1977

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Wednesday 8th June 1977

Chapter 11

Leeds.

Wednesday 8 June 1977.

It’s happening again:

When the two sevens clash…

Shot through another hot dawn to another ancient stage with her littered dead, from Soldier’s Field to here, it’s happening again.

Wednesday morning, doors wide open, the morning after the night before, the bunting tattered, the Union Jacks down.

Knuckles white and tight in prayer around the steering wheel, foot down.

The voices in my head, alive with death:

Wednesday morning – a jacket over her, her boots placed on her thighs, a pair of white panties left on one leg, a pink bra pushed up, her stomach and breasts hollowed out with a screwdriver, her skull caved in with a hammer.

Cars and vans screaming in from every direction, wailing:

Proceeding to Chapeltown.

I park, I pray, I make my deal:

Please God, dear God, please let her be safe, please let it be someone else and if she’s safe and someone else, I’ll let her be and go back to Louise and try again. Amen.

Me ditching Eric’s Granada round the back, following the sirens down across Chapeltown.

Chapeltown – our town for one year; the leafy street with its grand old house, the shabby little flat which we filled full of sex, hiding out from the rest of the world, the rest of my world.

And I turn the corner on to Reginald Street, the blue lights spinning silently, the waking dead on every doorstep with their bottles of milk and their open mouths, and I walk up past the Community Centre, past the uniforms, under the tape and through the gates, into the adventure playground, this the ancient stage where we the players move our wooden limbs and scratch our wooden heads with our wooden hands, and Ellis looks up and says, ‘Christ. The fuck…’

And they’re all here:

Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, and Farley; Rudkin sprinting across the playground towards me.

And I’m staring at the body on the floor under the jacket, cursing God and all his fucking angels, tasting blood and the end:

I can see black hair lying in the dirt.

Rudkin catches me, spins me round, and he’s saying, ‘The fuck you been, the fuck you been, the fuck you been,’ over and over, again and again.

And I’m staring at the body on the floor under the jacket, still cursing God and all his fucking angels, thinking:

There is no hell but this one.

Cursing all those false hells stuffed full of pretenders: those generals and their witches.

I can see black hair.

And Rudkin is staring into my eyes, my eyes past him, and I get free and I’m gone, away, across the playground, pushing Prentice and Alderman to the ground, dropping on to my knees, the jacket in my hands, the face between my Angers, the hair blood not black, the prayers answered, the deal made, and they’re pulling me off, shouting:

‘Get him fucking out of here.’

And Rudkin picks me up and leads me away into the path of a man in his dressing gown and pyjamas clutching a bottle of milk, walking across the playground towards us, f-a-t-h-e-r tattooed across his face, eyes closed to the horror and death, and he stares at us as he passes and we stop and we watch as he gets nearer and nearer, until he drops the bottle of milk and falls to the ground that killed his daughter and starts to dig through the hard-packed dirt, searching for an exit which a year from now he’ll find, dead in the same pyjamas, his broken heart unhealed, unmended, this unending.

My deal, my prayer; his hell.

Rudkin pushes my head down and into the back of the car and Ellis turns and is speaking to me but I can’t hear him.

And they take me in.

They put me in a cell, chuck in some clean clothes, and bring in breakfast.

‘Briefing’s in ten minutes,’ says Rudkin, sitting down opposite. ‘They want you there.’

‘Why?’

‘They know fuck all. We covered for you.’

‘You didn’t need to do that.’

‘I know, Mike kept saying.’

‘What happens now?’

Rudkin leans across the table, hands together. ‘She’s gone, go back to your family. They need you, she doesn’t.’

‘I broke into Eric Hall’s house, stole his car, beat him up.’

‘I know.’

‘You can’t cover that up.’

‘Word is they’re sending in Peter Hunter to do the number on Bradford Vice.’

‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘No.’

‘What’s going to happen to Eric?’

‘He’s been sent home for a bit.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Craven’s shitting himself. Reckons Leeds’ll be next.’

I start to smile.

‘Don’t think for a moment Eric’ll forget.’

I nod.

Rudkin stands up.

I say, ‘Thanks, John.’

‘You won’t thank me, not when see what he did last night.’

‘But thanks for helping me.’

‘She’s gone, Bob. Go back to your family and everything’ll be all right.’

I nod.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he says.

‘OK,’ I say.

Oldman stands up, looks at us, like this is all he ever sees.

No days off.

We wait, but it’s not like before.

The game’s over.

‘At about 5.45 a.m. this morning, the body of Rachel Louise Johnson, sixteen years of age, shop assistant, of 66 St Mary’s Road, Leeds 7, was found in the adventure playground compound, between Reginald Terrace and Reginald Street, Chapeltown, Leeds. She was last seen at 10.30 p.m. Tuesday 7th June in the Hofbrauhaus in the Merrion Centre, Leeds.

‘She is described as follows: five feet four inches with proportionate build, shoulder-length fair hair and wearing a blue-and-yellow check gingham skirt, a blue jacket, dark blue tights and high-heeled clog-fronted shoes in black and cream with brass studs around the front.

‘A post-mortem is being carried out by the Home Office Pathologist, Professor Farley. So far as can be ascertained the deceased had been subjected to violent blows about the head with a blunt instrument and had not been sexually assaulted.

‘The body had been dragged a distance of some fifteen or twenty yards from where the initial assault took place. Her assailant’s clothing will be heavily bloodstained, particularly the front of any jacket, shirt, or trousers worn by him.

“There is no evidence that Rachel Louise Johnson was an active prostitute.’

Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman sits down, his head in his hands, and we say nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing until Detective Chief Superintendent Noble stands up in front of the board, the board that says in big bold letters:

Theresa Campbell.

Clare Strachan.

Joan Richards.

Marie Watts.

Until he stands there and says, ‘Dismissed.’

Noble looks up and says, ‘What about Fairclough?’

‘We lost him,’ says Rudkin.

‘You lost him?’

Ellis is burning a hole into the side of my face.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s my fault, sir,’ I say.

Noble has his hand up, ‘Whatever. Where is he now?’

Ellis says, ‘At home. Asleep.’

‘Then you’d better go and fucking wake him up, hadn’t you.’

He’s on his knees, on the floor, in the corner, hands up, nose bloody.

My body weak.

‘Come on,’ shouts Rudkin. ‘Where the fuck were you?’

I was battering down doors, battering down people, kicking in doors, kicking in people.

‘Working,’ he screams.

Ellis, fists into the wall, ‘Liar!’

I was raping whores, fucking them up the arse.

‘I was.’

‘You murdering bastard. You tell me now!’

I was breaking into houses, stealing cars, beating up cunts like Eric Hall.

‘I was working.’

‘The fucking truth!’

I was searching for a whore.

‘Working, I was fucking working.’

Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and sits him in it, nodding at the door.

‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock this morning and what you were bloody doing?’

I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears.

