Nineteen Eighty (9 page)

‘Fuck off,’ says Alderman.
‘Start with your top ten.’
‘Impossible,’ says Noble.
‘You’ve had him, you know you have.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘But somehow you’ve let him go.’
Silence –
Just the rain on the roof.
Noble leans forward and taps on the driver’s window –
The driver opens the door, shakes the rain from his umbrella and gets in, the smell of cigarettes and damp with him.
‘Millgarth,’ says Noble.
As the car pulls into the underground car park, I turn to Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble and ask: ‘How did you catch Morris?’
‘Luck,’ he says. ‘Bloody luck.’
‘Bollocks, Pete,’ I say. ‘Bollocks.’
Alderman looks around in the front seat again, but Noble’s gone.
Back in our room, the one next to theirs, next to his, I close the door behind me.
They’re all there, plus Bob Craven, looking up from their work, waiting, expectant:
‘I should have said this before, but when you’re taking down all these names, can you denote the married ones.’
John Murphy smiles: ‘We have been.’
‘Thank you,’ I smile back, nodding: ‘Then let’s move on.’
Another Millgarth afternoon –
Dark outside, darker still in:
Another séance –
Same ritual –
Round the table, hands and knees touching, more calls to the dead –
John Murphy this time, sheet-white with black-rings, calling them:
‘What a fucking year it was, 1977:
‘First up, Marie Watts, formerly Owens, thirty-two years of age, found dead Sunday 29 May on Soldiers Field, Roundhay; extensive head injuries, stab wounds to the abdomen, and a cut throat. Watts was a known prostitute and the connection with Campbell and Richards was obvious, leading to the formation of what was then known as the Prostitute Murder Squad. This was headed up by ACC Oldman, with Pete Noble the effective day-to-day gaffer.’
Murphy pauses, looking at Bob Craven, then continues:
‘As Bob said yesterday, it was the Watts murder where the press coined the Yorkshire Ripper moniker. Also when the first letter arrived. Plus the B type blood grouping taken from semen stains off Watts’ coat – it was them stains that linked in Clare Strachan in Preston and the letters, using saliva tests and the content of the letters and later the tape.’
Long pause, a deep, deep sigh, then:
‘The names, the numbers, the descriptions, the whole bloody lot, it’s all there and, to be honest if it hadn’t have been for what came next, who knows if we’d be sitting here today’
Here she comes, here she comes, here she comes again:
‘Skipping over, for now, the Linda Clark attack in Bradford, one week on from Marie Watts and the body of sixteen-year-old Rachel Johnson was found in the Reginald Street adventure playground on the morning of Wednesday 8 June, morning after the Jubilee. She had suffered appalling head injuries, though had probably died some time after the initial attack had taken place. She was not a prostitute, a ‘good-time girl’, or anything other than a sixteen-year-old Leeds shop assistant on her way home from a first bloody date.’
We’re all looking at the floor or the walls or the ceiling, our nails or our pens or our papers, anywhere other than Murphy and his files and photographs of her.
‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘Like me, you remember her.’
All of you
, I’m thinking –
I remember all of you
.
‘Break,’ I say and stand up and walk out of the room, into the light of the corridor, through the phones and the typewriters, into the toilets and into a cubicle and throw up.
I am walking down the stairs, heading for a paper and some air, when there’s a hand at my elbow –
Bob Craven: ‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yes?’
‘I wanted to ask you something?’
‘Go on.’
‘That business about noting down the married blokes, you’re saying you think he’s married?’
I look at Detective Superintendent Craven, the black beard and tick, the eyes to match –
I say: ‘You got time for a coffee, Bob?’
‘Have you?’
‘A quick one,’ I nod and we walk back upstairs to the canteen.
I bring over the coffees and sit down across the plastic table from him –
‘You take all this very seriously,’ I say.
‘Is there any other way?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; what I mean is, you’re in deep.’
‘That a crime?’
‘No.’
He stops stirring his coffee and looks up: ‘I’ll be honest with you, it eats me up; same for a lot of the lads.’
‘Been a long time?’
‘Too long.’
‘You got any theories?’
He smiles: ‘Oh aye.’
‘Going to share them?’
‘With you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because that’s not why you’re here, is it Mr Hunter? Not really?’
‘What do you mean?’
The beard and eyes shining under the canteen lights: ‘It’s not just about Ripper, is it? It’s about seeing how many of us you can take down with him.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘It’s in your nature.’
