1974

Chapter 2

· 55 a.m., Saturday 14 December 1974.

I was sitting in the Millgarth office of Detective Chief Super intendent George Oldman, feeling like dogshit. It was a bare room. No photographs, no certificates, no trophies.

The door opened. The black hair, the white face, the hand outstretched, the grip tight.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr Dunford. How’s Jack Whitehead and that boss of yours?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, sitting back down.

No smile. “Sit down, son. Cup of tea?”

I swallowed and said, “Please. Thank you.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman sat down, flipped a switch on his desk and breathed into the intercom: “Julie, love. Two cups of tea when you’re ready.”

That face and that hair, up close and near, a melted black plastic bag dripped over a bowl of flour and lard.

I ground my back teeth down tight together.

Behind him, through the grey windows of Millgarth Police Station, a weak sun caught on the oil in his hair.

I felt sick.

“Sir,” I swallowed again. “Chief Superintendent…”

His tiny shark eyes were all over me. “Go on, son,” he winked.

“I was wondering if, well if there was any news?”

“Nothing,” he boomed. “Thirty-six hours and fuck all. Hundred bloody uniforms, relatives and locals. Nothing.”

“What’s your personal…”

“Dead, Mr Dunford. That poor little lass is dead.”

“I was wondering what you…”

“These are violent bloody times, son.”

“Yes,” I said weakly, thinking, so how come you only ever arrest gyppos, nutters, and Paddies.

“Best result now is to find the body quick.”

My guts coming back, “What do you think…”

“Can’t do bugger all without a body. Helps the family too, in long road.”

“So what will…”

“Check the bins, see who’s got themselves an early away day.” He was almost smiling, thinking about winking again.

I fought for my breath. “What about Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman half opened his mouth, running a fat, wet, purple and yellow tongue along his thin lower lip.

I thought I was going to shit myself right there and then in the middle of his office.

George Oldman reeled in his tongue and closed his mouth, the tiny black eyes staring into my own.

There was a soft knock at the door and Julie brought in two cups of tea on a cheap floral tray.

George Oldman, eyes on me, smiled and said, “Thank you, Julie love.”

Julie closed the door on her way out.

Unsure I still had the power of speech, I began to mutter, “Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard both went…”

“I know what bloody happened, Mr Dunston.”

“Well, I was just wondering, thinking back -to Cannock Chase…”

“What the fuck do you know about Cannock Chase?”

“The similarity…”

Oldman brought his fist down on to the desk. “Raymond Morris has been under lock and fucking key since nineteen bloody sixty-eight.”

I was staring at the two small white cups on the desjc, watching them rattle. As calmly and as evenly as I could, I said, “I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is that, in that case, three little girls were murdered and it turned out to be the work of one man.”

George Oldman leant forward, his arms on the desk, and sneered, “Those little lasses were raped and murdered, God help them. And their bodies were found.”

“But, you said…”

“I don’t have any bodies, Mr Dunfield.”

Again, I swallowed and said, “But Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard have been missing for over…”

“You think you’re the only cunt putting that together, you vain little twat,” said Oldman quietly, taking a mouthful of tea, eyes on me. “My senile bloody mother could.”

“I was only wondering what you thought…”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman slapped his thighs and sat back. “So what have we got, according to you?” he smiled. “Three missing girls. Same age, or near enough. No bodies. Castleford and…”

“Rochdale,” I whispered.

“Rochdale, and now Morley. About three years between each disappearance?” he said, raising a thin eyebrow my way.

I nodded.

Oldman picked up a typed sheet of paper from his desk. “Well, how about these?” he said and tossed the paper over the desk on to the floor by my feet, reciting by heart: “Helen Shore, Samantha Davis, Jackie Morris, Lisa Langley, Nichola Hale, Louise Walker, Karen Anderson.”

I picked up the list.

“Missing, the bloody lot of them. And that’s just since the start of ‘73,” said Oldman. “A little bit older, I’ll grant you. But they were all under fifteen when they went missing.”

