1974

Chapter 4

16 December 1974.

Brakes went. He goes straight into the back of the van. Bang!” Gilman smashed his fist into his open palm.

“Van was carrying windows wasn’t it?” whispered New Face, sitting down next to Tom.

“Aye. I heard one of the panes severed his fucking head,” said Another New Face behind us.

We all said, “Fuck.”

Wakefield Police Station, Wood Street, Wakefield.

Business as usual:

A dead mate and a dead little girl.

I looked at my father’s watch on the worst rainy day and Monday of them all.

It was almost ten.

We’d met up in the Parthenon at the top of Westgate, downed coffee and toast and watched the windows steam up and the rain come down.

Talking Barry.

At nine-thirty we’d run through the rain with rival papers on our heads, up to Wood Street Nick and Round 3.

Gilman, Tom, and me; two rows back and not giving a fuck. Nationals down the front. Familiar faces from before giving it to me cold. Me not giving a fuck. Or not much of one, any road.

“What the fuck was he doing in Morley?” said Gilman again, shaking his head from side to side.

“You know Barry, probably looking for Lucky,” smiled Tom from Bradford.

A big hand into my shoulder. “Drunk as a fucking skunk is what I heard.”

Everyone turning round.

Jack fucking Whitehead sitting directly behind me.

“Fuck off,” I said weakly, not turning round.

“And a good morning to you Scoop.” Whisky breath on the back of my neck.

“Morning Jack,” said Tom from Bradford.

“Missed quite a eulogy this morning. Not a dry pair in the office after Bill had finished. Quite moving it was.”

Tom said, “Really? That’s…”

Jack Whitehead leant forward into my ear, but didn’t lower his voice. “Could have saved yourself a journey too, Scoop.”

Me, eyes front. “What?”

“Mr Hadden wants you back at base, Scoop. Like pronto. Asap. Etc.”

I could feel Jack’s smile behind me, boring into the back of my head.

I stood up, not looking at Gilman or Tom. “I’ll go and phone him.”

“You do that. Oh, and Scoop?”

I turned round, looking down at Jack in his seat.

“The police are looking for you.”

“What?”

“You were drinking with Barry, I heard.”

“Piss off.”

“Star witness. How many did you have?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yep,” winked Jack, looking around the crowded room. “Looks like you’re in just the right place at the right time. For once.”

I pushed past Tom, moving as fast as I could to the end of the row.

“Oh, and Scoop?”

I didn’t want to turn round. I didn’t want to look at that fucking grin again. I didn’t want to say, “What?”

“Congratulations.”

“What?” I said again, trapped against the legs of hacks and chairs.

“What the Lord taketh with one hand, he giveth with the other.”

I was the only person in the room standing who wasn’t a technician or a copper, the only one saying, “What?”

“The pitter-patter of tiny feet and all that?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The whole room was looking from me to Jack and back.

Jack put his hands behind his head and gave the floor his best stage laugh. “Don’t tell me I’ve scooped Scoop?”

The room was smiling with Jack.

“Your girlfriend, Dunston?”

“Dunford,” I said, involuntarily.

“Whatever,” said Jack.

“What about her?”

“Told Stephanie she’s feeling a little under the weather this morning. But that it’s just something she’ll have to get used to.”

“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford.

Gilman was looking at the floor, shaking his head from side to side.

I just stood there, Edward Dunford, North of England Red Face, the eyes of the room on me, National and Local.

“So?” I said lamely.

“Going to make an honest woman of her, I hope?”

“Honest! What the fuck would you know about honest?”

“Temper, temper.”

“Fuck off.” I started to edge along the row. It took an age to get there. Just long enough for Jack to get another laugh.

“I don’t know, young people these days.”

The whole room was smirking and tittering along.

“I think Mrs Whitehouse has got a point.”

The whole room giggling with Jack.

“The Permissive fucking Society, that’s what it is. Me, I’m with Keith Joseph. Sterilise the fucking lot of them!”

The whole room laughed out loud.

One hundred years later I got to the end of the row and the aisle.

Jack Whitehead shouted, “And don’t forget to turn yourself in.”

The whole room erupted.

I pushed past the wink-wink coppers and the nudge-nudge technicians and got to the back of the room.

I wanted to curl up and die.

There was a bang.

The whole room went dead.

The side door down the front slammed shut.

I turned around.

Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman and two other men in suits entered.

I turned my red face for one last look.

Oldman had aged another hundred years.

“Thank you for coming gentlemen. We’re going to keep this very brief as you all know where we’d rather be. The gentleman on my right is Dr Courts, the Home Office pathologist who conducted the post-mortem. On my left is Detective Superin tendent Noble who, along with myself, will be leading the hunt for the killer or killers of little Clare Kemplay.”

Detective Superintendent Noble was looking straight at me.

I knew what was coming and I’d had enough of it to last me a lifetime.

I turned away through the double doors.

“They’re saying Barry was drunk?”

Rain ran down the inside of the phonebox making a pool around my shoes. I stared through the dirty glass at the yellow lights of the Wood Street Nick across the road.

Hadden on the other end sounded gutted. “That’s what the police are saying.”

I fumbled through my pockets. “It’s what Jack’s saying as well.”

I stood in the puddle, my shoes taking in water, juggling a box of matches, a cigarette, and the receiver.

“When you coming back to the office?”

I got the cigarette lit. “This afternoon sometime.”

A pause and then, “I need to speak to you.”

“Of course.”

A longer pause and then, finally, “What happened yesterday, Eddie?”

“I got to see Enid Sheard. She’s only got a bleeding key to Goldthorpe’s house.”

Hadden, many more than ten miles away, said, “Really?”

“Yeah, but I need some photos. Can you get Richard or Norman to meet me there?”

“When?”

I checked my father’s watch. “About twelve. And maybe it’d be best if one of them brought the money.”

“How much?”

I stared down Wood Street, past the Police Station, as black clouds made an evening of the morning.

I inhaled deeply, a small pain in my chest. “Greedy bitch wants two hundred.”

