Nineteen Eighty (20 page)

I go through the top shelf –
Penthouse, Playboy, Escort, Razzle, Fiesta
etc.
‘You got
Spunk?’
I ask.
‘You what?’ says the Indian or Pakistani.
‘Magazine called
Spunk?’
‘Never heard of it mate,’ he says.
‘Mucky mag, it is.’
‘Never heard of it,’ he says again, but he’s stopped what he’s doing and is moving back behind the counter.
I pick up a
Sunday Mirror
that promises photographs from Laureen Bell’s funeral –
I hand him the right money and ask him: ‘You own this place do you?’
‘You what?’ he says, putting the coins in the till.
‘Just asking if this is yours?’ I say, looking round.
‘Why?’
‘Just asking that’s all.’
‘We rent it actually, if you must know.’
‘And the upstairs, you rent that as well?’
He’s pissed off is the Indian or Pakistani and he lets me know: ‘What’s it to you?’
I take out my warrant card.
‘Why didn’t you just say?’ he asks me.
‘You got a licence for that lot?’ I ask him, nodding at the booze.
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s no sign.’
‘Sorry. We’re getting one.’
‘That’s all right then.’ I shrug.
He stands there behind the till, looking nervous.
I ask him again: ‘So what about upstairs?’
‘You what?’
‘That yours?’
‘I told you, we just rent it.’
Again: ‘The upstairs?’
‘No.’
‘Who’s upstairs then?’
‘Don’t know do I.’
‘You don’t know who lives upstairs? Come on.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Who does?’
‘Landlord, I suppose.’
‘Who is?’
‘Mr Douglas.’
Fuck –
‘And where’s he?’
Other side of Moors somewhere.’
‘You don’t have the address, do you?’
‘Not on me, no.’
‘So how do you pay him?’
‘He comes round once a month, doesn’t he.’
‘His first name Bob, is it?’
‘Yeah, it is. He was a copper and all – you probably know him.’
‘Probably do,’ I say. ‘Small world.’
I take the Bradford Road through Batley and into Dewsbury, then the Wakefield Road up through Ossett and into Wakefield, the radio talking about the Laureen Bell funeral:
‘A packed village church listened in tears and silence to Laureen’s favourite record, Simon and Garfunkel’s
Bridge Over Troubled Water,
before which the vicar had read from St John.’
In the centre of Wakefield I park off the Bullring, staring up at the first floor of the Strafford –
The first floor of the Strafford still boarded up after all these years –
After all these years back again, back in this big black bloody world –
This big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells –
A million black and bloody hells in this big black bloody shrinking world –
Where hells collide:
Wakey Fear –
January 1975, that second week:
Black snow blowing across the Bullring, blue tape keeping the pavement and the entrance clear
.
Clarkie and I climbed over the tape, Clarkie saying: ‘So half one, just as they’re about to knock off, Craven and Douglas get the call – shots fired at the Strafford and, while Wood Street are scratching around for the Specials, Craven and Douglas park right out front and head straight up here.’
‘Call logged 1:28 a.m., anonymous?’
‘Yep,’ said Clarkie. ‘Anonymous.’
We started to climb the stairs to the left of the entrance to the ground floor pub, me saying: ‘And they’re aware that shots have been fired and that the SPG are being deployed, yet still they charge right up here?’
‘Hero cops, remember?’
‘Dumb bastards, morelike.’
At the top of the stairs, I pushed open the door –
Two weeks on and the room still stank of smoke, still stank of the bad things that had gone on here, still stank of death –
The mirror and the optics behind the bar, shattered; the jukebox in the corner, in pieces; the carpets and the furniture in sticks, stained
.
Clarkie said: ‘So in they come and see bodies and men in hoods and it’s bang! Douglas gets a bullet in the shoulder and thwack! Craven gets a butt to the skull and then the gunmen exit, just minutes before the Specials arrive.’
