Nineteen Eighty (7 page)

‘I’ll take care of it,’ says Hook.
Smith stands up and says: ‘Can I go home now?’
Back down in the car park and there’s a man standing by my car.
Familiar, he looks familiar –
Me: ‘Can I help you?’
He raises a hand and shakes his head, walking over to another car –
A white one.
‘Wrong motor,’ he says, smiling.
I get in my car –
The black one.
And then somewhere over the Moors, I remember it’s a Sunday and almost Christmas and I suddenly hate myself, wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing, what the fuck I thought I was going to do, the bad dreams not leaving, just staying bad, like the headaches and the backache, the murder and the lies, like the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers:
Thirteen
.
5:00 p.m.
Sunday 14 December 1980:
Millgarth, Leeds.
Dark outside, darker in:
A ritual –
A séance:
Round the table, hands and knees touching, between the cardboard boxes and the gorged files –
Mike Hillman is calling up the dead, passing out photographs, saying:
‘Theresa Campbell, murdered 26 June 1975. 26-year-old mother of three and convicted prostitute. Partially clothed, bloodstained body was discovered on Prince Philip Playing Fields, Scott Hall, by Eric Davies, a milkman.’
Peel –
‘Post-mortem revealed multiple stab wounds to abdomen, chest, and throat inflicted by a blade 4 inches in length, ž of an inch in width, one edge sharper than the other; severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown, possibly inflicted by an axe. A white purse with
Mummy
on the front, containing approximately Ł5 in cash, was also noted to be missing from the deceased’s handbag. Neither murder weapons or purse have ever been found.’
He stops to let the pictures speak –
They all look up from the six by fours, all but DS Marshall –
Are there tears in her eyes?
‘Those are the facts,’ he says, repeating: ‘The facts. The rest is hearsay; but here goes –
‘Campbell had spent the evening at the Room at the Top nightclub in Sheepscar. She was last seen attempting to stop motorists at the junction of Sheepscar Street South and Roundhay Road, Leeds at 1:00 a.m.
‘According to the witnesses you have listed before you, it is believed 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 alongside Campbell and it is believed she had a conversation with the driver.
‘This location is the main route from the Al Wetherby Roundabout to the Leeds Inner Ring Road which services HGVs travelling on the M62, either east or west.’
Hillman pauses; we all glance up, all but Marshall –
A tune in my head, a song from somewhere:
I only have eyes for you –
The dream still here, here in my mouth, hanging in the room, the taste in my mouth –
The taste of blood, the smell:
‘They call it the Box,’ says Hillman.
There’s a soft knock at the door and a young constable hands Bob Craven a note –
He glances at it, looks up at me, and passes it forward –
I open it:
Call Richard Dawson
.
I put it in my pocket.
‘And that’s the last anyone saw of her till the milkman,’ Hillman’s saying.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘If there are no questions, let’s move onto the structure of the investigation. Mike?’
‘Fish and chip job as it was seen then, they still put Chief Superintendent Jobson on it, plus a couple of other names that’ll keep coming up: Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice, DIs as they were back in 75.’
There are nods.
‘Good team,’ I say, watching Craven –
His face blank but for a slight light in those dark eyes, a slight smile –
And then he suddenly says: ‘Best men we’ve got.’
‘Anyway,’ continues Hillman. ‘Those were the big guns and the same team used for Joan Richards and everything up to Marie Watts. After that Oldman and Noble take the reins and Jobson’s given the early bath.’
‘What about Alderman and Prentice? What happened to them?’ asks McDonald.
‘Still here. A complete list of every copper involved is in the copies I’ve given you, alphabetically by rank.’
I’m still watching Craven, knowing he was there –
Knowing his name is in there, here –
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mike. We’ll be going over the cases in more detail later as we see how they relate. OK?’
Silence –
‘Next?’
‘Richards or Strachan?’ asks Marshall.
‘Do it chronologically.’
‘Right,’ says Mike Hillman, nodding at Helen Marshall. ‘Me again:
‘OK. Whether you accept Strachan as a Ripper job or not,’ says Hillman. ‘She died like this:
‘A convicted prostitute and registered alcoholic, Clare Strachan was taken to some disused garages on Frenchwood Street, a well-known Preston red-light area. She had sex and was then hit on the head by a blunt instrument, kicked in the face, head, breasts, legs and body. Then the attacker jumped up and down on her chest, causing a rib to puncture a lung and kill her. She had bite marks on her breasts and had been penetrated by a variety of objects and twice sodomised, once post-mortem. She was found the next morning by a woman walking her dog.’