Silence.

Later, “Eddie, what happened yesterday?”

“What?”

“With Mrs Dawson? What happened?”

“I never saw her.”

Hadden, anger in his voice, said, “But I asked you specifically…”

“I stayed in the car.”

“But I asked you…”

“I know, I know. Barry thought I’d make her too nervous.” I dropped my cigarette in the puddle at my feet and almost believed myself.

Hadden, down the line, suspicious: “Really?”

The cigarette hissed in the dirty water. “Yeah.”

“What time will you be back?”

“Sometime between two and three.”

“I need to see you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I hung up.

I watched as Gilly and Tom and the rest of the pack came running out of the Nick, jackets over their heads, making for their cars and offices with their warm yellow lights.

I pulled my jacket up over my head and got ready to make a run for it.

Thirty minutes later and the Viva stank of bacon.

I wound down the window and stared down Brunt Street, Castleford.

My fingers felt greasy from the sandwich.

The light was on in the front room of number 11, reflecting in the wet black pavement outside.

I took a mouthful of hot sweet tea.

The light went off and the red door opened.

Paula Garland came out of the house under a flowered umbrella. She locked the door and walked up the street towards the Viva.

I wound up the window and slid down in my seat. I could hear her tall brown boots approaching. I closed my eyes and swallowed and wondered what the fuck I’d say.

The boots came and went on the other side of the street.

I sat up and looked out of the back window.

The brown boots, the beige raincoat, and the flowered umbrella turned the corner and disappeared.

Barry Cannon had once said something like, “All great buildings resemble crimes.”

In 1970, according to the notes Hadden had given me, John Dawson had designed and built Shangrila to the acclaim of both the architectural community and the general public. Television, newspapers, and magazines had all been invited inside to witness the equally lavish interior in dutiful double-page spreads. The cost of the enormous bungalow had been estimated at being in excess of half a million pounds, a present from Britain’s most successful postwar architect to his wife on the occasion of their Silver Wedding anniversary. Named after the mythical city in Marjorie Dawson’s favourite film, Lost Horizon, Shangrila had captured the imagination of the Great British Public.

Briefly.

My father used to say, “If you want to know the artist, look at the art.”

He was usually talking about Stanley Matthews or Don Bradman when he said it.

I vaguely recalled my father and mother taking a special Sunday drive over to Castleford in the Viva. I pictured them making the run over, talking a little bit but mainly listening to the radio. They had probably parked at the bottom of the drive, peering up at Shangrila through the car window. Had they brought sandwiches and a flask? I hoped to fuck they hadn’t. No, they’d probably popped into Lumbs for an ice-cream on the way back to Ossett. I saw my parents sitting in their parked car on the Barnsley Road, eating their ice-creams in silence.

When they got back home my father must have sat down to write his critique of Shangrila. He’d have been to see Town the day before, if they were at home, and he’d have written about that before giving his two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.

In 1970, Fleet Street still a year off, I was in my seaview flat in Brighton, skimming the weekly letter from up North which Southern girls called Anna or Sophie found so very endearing, throwing the half-read letter in the bin, thanking fuck The Beatles had come from Liverpool and not Lambeth.

In 1974 I sat in the same car at the bottom of the same drive and stared up through the rain at the same big bleached white bungalow, wishing to God I’d read my father’s two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.

I opened the door, pulled my jacket over my head, and wondered why the fuck I’d come this way at all.

There were two cars in the drive, a Rover and a Jaguar, but no-one was answering the door.

I pressed the chimes again and looked out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, to the Viva parked back down on the road. I thought I could make out two or three giant bright orange goldfish in the pond. I wondered if they liked the rain, if it made any difference to their lives at all.

I turned back to give the chimes one last go and found myself face to face with the unkind face of a heavy-set man, tanned and dressed for golf.

“Is Mrs Dawson home by any chance?”

“No,” said the man.

“Do you know when she might be back?”

“No.”

“Do you know where I might be able to reach her?”

“No.”

“Is Mr Dawson at home?”

“No.”

I vaguely placed the face. “Well, I won’t keep you then Mr Foster. Thank you for your help.”

I turned and walked away.

Halfway down the drive I looked back and caught the twitch of a curtain. I turned right on to the lawn and walked across the soft grass to the pond. The raindrops were making beautiful patterns on the surface. Down below the bright orange fish were still.

I turned and stared back at Shangrila in the rain. The curved white tiers looked like a rack of oyster shells or the Sydney fucking Opera House. And then I remembered my father’s two-penneth about Shangrila and Mr John Dawson:

Shangrila looked like a sleeping swan.

Noon, Willman Close, Pontefract.

Knuckles rapped on the steamed-up window of the Viva. Back to earth with a bump, I wound down the window.

Paul Kelly leant into the car. “What about Barry? Fucking hell, eh?” He was out of breath and didn’t have an umbrella.

I said, “Yeah.”

“Heard his head came right off.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“What a way to go. And in fucking Morley, eh?”

“Yeah, I know.”

Paul Kelly grinned, “It stinks in here, man. What the fuck you been doing?”

“I had a bacon sandwich. Mind yourself,” I said as I wound the window back up, though not all the way, and got out.

Fuck.

Paul Kelly, photographer. Cousin of the more famous John and sister Paula.

The rain was coming down even harder, with it all my fucking paranoia:

Why Kelly and not Dicky or Norm?

Why today?

Coincidence?

“Which one is it?”

“Eh?” I said, locking the car door, pulling my jacket over my hea_d.

“The Goldthorpe’s?” Kelly was looking at the bungalows. “Which one is it?”

“Number 6.” We walked across the Close to the houses at the end.

Kelly took a huge fucking Japanese camera out of his bag. “The old bag’s in 5 then?”

“Yeah. Did Hadden give you the money for her?”

“Yeah,” said Kelly, stuffing the camera inside his jacket.

“How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Cash?”

“Aye,” grinned Kelly, tapping his jacket pocket.

“Half and half?” I said, knocking on the glass door.

“That’ll do nicely, sir,” said Kelly as the door opened.