“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, holding out the paper across the desk.

“Keep it. Write a bloody story about them.”

A telephone buzzed on the desk, a light flashed. Oldman sighed and pushed one of the white cups across the desk towards me. “Drink up ‘fore it gets cold.”

I did as I was told and picked up the cup, drinking it down in one cold mouthful.

“To be blunt son, I don’t like inexactitudes and I don’t like newspapers. You’ve got your job to do…”

Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, off the ropes with a second wind. “I don’t think you’re going to find a body.”

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman smiled. I looked down into my empty teacup.

Oldman stood up, laughing, “See that in your bleeding tea-leaves do you?”

I put the cup and saucer on the desk, folded up the typed list of names.

The telephone buzzed again.

Oldman walked over to the door and opened it. “You do your digging and I’ll do mine.”

I was standing up, legs and stomach weak. “Thank you for your time.”

He gripped my shoulder hard at the door. “You know, Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunston.”

“Thank you,” I said with all the courage I could muster, thinking, at least then one of us would be.

Oldman suddenly tightened his grip, reading my thoughts. “Have we met before son?”

“A long time ago,” I said, loose with a struggle.

The telephone on the desk buzzed and flashed again, long and hard.

“Not a word,” said Oldman, ushering me through the door. “Not a bloody word.”

“They’d hacked the wings off. Fucking swan was still alive an’ all,” smiled Gilman from the Manchester Evening News as I took my seat downstairs.

“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford, leaning over from the row behind.

“No. Took the wings clean off and left the poor bastard just lying there.”

“Fuck,” whistled Tom from Bradford.

I glanced round the Conference Room, boxing thoughts hitting me all over again, but this time no TV, no radio. The hot lights were off, allcomers welcome.

Only the Paper Lads here.

I felt a nudge to the ribs. It was Gilman again.

“How was yesterday?”

“Oh, you know…”

“Fuck, yeah.”

I looked at my father’s watch/thinking about Henry Cooper and my Aunty Anne’s husband Dave, who looked like Henry, and how Uncle Dave hadn’t been there yesterday, thinking about the great smell of Brut.

“You see that piece Barry did on that kid from Dewsbury?” It was Tom from Bradford, Scotch breath in my ear, hoping my own wasn’t as bad.

Me, all ears, “What kid?”

“Thalidomide Kid?” laughed Gilman.

“The one that got into bloody Oxford. Eight years old or something.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed.

“Sounded a right little cow.”

“Barry said her father was worse.” Still laughing, everyone laughing with me.

“Father’s going down with her an’ all, isn’t he?” said Gilman.

A New Face behind us, next to Tom, laughing along, “Lucky bastard. All them student birds.”

“Don’t reckon so,” I whispered. “Barry said father had only got eyes for one little lady. His Ruthie.”

“If it’s young enough to bleed,” said two of us at once.

Everybody laughed.

“You’re bloody joking?” Tom from Bradford, not laughing very much. “He’s a dirty git, Barry.”

“Dirty Barry,” I laughed.

New Face said, “Barry who?”

“Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff,” spat Gilman.

“Barry Gannon. He’s at the Post with Eddie here,” said Tom from Bradford to New Face. “He’s the bloke I was telling you about.”

“The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.

“Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”

“Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.

“Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.

“Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”

I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”

“Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”

“Be some bird again,” said Gilman from the Manchester Evening News, not interested.

“Here we go,” whispered New Face.

Round Two:

The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.

No relatives.

The Pack smelling Clare dead.

The Pack thinking no body.

The Pack thinking no news.

The Pack smelling a story dead.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.

Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.

The first spits of a hard rain.

Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of dark factories and silent mills:

Election posters, mush and glue.

A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.

Big Brother watching you.

Fear eats the soul.

I switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, playing back the press conference as I drove, searching for details.

It had been a waste of everybody’s time but mine, no news being good news for Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, playing hunches.

