Nineteen Seventy-Seven: The Red Riding Quartet, Book Two (4 page)

The dream is strong, black and blinding at first, then slowly settling, hovering quietly behind my lids
.
Open my eyes and she’ll still be there
:
A white Marks & Spencer’s nightie, soaked black with blood from the holes he’s left
.
It’s January 1975, just a month after Eddie
.
The fires behind my eyes, I can feel the fires behind my eyes and I know she’s back there, playing with matches behind my eyes, lighting her own beacons
.
Full of holes, for all these heads so full of holes. Full of holes, all these people so full of holes. Full of holes, Carol so full of holes
.
‘Jack?’
There was a hand on my shoulder and I was back.
1977.
It was George, a copper holding the door for him, the room now empty.
‘Lost you for a minute back there?’
I stood up, my mouth dirty with old air and spit.
‘George,’ I said, reaching for his hand.
‘Good to see you again,’ he smiled. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’
‘You know.’
‘Aye,’ he nodded, because he knew exactly how I’d been keeping. ‘Hope you’re taking it easy?’
‘You know me, George.’
‘Well, you tell Bill from me that he better be taking good care of you.’
‘I will.’
‘Good to see you again,’ he said again, walking over to the door.
‘Thanks.’
‘Give us a call if you need anything,’ he shouted over from the door, saying to the younger officer, ‘Finest journalist I ever met, that man.’
I sat back down,
the finest journalist Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman ever met
, alone in the empty room.

I walked back through the heart of Leeds, a tour of a baked, bone-dry hell.
My watch had stopped again and I strained to hear the Cathedral bells beneath the noise; the deafening music from each shop I passed, the car horns punched in anger, hot angry words on every corner.
I looked for the spire in the sky, but there was only fire up there; the midday sun high and black across my brow.
I put my hand to my eyes just as someone walked straight into me, banging right through me, hard; I turned and watched a black shadow disappear down an alley.
I chased into the alley after it but heard horse’s hooves fast upon the cobbles behind me but then, when I turned, there was only a lorryload of beer trying to edge up the narrow street.
I pressed my face into the wall to let it pass and came away with red paint down the front of my suit, all over my hands.
I stepped back and stared at the ancient wall and the word written in red:
Tophet
.
I stood in the alley in the shadows of the sun, watching the word dry, knowing I’d been here before, knowing I’d seen that shadow before, somewhere before.
‘It’s not a right good day to be walking around covered in blood,’ laughed Gaz Williams, the Sports Editor.
Stephanie, one of the typists, wasn’t laughing; she looked at me sadly and said, ‘What happened?’
‘Wet bloody paint,’ I smiled.
‘So you say,’ said Gaz.
The banter was light, same as it always was. George Greaves, the only one who’d been here longer than me or Bill, he’d got his head down on his desk, snoring his lunch off. There was local radio on somewhere, typewriters and telephones ringing, and a hundred ghosts waiting for me at my desk.
I sat down and took the cover off the typewriter and got a blank sheet and brought it up ready for business, back at my roots.
I typed:

POLICE HUNT FOR SADISTIC KILLER OF WOMAN

Detectives are hunting a killer who murdered Mrs Marie Watts, aged thirty-two, and dumped her body on playing fields not far from Leeds city centre. The body of Mrs Watts, of Francis Street, Leeds, was discovered by a jogger early yesterday morning
.
It was lying on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, near Roundhay High School and the Roundhay Hall Hospital. Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, head of Leeds CID, said she had severe head injuries and other injuries, on which he did not wish to elaborate. The killer was sadistic and possibly a sexual pervert
.
Sensationally, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman confirmed that police are investigating possible links to two other unsolved murders of Leeds women:
It is believed that the latest victim, Mrs Watts, had moved to Leeds from London in October last year. The police would like to speak to anyone who has any information about Marie Watts, who was also known as Marie Owens. The police would also like to speak to Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, a friend of Mrs Watts. It is believed that Mr Barton could have vital information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life. It was stressed, however, that Mr Barton is not a suspect
.
Assistant Chief Constable Oldman also appealed for any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field last Saturday night to come forward. The police are particularly interested in the drivers of a white Ford Capri, a dark red Ford Corsair, and a Landrover. Mr Oldman stressed that they were attempting to trace these drivers for elimination purposes only and any information would be treated in the strictest confidence
.
Anyone with information should contact their nearest police station or the Murder Room direct on Leeds 461212
.
I pulled the paper and read it back.
Just a pile of rusty little words, all linked up to make a chain of horror.
I wanted a drink and a cig and not here.
‘You finished already?’ said Bill Hadden over my shoulder.