“Good morning Mrs Sheard.”

“Good afternoon Mr Dunford and…”

“Mr Kelly,” said Mr Kelly.

“A much more civilised hour, don’t you think Mr Dunford?” Enid Sheard was smiling at Paul Kelly.

“I think so,” said Kelly, smiling back.

“Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?”

Quickly I said, “Thank you but I’m afraid we’re a little pushed for time.”

Enid Sheard puckered her lips. “This way then gentlemen please.”

She led us down the path between the two bungalows. When we reached the back door to Number 6, Kelly jumped at the sudden barking from Number 5 next door.

“Hamlet,” I said.

“My money, Mr Dunford?” said Enid Sheard, clutching the key.

Paul Kelly handed her a plain brown envelope. “One hundred pounds cash.”

“Thank you, Mr Kelly,” said Enid Sheard and stuffed the money into her apron pocket.

I said, “Our pleasure.”

She unlocked the back door to Number 6, Willman Close. “I’ll be putting on the kettle, so you gentlemen just knock on the door when you’re finished.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” said Kelly as we went inside.

I shut the door in her face.

“You want to watch yourself there. Get her sexual motor running, you best know how to turn it off,” I laughed.

“You can talk,” said Paul laughing along, his face then sud denly falling.

I stopped laughing, staring at the candle on the draining board, thinking about A Guide to the Canals of the North, won dering where the fuck it was.

Kathryn’s house.

“The Lair of the Ratcatcher,” whispered Kelly.

“Aye. Not much to it is there?”

“How many do you want?” Kelly was attaching a flash to one of his cameras.

“I reckon a couple of each room and a few more of the front room.”

“A couple of each room?”

“Well, between you and me, I’m thinking of doing a book on it, so I’m going to need a fair few photos. Cut you in if you’re interested?”

“Yeah? Cheers Eddie.”

I kept out of the light as Kelly moved from the kitchen into the hall and to the door of Mary Goldthorpe’s bedroom.

“This her room then?”

“Yeah,” I said, pushing past Kelly.

I went over to the chest of drawers and opened the top right hand one. I rooted down through the knickers until I found what I was looking for. I draped a single stocking over the edge of the drawer and hated my own fucking guts.

“Magic,” clicked Kelly as I moved out of the way.

I stared out on the back garden and the rain, thinking of my own sister.

“Do you reckon they were at it?”

“Probably.” I put the stocking back and closed the drawer on Mary Goldthorpe’s underwear.

“Dirty bastards.”

I led the way into Graham’s room. I took a book from the shelf and opened it up. “Try and get a good one of this,” I said, pointing at the sticker of the owl and the threat it carried.

“This book belongs to Graham and Mary Goldthorpe. Do not steal it or you will be hunted down and killed,” read Kelly. “Fucking hell.”

“Get one of the bookcase and all.”

“Some real page-turners,” laughed Kelly.

I walked across the small dark hall and opened the door to the front room.

The fireplace was the first thing I saw.

Kelly came up behind me, camera flashes exploding across the dim room. “This is where he did it then?”

“Yeah.”

Naked and strangled.

“In the fireplace, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Hung in the fireplace.

“You’ll want a few of that then?”

“Yeah.”

The shotgun in his mouth.

“Gives me the fucking creeps, it does.”

“Yeah,” I said into the space above the hearth.

The finger on the trigger.

“Why’d he do it?”

“Fuck knows.”

Kelly snorted, “You must have some bloody notion, you’ve been living the thing for God knows how long.”

“Police reckon he hated noise. Wanted silence.”

“Well he’s got that all right.”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Kelly clicking away, white stars shooting across the room.

Paula’s husband had shot himself too.

“You wonder why they bother with chimneys in this day and age,” said Kelly, still snapping away.

“They have their uses.”

“If you’re fucking Santa Claus, aye.”

“Style?” I suggested.

“Well these ones have got that. Remember all the fucking fuss about them?”

“About what?”

“These bungalows?”

“No.”

Kelly began changing films. “Oh aye, right to-do there was. I remember because we wanted to get my Nana and Daddy Kelly in one of these or one of them others in Castleford.”

“I’m not with you.”

“They were supposed to be old folks homes, that’s why they’re all bungalows. But fucking council sold them off. Tell you one thing, they must have had some brass must the Gold-thorpes.”

“How much were they?”

“I can’t remember. They weren’t bloody cheap, can tell you that. Designed by John fucking Dawson. Ask the old lass next door. Bet she can tell you exactly how much they cost.”

“John Dawson designed these bungalows?”

“Aye, Barry’s mate. My father reckons that was what gave council idea to flog them off, all the bloody fuss about his work.”

“Fuck.”

“It was one of the things Barry kept bringing up. It was out of order, everyone knew that at the time.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well it was old news here so I don’t suppose it was owt at all down South.”

“No, I don’t suppose it was. When were they built?”

“Five, six years ago. About same time…” Kelly drifted off. I knew where he was going.

We stood in the cold dark room with its sudden bursts of light and said nothing until he’d finished.

“There, that’s your lot, unless there’s owt else you can think of,” said Kelly as he sorted through his camera bag.

“A couple of outside do you think?” I said, looking out at the rain.

A car was turning into the Close.

Kelly glanced out of the front window. “Might have to come back on a better day, but I’ll try.”

The car pulled up in front of the house.

“Shit,” I said.

“Fuck,” said Kelly.

“Yeah,” I said as two police officers got out of the blue and white car.

The two policemen were coming up the path as we came out of the house. One was tall with a beard, the other short with a big nose. They could have been some comedy double act, except no-one was laughing and they looked as mean as fuck.

Hamlet started barking next door, making the short officer curse. Kelly shut the door behind us. There was no sign of Enid Sheard. It was pissing down and we had nowhere to hide.

“What’s going on lads?” asked the tall copper with the beard.

“We’re with the Post,” I said, looking at Kelly.

The short officer was grinning. “So what the fuck does that mean?”

I fished in my jacket for some credentials. “We’re doing a story.”

