic on Deansgate was backed up. ‘We’d have been quicker walking,’ he pointed out.
‘Raining, though,’ Janine said. ‘You got a brolly?’
‘Don’t believe in ‘em.’
‘The Lemon’ll love this.’ She stared out at the passers by, ‘Two suspects both nowhere to be seen.’
‘We’re close though, to Sulikov, at least. Run him to earth. Just a question of waiting for him to come back. We’re winning.’
‘You reckon?’ She looked at him, seeking reassurance. She was glad she was working with Richard, someone she trusted enough to be able to voice her doubts.
‘Don’t you?’ He was beginning to look tired, his complexion paler, smudged under his eyes. He was careful about his appearance, always well groomed, his clothes impeccable but no amount of tending could remove the signs of a tough case. It was getting to him like it had to her.
‘Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s like transition in labour.’
Richard frowned.
‘Lowest point, you’ve been at it for hours, you just want to give up and go home, but then it all kicks off. You don’t have any sense of how close you really are.’
‘Thanks for that,’ he pulled a face. ‘But it’s not a comparison I really want to run with.’
*****
As the security van transported them from Manchester to the holding centre in Yorkshire, Marta looked out at the night and the rain and the lights that edged the motorway. The last time she’d ridden anywhere it had been her journey into the UK from Poland. After that, it had been like living under curfew. They stayed in the house; the phone only took incoming calls.
Once she’d started at Topcat, Rosa had more freedom than the others. Loverboy Harper trusted her. She got the bus to work and now and then she called at the shops in town to get a little treat for her housemates. She would bring flowers if it was a person’s name day or good shampoo and conditioner, nice make-up for them to share.
Occasionally the girls at the brothel got tips and they would share them out. The best tipper was a man called Barry He was very rough and said horrible things; you had to pretend to cry and then he’d really beat you but afterwards he’d be nice as pie and leave an extra £10 note.
