Nineteen Eighty (4 page)

‘About fucking time,’ says Murphy.
The Sergeant looks back up from his desk: ‘Just Mr Hunter that is.’
I’ve got my palms up between Murphy and the desk: ‘You try and get hold of someone, see if you can sort out the hotel. I’ll talk to Noble about the offices. Yeah?’
He’s got his eyes on the Sergeant, the eyes and boils back on his desk.
‘John?’
‘Right, right, right.’
I say: ‘Then I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so. OK?’
He’s still got his eyes on the Sergeant, but he’s nodding: ‘More good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality.’
The Sergeant doesn’t look up.

*

‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble, sitting back down behind his desk.
‘No harm done,’ I say as I take a seat across from him.
‘Well that’s OK then,’ he smiles.
He’s older than me, but not by much –
Forty-five at the most; thick hair starting to turn grey, a moustache that gives him the look of a man still hard, still in the chase; and on a morning as he shaves he’s thinking of Burt Reynolds, fancying his chances, still in the hunt.
‘It’s not going to be much of a picnic for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Though I suppose you must be used to it by now.’
‘Sorry? Used to what?’ I say, staring at the photograph of two children on the windowsill behind the desk.
‘Not getting the red carpet.’
‘Don’t expect it.’
‘That’s lucky then,’ he laughs.
The door opens and Chief Constable Angus comes in: ‘Gentlemen.’
‘We were just getting started,’ says Noble, standing up.
‘Well I say we call it a night,’ laughs Angus. ‘After bloody day we’ve had, I say we extend some hospitality to Mr Hunter here and get him some dinner …’
‘I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet John Murphy in …’
‘Don’t worry about John,’ winks Angus. ‘Dickie Alderman and a couple of the lads are taking care of him. They’ve sorted you out rooms at the Griffin and they’ve gone for a pint or two. Or three.’
‘The Griffin?’
‘City centre. Be ideal.’
I pause, then say: ‘I had wanted to make a start right away.’
‘Course you had,’ smiles the Chief Constable. ‘And you will. But we can get just as much done over a steak and a couple of drinks as we can up here.’
They are both at the door, waiting.
‘I need to make a call to Manchester.’
Noble points at the phone on his desk: ‘Be my guest.’
The Draganora Hotel is a modern skyscraper near Leeds City Station, its third-floor restaurant dark and empty.
We take our seats in the window, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.
‘It’s one of them carvery deals,’ smiles Angus. ‘Help yourself to as much as you want and keep going back up until they have to carry you out.’
We order drinks and then head over to the long table at the back of the room, the food lying waiting for us under dim orange lights.
Noble and myself follow Angus along the line, piling on under-cooked meat and over-cooked vegetables until there’s no space left on our plates.
And as we eat we make small talk about the poor seasons Leeds and Man U. are having, the jailing of Lord Kagan, the murder of John Lennon; the three of us careful to avoid the obvious, careful to avoid the fact that we are the only diners in the restaurant of a four-star Leeds hotel a week before Christmas, careful to avoid the reason we are here and no-one else.
Noble goes back up for more.
‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ Angus is saying.
‘You weren’t a fan then?’ I ask.
‘To be honest with you Mr Hunter, I reckon they weren’t that popular over this way. Be different for you mind, coming from over there I suppose. But on this side, we pride ourselves on not following trends.’
‘Still talking about bloody Beatles, are you?’ says Noble, back with a plate for himself and another for his Boss.
‘I was just telling Mr Hunter here, how Yorkshire is always the last bastion of common sense. Like the bloody resistance, we are,’ laughs Angus.
‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ nods Noble, ploughing through his second-helpings.
I sip at my gin and watch the rain, wondering if Joan has gone to bed yet.
Angus is still piling it on his fork, still laughing: ‘You’re not on bloody hunger strike are you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘Thought you might be off your grub in sympathy.’
‘What?’ I say, smiling but not following.
Angus looks up from his cold pink meat: ‘The Maze. You’re a Roman, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, no offence. Heard you were.’
‘No.’
‘Well anyway,’ he says, putting down his knife and fork and taking out an envelope from inside his jacket. ‘If you’re not eating you might as well have a butchers at this.’