“Concern is obviously mounting…”

Oldman had stuck to his story: bugger all despite all the best efforts of all his best men.

The Public had come forward with information and possible sightings but, as yet, all the best men had nothing substantial to go on.

“We’d like to stress that any member of the public who may have any information, no matter how trivial, should contact their nearest Police Station as a matter of some urgency, or telephone…”

Then there had been a spot of fruitless Q &A.

I kept it shut, not a bloody word.

Oldman, each of his answers straight back to me, eyes locked, never blinking.

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

And, as he stood up, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman winked the Big Wink my way.

Oilman’s voice at the end of the tape: “What the fuck’s with you two?”

Foot down with Leeds behind me, I switched off the tape, turned on the heater and the radio, and listened in as fears continued to grow on the local stations and a story grew on the nationals.

Every fucker biting, the story refusing to lie down and die.

I gave them one more day without a body before it went inside to Page Two, then a police reconstruction next Friday marking the one week anniversary and a brief return to the Front Page.

Then it was Saturday afternoon sport all the way.

One arm on the wheel, I killed the radio as I flipped through Kathryn’s precise typed A4 on my lap. I pressed record on the Pocket Memo, and began to chant:

“Susan Louise Ridyard. Missing since 20 March 1972, aged ten years old. Last seen outside Holy Trinity Junior and Infants School, Rochdale, 3.55 PM”

“Extensive police search and nationwide publicity spelling zero, nothing, nowt. George Oldman headed the inquiry, despite being a Lancashire job. Asked for it.”

“Castleford and…?”

“Rochdale.”

Lying bastard.

“Investigation still officially open. Parents solid, two other kids. Parents continue to regularly put up fresh posters across the country. Re-mortgaged house to cover the cost.”

I switched off the tape, smiling a big Fuck You to Barry Cannon, knowing the Ridyards would be right back there and I’d be bringing them nothing new but fresh publicity.

I pulled up on the outskirts of Rochdale beside a freshly painted bright red phonebox.

Fifteen minutes later I was reversing into the drive of Mr and Mrs Ridyard’s semi-detached home in a quiet part of Rochdale.

It was pissing down.

Mr Ridyard was standing in the doorway.

I got out of the car and said, “Good morning.”

“Nice weather for ducks,” said Mr Ridyard.

We shook hands and he led me through a tiny hall into the dark front room.

Mrs Ridyard was sitting on the sofa wearing slippers, a teenage girl and boy on either side of her. She had her arms round them both.

She glanced at me and whispered, “Go and tidy your rooms,” squeezing them tight before releasing them.

The children left the room looking at the carpet.

“Please sit down,” said Mr Ridyard. “Anyone for a cup of tea?”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Love?” he said, turning to his wife as he left the room.

Mrs Ridyard was miles away.

I sat down opposite the sofa and said, “Nice house.”

Mrs Ridyard blinked through the gloom, pulling at the skin on her cheeks.

“Looks like a nice area,” I added, the words dying but not quick enough.

Mrs Ridyard sat on the edge of the sofa, staring across the room at a school photograph of a little girl poking out between two Christmas cards on top of the TV. “There was a lovely view before they put them new houses up.”

I looked out of the window, across the road, at the new houses that had spoilt the view and no longer looked so new.

Mr Ridyard came in with the tea on a tray and I took out my notebook. He sat down on the sofa beside his wife and said, “Shall I be mother?”

Mrs Ridyard stopped staring at the photo and turned to the notebook in my hands.

I leant forward in my seat. “As I said on the phone, my editor and I thought that now would be a good…It’d be interesting to do a follow-up piece and…”

“A follow-up piece?” said Mrs Ridyard, still staring at the notebook.

Mr Ridyard handed me a cup of tea. “This is to do with the little girl over in Morley?”

“No. Well, not in so many words.” The pen felt loose and hot in my hand, the notebook cumbersome and conspicuous.

“Is this about Susan?” A tear fell on to Mrs Ridyard’s skirt.

