Nineteen Eighty (12 page)

‘No-one,’ Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble is saying, ‘no-one wants to stop this man more than me and my men.’
Ropes dangling from ceilings, hanging –
‘Furthermore, all attacks in the last fourteen months are being, as we speak, rechecked.’
As we speak –
‘Have you gained any further insights into the mind of the Ripper?’
‘I would not have thought he is very clever. He has had a great deal of luck on his side. I am sure if the public are vigilant and report things early, probably the next time his luck may run out.’
The next time –
‘You’re saying that he’s not very clever, but your predecessor, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman, he is on record as saying he thought the Ripper was very intelligent, crafty even, and that it would be a mistake to underestimate his intelligence.’
‘I am not underestimating him, I’m merely saying that he has had a lot of luck.’
‘Is it not true to say that to some extent the Police have gifted him certain pieces of luck; I’m thinking of the Manchester Fiver, of the mess in reporting Laureen Bell’s handbag and so on?’
‘I would dispute that and the insinuation, but these are obviously matters for due review.’
‘Did Mrs Bell’s appeal generate any fresh leads?’
‘It was a very brave thing to do and we got a lot of genuine responses, but some are sheer nonsense and they do slow…’
‘Would Mr Noble care to comment on
The Ripper is a Coward
posters?’
‘I have no comment to make other than to repeat that me and my men share the public’s frustration and, once again, to assure members of the public and particularly the women out there that we are doing all we can to catch this man.’
The women out there –
‘What about the reward of Ł100,000 offered by …’
‘I have nothing to add to what the Chief Constable said earlier.’
‘What about reports that morale in the West Yorkshire force is…’
‘Again, the Chief Constable has already answered that question.’
‘Have you got any feelings about the proposed film?’
‘Again, I have nothing to say except to add that I personally share the distaste voiced by some members of the community and press about such an idea.’
Share the distaste –
And then they turn to me:
‘Would Mr Hunter care to comment on the progress of the so-called
brains trust
review?’
‘It’s early days yet and, as you know, we are looking at the whole inquiry and when the entire review is complete I will be more than happy to answer any questions you might have.’
Mark Gilman from the
Manchester Evening News:
‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to comment on the arrest this morning of the Manchester businessman Richard Dawson?’
On the dark stair, we miss our step
.
No beer and sandwiches today –
Me at a payphone in the corner: ‘Joan? It’s me. I’ve just heard they’ve arrested Richard. You heard anything, heard from Linda or anyone?’
‘No, nothing. When did they arrest him?’
‘This morning.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Mark Gilman from the
Evening News?’
‘No, there’s been nothing here, nothing on the radio.’
‘There will be. I’ll call again later.’
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye.’

*

The Stanley Royd Mental Hospital is up behind the Training College, five minutes down the road from Pinderfields Hospital –
Just off Memory bloody Lane:
Pinderfields Hospital, January 1975 –
The only time I’d ever met Jack Whitehead:
I was sitting in the waiting room outside intensive care, Clarkie out getting fish and chips, still waiting to speak to Craven and Douglas, staring at a
Yorkshire Post,
thinking about Joan, when there was a hand on my shoulder
.
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yep?’ I said, looking up from the paper
.
‘Whitehead, Jack Whitehead from the
Evening Post.
Have a word?’
‘What about?’
‘Well,’ said the thin-faced man in the Macintosh, sitting down beside me, ‘just have a chat about the shooting, the lads.’
‘The lads?’
‘Bob and Dougie.’
‘You know them, Mr Whitehead?’
‘Know them? Course I bloody do. Local heroes they are. They’re the lads that nicked Michael Myshkin. You heard of him, I take it?’
I nodded
.
‘George told me you’re over here helping out.’
‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’
Jack Whitehead touched my arm and said: ‘And what would be another?’
And then I could hear my name over the tannoy: ‘Mr Peter Hunter. Telephone for a Mr Peter Hunter.’
And Jack Whitehead, he let go of my arm and winked: ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’
But it wasn’t:
It was Joan and another dead baby –
Another dead dream.
