For Richer, For Poorer

by Kerry Wilkinson

  The unmistakeable sound of a squeaky mattress taking a pounding and a female taking a . . . well, that was pretty obvious too.

  Sam pointed overhead. ‘It’s like this every day and half the night. It starts around midday and goes through until one or two in the morning. Every now and then, there’s shouting or banging.’

  ‘Do you know who lives up there?’

  ‘Only that it’s a woman. I said hello once when I saw her smoking by the side door but she didn’t reply. She might not speak English.’

  ‘And it’s definitely every day – it’s not just an enthusiastic boyfriend?’

  Sam laughed. ‘If it is, she can send him down here for a couple of hours – I can’t find a lad who can last longer than a minute or two. It’s all, “Oops, sorry about that. I’ll give you a call sometime”.’

  Jessica checked the pepper spray in her pocket and then told Sam to call the police if she wasn’t back downstairs in five minutes.

  Next to the side door was a white plastic doorbell with ‘42A’ half-written, half-scratched over the top in blue biro next to the name ‘Ana’. Jessica pressed it once, hearing the whirring from above. Thirty seconds later and there was no reply, so she tried again.

  No reply.

  Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Moments later, the door was flung open and a pasty man wearing glasses bolted out of the door, glancing momentarily at Jessica without stopping before sprinting for a green hatchback across the road. In a puff of exhaust smoke, he roared along the road, took the first left and put his foot down.

  Jessica eased the door open and pressed herself to the wall, skimming along the edges of the stairs to try to stop herself making too much noise.

  Creaaaaaaaaaakkkkk.

  There was another door at the top made of such thin wood that Jessica would have fancied her chances of kicking it down if need be – not that she needed to seeing as green-car-man had left it open a sliver. Jessica closed one eye and peeped through the slit. The waft of cigarette smoke was almost overpowering, even through the small gap. At first, all Jessica could see was a pile of clothes but as she adjusted herself slightly on the top step, she could see a cadaverous-looking pale blonde woman staring at something Jessica couldn’t see. Aside from a pair of heels, she was completely naked, the shape of her ribs and hip bone painfully apparent. The woman bent over, giving Jessica more of an eyeful than she wanted as she slipped on underwear so small it barely counted as ‘wear’.

  Creaaaaaaaaaakkkkk.

  This time, Jessica had no option other than to nudge the door open. She only had a moment to take in the room: browny-grey walls, a maroon carpet covered with cigarette holes, piles of clothes and an unmade double bed with a mirror on the wall above the headboard.

  The woman was wearing only her string knickers and shoes and she eyed Jessica with confusion. Her accent was Eastern European: ‘Hel-lo?’

  Slowly Jessica reached into her pocket and took out her identification.

  The woman’s eyes darted from the front door to Jessica and then to one of the two other doors next to the bed. ‘Pol-iz!’

  Jessica realised too slowly what was happening. The door next to the bed flew open, revealing a hulk of a man: over six feet tall, thick, hairy arms, shoulders like a beer cask and a squat head on top. He glanced quickly away from the woman and then ran straight at Jessica.

  Jessica had no idea who he was but if he was so keen to escape the flat then he was someone she should try to stop – at the absolute least he was bang to rights for pimping.

  That was all nice in theory – and certainly what any future paperwork might say – but the fact he was twice the width of her and a foot and a half taller meant things weren’t quite that simple. In three strides, he had crossed the room, head down, rushing for the door. Jessica had two choices, one of which involved standing still and being smashed into the wall, the second involving getting out of the sodding way as quickly as possible.

  Jessica went for option two, diving to her left a fraction of a second before the man would have crashed into her. He continued moving without flinching but Jessica swung her right foot forward, connecting perfectly with the area underneath and to the side of his knee. Usually her weight would have barely moved him but she had timed it so well that his knees knocked together, sending him careering into the doorframe and then crunch, crunch, crunching his way down the stairs head-first.

  Considering all she’d done was jump out of the way and swing her leg, Jessica was surprisingly tired. She hauled herself to her feet and then peered down the stairs, where the man was lying in a pool of blood, holding his head as he tried to get to his feet. Jessica was about to say something heroically hilarious about not picking on someone half your size when she heard a shriek. She only managed to half-turn before the woman was on her back, long nails of one hand digging into Jessica’s shoulder, the other punching her in the back of the head.

  Jessica tumbled forwards, partially breaking her fall by inadvertently smashing her face into the wall. As she crumpled, Jessica rolled, managing to land her weight on the almost-naked woman and rifling an elbow back to catch her under the ribs for good measure. She tried to stretch forward to stand but the woman grabbed her hair, yanking Jessica viciously back and hissing in her ear, sending flecks of saliva onto her skin. Jessica was pretty good at flailing herself when she wanted to, arching her knees into the air, and then bringing her weight down on her attacker and throwing two more elbows until she was finally free. In a flash, she was on her feet, pepper spray in hand. So much for the safety distance: in a flicker, the woman was howling on the floor clutching her eyes and Jessica was at the doorway, staring down at an empty stairwell, an open door and a puddle of blood.