I gathered myself. “I know it must be difficult but we know how much of your time you’ve, er, put into this and…”

Mr Ridyard put down his cup. “Our time?”

“You’ve both done so much to keep Susan in the public’s mind, to keep the investigation alive.”

Alive, fuck.

Neither Mr or Mrs Ridyard spoke.

“And I know you must have felt…”

“Felt?” said Mrs Ridyard.

“Feel.”

“I’m sorry, but you have no idea how we feel.” Mrs Ridyard was shaking her head, her mouth still moving after the words had gone, tears falling fast.

Mr Ridyard looked across the room at me, his eyes full of apologies and shame. “We were doing so much better until this, weren’t we?”

No-one answered him.

I looked out of the window across the road at the new houses with their lights still on at lunchtime.

“She could be home by now,” said Mrs Ridyard softly, rubbing the tears into her skirt.

I stood up. “I’m sorry. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Ridyard, walking me out to the door. “We were doing so well. Really we were. It’s just brought it all back, this Morley thing.”

At the door I turned and said, “I’m sorry but, reading through the papers and my notes, the police don’t seem to have had any real leads. I was wondering if there was anything more you felt they could have done?”

“Anything more?” said Mr Ridyard, almost smiling.

“Any lead that…”

“They sat in this house for two weeks, George Oldman and his men, using the phone.”

“And there was nothing…”

“A white van, that’s all they bloody went on about.”

“A white van?”

“How, if they could find this white van, they’d find Susan.”

“And they never paid the bill.” Mrs Ridyard, her face red, was standing at the far end of the hall. “Phone almost got cut off.”

At the top of the stairs, I could see the heads of the other two children peering over the banister.

“Thank you,” I said, shaking Mr Ridyard’s hand.

“Thank you, Mr Dunford.”

I got into the Viva thinking, Jesus fucking Christ.

“Merry Christmas,” called Mr Ridyard.

I leant across to my notebook and scrawled two words only: White Van.

I raised a wave to Mr Ridyard standing alone in the doorway, a lid on all my curses.

One thought: Call Kathryn.

“It was a fucking nightmare.” Back in the bright red phonebox, I dropped in another coin, hopping from foot to foot, freezing my balls off. “Anyway, then he says well there was this white van, but I don’t remember reading anything about a white van, do you?”

Kathryn was flicking through her own notes on the other end, agreeing.

“Wasn’t in any of the appeals for information?”

Kathryn said, “No, not that I remember.” I could hear the buzz of the office from her end. I felt too far away. I wanted to be back there.

“Any messages?” I asked, juggling the phone, a notebook, a pen, and a cigarette.

“Just two. Barry and…”

“Barry? Say what it was about? Is he there now?”

“No, no. And a Sergeant Craven…”

“Sergeant who?”

“Craven.”

“Fuck, no idea. Craven? Did he leave a message?”

“No, but he said it was urgent.” Kathryn sounded pissed off.

“If it was that fucking urgent I’d know him. Calls again, ask him to leave a message, will you?” I let the cigarette fall into the pool of water on the floor of the phonebox.

“Where you going now?”

“The pub, where else? Bit of the old local colour. Then I’m coming straight back. Bye.”

I hung up, feeling fucked off.

She was staring at me from across the bar of the Huntsman.

I froze, then picked up my pint and walked towards her, drawn by her eyes, tacked up by the toilets, above a cigarette machine, at the far end of the bar.

Susan Louise Ridyard was smiling big white teeth for her school portrait, though her eyes said her fringe was a little too long, making her appear awkward and sad, like she knew what was coming next.

Above her the biggest word was in red and said: MISSING.

Below her was a summary of her life and last day, both so brief.

Finally, there was an appeal for information and three tele phone numbers.

“Do you want another?”

With a jolt, back to an empty glass. “Yeah. Just the one.”

“Reporter are you?” said the barman, pulling the pint.

“That obvious is it?”

“We’ve had a fair few of your lot in here, aye.”

