1974

Part 1
Chapter 1

Friday 13 December 1974.

All we ever get is Lord fucking Lucan and wingless bloody crows,” smiled Gilman, like this was the best day of our lives.

Waiting for my first Front Page, the Byline Boy at last: Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent; two days too fucking late.

I looked at my father’s watch.

· AM and no bugger had been to bed; straight from the Press Club, still stinking of ale, into this hell:

The Conference Room, Millgarth Police Station, Leeds.

The whole bloody pack sat waiting for the main attraction, pens poised and tapes paused; hot TV lights and cigarette smoke lighting up the windowless room like a Town Hall boxing ring on a Late Night Fight Night; the paper boys taking it out on the TV set, the radios static and playing it deaf:

“They got sweet FA.”

“A quid says she’s dead if they got George on it.”

Khalid Aziz at the back, no sign of Jack.

I felt a nudge. It was Gilman again, Gilman from the Man chester Evening News and before.

“Sorry to hear about your old man, Eddie.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, thinking news really did travel fucking fast.

“When’s the funeral?”

I looked at my father’s watch again. “In about two hours.”

“Jesus. Hadden still taking his pound of bloody flesh then.”

“Yeah,” I said, knowing, funeral or no funeral, no way I’m letting Jack fucking Whitehead back in on this one.

“I’m sorry, like.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Seconds out:

A side door opens, everything goes quiet, everything goes slow. First a detective and the father, then Detective Chief Super intendent George Oldman, last a policewoman with the mother.

I pressed record on the Philips Pocket Memo as they took their seats behind the plastic-topped tables at the front, shuffling papers, touching glasses of water, looking anywhere but up.

In the blue corner:

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, a face from before, a big man amongst big men, thick black hair plastered back to look like less, a pale face streaked beneath the lights with a thousand burst blood vessels, the purple footprints of tiny spiders running across his bleached white cheeks to the slopes of his drunken nose.

Me thinking, his face, his people, his times.

And in the red corner:

The mother and the father in their crumpled clothes and greasy hair, him flicking at the dandruff on his collar, her fid dling with her wedding ring, both twitching at the bang and the wail of a microphone being switched on, looking for all the world more the sinners than the sinned against.

Me thinking, did you do your own daughter?

The policewoman put her hand upon the mother’s arm, the mother turned, staring at her until the policewoman looked away.

Round One:

Oldman tapped on the microphone and coughed:

“Thank you for coming gentlemen. It’s been a long night for everyone, especially Mr and Mrs Kemplay, and it’s going to be a long day. So we’ll keep this brief.”

Oldman took a sip from a glass of water.

“At about 4 PM yesterday evening, 12 December, Clare Kemplay disappeared on her way home from Morley Grange Junior and Infants, Morley. Clare left school with two classmates at a quarter to four. At the junction of Rooms Lane and Victoria Road, Clare said goodbye to her friends and was last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home at approxi mately four o’clock. This was the last time anyone saw Clare.”

The father was looking at Oldman.

“When Clare failed to return home, a search was launched early yesterday evening by the Morley Police, along with the help of Mr and Mrs Kemplay’s friends and neighbours, however, as yet, no clue has been found as to the nature of Clare’s disap-pearance. Clare has never gone missing before and we are obviously very concerned as to her whereabouts and safety.”

Oldman touched the glass again but let it go.

“Clare is ten years old. She is fair and has blue eyes and long straight hair. Last night Clare was wearing an orange waterproof kagool, a dark blue turtleneck sweater, pale blue denim trousers with a distinctive eagle motif on the back left pocket and red Wellington boots. When Clare left school, she was carrying a plastic Co-op carrier bag containing a pair of black gym shoes.”

Oldman held up an enlarged photograph of a smiling girl, saying, “Copies of this recent school photograph will be distri buted at the end.”

Oldman took another sip of water.

Chairs scraped, papers rustled, the mother sniffed, the father stared.

“Mrs Kemplay would now like to read a short statement in the hope that any member of the public who may have seen Clare after four o’clock yesterday evening, or who may have any information regarding Clare’s whereabouts or her disap pearance, will come forward to assist us in our investigation. Thank you.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman gently turned the microphone towards Mrs Kemplay.

Camera flashes exploded across the Conference Room, start ling the mother and leaving her blinking into our faces.

