Nineteen Eighty (18 page)

I press play –
I sit back down on the bed and I take out the files and begin to read as the cassette plays:
‘He beat the fucking shit out of me. Right there in the fucking car park.’
‘Eric, Eric
‘Don’t fucking Eric, Eric me. This cunt’s got my fucking car. Broke into my fucking house.’
‘Eric, Eric
‘I want Eraser done and done fucking right’
‘Eric, shut up and listen.’
‘No, you shut up and you listen: I’m telling you he broke into my house, my own bloody house, he’s driving around in my fucking car, and he knows everything. Everything. So you tell me what the fuck you’re going do about the cunt.’
‘Eric, I mean it. Listen: it’s done.’
‘Done? What is?’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s finished.’
‘Finished? What about the car? Where the fuck’s my car?’
One of the lads’ll bring it round.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Eric, another time. Not now.’
I want to know?’
‘No, you don’t Eric’
Eject, flip, press play –
‘I’ve had enough. I can’t take anymore of this shit. First Eraser and now fucking Hunter.’
I stop reading –
‘Eric, you worry much too much.’
Same voices:
‘Peter Hunter’s coming and you’re telling me I worry too much
.
I’m already fucked up thanks to that fucking Fraser twat and now I’ve got to fucking talk to Hunter the Cunt.’
‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric’
‘It’s alright for you, isn’t it? Not Leeds or Manchester, is it? Has to be sodding Bradford.’
‘Eric, for fuckssake.’
‘Look what happened to Porn Squad, – Moody and Virago.’
‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’
‘That’s what you say.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll fucking do what I say.’
Or what?’
‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’
‘No. I want to know what you’ll do if I’m not a good boy, if I don’t do what I’m told.’
‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got. So stop fucking around.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’
A pause, silence –
‘I’m sorry, I’m just upset.’
‘I know you are. We all are.’
‘I’m going to have to take a fall, aren’t I?’
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I can’t do fucking time, Richard. I can’t.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ll look after you.’
Stop.
My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry –
I’m thinking:
June 1977
.
I’m wondering:
Richard?
I’m writing:
Leeds? Manchester?
I say out aloud, say alone:
‘Saint Cunt.’
I take out cassette
A
and replace it with
B:
‘She’s dead.’
‘What do you want me to say?’
A different voice, familiar –
‘I want to know who fucking did it?’
‘Eric, she’s dead. Just leave it.’
‘Was it Eraser?’
‘Eric, you’ve got to fucking get it together mate. Eraser’s saying it was you. They’re going to come and have a word.’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘You’ve got to.’
‘Was it him?’
‘Fuck knows. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Course it fucking matters.’
‘No, it doesn’t. What matters is you keeping it together and getting through this.’
Stop.
Eject, flip, press play:
‘He had the fucking mag, didn’t he?’
‘What did he want?’
‘Money. Brass, what else.’
‘How much?’
‘Five grand.’
‘Pay him.’
‘But he’s a fucking journalist, he’ll just keep coming back.’
‘No he won’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘Trust your Uncle Bob.’
Stop.
My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry –
Wondering:
June 1977
.
Thinking:
Uncle Bob?
Writing:
Detective Inspector Robert Craven?
At the bottom of the box, a magazine –
A porno mag:
Spunk
.
Issue 13, March 1976
.
65p
.
Inside –
SPUNK is published by MJM Publishing Ltd, printed and distributed by MJM Printing Ltd, 270 Oldham Street, Manchester
.
I turn the pages, the bodies and the hair, the faces and that stare –
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips –
Saying out loud, alone:
‘Janice Ryan.’
No more sleep.
No more sleep, just –
Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.
No more sleep, just –
Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that –
And then they’re gone.
Just like that –
Just
Exegesis
etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken –
Et sequentes
.
embedded in her chest a broken bottle of pop the screw top still on the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal thoughts lost and thoughts found transmission twelve noon Sunday the twelfth of june nineteen seventy seven the body of Janice ryan a twenty two year old known prostitute found secreted under an old settee on waste ground off white abbey road bradford death due to massive head injuries caused by a blunt instrument or boulder or rock and is thought that death occurred some seven days before due to partial decomposition of the body the killer had jumped on her chest causing broken ribs which ruptured the liver there were no stab wounds and is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other circulated prostitute murders publicly referred to as ripper murders the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do her brassiere had been pulled above her breasts her panties pulled down to the pubic region her skirt which had been removed was found under her body she was killed in some other place and had then been dragged by her collar to the settee her handbag not found when her body was discovered her left arm was tangled in the springs of the settee indicating that the killer had placed it on her body after rigor mortis had set in a period of at least four hours after death some days after death the body had been moved and a yorkshire post dated Saturday the eleventh of june nineteen seventy seven headline victims of a burning hate placed underneath it could not have blown there it had been deliberately placed there the body then moved on top of the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do six six six times a killer more victims as murder hunt police say there is no copy cat dear george from hell e am sorry e cannot give my name for obvious reasons e am the ripper e have been dubbed a maniac by the press but not by you you call me clever because you know e am you and your boys have not a clue that photo in the paper gave me fits and that bit about killing myself no chance e have got things to do my purpose is to rid streets of them sluts my one regret is that young lassie Johnson did not know cause changed routine that nite but warned you and jack at the post up to five now you say but there is a surprise in bradford get about you know warn whores to keep off streets cause e feel it coming on again sorry about young lassie yours respectfully jack the ripper might write again later e not sure last one really deserved it whores getting younger each time old slut next time hope initially the corpse had been well concealed soil rubble turf had been piled on top of it then the abandoned sofa placed on top of the heap apparently some time after rigor mortis had set in because the arm was well entangled in the sofa springs horse hair from the sofa had been stuffed into her mouth and the autopsy revealed she was also pregnant and told a friend e was going to earn some money and he was cruising along slowly when he had to brake suddenly because of the car in front e recognised the car and e tapped on the window and got in and he said where did you spring from so sud–
Chapter 10
Oldham Street, Manchester –
Saturday 20 December 1980.