We’re standing outside the Belly, Noble staring through the peephole into the cell.

‘What’s the cunt doing?’ asks Ellis.

‘Not much,’ says Noble.

Rudkin looks up from the end of his cigarette, asks, ‘What next?’

Noble comes away from the hole, the four of us in a prayer circle. He looks up at the low ceiling, eyes wide like he’s trying not to cry, and says:

‘Fairclough’s the best we got for now. Bob Craven’s out pulling in witnesses, Alderman’s door-to-door, Prentice is down the cab firm. Just keep at him.’

Rudkin nods and stamps out his cigarette, ‘Right then. Back to work.’

Rudkin and I sit down across the table from Donny Fairclough, Ellis leaning against the door.

I sit forward, elbows on the table: ‘OK, Don. We all want to go home, right?’

Nothing, head down.

‘You do want to go home, don’t you?’

A nod.

‘That makes four of us. So help us out, will you?’

Head still down.

‘What time did you clock on yesterday?’

He looks up, sniffs, and says: ‘Just after lunch. One-ish.’

‘And what time did you finish?’

‘Like I said, about one in morning.’

‘And what did you do then?’

‘I went to a party.’

‘Where? Whose?’

‘Chapeltown, one of them kind. I don’t know whose it was.’

‘You remember where?’

‘Off Leopold Street.’

‘And this was?’

‘About half-one.’

‘Till?’

‘Two-thirty, three o’clock.’

‘See anyone you know?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know their names.’

Rudkin looks up, ‘That’s unfortunate that is, Donald.’

I say, ‘Would you know them again, if you saw them?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Men or women?’

‘A couple of the black lads, couple of the girls.’

‘The girls?’

‘You know?’

‘No, I don’t. Be more specific’

‘Prostitutes.’

‘Whores, you mean?’ says Rudkin.

He nods.

I ask, ‘You go with whores, do you Donny?’

‘No.’

‘So how come you know they’re prostitutes?’

‘I pick them up, don’t I? Get talking.’

‘They offer you discounts, do they? For cheap lifts?’

‘No.’

‘Right, so you’re at the party. What did you?’

‘Had a drink.’

‘You always go to a party after work?’

‘No, but it’s Jubilee, isn’t it?’

Rudkin smiles, ‘Bit of a patriot are you, Don?’

‘Yeah I am, as a matter of fact.’

‘Fuck you drink with wogs and whores for then?’

‘I told you, I just wanted a drink.’

I say, ‘So you just sat there in the corner, sipping a half you?’

‘Yeah, that was about it.’

‘Didn’t have a dance or a bit of a cuddle?’

‘No.’

‘Smoke a bit of the old wog weed, did you?’

‘No.’

‘So then you just went home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what time was that then?’

‘Must have been about three-ish.’

‘And where’s home?’

‘Pudsey.’

‘Nice place, Pudsey’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Live alone do you Donny?’

‘No, with my mum.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘Light sleeper is she, your mum?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, did she hear you come in?’

‘Doubt it.’

Rudkin, big fat fucking grin: ‘So you don’t sleep in the same fucking bed or anything daft like that?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Here,’ spits Rudkin, the hard stare in Fairclough’s face. ‘The shit you’re in, you’ll wish you had been fucking your mum. Understand?’

Fairclough’s eyes drop, nails up to his mouth.

‘So,’ I say, ‘what we got is this: you knocked off work about one, went down to a party on Leopold Street, had a couple of drinks, drove home to Pudsey for about three. Right?’

‘Right,’ he’s nodding. ‘Right.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me.’

‘And?’

‘And anyone who was at that party.’

‘Whose names you don’t know?’

‘Just ask anyone who was there. They’ll pick me out, I swear.’

‘Let’s hope so. For your fucking sake.’

Upstairs, out of the Belly.

No sleep.

Just coffee.

No dreams.

Just this:

Shirtsleeves and smoke, grey skins with big black rings crayoned across our faces:

Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, Rudkin, and me.

On every wall, names:

Jobson.

Bird.

Campbell.

Strachan.

Richards.

Peng.

Watts.

Clark.

Johnson.

On every wall, words:

Screwdriver.

Abdomen.

Boots.

Chest.

Hammer.

Skull.

Bottle.

Rectum.

Knife.

On every wall, numbers:

1.3?

1974 .

32 .

1975 .

239 + 584 .

1976 .

X3

1977 .

3.5 .

And Noble is saying:

‘We got a witness, this Mark Lancaster, who says he saw a white Ford Cortina, black roof, on Reginald Street about two this morning. Fairclough’s motor. No question.’

We’re listening, waiting.

‘Right, Farley is saying that this is definitely the same man. No question. And Bob Craven’s lads have turned up another witness who saw this guy, this Dave, the night Joan Richards was murdered. Description’s a ringer for Fairclough. No question.’

Listening, waiting.

‘I say we stick the cunt in a line-up, see if this witness’ll pick him out.’

Waiting.

‘No alibi, motor spotted at the time of death, witness has him for Joan Richards, same blood group, what you reckon?’

Oldman:

‘Cunt’s going down.’

The magnificent seven.

We’re standing there, in the line-up, in the room we use for press conferences, the chairs all folded up at the back, Ellis and me either side of Fairclough, two guys from Vice and a couple of civilians making up the numbers and a fiver each.

The coppers, we all look alike.

The civilians are both over forty.

No-one looks like Donny.

And there we stand, in the line-up, numbers three, four, and five. Number four shaking, stinking, smelling like FEAR, HATE, and DIRTY THOUGHTS.

‘This isn’t right,’ he’s moaning. ‘I should have a lawyer.’

‘But you haven’t done anything, Donny,’ says Ellis. ‘Or so you keep saying.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘We’ll see,’ I say. ‘We’ll see who’s not done anything.’

Rudkin sticks his head in, ‘Right, quiet now ladies. Eyes front.’

He opens the door wider and Oldman, Noble, and Craven lead in Karen Burns.

Karen fucking Burns.

Fuck.

She looks down the line, looks at Craven, who nods, and steps towards us.

Noble puts a hand on her arm to hold her back.

He turns to Rudkin, ‘Where are the bloody numbers?’

‘Shit.’

Noble rolls his eyes and turns to Karen Burns and says in a low voice, ‘When you see the man you saw last year on the night of 6th February please stand before him and touch his right shoulder.’

She nods, swallows, and steps towards the first man.

She doesn’t even look at him.

Past the second, straight to us.

She stands before Ellis, and I’m wondering if he’s ever fucked her, if there’s a man in this room who hasn’t.

Ellis is almost smiling.

She glances down the line at me.

I fix on the wall ahead, the white patches where the pictures were.

She moves on.

Fairclough coughs.

She’s standing in front of him.

He’s staring at her.

‘Eyes front,’ hisses Rudkin.

She’s staring back.

He’s smiling.

She moves her hand.