Five years on, five minutes down the road; no respite: Stanley Royd, a huge old house squatting back from the road amongst the bare trees and empty nests, its modern wings extending out into the shadows.
Burned-black stone and the picked-grey bone of an Auschwitz, a Belsen –
I drive through the gateway and up the long, tree-lined drive.
Were they ash or were they oak?
I park on the gravel and walk through the drizzle up a couple of steps and open the front door.
A wave of warmth and the smell of sickness hits me, the smell of faeces.
I show my warrant card at reception and ask to see Jack Whitehead.
The woman in white behind the desk picks up the black telephone.
I turn around to wait, watching a television hidden in the corner amongst the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains.
I glance at my watch:
Three
.
Thin skin and bones shuffle past in their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, the whisper of their slippers and their vespers, the scratchings and the mumblings of the day room.
‘Mr Hunter? Leonard will take you up,’ says the woman in white.
A big skinhead in blue denim overalls leads me up the stairs and down corridor walls painted half green and half cream, across the landing and out of the main building, over a cold walkway and into one of the more recent extensions, locking and unlocking doors as we go.
I say: ‘How long has he been here?’
‘Jack? Best part of three years.’
‘And yourself?’
‘Worst part of five,’ smiles Leonard, proud of his progress.
‘You’ve known him a while then?’
The orderly nods.
‘True they found him with a nail in his head?’
‘That’s what they say’
‘You didn’t see it though?’
‘He was next door for months.’
‘Pinderfields?’
The orderly nods again.
‘Get many visitors does he?’
‘A vicar and some of your lot. Not that there’s much point.’
‘Doesn’t say much I heard.’
Oh no, he talks all right. Not that he makes any sense.’
‘He’s drugged up, I take it?’
The orderly nods one last time and turns another key, opening the door onto a long corridor of locked cells –
‘This the secure wing, is it?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘And this is where you keep Jack?’
‘He’s got his own room,’ says the orderly, pointing at the last door.
He unlocks the door and opens it.
‘I’ll wait outside,’ he volunteers.
‘You sure that’s all right?’
‘He’s wearing restraints, but they’re to protect him not you.’
‘Protect him?’
‘From himself.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and step inside, closing the door behind me –
The room is darker and warmer than the corridor, bare but for a bog and his bed, a single chair and a patch of light from a high window.
I sit down next to the metal bed with the high barred sides.
Jack Whitehead is lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands chained to the sides of the cot, his eyes open and fixed on the light above, his face bleak and unshaven except for his scalp back in the shadows.
‘Mr Whitehead,’ I begin. ‘My name is Peter Hunter. I’m a policeman from Manchester. You probably won’t remember, but we met a long time ago.’
‘I remember,’ he says, his voice dry and cracked. ‘Hexed, I remember everything.’
The toilet is dripping –
‘I’d like to ask you some questions if I might; questions about some things that happened in 1977. About a policeman called Eric Hall?’
Dripping, dripping –
Jack Whitehead sighs, his eyes watering, a tear slipping down towards his ear.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, softly.
‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘You haven’t done anything.’
‘Is…’
Dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid, Mr Whitehead.’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
With a deep breath, I ask: ‘Is it true that you met Eric Hall? True that you knew him?’
‘I know Eric, yes.’
‘You know he’s dead?’
Jack Whitehead blinks, his damp eyes still fixed upon the ceiling –
Dripping –
‘Why did you meet him?’
‘Information,’ says Jack Whitehead, slowly.
‘About what?’
‘About the dead.’
‘The dead?’
Dripping, dripping –
‘You’re surprised?’ he smiles. ‘What did you think it’d be about? The living?’
‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, gripping the sides of my chair. ‘Did you try and blackmail Eric Hall?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Yes, I did.’
‘How?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Information.’
‘You had information on him or you wanted information from him? Which was it?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Two pieces of a broken heart; but do they fit? That’s the question, isn’t it?’
‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Was this about Janice Ryan?’