“Fuck off,” said the short one again, taking out his notebook and glancing up at the sky.

“It’s right,” said Kelly, first with his press pass.

The tall one held the passes as the other copied down the details. “So how’d you get in the house lads?”

The short one didn’t let me answer. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Open the door will you. I’m not standing out here in this piss.” He tore out the rain-soaked piece of paper he’d been trying to write on and screwed it up.

I said, “I can’t.”

The tall one had stopped smiling. “You fucking can and you will.”

“It’s a Yale lock. We don’t have the key.”

“So you’re fucking Father Christmas are you? How the fuck did you get in?”

I gambled and said, “Somebody let us in.”

“Stop arsing around. Who the fuck let you in?”

“The Goldthorpes’ family solicitor,” said Kelly.

“Who is…?”

I tried not to look too pleased. “Edward Clay and Son, Town-gate, Pontefract.”

“Fucking smart arse,” spat the tall one.

“Here, you’re not related to Johnny Kelly are you?” said the short officer as he handed back the passes.

“He’s my second cousin.”

“You fucking Micks breed like bloody rabbits.”

“Done a Lucan hasn’t he? Legged it.”

Kelly just said, “I don’t know.”

The taller officer jerked his head towards the road. “You better fuck off and find him ‘fore next Sunday, hadn’t you?”

“Not you Santa,” said the short one poking me in the chest.

Kelly turned round. I tossed him the keys to the Viva. He shrugged and jogged off towards the car, leaving the three of us stood there by the back door, the pouring rain running off the roof of the bungalow, listening to Hamlet, waiting for someone to speak.

The short one took his time putting his notebook away. The tall one took off his gloves, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and then put his gloves back on. I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, rain dripping off my nose.

After a couple of minutes of this shit I said, “What is it then?”

The taller copper suddenly reached out with both his arms and pushed me back against the door. He gripped one gloved hand around my throat and crushed my face flat against the paint with the other. My feet weren’t on the floor.

“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering,” he whispered into my ear.

“It’s not nice,” hissed the short one, an inch from my face on tiptoes.

I waited, stomach taut, expecting the punch.

A hand closed over my balls, gently stroking them.

“You should get yourself a hobby.”

The short one tightened his hand around my balls. “Bird-watching, that’s a nice quiet hobby.”

A finger pressed through my trousers, pushing up into my arsehole.

I wanted to spew.

“Or photography.” He let go of my balls, kissed me on the cheek, and walked off whistling We Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Hamlet began barking again.

The tall copper pushed my face further into the door. “And remember, Big Brother’s watching you.”

A car horn honked.

He dropped me to the ground. “Always.”

The horn honked again and, coughing on my knees in the rain, I watched the size eleven steel-toecaps walk down the path and get into the police car.

The tyres turned and then the boots and the police car were gone.

I heard a door open, Hamlet barking louder.

I got to my feet and ran across the Close, rubbing my neck and clutching my balls.

“Mr Dunford! Mr Dunford!” shouted Enid Sheard.

Kelly had the Viva running. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.

“Fuck,” said Kelly, putting his foot down.

I turned round, my balls and face still burning, and saw Enid Sheard screaming bloody hell across Willman Close.

“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering.”

Kelly had his eyes on the motorway. “It’s not such bad advice, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I said, knowing what he meant.

“Spoke to our Paula last night. She was in a bad way you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes on the car in front, wondering why he’d waited until now.

“You could’ve asked me first.”

“I didn’t know. It was Barry’s idea more than mine.”

“Don’t say that Eddie. It’s not right.”

“No, really. I had no idea she was family. I…”

“You’re doing your job, I know. But it’s just that, you know, none of us have ever really got over it. Then all the stuff with this other lass, it just brings it back.”

“I know.”

“Plus all this shit with our Johnny. It just never seems to stop.”

“You’ve not heard anything then?”

“No, nothing.”

I said, “I’m sorry, Paul.”

“I know everyone reckons it’ll be some bird or he’ll be on one of his benders, but I don’t know. I hope he is.”

“But you don’t think so?”

“Johnny took it the hardest, you know, after Paula and Geoff. He loves kids. I mean, he’s just a big fucking kid himself. He really doted on our Jeanie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I wasn’t going to mention it, but…”

I didn’t want to hear it. “Where do you think he is?”

Kelly looked at me. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be bleeding driving you around like your fucking chauffeur would I?” He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come.

“I’m sorry,” I said for the thousandth time.

I stared out of the window at the brown fields with their single brown trees and bits of brown hedges. We were coming up to the gypsy camp.

Kelly switched on the radio and the Bay City Rollers were briefly singing All of Me Loves All of You before he switched them off again.

I stared past Kelly as the burnt-out caravans flew by and tried to think of something to say.

Nobody spoke until we were in Leeds, parking under the arches near the Post building.

Kelly switched off the engine and took out his wallet. “What do you want to do with this?”

“Half and half?”

“Yeah,” said Kelly, counting out the tenners.

He handed me five.

“Thanks,” I said. “What happened to your car?”

“Hadden said to take the bus. That you’d be coming back here, said you could drive me back.”

Fuck, I thought. I bet he did.

“Why do you ask?”

“Nowt,” I said. “Just asking.”

“We live in the Great Age of Investigative Journalism and Barry Gannon was one of the men who gave us this age. Where he saw injustice, he asked for justice. Where he saw lies, he asked for truth. Barry Gannon asked big questions of big men because he believed that the Great British Public deserved the Big Picture.”

“Barry Gannon once said that the truth can only make us richer. For all of us who seek that truth, Barry’s premature passing has left us all so much the poorer.”

Bill Hadden, looking drained and small behind his desk, took off his glasses and looked up. I nodded, thinking Barry Cannon had so said many things over so many beers, one of them being something he picked up in India about an elephant, three blind men, and the truth.

After a suitable pause, I said, “Is that in today’s?”

“No. We’re going to wait until after the inquest.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know how it is. Never know what they might turn up. What do you think?”

