Nineteen Eighty (21 page)

I go to the back door and knock –
There’s a dog barking somewhere down the alley, but no lights go on.
I’m frozen, but I’ve got my gloves on now –
I take out my key-kit and break the lock and more laws than I can think of, but fuck ‘em all – locks and laws.
I turn the handle and open the door –
The hallway is cluttered, full of boxes and gas canisters, stairs going up on the right –
And I’ve got the torch on now, heading up the stairs –
At the top, there’s a wooden door, solid –
I knock, wait, and then I take out the kit again –
And it’s a fucker this one, especially with the light on the floor and these gloves, but it gives in the end, – like they all do.
I turn the handle and open the door –
Another hall, the air stale, dead –
I walk down the hall to the front of the flat, the place deserted, no carpet –
In the front room, I pull back a curtain and can see the car and Helen Marshall parked down the road –
The light from the street, the torch, they show me what I already know:
No-one lives here –
Just scraps of furniture, – a sofa, two chairs, a table, a telephone –
I shine the torch on the dial, but there’s no number –
I pick up the phone and get a dialling tone that tells me what I already suspect:
Someone comes here.
I put the receiver down, but leave it off the hook –
I walk back down the hall, an empty kitchen to the right, a bathroom and toilet next to it, a bedroom to the left –
I step into the bedroom –
I take a chance and switch on the light:
A big bedroom, a big bed with a stained orange-patterned mattress, a pair of black curtains –
Fitted cupboards down the side of the bed –
I take out
Spunk –
I turn:
Under the spread legs, below her cunt, an orange-patterned mattress –
Back behind her open mouth and closed eyes, above that cock, black curtains –
I drop the magazine on the bed and open the cupboards –
Lights, cameras, the action:
In piles –
Spunks
, the whole bloody lot –
And I want photos, all the photos I can get –
I race through the piles, taking out all the different ones I can find –
They’re in order, the piles, and in the end I’ve ten copies; only issues 3, 9, and 13 missing –
But I’ve already got 13, the last one.
I close the cupboard door and gather the magazines –
I turn off the light with my elbow and walk back down the hall –
I kick open the door and close it with my back –
It won’t lock and they’ll know I’ve been –
But that’s OK:
I WANT THEM TO KNOW I’VE BEEN HERE.
I go back downstairs and leave the back door open and kick off the lock on the gate:
JUST SO THEY’LL KNOW ABOUT IT SOON.
I walk down the alley and back round to the car –
Helen Marshall sees me coming and gets out –
‘What’s all that?’
‘Spunk,’
I say –
She opens the driver’s door and I get in –
She comes back round and sits down beside me in the passenger seat –
I’ve got the
Spunks
in a pile on my knee –
She takes them from me, silently skimming the covers, the spreads –
‘What we going to do?’ she asks.
‘Go through these, keep an eye on that place, and see what happens.’
‘I see,’ she says.
‘You tired?’ I ask her.
‘No,’ she says, defensive.
‘Good,’ I smile. ‘Because we’re going to have to do this in shifts.’
‘What?’
‘We’re going to need to watch this place twenty-four hours.’
‘What about the others?’
I shake my head: ‘Maybe later, but for now I want it to be just you and me.’
‘Me, you mean.’
‘If you don’t want to do it, just say.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, like it’s not.
‘Thank you,’ I say –
‘Mention it,’ she says.
I’m drifting –
Pornographic dreams of empty rooms, black curtains and orange-patterned mattresses –
Empty TV sets, black birds and –
‘What?’
I open my eyes –
The car – the air dirty, the dawn grey.
‘What did you say?’ Helen Marshall is asking me –
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Think I must have nodded off.’
‘You said my name, that’s all.’
‘Sorry, must have been dreaming.’
She laughs: ‘Should I be flattered?’
‘No, it was a nightmare,’ I say.
‘Charming first thing, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry,’ I smile. ‘I better go.’
‘Taxi?’
‘Have to be,’ I say and get out of the car.
‘What about these?’ she asks, pointing at the pile of
Spunks
on the back seat.
‘Best pass them here,’ I say.
‘You got a bag for them?’
‘In the boot,’ I say and go and get it –
After we’ve done that, I lean back into the car and say: ‘Take care and thank you.’
