by D Attrill
“Censored just in time, it seems.” She skipped back, sixty frames.
She froze it at where the Corsa was closing up.
“There’s no way can we make out that registration plate - the picture quality is catastrophic at best.”
Garstone tried forwarding frame by frame, but the front plate number remained just a murky grey glimmer on a rectangle of white.
They moved on to the action, as caught from the camera aiming south.
This was already awkward, with the sound not captured: the Corsa’s arrival could not be timed by the screeching of brakes.
The picture itself was only to appall Leyton even more. The Corsa was completely on the pavement as it appeared from lower left. It had rebounded back over the grass verge, after striking Mr Summers.
She gritted her teeth as the graphic aspects were obscured by the off-course Corolla.
As the woman’s car wove left and right through the crossing, it was broadsided by both the two westbound cars, sending all three into the wall opposite; the van in the other picture had just got clear.
They could just make out the offending Corsa, charging away up the street behind, but the piling debris, plus the weather had destroyed all chance of seeing the number from here.
“See that? Bastard drove right over him.” Armitage commented, clearly outraged.
“This clearly amounts to attempted murder… well, wounding with intent, at least.”
Leyton choked at the sight of Mr Summers lying in the road.
“You sure he hit that guy deliberately?” Garstone asked for another replay. He pointed out the cyclist’s head, only just visible off to the left. “You can see Summers starting to look right, just before taking it.”
Leyton spooled through the seconds again.
Her DC’s idea almost spoke volumes.
Mr Summers seemed indeed prepared to cross - he could be seen to roll his bike slightly forward.
“Does it add up with the culprit’s celebratory twirl Greg? I don’t think so.”
She swung on her castors and looked her two subordinates sharply in the eye.
“Whether Mr Summers did anything stupid or not, it doesn’t mitigate this maniac’s conduct - in fact, it stands to double in its seriousness if Mr Summers doesn’t survive. This of course, also depends on four men working their socks off upstairs.” She lifted the phone. “Mike, have you got anywhere with the Meadowhall Road grab?”
“About all of it,” tingled Raylesthorpe’s voice. “Should definitely be worth a watch.”
“Superb, bring it down.”
Leyton and her disciples waited till the other half of the team were back in the room. Inviting Raylesthorpe to run the movie, she sat excitedly down alongside them. Raylesthorpe offered to insert his own disc.
The Meadowhall crossing coverage came up on screen, right away. A bright white car, small and squat, turned into sight from off the ring-road. It was seen to slow fully for the lights as it came closer, in contrast to the one in the Fife St scene.
A shortish figure appeared at the left, diving round the railings. She’d obviously just entered off the bridge, from the shopping centre.
“She got her’sen a different jacket.” Armitage stuck his finger out to indicate the slight change of wardrobe in shot.
“It’s the registration I’m looking for, Leroy. I’m sure I’ll still remember that face in forty years.”
She had it frozen. Notebooks came out around the room. Making it out for herself didn’t seem to stop Garstone from reciting.
“W...” Garstone read it out loud. “W-thirty-two, C... something.”
“Think that were a G.” Raylesthorpe asked for what the graduates had agreed on. “Don’t think we can do owt better than we have. They’re completely bollocked, them cameras.”
“We have half the registration, at least.” Leyton accepted it was their lot for the moment.
“Sorry ma’am,” went Raylesthorpe again “It were not a ver...”
“Not a very good camera, I know.”
Leyton stood up, clapping her hands.
“Superb work, as far, anyway.”
She slid the discs into her folder, and then followed her two colleagues straight out, not allowing a second for awkward questions.
As the boys made their sentry-like stomp back through reception, she saw a face leaning over the couch, smiling.
“Becky?” Leyton was immediately diverted from the other duo as her friend stood up to greet her. “How the hell did you know to find me here?”
(iii)
Although she was an exemplary mind reader, Leyton had to listen to some very complicated excuses from Becky for stalking her all the way to Midelson Rd.