I was nodding, taking out the SPG report, reading out loud: ‘1:45 a.m., Tuesday 24 December 1974, officers deployed to the Strafford Public House in Wakefield in response to reports of shots fired. On arrival at the scene, officers found the downstairs empty and proceeded up the stairs. On entering the first floor bar, officers found three people dead at the scene and three seriously injured, two with gunshot wounds. There was no sign of the people responsible and calls were made to immediately set up roadblocks. Ambulances were called and arrived at 1:48 a.m.’
I stopped reading –
Clarkie was squatting down, eyes closed.
‘What you thinking?’ I asked him.
He looked up: ‘OK, let’s back up a bit?’
I nodded
.
‘We’ve got to sort out what happened before Craven and Douglas, before the Specials.’
Me: ‘Go on.’
‘Well, looking at the sketches and the photographs,’ he said, doing just that. ‘We’ve got the barmaid Grace Morrison, dead behind here,’ and he walked behind the bar, putting the photograph down next to the till –
‘Then we’ve got the three men: Bell dead here,’ and Clarkie put a photo down on the sofa that ran along the window –
‘Box there,’ he pointed, handing me a photo to put down on the floor in front of the bar. ‘And Booker, bleeding to death next to him.’
Four photographs –
Four black and white photographs –
Stood there in the centre of the wreckage, Clarkie and me staring at the four black and white photographs laid out across the room.
‘Order?’ he asked me
.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘We’ve got three guns: a shotgun, a Webley, and an L39 rifle.’
‘An L39? That’s the new police rifle,’ said Clarkie
.
‘Yep. Popular weapon these days.’
‘So who got what?’
‘Box, Booker, and Douglas get the shotgun; Bell the L39 and the barmaid the pistol, the Webley.’
‘Well, Craven reckoned on a four-man team. We got three guns.’
‘Still can’t get the order clear, can you?’ I said
.
‘This is what I reckon,’ said Clarkie, back over by the door. ‘Night before Christmas Eve, everywhere quiet waiting for the big night tomorrow; gone one, the downstairs closed. Strafford a well-known afterhours, bit of brass. Car pulls up outside, they hit the stairs running, burst in, shouting for the till – but there’s buttons, it’s a fuck up. They turn on the public – except this public is Derek fucking Box, professional villain and hardman, and his mate Paul. And they’re fucked if they’re going to hand over their big posh new watches to some crew of out of town nonces.’
Out of town?’
‘No-one local’s going to do the Strafford, Pete.’
‘Kids?’
‘Come on, an L39? This is some heavy bloody ordnance they’ve got here.’
I stared over at the sofa, at the hole in the back of the chair, the hole that went through into the wall –
The hole where 01’ Billy Bell had been sitting, his broken glass still on the floor
.
Clarkie was saying: ‘So Derek and Paul are giving them bollocks and one of them let’s Derek have it, then Paul, and then it’s in for a penny in for a pound, bye-bye Billy, bye-bye Grade – who’s been screaming her fucking tits off anyway.’
I was nodding along, glancing at the photo on the bar
.
‘Then they’re doing the till and their pockets, when in come our hero cops, and it’s thwack, bang, thank you Wakefield.’
Me: ‘Thanks for nothing.’
‘Four dead, two wounded coppers – and all for the change in their pockets.’
‘Can’t see it,’ I said. ‘Can’t see it.’
‘You will,’ said George Oldman, in through the back door with Maurice Jobson. ‘You will.’
Millgarth, Leeds –
Sunday 21 December 1980:
Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, Marshall.
‘Where’s Bob Craven?’ I ask –
Everyone shrugs their shoulders.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘This one’s me.’