I nodded and handed him the sheet, like it was something I’d found. ‘What do you think?’
Out of the window there were clouds coming, turning the afternoon grey, spreading a sudden sort of quiet over the city and the office, and I sat there, waiting for Bill to finish reading, feeling as lonely as I’d ever felt.
‘Excellent,’ grinned Bill, his wager paying out.
‘Thanks,’ I said, expecting the orchestra to start up, the credits and the tears to roll.
But then the moment was gone, lost. ‘What are you going to do now?’
I leant back in my chair and smiled. ‘I quite fancy a drink. And yourself?’
This big man, with his red face and grey beard, sighed and shook his head. ‘Bit early for me,’ he said.
‘It’s never too early, only too late.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ he said, hopefully.
I got up from my chair, giving him a tired wink and grin. ‘Undoubtedly.’
‘OK.’
‘George,’ I shouted.
George Greaves looked up from his desk. ‘Jack?’ he said, pinching himself.
‘Coming down the Press Club?’
‘Go on then, just a quick one,’ he replied, smiling sheepishly at Bill.
At the lift George gave the office a wave and I bowed, thinking,
there are many ways a man can serve his time
.
The Press Club, as dark as home.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in, but George was helping me.
‘Fuck, that was funny that was.’
I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
Behind the bar, Bet gave me a look that was too, too knowing. ‘Been a while, Jack?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How are you, love?’
‘OK. Yourself?’
‘My legs aren’t getting any younger.’
‘You don’t need them,’ laughed George. ‘Just get legless with us, eh Jack?’
And we all laughed and I remembered Bet and her legs and a couple of times back when I thought I could live forever, back when I wanted to, back before I knew what a curse it really was.
Bet said, ‘Scotch?’
‘And keep them coming,’ I smiled.
‘I always try.’
And we all laughed again, me with an erection and a Scotch.
Outside, I was pissed outside, leaning against a wall which said
HATE
in running white paint. No subject, no object, just
HATE.
And it blurred and whirled and I was lost between the lines, between the things I should’ve written and the things I had.
Stories
, I’d been telling stories in the bar again:
Yorkshire Gangsters and Yorkshire Coppers and, later, Cannock Chase and the Black Panther.
Stories
, just stories. Stopping short of the real stories, of the
true stories
, the ones that put me here, up against this wall that said
HATE.
Clare Kemplay and Michael Myshkin, the Strafford Shootings and
The Exorcist
killing.
Every dog had his day, every cat her cream, but every camel had his straw, every Napoleon his Waterloo.
True stories
.
Black and white against a wall that spelt
HATE.
I ran my fingers over the raised paint.
And there I was, wondering just
where have all the Bootboys gone?
And then there they were, all around me:
Shaved heads and beer breath.
‘Aye-up Grandad,’ said one.
‘Piss off, puff,’ I said.
He stepped back among his mates. ‘What you fucking have to say that for, you silly old git?’ he said. ‘Cos you know I’m going have to fucking have you now, don’t you?’
‘You can try,’ I said, just before he hit me and stopped me remembering, stopped the memories for a bit.
Just for a bit.
I’m holding her there in the street in my arms, blood on my hands, blood on her face, blood on my lips, blood in her mouth, blood in my eyes, blood in her hair, blood in my tears, blood in hers
.
But even the old magic can’t save us now, and I turn away and try and stand and Carol says, ‘Stay!’ But it’s been twenty-five years or more, and I have to get away, have to leave her here alone in this street, in this river of blood
.
And I look up and there’s just Laws, just the Reverend Laws, the moon, and him
.
Carol gone
.
I was standing in my room, the windows open, black and blue as the night.
I’d got a glass of Scotland in my hand, to rinse the blood from my teeth, a Philips Pocket Memo to my lips:
‘It’s 30th May 1977, Year Zero, Leeds, and I’m back at work …’
And I wanted to say more, not much more, but the words wouldn’t obey me so I pressed stop and went over to the chest of drawers, opened my bottom drawer and stared at all the little tapes in all their little cases with all their neat little dates and places, like all those books of my youth, all my Jack the Rippers and Dr Crippens, the Seddons and Buck Ruxton, and I took one out at random (or so I told myself), and I lay back, feet up on the dirty sheets, staring at the old, old ceiling as her screams filled the room.
I woke up once, dark heart of the night, thinking,
what if he’s not dead?

The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Tuesday 31st May 1977

Chapter 3

The Murder Room, Millgarth.
Rudkin, Ellis, and me.
Just gone six, the morning of Tuesday 31 May 1977.