Her friend had always had an incorrigible habit of following people into places off-limits, and often into trouble with it.
Eventually getting rid of Garstone and the ‘gang', Leyton spent the early afternoon trying to entertain her long lost chum, before inviting her back to her current home on the corner of Nursery St for a coffee. There was still no escape from the earlier topics - Becky Grayson was like a bookmark: she prided herself on picking up exactly where she left off. Leyton had to try this one herself this time.
“Once again, who gave away the place I work at, because I can safely say it wasn’t me.”
“I sort of knew to try here first,” she sounded like she was inventing it “You always liked being based out on the sticks a bit.”
“Now that seems about reasonable.” Leyton accepted as they stepped off the bus at Lady’s Bridge in the city centre.
She listened to the story behind her arriving in Sheffield out of nowhere, a record seven times over - five across a cup of Horlicks at her flat, then twice more whilst walking along the Wicker.
As painful as it became to hear, it was also agony appreciating how Becky had struggled to find work as a babysitter. She’d arrived in Sheffield, having assumed that such opportunities showed up in shop windows ten-to-the-penny; yet the demand for nannies seemed to have dwindled since the economic downfall.
Leyton knew one place would still not disappoint, as the Arches post office came in sight.
The windows in here often displayed eight to eleven postcards, headed with either ‘Child-minder Wanted’, or more dominantly ‘Available weekdays.’
“The trend might suggest you offer your services instead.”
Leyton thought of one reason, why Becky might have been so let down.
As she tried to talk, the roar of vehicles under the nearby railway arch drove them swiftly inside the quiet of the post office.
Sounding too eager to start, Becky had bought a set of six blank postcards, and moved to a table tucked away at the side. Despite the dim, shade-less light in the rear aisles, she managed to see what she was writing.
“Twenty-eight pounds per hour?” Leyton scoffed at the stupendously overblown rate she was reading. “Girl, I accept that your experience doesn’t come for free...but try to keep things competitive, eh?”
“Twenty-eight, per session.” Becky halted her hasty misjudgement. “It’s a living I’m trying to make, not a robbery.” She completed the charge details so as to clarify this.
Leyton worried, watching her write, as Becky’s heavy hand with the ballpoint began to bend the card over the side. Taking it up to read, she saw the handwriting had deteriorated so badly going that ‘session' now became ‘season'. It surprised her that there weren’t more tables installed to support customers' needs, given the vastness of these premises.
As Becky drew out another card, ready for the final draft, Mr Collington, a regular Leyton recognised staggered up beside them. The grunting geriatric emptied out his purse onto it quickly as to consolidate his ownership of this table. He was looking resentfully at Becky through his lowered bifocals. His frost-like eyes seemed to apply resentment, to anyone who dared hijack his spot.
“He won’t be long, Bex.” Leyton lied.
She already knew this so -call
ed ‘flying granddad’ to take at least half an hour sorting out his pensions card.
“You two girls searching for anither table?” A chirpy Scottish voice sung from somewhere along the shelves. “Say, there’s one down here I’m just about finished with.”
They soon identified this helpful stranger as she stepped right in front. She was a young woman with shoulder-length black hair that seemed half-stuffed into the collar of her denim jacket. Her persuasive smile came at them through a collage of cigarette-ravaged teeth.
“Thanks” Leyton replied casually but sincerely. “See, Becky… all is not doomed my dear girl.”
“Want to carry on with what you’re doing?” the girl ushered them onto the table she’d offered. “I’m jis’ packing up my wee baggies, here.”
“Thanks again.”
Leyton laid the cards on the larger space as offered. She then scurried deep in her bag for a better writing tool but ended struggling to find anything that wasn’t either a police document, or a part-eaten Polo mint tube. She eventually made do with a lidless fineliner one of the staff lent to her.
“Hey,” That scatty Scotsgirl tapped her on the shoulder again. Leyton almost clouted her head against some shelves as she stood up.