Eyes down –
Silence in the dark room for the ritual of the dead –
Thinking,
is this how the dead live:
‘At 6:30 a.m. on Saturday 19 May last year the body of Joanne Clare Thornton, a 19-year-old bank clerk, was found in Lewisham Park, Morley. She was not a prostitute nor was her
moral character
questionable. She was last seen alive when she left her aunt’s house at 11:55 p.m. on Friday 18 May to walk to her own home, a distance of just over one mile. Death was estimated to have occurred between 12:15 a.m. and 12:30 a.m. on Saturday 19 May 1979.
‘That death came from two blows to the back of the head as she walked through the park and was instantaneous, her skull fractured from ear to ear. Her killer then dragged her onto the grass, repositioned her clothes and stabbed her twenty-one times in the abdominal area, six times in the right leg, and three times on and in the vagina. When he had finished he placed one shoe between her thighs and her own raincoat over her.
‘Joanne lay like that until 6:30 when she was initially spotted by a bus driver who believed it was a bundle of rags and reported it as such when he returned to his depot. By that time, however, a local woman on her way to work had already realised what exactly that pile of rags was and reported it to the police.
‘George Oldman issued the following statement:
‘If this is connected with the previous Ripper killings, then he has made a terrible mistake. As with Rachel Johnson, the dead girl is perfectly respectable. It appears he has changed his method of attack and this is concerning me; now in a non-red light area and attacking innocents. All women are at risk, even in areas not recognised as Ripper Country.’
‘There was a big response,’ I continue, glancing at Helen Marshall. ‘And witnesses came forward providing us with one solid description plus three motors –
‘At about nine on the Friday night, a man had attempted to pick up a Jamaican woman as she walked along Fountain Street in the centre of Morley. He was driving a dark-coloured Ford Escort and was described as being about thirty years of age with dirty blond collar-length hair, which was greasy and worn over his ears. He had what was described as a Jason King moustache which ended halfway between the corners of his mouth and chin, with a square face and jaw and was generally described as being of a scruffy appearance. He was wearing a brown-brushed cotton shirt with a tartan check, open at the neck, under a tartan lumber jacket with a beige or white fur collar.
‘The same man was spotted at about midnight parked in the same Ford Escort outside a café on the Middleton Road, across from Lewisham Park. The witness described the Escort as being made between 1968 and 1975, which would make it something between a G and N redg.
‘A photofit of this man was shown to Linda Clark, who was the woman who’d been attacked in Bradford in June 1977, and has to date provided us with the best description of the Ripper.’
‘Assuming she was attacked by Ripper, that is,’ says Murphy.
‘Yep,’ I sigh. ‘Assuming she was attacked by the Ripper.’
‘Sorry,’ says Murphy, palms up –
‘No John, you’re right; we can’t assume anything. However,’ I continue: ‘When she was shown the photofit of the Morley man, Linda Clark said: “That’s him, Dave. The man who attacked me.” According to Oldman.’
‘Dave?’ says Helen Marshall.
‘That’s the name the man who picked her up had given her.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘That car was a Cortina, yeah?’ asks Murphy.
‘Mark II, white or yellow,’ adds Hillman.
‘Anyway,’ I say. Other Morley motors that have yet to be eliminated are a dark-coloured Datsun saloon, parked by the park with its lights off, and a tan or orange-coloured Rover 2.5 or 2.6 litre that was also seen passing the park on two occasions just before midnight. Neither of the drivers of these two vehicles have ever come forward.’
They’re taking notes, getting ready to check their files, their lists –
Hillman looks up: ‘Going back a bit, the positioning of the shoe, that’s similar to Clare Strachan and the boot.’
‘Good point,’ I say. ‘And that’s obviously another thing keeping Strachan in the frame.’
Marshall: ‘It’s also similar to the piece of wood found on Joan Richards.’
‘Yes,’ I nod, then: ‘One other odd thing.’
They stop writing and look up.
‘A woman of Joanne’s age and description was seen walking close to the park in the direction of her home with a man described as being in his early twenties, five foot eight, with mousy-coloured greasy hair brushed right to left and a little wavy. He had stubble and prominent cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and was wearing a three-quarter-length dark-coloured coat and jeans.