  11

  Jessica felt a slight sense of déjà vu as she entered through the main reception doors at Longsight Police Station. Pat had another cake bag half-hidden next to the counter but almost choked when he saw her.

  ‘Christ, is that what they do to you at pro standards nowadays? I thought they just had a stern word, slap on the wrists, “stop ballsing things up” and all that. I didn’t realise they kicked shite out of you.’

  Jessica ignored him, breezing through to the sergeant station where Izzy was on the phone to someone. She made an excuse and hung up as soon as she saw Jessica: ‘What happened to you? I thought you were going to Moston Vale for a bollocking. You didn’t end up getting into an actual fight with the standards guy, did you? There are scratches on your neck.’

  Despite the fact that it hurt, Jessica’s face cracked into a smile. ‘I’ve got his body in my boot. Want to help me dump him in the canal?’

  ‘Later – what’s up?’

  ‘I had to get a SOCO out Whitworth Park way. They’re checking a blood sample for me – can you keep onto them about it. I’m trying to find out who the blood belongs to. I’d do it myself but my name’s mud over there at the moment.’

  ‘Fine – we’ve got the full list of local robbing bastards coming in tomorrow by the way.’

  ‘That’ll raise the tone of the place.’

  Izzy shook her head. ‘Our heating’s on the blink again and there’s only one interview room they’ll let us use. I’ve had to go crawling to Bootle Street. They’ve got more space anyway.’

  ‘Yes but they’re also in the city centre which means any nosy git with a camera phone could get a picture of us wheeling every scumbag and his mother in for questioning.’

  ‘Best I could do – sorry.’

  ‘Have any other charities come forward with friendly donations?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any word from our lads keeping an eye on the jewellery and pawn shops?’

  ‘Nope – though there are rumours Franks misheard the instruction and ended up in a porno shop.’

  ‘Wouldn’t surprise me, the dirty sod. Good rumour – let’s keep telling people that. What else is going on?’

  ‘Your list of similar robberie
s around the country would’ve been ready by now but I thought we should probably expand to see if there are any other robbers who’ve stolen something and then given it away – well, apart from Robin Hood obviously. You’ll have that by morning too.’

  ‘Do you have a twin?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Because I don’t understand how you get so much done without battering anyone around here. It takes all my strength to walk past Pat every morning and resist the urge to pinch his pudgy cheeks and tell him to stop gossiping about me behind my back.’

  ‘Are you sure whoever smacked you in the eye didn’t hit you harder that you thought? You’ve gone a bit weird.’

  Jessica did actually have a headache, though the combination of the fluorescent overhead strip lights, the heating which was either on full blast or not at all, and the fact her office was too close to the toxic canteen food meant that wasn’t uncommon.

  ‘Have you seen Arch?’

  ‘Last I saw he was on the main floor moaning about Star Wars or something like that?’

  ‘Star Tours?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Shite, I thought he was done with that.’

  Jessica nipped into the ladies’ toilets and rinsed more of the blood away from the graze over her eye. As well as the pain in her head, there was an ache at the bottom of her neck from where the woman had dug her fingernails in. People could get nicked for carrying a butter knife in their back pockets, yet women were allowed to walk around with talons on their fingers and nobody batted an eyelid. Well, unless said eyelid was ripped off their faces by an errant claw and then they’d have something to say about it.

  When she was looking as if she’d gone only three rounds with a heavyweight, Jessica breezed through to the main area of the station, where most of the constables were squeezed behind overstacked desks, hammering away noisily at keyboards, talking into phones, and generally trying not to get roped into doing any more work. She found Archie at the back of the room, cowering behind a set of lever arch files. If in doubt, surround yourself with massive piles of folders – then everyone assumed you were busy. He’d learned from the best.

  Jessica sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Afternoon.’

  ‘Christ, what happened to you? I thought those pro standards wankers were just calling you in for a word?’

  ‘I headbutted the main guy and then joyrode back here in a helicopter.’

  Archie squinted at her as if he wasn’t quite sure whether she was joking. ‘What really happened?’

  ‘I got beaten up by a topless Eastern European prostitute with nails longer than most penknives.’

  Archie’s eyes narrowed again. ‘You must think I was born yesterday – what really happened?’

  Jessica laughed, which only made her jaw hurt again. ‘You busy?’

  ‘Just finishing wading through this Star Tours shite.’

  ‘All right, pack it in and come with me – but keep your eyes in your head and let me do the talking.’

  Archie set up the only interview room where the heater was working while Jessica downed two glasses of water and held her head in her hands. One of these days she’d learn to stop smacking her head into things. Well, maybe not – but she’d certainly think about it.

  Fifteen minutes later and the woman from the flat was led into the room in handcuffs. She was shackled to the table, looking marginally worse for wear than Jessica. Her eyes were red and puffy from the pepper spray, with the fact she had kicked up such a fuss meaning the paramedics had hardly been delighted to jump in either. Her blonde hair was a mess and although she was now wearing clothes, her angled, sharp shoulders were still poking through the material. She was a walking bag of bones.

  Jessica spoke slowly, not knowing whether the woman understood English. In the cells, she’d not acknowledged that she’d been offered a duty solicitor – and refused to cooperate with anyone trying to ask if she needed a translator. ‘Are you named Ana?’