“Very good.”

“You don’t think it’s too overtly panegyric do you?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, absolutely ignorant of what the fuck panegyric meant.

“Good,” said Hadden and put the typed sheet of A4 to one side. “You met up with Paul Kelly then?”

“Yeah.”

“And you gave Mrs Sheard her money?”

“Yep,” I said much too cheerfully, wondering if the miserable bitch would call Hadden about the police and start talking pennies.

“He got the photos and everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Have you finished the copy?”

“Almost,” I lied.

“What else have you got on?”

“Nothing much,” I lied again, thinking of Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay, burning gypsy camps, The Canals of the North, Arnold Fowler and his wingless swans, PCs Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, and the last words of Barry Gannon.

“Mmm,” said Hadden, the city dark behind him already.

“I did talk to the parents of Susan Ridyard on Saturday, like we said. You remember, the human interest bit?”

“Forget that,” said Hadden standing up, about to pace. “I want you to concentrate on the Clare Kemplay story.”

“But I thought you…”

Hadden had his hand raised. “We’re going to need a lot more background stuff if we’re going to keep this one alive.”

“But I thought you said it was Jack’s story now?” The whine was back in my voice.

Hadden’s face darkened. “And I thought we’d agreed you’d be covering it together?”

I pushed on. “But there doesn’t seem to be a right lot of togetherness so far.”

“Mmm,” said Hadden, picking up Barry’s obituary. “This is a very difficult time for all of us. You’ve had your reasons no doubt, but you haven’t always been here when we’ve needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking what a twat he truly was.

Hadden sat back down. “As I say, you’ve had your own losses and problems, I know. The point is Jack’s covering the day to day investigation and you’re on background.”

“Background?”

“It’s what you do best. Jack was only saying today what a great novelist you’d make.” Hadden was smiling.

I could picture the scene. “And that’s supposed to be a com pliment is it?”

Hadden was laughing. “From Jack Whitehead it is.”

“Yeah?” I smiled and began to count backwards from one hundred.

“Anyway, you’ll love this. I want you to go and visit this medium…”

Eighty-six, eighty-five. “Medium?”

“Yes, medium, fortune teller,” said Hadden, rooting through one of the drawers of his desk. “Claims she led the police to Clare’s body and that she’s been asked to help them find the killer.”

“And you want me to interview her?” I sighed, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.

“Yes. Here we are: Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, Wakefield. Behind the Grammar School.”

Hello Memory Lane. Twenty-four, twenty-three. “What’s her name?”

“Mandy Wymer. Calls herself Mystic Mandy.”

I gave up. “We going to cross her palm with silver?”

“Unfortunately a woman of Mandy’s many talents doesn’t come cheap.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ve made you an appointment for one o’clock.”

“Thank you,” I said, at sixes and sevens, standing up.

Hadden stood up with me. “You know it’s the inquest tomorrow?”

“Which one?”

“Barry’s.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. A Sergeant Fraser wants to talk to you.” He looked at his watch. “In about fifteen minutes, in the lobby.”

More cops. I felt my balls shrink.

“Right.” I opened the door thinking it could have been worse, he could have mentioned Mrs Dawson, the run-in with the two coppers in Ponty, or even Kathryn bloody Taylor.

“And don’t forget Mystic Mandy.”

“How could I?” I closed the door.

“Be right up your street.”

“I’m sorry to bother you Mr Dunford at a time like this, but I’m trying to build up an exact picture of Mr Cannon’s movements for yesterday.” The Sergeant was young, friendly, and blond.

I thought he was taking the piss and said, “He picked me up at about ten maybe…”

“I’m sorry sir. This would be where?”

“10 Wesley Street, Ossett.”

“Thank you.” He noted it down and looked back up.

“We drove over to Castleford in Barry, er, Mr Cannon’s car. I interviewed a Mrs Garland at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, and…”

“Paula Garland?”

“Yeah.”

Sergeant Fraser had stopped writing. “As in Jeanette Garland?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. And this was with Mr Cannon?”

“No. Mr Cannon met with Mrs Marjorie Dawson at her home. That’s Shangrila, Castleford. As in John Dawson.”

“Thank you. And so he dropped you off?”

“Yeah.”

“And that was the last time you saw him?”

I paused and then said, “No. I met up with Barry in the Swan public house in Castleford, sometime between one and two. I couldn’t tell you exactly when.”

“Was Mr Gannon drinking?”

“I think he had a half. Pint at the most.”

“And then?”

“We went our separate ways. He never said where he was going.”

“How about yourself?”

“I got the bus over to Pontefract. I had another interview.”

“So what time would you say it was when you last saw Mr Gannon?”

“It must have been about a quarter to three at the latest,” I said, thinking and he told me Marjorie Dawson had said his life was in danger and I thought nothing of it then and I’m going to say nowt of it now.

“And you’ve no idea where he went from there?”

“No. I assumed he’d be coming back here.”

“Why did you think that?”

“No reason. I just assumed that’s what he’d do. Type up the interview.”

“You’ve no idea why he might have gone to Morley?”

“None.”

“I see. Thank you. You’ll be obliged to attend the inquest tomorrow, you do know that?”

I nodded. “Bit quick isn’t it?”

“We have almost all the details and, between you and me, I think the family are keen to, you know…What with Christmas and everything.”

“Where’s it at?”

“Morley Town Hall.”

“Right,” I said. I was thinking about Clare Kemplay.

Sergeant Eraser closed his notebook. “You’ll be asked much the same questions. They’ll probably be a wee bit more on the drinking, mind. You know how these things are.”

“He was over then?”

“I believe so.”

“What about the brakes?”

Fraser shrugged. “They failed.”

“And the other vehicle?”

“Stationary.”

“True it was carrying plates of glass?”

“Yes.”

“And one went through the windscreen?”

“Yes.”

“And…”

“Yes.”

“So it was instantaneous?”

“I’d say so, yes.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

We were both white. I stared out of the foyer at the traffic heading home through the rain, the headlights and the brake-lights flashing on and off, yellow and red, yellow and red. Sergeant Fraser flicked through his notebook.