I looked down at my notebook and the wheels turning the tape inside the Philips Pocket Memo.

“I would like to appeal to anybody who knows where my Clare is or who saw her after yesterday teatime to please tele phone the police. Clare is a very happy girl and I know she would never just run off without telling me. Please, if you know where she is or if you’ve seen her, please telephone the police.”

A strangled cough, then silence.

I looked up.

Mrs Kemplay had her hands to her mouth, her eyes closed.

Mr Kemplay stood up and then sat back down, as Oldman said:

“Gentlemen, I have given you all the information we have at the moment and I’m afraid we haven’t got time to take any questions right now. We’ve scheduled another press conference for five, unless there are any developments before then. Thank you gentlemen.”

Chairs scraped, papers rustled, murmurs became mutters, whispers words.

Any developments, fuck.

“Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all for now.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman stood up and turned to go but no-one else at the table moved. He turned back into the glare of the TV lights, nodding at journalists he couldn’t see.

“Thank you, lads.”

I looked down at the notebook again, the wheels still turning the tape, seeing any developments face down in a ditch in an orange waterproof kagool.

I looked back up, the other detective was lifting Mr Kemplay up by his elbow and Oldman was holding open the side door for Mrs Kemplay, whispering something to her, making her blink.

“Here you go.” A heavy detective in a good suit was passing along copies of the school photograph.

I felt a nudge. It was GUman again.

“Doesn’t look so fucking good does it?”

“No,” I said, Clare Kemplay’s face smiling up at me.

“Poor cow. What must she be going through, eh?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at my father’s watch, my wrist cold.

“Here, you’d better fuck off hadn’t you.”

“Yeah.”

The M1, Motorway One, South from Leeds to Ossett.

Pushing my father’s Viva a fast sixty in the rain, the radio rocking to the Rollers’ Shcmg-a-lang.

Seven odd miles, chanting the copy like a mantra:

A mother made an emotional plea.

The mother of missing ten-year-old Clare Kemplay made an emotional plea.

Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional plea as fears grew.

Emotional pleas, growing fears.

I pulled up outside my mother’s house on Wesley Street, Ossett, at ten to ten, wondering why the Rollers hadn’t covered The Little Drummer Boy, thinking get it done and done right.

Into the phone:

“OK, sorry. Do the lead paragraph again and then it’s done. Right then: Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional plea this morning for the safe return of her daughter, Clare, as fears grew for the missing Morley ten-year-old.”

“New para: Clare went missing on her way home from school in Morley early yesterday evening and an intensive police search throughout the night has so far failed to yield any clue as to Clare’s whereabouts.”

“OK. Then it’s as it was before…”

“Thanks, love…”

“No, I’ll be through by then and it’ll take my mind off things…”

“See you Kath, bye.”

I replaced the receiver and checked my father’s watch:

Ten past ten.

I walked down the hall to the back room, thinking it’s done and done right.

Susan, my sister, was standing by the window with a cup of tea, looking out on the back garden and the drizzle. My Aunty Margaret was sat at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. Aunty Madge was in the rocking chair, balancing a cup of tea in her lap. No-one sat in my father’s chair by the cupboard.

“You all done then?” said Susan, not turning round.

“Yeah. Where’s Mum?”

“She’s upstairs, love, getting ready,” said Aunty Margaret standing up, picking up her cup and saucer. “Can I get you a fresh cup?”

“No, I’m OK thanks.”

“The cars’ll be here soon,” said Aunty Madge to no-one.

I said, “I best go and get ready.”

“All right, love. You go on then. I’ll have a nice cup of tea for you when you come down.” Aunty Margaret went through into the kitchen.

“Do you think Mum’s finished in the bathroom?”

“Why don’t you ask her,” said my sister to the garden and the rain.

Up the stairs, two at a time like before; a shit, a shave, and a shower and I’d be set, thinking a quick wank and a wash’d be better, suddenly wondering if my father could read my thoughts now.

The bathroom door was open, my mother’s door closed. In my room a clean white shirt lay freshly ironed on the bed, my father’s black tie next to it. I switched on the radio in the shape of a ship, David Essex promising to make me a star. I looked at my face in the wardrobe mirror and saw my mother standing in the doorway in a pink slip.

“I put a clean shirt and a tie on the bed for you.”

“Yeah, thanks Mum.”

“How’d it go this morning?”