The whole row turns.

She adjusts the strap of her bag and turns to me.

I can see the teeth of Fairclough’s grin out the corner of my eye, in my face.

He’s laughing.

I swallow.

She’s before me, smiling.

I pull her from the bed, across the floor.

My eyes dead ahead.

Just a pair of pink knickers, tits out.

Staring me up and down.

And she’s under me, hands across her face because I’m slapping the shit out of her.

I can feel myself start to rock, a mouth full of sand.

And I slap her again and then I look down at her bleeding lips and nose.

She won’t stop staring.

The bloody smears on her chin and neck, her tits and arms.

I’ve got sweat running down my face, down my neck, down my back, down my legs, rivers of salt.

And I pull off her pink knickers and drag her back to the bed and pull open my trousers and push it into her.

She doesn’t move.

And I slap her again and turn her over.

Rudkin’s next to her, Ellis turning sideways back down the line.

And she starts struggling, saying we don’t need to do it like this.

She moves her arm, her hand coming up.

But I push her face down into the dirty sheets and bring my cock up.

I step back.

And stick it in her arse and she’s screaming.

She sniffs, wipes her nose, and she smiles.

And she’s lying there on the bed, semen and blood running down her thighs.

I look down.

And I get up and do it again and this time it doesn’t hurt.

‘He’s not here,’ she says, not even looking at six and seven.

I look up.

‘Would you like to go through them one more time? Just to be sure,’ says Noble.

‘He’s not here.’

‘I think you should take one more…’

‘He’s not here. I want to go home.’

‘The fuck was that?’ Noble’s shouting at Craven. ‘You said you could fucking deliver her…’

‘Ask fucking Fraser.’

‘Tuck off,’ says Rudkin. ‘Nowt to do with us.’

Craven’s spewing, spit in his beard, the lot of us jammed into Noble’s office, Oldman wedged behind the desk, pitch black outside, same inside:

‘She grasses for you, doesn’t she?’

‘So fucking what,’ says Ellis and I know then he’s been shagging her.

And so does Craven: ‘You fucking her Mike? Taking a leaf out of his book,’ he yells, pointing my way.

Me with a feeble: ‘Fuck off.’

Noble’s shaking his head, staring round the room at us, ‘Right fucking balls-up.’

‘OK. Now what?’ asks Rudkin, looking from Noble to Oldman.

‘Total fucking cock-up.’

‘We can’t let the cunt just walk. He’s our man, I know it,’ says Ellis.

‘He’s not going anywhere but down,’ says Noble.

‘Fucking know it,’ Ellis is saying.

Rudkin looking to George, ‘So what then?’

Oldman:

‘Do it the hard way’

He’s naked on his knees, on the floor, in the corner, holding his balls, body bloody.

My arms are weak.

‘Come on,’ Rudkin is screaming, over and over, again and again, screaming, ‘Where the fuck were you?’

I was searching for a whore.

He’s crying.

Ellis, fists into Fairclough’s face, ‘Tell us!’

I was searching for a whore.

He’s crying.

‘You murdering fucking cunt. She wasn’t a slag. She was a good girl. Sixteen fucking years old. From a good Christian family. Never even had a bloody fuck! A child, a bloody child.’

I was searching for a whore.

He just keeps crying, face like Bobby, no noise, just tears, mouth open, crying, like a child, a baby.

‘The truth. Give us the fucking truth!’

I was searching for a whore.

Just crying.

Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and ties him to it with our belts, taking out his cigarette lighter.

‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock yesterday morning and what you were bloody doing.’

I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears.

Crying.

Rudkin flicks the lighter open and Ellis and me, we take a leg each and keep his knees apart as Rudkin puts the flame to Donny’s tiny little balls.

I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears.

Screaming.

The door flies open.

Oldman and Noble.

Noble: ‘Let him go!’

Us: ‘What?’

Oldman: ‘It’s not him. Let him fucking go.’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Thursday 9th June 1977

Chapter 12

Silence.

A hot, dirty, red-eyed silence.

Twenty-four hours for the four of us.

Oldman was staring at the letter in his hands, the piece of flowered cloth in another plastic envelope on the desk, Noble avoiding me, Bill Hadden biting a nail in his beard.

Silence.

A hot, dirty, yellow, sweaty silence.

Thursday 9 June 1977.

The morning’s headlines stared up from the desk at us:

RIPPER RIDDLE IN MURDER OF RACHEL, 16 .

Yesterday’s news.

Oldman put the letter flat on the desk and read it aloud again:

From Hell.

Mr Whitehead,

Sir, this is a little something for your drawer, would have been a bit of stuff from underneath but for that dog. Lucky cow.

Up to four now they say three but remember Preston 75, come my load up that one. Dirty cow.

Anyway, warn whores to keep off streets cause I feel it coming on again.

Maybe do one for queen. Love our queen.

God saves

Lewis.

I have given advance warning so its yours and their fault.

Silence.

Then Oldman: ‘Why you Jack?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Why’s he writing to you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He’s got your home address,’ said Noble.

Me: ‘It’s in the book.’

‘It’s in his, that’s for sure.’

Oldman picked up the envelope: ‘Sunderland. Monday’

‘Took its time,’ said Noble.

Me: ‘Bank Holiday. The Jubilee.’

‘Last one was Preston, right?’ said Hadden.

Noble sighed, ‘He gets about a bit.’

Hadden asked, ‘Lorry driver?’

I said, ‘Taxi driver?’

Oldman and Noble just sat there, mouths shut.

‘That last one,’ said Hadden. ‘That stuff he sent, that was from Marie Watts?’

‘No,’ said Noble, looking at me.

Hadden, eyes wide: ‘What was it then?’

‘Beef,’ smiled Noble.

‘Cow,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said Noble, the smile gone.

I asked Oldman, ‘But this must match what Linda Clark was wearing?’

‘It would appear to,’ stressed Noble.

I repeated, ‘Appear to?’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Oldman, hands up, looking at Hadden and me. ‘I’m going to be frank with you, but I must insist that this remain completely off the record.’

‘Understood,’ said Hadden.

Noble was looking at me.

I nodded.

‘Yesterday was about the worst day of my career as a police officer. And this,’ said Oldman, holding up the plastic envelope with the letter, ‘this didn’t help. As Pete says, the jury was still out on the last letter but this one, the tests are more conclusive.’

I couldn’t help myself: ‘Conclusive?’

‘Yes, conclusive. One, it’s the same bloke as before. Two, the contents are genuine. Three, initial saliva tests indicate the blood group we’re interested in.’

‘B?’ said Hadden.

‘Yes. The tests on the first letter were spoiled. Four, there are traces of a mineral oil on both letters that have been present at each of the crime scenes.’

I was straight in: ‘What kind of oil?’

‘A lubricant used in engineering,’ said Noble, clear this was as specific as he was going to get.