After a while, he stood up. “You don’t know where I could reach Kathryn Taylor do you?”

“If she’s not in the building she’s probably gone home.”

“No, I’ve been unable to contact her either here or at home.”

“Well I doubt she knows anything. She was with me most of the evening.”

“So I’ve been told. But you never know.”

I said nothing.

The Sergeant put on his hat. “If you do speak with Miss Taylor, please ask her to get in touch. I can be reached any time through the Morley Station.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you for your time Mr Dunford.”

“Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah.”

I watched him walk over to reception, say something to Lisa behind the desk, and then leave through the revolving doors.

I lit a cigarette, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.

Three hours straight I sat at my desk and worked.

There’s no quiet time on the only regional newspaper with a morning and an evening edition, but today was as close to the grave as it got, everybody pissing off as early as possible. A goodbye here, a goodbye there, and a few of us’ll be down the Press Club later if you fancy it.

No Barry Cannon.

So I typed and typed; the first real work I’d done since my father died and Clare Kemplay disappeared. I struggled to remember the last time I’d sat at this desk and just worked and typed. Joyriders, that would’ve been it. But I couldn’t remember if my father had still been in the hospital or if he’d been moved back home by then.

No Ronald Dunford.

At about six, Kelly brought the photos up and we went through them, putting the best in the drawer. Kelly took my piece and his photos to the Sub, then to Layout. In the process I lost fifty words which, on a good day, would’ve been cause for a large one in the Press Club with Kathryn.

But this wasn’t a good day.

No Kathryn Taylor.

I’d been to see Fat Steph and told her to keep it shut but she didn’t know what the fuck I was going on about, except that Jack Whitehead was right about me. We’re all upset you know, but I should get a grip. Jack was right about me, Stephanie had said over and over, again and again, to me and everyone else within a ten-mile radius.

No Jack fucking Whitehead?

No such rucking luck.

On every desk were copies of tonight’s paper.

CATCH THIS FIEND.

Banner headlines across the Front Page of the Evening Post.

BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CHIEF CRIME REPORTER & CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR 1968 &1971.

Fuck.

A post-mortem into the death of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay revealed that she had been tortured, raped, and then strangled. West Yorkshire Police are withholding the exact details of the injuries, but Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, speaking at a press conference earlier today, described the extreme nature of the murder as ‘defying belief and as ‘by far the most horrific case encountered by myself or any other member of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Force’.

Home Office pathologist Dr Alan Coutts, who conducted the post mortem, said, “There are no words to fully convey the horror visited upon this young girl.” Dr Coutts, a veteran of over fifty murders, looked visibly moved as he spoke, saying he hoped, “never to have to perform such a duty again.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman spoke of the urgency in finding the killer and announced that Detective Superintendent Peter Noble would be in charge of the day to day hunt for whoever was responsible for Clare’s murder.

In 1968, Detective Superintendent Noble, then with the West Midlands Force, gained national recognition as the man chiefly res ponsible for the arrest of the Cannock Chase Murderer, Raymond Morris. Between 1965 and 1967, Morris had molested and then suffo cated three little girls in and around Stafford, before being arrested by then Detective Inspector Noble.

Detective Superintendent Noble spoke of his resolution to find Clare Kemplay’s murderer, appealing to members of the public for assistance, saying, “We must catch this fiend before he takes another young innocent life.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman added that the police are particularly interested in speaking to anyone who was in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield on the night of Friday 13 December or early on the morning of Saturday 14 December.

West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police are appealing for anybody with information to contact the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838 or 3839 or to contact their nearest police station. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.

The report was accompanied by two photographs: the school photograph of Clare which had accompanied my initial report into her disappearance, and a grainy one of police searching Devil’s Ditch in Wakefield, where Clare’s body had been found.

Hats off to Jack.

I tore the Front Page off, stuffed it inside my jacket pocket, and walked across to Barry Cannon’s desk. I opened the bottom drawer and took out Barry’s trusty bottle of Bells, pouring a triple into a half-drunk cup of coffee.

Here’s to you Barry Cannon.

It tasted fucking shit, so fucking shit I found another cup of cold coffee on another desk and had another bloody one.

Here’s to you Ronald Dunford.

Five minutes later I put my head down on my desk and smelt the wood, the whisky, and the day’s work on my sleeves. I thought about phoning Kathryn’s house but the whisky must have beaten the coffee and I fell into a crap sleep beneath the bright office lights.

“Wakey-wakey Scoop.”

I opened one eye.

“Rise and shine Mr Sleepyhead. Your boyfriend’s on line two.”

I opened the other.

Jack Whitehead was sat in Barry’s chair at Barry’s desk, waving a telephone receiver across the office at me. The place was no longer dead, gearing up for the next edition. I sat up and nodded at Jack. Jack winked and the phone buzzed on my desk.

I picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

A young man’s voice said, “Edward Dunford?”

“Yeah?”

There was a pause and a click, Jack having taken his fucking time hanging up. I stared back across the office. Jack Whitehead raised his empty hands in mock surrender.

Everybody laughed.

My breath stank against the phone. “Who is this?”

“A friend of Barry’s. You know the Gaiety pub on Roundhay Road?”

“Yeah.”

“Be at the phonebox outside at ten.”

The line went dead.

I said, “I’m sorry, I’d have to check with my editor first. However, if you’d like to call back sometime tomorrow…I understand, thank you. Bye.”

“Another hot one Scoop?”

“Fucking Ratcatcher. Be the bloody death of me.”

Everybody laughed.

Even Jack.

Nine-thirty on a Monday night, 16 December 1974.

I pulled into the car park in front of the Gaiety Hotel, Roun-dhay Road, Leeds, and decided to stay put for half an hour. I switched off the engine and the lights and sat in the dark Viva, staring across the car park at the Gaiety, the lights from the bar giving me a good view of both the phonebox and the pub itself.