“All right, you know.”

“It was on the radio first thing.”

“Yeah?” I said, fighting back the questions.

“Doesn’t sound so good does it?”

“No,” I said, wanting to lie.

“Did you see the mother?”

“Yeah.”

“Poor thing,” said my mother, closing the door behind her.

I sat down on the bed and the shirt, staring at the poster of Peter Lorimer on the back of the door.

Me thinking, ninety miles an hour.

The three car procession crawled down the Dewsbury Cutting, through the unlit Christmas lights in the centre of the town, and slowly back up the other side of the valley.

My father took the first car. My mother, my sister, and me were in the next, the last car jammed full of aunties, blood and fake. No-one was saying much in the first two cars.

The rain had eased by the time we reached the crematorium, though the wind still whipped me raw as I stood at the door, juggling handshakes and a cigarette that had been a fucker to light.

Inside, a stand-in delivered the eulogy, the family vicar too busy fighting his own battle with cancer on the very ward my father had vacated early Wednesday morning. So Super Sub gave us a eulogy to a man neither he nor we ever knew, mis taking my father for a joiner, not a tailor. And I sat there, outraged by the journalistic licence of it all, thinking these people had carpenters on the bloody brain.

Eyes front, I stared at the box just three steps from me, imagining a smaller white box and the Kemplays in black, won dering if the vicar would fuck that up too when they finally found her.

I looked down at my knuckles turning from red to white as they gripped the cold wooden pew, catching a glimpse of my father’s watch beneath my cuff, and felt a hand on my sleeve.

In the silence of the crematorium my mother’s eyes asked for some calm, saying at least that man is trying, that the details aren’t always so important. Next to her my sister, her make-up smudged and almost gone.

And then he was gone too.

I bent down to put the prayer book on the ground, thinking of Kathryn and that maybe I’d suggest a drink-after I’d written up the afternoon press conference. Maybe we’d go back to hers again. Anyway, there was no way we could back to mine, not tonight at any rate. Then thinking, there’s no fucking way the dead can read your thoughts.

Outside, I stood about juggling another set of handshakes and a cigarette, making sure the cars all knew the way back to my mother’s.

I got in the very last car and sat in more silence, unable to place any of the faces, or name any of the names. There was a moment’s panic as the driver took a different route back to Ossett, convincing me I’d joined the wrong fucking party. But then we were heading back up the Dewsbury Cutting, all the other passengers suddenly smiling at me like they’d all thought the exact same thing.

Back at the house, first things first:

Phone the office.

Nothing.

No news being bad news for the Kemplays and Clare, good news for me.

Twenty-four hours coming up, tick-tock.

Twenty-four hours meaning Clare dead.

I hung up, glanced at my father’s watch and wondered how long I’d have to stay amongst his kith and kin.

Give it an hour.

I walked back down the hall, the Byline Boy at last, bringing more death to the house of the dead.

“So this Southern bloke, his car breaks down up on Moors. He walks back to farm down road and knocks on door. Old farmer opens door and Southerner says, do you know where nearest garage is? Old farmer says no. So Southerner asks him if he knows way to town. Farmer says he don’t know. How about nearest telephone? Farmer says he don’t know. So South erner says, you don’t know bloody much do you. Old farmer says that’s as may be, but am not one that’s lost.”

Uncle Eric holding court, proud the only time he ever left Yorkshire was to kill Germans. Uncle Eric, who I’d seen kill a fox with a spade when I was ten.

I sat down on the arm of my father’s empty chair, thinking of seaview flats in Brighton, of Southern girls called Anna or Sophie, and of a misplaced sense of filial duty now half redundant.

“Bet you’re glad you came back, aren’t you lad?” winked Aunty Margaret, pushing another cup of tea into my palms.

I sat there in the middle of the crowded back room, my tongue on the roof of my mouth, trying to move the stuck white bread, glad of something to clear out the taste of warm and salty ham, wishing for a whisky and thinking of my father yet again; a man who’d signed the Pledge on his eighteenth birthday for no other reason than they asked.

“Well now, would you look at this.”

I was miles and years away and then suddenly aware my hour was at hand, feeling all their eyes on me.

My Aunty Madge was waving a paper around like she was after some bluebottle.

Me sat on the arm of that chair, feeling like the fly.

Some of my younger cousins had been out for sweets and had brought back the paper, my paper.