I handed over thirty-six pence exactly. “Thanks.”

“Who you with?”

“Post.”

“Owt fresh?”

“Just trying to keep the story alive, you know? We don’t want people forgetting.”

“That’s commendable that is.”

“Just been to see Mr and Mrs Ridyard,” I said, making a pal.

“Right. Derek pops in every once in a while. Folk say she’s not too good like.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Police don’t seem to have had a right lot to go on?”

“Lot of them used to sup in here while it was all going on.” The barman, probably the landlord, turned away to serve a customer.

I played my only card. “There was something about a van though. A white van?”

The barman slowly closed the till drawer, frowning. “A white van?”

“Yeah. Police told the Ridyards they were looking for a white van.”

“Don’t remember owt about that,” he said, pulling another pint, the pub now Saturday lunchtime busy. He rang up another sale and said, “Feeling I got was they all thought it were gypsies.”

“Gypsies,” I muttered, thinking here we fucking go.

“Aye. They’d been through here week before with the Feast. Maybes one of them had a white van.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Get you another?”

I turned back to the poster and the eyes that knew. “No, you’re all right.”

“What do you think?”

I didn’t turn around. My chest and my stomach ached, the beer making them worse, telling me I should have eaten something.

“I don’t think they’ll ever find a body,” I whispered.

I wanted to go back to the Ridyards and apologise. I thought of Kathryn.

The barman said, “You what?”

“You got a phone?”

“There,” smiled the fat barman, pointing to my elbow.

I didn’t fucking care. I turned my back again.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Look. About last night, I…”

“Eddie, thank God. There’s a press conference at Wakefield Police Station at three.”

“You’re fucking joking? Why?”

“They’ve found her.”

“Shit.”

“Hadden’s been looking…”

“Fuck!”

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

Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.

· 59 PM

One minute to kick-off.

Me, up the stairs and through the one door, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman through the other.

The Conference Room horror-show quiet.

Oldman, flanked by two plainclothes, sitting down behind a table and a microphone.

Down the front, Gilman, Tom, New Face, and JACK FUCKING WHITEHEAD.

Eddie Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, at the back, behind the TV lights and cameras, technicians whis pering about bloody fucking cables.

Jack fucking Whitehead on my fucking story.

Cameras flashed.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman, looking lost, a stranger in this station, in these times:

But these were his people, his times.

He swallowed and began:

“Gentlemen. At approximately nine thirty this morning, the body of a young girl was discovered by workmen in Devil’s Ditch here in Wakefield.”

He took a sip of water.

“The body has been identified as that of Clare Kemplay, who went missing on her way home from school in Morley on Thursday night.”

Notes, take fucking notes.

“At the present time, the actual cause of death has not been determined. However, a full scale murder investigation has been launched. This investigation is being led by myself from here at Wood Street.”

Another sip of water.

“A preliminary medical examination has been conducted and Dr Alan Courts, the Home Office pathologist, will conduct the post-mortem later tonight at Pinderfields Hospital.”

People checking spelling, glances at their neighbour’s notes.

“At this stage in the investigation that is all the information I am able to give you. However, on behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal for any member of the public who might have any information to please contact your nearest police station.

“We would particularly like to speak to anyone who was in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch between midnight Friday and 6 AM this morning and who saw anything at all, particularly any parked vehicles. We have also set up a hot-line so members of the public can telephone the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence. Thank you gentlemen.”

Oldman stood, his hands already up in the face of a barrage of questions and flashes. He shook his head slowly from side to side, mouthing apologies he didn’t mean, excuses he couldn’t use, trapped like King fucking Kong on top of the Empire State.

I watched him, watched his eyes search the room, my heart pounding, my stomach aching, reading those eyes:

SEE ME NOW.

A shove in the shoulder, smoke in my face. “Glad you could join us, Scoop. Boss wants to see you a.s.a.p.”