Silence, dark silence –
Mike coughs and then goes on: ‘Alf Hill was in charge, Frank Fields his number two, again top men on it. Initially, no link was established with Theresa Campbell. Following the murder of Joan Richards, two detectives went over to Preston and again no evidence was found to connect the killings. Right, Bob?’
Bob Craven nods, saying nothing.
‘You went over, right?’
‘Yeah.’
Mike Hillman shakes his head and smiles: ‘Thanks a lot, Bob. OK, the link with the Ripper was made following the letters received after the murder of Marie Watts in 1977. As you know, the letters made reference to the murder of Clare Strachan and tests conducted revealed that the killer of Strachan and Watts and the letter writer were all blood type …’
‘B,’ says Craven.
‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Mike. ‘Again all the names and dates have been listed on the sheet before you.’
‘Bob?’ John Murphy says turning to Craven.
‘Yeah?’
‘They send anyone over from Preston?’
‘What?’
‘You went over after you got Joan Richards, how about them? Had they sent anyone over after Clare Strachan?’
‘Frank Fields.’
Murphy nods: ‘And Frank didn’t make any link?’
‘No.’
I say: ‘Right, as Mike’s just said, this is the one that the letters and the tape specifically refer to, the letters and tape that have largely been included on the strength of this murder.’
‘And the blood group,’ adds Craven.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But let’s get this straight, initially, didn’t you and …’
‘John Rudkin.’
‘Right, didn’t you and Rudkin report that this murder shouldn’t be considered the work of the same man who killed Campbell and Richards?’
‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘That was until we got the sample off Watts and the tests on the envelope.’
‘So, initially, why did you think otherwise?’
Craven smiles: ‘Feel like I’m in bloody court.’
‘Relax, Bob. You’re among friends,’ I say.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah,’ says Murphy.
He’s still smiling: ‘Look, initially, the only real link between Campbell and Strachan, Richards and Strachan was that they were all slags. Strachan had been raped, had a milk bottle up her, had it up the arse, then been kicked to death. Indoors. Completely different.’
‘Until the letters and the tape?’
‘Until the letters and the tape.’
‘And then she was in,’ I say.
‘You better believe it.’
I ask him: ‘Do you want to add anything else?’
‘Two kids in Glasgow.’
‘Husband?’
‘Drowned at sea.’
‘Anything else?’
Craven smiling to himself: ‘Not about her, no.’
‘You want to talk us through Joan Richards?’
‘No.’
‘Go on. You were in on this one right from the get go, yeah?’
‘Just about.’
‘Please, it’d help us out a lot.’
‘Not treading on anyone’s toes, am I?’ he asks, looking at Helen Marshall –
There are tears in her eyes –
Fuck –
‘No,’ I say, trying to catch her eye –
The tears in her eyes
.
Craven sighs, shrugs his shoulders and says almost automatically: ‘Joan Richards was found on February 6 1976 in an alleyway on the Manor Street Industrial Estate, off Roundhay Road, Leeds. She had severe head injuries caused by a hammer and a total of fifty-two stab wounds to the neck, chest, stomach, and back. Her bra had been pulled up over her tits and a piece of wood placed over her fanny. There were boot prints on her legs. Wellies. Farley, the pathologist, immediately linked it with Theresa Campbell. The Owl, Maurice – he was still in charge, Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice with him. Me and Rudkin were brought in after Farley linked it with Campbell. Sent us over to Preston, the rest you know.’
Marshall is staring at him –
Tears in her eyes
.
I say: ‘Background?’
‘She was new to it. Husband knew what she was up to. Pimped her. Sometimes used his van, but not this time. There was a load of bollocks in papers that didn’t help. Stuff about the killer taking her van and shit like that.’
‘This when the Ripper stuff started?’ asks Hillman.
‘No, that was after Marie Watts,’
I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, wasn’t it?’
‘Probably.’
Silence, the room getting smaller, darker –
The cabinets taller.
A knock on the door –
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yes?’
‘Telephone. Emergency.’
I stand up.
