Nineteen Eighty (33 page)

They both nod.
Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman pushes past me and out –
Not a word.
‘Sit down,’ says Angus, gesturing to the empty chair next to Jobson.
‘You wanted these,’ I say before I sit down – tipping every official diary I’ve ever had, copies of every expense I’ve ever submitted, every other official form I’ve ever received – tipping them all over his desk.
‘Thank you,’ says Maurice Jobson.
‘And this,’ I say, handing Angus authorisations to examine my bank account, my credit card and my Post Office savings accounts –
Angus looks at it and says: ‘Thank you.’
I sit down and I wait –
Mr Angus sifts and shuffles through the mess and the mire on his desk, eventually pulling out a number of pieces of paper from under my stuff, and then he looks up at me and says: Td like to put some names to you and I’d be grateful if you could tell me if you have either heard of these people, know them, or are friends with them at all?’
I nod, waiting –
Jobson picks up a pen and opens a notebook, waiting –
Then Angus says: ‘Colin Asquith?’
I nod: ‘Local businessman. Partner of Richard Dawson.’
‘Former
partner,’ says Angus.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Former.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not personally, no.’
‘But you have met him?’
I nod.
Angus: ‘Socially?’
I nod: ‘Through mutual acquaintances.’
Angus is staring at me –
I stare back.
He says: ‘Cyril Barratt?’
I shake my head.
Angus: ‘Barry Cameron?’
I nod.
Angus waits –
Me: ‘Never met him. Know the name.’
‘How?’
‘Newspapers. Station talk.’
Angus: ‘But you’ve never met Barry Cameron?’
I shake my head.
‘Michael Craig?’
I nod: ‘Local solicitor.’
‘You know him?’
‘Only through work.’
‘Richard Dawson?’
I stare at Angus –
Angus stares back.
I say: ‘You know I know Richard Dawson.’
‘I know you
knew
him,’ he says. ‘But how would you describe that relationship?’
‘We were friends.’
‘Were?’
‘Well, as you emphasised, he’s dead.’
‘But you were friends right up until his death?’
I swallow and I say: ‘Yes, we were friends right up until his death.’
‘OK,’ nods Angus. ‘We’ll come back to your relationship with Mr Dawson, the employer of Bob Douglas, the business partner of Colin Asquith, the client of Michael Craig. Come back to him, shall we?’
‘So that’s what this is about? Richard Dawson? Bob Douglas?’
He shakes his head: ‘Not only Mr Dawson and Bob Douglas, no.’
I shrug my shoulders and let it go –
But Angus won’t: ‘How about Bob Douglas?’
‘How about him what?’
Angus: ‘You knew him?’
‘You bloody know I knew him. I was over here for the Strafford, wasn’t I?’
‘The Strafford aside?’
‘The Strafford aside,’ I smile. ‘Met him once.’
‘When?’
Not smiling, I say: ‘The Sunday before he was murdered.’
Angus looks across his desk at Jobson –
Maurice Jobson shakes his head ever so slightly –
Angus looks back down at the notes sitting on the mess and mire of his desk –
Then he looks up and asks: ‘Sean Doherty?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Could you tell me if you have either heard of, know of, or are friends with a Sean Doherty?’
I shake my head.
‘David Gallagher?’
I shake my head.
‘Marcus Hamilton?’
I nod: ‘Local MP for Salford.’
‘Former local MP,’ says Angus. ‘But you know him?’
‘Not well, no.’
‘But you have met him?’
I nod.
‘In what capacity?’
‘How do you mean in what capacity? In the capacity of watching a football match at Old Trafford, that was the usual capacity.’
‘So you would say you know him socially?’
I nod: ‘To say hello to, yes.’
‘Has he ever been to your house?’
I shake my head.
‘Have you been to his?’
I shake my head again.
‘Did you ever suspect he was a homosexual?’