My mother grabbed the paper from Aunty Madge, turning the inside pages until she came to the Births and Deaths.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Is Dad in?” said Susan.

“No. Must be tomorrow,” replied my mother, looking at me with those sad, sad eyes.

“Mrs Sandra Kemplay made an emotional plea this morning for the safe return of her daughter.” My Aunt Edie from Altrincham had the paper now.

Emotional fucking pleas.

“By Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent. Well I say,” read Aunty Margaret over my Aunt Edie’s shoulder.

All around the room everyone began assuring me how proud my father would have been and how it was just such a pity he wasn’t here now to witness this great day, my great day.

“I read all stuff you did on that Ratcatcher bloke,” Uncle Eric was saying. “Strange one that one.”

The Ratcatcher, inside pages, crumbs from Jack fucking Whitehead’s table.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling and nodding my head this way and that, picturing my father sat in this empty chair by the cupboard reading the back page first.

There were pats on the back and then, for one brief moment, the paper was there in my hands and I looked down:

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.

I didn’t read another line.

Off the paper went again round the room, I saw my sister across the room sat on the windowsill, her eyes dosed, her hands to her mouth.

She opened her eyes and stared back at me. I tried to stand, to go over to her, but she stood up and left the room.

I wanted to follow her, to say:

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m sorry that it had to happen today of all days.

“We’ll be asking him for his autograph soon, won’t we,” laughed Aunty Madge, passing me a fresh cup.

“He’ll always be Little Eddie to me,” said Aunt Edie from Altrincham.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Doesn’t look so good though does it?” said Aunty Madge.

“No,” I lied.

“There’s been a couple now, haven’t there?” said Aunt Edie, a cup of tea in one hand, my hand in the other.

“Aye, going back a few years now. That little lass over in Castleford,” said my Aunty Madge.

“That is going back a bit, aye. There was that one not so long ago mind, over our way,” said Aunt Edie, taking a mouthful of tea.

“Aye, in Rochdale. I remember that one,” said Aunty Madge, lightening her grip on her saucer.

“Never found her,” sighed Aunt Edie.

“Really?” I said.

“Never caught no-one either.”

“Never do though, do they,” said Aunty Madge to the whole room.

“I can remember a time when these sorts of things never happened.”

“Thems in Manchester were the first.”

“Aye,” muttered Aunt Edie, letting go of my hand.

“Evil they were, just plain bloody evil,” whispered Aunty Madge.

“And to think there’s them that’d have her walking about like nowt was wrong.”

“Some folk are just plain daft.”

“Short memories an’ all,” said Aunt Edie, looking out at the garden and the rain.

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door.

Cats and bloody dogs.

Motorway One back to Leeds, lorry-thick and the going slow. Pushing the Viva a hard sixty-five in the rain, as good as it got.

Local radio:

“The search continues for missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay, as fears grow…”

A glance at the clock told me what I already knew: 4 PM meant time was against me, meant time was against her, meant no time to do background checks on missing kids, meant no questions at the five o’clock press conference.

Shit, shit, shit.

Coming off the motorway fast, I weighed up the pros and cons of asking my questions blind, right there and then at the five o’clock, with nothing but two old ladies behind me.

Two kids missing, Castleford and Rochdale, no dates, only maybes.

Long shots in the dark.

Punch a button, national radio; sixty-seven dismissed from the Kentish Times and the Slough Evening Mail, NUJ Provincial Journalists set to strike from 1 January.

Edward Dunford, Provincial Journalist.

Long shots kick de bucket.

I saw Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman’s face, I saw my editor’s face, and I saw a Chelsea flat with a beautiful Southern girl called Sophie or Anna closing the door.

You might be balding but it’s not fucking Kojak.

I parked behind Millgarth Police Station as they were packing up the market, gutters full of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit, thinking play it safe or play it scoop?

I squeezed the steering wheel, offering up a prayer:

LET NO OTHER FUCKER ASK THE QUESTION.

I knew it for what it was, a prayer.

The engine dead, another prayer from the steering wheel:

DON’T FUCK UP.

Up the steps and through the double doors, back into Millgarth Police Station.

Muddy floors and yellow lights, drunken songs and short fuses.

I flashed my Press Card at the desk, the Sergeant flashed back a mustard smile:

“Cancelled. Press Office rang round.”

