Nineteen Eighty (31 page)

I turn left onto Frenchwood Street, a row of garages on the left side of the road, wasteland to the right, and I walk towards the last garage, the door banging in the wind, in the rain.
I pull back the door and there he is, standing among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, leaning against a bench made from crates and boxes.
‘Afternoon,’ says a young man in a dirty black suit –
Face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised, a plaster across a broken nose, one hand bandaged, the other pulling lank and greasy hair out of blue and black eyes.
‘Who are you? You got a name?’
‘No names.’
I shrug, touching my own cuts: ‘What happened to you?’
He’s sniffing and touching his nose: ‘Occupational hazard. Goes with the places I go.’
I look away, looking around the garage, the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls –
The swastikas
.
Staring at him in the dark room, I ask him: ‘Is that what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’
‘You been here before, have you Mr Hunter?’
I nod: ‘Have you?’
‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Many times.’
‘Were you here the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’
He pushes his hair back out of his beaten eyes, smiling: ‘You should see your fucking face?’
‘Yours isn’t that good.’
‘How’s that song go:
if looks could kill they probably will?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, I do,’ he says and hands me a folded piece of paper.
I open it and look at it, then back at him –
He’s smiling, smiling that faint and dreadful smile.
I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands –
A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
Clare Strachan.
Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:
Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975
.
Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:
Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975
.
Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:
A target, a dartboard
.
I look back up at him, standing there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, leaning against a bench made from crates and boxes, face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised, a plaster across his broken nose, one hand bandaged, the other picking at his scabs, his sores –
Itching and scratching at his scabs and his sores, running –
Running scared
.
He smiles and says: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head.’
‘You do this?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘Any of it?’
He shakes his head: ‘No, Mr Hunter. I did not.’
‘But you know who did?’
He shrugs.
‘Tell me.’
He shakes his head.
‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’
Shaking his head: ‘No, you won’t.’
‘Yes, I will.’
‘For what?’
‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’
He smiles: ‘That’s what they want.’
‘Who?’
Shaking his head: ‘You know who.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with the Ripper.’
‘So why do they want you arrested?’
‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead. Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’
‘Who?’
He shakes his head, smiling: ‘No names.’
‘Stop wasting my time,’ I hiss and open the door –
He lunges over, slamming the door shut: ‘Here, you’re not going anywhere.’
We’re chest to chest, eye to eye in the dark room, among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers.
‘Start fucking talking then,’ I say, the Xerox up between us and in his face –
He pushes the paper away, a hand up: ‘Fuck off.’
‘You called me? Why?’
‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ he says, moving back over to the bench of crates and boxes. ‘I had serious doubts.’
‘So why?’
‘I was going to just post the picture, but then I heard about the suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’
‘Just this,’ I say, holding up the Xerox. ‘That was all?’
He nods.
‘Why?’
‘I just want it to stop. Want them to stop.’
‘Who?’
‘No fucking names! How many more times?’
In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look at him –
Look at him and then Clare, and I say: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’
‘Started?’ he laughs. ‘Fuck no.’
‘Where it ended?’
‘The beginning of the end, shall we say’
‘For who?’
‘You name them?’ he whispers. ‘Me, you, her – half the fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’
I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
‘Why Strachan?’ I ask. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of
Spunk?’
‘Why they murdered Clare?’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
‘No.’
‘I want names –’
‘I’ll give you one name,’ he whispers. ‘And one name only’
‘Go on?’
‘Her name was Morrison.’
‘Who?’
‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’
‘Morrison?’
He’s nodding: ‘Know any other Morrisons, do you Mr Hunter?’
In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say –
‘Grace Morrison.’
Nodding: ‘And?’
The dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say –
‘The Strafford. She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’
Nodding, smiling: ‘And?’
Dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, in this dark room I whisper –
‘They were sisters.’
Nodding, smiling, laughing: ‘And?’
In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look down –
I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands –
A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look up and say again –
‘The Strafford.’
He smiles: ‘Bullseye.’
In this dark room, I ask: ‘How do you know this?’
Not nodding, not smiling, not laughing, he says: ‘I was there.’
‘Where? You were where?’
‘The Strafford,’ he says and opens the door –
I lunge over, slamming the door shut: ‘You’re not going anywhere, pal. Not yet.’