Face to face with the slicked-back ratface of my fucking nightmares, Jack fucking Whitehead; whisky on his breath, a smile on his chops.

The Pack pushing past us, running for their phones and their cars, cursing the timing.

Jack fucking Whitehead, giving me the big wink, a mock punch to the jaw. “Early bird and all that.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The M1 back into Leeds.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Fat grey slabs of Saturday afternoon skies turning to night on either side of me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eyes out for Jack fucking Whitehead’s Rover.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hitting the dial for Radio Leeds:

The body of missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kerriplay was dis covered on wasteland in Wakefield’s Devil’s Ditch by workmen early this morning. At a press conference at Wakefield’s Wood Street Police Station, Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman launched a murder hunt, appealing for witnesses to come forward:

On behalf of the Kemplay family and the entire West Yorkshire Metropolitan force, I would like to renew our appeal…

Fuck.

“Someone’s got to you. Someone’s fucking got to you!”

“You are very wrong and I’d thank you to watch your language.”

“I’m sorry, but you know how close I am…”

The words became inaudible again and I gave up trying to hear what was being said. Hadden’s door was thicker than it looked and Fat Steph the Secretary’s typing wasn’t helping.

I looked at my father’s watch.

Dawsongate: Local Government money for private housing; substandard materials for council housing; back-handers all round.

Barry Cannon’s baby, his obsession.

Fat Steph looked up from her work again and smiled sym pathetically, thinking You’re Next.

I smiled back wondering if she really did like it up Trap Two from Jack.

Barry Cannon’s voice rose again from within Hadden’s office. “I just want to go out to the house. She wouldn’t have bloody phoned back if she didn’t want to talk.”

“She’s not a well woman, you know that. It’s not ethical. It’s not right.”

“Ethical!”

Fuck. This was going to take all bloody night.

I stood up, lit another cigarette, and began to pace again, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Fat Steph looked up again, pissed off, but not half as much as I was. Our eyes met, she went back to her typing.

I looked at my father’s watch again.

Cannon arguing the toss with Hadden over bloody Dawson-gate, crap that no-one but Barry gave a fuck about or wanted to read, while downstairs Jack fucking Whitehead wrote up the biggest story of the bloody year.

A story everyone wanted to read.

My story.

Suddenly the door opened and out came Barry Cannon smiling. He closed the door softly behind him and winked at me. “You owe me.”

I opened my mouth but he put a finger to his lips and was away down the corridor, whistling.

The door opened again. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in,” said Hadden in his shirtsleeves, the skin beneath his silver beard shining red.

I followed him inside, closing the door and taking a seat. “You wanted to see me?”

Bill Hadden sat down behind his desk and smiled like Father bloody Christmas. “I wanted to make sure there was no bad feeling over this afternoon.” He held up a copy of the Sunday Post to emphasise his point.

MURDERED.

I glanced at the thick black bold headline and then stared at the byline beneath, thicker, blacker, and bolder still:

BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR.

“Bad feeling?” I said, unable to tell if I was being goaded or placated, hounded or hugged.

“Well I hope you don’t feel that you were in any way bumped off the story.” Hadden’s smile was somewhat wan.

I felt totally fucking paranoid, like Barry had left all his own paranoia dripping off the bleeding walls of the office. I had no idea why we were having this conversation.

“So I’m off the story?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I see. But then I don’t understand what happened this afternoon.”

Hadden wasn’t smiling. “You weren’t about.”

“Kathryn Taylor knew where I was.”

“You couldn’t be reached. So I sent Jack.”

“I understand that. So now it’s Jack’s story?”

Hadden started smiling again. “No. You’ll be covering it together. Don’t forget, Jack was this paper’s…”

“North of England Crime Correspondent for twenty years. I know. He tells me every other bloody day.” I felt sunk with despair and dread.

Hadden stood up, looking out over a black Leeds, his back to me. “Well, perhaps you ought to listen more carefully to what Jack has to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after all, Jack has developed an excellent working relationship with a certain Detective Chief Superintendent.”