“You’re joking? Why?”

“No news. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” I grinned, thinking no questions asked.

The Sergeant winced.

I glanced around, opened my wallet. “What’s the SP?”

He took the wallet out of my hand, plucked out a fiver, and handed it back. “That’ll do nicely, sir.”

“So?”

“Nowt.”

“That was a fucking fiver.”

“So a fiver says she’s dead.”

“Hold the fucking Front Page,” I said, walking back out. “Give my best to Jack.”

“Fuck off.”

“Who loves you baby?”

Back in the office.

Barry Gannon behind his boxes, George Greaves face down on his desk, Gaz from Sport talking shit.

No sign of Jack fucking Whitehead.

Thank Christ.

Shit, so where the fuck was he?

Paranoid:

I’m Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Corres pondent and it says so on every fucking Evening Post.

“How did it go?” Kathryn Taylor, fresh curls to her fringe and an ugly cream sweater, standing up behind her desk and then sitting straight back down.

“Like a dream.”

“Like a dream?”

“Yeah. Perfect.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.

She was frowning. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” She looked utterly lost.

“It was cancelled. They’re still searching. Got nothing,” I said, emptying my pockets on to her desk.

“I meant the funeral.”

“Oh.” I picked up my cigarettes.

Telephones were ringing, typewriters clattering.

Kathryn was looking at my notebook on her desk. “So what do they think?”

I took off my jacket and picked up her coffee and lit a cigarette, all in one move. “She’s dead. Listen, is the boss in a meeting?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“I want him to get me an interview with George Oldman. Tomorrow morning, before the press conference.”

Kathryn picked up my notebook and began spinning it between her fingers. “You’ll be lucky.”

“Will you speak to Hadden. He likes you,” I said, taking the notebook from her.

“You’re joking?”

I needed facts, hard fucking facts.

“Barry!” I shouted over the telephones, the typewriters, and Kathryn’s head. “When you’ve got a minute, can I have a quick word?”

Barry Cannon from behind his fortress of files, “If I must.”

“Cheers.” I was suddenly aware of Kathryn’s eyes on me.

She looked angry. “She’s dead?”

“If it bleeds, it leads,” I said, walking over to Barry’s desk and hating myself.

I turned back. “Please, Kath?”

She stood up and left the room.

Fuck.

Tip to tip, I lit another cigarette.

Barry Cannon, skinny, single, and obsessed, papers every where, covered in figures.

I crouched down beside his desk.

Barry Cannon was chewing his pen. “So?”

“Unsolved missing kids. One in Castleford and one in Roch dale? Maybe.”

“Yeah. Rochdale I’d have to check, but the one in Castleford was 1969. Moon landings. Jeanette Garland.”

Bells ringing. “And they never found her?”

“No.” Barry took the end of the pen from his mouth, staring at me.

“Police have anything at all?”

“Doubt it.”

“Cheers. I’d better get to it then.”

“Mention it,” he winked.

I stood up. “How’s Dawsongate?”

“Fuck knows.” Barry Cannon, not smiling, looking back down at the papers and the figures, chewing the end of his pen.

Fuck.

I took the hint. “Cheers, Barry.”

I was halfway back to my desk, Kathryn coming into the office hiding a smile, when Barry shouted, “You going to the Press Club later?”

“If I get through all this.”

“If I think of anything else, I’ll see you there.”

More surprised than grateful. “Cheers Barry. Appreciate it.”

Kathryn Taylor, no trace of a smile. “Mr Hadden will see his North of England Crime Correspondent at seven sharp.”

“And when do you want to see your North of England Crime Correspondent?”

“In the Press Club, I suppose. If I must.” She smiled.

“You must,” I winked.

Down the corridor, into records.

Yesterday’s news.

Through the metal drawers, into the boxes.

A thousand Ruby Tuesdays.

I grabbed the reels, took a seat at a screen, and threaded through the microfilm.

July 1969.

I let the film fly by:

B Specials, Bernadette Devlin, Wallace Lawler, and In Place of Strife.

Wilson, Wilson, Wilson; like Ted had never been.

The Moon and Jack fucking Whitehead were everywhere.

Me in Brighton, two thousand light years from home.

Missing.

Bingo.

I started to write.

“So I went back through all the files, spoke to a couple of the lads, rang Manchester, and I think we’ve got something,” I said, wishing my editor would look up from the pile of Spot the bloody Ball photos on his desk.