The Gaiety, an ugly modern pub with all the ugly old charms of any pub which bordered both Harehills and Chapeltown. A restaurant that served no food and a hotel that had no beds, that was the Gaiety.

I lit a cigarette, opened the window a crack, and tilted my head back.

About four months ago, soon after I’d first come back North, I’d spent almost an entire day, and some of the next, getting pissed out of my skull in the Gaiety with George Greaves, Gaz from Sport, and Barry.

About four months ago, when being back North was still a novelty and slumming in the Gaiety was a right laugh and a bit of an eye-opener.

About four months ago, when Ronald Dunford, Clare Kemplay, and Barry Cannon were still alive.

That all-day session hadn’t actually been much of a laugh, but it’d been a useful introduction for a new and very green North of England Crime Correspondent.

“This is Jack Whitehead Country,” George Greaves had whis pered as we pulled back the double doors and walked into the Gaiety around eleven that morning.

After about five hours I had been willing to go home but the Gaiety didn’t abide by local licensing laws and, despite having no food or beds or dancefloor, was able to sell alcohol from 11 AM to 3 AM by virtue of being either a restaurant or hotel or disco depending on which copper you talked to. And, unlike say the Queen’s Hotel in the city centre, the Gaiety also offered its daytime regulars a lunchtime strip-show. And additionally, instead of an actual hot food menu, the Gaiety was also able to offer its patrons the unique opportunity to eat out any member of the lunchtime strip-show at very reasonable rates. It was a snack that Gaz from Sport had assured me was worth a fiver of anybody’s money.

“He was Olympic Muff Diving Champion, our Gaz at Munich,” George Greaves had laughed.

“Not something the nig-nogs care for, mind,” added Gaz.

I’d first puked about six but had felt well enough to go on, staring at the pubes spinning in the broken toilet bowl.

The Gaiety’s daytime and evening clientele were pretty much the same, with only the ratios changing. During the day there were more prostitutes and Paid taxi drivers, while the night saw an increase in labourers and businessmen. Pissed journalists, off-duty coppers, and sullen West Indians were constant, day and night, day in, day out.

“This is Jack Whitehead Country.”

The last thing I really remember about that day was puking some more in the car park, thinking this is Jack’s Country not mine.

I emptied the Viva’s ashtray out of the window as a slot machine in the Gaiety paid out over the cheers that greeted yet another spin on the jukebox for The Israelites. I wound the window back up and wondered how many times I must have heard that bloody record that day about four months ago. Didn’t they ever get fucking tired of it?

At five to ten, as Young, Gifted and Black came on again, I got out of the Viva and Memory Lane and went over to wait by the phonebox.

At ten o’clock on the dot, I picked up the phone on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Who’s this?”

“Edward Dunford.”

“You alone?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re driving a green Vauxhall Viva?”

“Yeah.”

“Go on to Harehills Lane, where it meets Chapeltown Road, and park outside the hospital.”

The line went dead again.

At ten-ten I was parked outside the Chapel Allerton Hospital, where Harehills Lane and Chapeltown Road met and became the more promising Harrogate Road.

At ten-eleven someone tried the passenger door and then tapped on the glass. I leant across the passenger seat and opened the door.

“Turn the car around and head back into Leeds,” said the Maroon Suit with orange hair, getting in. “Anybody know you’re here?”

“No,” I said, turning the car around, thinking Bad Fucking Bowie.

“What about your girlfriend?”

“What about her?”

“She know you’re here?”

“No.”

The Maroon Suit sniffed hard, his orange hair turning this way and that. “Turn right at the park.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Follow the road down to the church.”

At the junction by the church the Maroon Suit sniffed hard again and said, “Pull up here and wait ten minutes and then walk down Spencer Place. After about five minutes you’ll come to Spencer Mount, it’s the fifth or sixth on the left. Number 3 is on the right. Don’t ring the bell, just come straight up to flat 5.”

I said, “Flat 5, 3 Spencer Mount…” But the Maroon Suit and his orange hair were off and running.

At about ten-thirty I was walking along Spencer Place, thinking fuck him and this cloak and dagger shit. And fuck him again for making me walk down Spencer Place at ten-thirty like it was some kind of sodding test.

“Just looking are you, love?”

From ten until three, seven nights a week, Spencer Place was the busiest stretch of road in Yorkshire, bar the Manningham area of Bradford. And tonight, despite the cold, was no excep tion. Cars crawled up and down the road in both directions, brakelights shining red, looking like a Bank Holiday tailback.

“Like what you see, do you?”

The older women sat on low walls in front of unlit terraces while the younger ones walked up and down, stamping their boots to keep the cold at bay.

“Excuse me Mr Officer…”

The only other men on the street were West Indians, hopping in and out of parked cars, trailing heavy smoke and music behind them, offering wares of their own and keeping an eye on their white girlfriends.

“You tight fucking bastard!”

The laughter followed me round the corner on to Spencer Mount. I crossed the road and went up three stone steps to the front door of number 3, above which a chipped Star of David had been painted on the grey glass.

From Yid Town to Pork City, in how many years?

I pushed open the door and went up the stairs.

I said, “Nice neighbourhood.”

“Piss off,” hissed the Maroon Suit, holding open the front door to flat 5.

It was a one-room bedsit with too much furniture, big windows and the stink of too many Northern winters. Karen Carpenter stared down from every wall, but it was Ziggy playing guitar from inside a tiny Dancette. There were fairy lights but no tree.

The Maroon Suit cleared some clothes from one of the chairs and said, “Please sit down Eddie.”

“I’m afraid you have the advantage,” I smiled.

“Barry James Anderson,” said Barry James Anderson proudly.

“Another Barry?” The armchair smelt stale.

“Yeah, but you can call this one BJ,” he giggled. “Everybody does.”

I didn’t bite. “OK.”

“Yep, BJ’s the name, bjs the game.” He stopped laughing and hurried over to an old wardrobe in the corner.

“How did you know Barry?” I said, wondering if Barry Cannon had been a puff.

“I saw him around, you know. Just got talking.”

“Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff.”

“Saw him around where?”

