Nineteen Eighty (26 page)

Chapter 14
Five hours later and half the Manchester Police force are round my house but I’m still sat in Noble’s bloody office waiting for Chief Constable Ronald Angus to show his face, standing up and sitting down, on and off the phone to Joan, standing up and sitting down, Noble and Prentice and the rest of them in and out.
‘Sit down, Peter,’ says Angus as he comes in, patting me on the back.
Noble gets up from behind his desk to make way for Big Chief Ron.
‘Let’s have a look,’ he says, sitting down.
Noble hands him the sheet of paper encased in the plastic bag, the envelope in another –
Angus holds up the envelope: ‘Mr Peter Hunter,’ he reads. ‘The Griffin, eh?’
I nod.
‘Saturday?’ he says, squinting at the postmark –
‘Manchester,’ I say.
He puts down the envelope on the desk and picks up the letter:
Dear Officer
,
Sorry I haven’t written before, but heed this early warning: will kill wife and kids.
Jack the Ripper
.
Ronald Angus puts down the letter and looks up at me and then across the room at Peter Noble –
‘Handwriting’s same,’ says Noble.
Angus nods: ‘Or at least a very good likeness.’
‘We were waiting for you, but we’ve got the lab at Wetherby standing by’
Angus ignores him and asks me: ‘Have you been in touch with Mrs Hunter?’
‘Yes.’
‘You told her?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t have any kids, do you?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘That’s lucky’
I look at my watch:
It’s three in the morning –
Christmas Eve, 1980.
I look up and say: ‘I want to go home, sir.’
Chief Constable Ronald Angus looks at Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble and shrugs: ‘Fair enough.’
I stand up and turn to Noble: ‘Thanks, Pete.’
He nods and says: ‘We’ll be in touch.’
I turn to go as the phone starts ringing –
‘Drive carefully,’ says Angus as Noble picks up the phone.
I nod and open the door.
‘Mr Hunter,’ says Noble, one hand over the mouthpiece, gesturing for me to wait.
Me: ‘What is it?’
Angus, looking at Noble: ‘What?’
Noble nodding, into the phone: ‘Fucking hell.’
Me, at his side: ‘What?’
‘Right,’ says Noble and slams down the phone –
‘What?’ say Angus and me at the same time.
‘Eric Hall’s wife.’
Me: ‘What?’
‘She’s dead.’
Me: ‘What?’
‘Son found her hanging in the kitchen thirty minutes ago.’
The drive back out to Denholme:
Prentice, Noble, and me –
The snow blowing about but not settling, the car silent but for Christmas carols on the radio.
Prentice, Noble, and me –
There are tears in my eyes.
We park behind a blue and white at the bottom of the drive, a Ford outside the garage.
Noble leads the way up to the door, Prentice hanging back, and knocks –
A uniform opens the door, introduces himself, mutters a few words and we go through into the front room where a young man is sat on the gold sofa staring into what looks like a glass of whiskey.
Noble says: ‘Mr Hall? My name is Peter Noble, I’m the Assistant Chief Constable.’
The young man nods.
‘This is Peter Hunter, a policeman from Manchester who knew your mother.’
He nods again, glancing up at us.
The house is silent, just policemen walking about, here and there, as quietly as they can.
‘It’s Richard, isn’t it?’ asks Noble.
The young man says: ‘Yes.’
‘Well Richard, in a bit, someone will take you down to the hospital.’
‘The hospital?’ he asks.
‘I’m afraid someone has to formally identify the body’
‘I see.’
‘Yes,’ says Noble. ‘And I’m afraid we’re also going to have to go over a few things with you.’
‘Now?’
‘If you can. It’s best to get everything out of the way, saves having to keep going over things.’
He nods again and takes a sip from the glass.
Noble glances at me and we both sit down, me taking out my notebook.
Noble: ‘Do you want to tell us what happened then?’
‘I came back about twoish. I’d been out and I came in and the house was dark and I thought she must have gone to bed and I put on the light in here and there was a piece of paper on the floor and I picked it up and saw it was a letter so I just put it down here,’ he says, tapping the coffee table.
‘And then, as I was putting it down, I saw her out of the corner of my eye, through there in the kitchen. She was kneeling and I thought, “Now what you up to?” I went over to her, about to say something. Her head was bowed, her hands on top of the washing machine. I just stared at her, she was so still. Then I saw the rope, I hadn’t noticed it. The rope from the clothes rack was around her neck. I ran through into the hall and picked up the phone but then I went back into kitchen because I wasn’t sure, you know. But then I saw her face, all the saliva dangling from her mouth and so I went back and called 999.’