I push the cup away and stand up: ‘I am here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to catch the Yorkshire Ripper.’
He’s staring up at me, almost smiling, smirking.
I should walk away, should leave him to it, but I don’t, I stay and I say: ‘There is a paranoia in this force, a paranoia that makes it dumb as well as blind.’
He’s smiling, laughing now, a white slash of teeth in the black beard.
I can’t walk away, can’t stop myself: “Unless that is, you have all got something to bloody hide.’
‘Like what?’ he’s staring up at me: ‘Like what?’
‘Fuck knows. Your stupidity?’ I say and regret it and know I always will.
‘Mr Hunter, I’ll tell you this: we’re going to catch our Ripper, not you.’
‘Then you’d better get a fucking move on,’ I say and turn and walk away.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide –
‘Janice Ryan,’ says Murphy, and then stops, dead –
We all look up, the room cold and dark –
No way to kill this pain inside –
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he says, eyes fixed on Bob Craven coming in late, sitting down next to me.
No escape from your heart –
‘Bradford prostitute, moved to Leeds, but wound up dead under a sofa on waste ground off White Abbey, back in Bradford. Time of death has never been conclusively proven, but must have occurred sometime in the seven days preceding the discovery of the body on Sunday 12 June, 1977.’
No escape from your lips –
‘Furthermore, following the initial discovery, Ryan was not immediately connected to the Ripper. Reasons for this would appear to have been two-fold: scene of crime being Bradford not Leeds, despite the inclusion of Clare Strachan in Preston only the week previously’
No escape from you baby, from your fingertips –
‘The second reason was the type of injuries; so while Ryan suffered head injuries, she had actually died from internal abdominal injuries caused by someone jumping up and down on her, which again linked her only to Strachan.’
No escape from you darling, all night and day –
‘Ryan got herself included thanks to the letter that arrived at the
Telegraph & Argus
on Monday 13 June, a letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and stating that there was a surprise in Bradford.’
No escape from you baby, no place to stay –
John Murphy looks up: ‘So, to my mind, that means one of two things: either it was the Ripper or it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t, then neither was Clare Strachan. And that would mean one thing and one thing only: we’d have got ourselves two Jacks, not one.’
No escape, no escape at all
.
At ten-thirty we’re sitting in their over-lit canteen, spread over two tables and six plates of uneaten food, the brightness boring into tired eyes.
There is little talk, DCI McDonald and DS Marshall still poring over their notebooks, the rest of us ordering, indexing and referencing; rationalising the things we’ve read.
‘We should call it a night,’ I say.
There are nods and yawns, Hillman stretching, some talk of a nightcap.
I walk downstairs with Murphy, neither of us saying much.
At the desk, I say: ‘I’m going to walk.’
‘Not fancy a quick one?’
‘Not tonight, John. Thanks.’
‘See you at breakfast then?’ he smiles.
‘If I don’t get a better offer,’ I laugh and say goodnight.
Outside it’s raining and black, the streets empty.
And as I wait to cross at the traffic lights, I watch the cars, the white faces behind the wheels, wondering, making deals, idle threats –
Beneath the Christmas lights on Boar Lane, I walk without direction, suddenly overwhelmed by immense regret and pain, the terrible and familiar sensation of more to come and the impotence that goes with it.
At the door to the Griffin, I have tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, terrible, cold tears.
I take my key from the desk and am walking across the lobby when he rises from his seat –
‘Mr Hunter?’ asks a tall emaciated man with long thin grey hair and features.
I nod.
‘My name is Martin Laws and I’d like to talk with you if you could spare me five minutes?’
The man is wearing black, carrying a hat and a bag –
‘Are you a priest, Mr Laws?’ I ask him.
‘Yes,’ he nods.
‘OK,’ I say, glancing at my watch and pointing at the nearest pair of high-backed lobby seats.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
We sit down opposite each other, him with his hat between his fingers.
‘What can I do for you, Father?’
‘I’m actually here on behalf of Elizabeth Hall.’
‘Yes?’ I say, looking at the black bag at his feet.
‘Eric Hall’s wife? Libby Hall?’
I nod.
‘Mrs Hall saw you on the news, at the press conference. She’s very anxious to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘The murder of her husband.’