Sat around the big table, the phones dead, tapping the top.
In through the double doors, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman and Detective Chief Superintendent Noble, dumping two big manila folders on the table.
Detective Inspector Rudkin squints at the cover of the top one and gives it a, ‘Ah for fuck’s sake, not again.’
I read
Preston, November 1975
.
Fuck
.
I know what this means:
Two steps forward, six steps back–
November 1975: The Strafford Shootings still in everyone’s face, internal inquiries coming out our ears, Peter Hunter and his dogs still sniffing round our arses. The West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police with our backs to the wall and our mouths shut
, if you knew what was good for you, which side your bread was buttered on etc,
Michael Myshkin going down, the judge throwing away the key
.
‘Clare Strachan,’ I murmur.
November 1975:
COMING DOWN AGAIN.
Ellis puzzled.
Rudkin about to fill him in, but George shuts him up: ‘As you know, Clare Strachan, a convicted prostitute, was found raped and battered to death in Preston almost two years ago now, in November 1975. The Lancashire lads immediately came over to review the Theresa Campbell file, and John here and Bob Craven went over there last year after we got Joan Richards.’
Me thinking,
they’re cutting Rudkin out, why?
I glance across at him, he’s nodding, eager to butt in.
But Oldman’s keeping him out: ‘Now whatever you think, whether you count Clare Strachan in or not, we’re going to go back over to Preston and review that bloody file again.’
‘Waste of fucking time,’ spits Rudkin, at last.
Oldman’s going red, Noble’s face thunder.
‘I’m sorry sir, but me and Bob spent two days – was it? – over there last time and, I’m telling you, it’s not the same bloke. Wish it was, but it’s not.’
Ellis chiming in, ‘What do you mean you wish it was?’
‘Because he left so much fucking stuff behind him, it’s a wonder they haven’t nabbed the daft cunt already’
Noble snorts, like,
that’s Lancashire for you
.
‘What makes you so sure it isn’t?’ asks Ellis.
‘Well, he’d raped her for a start and then he stuck it up her arse. Come both times, though I don’t know how he fucking did it. State of her.’
‘Ugly?’
‘Doesn’t begin to describe it.’
Ellis half-smiling, telling everyone what they already know: ‘Not like our boy. Not like him at all.’
Rudkin nods: ‘Just lets it fly in the grass.’
‘Anything else?’ I say.
‘Yeah then, when he’d had his fun, he jumped up and down on her until her fucking chest give in. Size ten wellies.’
I look at Oldman.
Oldman smiles and says, ‘Everyone finished?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugs Rudkin.
‘Good, because you don’t want to be late, do you?’
‘Aw, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Alf doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Alfred Hill Head of Lancashire CID
.
‘Me again?’ Rudkin asks, looking round the room.
Noble points at Rudkin, Ellis, and me. ‘You three.’
‘What about Steve Barton and the Irish?’
‘Later, John. Later,’ says Oldman, standing up.
In the car park, Rudkin tosses the keys to Ellis. ‘You drive.’
Ellis looks like he’s going to come in his pants. ‘Sure,’ he says.
‘I’m going to get some kip,’ says Rudkin, getting into the back of the Rover.
The sun is shining and I switch on the radio:
Two hundred dead in a Kentucky Nightclub fire, five charged in the Captain Nairac murder, twenty-one coloured youths arrested in connection with a spate of street robberies in South-East London, twenty-three million watch the Royal Windsor Show
.
‘Daft cunts,’ laughs Ellis.
I wind down the window and lean my head into the breeze as we pick up speed and head out on to the M62.
‘You know the fucking way?’ shouts Detective Inspector Rudkin from the back.
I close my eyes; 10CC and ELO all the way.
Somewhere over the Moors, I wake with a start.
The radio’s off.
Silence.
I stare at the cars and lorries on either side of us, the Moors beyond, and it’s difficult to think of anything else.
‘You should’ve seen it last February when I drove over with Bob Craven.’ Rudkin’s stuck his head between the front seats. ‘Got caught in a fucking blizzard. Couldn’t see owt but two foot in front. Fucking frightening it was. I swear you could hear them. We were shitting bloody bricks.’
Ellis glances from the road to Rudkin.
I say, ‘Alf Hill was one of the top men, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye. He was first to interview her. It was his men found the tapes and all.’
‘Fuck,’ whistles Ellis.
‘Hates her more than Brady.’
We’re all staring out across the Moors, at the sunshine shining silver, the dark patches of sudden cloud, the unmarked graves.
‘Never ends,’ says Rudkin, sitting back. ‘Never fucking ends.’