‘If this wasn’t Joanne and the Ripper, then this couple have yet to come forward. If it was Ripper and victim, then the description is at odds with previous ones.’
‘Unless there were two of them,’ whispers Marshall.
‘That’s what I said,’ winks Murphy.
‘No, not two separate Rippers. Two of them together – doing the killings together.’
‘What? A bloody tag-team?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘A
bloody
tag-team.’
No-one speaks, eyes moving from her to me and back again until –
Until there’s a knock on the door and a uniform says: ‘Mr Hunter, Detectives Prentice and Alderman are here.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘One last thing
–
they pulled a size eight boot print from the park very similar to the ones also found on Joan Richards and on Tracey Livingston.’
Taking notes, getting ready to check their files, their lists –
Finished, I close my notebook and stand up.
‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘I’m going to have a chat with Jim Prentice and Dickie Alderman; would you mind sitting in?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, getting up.
‘OK, I’ll see the rest of you back at the hotel tonight, if not before. Tomorrow we’ll do Dawn Williams after the morning briefing and I’ll also update you on Laureen Bell.’
‘If there’s anything to update,’ says Hillman.
‘Yeah, if there is anything.’

*

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice are waiting for us downstairs.
Dick doesn’t even say hello –
Jim says: ‘Where do you want to do this?’
‘It’s your Nick,’ I say –
‘But it’s your show,’ he says.
‘Interview room?’ offers Murphy –
‘The fucking Belly?’ laughs Alderman.
‘Lead on,’ I say.
Alderman’s grinning as we follow him and Prentice down the stairs to their interview rooms; to the Belly –
Alderman opens a heavy door and we step inside one of their well-scrubbed bright rooms –
‘Just get another chair,’ says Prentice and goes next door.
We sit around the empty table, me and John Murphy on one side, Alderman on the other, Prentice sitting down beside him when he comes back in –
We’ve got our notebooks out, me and Murphy.
‘All right if we smoke?’ asks Prentice.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, declining the open pack.
Murphy takes one and the three of them light up.
‘Got any sandwiches?’ laughs Alderman.
‘No,’ I say, flicking through my notes. ‘No beer either.’
‘Just pulling your leg,’ he says.
‘Right,’ I say, finding my place. ‘Let’s get started.’
‘All ears,’ winks Alderman.
‘First of all, many thanks for making yourselves available. As you know, we’ve been asked to review all aspects of the Ripper Inquiry and to make any recommendations we might find, based on what we see.’
‘And what do you see?’ asks Alderman.
‘Please,’ I smile. ‘We aren’t at that stage yet; that’s why we’re grateful that you’ve agreed to have this talk with us.’
‘Like we had a choice?’ he sniffs.
I ignore him: ‘Both of you have been involved with the inquiry from the off, and are still involved, so obviously you both have a tremendous amount of knowledge about the different investigations, the methods and procedures.’
I pause, glancing their way –
Prentice is stubbing out his cig, eyes on me; Alderman jumpy, not like him.
‘Let’s start at the beginning: Theresa Campbell.’
‘That’s not the beginning,’ says Alderman. ‘What about Joyce Jobson and Anita Bird?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realise either of you were involved with those attacks.’
‘We weren’t,’ says Prentice, looking at Alderman.
‘Just saying that Campbell wasn’t the first, that’s all,’ says Alderman.
‘OK then,’ I nod. ‘The first murder.’
‘That’d be a bit more accurate,’ smiles Alderman.
‘Both Campbell and Richards were the same team?’
Prentice nods: ‘Chief Superintendent Jobson, out of here.’
‘And you two were the senior detectives?’
‘Yes,’ says Alderman. ‘Still are.’
‘Other detectives involved then were John Rudkin and Bob Craven?’
Jim Prentice nods.