I sit back in the chair: ‘Father, with all due respect, I think that falls somewhat outside the perimeters of this present investigation. If Mrs Hall has information about her husband’s death, I’m sure the –’
Mr Laws has his hand raised –
I stop talking.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he says softly, handing me an envelope from his pocket. ‘From what Libby has confided to me, the murder of her husband falls very much inside the perimeters of your investigation.’
I look at the envelope in my hands, reluctant.
‘Please?’ says Laws. ‘I…’
‘Mr Hunter –’
I open the envelope, take out the letter, and read:
Dear Mr Hunter
,
I was heartened to learn that you have been asked to assist in the Ripper Inquiry. I have information that you will find very useful, information concerning the murder of my husband Detective Inspector Eric Hall and his involvement with the so-called Yorkshire Ripper. It is my belief that he was killed because of his acquaintance with Janice Ryan, the sixth victim, and his knowledge of a police cover-up.
I can prove this.
Yours Sincerely,
Elizabeth Hall
I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope –
No escape, no escape at all –
‘How is she?’ I ask Laws.
‘Not well, but she is very determined to see you.’
‘I can send round one of my team?’
‘She is insistent on speaking to you. Only you.’
Bloody hell –
‘Tomorrow morning?’
Mr Laws nods but says: ‘Now? She’s outside in my car.’
Fuck –
‘It would mean a lot,’ he adds.
I sigh and stand up: ‘OK. Let’s go.’
I follow Martin Laws out of the Griffin and back into the night and the rain, follow him round the back of the hotel, past the Scarborough Public House, down the dark arches and under the railway tracks until we come to an old green Viva parked in the gloom.
Mr Laws taps gently on the passenger window and a frightened white face suddenly springs from the black to the glass –
I jump back, my heart racing.
He unlocks the door.
‘You can talk inside,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait over here till you’re done.’
He opens the door for me and I lean down inside, swallowing my heart –
‘Mrs Hall?’
The woman nods, her teeth biting into her lower lip, a hand pulling at the skin of her neck.
I push forward the front seat and get in beside her, shutting the door.
‘Lock the door please,’ she whispers.
I press it down and wait –
She sits here in the dark of the back seat beside me, underneath the arches, rubbing her hands round her neck and up and down her shins –
‘They don’t believe me,’ she says. ‘I know that. You won’t either.’
‘I –’
‘No, they’ll tell you what they did to me. You probably already know. They’ll say that’s why she’s like that, says the things she does. Then they’ll pause and shake their heads and say she’d have been better off dead, the things they did.’
I’m staring ahead, staring between the backs of the front seats.
‘Do you know what they did to me?’
‘I know a bit –’
‘Well, I’ll tell you shall I? Get it out of the way.’
‘There’s really no need, Mrs Hall.’
‘But you see there’s every need, Mr Hunter.’
She turns to face me in the dark, a hand on my arm:
‘It was Sunday 19 June 1977. I’d been to church, evensong. I came home, opened the door, and they grabbed me, dragged me by my hair into the dining room and Eric, sitting there in front of the TV with his throat cut. Then they tied my hands behind my back and left me on the floor at his feet, in his blood, while they went into the kitchen, making sandwiches from our fridge, drinking his beer and my wine, until they came back and decided to have their fun with me, there on the floor in front of Eric. They stripped me and beat me and put it in me, in my vagina, in my bottom, in my mouth, their peruses, bottles, chair legs, anything. They urinated in my face, cut chunks of my hair off, forced me to suck them, lick them, kiss them, drink their urine, eat their excrement. Then they took me to the bathroom and tried to drown me, leaving me unconscious on the floor for my son to find.’
Silence, darkest silence –
‘A robbery, revenge; that’s what they said it was, the police.’
She looks at me and I nod: ‘The same gang who’d been responsible for a number of post office robberies and murders, that’s what I heard.’
She’s smiling: ‘The
Nigger
Gang?’
‘They weren’t black?’
‘Oh, they were black all right, Mr Hunter. As the ace of spades.’
‘Well, I –’
‘You don’t see my point, do you?’
I turn to face her again: ‘It’s not that, Mrs Hall. Not that at all. I just want to say I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem enough. But I am; I’m really sorry this happened to you.’
She swallows and takes my hand in hers: ‘Mr Hunter, before he was murdered, Eric was suspended. He kept talking about you, how you were going to be coming over, that he’d done some bad things and you’d find out and he’d be finished.’
I’ve got my eyes closed, wanting her to stop.