Bill Hadden picked up a magnifying glass and asked, “Did you talk to Jack?”

“He’s not been in.” Thank Christ.

I shifted in my seat and stared out of the window, ten floors up, across a black Leeds.

“So what exactly have you got?” Hadden was stroking his silver beard, peering through the magnifying glass at the photo graphs.

“Three very similar cases…”

“In a nutshell?”

“Three missing girls. One aged eight, the others both ten. 1969,1972, yesterday. All of them went missing within yards of their homes, within miles of each other. It’s Cannock Chase all over again.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Fingers crossed.”

“I was being sarcastic. Sorry.”

“Oh.” I shifted in my seat again.

Hadden continued to peer through the glass at the black and white photographs.

I looked at my father’s watch; eight bleeding thirty.

“So what do you think?” Not hiding my irritation.

Hadden held up a black and white photograph of some footballers, one of them Gordon McQueen, going up for a cross. There was no ball. “Do you ever do these things?”

“No,” I lied, disliking the game we were about to play.

“Spot the Ball,” Bill Hadden, editor, said, “is the reason thirty-nine per cent of working-class males buy this paper. What do you think of that?”

Say yes, say no, but spare me this.

“Interesting,” I lied again, thinking the exact fucking opposite, thinking thirty-nine per cent of working-class males have been having some fun with your researchers.

“So what do you honestly think?” Hadden was looking back down at some other photographs.

Caught off guard, genuinely dumb. “About what?”

Hadden looked up again. “Do you seriously think it could be the same man?”

“Yeah. Yes, I do.”

“All right,” said Hadden and put down the magnifying glass. “Chief Superintendent Oldman will see you tomorrow. He won’t thank you for any of this. The last thing he wants is some bloody Kiddie-Catcher scare. He’ll ask you not to write the story, you’ll agree, and he’ll appear grateful. And a grateful Detective Chief Superintendent is something every North of England Crime Correspondent should have.”

“But…” My hand was up in the air and it felt stupid there.

“But then you’ll go ahead and prepare all the background on the two Rochdale and Castleford girls. Interview the families, if they’ll see you.”

“But why, if…”

Bill Hadden smiled. “Human interest, five years on or what ever. And so then, if you are right about all this, we won’t be left back in the starting stalls.”

“I see,” I said with the Christmas present I’d always wanted, but in the wrong size and colour.

“But don’t push George Oldman tomorrow,” said Hadden, edging his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “This paper has an excellent relationship with our new West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Force. I’d like to keep it that way, especially now.”

“Of course.” Thinking, especially now?

Bill Hadden leant back in his big leather chair, arms behind his head. “You know as well as I do that this whole thing could blow over tomorrow and, even if it doesn’t, it’ll be buried by Christmas anyway.”

I stood up, reading my cue, thinking you’re so wrong.

My editor picked up his magnifying glass again. “Still getting letters on the Ratcatcher. Good stuff.”

“Thank you, Mr Hadden.” I opened the door.

“You really ought to have a go at one of these,” said Hadden, tapping a photograph. “Right up your street.”

“Thank you, I will.” I closed the door.

From behind the door, “And don’t forget to talk to Jack.”

One two three four, down the stairs and through the door:

The Press Club, in the sights of the two stone lions, Leeds City Centre.

The Press Club, gone eleven, Christmas busy from here on in.

The Press Club, members only.

Edward Dunford, member, down the stairs and through the door. Kathryn at the bar, an unknown drunk at her ear, her eyes on me.

The drunk slurs, “And one lion says to other, rucking quiet isn’t it?”

I looked to the real stage and a woman in a feather dress belting out We’ve Only Just Begun. Two steps this way, two steps that way, the world’s smallest stage.

Excitement shrinking my stomach, swelling my chest, a Scotch and water in my hand beneath the tinsel and the fairy lights, a pocketful of notes, thinking THIS IS IT.

From out of the reds and the black, Barry Cannon raised a fag hand. Taking my drink and leaving Kathryn, I went over to Barry’s table.

“First Wilson gets burgled then, two days later, John fucking Stonehouse vanishes.” Barry Cannon decrees to the dumb, holding court.

“Don’t forget Lucky either,” smirked George Greaves, old hand.