He stops and there’s just the sound of a clock ticking –
Then Noble asks: ‘What did you do then?’
‘I tried to cut her down but I couldn’t find a knife sharp enough.’
Noble nods.
‘Then police and the ambulance came,’ says Richard Hall, looking at his watch. ‘Think it was the police first.’
‘Was she expecting you?’ I ask. ‘Expecting you tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Is this the letter?’ asks Noble, picking up an envelope –
He nods.
Noble opens the envelope and reads the letter and then hands it to me:
Dear Richard
,
I’m so very sorry to do this to you after everything you’ve had to deal with, but I just can’t keep going on like this. I hope now you’ll be able to make a clean break and get on with your life. I love you and I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
Mum
.
I fold up the piece of paper and put it back inside the envelope and pass it over to Noble. He hands it to a uniform who bags it and takes it away –
Richard Hall looks round, confused.
‘You’ll get it back Richard. Don’t worry,’ says Noble.
He takes a big swig from the glass, swallows and says: ‘This bloody house.’
I nod, thinking the same, thinking about Joan.
‘Have you got anywhere you can go?’ asks Noble. ‘Anyone we should call?’
‘I’ll be right,’ says Richard Hall.
‘Let’s take you down the hospital, get everything out of the way.’
We all stand up and turn to the door –
Helen Marshall is stood in the doorway.
She moves to one side as Noble and a uniform take Richard Hall outside, Noble turning and asking me: ‘You going to be OK to get back?’
I nod.
‘See you later then,’ he says, looking at Marshall.
I nod again and walk back into the front room, Marshall following.
I sit back down on the sofa –
She sits down next to me.
The clock’s ticking.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘I had to go home.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was worried.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, swallowing.
‘How did you hear about this?’
‘Martin Laws.’
‘Laws? Reverend Laws?’
She nods.
‘He called you at home? At the hotel?’
‘At home.’
‘What’s he got your home number for?’
‘Leave it, Peter. Please?’
‘And how did he know?’
‘Said the son had called him.’
‘Fucking hell,’ I say, standing up and going into the kitchen.
A uniform is stood in the back door, smoking a cigarette.
I stand there, under the clothes rack, in front of the washing machine.
She comes up behind me and puts a hand on my arm: ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What a mess,’ I say. ‘What a fucking mess.’
She drives me back through the night, through the dark towns and villages, the snow then sleet then rain, down the deserted streets and roads, the empty hills and fields, the rain then sleet then snow, everywhere dead, everyone dead, everything dead, and I’m wondering how long it’s been like this:
Night –
Dark, deserted, and empty night –
Everywhere dead
.
Thinking about October 1965 and Brady and Hindley and all that came after, me a Detective Sergeant back then, twenty-five and freshly wed, that dark, deserted, and empty night David Smith called Hyde Police Station –
Everyone dead
.
Digging ever since –
Everything dead
.
Thinking,
how much longer?
‘Joan?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the bed all covered with pages from the
Exegesis
, photographs from
Spunk
.
‘Peter? What’s happening?’
‘Nothing. Someone’s there with you?’
‘There’s a car outside, yes.’
‘Anyone call?’
‘Clement Smith.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes, just to see everything was all right. Asked if you were there.’
‘Good of him to call.’
‘You know Roger Hook stopped by as well?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘Just after the first car came.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes, just to check everything was OK.’ I say: ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Wish you were here though.’
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I tell her, looking at my watch:
Fuck
, almost noon:
Wednesday 24 December 1980.
There’s a knock at the door –
‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘There’s someone at the door.’
‘Drive carefully,’ she says.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and go to the door –
It’s John Murphy.
‘You all right?’ he asks.
‘All things considered,’ I smile.
‘What a night, eh?’ he sighs.
‘Yeah.’
‘You coming down, going over to Millgarth, what you doing?’
‘I don’t know. Got a million things to get sorted before tonight. What about you lot?’
‘We’ve gone about as far as we can, for now.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘When we going to be back over here?’
‘Monday’
‘They’ll be happy about that,’ he nods.
‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Let’s all meet at Millgarth at two. Tell you lot what’s been going on, then we can all head home.’
‘That’d be nice,’ says Murphy.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ I say. ‘I did try and get hold of you.’