‘Finally,’ said Oldman. ‘There’s the content: the threat to kill just days before Rachel Johnson, the Queen and the Jubilee, and the reference to Preston and him coming his load.’

Hadden said, ‘That wasn’t in any of the papers?’

‘No,’ said Noble. ‘And that’s what distinguishes that crime from the others.’

I was straight at Oldman: ‘So you think he did it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Alf Hill’s sceptical.’

‘Not any more,’ said Oldman, nodding at the letter.

WKFD.

Wakefield.

‘Would it be possible for me to take a look at the Preston file?’

‘Talk to Pete later,’ shrugged Oldman.

Bill Hadden, on the edge of his seat, eyes on the letter: ‘Are you going to go public with it?’

‘Not at this stage, no.’

‘And so we’re not to print anything?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to brief the other editors, Bradford, Manchester?’

‘Not unless they start getting fan mail like this, no.’

I said, ‘It’ll put a few noses out of joint if it gets out.’

‘Well, let’s see that it doesn’t then.’

Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman picked up his glass of water and stared out at the pack.

Millgarth, 10.30 a.m.

Another press conference.

Tom from Bradford: ‘At this stage do you have a picture in your mind of the kind of man you’re looking for?’

Oldman: ‘Yes, we now have a very clear picture in our minds of the type of man we are looking for, and obviously no woman is really safe until he is found. We are looking for a psychopathic killer who has a pathological hatred of women he believes are prostitutes. We believe he is probably being protected by someone because on several occasions he must have returned home with heavily bloodstained clothing. This person is in urgent need of help, and anyone who leads us to him will be doing him a service.’

Gilman from Manchester: ‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable be prepared to describe the type of weapons members of the public should be on the lookout for?’

‘I believe I know the weapons that have been used but no, I am not prepared to say what, other than that they include a blunt instrument.’

‘Have any weapons been recovered?’

‘No.’

‘Have any eye-witnesses come forward in connection to the murder of Rachel Johnson?’

‘No. As yet we have not had any detailed descriptions of this man.’

‘Have you got any suspects?’

‘No.’

‘What have you got?’

Back in the office, the sun on the big seventh-floor windows, burning paper under glass.

Leeds on fire.

I got out my fiddle:

NO WOMAN SAFE WITH RIPPER FREE, SAY POLICE

Detectives hunting West Yorkshire’s Jack the Ripper killer finally established last night that the same man had brutally murdered five women in the North of England.

Forensic scientists at the Home Office laboratories, Wetherby, yesterday managed to link the sadistic attacks on four prostitutes with that on Rachel Johnson, a sixteen-year-old shop assistant.

Her mutilated body was found in an adventure playground alongside Chapeltown Community Centre on Wednesday morning.

Last night the police officer who has taken charge of the biggest multiple murder hunt in the North since the M62 coach-bomb explosion described the wanted man:

‘We are looking for a psychopathic killer who has a pathological hatred of women who he believes are prostitutes. It is crucial that this man is found quickly,’ said Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable of the West Yorkshire Police.

Throughout yesterday, as the striking similarities between the five murders were matched up, Mr Oldman and other senior detectives spent time discussing the mind of the killer with psychiatrists.

‘We now have a clear picture in our minds of the type of man we are looking for, and obviously no woman is safe until he is found.

‘We believe he is probably being protected by someone because on several occasions he must have returned home with heavily bloodstained clothing. This person is in urgent need of help, and anyone who leads us to him will be doing him a service,’ added Mr Oldman.

Police believe the man is from West Yorkshire, certainly with good knowledge of Leeds and Bradford, and has possibly developed a psychological hang-up about prostitutes, either at the hands of one or because his mother was one.

Mr Oldman said that as well as forensic evidence, the details of which he was not prepared to discuss, other similarities included:

all the victims were ‘good time girls’ except Rachel Johnson, who could have been attacked by mistake as she made her way home late on Tuesday night.

no evidence of sexual assault or robbery on any of the victims apart from one.

all suffered horrific head injuries and other injuries to their bodies, including frenzied knife wounds.

Last night Rachel Johnson’s Chapeltown neighbours were collecting signatures on a petition calling on the Home Secretary Mr Merlyn Rees to restore the death penalty for murder.

One of the organisers, Mrs Rosemary Hamilton, said: ‘We’re going to go round every house in Leeds if necessary. This kid never did anyone any harm in her life and when they catch her killer he won’t get what he deserves.’

The Press Club.

Dead, but for George, Bet, and me.

‘Some of the things they say he does,’ Bet was saying.

George, nodding along, ‘Slices their tits off, right?’

‘Takes out their wombs, this copper was saying.’

‘Eats bits and all.’

‘Another?’

‘And keep them coming,’ I said, sick.

I staggered round the corner of my road and there he was, under the streetlight.

A tall man in a black raincoat, a hat, and a battered briefcase.

He was standing motionless, staring up at my flat, frozen.

‘Martin,’ I said, coming up behind him.

He turned, ‘Jack. I was getting worried.’

‘I told you, I’m fine.’

‘Been drinking?’

‘About forty years.’

‘You need some new jokes, Jack.’

‘Got any?’

‘Jack, you can’t keep running.’

‘You going to exorcise my demons, are you? Put me out of my fucking misery?’

‘I’d like to come up. To talk.’

‘Another time.’

‘Jack, there might not be another time. It’s running out.’

‘Good.’

‘Jack, please.’

‘Goodnight.’

The telephone was ringing on the other side.

I opened the door and answered it.

‘Hello.’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Speaking.’

‘I’ve got some information concerning one of these Ripper murders.’

A man’s voice, young and local.

‘Go on.’

‘Not on the phone.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not important, but I can meet Saturday night.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘On Saturday. Variety Club.’

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah. Between ten and eleven.’

‘OK, but I need a name?’

‘No names.’

‘You want money I suppose?’

‘No money’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You just be there.’

At the window, the Reverend Laws still under the streetlight, a lynched East End Jew in his black hat and coat.

I sat down and tried to read, but I was thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her hair, thinking of her ears, thinking of her eyes, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her lips, thinking of her teeth, thinking of her tongue, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her neck, thinking of her collarbone, thinking of her shoulders, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her breasts, thinking of the skin, thinking of her nipples, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her stomach, thinking of her belly, thinking of her womb, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her thighs, thinking of the skin, thinking of the hair, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her piss, thinking of her shit, thinking of her hidden bits, praying Carol stayed gone, thinking of her, thinking of her, thinking of her, and praying.

I stood up and turned to the bed, to be under the sheets, thinking of her, touching me.

I stood up, I turned, and there she was.

Ka Su Peng gone.

Carol home.

‘Did you miss me?’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 10th June 1977

Chapter 13

In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand.

And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up.

Someone’s tapping on my face.

I open my eyes.

It’s Bobby.

He smiles, eyes alive, teeth tiny and white.

He pushes a book on to my chest.