Suddenly, a blink and he’s changed:
In gargoyle pose he’s crouched upright on his feet, hands still chained and clipped to the sides of the bed, his face turned up to where the sky would be –
I stand, knocking over the chair –
Two doors, always open. Who makes the witches? Who casts the spells? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the doors. Futures and pasts, futures past, rats teeth into my belly both. The dead not dead, lorry loads of meat rotting in containers, the salt lost. Big black dogs, choking at said containers, the salt gone. The dead not dead, voices prophesizing war, endless war. Why won’t you let them sleep? Why won’t you let them be? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the door. Never tonnes undone, loose again, loose again, the dead not dead.’
Silent, his head back, eyes white –
I step towards him and then straight back as he spits and foams through teeth gritted and bleeding:
‘Hunter! Hunter! Jbd ias hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
‘Hunter! Hunter! Hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Hunter! Hunter! Sti rip sll iwl lik!’
‘What?’
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
‘What are you fucking saying? Tell me!’
Silence, his body empty, his face on his chest –
Dripping –
I step forward from the door and right the chair.
Dripping –
Drawn to his skull, I cannot look away.
Dripping –
Out of the shadows, in the patch from the window, I look down on the top of his scalp and the hole he’d made.
Dripping –
I want to touch, to put a finger in that hole, but I dare not.
Dripping –
Instead, I walk backwards to the door and open it.
I step out into the corridor, looking for Leonard –
I see him coming down the corridor towards me.
I glance back into the room –
Jack Whitehead unbound and upon his knees, gazing to the ceiling in suppliant pose, hands clasped in prayer.
He turns, a torrent of tears upon his cheeks –
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Close the door,’ he says. ‘Please close the door.’
‘He’s loose,’ I shout at the approaching orderly –
‘Jesus,’ says Leonard, going in to his charge. ‘Not again.’
I am standing in a red phonebox somewhere in the dark on the way back into Leeds –
I say: ‘Would it be possible to meet?’
‘Of course.’
‘About seven? In the Griffin?’
‘Fine.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and hang up.
I knock on the door of her hotel room.
Helen Marshall opens the door, hair matted and eyes red again, the top button of her blouse undone.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Where’s everyone else?’
‘They called it a day.’
‘Are you busy? You doing anything now?’
‘No.’
‘I want you to meet someone. Do you mind?’
‘No,’ she smiles. ‘I don’t mind.’
From the high-backed chair, the Reverend Martin Laws rises.
‘Reverend Laws, this is Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.’
They shake hands.
‘DS Marshall is part of my team,’ I say. ‘And, to be honest, I’d prefer our conversations from now on to be conducted in the presence of DS Marshall or another member of my team.’
Laws is nodding, smiling: ‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’
‘No,’ I say, without a smile.
We all sit down.
The lounge is empty but for an old woman and a child reading a comic.
‘Reverend Laws,’ I say. ‘Do you mind telling us how you came to meet Mrs Hall and when that would have been?’
‘About two years ago. She’d heard of my work.’
‘Your work?’
The man leans forward in his chair, his hat on his lap, his bag between his boots, and he says: ‘I stop suffering.’
‘How had she heard of you?’
‘The word gets around, Mr Hunter.’
‘So she just rang you up out of the blue?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was the blue, Mr Hunter. But yes, she just rang me up.’
‘And what did she want?’
‘What everyone wants.’
‘Which is?’
‘For the suffering to stop.’
‘And that’s what you did?’
‘I can see you’re not a believer Mr Hunter, but that’s what I try and do.’
‘Stop suffering?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ asks Helen Marshall, suddenly.
Martin Laws turns his head slightly and stares at Helen Marshall, silent, just staring –
‘How?’ she says again, looking down at her own hands.
‘I make it go away,’ he smiles.
‘But how?’
‘Magick,’ he laughs.
Tired, I say: ‘Mr Laws, would you mind calling Mrs Hall and asking when it might be convenient to see her?’
‘You wouldn’t prefer to do it yourself?’
‘I’d like us all to be there.’
Mr Laws stands up and walks over to the telephone on the front desk.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask DS Marshall.
‘I’m sorry, I think I’m just tired.’
‘Do you want to go up?’
‘No, I’ll be OK.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she snaps.
Mr Laws comes back over.
‘Do you want to take my car?’
‘We’ll follow,’ I say.