Craven says: ‘Take it next door. It’s dead.’
I nod and push past them and out –
The Ripper Room, dead –
Just their photos staring down from their walls, dead.
‘Peter Hunter speaking?’
‘It’s Richard.’
‘What is it?’
‘What is it?
What do you mean,
what is it?
You know what happened this morning? Five o’bloody clock this morning?’
‘Joan told me.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And fucking what? They…’
‘Richard, I can’t do anything. My hands are tied.’
‘Your hands are tied? Fucking hell, Peter. Talk about…’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say and hang up.
I go back to the small room next door, heart pounding, angry –
No one speaking –
Going up to seven –
‘Sod it. Let’s call it a night,’ I say, the ghosts scattering, scuttling back –
They all stand up at once.
‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘Have a word?’
He nods and follows me back next door.
We sit down at a desk in the Ripper Room –
Their Ripper Room.
‘Something’s going down back home. Pick your brains?’
‘Course. Fire away’
‘Bob Douglas? Remember him?’
‘Craven’s mate from the Strafford, oh aye,’ laughs Murphy. ‘Moved over our way, didn’t he?’
‘Yep, Levenshulme. Heard anything of him recently?’
‘Into some kind of security work, I think.’
‘Well, you know Richard Dawson? He’s been using Douglas for this and that and now Dawson’s being investigated for some kind of financial irregularities or something. Anyway, Douglas told him that this investigation, it’s down to his friendship with me. That’s why he’s being investigated; to put me in my place.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘What I thought. But this morning I went to see Douglas.’
‘Yeah?’ says Murphy, quietly. ‘Was that wise?’
‘I just wanted to get it straightened out. Joan’s good friends with Linda Dawson, you know. And I need to be thinking about this here, not Bob bloody Douglas.’
‘And?’
‘Douglas said he’d got it from Ronnie Allen.’
‘Verbals himself.’
‘Yep.’
‘He’s a bloody knob, isn’t he? Ronnie?’
‘Gets worse. Hooky’s in charge.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah. And they raided Dawson’s house first thing this morning.’
‘Fuck, fuck.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You want me to put the feelers out?’
‘Well I spoke to both Hooky and Clement Smith and they reckon it’s nothing sinister. Finances. Said I’m paranoid.’
‘Peter Hunter paranoid?’ laughs Murphy, but his eyes are dead.
‘Reckon I am.’
‘But him knowing you? That’s not paranoia.’
‘But it’s not only me. Smith’s mates as well.’
‘I know him too. Might be next?’
I smile: ‘Lot of folk.’
‘See, don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That what the Chief said?’
‘You know Smith; he just said to keep my distance for now. But…’
‘But if I do happen to hear anything, or ask someone, then…’
I smile again: ‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he nods.
‘About what?’ says Craven suddenly, there in the Ripper Room –
His room –
His Ripper.
‘Nothing to worry you about, Bob.’
‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then?’ smiles Murphy.
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘And I’ll bid you two gents a goodnight.’
‘Not having a swift one?’ says Craven. ‘Not tonight, Bob,’ I say, patting him on the shoulder as I go out.
He winks: ‘Got a date, have you?’
Headingley –
It’s been four nights now, everything still dead –
Forever dead.
I pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken car park, once again positioning the car so I face the main road, and then I go inside.
Again, I’m the only customer.
I order the same chicken and chips, the cup of coffee, and wait under the same white lights for another ten minutes while the same Asian staff prepare the order, staring at the light reflected in the coffee.
I take the food back out to the car and sit in another night, the window down, picking at the pale stringy meat again, watching the street –
No-one.
I drink down the cold coffee.
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 –
Like clockwork.
And again, it doesn’t stop.
I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road –
Alma Road, with its police tape and one dark car waiting.
Again I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers in the police car.
And at the end of the road, by the school, I stop at the gates again and stare back down Alma Road –
Again, Alma Road –
The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to another man’s daughter, to another man’s sister, to another man’s fiancée –
The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to Laureen Bell, an ordinary girl, and shattered her skull and stabbed this ordinary girl fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye –
And in this ordinary street, in this ordinary suburb, in this ordinary world, I listen to the silence and the song it sings:
And when we die
And float away
Into the night
The Milky Way
You’ll hear me call
As we ascend
I’ll say your name
Then once again