I close my eyes.

He taps on my face again.

I open my eyes.

It’s Bobby, in his blue pyjamas.

I’m on the settee in the front room, the radio on in the back, the smell of breakfast in the house.

I sit up and pick up Bobby and his blue pyjamas, put him on my knee and open his book.

‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit, a magic rabbit who lived on the moon.’

And Bobby’s got his hands up, pretending they’re rabbit’s ears.

‘And the rabbit had a giant telescope, a magic telescope that looked down on the earth.’

And Bobby’s making a telescope out of his hands, turning round to stare up at me, hands to his eye.

‘One day the magic rabbit pointed his magic telescope at the world and said: “Magic telescope, magic telescope, please show me Great Britain.”

‘And the magic rabbit put his eye to the magic telescope and looked down on Great Britain.’

And suddenly Bobby jumps down from my knee and runs to the lounge door, arms flapping in his blue pyjamas, shouting, ‘Mummy, Mummy, Magic Rabbit, Magic Rabbit!’

And Louise is standing there, behind us, watching, and she says, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’

I sit down at the table, the neat cloth and three places, Bobby between us, and look out on the back garden.

It’s seven, and the sun is on the other side of the house.

Louise is pouring milk on Bobby’s Weetabix, her face fresh, the room slightly cold in the shadow.

‘How’s your Dad?’ I say.

‘Not good,’ she says, mashing the cereal for Bobby.

‘I’m off today. We can go up together if you want?’

‘Really? I thought they’d have cancelled all days off.’

‘They have, but I think Maurice must have swung me a day’

‘He was at the hospital Tuesday’

‘Yeah? Said he was going to try and get up.’

‘John Rudkin and all.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s kind, isn’t he? What did your Uncle John buy you?’ she asks Bobby.

‘Car, car,’ and he tries to get down.

‘Later, love,’ I say. ‘Eat your Weetabix first.’

‘Peace car. Peace car.’

I look at Louise, ‘Peace car?’

‘Police car,’ she smiles.

‘What’s Daddy’s job?’ I ask him.

‘Peace Man,’ he grins, a mouth full of milk and cereal.

And we laugh, all three of us.

Bobby’s walking between us, one hand for Mummy, one for Daddy.

It’s going to be really hot and all the gardens on the street smell of cut grass and barley water, the sky completely blue.

We turn into the park and he slips out of our hands.

‘You’ve forgotten the bread,’ I shout, but he just keeps on running towards the pond.

‘It’s the slide he likes,’ says Louise.

‘He’s getting big, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah.’

And we sit on the swings among the quiet and gentle nature, the ducks and the butterflies, the sandstone buildings and black hills watching us from above the trees, waiting.

I reach across and take her hand, give it a squeeze.

‘Should have gone to Flamingo Land or somewhere. Scarborough or Whitby.’

‘It’s difficult,’ she says.

‘Sorry,’ I say, remembering.

‘No, you’re right. We should do though.’

And Bobby comes down the slide on his belly, his shirt all up and his tummy out.

‘Getting a paunch like his dad,’ I say.

But she’s miles away.

Louise is in the queue for the fish stall, Bobby tugging my arm to come and look in the toy shop window, to come and look at the Lone Ranger and Tonto.

All around us, a Friday.

And the sky is still blue, the flowers and the fruit bright, the telephone box red, the old women and the young mothers in their summer dresses, the ice-cream van white.

All around us, a market day.

Louise comes back and I take the shopping bags and we walk back up Kingsway, Bobby between us, a hand for both of us, back home.

All around us, a summer’s day.

A Yorkshire summer’s day.

Louise cooks the lunch while Bobby and I play with his car and bricks, his Action Man and Tonka Toy, his Lego and teddies, the Royal Flotilla coming down the Thames on the TV.

We eat fish in breadcrumbs, drenched in parsley sauce and ketchup, with chips and garden peas, and jelly for pudding, Bobby wearing his dinner medals with pride.

After, I do the dishes and Louise and Bobby dry, the TV off before the news.

Then we have a cup of tea and watch Bobby showing off, dancing on the settee to an LP of Bond themes.

On the drive over to Leeds, Louise and Bobby sit in the back and Bobby falls asleep with his head in her lap, the sun baking the car, the windows open, listening to Wings and Abba, Boney? and Manhattan Transfer.

We park round the back and I lift Bobby out and we walk round to the front of the hospital, the trees in the grounds almost black in the sun, Bobby’s head hanging over my shoulder.

In the ward we sit on tiny hard chairs, Bobby still asleep across the bottom of his Grandad’s bed, as Louise feeds her father tinned tangerines on a plastic spoon, the juice dribbling down his unshaven face and neck and over his striped Marks & Spencer pyjamas, while I make aimless trips to the trolley and the toilet and flick through women’s magazines and eat two Mars Bars.

And when Bobby wakes up about three, we go out into the grounds, leaving Louise with her father, and we run across the bouncy grass playing Stop and Go, me shouting, ‘Stop,’ him shouting, ‘Go,’ the pair of us laughing, and then we go from flower to flower, sniffing and pointing at all the different colours, and when we find a dandelion clock we take it in turns to blow away the time.

But when we go back upstairs, tired and covered in grass stains, she’s crying by the bed, him asleep with his mouth open and his dry cracked tongue hanging out of his bald shrunken head, and I put my arm round her shoulder and Bobby rests his head upon her knees and she squeezes us tight.

On the drive back home, we sing nursery rhymes with Bobby and it’s a pity we had fish for lunch because we could have stopped at Harry Ramsden’s for a fish supper or something.

We bath Bobby together, him splashing about in the bubbles, drinking the bathwater, crying when we take him out, and I dry him and then carry him up to our room and I read him a story, the same story three times:

‘Once upon a time there was a rabbit, a magic rabbit who lived on the moon.’

And half an hour later I say:

‘Magic telescope, magic telescope, please show me Yorkshire…’

And this time he doesn’t make a telescope with his hands, this time he just makes wet smacking sounds with his lips, and I kiss him night-night and go downstairs.

Louise is sitting on the settee watching the end of Crossroads.

I sit down next to her, asking, ‘Anything good on?’

She shrugs, ‘Get Some In, that XYY Man thing you like.’

‘Is there a film?’

‘Later, I think,’ and she hands me the paper.

‘I Start Counting?’

‘Too late for me.’

‘Yeah, should have an early night.’

‘What time you on tomorrow?’

‘John was going to call.’

Louise looks at her watch. ‘You going to call him?’

‘No, I’ll just go in for seven.’

We sit and watch Max Bygraves, Bobby’s toys between us.

And later, in the adverts before World in Action, I say, ‘Do you think we can get over this?’

‘I don’t know love,’ she says, staring at the TV. ‘I don’t know.’

And I say, ‘Thanks for today.’