“You’re a babysitter, you say?” the girl sounded like she’d just heard her number come up on the lottery “No’ being nosey - just couldnae help seeing it.”
“Don’t worry.” Leyton clutched her head as she answered “I’ve heard that one more often than I care to remember - though it’s mostly made by strange men in the doctors’.”
“You thinkin’ of placing your addie up the papers, aye?”
“She might end up doing.” Leyton pointed to her friend “Do you think you can point us in the direction of anyone interested?”
“I can tell you right now, there’s someone I know, is needing both daytime and evenings.”
“Brilliant.” Becky cheered, taking up the card. “I’ll just write my number out.”
“You will write the full message out, Becky, now that we’ve come this distance.” Leyton laid the law down then turned to offer the other a proposal “Have you time to stop around another minute or two? I’d like to get this photocopied for you.”
“Aye, thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Right then...” she turned back to Becky “as I was saying, we have had to cull it down to a few choice words. Sti-l-l-lll, nevertheless… I think you’ve cracked it.”
She went down Becky’s second effort, approvingly, like a teacher marking her star pupil’s essay. “You will definitely need to ditch the ‘out of work for seven months’ business, though. It makes you sound either deadly or desperate.” she continued to read, turning more into Angela Lansbury instead. “Drop the ‘dedicated’ whilst at it - you’ll find that is so old fashioned.”
“So you’re saying leaving it out won’t make people think I’m lazy?”
“O' course not, whit’s yer problem?” the Scotsgirl had to interrupt yet again, even though Leyton was open to opinion. “No see no difference; so why you think it matters?”
“Well, Becky here has a notion that not including the word ‘dedicated’ will hinder her prospects.” Leyton said, trying not to be embarrassed by her friend’s fussiness.
“Listen, you.” The Scotsgirl began lecturing Becky like some wisened old Gypsy “I've applied for a load of posts before, right from when I first became fourteen. I never, ever wrote ‘dedicated’ on any. You know something? My phone got rung right away, each single time.”
“What sort of work were you going in for?” Leyton asked her.
“Bar work.”
“Really?”
“Aye, held down a full time job, right till I wis twenty- three.” She smiled, seeming very proud “The Trader’s Toolrack, it was called. Dundas St, city centre. A right seedy kind of place. Played rock music most of the time.”
“Have you had a job since you got to Sheffield?”
“No, it seems murder down here. I applied for a few up your...West St, is it? They all said they were taken.”
“No way.”
“I had to laugh at another one, though – was this sign with ‘No vacancies’; said below, to ‘Keep Calm and Blame Brown.” She creased up laughing “The poor guy - he’s been out of power over half a decade… they’re still deein’ him over the block.”
“Keeping this down a bit...” Leyton looked round to make sure that pensioner was also gone. “How are you managing for money? I’m sorry... I don’t mean any offence by asking you.”
“Ah, it’s nae problem. My new boyfriend’s backing me up wi’ a bit of ready until then.”
“Not tried claiming any kind of allowance? Seems the way these days?”
“There’s a wee bit too much a clamp, over what ye can an’ cannae do with it. I have been a lot of things in my short life, already, but a benefit cheat is no’ one of them.”
“Now that might be understandable.” Leyton saw through this girl’s natural manner and emotion - there was absolutely no sign of lying.
“Got win o’ the cards to show you.” Fiona was ferreting round to produce a business card from the bar she’d worked in.
“Is it ok if we getting back on track again?” Leyton declined it - she’d already decided Fiona’s plight was for real.
“Like I said…just for the record now, can we establish that my friend’s fretting over nothing?”
“Aye, like I sa...”
All three were disturbed as a solid barrage of blue flashed outside. The Scotsgirl appeared to be a little concerned.
“Hope that’s no’ my car.” She seemed to be fretting “I do park it some crazy places when I come in town.”
“Well thanks anyway.” Leyton called as their new found friend tore away, out through the door.