“Just around. Cup of tea?” He said, rooting around in the back of the wardrobe.

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

I lit a cigarette and picked up a dirty plate for an ashtray.

“Here,” said BJ, handing me a Hillards carrier bag from the back of the wardrobe. “He wanted you to have this if anything happened to him.”

“If anything happened to him?” I repeated, opening the bag. It was stuffed full of cardboard folders and manila envelopes. “What is it?”

“His life’s work.”

I stubbed out my cigarette in dried tomato sauce. “Why? I mean, what made him leave it here?”

“Say it: why me, you mean,” sniffed BJ. “He came round here last night. Said he needed somewhere safe to keep all this. And, if anything happened to him, to give it to you.”

“Last night?”

BJ sat down on the bed and took off his jacket. “Yeah.”

“I saw you last night, didn’t I? In the Press Club?”

“Yeah, and you weren’t very nice were you?” His shirt was covered in thousands of small stars.

“I was pissed.”

“Well, that makes it all right then,” he smirked.

I lit another cigarette and hated the sight of the little queer and his star shirt. “What the fuck was your business with Barry?”

“I’ve seen things, you know?”

“I bet,” I said, glancing at my father’s watch.

He jumped up from the bed. “Listen, don’t let me keep you.”

I stood up. “I’m sorry. Sit down, please. I’m sorry.”

BJ sat back down, his nose still in the air. “I know people.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He was on his feet again, stamping his feet. “No, fuck off. Famous people.”

I stood up, my hands out. “I know, I know…”

“Listen, I’ve sucked the cocks and licked the balls of some of the greatest men this country has.”

“Like who?”

“Oh no. You don’t get it that easy.”

“All right, then. Why?”

“For money. What else is there? You think I like being me? This body? Look at me! This isn’t me.” He was on his knees, screwing up his star shirt. “I’m not a puff. I’m a girl in here,” he screamed, leaping to his feet and tearing down one of the Karen Carpenter pin-ups, screwing it up in my face. “She knows what it’s’like. He knows,” he said, turning and kicking the stereo, sending Ziggy scratching to a halt.

Barry James Anderson fell to the floor by the record player and lay with his head buried, shaking. “Barry knew.”

I sat back down and then stood back up again. I went over to the crumpled boy in his silver star shirt and maroon trousers and picked him up, gently putting him down on the bed.

“Barry knew,” he whimpered again.

I went over to the Dancette and put the needle on the record, but the song was depressing and jumped, so I turned off the music and sat back down in the stale armchair.

“Did you like Barry?” He’d dried his face and was sitting up, looking at me.

“Yeah, but I didn’t really know him that well.”

BJ’s eyes were filling up again. “He liked you.”

“Why’d he think something was going to happen to him?”

“Come on!” BJ jumped up. “Fuck. It was obvious.”

“Why was it obvious?”

“It couldn’t go on. He had so many things on so many people.”

I leant forward. “John Dawson?”

“John Dawson’s just the tip of the fucking iceberg. Haven’t you read this stuff?” He flicked his wrist at the carrier bag at my feet.

“Just what he gave the Post,” I lied.

He smiled. “Well, all the cats are in that bag.”

I hated the little sod, his games, and his flat. “Where did he go last night after here?”

“He said he was going to help you.”

“Me?”

“That’s what he said. Something to do with that little girl in Morley, how he could tie it all together.”

I was on my feet. “What do you mean? What about her?”

“That’s all he said…”

Consumed by a vision of wings stitched into her back, of cricket ball tits on him, I flew across the room at Barry James Anderson, shouting, “Think!”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

I had him by the stars on his shirt, pressed into the bed. “Did he say anything else about Clare?”

His breath was as stale as the room and in my face. “Clare who?”

“The dead girl.”

“Just he was going out to Morley and it would help you.”

“How the fuck would that help me?”

“He didn’t-bloody- say! How many more times?”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing. Now fucking let go will you.”

I grabbed his mouth and squeezed hard. “No. You tell me why Barry told you this,” I said, tightening my grip on his face as hard as I could before letting go of him.

“Maybe because my eyes are open. Because I see things and I remember.” His bottom lip was bleeding.

I looked down at the silver stars clasped in my other hand and let them fall. “You know bugger all.”

“Believe what you want.”

I stood up and went over to the Hillards bag. “I will.”

“You should get some sleep.”

I picked up the bag and walked over to the door. I opened the door and then turned back to the bedsit hell with one last question. “Was he drunk?”

“No, but he’d been drinking.”

“A lot?”

“I could smell it on him.” Tears were running down his cheeks.

I put down the carrier bag. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I think they killed him,” he sniffed.

“Who?”

“I don’t know their names and I don’t want to know.”

Haunted, “There are Death Scjuads.in every city, in every country.”

I said, “Who? Dawson? The police?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why then?”

“Money, what else? To keep those cats in that bag of yours. To put them in the river.”

I stared across the room at a poster of Karen Carpenter hugging a giant Mickey Mouse.

I picked up the carrier bag. “How can I reach you?”

Barry James Anderson smiled. “442189. Tell them Eddie called and I’ll get the message.”

I wrote down the number. “Thank you.”

“Mention it.”

Back down Spencer Place in a sprint, foot down into Leeds and on to Motorway One, hoping to fuck I never saw him again:

Planet of the Apes, Escape from the Dark, theories racing:

The rain on the windscreen, the moon stolen.

Cut to the chase:

I knew a man who knew a man.

“He could tie it all together…”

Angels as devils, devils as angels.

The bones of the thing:

ACT LIKE NOTHING’S WRONG.

I watched my mother sleeping in her chair and tried to tie it all together.

Not here.

Up the stairs, emptying carrier bags and envelopes, scattering files and photographs across my bed.

Not here.

I scooped the whole bloody lot into one big black bin-sack, stuffing my pockets with my father’s pins and needles.

Not here.

Back down the stairs, a kiss upon my mother’s brow, and out the door.

Not here.-

Foot down, screaming through the Ossett dawn.

Not here.