I must have fallen asleep because when I wake up she’s gone and I’m on the settee alone, I Start Counting ending, and I turn off the TV and go upstairs, get undressed and get into bed, Bobby and Louise beside me, sleeping.

In my dream I was sitting on a sofa in a pink room. A dirty sofa with three rotting seats, smelling worse and worse, but I couldn’t stand.

And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa in a playing field. A horrible sofa with three rusty springs, cutting into my arse and thighs, but I couldn’t stand, couldn’t get up.

And then in the dream I was sitting on a sofa on wasteground. A terrible sofa thick with blood, seeping up into my palms and nails, but I still couldn’t stand, still couldn’t get up, still couldn’t walk away.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Saturday 11th June 1977

Chapter 14

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and started to pull on my trousers.

It was dawn, grey and wet, Saturday 11 June 1977.

The dream hung like a lost ghost across her gloomy backroom, a dream of bloodstained furniture and fair-haired coppers, crime and punishment, holes and heads.

Again, bruised from sleep.

The windows rattled with the rain, my stomach with them.

I was an old man sitting on a prostitute’s bed.

I felt a hand on my hip.

‘You don’t have to go,’ she said.

I turned back round to the bed, to the sallow face on the pillow, and I leant in to kiss her, taking off my trousers again.

She pulled the sheet over us and opened her legs.

I put my left thigh between them, her damp on the skin and hair of my leg as I ran my hand through her hair, feeling again for the mark that he’d left.

I drove back to Leeds through morning traffic and continued showers, the radio keeping her at bay:

Widespread flooding expected, John Tyndall – the leader of the National Front – punched, 3,287 policemen left without a pension or gratuity, journalists’ strike to intensify.

When I reached the dark arches, I switched off the engine and sat in the car thinking of all of the things I wanted to do to her, a cigarette burning down to the skin just below my nail.

Bad things, things I’d never thought of before.

I stubbed out the cigarette.

The office, empty.

Bored, I picked up today’s paper and re-read my inside piece:

THE VICTIMS OF A BURNING HATE?

Background by Jack Whitehead

It’s becoming an all-too-familiar scene for the luckless residents of the so-called ‘red light’ district of Chapeltown, Leeds:

A mobile police command post, a towering radio mast, a noisy generator, cordoned-off roads, detectives with clipboards knocking on doors, and children peeping through curtains at endless blue lights.

The fifth woman savagely murdered in the middle of the night in the last two years, the fourth within a two-mile radius, was immediately marked down as the latest victim of a killer who has become known as Yorkshire’s own ‘Jack the Ripper.’

Rachel Johnson, sixteen, like the others, was savagely attacked. Like two of the earlier victims her body was found in a playground-type area, a place for fun and games, and Rachel was also only a few hundred yards from her home.

The major difference between Rachel, who only left school at Easter, and the previous victims was that the others were known prostitutes operating in the Chapeltown area.

But Rachel may have made the same fatal mistake as the others – accepting a lift in a stranger’s car after an evening out – something the police say they have repeatedly warned against since the first of the murders in June 1975.

The first prostitute victim of a man the police believe is a psychopath with a burning hatred of women was a 26-year-old mother of three, Mrs Theresa Campbell, of Scott Hall Avenue, Chapeltown.

A milkman on his early morning rounds found Mrs Campbell’s partly-clothed bloodstained body on the Prince Philip Playing Fields, only 150 yards from her home where her three young children were anxiously waiting for their mummy to return from ‘work.’

She had been savagely stabbed to death.

Five months later on the other side of the Pennines, Clare Strachan, a 26-year-old mother of two, was brutally beaten to death in Preston, a crime police now consider to be the work of the same psychopath.

Just three months later, in February 1976, Mrs Joan Richards, a 45-year-old mother of four, also met a brutally violent death, this time in a little-used Chapeltown alley.

Mrs Richards, who lived at New Farnley, had been beaten brutally about the head and repeatedly stabbed.

Then, less than two weeks ago, 32-year-old Marie Watts of Francis Street, Chapeltown, was found dead on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay Park, with her throat cut and several stab wounds to her stomach. She had been depressed and was running away from her boyfriend.

Mrs Campbell was last seen trying to thumb a lift in Meanwood Road, Leeds, just after 1 a.m. on the morning of her death. She is known to have visited earlier the Room at the Top club in Sheepscar Street.

On the night Mrs Richards was murdered she had visited the Gaiety Public House, Roundhay Road, with her husband. She left him in the early evening and he never saw her again.

The Gaiety was also one of the last places Marie Watts was seen alive.

Yesterday, police again renewed their appeal for any member of the public with information to come forward.

The telephone numbers of the Murder HQ at Millgarth Police Station are Leeds 461212 and 461213.

‘Happy?’

I turned round, Bill Hadden in his Saturday sports jacket was looking over my shoulder.

‘Butchered. And I never used savagely and brutally so many times, did I?’

‘More.’

I handed him a folded piece of paper from my pocket. ‘You going to do the same to this?’

Millgarth, about ten-thirty.

Sergeant Wilson on the desk:

‘Here comes trouble.’

‘Samuel,’ I nodded.

‘And what can I do you for this fine and miserable June morning?’

‘Pete Noble in, is he?’

He looked down at the log on the counter.

‘No. Just missed him.’

‘Tuck. Maurice?’

‘Not these days. What was it about?’

‘I’d arranged with George Oldman to see some files. Clare Strachan?’

Wilson looked down at the book again. ‘Could try John Rudkin or DS Fraser?’

‘They about, are they?’

‘Hang on,’ he said and picked up the phone.

He came down the stairs to meet me, young, blond and from before.

He paused.

‘Jack Whitehead,’ I said.

He shook my hand. ‘Bob Fraser. We’ve met before.’

‘Barry Gannon,’ I said.

‘You remember?’

‘Hard to forget.’

‘Right,’ he nodded.

Detective Sergeant Fraser looked short of sleep, lost for words, old before his time, but mainly just plain lost.

‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I said.

He looked surprised, frowning, ‘How do you mean?’

‘CID. Murder Squad.’

‘Suppose so,’ he said and glanced at his watch.

‘I’d like to talk to you about Clare Strachan, if you have time?’

Fraser looked at his watch again and repeated, ‘Clare Strachan?’

‘See, I spoke with George Oldman a couple of days ago and we arranged for Chief Superintendent Noble to show me the files, but…’

‘They’re all in Bradford.’

‘Right. So they said if John Rudkin or yourself wouldn’t mind…’

‘Yeah, OK. You better come up.’ I followed him up the stairs.

‘It’s all a bit chaotic,’ he was saying, holding open the door to a room of metallic filing cabinets.

‘I can imagine.’

‘If you want to wait here for a minute,’ he pointed at two chairs under a desk, ‘I’ll just go and get the files,’

‘Thanks.’

I sat down facing the cabinets, the letters and the numbers, and I wondered how many of the enclosed I’d written about, how many I’d filed away in my own drawer, how many I’d dreamt about.