I take the envelope and open it.
Inside is a memorandum from Angus to Sir John Reed, Philip Evans, and myself –
A memorandum outlining the terms of reference for my investigation into their investigation.
I look up.
Angus and Noble have stopped eating and are watching me.
‘Another drink?’ asks Noble.
I nod and go back to the memorandum –
The memorandum that in two sentences states that I have been invited by the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police to review inquiries made into the murders and attacks attributed to the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, that I am to recommend any necessary changes to operational procedures, and that I am to make those recommendations directly to Chief Constable Angus. During the course of my review, should any evidence arise to suggest that any persons involved in the Ripper inquiry are themselves guilty or suspected to be guilty of any offences or negligence, then that evidence is to be immediately forwarded to the Chief Constable and no further or independent action is to be taken on the part of the review.
‘I hope you don’t feel that there’s any attempt here to circumscribe or in any way limit the scope of your investigation,’ smiles Chief Constable Angus. ‘However, and Sir John and I are in complete agreement on this one, an open-ended investigation such as this, any open-ended investigation for that matter, well they can so easily develop into some kind of amorphous bloody mess that, in fact, serves only to obscure and hinder the initial investigation. Am I right?’
‘Absolutely,’ nods Noble.
I take a sip from my fresh gin, counting backwards from a hundred, and then say: ‘You do know why I was brought in?’
‘Yes,’ says Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.
‘That’s OK then.’ I smile.
Ronald Angus and Peter Noble both take big swallows from their glasses, then Angus glances at his watch and Noble before turning back to me and saying: ‘We’ve arranged for you to have an office right next door to the Ripper Room. That’ll give you easy access to the people and the papers you need.’
‘Thank you.’
Angus nods and then suddenly asks: ‘How’s your wife these days?’
‘Well, thank you,’ I say, lost again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to pry but I heard she hadn’t been so well, that’s all.’
‘She’s fine, thank you.’
Silence –
Just the restaurant dark and empty, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.
Silence, until –
Until Noble suggests: ‘Shall we go to the bar?’
‘The Casino?’ adds Angus.
‘To be honest with you both,’ I smile. ‘It’s been a long day and I’d rather just get to the hotel if that’s all right?’
‘You’re the guest,’ says Angus.
‘I’ll drop you off,’ offers Noble, standing and signalling for the bill.
We take our coats and go down the escalator and wait for the cars to be brought round, the night cold and damp, the conversation dead.
‘Thank you for the meal,’ I say, shaking Angus by the hand.
‘Good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality,’ winks Angus. ‘You sleep tight now Mr Hunter. Make sure them Yorkshire bugs don’t bite.’
The Griffin is an old hotel on Boar Lane.
I say goodnight to Peter Noble and dash for the door and the lobby.
Inside there seems to be some kind of renovation work underway, white sheets hanging from the walls, draped across the furniture.
It’s almost nine o’clock.
I’m the only person here.
I ring the bell and wait.
‘Can I help you?’ asks a receptionist, coming out of a back room.
‘Yes, I should have a reservation. My name is Hunter, Peter Hunter.’
He opens a book on the counter and goes down a list with his finger.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have anyone here by that name.’
‘Murphy? John Murphy?’
‘Ah, yes. Are you sharing with Mr Murphy?’
‘I hope not. I think maybe the reservation was made through a Superintendent Alderman from the Millgarth Police Station?’
He’s nodding: ‘Yes, yes.’
‘Has Mr Murphy checked in yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Would it be possible to book me into a separate room?’
‘If that’s what you want.’
‘Please.’
‘Can you give me half an hour? We’re a bit short and some of the rooms are being redecorated.’
‘That’s fine. Can you lend me an umbrella?’
‘Bar’s open if you’re wanting a drink.’
‘I need a walk.’
He goes back into the office and returns with a black brolly.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘You know where you’re going?’ he asks.
‘Yep,’ I say.
‘Course you do,’ he laughs. ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’
Back into the rain, back into the night, through deserted city streets, under broken Christmas lights swinging in the wind, along Boar Lane, the shopping centres and the vacant offices dark and huge, black canyon walls looming, up Market Street, the queues of empty buses all lit up with no place or passengers to go, through the Kirkgate stalls, past the mountains of rubbish, the rats and birds feeding, back to Millgarth, back underground, and two minutes later I’ve reversed the car up and out of the garage and am away, following the signs out to Headingley.