‘I spoke with Maurice last Tuesday, he spoke very highly of this set-up.’
Prentice is still nodding, Alderman staring straight at me now –
I say: ‘Impression I got was that Maurice thinks that, had this team been kept together, you’d have caught the Ripper by now.’
Silence –
‘So,’ I continue. ‘I’m obviously interested in what you both think, given you’ve worked under both Maurice and George Oldman, and now Pete Noble?’
‘What?’ laughs Alderman. ‘You’re asking us whether we think if Maurice had been kept on, whether we’d have got the Ripper by now?’
‘I’m just interested…’
‘You drag me in here on a Sunday, my first fucking Sunday off in three months, to ask me that? Is that your best fucking question Mr Hunter?’ he says, standing up –
‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘And don’t fucking try this on me.’
‘Try what?’
‘You sit down and you hear me out.’
He’s staring at me, my heart fucking pounding –
‘Superintendent,’ I say, nodding at the chair –
He sits down.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now, I’d like to know about the differences in the styles of the various operations, if you don’t mind.’
Prentice coughs and says: ‘Everything was different, yeah? I mean, you’ve got to remember this was five years ago, much smaller inquiry.’
‘Who put them together?’
‘Campbell and Richards?’
I nod.
‘Maurice did, but it was obvious minute we saw her.’
Murphy: ‘Richards?’
He nods: ‘But we didn’t have Preston in. Not Strachan at this stage.’
Me: ‘And when was that then?’
‘77, after the blood tests and the letters,’ says Alderman, smiling: ‘Like you don’t know.’
‘You’d been over there though? In 76?’
‘Not us personally, but we’d sent people over and they’d sent some of their lot here.’
‘John Rudkin and Bob Craven right?’
Alderman shrugs: ‘In 75?’
I nod.
‘Sounds right,’ he says. ‘But we’ve been back and forth across them sodding Moors so many times, you tell us; you’re one with it all written down in front of you.’
Ignoring him: ‘So then Rudkin and Bob Fraser went back in 77?’
Prentice nods.
Me: ‘But by this time it’s George and Pete Noble?’
They’re both nodding.
‘Prostitute Murder Squad?’
‘Yes,’ says Prentice.
I ask him: ‘So Strachan was in and out for quite some time?’
‘Initially, yeah.’
‘And that’s also been true of a number of the other murders and attacks?’
‘Like who?’ says Alderman.
‘Well, Strachan, Janice Ryan, Liz McQueen, Tracey Livingston?’
Alderman smiles: ‘Well you’d have to ask John here about Liz McQueen.’
‘Thanks,’ says Murphy.
‘No offence, mate,’ says Alderman. ‘But that was you, not us.’
‘And,’ I continue. ‘There are a number of other murders and assaults that at one time or another have been linked to the inquiry and are now considered separate.’
Alderman: ‘Like who?’
I flick forward: ‘Vera Megson, Bradford, February 1975; Rachel Vaughan, Leeds, March 1977; Debbie Evans, Shipley, also 1977?’
‘What about Mary Wilkie?’ asks Alderman.
‘What about her?’
‘Prostitute, battered to death by Leeds Cathedral in 1970.’
‘April ninth,’ I say and look at him, waiting –
‘Unsolved,’ he says.
‘Like all the others,’ I say.
Him: ‘So what’s your point?’
‘My point is, what’s in and what’s not and who decides?’
There’s silence again, silence until Prentice sighs and says: ‘Any murder or assault of a woman in the North of England has to go through here. You know that.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know that.’
‘So,’ grins Alderman. ‘You want me and Jim to go through every fucking unsolved murder in Yorkshire?’
‘A lot are there?’ winks Murphy.
Alderman ignores him, but the grin’s gone: ‘And you want us to tell you why or why they’re not Ripper cases?’
‘Not every one,’ I say. ‘Just one.’
Silence –
Then: ‘Just Janice Ryan.’