‘Mention it,’ she says again, an echo.
‘Call Millgarth or the Griffin if you see anyone.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she’s saying.
‘And get the plates,’ I say, handing her the keys and closing the door, – her sliding into the driver’s seat.
And then I turn away and walk off towards Batley Bus Station and as I go she presses the horn once and I turn back and wave – but I can’t actually see her, and in the Bus Station I use the phone and call Joan and then I get a taxi back to the Griffin, eleven issues of a pornographic magazine on my lap but, as I count them there in the back of the taxi, there’s only ten and for a sudden moment my blood runs cold thinking I left
Issue 13
on the bed above RD News, but it’s here, so I think I must have miscounted and I’m another issue short, but they’ll turn up, the missing ones, they always do, – eventually.
from a greenhouse and e smell bad lying there for over a week and he vomits and tries to cut off my head with a hacksaw because he wants to make a big mystery of me but alas this is still nineteen seventy seven and it is december now and e am cold down garthorne terrace hoping to do a bit of business outside the gaiety before e go home and now e am on gipton avenue a dark coloured car driving slowly along looking for love the car parked by the kerb the driver waving to someone in a-house bye now see you later take care and he is all right about thirty years old stocky around five feet six inches tall with dark wavy hair and beard wearing a yellow shirt and a dark anorak with a zip and a pair of blue jeans he turns to me he says are you doing business e say yes and he says five pounds e say yes and e get in his car he says he knows a right quiet place on spare ground off scott hall street and e know it is about a mile and a half away and he is very chatty and friendly and says his name is david but he prefers dave e say very well dave it is and he says what is yours e say carol but my name is really kathy kathy kelly e ask him what he was doing back on frankland place he says he was saying goodnight to his girlfriend who is sick and he has his needs you know e say yes e know do not we all and he has them come to bed eyes and it might sound daft now but e quite fancy him a bit of a good looking and he knows it type and he would not frighten anybody because he knows a lot of the girls he is a regular punter and he is talking away about hilary and gloria and is not hilary the one with Jamaican boyfriend so e am thinking that he cannot be leeds ripper can he we get to spare ground off scott hall street and dave says we should have sexual intercourse in the back of the car e say ok but you must pay me first and he says he will pay me after e say you can fuck right off e know your plan my knickers off with your muck up me and fuck all else as you drive off with your bloody fiver and e get out but wait he says there is no need for that he has his wallet out so e try the back passenger door but it is locked and he says he will come round and open it and as he passes behind me e feel a searing sickening blow on top of my head and e am screaming loudly holding my head e am falling to the floor trying to grab hold of his blue denim jeans and e can feel more blows coming until there is only darkness blackness dirty prostitute bitch you whore you bitch you dirty stinking prostitute bitch e can hear a dog barking and him walking back to his car the slam of the door the back wheels skidding with a lot of spin as he drives off e just lie there on the spare ground the terrible pain in my head the dog barking no one coming no siren so e try to stand walk across the rough ground on to road try and get to a telephone e see this lad and lass and they see my head and face all covered in blood and she starts screaming he runs off to phone an ambulance and e am sitting there in street with this girl who is hysterical and one of girls e know comes up asks me what has happened here e tell her and she says you have come in your hair with the blood e say it was the ripper then that is rippers come she says you are luckiest woman in england and e sit there in road with blood and come in my hair my head with a hole young lass screaming freezing to death and e say e do not feel lucky she says you will mark my words you lucky cow with a depressed fracture behind my ear on the left side of my head measuring one and a half inches by one inch and the seven lacerations each about two inches long plus a four inch scar on my left hand where bruises were and police said it was definitely him ripper because they found
Chapter 12
The Ripper Room –
Millgarth, Leeds –
Monday 22 December 1980:
Standing room only –
Smoke, sweat, and no smiles on 150 sad bloody faces.
Chief Constable Angus and Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Noble down the front –
Me at the back, by the door –
No Alderman or Prentice.
‘It was a long weekend,’ Noble is saying. ‘I know a lot of us were at the funeral, Saturday.’
Shit
, I’m thinking.