I look at him, head down in his notes, and I say to the top of his grey head: ‘I had my hopes.’
Angus looks up from his notes: ‘Pardon?’
Smiling, I say: ‘A man can dream can’t he?’
Jobson is smiling behind his pen, watching the face of his boss.
‘Mr Hunter, these are serious questions.’
I shake my head: ‘Whether or not Mr Hamilton is a puff is not what I’d describe as a serious question.’
‘No-one is asking you to describe the questions, Mr Hunter. Just to answer them.’
I look down at my right knee, crossed and over the left, and I say: ‘Go on.’
‘Peter McCardell?’
I nod: ‘Arrested by Manchester Vice, got ten years for various things under Obscene Publications etc. I think he was also involved with prostitutes and some dubious clubs.’
‘You knew him then?’
‘Interviewed him once or twice down the years.’
‘When was he banged up?’
I shake my head: ‘I can’t remember off the top of my head; five, maybe six years ago?’
But I do remember, remember now:
‘
I said we have a mutual friend.’
‘
Who’s that?
’
‘
Helen.
’
‘Helen who?’
‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’
Jobson is watching me, waiting for something –
I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’
‘I asked if he was still inside?’
‘Who?’
‘McCardell.’
‘You tell me.’
‘OK,’ says Angus. ‘How about Roger Muir?’
I nod: ‘Journalist. Don’t know him socially.’
Angus: ‘Donald Ryder?’
I shake my head.
‘Martin Sharpe?’
I nod: ‘Local solicitor. Never met him outside of work.’
‘Michael Taylor?’
I shake my head.
‘Alan Wright?’
I nod: ‘Local businessman. Not socially’
‘What exactly does
not socially
mean to you, Mr Hunter?’
Voice raised, I say: ‘It means I didn’t know him socially’
Angus looks across the desk at Jobson and then opens a folder on the desk and takes out four photographs –
And I’m thinking of four other photographs, praying they’re not the same –
Four photographs of two people in a park:
Piatt Fields Park, in wintertime
.
Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:
A cold grey pond, a dog
.
Two people in a park –
One of them me
.
Jobson is watching me again, waiting for something –
I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’
‘Will you take a look at these?’ he asks and hands me the four photographs –
I sit back in my chair and look at them.
They’re not the same –
They’re colour, full colour.
‘Look pretty social to me,’ says Angus.
‘Pardon?’
‘Every name I’ve read to you today is present in these photographs. Every name except McCardell, who was in Strangeways.’
‘So? What’s your point?’
‘Look at the photographs, Mr Hunter,’ he sighs. ‘Every person I’ve asked you about is sitting round that table with you, glasses raised.’
‘It was Richard Dawson’s fortieth birthday party,’ I say. ‘It was held at the Midland Hotel and half of bloody Manchester was there.’
‘That’s obvious from the photos, Mr Hunter,’ he smiles. ‘The question is which half? By the looks of these photographs it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, pornographers, and you.’
I start counting, letting him smile – letting that smile get bigger and bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger and bigger – bigger and bigger and bigger until I lean forward and spread the photos across his desk, fingers to the faces, and tell him –
‘Actually sir, I don’t think it was
strictly
convicted criminals, homosexuals, and pornographers; not unless you’re implying that Chief Constable Smith or Chief Inspector Hook fall into any of those categories.’
Silence –
Silence while Chief Constable Ronald Angus decides whether or not to reach forward and take a magnifying glass to the photos, to the faces under my fingers, silence until –
Until he coughs and looks at Jobson and says: ‘Well we’ve obviously been given erroneous information, Mr Hunter.’
I nod, careful not to gloat, waiting.
‘And I am grateful to you for shedding light on the nature of these photographs,’ says Angus.
‘My pleasure,’ I tell him, unable to resist.
‘However,’ continues the Chief Constable. ‘I’m afraid we’re still going to have to ask you to make yourself available tomorrow afternoon in the hope that you’ll be able to shed similar light on your relationship with Richard Dawson and some of his associates.’