Bull’s eye –
Eye to eye with Alderman across the table –
Hate, naked fucking hate –
You could cut it with a knife, the fucking hate in this room –
The fucking hate across this table down here in the Belly –
Cut big slices, big fucking slices off the bone until –
‘So what do you want to know about Janice?’ asks Prentice, playing the Smart Man.
‘Well from what we’ve read, the two of you were put in charge after Bradford passed it to the Ripper Room. But neither of you thought it was the Ripper until that letter turned up at the
Telegraph & Argus.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got everything,’ says Alderman and stands up –
‘Sit down,’ I say, quietly.
Prentice reaches up and pulls him down into his seat.
I say to them both: ‘I want you to tell us why you thought Janice Ryan wasn’t murdered by the Yorkshire Ripper.’
Prentice: ‘The injuries; there were no stab wounds.’
‘Same as Strachan,’ I say.
Prentice shrugs.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re both senior detectives, good at your jobs some folks reckon. But the way this looks to me, pair of you didn’t recognise a Ripper job when you saw one – losing days and days trying to fit up Bob Fraser, another bleeding copper.’
Alderman’s on his feet again: ‘Fuck off! You can fucking talk, fitting up coppers, you hypocritical fucking cunt …’
Bull’s eye –
But Prentice is again pulling him back down, again playing the Smart Man: ‘Sit down, Dick.’
But I’m leaning across the table, into Dick’s face: ‘So what were you doing, letting him get away?’
‘Fuck you!’
‘No, fuck you Dick!’ says Murphy, between us. ‘We’re asking you how come you didn’t think it was Ripper. You’d worked on enough …’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Bit of a balls up, all in all,’ I smile –
He’s red-faced is Alderman –
Red-faced and ready to fucking pop –
‘Lucky he fucking wrote that letter,’ I say. ‘Else you’d never have put it together. She’d have just been another one of those many unsolved …’
And he’s across the table again, shouting: ‘Because it wasn’t the fucking Ripper, was it. It was fucking Fraser, everyone knows that. Tell him Jim.’
Bull’s eye –
‘Shut up, Dick. Shut up,’ Prentice is saying, the last of the Smart Men –
Dick Alderman out of his tree and control: ‘No, you fuck off. I’m not having this fucking piece of shit stroll into here and tell me I can’t…’
Murphy: ‘Jim? Jim? What’s he talking about?’
Prentice: ‘He’s talking bollocks, course it was Ripper.’
Alderman: ‘Fuck off!’
‘No, you fuck off Dick!’
I stand up and say: ‘I think we’d better leave you gentlemen to it.’
They stop arguing, staring up at me –
‘We’ll come back another time,’ I say. ‘When you’ve got your stories straight.’
I’m sat in our room, the one next to the Ripper Room –
Hillman and Marshall are cross-checking cars from the Joanne Thornton inquiry.
The door opens, no knock –
It’s Peter Noble, a face of bloody black thunder.
‘Pete?’ I say.
‘Can I see you in my office?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute, will you?’
He nods and slams the door –
Hillman and Marshall are looking at me.
‘What’s all that about?’ asks Hillman.
‘Can’t imagine,’ I smile and stand up.
I knock on Noble’s door –
‘Come,’ he says and I do.
‘Pete,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You spoke with Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean,
what happened?’
‘What I say I mean,
what happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I shrug.
‘Nothing?’
‘Look, no offence, but I’m not obliged to report to you on interviews conducted for a Home Office review.’
Bad move –
He’s furious, absolutely seething, fucking livid: ‘No, but you are obliged to disclose information you might have that would assist in an on-going investigation.’
‘And who told you that?’
‘The Chief Constable, just after he’d got off the phone with Philip Evans, the man who drew up the parameters of your review.’
‘Well firstly, I’d have to check that myself with Mr Evans and, secondly, it’s an academic argument anyway seeing as we don’t have any information that is not already available to your inquiry.’