Half-nine and we’re pulling into the car park of the Lancashire HQ in Preston.
Detective Inspector Rudkin sighs and puts on his jacket. Trepare to be bored shitless.’
Inside, Rudkin does the talking at the desk as we shake hands, mention mutual friends, and walk up the stairs to Alf Hill’s office.
The uniformed Sergeant knocks on the door and we enter.
Detective Chief Superintendent Hill is a small man who looks like Old Man Steptoe after a rough night. He’s coughing into a dirty handkerchief.
‘Sit down,’ he spits into the cloth.
No-one shakes hands.
‘Back again,’ he grins at Rudkin.
‘Like a bad bloody penny, aren’t I?’
‘Wouldn’t say that John, wouldn’t say that. Always a pleasure, never a chore.’
Rudkin edges forward in his chair. ‘Anything new?’
‘On Clare Strachan? Not that springs to mind, no.’
He starts coughing again, pulls out the handkerchief, and eventually says, ‘You’re busy men I know, busy men. So let’s get on with it.’
We all stand up and head down the corridor to what I presume is their Murder Room, doors closing on either side of us as we go.
It’s a big room with big windows and a view of the hills above them and I’m pretty sure they had some of the Birmingham Pub Bombers here.
Alfred Hill pulls open a cabinet drawer. ‘Just where you left her,’ he smiles.
Rudkin is nodding.
There are other detectives in the room, sitting in their shirtsleeves smoking, the pictures of their dead watching, turning yellow.
Their lot, they eye us like we’d eye them.
Hill turns to one fat man with a moustache and tells him, ‘These lads are over from Leeds, reviewing Clare Strachan. If they need anything, give it to them. Anything at all.’
The man nods and goes back to the end of his cigarette.
‘Be sure to look in yeah, look in before you go,’ says Alf Hill as he heads off back down the corridor.
‘Thanks,’ we all say.
When he’s gone, Rudkin turns to the fat man and says, ‘You heard him Frankie, so go get us some pop or something cold. And leave your fags behind.’
‘Fuck off, Rudkin,’ laughs Frankie, tossing his JPS over to him.
Rudkin sits down, turns to me and Ellis and says, ‘Best get to work, lads.’
Clare Strachan: twenty-six going on sixty-two.
Bloated and fucked before he even got to her.
Married twice, two kids up in Glasgow.
Previous convictions for soliciting:
A complete wreck of a human being
, said the judge.
Wound up in St Mary’s hostel, Preston, living with fellow prostitutes, drug addicts, and alcoholics.
On Thursday 20 November 1975, Clare had had sex with three different men, only one of whom had ever been traced.
And eliminated.
The morning of Friday 21 November 1975, Clare was dead. Eliminated.
A boot up her cunt, a coat over her head.
I look up at Rudkin and say, ‘I want to go to the hostel, then the garages.’
Ellis has stopped writing.
‘What for?’ sighs Rudkin.
‘Can’t picture it.’
‘You don’t want to,’ he says, putting out his cig.
We tell the Sergeant on the desk where we’re going and walk back out into the car park.
Frankie comes tearing out after us. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he pants.
‘You’re all right,’ says Rudkin.
‘Boss says I better. Show some hospitality.’
‘Going to spring for lunch are you?’
‘Think we could manage something, aye.’
‘Magic,’ grins Rudkin.
Ellis is nodding along like,
this is the fucking fast lane
.
Me, I feel sick.
St Mary’s hostel is one hundred years old or more, up the road from Preston Station.
Blood and Fire
, tattooed into the wall above the door.
‘Any of the same staff still working here?’ I ask Frankie.
‘Doubt it.’
‘What about residents?’
‘You’re joking? Couldn’t find anyone a week later.’
We walk through a dim stinking corridor and peer into the reception cubicle.
A man with lank greasy hair to his shoulders is writing with a radio on.
He looks up, pushes his black NHS frames back up his nose, and sniffs. ‘Help you?’
‘Police,’ says Frankie.
‘Yeah,’ he nods, like,
what the fuck they done now?
‘Ask you a few questions?’
‘Yeah, sure. What about?’
‘Clare Strachan. Where can we talk?’
He stands up. ‘Lounge through there,’ he points.
Rudkin leads the way into another shitty room, draughty windows and rotting sofas covered in cig burns and dried food.
Frankie keeps going, ‘And you are?’
‘Colin Minton.’
‘You the warden?’
‘Deputy. Tony Hollis is the senior warden.’
‘Is Tony about?’
‘He’s on holiday’
Softly-softly: ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Blackpool.’
‘Close.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sit down,’ says Frankie.