“What does she say then, Jo?” went Becky.
“Exactly the same as I have, these last five minutes. Now are you going to shut up again and get on with it before they’re closed? Don’t forget...’dedicated’ is a word too many.”
Becky picked up the pen and amended as advised.
Leyton meanwhile headed to the counter to settle the price for six weeks of window time. As she sensed the shop door open she could see a couple of unlikely customers entering, in her reflection. She curled round to greet Garstone and Armitage just as they approached too close for comfort.
“Evening boys.” she addressed her two shoddily-disguised DCs. “Any reason for the dressing-up routine?”
“We’re coming to pick you up.” Armitage started to loosen his scarf. “Time for the pub.”
“Hiya there!” The Scotsgirl had reappeared, detouring around the newly amassed crowd.
“Ah, hello. Was your car legal, where you’d left it?”. Leyton tried introducing her new acquaintance to the lads. “Sorry, not got round to names yet. You are...”
“Fiona.” The girl smiled, shaking her hand firmly, then in turn Becky’s.
“Haven’t you and I met before?” Garstone asked. He appeared to direct this query at Becky.
“At Meadowhall, possibly.” she smiled. “I’m Becky Grayson. I’m an old friend of Jo’s.”
“Oh yes of course, sorry. I’m Joanne, well Jo to most.” Leyton finally got her own name out for Fiona’s benefit “Thanks for your help tonight. It was unexpected but very appreciated.”
“You been asking strangers for help?” popped Garstone. “That’s not the Jo I know.”
“These guys good friends of yours as well?” Fiona widened her eyes at them - in particular, Garstone.
Armitage just stood sucking his lollipop, ‘Kojak’-like.
“Greg and Leroy.” Leyton hurriedly gestured.
She couldn’t believe she needed an escape from a fellow customer, even more talkative than her closest friend.
“Can you step outside please, madam?” She actually ended up getting that from Garstone himself. “It’s time to take you on a ride.”
“Doesn’t
Becky get a say in this?”
“It’s alight Jo” said her friend “I can see myself out. There’s a bus due in five minutes. The number 72 stops straight across from my local Morrisons. That’s less than two minutes’ walk from me.”
“O...kay.” Leyton nodded. She knew this was a bad idea, yet she had dreamt far worse ones up. “Fiona, have you got enough time around to make sure she gets on that 72 safely? I hope I’m not asking too much of you, am I?”
“Aye, no, go on. It’s no problem. Hope you hae a braw night, all three of yous.”
Something did not add up, as Garstone directed Leyton outside to his Vectra, and it was not that he’d left it by the bus shelter, still beating its engine.
“We’re facing the wrong direction for McGanlons Wine Lodge aren’t we?”
“Your official coronation awaits.”
Garstone waved her into the passenger side whilst also making sure Fiona could not hear: he sounded a little bit sceptical about strangers knowing they were the law unless they had to.
“Incident off Blackburn Road. Female victim involved. Tommo thinks you might recognise her as well.”
The two officers took that good old look at one another.
Leyton could have done without travelling through Meadowhall again tonight even if the bright evening lights, that tinted the street orange, turned most windows black from the outside. She could still not resist craning to see the crossing where their pink-clad quarry had got away earlier. It was at this exact stage that Garstone broke his record sixty-eight seconds' silence. Her anxiety seldom went unnoticed.
“If it’s any consolation, ma’am.” he sounded like he sympathised. “Driving by the same scene can sometime be therapeutic. Clears your head a treat.”
“Whatever." Leyton found his over-protectiveness starting to wear thinner by the day.
“While we’ve still a minute or two, what’s the story again? I only heard them mention a footbridge.”
“Aye, it’s a pedestrian motorway overpass; just after Junction 34a.”
Leyton just absorbed the information. She found it more important to clench for her safety again, as her DC hurled himself over the junctions. How glad she was not to have a coffee in her lap this time.