“And what about bloody Watergate?” laughed Gaz from Sport, bored of Barry.

I stole a seat. Nods all round: Barry, George, Gaz and Paul Kelly. Fat Bernard and Tom from Bradford two tables down, Jack’s mates.

Barry finished his pint. “Everything’s linked. Show me two things that aren’t connected.”

“Stoke City and the League fucking Championship,” laughed Gaz again, Mr Sport, lighting up another.

“Big match tomorrow, eh?” I said, part-time football fan.

Gaz, real anger in his eyes. “Be a right fucking shambles if it’s owt like last week.”

Barry stood up. “Anyone want anything from the bar?”

Nods and grunts all round, Gaz and George up for another night talking Leeds United, Paul Kelly looking at his watch, shaking his head.

I stood up, downing my Scotch. “I’ll give you a hand.”

Back at the bar, Kathryn down the other end talking to the barman and Steph the typist.

Barry Cannon, straight out of nowhere, “What’s your plan then?”

“Hadden’s fixed me up an interview with George Oldman for tomorrow morning.”

“So why aren’t you smiling?”

“He doesn’t want me to push the unsolveds with Oldman, just get some background shit together, try and interview the families, if they’ll see me.”

“Merry Christmas Mr and Mrs Parents of the Missing, Pre sumed Dead. Santa Eddie, bringing it all back home.”

Down pat: “They’ll be following Clare Kemplay. Be right back there anyway.”

“In fact you’ll be helping them. Catharsis.” Barry smiled for a second, looking round the room.

“They’re linked, I know it.”

“But to what? Three pints and a…”

Not following, catching up late, “A Scotch and water.”

“And a Scotch and water.” Barry Cannon was looking down the bar at Kathryn. “You’re a lucky man, Dunford.”

Me, guilt and nerves jangling, too much Scotch, too little Scotch, the conversation strange. “What do you mean? What do you think?”

“How long you got?”

Fuck you, too tired to play the game. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

But Barry had turned his back to talk to some kid at the bar, pencil thin in a fat maroon suit with an orange feather cut; nervous black eyes darted my way over Barry’s left shoulder.

Bad fucking Bowie.

I tried to listen in but the Feather Dress upon the small stage lurched into Don’t Forget to Remember.

I looked to the ceiling, I looked to the floor, and back to the bar.

“Having a nice time?” Kathryn’s eyes were tired.

Me thinking, here it comes. “You know Barry. Gets a bit obtuse,” I whispered.

“Obtuse? There’s a big word for you.”

Ignoring one piece of bait, falling for another, “How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Having a good time?”

“Oh I love standing alone at a bar twelve days before Christmas.”

“You’re not alone.”

“Was until Steph came.”

“You could’ve come over.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“That’s pathetic.” I smiled.

“Go on then, since you’re asking. I’ll have a vodka.”

“Think I’ll join you.”

The cold air didn’t help much.

“I love you,” I was saying, unable to stay upright.

“Come on love, taxi’s here.” A woman’s voice, Kathryn’s.

The pine-scented air-freshener didn’t help much either.

“I love you,” I was saying.

“He better not puke,” shouted the Paki driver over his shoulder.

I could smell his sweat amongst the pine.

“I love you,” I was saying.

Her mother was sleeping, her father was snoring, and I was on my knees on their toilet floor.

Kathryn opened the door and switched on the light and bought another piece of me.

It hurt and it burned as it all came up, but I didn’t want it to ever stop. And, when it finally did, I stared a long time at the whisky and the ham, at the bits in the bog and the bits on the floor.

Kathryn put her hands on my shoulders.

I tried to place the voice in my head saying, you’ve actu ally got people feeling sorry for him, I never thought that was possible.

Kathryn moved her hands into my armpits.

I didn’t want to ever stand again. And, when I finally did, I started to cry.

“Come on love,” she whispered.

I awoke three times in the night from the same dream.

Each time thinking, I’m safe now, I’m safe now, go back to sleep.

Each time the same dream: a woman on a terraced street, clutching a red cardigan tight around her, screaming ten years of noise into my face.

Each time a crow, or some such big black bird, came out of a sky a thousand shades of grey and clawed through her pretty blonde hair.

Each time chasing her down the street, after her eyes.

Each time frozen, waking cold, tears on the pillow.

Each time, Clare Kemplay smiling down from the dark ceiling.