Fraser came back kicking open the door with his foot, a large cardboard box in his arms.

He put it down on the table:

Preston, November 1975.

‘This is everything?’ I said.

‘From our end. Lancashire have the rest.’

‘I spoke with Alf Hill. He seems sceptical?’

‘About a link? Yeah, I think we all were.’

‘Were?’

‘Yeah, were,’ he said, knowing we both knew about the letters.

‘You’re convinced?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I see,’ I said.

He nodded at the box, ‘You don’t want me to talk you through all this, do you?’

‘No, but I was hoping you might know what these mean?’ and I handed him the two file references from Preston:

23/08/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/CTNSOL1A

22/12/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/MGRD-P/WSMT27C

He stared down at the letters and the numbers, pale, and said, ‘Where did you get these?’

‘From the Clare Strachan file in Preston.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

‘I’ve never seen them before.’

‘But you know what they refer to?’

‘No, not specifically. Just that they’re file references from Wakefield, to a C. Morrison.’

‘You don’t know any C. Morrison then?’

‘Not off the top of my head, no. Should I?’

‘Just that Clare Strachan sometimes went by the name Morrison.’

He stood there, staring down at me, cold blue eyes drowning in hurt pride.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, watching the walls come up, keys turn in the locks. ‘I didn’t mean to…’

‘Forget it,’ he muttered, like he never would.

‘I know I’m pushing it, but would it be possible for you to check on these?’

He pulled the other chair out from under the table, sat down and picked up the black phone.

‘Sam, it’s Bob Fraser. Can you put us through to Wood Street?’

He put the phone down and we sat in silence, waiting.

The phone rang and Fraser picked it up.

‘Thanks. This is Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth, I’d like a check on two files please.’

A pause.

‘Yes, Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth. Name’s Morrison, initial C. First one is 23-8-74, Caution for Soliciting 1A.’

Another pause.

‘Yep. And the next one is Morrison, C again. 22-12-74, Murder of a GRD-P, Witness Statement 27C.’

Pause.

‘Thanks,’ and he hung up.

I looked up, the blue eyes staring back.

He said, ‘They’ll call me back in ten minutes.’

‘Thanks for doing this.’

Fiddling with the paper, he asked, ‘You got these from Preston?’

‘Yeah, Alf Hill showed me a file. He said she was a prostitute, so I asked him if she’d had any convictions and he showed me a typed sheet. Just this written on it. You been over there?’

‘Last week. And he told you she went by the name Morrison?’

‘No, only time I ever saw it was in the Manchester Evening News, said she was originally from Scotland and also went by the name Morrison.’

‘Manchester Evening News?’

‘Yeah,’ and I handed him the cutting from my pocket.

The phone rang and we both jumped.

Fraser put the cutting on the desk and read as he picked up the receiver.

‘Thanks.’

Pause.

‘Speaking.’

Another pause, longer.

‘Both of them? Who was that?’

Pause.

‘Yeah, yeah. Our arse from our elbow. Thanks.’

He hung up again, still staring down at the cutting.

‘No luck?’ I said.

‘They’re here,’ he said, looking up at the box. ‘Or at least they should be. Can I keep this?’ he asked, holding up the cutting.

‘Yeah, if you want.’

‘Thanks,’ he nodded and upended the box, files spilling over the desk.

I said, ‘You want me to go?’

‘No, be my guest,’ he said, adding, ‘Eventually all this’ll be on the National Police Computer, you know?’

‘Think it’ll make a difference?’

‘Bloody hope so,’ he laughed, taking off his jacket as we started the search until, ten quiet minutes later, everything was back inside the box and the desk was bare.

‘Fuck,’ and then, ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said.

‘I’ll call you if anything comes of it,’ he said and stood up.

‘It was just a bit of background, that was all.’

We walked back downstairs and at the bottom he said again, ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

At the door we shook hands and he smiled and suddenly I said, ‘You knew Eddie didn’t you?’

And he dropped my hand and shook his head, ‘No, not really.’

Back across the haunted city, ghosts on every corner, drinking in working-class packs, the morning gone, the day sliding away.

I stood before the Griffin and looked up at her scaffold face, at the dark windows in the grey floors above, wondering which black hole was his.

I went inside, into the lounge with its empty high-backed chairs and dim light, and I went up to the front desk and rang the bell and waited, heart beating heavy and fast.

In the mirror above the desk I watched a little boy lead an old woman with a walking stick across the lounge.

I’d seen them before.

They sat down in the same two chairs that Laws and I had seven days before.

I went over and pulled up a third chair.

They said nothing but rose as one to sit at the next table.

I sat alone in my silence and then stood up and went back to the desk and rang the bell for a second time.

In the mirror I watched the child whisper to the old woman, the pair of them staring at me.

‘Can I help you?’

I turned back to the desk, to the man in the dark suit.

‘Yes, I was wondering if Mr Laws, Martin Laws is in?’

The man glanced at the wooden boxes behind him, at the dangling keys, and said, ‘I’m afraid Reverend Laws is out at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?’

‘No, I’ll come back later.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘I’d met him before.’

‘When was that?’ asked Hadden.

‘He was the one who was here over Barry.’

‘Right,’ sighed Hadden, right back there. ‘What a terrible time.’

‘Not like now,’ I said, and we both said nothing until he handed me a piece of paper.

‘I think you’ll find I spared the knife,’ he smiled.

I sat down across the desk from him and read:

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE RIPPER

Dear Ripper

You have killed five times now. In less than two years you have butchered four women in Leeds and one in Preston. Your motive, it is believed, is a dreadful hatred of prostitutes, a hate that drives you to slash and bludgeon your victims. But, inevitably, that twisted passion went terribly wrong on Tuesday night. An innocent sixteen-year-old lass, a happy, respectable, working-class girl from a decent Leeds family, crossed your path. How did you feel when you learned that your bloodstained crusade had gone so horribly wrong? That your vengeful knife had found so innocent a target? Sick in mind though you undoubtedly are, there must have been some spark of remorse as you tried to rid yourself of Rachel’s bloodstains.

Don’t make the same mistake again, don’t put another innocent family through this hell.

End it now.

Give yourself up now, safe in the knowledge that only care and treatment awaits you, no rope or electric chair.

Please, for Rachel’s sake, turn yourself in and stop these terrible, terrible murders.

From the People of Leeds.

‘What do you think?’

‘George seen it?’

‘We spoke on the phone.’

‘And?’

‘Worth a shot he said.’

‘He’s not had a change of heart about publishing the other half of the correspondence?’

Hadden shrugged, ‘What do you think?’

‘I’ve thought about it a lot actually, and I think he’s making a mistake. One that’ll come to haunt him. And us.’

‘In what way?’

