Hit and Run by Cath Staincliffe Page B

cycle-by shooting. And then a couple of weeks later another kid, almost always a black kid, would be gunned down in retaliation. Several times victims had been killed in error for other targets. Innocent bystanders caught up in the bloody and savage tit-for-tat. Janine had covered a couple of those cases. They’d been hard. Not only the tragic waste of young lives blown away but the sheer hopelessness of the gang members. Kids with deadly weapons and deader souls; trapped in a cycle of poverty, lawlessness and violence. Talking of honour and brotherhood. They had no hope or apparent desire for a life beyond the gang. After interviewing these boys, Janine had come away asking herself how it had come to this. How did babies, toddlers, youngsters grow up to be stone-cold killers, so completely alienated from the mainstream?
    Janine considered the likelihood of a gang connection to the shooting but nothing they had learnt so far put Stone or Gleason anywhere close to that scene.
     
    *****
     
    Harper was chatting to Andrea at one of the booths along the wall when Shap and Butchers arrived. He glanced up and pulled a weary face, got to his feet and met them halfway across the room. ‘Back again?’
    ‘There a problem?’ said Shap.
    ‘Just it’s not very good for business. Word gets round.’
    ‘That’s the trouble with murder. Bloody inconvenient.’
    ‘Well, have you any idea how long this is going to go on?’ Harper’s frustration was plain.
    ‘Long as it takes.’ Shap, followed by Butchers, continued over to join Andrea. Harper went behind the bar where the barmaid was re-stocking glasses and bottles, the clinking of the glasses audible above the soft, jazz music that was playing. Norah Jones begging someone to come away with her.
    A flick of her eyes was all the greeting they got from Andrea. She lit a cigarette and sat back, left arm crossed over her waist acting as a prop for her other arm.
    Shap dragged a chair over from a nearby table, turned it round, straddled it and nodded at the girl. Butchers sat down opposite her on the bench seat, pulling his daybook out and riffling through to the last entry.
    ‘What do you make of Lee Stone?’ Shap asked.
    ‘Bad news. I never liked him. They reckon he shot that Gleason lad, don’t they?’ Her eyes sized Shap up, assessing whether the rumours were true.
    ‘You ever come across Jeremy Gleason?’ Butchers asked.
    ‘Now and then. He hung about with Lee. I felt sorry for him really.’
    ‘Why’s that then?’
    She shrugged. ‘He was a bit of a loser that’s all, like a big kid really. His eyes were out on stalks when he came in here – couldn’t believe his luck.’
    ‘He come in often?’
    ‘No, couple of times, looking for Lee. Did Lee kill him?’
    We don’t know.’
    ‘Tight that.’
    ‘You saying you think he could have?’ Shap said.
    ‘I’m not saying ‘owt, I’m asking.’ She lowered her arm to the ashtray, flicked her thumbnail against the tip of the cigarette, dislodging the ash.
    ‘Did Rosa ever have any bother with Stone?’ said Shap.
    ‘Don’t think so, she stayed well clear, like the rest of us.’
    ‘What about Sunday – you see him giving her any hassle? Making a nuisance of himself?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘But he did do that?’
    ‘Don’t you all?’
    Shap grinned.
    ‘You know she was pregnant?’ Butchers put in.
    Andrea grimaced, stopping mid-way through a toke on her fag. ‘No. Oh, God.’
    ‘Any idea who the father might be?’
    Andrea shook her head.
    ‘Anything else you can tell us?’ Shap said.
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Anything you might have remembered, anything sprung to mind?’
    Andrea blew smoke out as she shook her head.
    Shap nodded his thanks and Butchers checked his watch and noted the time in his book.
    There were three other girls working: Shelley, Carmen and Dee. Shap and Butchers spoke to each of them and learnt nothing new. When they’d finished Butchers put his book and pen away slowly, eager to prolong