Time Out: Part One.

Prologue.

Manchester, England.

Wednesday, 17th March, 2004.
11.35pm:

Don Ryan pulled into the kerb and switched off his engine. Up ahead the road was cordoned off and the all too familiar scene of police, ambulance officers and flashing lights danced their urgent dance in the dark and the rain.

Suddenly Don felt bone weary. Too many years he had been locked in this endless cycle of chasing people’s grief and sorrow for the transient gratification of a bored and detached public. Still…

With a sigh he hauled himself out of the comfort of his car and made for the cordon. Lying on the road, being recorded by the forensic photographer, was the body of a young woman. Although difficult to be certain in the dark, there appeared to be skid marks close to where she lay, but no sign of a car. As this would be the last thing to be moved, Don concluded that it was a hit and run.

Moving around the cordon, Don approached a constable positioned to keep any members of the media and public at bay, although few of either were present.

“Evening Constable. Lawson, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, Mr. Ryan. Nasty business.”

“Always a nasty business. Don’t suppose you have any details for us—names or anything?”

“Sorry, Mr. Ryan, just that it is an apparent hit and run. The woman’s dead and the car’s gone. Can’t really tell you any more. Youngish woman, but I wouldn’t like to put it any closer than that.”

“Thanks, Lawson. Do you have a time?”

“Around eleven fifteen, but that’s unofficial.”

“Understood.”

“You won’t try and take any pictures, will you? You know I can’t allow that.”

“Come on! You know me better than that. I’ll just take a picture or two of the scene once the body has been removed.”

“Sure. Sorry, but some of your people will try anything.”

“Not my people, Constable, but sadly, you are right.”

And I hope they hurry up, Don thought to himself, the rain was starting to run down the back of his neck. He moved around to the right to get a better view of what was happening—although he seriously questioned why he bothered.

“Hello, Don.”

Don turned to find Detective Inspector Paul Stringer standing behind him.

“Hello, Paul, I’m surprised to find you at a hit and run.”

Contrary to the stereotypical view of policemen and journalists, Don and Paul had long ago developed an understanding of the needs and constraints of their respective professions, and of knowing where the boundaries lay. In respecting those, they had become close friends.

“Me too. Actually, there is something a little odd about the victim, which is why I was called.”

“Are you able to tell me?”

“Yes, if you’ll keep it to yourself for the time being. She is dressed in a plain linen smock, rather like a monk’s habit, and nothing else.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. No underclothes, no shoes, nothing. She also looks like she might have been maltreated on a regular basis, but that is speculative. We need the pathologist’s report to know for certain.”

“Bloody hell, I see why you were called. You’ll give me the word if you get anything more definite?”

“Sure, though, as I said, you’ll need to keep it to yourself in the meantime.”

“Thanks Paul. I’ll just get a couple of pictures of the scene and I’ll be off home for a hot shower. Bugger all this standing around in the rain.”

Paul returned to the job at hand. Don made his way back to his car and sat looking at the scene through the rivulets of water running down his windscreen, waiting for the body to be removed.

Still, he may as well make a job of it; he knew that tomorrow was going to be a bad day. A very, very bad day.

Thursday, 18th March, 2004.
7.48am:

Despite his late night, Paul Stringer arrived at work early, as was his want. He sat in his car park at the Bootle Street Police Station thinking about the hit and run. Nothing unusual in itself. A bad night and a pub, all sadly predictable. Even the driver leaving the scene was not necessarily sinister, many people panic in such circumstances. But the girl. There was something very wrong about the girl.

Still, he would know more once he had the pathologist’s report. He got out of his car and went up to his office, collecting his habitual morning coffee on the way.

Half an hour later he was up to speed with the rest of the night’s events and could turn his attention to the hit and run. The forensic report was at least a day away, as was the pathologist’s, but he didn’t anticipate that either would produce anything remarkable.

The two most salient points were; was the girl drunk or drugged, and therefore a likely contributor to the accident, and who was the driver? The first question would be answered by the pathologist, so his immediate concerns were to find the driver and identify the victim. As for the woman, notes taken at the scene would indicate that she was not actually in the pub prior to the accident and was certainly unknown to any persons present. Indeed, there were no actual witnesses to the event at all, the patrons of the establishment rushing out after hearing the screech of tyres, the thud of impact and a car accelerating away.

Sum total of information contained in the witness reports—sod all!

He reached for his phone and keyed his sergeant’s extension. “Henderson, pull the missing persons files and tag all the files that are a broad match for last night’s hit and run, would you. Thanks. And the forensic and path’ reports, bring them in as soon as they arrive, please.”

He replaced the phone and sat back in his chair, staring into nowhere.

Why was she wandering around there in the middle of the night dressed like that? Why be there at all if you were not going to the pub, it is not like there is anything else in the immediate area. Of course, it is possible she was on her way there, even if she was not known to any of the locals. Or maybe she was just a raving nutter.

He made a quick note to canvas the various mental institutions and organisations in the area.

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