Fuck –
‘Where?’
Fuck, fuck –
‘Here.’
Thinking,
fuck, fuck, fuck –
Asking: ‘Same time?’
He nods.
Silence again, silence until –
Until I stand up –
‘Good afternoon,’ I say.
They mumble as I see myself out.
I close the door behind me, stop for a moment outside
–
expecting to hear raised voices inside.
Disappointed, I turn and walk straight into Dick Alderman –
‘Letting you go, are they?’ he winks.
I smile back: ‘Good behaviour.’
‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he grins, knocking on the Chief Constable’s door. ‘From what I’ve heard.’
I smile, thinking –
I know the time, I know the way –
I know the place, know the place well
.
Leeds, fucking Leeds:
Medieval Leeds, Victorian Leeds, Concrete Leeds –
Concrete decay, concrete murder, concrete hell –
A concrete city –
Dead city:
Just the crows, the rain, and the Ripper –
The Leeds Ripper –
King Ripper.
Monday Night in the City of the Dead –
I park under the dark arches, dripping and damp, walls running with water and rats –
The driest place in the whole bloody city.
I gather up the
Exegesis
and the various pieces of pornography and blackmail that litter the car and heap them into a Tesco’s bag, then I walk up through the arches, past the Scarborough, into the Griffin.
I ring the bell and wait, listening –
Electronic Beethoven.
The receptionist comes out of the back, a faint smile as he recognises me –
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Good evening,’ I say.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?’
‘I’d
like a room, please.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘A couple of nights perhaps?’
‘Fine,’ he says and pushes the paperwork across the desk.
I put down my Tesco bag and pick up a pen from the desk.
The receptionist goes over to the keys hanging behind the desk, takes one from its hook and places it next to the forms I’m filling in.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not looking up. ‘I was hoping to have my old room again? 77?’
‘That’s what I’ve given you, sir,’ he says.
I look at the key lying on the desk next to my hand –
‘Thank you,’ I say, but he’s already gone.
In the room, the dark room –
No 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 –
Solemn and grave
.
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 stop me standing –
Solemn and grave from birth
.
No sleep, just –
Just
Exegesis
etched into my chest, nails bloody, bleeding, broken –
Et sequentes
.
Notes everywhere, across the floor, the bed, the Griffin furniture, I check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock and dial, hoping her parents don’t answer again:
‘Joan?’
‘Peter? Where are you?’
‘Leeds.’
‘Why?’
‘They haven’t finished with me,’ I whisper. ‘I have to be back there at two tomorrow.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh how I wish you weren’t there,’ she says, voice splintered. ‘I hate that place, those people. Every time you’re ever there we’ve had nothing but bad luck and news.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t get any worse.’
‘Don’t tempt fate, Peter. Please …’
‘I won’t,’ I say, then ask: ‘How’s Linda?’
‘Sedated.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘Tenish. But I went over to see her mum and dad, the kids.’
‘How are they?’
‘How do you think they are?’
‘Do the kids realise what’s happened?’
‘I think the army of reporters outside the house should help.’
‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘I’ll call Smith, tell him to get his act together.’
‘I already did,’ she says.
‘You called Clement Smith?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re joking? What did you say?’
‘Told him what I thought of his treatment of the Dawsons and us.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me he was
only acting as duty dictated.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Told him he would rot in hell for what he’d done.’
‘You didn’t? What did he say?’
‘I don’t know, I hung up.’
‘Joan!’
‘He’s a pompous fool, Peter.’
‘But he is only doing his job.’
‘So was Herod.’
‘Joan, please…’
‘If that’s the job, I honestly hope you won’t be doing it for much longer. I really do, Peter.’
Silence, silence as I wonder if anyone else is listening – silence as I wonder if I even am, silence until –
Until I say: ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’
‘Stop saying you’re sorry,’ she sighs.