We’re chest to chest again, eye to eye in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers –
He sniffs up: ‘That’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’
‘Fuck off,’ I yell. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’
He pulls away: ‘Ask someone else.’
‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say, reaching over and grabbing at his jacket, but –
He pushes me back and leaves me reaching out again in the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, me reaching out, grabbing him, dancing in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, dancing in the dark room, dancing until –
I’m down, his fist in my face, fingers at my throat –
And I reach up from the floor, from the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, but –
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he’s shouting, trying to get away.
‘Time to stop running,’ I’m shouting, but –
He’s kicking me, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, kicking –
‘Get fucking off me.’
‘What happened?’
Kicking me, the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers –
‘I’m saying no more.’
‘Tell me!’
But he’s free and at the door –
Telling me: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’
Here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, inside my coat I can feel the photographs –
Four black and white photographs of two people in a park –
Two people in a park:
One of them me
.
And from among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, I hiss: ‘You’re dead.’
‘Not me,’ he laughs. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’
‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’
‘Not me,’ he says.
‘Go on, rim then,’ I spit –
‘Fuck off,’ he says, stepping outside. ‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with – you.’
Face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised in the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I shout –
‘You’re dead.’
In the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, the garage door banging in the wind, in the rain –
‘Dead.’
In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and weep –
Fucking weep –
Four black and white photographs –
Four black and white photographs of two people in a park –
Two people in a park:
One of them me
.
Four black and white photographs on the seat beside me –
Four black and white photographs and one piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
One piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
One piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975
.
‘Clare Morrison,’ I say aloud. ‘Clare fucking Morrison.’
In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and dry my tears.
I get out and open the boot and when I’ve got the bag of
Spunks
and got the
Exegesis
, when I’ve got them from under the sea of socks and diaries, the handkerchiefs and the tie, I get back inside and start looking for
Issue 3
, but it’s not there –
One of the missing issues.
I stuff the
Spunks
back, thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head –
And I look back down at the piece of paper on the seat beside me –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
Thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head:
‘Why Clare Strachau?’ I asked. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of
Spunk?’
‘Strachau?’ he was saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Not the porn? Strachau’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
Stop –
Rewind:
‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
Stop:
Lying piece of shit –
I start the car, thinking:
‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with.’
Richard Dawson lives in West Didsbury in a large, white and detached bungalow which had been designed by the architect John Dawson as a wedding present for his younger brother and his bride Linda –
I park on the road at the bottom of their drive and walk up the gravel to the front door.
Little Cygnet
says the sign on the gatepost.
I press the chimes and look out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, trying to remember the last time I was here.
I turn back to press the bell again and there’s Linda –
Linda in a blouse and skirt, looking like she hasn’t slept in a week.
‘Hello, love,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
But she’s already crying and I put my arms round her and lead her back inside, closing the door, back into the cold, quiet house –
We sit down on the cream leather sofa in the gloom of their all-white lounge,
Kelly Monteith
on the TV without the sound.
And when she’s stopped shaking in my arms, I stand up and walk over to the mirrored drinks cabinet and I pour two large Scotch and sodas –
I hand her one and she looks up from the sofa, her eyes red raw, and she says: ‘What’s going on Peter?’
And I shake my head and say: ‘I’ve no idea, love.’
‘How’s Joan?’
‘You heard about the house?’
She nods: ‘You staying with her parents?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘What about you? Where are the kids?’
‘With my parents.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘That their Daddy’s gone away’
‘Linda,’ I say. ‘You got any idea where he’s gone?’
She shakes her head, the tears coming again: ‘Something’s happened to him, I just know it has.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say.
‘He would have called me, I know he would have.’
‘What about the house in France?’
‘That’s what everyone says, but he wouldn’t – not without saying anything.’
‘Has anyone been in touch with the local police in France?’
‘That Roger Hook, he said they would.’
I sit down and take her hand: ‘When did you last see Richard?’
‘It’s been a week now.’
‘Last Sunday?’
She nods.
I squeeze her hand: ‘He tell you where he was going?’
‘He said he was going to sort things out.’
‘Sort things out?’
She nods again: ‘I thought he might mean he was going to see you.’
I shake my head: ‘He did call me.’
‘When?’
‘Would have been Saturday night.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Said he was worried about Monday, about going back to see Roger Hook.’
She looks up: ‘You think he was worried enough to run off?’
‘I don’t know, love. Do you?’