In the car, the radio on:
Provisionals to end Dirty Protest as forty men take food
.
More London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman
.
Hunt to find sadistic gangland killers of ex-policeman and daughter
.
Funeral of Ripper victim Laureen Bell
.
I switch the radio off and get out of the car and cross the road.
It’s raining, a cold and dirty Manchester rain –
A funeral rain.
270 Oldham Street, black and from before the war, six or seven storeys high without a light.
Just inside the doors are the nameplates, various textile and clothing firms.
No MJM Publishing or Printing Ltd –
Fuck
.
I look around, the ground floor offices silent.
There are stone stairs to the left, a lift to the right –
I take the stairs.
On the first floor, lights and the slight hum of machinery.
I tap on the old glass door that says
Manchester Divan
and open it –
It’s a big room, desks and cabinets by the door, machines and other equipment at the back. There are a lot of brightly dressed Indian or Pakistani women working the machinery. The windows are grey and give no light and the room smells of sweat.
An old Indian or Pakistani man with a beard and a hat looks up from his desk and says: ‘Yes?’
‘My name is Peter Hunter and I’m a police officer,’ I say and show him my identification.
‘Yes?’ he says again, nervously.
‘I’m looking for a company called MJM Publishing or MJM Printing Limited? I believe they had offices in this building?’
The man is nodding: ‘Yes, they were on the third floor.’
‘Can you remember when they left?’
‘About two or three years ago.’
‘You don’t know what happened, do you? They move, go under?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Who owns the building?’
‘Asquith and Dawson are the agents.’
‘Dawson?’
Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties –
A friend
.
‘Yes, Asquith and Dawson by the library.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, an echo –
‘I can’t do time, Richard. I can’t.’
On the third floor landing the window is broken and there is dust and rubbish in the corners, in front of a door that still says
MJM Publishing & Printing Ltd
.
Across the landing is a second office:
Linton & Sons
.
There are no lights on and no-one’s answering the door.
I squat down and pick through the rubbish outside MJM’s door –
Nothing, just rubbish.
I try the door and it rattles but I think better of it.
Nearly 10:30 –
Manchester Police Headquarters –
The eleventh floor –
The Assistant Chief Constable’s office –
My office –
Just as I’d left it, but for the mountains of post in the tray.
I walk across the corridor and knock on the Chief Constable’s door.
‘Come.’
I open the door –
Chief Constable Smith behind his desk, Christmas carols playing.
‘Good morning,’ I say.
‘Thought you were in Leeds,’ he says, not looking up.
‘Yeah, I should be but something’s come up I thought you’d want to know about.’
He looks up: ‘What now?’
‘MJM Publishing and Printing?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘Never heard of them.’
‘They used to have premises on Oldham Street. Publish pornography’
‘Really? Pornographers?’ he asks, eyes lighting –
Pet hates
.
‘Yeah, under-the-counter type stuff,’ I say, reeling him in.
‘Is that right? Oldham Street?’ he says. ‘You’d better sit down then, hadn’t you.’
I nod.
‘Go on,’ he says.
‘Janice Ryan was in one of MJM’s magazines.’
‘And?’
‘I found the magazine among Eric Hall’s papers. This morning I went to check out the address and found out that MJM have either gone under or moved. But guess who owns the lease on the building?’
On Oldham Street? Who?’
‘Asquith and Dawson.’
‘Richard Dawson’s firm?’
‘Yep.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he shrugs. ‘Asquith and Dawson must own half the bloody buildings in Piccadilly. They own lease on the Arndale, don’t they?’
‘But there’s a clear link here, yeah? With the Ripper?’
‘On Wednesday you were saying chances were Ryan wasn’t a Ripper job?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m sure this is the link between Dawson, Douglas, and Whitehead and the words on that tape; the link we were looking for.’
‘We? You, more like.’
‘OK, the link I think we should be looking into: Dawson, Douglas, Whitehead, Hall, Ryan, and now back to Dawson.’
‘And you Pete, don’t forget yourself.’
On the dark stair –
‘Right,’ I say. ‘And me.’
Chief Constable Clement Smith sniffs up: ‘Roger says you didn’t get right far with Mr Whitehead.’
‘No.’
He sighs, sits back in his chair, then says: ‘We’ve got Dawson coming back in on Monday morning. Are you going to be here?’
‘Don’t think so, no. Not in the morning.’
‘Well, have a word with Roger and see if he can follow up this MJM stuff and put a question in on Monday.’
‘OK,’ I say and stand up.
‘Pete?’
I stop at the door: ‘Yes sir?’
‘You look shattered,’ he says, looking back down at the work on his desk. ‘You want to cut out all this back and forthing between here and there.’
‘I know,’ I nod.
‘Too much for you, you just say the word.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
He looks up again: ‘You spoken to Philip Evans recently?’
‘No.’
‘You ought to. You should tell him about all this.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘Best he hears it from you first.’