‘And I know like me, for all of us who were there it’s only strengthened our resolve to catch this bastard. But now we’ve got this –’
Noble picks up a piece of paper off the table and reads aloud:
‘Sunday 21 December, 9 p.m., Manchester offices of the
Daily Mirror
received a telephone call delivered by a man with an accent strongly resembling the one on the so-called
Ripper Tape
. No recording was made, but the content was as follows:
‘I’m Jack and I warned you I’d strike again and I’ll kill again on Tuesday, this time student so warn them to keep off streets.’
Noble stops reading, looking up at the room –
The Ripper Room:
Smoke, sweat, and 150 bloody curses.
‘Jim Prentice and Dick Alderman are in Manchester now talking to the people at the
Mirror
, but whether it’s him or not,’ Noble continues over the rising din, ‘it’s already on radio and it’ll be on every front page tonight and tomorrow.’
150 more bloody curses, louder and louder until –
Until Chief Constable Angus stands up: ‘All right, I know this is the last thing we need but, once again, I have no choice but to cancel all leave for the next forty-eight hours. We’re already stretched thin thanks to all these bloody protests at the cinemas, but I have spoken with a number of the local councils to try and get some sort of ban on some of these films.’
Nods all round.
‘Luckily most of the students have already gone home but,’ says the Chief Constable. ‘Tonight and tomorrow night we have to put on a show of strength. Assistant Chief Constable Noble’s drawn up the rota for you lot here and will hand it out at the end of this briefing. But I just want to add that, as the Assistant Chief Constable said, I know a lot of you were in Hartlepool for the funeral and I know you want to keep at it and that this kind of thing is the last thing you want. But we’ll nail the bastard, so let’s all just keep our wits about us. Thank you.’
Noble steps forward again: ‘OK, better news; we have now eliminated all vehicles sighted by witnesses on Alma Road last Wednesday night, Thursday morning. Bar one: the old dark-coloured car seen reversing the wrong way down the street. Officers have once again sat with the witness to try and get a more detailed description of the car in question. But officers should pay particular attention to old and dark-coloured vehicles as you crosscheck old statements and take any further statements.
‘Later today we also hope to have the new photofit complete and available for distribution. As some of you know, this description of a man seen in the vicinity of Alma Road last Wednesday night very much resembles those descriptions given by Linda Clark and statements taken in Morley, following the murder of Joanne Thornton.
‘Finally, surveillance will continue on the five individuals at the top of our lists and, obviously, we will step up these efforts over the next forty-eight hours in light of the Manchester call. Thank you,’ he says and nods at an assistant who begins to hand out sheets of paper.
I’m the first out the door, heading back next door, when there’s an arm on mine –
Bob Craven: ‘The Chief Constable asked me to have you meet him in Assistant Chief Constable Noble’s office after the briefing.’
‘Thank you very much, Inspector,’ I say.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he mutters, walking off.
‘What?’ I say –
He turns: ‘Pardon?’
‘I said what did you say?’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he smiles –
‘Don’t mention it?’
‘Yes,’ he says, walking away. ‘Don’t mention it.’
I knock on the door –
‘Come.’
I open the door and step inside Noble’s office –
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ I say.
Angus is sat in Noble’s chair, Pete on the other side of the desk.
The Chief Constable gestures for me to sit down next to Noble –
I take my seat and wait.
‘You were at the briefing then?’ asks Angus, eventually.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Last thing we bloody need,’ says Noble, to my right.
‘Can imagine,’ I agree.
There’s a bit of silence now, pens tapping, paper shuffling –
A bit of this, then Angus says: ‘Look, I hear there were some words exchanged yesterday. Some confusion?’
‘Confusion?’
‘Well, from what I gather,’ says Angus, glancing at Noble. ‘Your interview with Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice ended badly and then there was some question mark about disclosure of information pertinent to the on-going investigation.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Angus frowning, picks up a copy of
Spunk
and says: ‘Well, for a start, what about this?’
‘As I told Pete yesterday, I’d been led to believe that this magazine had been given to George Oldman by Maurice Jobson, or vice versa, courtesy of Eric Hall’s widow.’
‘That’s true,’ Angus nods.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘So I presumed George had passed it to the Ripper Squad, as he was in charge at that time.’
‘Well, you’d have to ask Assistant Chief Constable Oldman about that.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ I say.