‘But I am.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says. ‘Just be careful.’
‘I will.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘Night-night.’
‘Night, love,’ I say and hang up.
No sleep, just –
Tearing through the bedside drawers –
Flapping about through the sheets and the blankets –
Windows open –
Tipping over the bed –
Stripping every sheet and curtain –
Windows closed –
Tearing and flapping and tipping and stripping the whole fucking room until –
Until there it is –
There behind the radiator –
Behind the radiator –
The Holy Bible –
Lying on the sheets and the blankets –
Flapping through the pages –
Job
open –
Skipping this page and that –
Skimming that one and this –
Psalms –
Lying and flapping and skipping and slamming the whole bloody book until –
Until I’m sure –
Sure it’s gone –
Ripped and torn, stripped and shorn –
Revelation
, gone –
No
Revelation –
Not tonight –
Not tonight the foot upon the dark stair, the knock upon the door, the key in the lock –
Turning once and only once –
Not tonight –
No
Revelation
tonight –
Revelation
gone –
The missing pages –
The missing –
Missing –
Missing her.
to the place you spoke about that e might see the gate that another peter guards but they say it is a local incident and we are convinced a local man is involved and all talk that tessa may have been attacked by ripper is only making it more difficult for me to catch her assailant transmission twelve sent from harrogate in august nineteen eighty received new years eve nineteen eighty and identified as prudence banks strangled and severely bludgeoned in the densely wooded grounds of a local magistrates house but again no one is receiving do not feel this is the work of the yorkshire ripper and he may very well have retired or topped himself as it has been more than a year he may even have met a nice girl and settled down got married like a normal bloke or he may have moved abroad or have been nicked over something else but this is not him he has gone away but prudence banks still avoided the short cut that would have taken ten minutes off her journey preferred the brightly lit main roads and she walked quickly along the road with the big empty houses and their long drives but we do not feel this is the work of the yorkshire ripper this is not him he has gone away e do not like the method of strangulation it takes them even longer to die but e did it because the press and the media had attached a stigma to me e had been known for some time as the yorkshire ripper e did not like it was not me did not ring true e had been on my way to leeds to kill a prostitute when e saw prudence banks it was just unfortunate for her that she happened to be walking by stepping out from the shadows hitting her on the head she staggers along the pavement blood gushing screaming again he hits her and again she does not fall so he puts his hands to her throat strangles her dragging her into the driveway of one of the big empty houses into the shrubbery the bushes down the side of a garage prudence dead he tears off her clothes her black gabardine coat her cardigan her purple skirt her brassiere her panties her shoes her tights and handbag the body naked in the shrubbery the bushes down the side of the garage the hammer out again he rains down blows upon her flesh then he takes a pile of leaves and covers the body but e am sleeping less and less every night e wake and watch moon after moon go by before e dream the evil dream which ripped away the veil that was my future and awoke to hear the children sobbing in their sleep missing mummy and if you are not weeping now do you ever weep for from below e heard him driving nails into the dreadful tower door and e stared in silence at my flesh and blood but did not weep but turned to stone inside e held back my tears and bit my hands in anguish and my daughters who thought hunger made me bite my hands were quick to say father you would make us suffer less if you would feed on us for you were the one who gave us this sad flesh you take it from us but we sat in silence behind the wires and the alarms until on the fourth day my first daughter fell prostrate before my feet crying why do you not help us father and she then died and just as you see me here e saw the other twelve fall one by one as the days passed became weeks months years and e who had gone blind groped over their bodies though some were dead five years e called their names until hunger proved more powerful than grief and e attacked again their wretched skulls with teeth as sharp as a dogs and as fit for grinding bones before e then moved to by where the frozen waters wrap in harsh wrinkles across another sinful set their faces not turned down but looking up where here the weeping puts an end to weeping and the grief that finds no outlet from the eyes turns inward