*

Two nights on and everything dead now –
A
Leeds & Bradford A to Z
in one hand, I come to the place where Headingley Lane becomes Otley Road, to the Kentucky Fried Chicken, to where the bus stops, to Alma Road and Laureen Bell.
I back into a dark wide drive and turn the car around.
I drive back towards the Kentucky Fried Chicken and pull into the car park, positioning the car so I face the main road, then I go inside.
It’s stopped raining but I am still the only customer.
I order some pieces of chicken and chips, a cup of coffee, and wait under the white lights for over ten minutes while the Asian staff prepare the order, staring at another light reflected in another cup of black coffee.
I take the food back out to the car and sit in the night, the window down, picking at the pale and stringy meat, watching the street.
No-one.
Two nights ago it must have been different.
I drink down the cold coffee, wanting another, the food salty.
I get out of the car and walk across the road to the bus stop.
It’s 9:53, the Number 13 coming up Headingley Lane.
It doesn’t stop.
I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road.
There’s police tape and two dark cars waiting.
I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers sitting in the police cars.
At the end of the road is a school and I stop at the gates and stand and stare back down Alma Road –
Alma Road –
An ordinary street in an ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to another man’s daughter, to another man’s sister, another man’s fiancée –
An ordinary street in an ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to Laureen Bell and shattered her skull and stabbed her fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye –
And then, in this ordinary street in this ordinary suburb, he stopped –
For now.
it not on your life transmission one found by a milkman at six on friday the sixth of june nineteen seventy five on the prince philip playing fields scott hall leeds with multiple stab wounds to abdomen chest and throat inflicted by a blade four inches in length three quarters of an inch in width one edge sharper than the other severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown inflicted by a hammer or an axe a white purse with mummy in biro on the front containing approximately five pounds in cash was also noted to be missing from the deceaseds handbag this is the world now containing approximately five pounds in cash all this and heaven too missing but e only have eyes for you in tight white flared trousers and a pink blouse and short blue bolero jacket at twenty to ten in the royal oak at ten in the regent at ten thirty in the Scotsman fourteen whiskies and a tray of curry and chips at one ten AM stopping motorists at the junction of sheepscar street south and roundhay road leeds attempting to obtain a lift it is known from an eyewitness that an articulated lorry with a dark coloured cab and a tarpaulin sheeted load stopped at the junction of roundhay road and sheepscar street south this is the world now her handbag strap looped around her left wrist six buttons on the grass five from her blouse and one from her blue bolero jacket her brassiere pushed up her trousers pulled down about her knees her panties in their normal position there was a positive semen reaction on the back of her trousers and panties her head had suffered two lacerations one of which had penetrated the thickness of her skull there was a stab wound in her neck and fourteen wounds in her chest and abdomen although the murder weapons have not been found and no mention of the head injuries or of the weapon should be disclosed to the press all information to the murder room this is the world now a good time dead on the grass her children waiting at the bus stop for two hours for mummy to come home from shebeens the regent the white swan the Scotsman the gaiety barbareilas room at the top friday night is crumpet night if you cannot pull tonight you will never pull buy the lady a barbarella legspreader this is the world e was driving through leeds at night e had been having a couple of pints and e saw this woman thumbing a lift and e stopped and asked her how far she was going and she said not far thanks for stopping and jumped in and e was in quite a good mood and then she said did e want business and e said what do you mean and she says bloody hell do e have to spell it out so we drove to the park in my green ford capri and before we started she said it cost a fiver and e was a bit surprised e was expecting it to be a bit romantic and e am not the type that can have intercourse in a split second e have to be aroused but all of a sudden she said e am off it is going to take all fucking day you are fucking useless you are and e felt myself seething with rage and e wanted to hit her and e said hang on do not go off like that and she said oh you can manage it now can you and she was taunting me e said can we do it on the grass and she stormed off up field and e took the hammer from my tool box and followed her and spread my coat on the wet grass and she sat down and unfastened her trousers and said come on get it over with and e said do not worry e will and e hit her with the hammer and she made a lot of noise and so e hit her again and then e took out knife from my pocket and e stabbed her fifteen times e think and her arm kept jerking up and down and so e kept at her until she was very dead and then e shot off home this is the world now containing approximately five pounds in
Chapter 3
There were people on the TV singing hymns –
People on the TV singing hymns with no face –
People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features –
And when I switched off the TV, when I pulled back the curtain, everything outside was white and without feature, except for the parked cars and the ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming –
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors
.