Riled, I said, “Well, maybe we should have done with it and just make Jack the bloody editor while we’re at it.”

Hadden turned back from the window and smiled, almost letting it go. “Doesn’t sound like you’re managing to form very many healthy relationships, does it?”

My chest was tight and thumping. “George Oldman’s spoken with you?”

“No. But Jack has.”

“I see. That’s that then,” I said, feeling less in the dark, more in the cold.

Hadden sat back down. “Look, let’s just forget about it. It’s as much my fault as anyone’s. I have a number of other things I want you to follow up.”

“But…”

Hadden held up his hand. “Look, I think we’d both agree that your little theory seems to have been somewhat disproved by the events of today so…”

Farewell Jeanette. Farewell Susan.

I mumbled, “But…”

“Please,” smiled Hadden, his hand back up. “We can drop the missing angle.”

“I agree. But what about this?” I said, pointing at the headline on his desk. “What about Clare?”

Hadden was shaking his head, staring at his paper. “Appalling.”

I nodded, knowing I’d lost.

He said, “But it’s Christmas and it’ll either be solved tomorrow or never. Either way it’s going to die a death.”

“Die a death?”

“So we’ll let Jack handle it for the most part.”

“But…”

Hadden’s smile was fading. “Anyway, I have a couple of other things for you. Tomorrow, as a favour to me, I want you to go out to Castleford with Barry Cannon.”

“Castleford?” My stomach hollow, my feet searching for the floor, unable to fathom the depth.

“Barry’s got this notion that Marjorie Dawson, John Dawson’s wife, will actually see him and provide him with corroboration on everything he’s dug up on her husband. I think it’s somewhat unlikely, given the woman’s mental history, but he’ll go anyway. So I’ve asked him to take you along.”

I said, “Why me?” Playing it dumber than dumb, thinking Barry was right and just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean you don’t have every bloody reason to be.

“Well, if it ever did come to anything there would be arrests and prosecutions and what-have-you and you, as this paper’s North of England Crime Correspondent,” smiled Hadden. “You would obviously be up to your neck in it. And, as a favour to me, I want you to make sure that Barry doesn’t go off the bloody deep end.”

“The deep end?”

Hadden looked at his watch and sighed, “What do you know about what Barry’s been doing?”

“Dawsongate? Just what everyone knows, I suppose.”

“And what do you think? Just between you and me?” He was leading me, but I’d no idea where we were going or why.

I let myself be led. “Between you and me? I think there’s definitely a story there. I just think it’s more up Construction Weekly’s street than ours.”

“Then we think alike,” grinned Hadden, picking up a thick manila envelope and handing it across the desk to me. “This is all the work that Barry’s done so far and submitted to the legal department.”

“The legal department?” I felt like fucking Polly the bleeding Parrot.

“Yeah. And, frankly, the legal boys reckon we’d be lucky to print one single bloody sentence of it.”

“Right.”

“I don’t expect you to read it all, but Barry doesn’t tolerate fools so…”

“I see,” I said, patting the fat envelope on my knee, eager to please if it meant…

“And finally, while you’re out that way, I want you to do another piece on the Ratcatcher.”

Fuck.

“Another piece?” New depths, my heart on the floor.

“Very popular. Your best piece. Lots of letters. And now that neighbour…”

“Mrs Sheard?” I said, against my will.

“Yep, that’s her. Mrs Enid Sheard. She phoned and said she wants to talk.”

“For a price.”

Hadden was frowning. “Yeah.”

“Miserable bitch.”

Hadden looked mildly annoyed, but pressed on. “So I thought, after you’ve been over to Castleford, you could pop in and see her. It’d be just right for Tuesday’s supplement.”

“Yeah. OK. But, I’m sorry, but what about Clare Kemplay?” It came from despair and the pit of my belly, from a man seeing only building sites and rats.