‘I know,’ he shrugs. ‘Just kept missing each other.’
‘Didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop or anything like that.’
‘I know.’
‘See you over there at two then?’
‘Two it is.’
I sit back down on the edge of the hotel bed and pick up the phone and dial directory inquiries and get the number of the
Sunday Times:
‘The Editor, please?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not in today,’ a woman’s voice says.
‘OK. My name is Peter Hunter and I’m the Assistant Chief Constable for Greater Manchester.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. How can I help you?’ she asks.
‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you could put me through to Anthony McNeil or Andrew Driscoll?’
There’s a pause, then the woman says: ‘I’m sorry, sir. Can you just hold on a minute?’
‘Sure,’ I say and hold on –
Moments later, the woman says: ‘I thought so, we don’t have an Anthony McNeil working for us and we did have a Mr Driscoll, but he retired quite a while ago.’
‘Retired? How old was he?’
‘Sixty something. He’d be seventy now – if he’s still alive.’
‘I see.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and then dial Wakefield:
‘Community Affairs. Inspector Evans please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter.’
‘One moment, sir.’
Then: ‘Community Affairs. Detective Inspector Evans speaking.’
‘Inspector? This is Peter Hunter.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. What can I do you for?’
‘McNeil and Driscoll?
Sunday Times?’
‘Right.’
‘Wrong. I just called the
Sunday Times
and they’ve never heard of any Anthony McNeil and the only Driscoll they know is retired and seventy years old if he’s not already dead.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yep.’
‘They had press cards.’
‘That’s nice. You didn’t call and check though?’
‘No.’
‘Well done, Inspector.’
‘Shit,’ he says again. ‘So who were they?’
‘Who were they? You’re asking me who they were? You’re bloody Community Affairs, Inspector. I suggest you start bloody finding out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I hang up.
Millgarth, Leeds:
Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, and Helen Marshall –
Craven in the corner.
I sit down at the table, the table full of piles, piles full of files, files full of lists, lists full of names, names full of death and paranoia.
I tell them what they already know: ‘Eric Hall’s wife killed herself last night.’
John Murphy’s nodding, writing in one of the files: ‘Better off.’
‘Shut up,’ says Helen Marshall.
‘Things they did to her, I’d have topped myself years ago.’
‘Leave it, John,’ I hiss.
Murphy, palms up: ‘Sorry.’
‘I’d been going through Eric Hall’s files,’ I say. ‘And it turns out Janice Ryan had done some work for a porn mag called
Spunk
. This was published by a company called MJM, but it turns out they’ve gone under.’
‘Bust,’ winks Craven. ‘Get it?’
‘Yeah thanks,’ I say. ‘Their forwarding address was a flat above a paper shop owned by Bob here’s partner, the late Bob Douglas.’
‘Ex-partner,’ says Craven, no more jokes.
‘Ex-shop as well,’ I say. ‘It was burnt down night before last. One fatality.’
Marshall’s about to say something, but stops.
‘Any news on the body, Bob?’ I ask Craven –
He sniffs up and says: ‘Looks like murder and arson.’
I count to five, then say: ‘You’re joking?’
‘Unless the bloke had no hands or teeth when he moved in, no.’
‘What?’
‘Whoever it is, they’d cut off his hands and smashed in his teeth.’
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
, I’m thinking, counting to five.
‘What a fucking place,’ says Hillman for all of us.
Me: ‘So they can’t get a name?’
Craven’s shaking his head.
‘You any ideas?’ I ask him.
‘Me? Why would I know who it is?’
‘You were his bloody partner, Bob?’
‘For all of six months.’
‘Who’s handling it?’ I ask.
‘Alderman.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck
, I’m thinking, counting to ten.
Then I look back across the room at Craven and I say: ‘Six years today, Bob?’
Craven: ‘Who’s counting?’
I am, I think
–
I fucking am
.
Hillman: ‘Can I ask something?’
I nod.
‘This letter you got? Any word on that?’
‘Pete Noble sent it over to Wetherby. Still waiting for word from them.’
Murphy: ‘Everything all right?’
‘How do you mean, John?’
‘On the home front?’
Joan, Joan, Joan
, I’m thinking, counting to fifteen.
‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Murphy: ‘How about Bob Douglas? Any word from Roger and the lads on that?’
‘No, John,’ I say, shaking my head and thinking:
Never fucking ending –
Death and paranoia –
Murder and lies, lies and murder –