I’m awake, sweating and afraid –
The word
shreds
on my lips thinking, what face or no-face does
he
see?
I reach out for Joan but she’s not there –
I’m alone in cold hotel sheets, the radio on:
Dirty protests, hunger strikes, three London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman, Helen Smith …
I turn over and reach for my watch on the bedside table:
It’s 5:10 –
Saturday 13 December 1980.
It’s still dark and freezing outside, the rain gone –
Just the Ice Age.
I walk up the precinct beside the Bond Street Centre.
I buy a
Yorkshire Post
and go back to the Griffin.
I sit in the dining room, the first guest, and order breakfast.
The smell of paint, the synthesizer rendition of Hoist’s
The Planets
and the hiss of the speakers, the bad dreams –
I’ve a headache.
It gets worse:
I open the
Yorkshire Post
, read their reports of the Ripper, of yesterday’s press conference –
I read my name.
The porridge comes and goes and I’m staring at a cold mixed grill, the terrible colours running together, wishing I was back home with Joan.
‘Just what the doctor ordered, that,’ says John Murphy, sitting down.
‘Big night?’
‘Ah, you know; building bridges, that kind of thing. And yourself?’
‘Dinner with Angus and Noble.’
‘No George?’
‘No George.’
‘And?’
‘Not much; just defined the terms of our investigation for us.’
‘What?’
I hand him the letter: ‘Did you call the others?’
He nods, eyes on the piece of paper before him: ‘Meeting us here at half eight.’
‘Good.’
‘What is this bollocks?’ he says, finished reading.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to make some calls.’
Murphy’s breakfast arrives and he sets about it.
I order a fresh pot of tea.
‘How was Dickie Alderman?’
‘Friendly enough. You know him?’
‘Not really; just the face. Learn anything?’
‘Morale’s shocking. George going’s about the last straw for most of them. We’re not going to help.’
‘That why they put us here?’ I say, watching the workmen arrive.
Murphy smiles: ‘Yorkshire hospitality.’
‘Bastards, eh?’
I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and dial Whitby:
‘Philip Evans speaking.’
‘This is Peter Hunter.’
‘Pete? How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Settled in?’
‘We’ve got an office and the hotel’s sorted.’
‘Saw the press conference. Looked rough?’
‘It was.’
‘How are they treating you?’
‘Not bad, but I am calling about Chief Constable Angus.’
‘I see.’
‘I was wondering if you’re aware of a letter he’s given me in which he’s basically outlined the terms of reference for our investigation?’
‘I see.’
‘Have you seen it?’
There’s a pause, then Evans says something I can’t catch –
I say: ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’
‘Can you forward the letter to me? And I think it’d be wise if you did the same with any future correspondence pertinent to the Inquiry.’
‘No problem. Is Sir John aware of the letter?’
‘I couldn’t say. He’s on holiday until the New Year.’
‘Yes, someone said. Should I contact Donald Lincoln?’
‘No, I’ll do that.’
‘So I should just ignore the letter?’
‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort everything out.’
‘I’m a bit concerned that…’
‘Don’t be. Leave the politics to me and just concentrate on the investigation. Any hint of obstruction on Yorkshire’s part, pick up the phone and I’ll put a stop to it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Keep in touch, Pete.’
‘I will.’
‘And remember, it was never going to be a picnic’
‘Goodbye.’
I hang up and dial Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble, please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Peter Hunter.’
Hold.
‘I’m afraid the Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’
‘But I’m –’
The dial tone.
In the lobby of the Griffin, in between the white sheets and the splattered ladders, they’re waiting:
Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald.
Detective Inspector Mike Hillman.
Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.
‘Good morning.’
Nods and greetings, twitching and blinking.