Bill Hadden looked momentarily taken aback by the pitiful whine of my question, before he remembered to stand up and say, “Don’t worry. As I say, Jack’11 hold the fort and he’s promised me he’ll work as a team with you. Just talk to him.”

“He hates my guts,” I said, refusing to move or hum along.

“Jack Whitehead hates everybody,” said Bill Hadden, opening the door.

Saturday teatime, downstairs the office thankfully quiet, merci fully devoid of Jack fucking Whitehead, the Sunday Post already in bed.

Leeds United must have won, but I didn’t give a fuck.

I’d lost.

“Have you seen Jack?”

Kathryn alone at her desk, waiting. “He’ll be at Pinderfields won’t he? For the post-mortem?”

“Fuck.” The story gone, visions of waves upon waves of more and more rats scurrying across mile upon mile of building sites.

I slumped down at my desk.

Someone had left a copy of the Sunday Post on top of my typewriter. It didn’t take Frank fucking Cannon to work out who.

MURDERED-BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR.

I picked it up.

The naked body of nine-year-old Clare Kemplay was found early yesterday morning by workmen in Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield.

An initial medical examination failed to determine the exact cause of death, however, Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, the man who had been leading the search for Clare, immediately launched a murder investigation.

It was expected that Dr Alan Coutts, the Home Office Pathologist, would conduct a post-mortem late Saturday evening.

Clare had not been seen since Thursday teatime when she went missing on her way home from Morley Grange Junior and Infants. Her disappearance sparked one of the biggest police searches seen in the county with hundreds of local people joining police in searches of Morley and nearby open land.

Initial police enquiries are concentrating on anyone who may have been in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch between midnight Friday and six AM Saturday morning. Police would particularly like to speak to anyone who may have noticed any vehicles parked near Devil’s Ditch between those hours. Anyone with information should contact their nearest police station or the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838.

Mr and Mrs Kemplay and their son are being comforted by relatives and neighbours.

If it bleeds, it leads.

“How’d it go with Hadden?” Kathryn was standing over my desk.

“How do you fucking think.” I spat, rubbing my eyes, looking for someone easy.

Kathryn fought back tears. “Barry says to tell you he’ll pick you up at ten tomorrow. At your mother’s.”

“Tomorrow’s bloody Sunday.”

“Well why don’t you go and ask Barry. I’m not your bloody secretary. I’m a fucking journalist too.”

I stood up and left the office, afraid someone would come in.

In the front room, my father’s Beethoven as loud as I dared.

My mother in the back room, the TV louder still: ballroom dancing and show jumping.

Fucking horses.

Next door’s barking through the Fifth.

Fucking dogs.

I poured the rest of the Scotch into the glass and remembered the time when I’d actually wanted to be a fucking policeman, but was too scared shitless to even try.

Fucking pigs.

I drank half the glass and remembered all the novels I wanted to write, but was too scared shitless to even try.

Fucking bookworm.

I flicked a cat hair off my trousers, trousers my father had made, trousers that would outlast us all. I picked off another hair.

Fucking cats.

I swallowed the last of the Scotch from my glass, unlaced my shoes and stood up. I took off my trousers and then my shirt. I screwed the clothes up into a ball and threw them across the room at fucking Ludwig.

I sat back down in my white underpants and vest and closed my eyes, too scared shitless to face Jack fucking Whitehead.

Too scared shitless to fight for my own story.

Too scared shitless to even try.

Fucking chicken.

I didn’t hear my mother come in.

“There’s someone on the phone for you love,” she said, drawing the front room curtains.

“Edward Dunford speaking,” I said into the hall phone, doing up my trousers and looking at my father’s watch:

11.35p.m.

A man: “Saturday night all right for fighting?”

“Who’s this?”

Silence.

“Who is it?”

A stifled laugh and then, “You don’t need to know.”

“What do you want?”

“You interested in the Romany Way?”

“What?”

“White vans and gyppos?”

“Where?”

“Hunslet Beeston exit of the M1.”

“When?”

“You’re late.”

The line went dead.