  The woman stared blankly through Jessica, brown eyes cloudy and lifeless.

  ‘Where are you from, Ana?’

  No answer.

  ‘If the tall man was hurting you or making you do something you didn’t want to, we can help.’

  The woman blinked but her eyes remained fixed on the wall behind Jessica.

  ‘You know who I’m talking about, don’t you? The hairy man who fell. We can protect you.’

  For a fraction of a second, the woman’s eyes flickered to Jessica and then they were gone again. It was only a moment but Jessica knew it meant she understood.

  ‘We’ve taken everything from your flat – the toys, the clothes, cash. We found a phone in the room the man ran out from which we’re looking at. We’re going to catch him eventually. What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out the money’s gone?’

  Another flicker of the eyes but no reply. Jessica knew she was scared. ‘Talk to me, Ana. At least tell me that’s your name. You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer – you’ve got to say something.’

  Nothing.

  Three minutes later and Jessica ended the interview, calling the officer back inside and sending Ana, or whatever she was called, back to the cells.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Time to call in a favour.’

  Jessica took out her phone and dialled a number she hadn’t used in a while. The female voice was half-chuckling, half-serious: ‘What have you done now?’

  12

  Jessica arrived at Bootle Street Police Station on Wednesday morning ready for the scroat parade. She took one of the interview rooms with Archie at her side, Izzy had another with one of the other constables she insisted ‘wasn’t mental’, while DI Franks had the third room with DC Rowlands tagging along. Dave made a point of not making eye contact with Jessica, only speaking in yes or no answers. Jessica knew it was largely her fault for barely speaking to him since her return to work – but then spending four and a bit months working closely with Wanky Frankie would be enough to send anyone a bit loopy.

  Interview one – Neil Bridger, forty-four; aggravated burglary x4. Dark blue rugby shirt, ripped jeans, looks a bit like a chipmunk:

  ‘I ain’t heard nuffink ’bout no burglaries, right? I’ve done my time.’

  Jessica glanced up from the table as Archie’s pen scratched away: ‘Who mentioned burglaries?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about a burglary and neither did DC Davey here. What automatically makes you think you’ve been asked to the station to tell us about a burglary?’

  Bridger slumped back into the chair and started picking his nose. ‘It’s always the same with you lot – the minute something goes missing, one of your boys in blue come knocking on my door asking where it is.’

  ‘Well, where is it?’

  He started to answer and then stopped himself, pointing a finger at Jessica that had something suspiciously green stuck to the end of it. ‘Don’t think you can trick me.’

  ‘I’m not – you’re the one who brought up burglaries, I thought we were here for a chat about last night’s Corrie. DC Davey here was telling me it was an absolute stormer.’

  Bridger sucked the end of his finger. ‘Er, was it?’

  ‘Shall we start again?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right – what do you know about those three burglaries out Gatley and Cheadle way?’

  ‘I knew it!’

  Interview two – Kieran Broadheath, twenty-three; theft of a motor vehicle, theft from a shop x3. White checked shirt two sizes too big, jeans two sizes too small, keeps one hand on his crotch seemingly at all times, looks like his mum cut his hair with a pudding bowl:

  ‘I’ve gotta go sign on, man. This is against my . . . what do you call them?’

  Jessica kept a steady eye on him, wondering if he was ever going to stop touching himself. ‘Human rights?’

  ‘Yeah – it’s against my human rights.’

 
‘Have you got proof you’re human?’

  ‘What?’

  Jessica nudged Archie. ‘If you want human rights, you’ve got to get a card from the post office to prove you’re human. There was a case in Swansea the other year of a chimpanzee trying to claim benefits.’

  ‘Was there?’

  ‘Of course there bloody wasn’t – although it was Wales, so who knows. Anyway, the quicker you answer the questions, the quicker you can get to Greggs to spend that signing-on money.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘We’ve had three burglaries out Gatley way – big houses; lots of jewellery nicked, big sod with a gun – tell me what you know.’

  Broadheath still hadn’t removed his hand from his crotch, though he was looking nervously at Archie. ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Bollocks do you – I can see it all over your face. DC Davey here can spot a liar at twenty paces and he saw it on you the minute you walked in the door.’

  ‘I only know what was in the papers.’

  ‘Now I know you’re lying – there’s no way you can read.’

  ‘All right, I saw it on the telly.’

  ‘Finally – the truth. What else do you know?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’

  ‘What about that raid on the industrial park in Reddish two weeks back? Selling nicked radios out the back of a car is right up your alley.’

  Finally, he stopped cupping his genitals and put both hands on the table. ‘I don’t know nuffin’ about it.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you we have a bloke who reckons he saw you selling nicked goods in a pub last week?’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘Wrong answer – the correct response was “No I weren’t” or, to be correct, “No, I was not”. We know all about your lock-up filled with stolen goods – now are you going to tell us who did the actual raiding, or do I have to get a warrant for your flat?’

  Broadheath was panicking now, looking from Archie to Jessica and back again. ‘I don’t have no lock-up. It was only one radio – and I bought it. I didn’t know it was nicked, honest.’