I sit down next to John Murphy, the five of us round a low marble-topped table, a plastic bag keeping the paint off.
‘Sorry about this,’ I begin. ‘We have been promised an office in Millgarth, but it’s yet to be set up. I thought we might as well make a start here.’
‘Better than bloody Millgarth,’ laughs Mike Hillman, an eye to the décor.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’
They’re all leaning forward, notebooks out.
‘I’m going to give you each a year or two of the investigation and twenty-four hours to get to grips with the files. First thing tomorrow morning we’ll meet and start going over the files together. This way you’ll have detailed and specific knowledge of certain cases and a good overview of the investigation as a whole.
‘Each of the cases you’re assigned, you’re going to need to know inside out, to the finest detail, but –’
A pause, a beat:
‘You need to pay special attention to the following and list:
‘The names of all persons mentioned, be they witnesses, suspects, whatever, listed alphabetically.’
A low whistle from Alec McDonald.
‘It’ll be a long list, aye Alec,’ I say. ‘And I’m not finished; plus I want descriptions of all suspects, descriptions of all cars sighted or investigated, alphabetically by make, year, and colour. Finally the names of all policemen involved in the case, alphabetically.’
‘Policemen?’ repeats Hillman.
‘Yes. No matter how minor their role.’
Silence –
‘OK?’
Silence –
‘Mike 1974 and 75, including Clare Strachan.’
A nod.
‘Helen, 76.’ Another nod.
‘John, you got the short straw: 77.’
‘Liz McQueen?’
‘Amongst others.’
Alec McDonald sighs: ‘78 and 79?’
‘No, that’d give you five,’ I say. ‘Just 78. I’ll take 79 and this last one.’
Notebooks open, already writing.
Me: ‘OK, listen –’
Another pause, another beat, before I say: ‘His name, the Ripper’s name, it’s in those files. They’ve met him.’
Helen Marshall says quietly: ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked for the names of any person who has been arrested in connection with any crime involving prostitutes, again no matter how minor or insignificant. Because he’s known.’
‘George Oldman did say if he met the Ripper he’d know him instantly,’ says Mike Hillman.
I close my eyes, hands together –
‘Let me add that you’re to list everyone irrespective of blood type or accent. Especially accent.’
‘So we’re not looking for a Geordie then?’ grins Alec McDonald.
‘No.’
A last pause, then –
‘We’re looking for the Yorkshire Ripper.’
One final beat –
‘And we’re going to find him.’
Back upstairs, on the edge of the hotel bed, dialing Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter.’
Hold.
Murphy’s leaning against a cheap chipped dressing table, snow falling on the roof of Leeds City Station, the windows rattling with the trains and the traffic, the wind and the draughts.
‘You realise how many bloody names we’re going to get?’
I start to speak, but put my hand up, listening –
‘The Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’
I say: ‘You tell him it’s urgent.’
‘I’ve been told to hold all calls.’
It’s an emergency.’
‘But –’
‘I am Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter of the Greater Manchester Police Force and I’m ordering you to put me through.’
Hold.
‘Fucking hell,’ mutters Murphy.
I take a deep breath.
‘Peter Noble speaking.’
‘Peter? Peter Hunter here. Sorry to disturb your meeting.’
‘Yes?’
‘The office? Is it available? What’s happening?’
‘What?’
‘The Chief Constable said last night that an office on the same floor as the Murder Room would be made available for the use of me and my team, yeah?’
‘And you want it now? This minute?’
‘Please.’
Silence –
I look up from the grey carpet.
Murphy’s shaking his head.
Noble asks: ‘Where are you?’
‘The Griffin.’
‘It’s nine –’
‘Half past.’
‘Whatever. An office will be ready by one.’
‘That’s the earliest –’
‘The earliest.’
‘OK if we come over now and start getting copies of the files we need?’
Another silence –
Noble: ‘No-one’s explained the system then?’
‘What system?’
‘Well, we obviously can’t just let you take stuff willy-nilly.’
‘Of course –’
‘Not a bloody library.’
‘Of course not. We’re going to need to log –’
‘Actually, no. Well, yes; you’re going to have to log it, that’s right. But you’re also going to have to request the files first.’