‘Bollocks,’ he shouts.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I say.
‘No need for that,’ he laughs. ‘What about this?’
And he tosses a copy of
Spunk
across the table,
Issue 13
.
I ask him: ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Manchester, who tell me you’ve had it at least two bloody days.’
‘So what? You’ve had it best part of three bloody years.’
‘What?’
‘Ask George and Maurice.’
‘Ask George and Maurice what?’
‘Copies were given to them by Eric Hall’s widow.’
He’s shaking his head: ‘You should have said something.’
‘I thought you knew.’
He lights a cigarette: ‘This still doesn’t mean you can come in here and intimidate my officers.’
‘Intimidate your officers?’ I say. ‘Like who?’
‘Prentice and Alderman.’
‘Intimidate Dick Alderman? Now that is bollocks, Pete.’
‘No it’s bloody not,’ says Noble, gathering steam again. ‘I’ve had Dick in here threatening to resign, saying you insulted him, insulted his reputation.’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Dick lost his temper. He said things I’m sure he regrets and we will need to speak to him again. But that’s as far as it went.’
‘Not according to Dick and Jim.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Said you made insinuations about their handling of the Janice Ryan inquiry.’
‘Yep, I did. And Dick Alderman refuted those
insinuations
, saying he didn’t believe Janice Ryan was in fact killed by the same man responsible for the other Ripper murders.’
‘Come on Peter, that’s rubbish.’
‘Is it?’
‘In my opinion, absolute rubbish.’
I shrug: ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, furious again.
‘OK,’ I nod.
‘Nothing until we speak to the Chief Constable tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ I say and leave him to it.
The Griffin, the bar downstairs –
It’s late and everyone else has gone to bed, everyone but me and Helen Marshall and the bloke behind the bar who wishes we would:
‘I’d have liked to have seen the look on his face,’ she’s laughing –
‘Priceless,’ I’m saying, miles away – no idea who or what we’re talking about.
She’s drunk I think, saying: ‘They don’t like us, do they?’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘It’s late. You should go up.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got some things to do.’
‘What?’ she laughs, looking at her watch.
‘Just going for a drive, that’s all.’
‘Can I come?’ she says, not looking so drunk anymore.
‘If you want,’ I say and stand up, my hand out.
It’s gone midnight –
We walk through the deserted city centre, freezing.
‘Horrible place,’ she says, looking up at the ugly black buildings, then down at the dirty pavement.
I nod and lead the way through the Kirkgate Market, grateful for the cold and the night.
Minutes later, we pull out of the Millgarth car park and are away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I switch on Radio 2.
‘Batley,’ I say.
‘Batley?’
‘Yeah,’ I say and then I tell her about Janice Ryan and Eric Hall, about Eric Hall and Jack Whitehead, about Jack Whitehead and Bob Douglas, about Bob Douglas and Richard Dawson, about Richard Dawson and MJM Limited, about MJM Limited and Richard Dawson and Bob Douglas and Jack Whitehead and Eric Hall and Janice Ryan –
About murder and lies, lies and murder –
War.
And after all that she just sits and stares out of the window until she says again: ‘Horrible place.’
Parked on the Bradford Road, the light on in the car, I show her the magazine –
I say –
And she flicks through the pages until she comes to Janice Ryan.
Helen Marshall, ex-Vice Squad, glances at the photo and nods and hands it back.
‘You heard of it?’ I ask –
‘No,’ she says.
‘Wait here,’ I say and get out of the car, hard.
I’ve not put on the torch yet as I stumble around in the alley behind RD News –
There are cardboard boxes and piles of rubbish heaped up in front of the back-gate to the shop –
And it’s locked, the gate –
I jump up and hoist myself far enough over to slip the bolt at the top of the gate –
And I jump back down, but the gate still won’t open –
So I jump back up and hoist myself over and down the other side and into the tiny yard –