‘I wasn’t here when that happened,’ says Colin suddenly, like he’s had enough of this already.
Rudkin takes over: ‘Who was here?’
‘Dave Roberts and Roger Kennedy, and Gillian someone or other I think.’
‘They still about?’
‘Not here, no.’
‘They still work for Council?’
‘No idea, sorry.’
‘Did you ever work with them?’
‘Just Dave.’
‘He talk about Clare Strachan and what happened?’
‘A bit, yeah.’
‘Can you remember anything he said?’
‘Like what?’
It’s Frankie’s town so we don’t say anything when he starts up again, saying, ‘Anything. About Clare Strachan, the murder, anything at all?’
‘Well, said she was mad like.’
‘What way?’
‘Crazy. Should have been in hospital, what Dave said.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Used to stare out the window and bark at the trains.’
Ellis says, ‘Bark?’
‘Aye, bark like a dog.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’
Rudkin catches my eye and I take over with, ‘Dave say anything about boyfriends, stuff like that?’
‘Well I mean, she was on game like.’
‘Right,’ I nod.
‘And he said she was always pissed and she’d let all the blokes here have it off with her and there’d sometimes be fighting and stuff because of her.’
‘How was that?’
‘I don’t know, you’d have to ask them that were here, but like there was some that’d get jealous.’
‘And she wasn’t right choosey, yeah?’
‘No. Not very.’
‘She was fucking the staff and all,’ says Rudkin.
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ he says. ‘Afternoon she was murdered she’d had a session with your man Kennedy, Roger Kennedy’
Colin doesn’t say anything.
Rudkin leans forward and smiles, ‘Still go on, that kind of thing?’
‘No,’ says Colin.
‘You’ve gone red,’ laughs Rudkin, standing up.
I say, ‘Which was her room?’
‘I don’t know. But I can show you upstairs.’
‘Please.’
Just me and Colin go upstairs.
At the top I say, ‘None of the same residents still here?’
‘No,’ he says but then, ‘Actually, hang on.’
He goes to the end of the long narrow corridor and bangs on a door, then opens it. He talks to someone inside and then beckons me over.
The room is bare and bright, sunlight across an empty chair and table, across a man lying on a little bed, his face to the wall, his back to me and the door.
Colin gestures at the seat, saying, ‘This is Walter. Walter Kendall. He knew Clare Strachan.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Fraser, Mr Kendall. I’m with Leeds CID and we’re looking into a possible link between the murder of Clare Strachan and a recent crime in Leeds.’
Colin Minton is nodding, staring at Walter Kendall’s back.
‘Colin here, he says you knew Clare Strachan,’ I continue. ‘I’d be very grateful for anything you can tell me about Miss Strachan or the time of her murder.’
Walter Kendall doesn’t move.
I look at Colin Minton and say, ‘Mr Kendall?’
Slowly and clearly, his face still to the wall, Walter says, ‘I remember the Wednesday night, Thursday morning, I woke to terrible screams coming from Clare’s room. Real bellowing cries. I got out of bed and ran down the corridor. She was in the room at the top of the stairs. The door was locked and I banged on it for a good five minutes before it opened. She was alone in the room, drenched in sweat and tears. I asked her what had happened, was she all right. She said it was just a dream. A dream, I said. What kind of dream? She said she’d dreamt there was a tremendous weight upon her chest, forcing the air from her lungs, pushing the very life from her, and all she could think was she’d never see her daughters again. I said it must have been something she’d eaten, nonsense I didn’t even mean, but what can you say? Clare just smiled and said she’d had the same dream every night for almost a year.’
Outside a train rattles past, shaking the room.
‘She asked me to stay the night with her and I lay on top of the covers, stroking her hair and asking her to marry me like I often had before, but she just laughed and said she’d only bring me trouble. I said, what did I care about trouble, but she didn’t want me. Not like that.’
My mouth’s dry, the room baking.
‘She knew she was going to die, Sergeant Fraser. Knew they’d find her one day. Find her and kill her.’
‘Who? What do you mean, kill her?’
‘First day I met her, she was drunk and I didn’t think much of it. I mean, you hear so many tall stories in a place like this. But she was persistent, insistent:
They’re going to find me and when they do, they’ll kill me
. And she was right.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Kendall, but I’m not clear. She say who exactly was going to kill her or why?’
‘The police.’
‘The police? She said the police were going to kill her?’
‘The Special Police. That’s what she said.’
‘The Special Police?
Why?’
‘Because of something she’d seen, something she knew, or something they thought she’d seen or knew.’
‘Did she elaborate?’
‘No. Wouldn’t. Said it just meant others would be in the same boat as her.’