‘The last one, it contained a warning right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, when he kills again and it comes out that we had a letter, a fucking warning letter, I don’t think the Great British Public’ll be too impressed that we didn’t see fit to share that warning with them.’

‘He’s got his reasons.’

‘Who? George? Well I hope they’re bloody good ones.’

Bill Hadden was staring at me, pulling at his beard. ‘What is it Jack?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What is it?’

‘Just his fucking arrogance.’

‘No, it’s not. I know you too well. There’s something else.’

‘Just this whole business. Just the Ripper. The letters…’

‘Seeing Sergeant Fraser can’t have helped?’

‘No, it was good actually.’

‘Brings it all back though?’

‘It never goes away, Bill. Never goes away.’

It was night when I left the office and went for the car, a black wet summer’s night.

I drove over the Tingley Roundabout and down through Shawcross and Hanging Heaton, down to the Batley Variety Club.

It was Saturday night and the best they could come up with were the New Zombies, unable to compete with the shows on the piers.

I parked, wished I was drunk, and walked across the car park to the canopy that covered the entrance.

I paid and went inside.

It was half-empty and I stood at the bar with a double Scotch, watching the long dresses and cheap tuxs and checking the time.

Down the front a skinny woman in a low-cut pink dress that swept the floor was already drunk and arguing with a fat man and his moustache, leaning in to shout and show a bit of tit.

The man slapped her arse and she threw a drink and tipped a plate down him.

It was ten-thirty.

‘Enjoying the wildlife, Mr Whitehead?’

A young man in a black suit and skinhead was at my elbow, a carrier bag in his left hand.

‘You’re one up on me,’ I said.

I’d seen him before, but I was fucked if I knew where.

‘Sorry. No names.’

‘But we’ve met before, I think?’

‘No, we haven’t. You’d remember.’

‘OK, whatever you say. Do you want to sit down?’

‘Why not?’

I ordered a round and we went over to a booth near the back.

He lit a cigarette and tilted his head back, sending smoke up to the low ceiling tiles.

I sat there, watching the crowd until I asked him: ‘Why here?’

‘Police eyes can’t see me.’

‘They looking?’

‘Always.’

I took a big bite out of my Scotch and waited, watching him twisting his jewellery, making smoke rings, the carrier bag on his lap.

He leant forward, a smile wet on his thin lips, and hissed, ‘We can sit here all night. I’m in no hurry.’

‘So why are the police looking?’

‘What I got in here,’ he said, patting the plastic bag. ‘What I got here is big fucking news.’

‘Well, let’s have a look…’

He pressed the palm of his hand into his forehead, ‘No. And don’t fucking rush me.’

I sat back in my seat. ‘OK. I’m listening.’

‘I hope so, because when this thing breaks it’s going to rip the fucking lid off this whole place.’

‘You mind if I take some notes then?’

‘Yes, I do. I do fucking mind. Just listen.’

‘OK.’

He stubbed out his cigarette, shaking his head to himself. ‘I’ve had dealings with you people before and, believe me, I had some serious doubts about meeting you, about giving you this stuff. I still do.’

‘You want to talk money first?’

‘I don’t want any fucking money. That’s not why I’m here.’

‘OK,’ I said, sure he was lying, thinking money, attention, revenge. ‘You want to tell me why you are here then?’

His eyes were moving through the people as they came in, saying, ‘When you listen to what I’m going to say, when you see what’s in here, then you’ll understand.’

Attention.

I pointed to the empty glasses. ‘You want another?’

‘Why not?’ he nodded and I signalled to the barmaid.

We sat there, saying nothing, waiting.

The barmaid brought over the drinks.

The house lights dimmed.

He leant forward, glancing at his watch.

I leant in to meet him, like we were going to kiss.

He spoke quickly but clearly:

‘Clare Strachan, the woman they say the Ripper did in Preston, well I knew her. Used to live round here, called herself Morrison. She was mixed up with some people, not very nice people, people I am very fucking afraid of, people I never ever want to meet again. Understand?’

I sat there nodding, saying nothing, nodding, thinking lots:

Revenge.

The lights at the front changed from blue to red and back again.

His eyes danced across the room and back to me.

‘I made a lot of mistakes, got in way over my head, I think she must have done the same.’

I stared straight ahead, the band about to come on. He tipped his Scotch into his pint.

‘You say, she must have. Why?’ I said. ‘What makes you think that?’

He looked up from his pint, head on his lips, and smiled. ‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’

From the front of the stage a man in a velvet dinner jacket bellowed into a loud microphone:

‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, they say we’re dying, say we’re dead and buried, well they said the same about these boys but here to prove them wrong, back from the dead, from beyond the grave, the living dead themselves, please give a big Yorkshire Clubland welcome to the New Zombies!’

The blue curtain went up, the drums started, and the song began.

‘She’s Not There,’ said the skinhead, looking at the stage.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ I said.

He turned back to me. ‘Spot of late night reading,’ he said and passed the bag under the table.

I took it and started to open it.

‘Not here,’ he snapped, nodding to the side: ‘Bogs.’

I got up and walked through the empty tables, glancing back at the pale youth in the black suit, head bobbing to the keyboards from the stage.

‘Give you hand if you want,’ he called after me.

I shut the cubicle door and closed the toilet lid, sat down and opened the plastic bag.

Inside was another bag, a brown paper bag.

I opened the brown bag and pulled out a magazine.

A nack mag, pornography.

Cheap pornography.

Amateurs:

Spunk.

The corner of one page was folded down.

I turned to the marked page and there she was:

White hair and pink flesh, wet red holes and dry blue eyes, legs spread and flicking her clit.

Clare Strachan.

I was hard.

I was hard and she was dead.

I came out of the toilets, back into the ballroom, the skinny woman in the long pink dress dancing alone in front of the stage, one hundred stark albino faces staring back at the bar where four coppers were talking to the barmaid, pointing at our empty table.

Two of the police suddenly ran outside.

The other two were looking at me.

I had the bag in my hands.

I was afraid, really fucking scared, and I knew why.

The policemen walked through the tables, coming towards me, getting nearer.

I started back the other way towards my table.

I felt a hand on my elbow.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked.

‘The gentleman who was at your table, do you know where he might have gone?’

‘I’m sorry, no. Why?’

‘Would you mind stepping outside for a moment, sir?’

‘No,’ I nodded, letting myself be led through the tables, the band still playing, the pink lady still dancing, the ghosts still watching me.

Outside it was raining again and we stood together, the three of us under the canopy.

The two policemen were both young and nervous, unsure: ‘May I have your name please, sir?’

‘Jack Whitehead.’

The one looked at the other. ‘From the papers?’

‘Yep. Do you mind if I ask what this is about?’

‘The man who was at your table, we believe he may have stolen that Austin Allegro over there.’

‘Well I’m sorry Officer, but I wouldn’t know anything about that. Don’t even know his name.’

‘Anderson. Barry James Anderson.’

Bells ringing, peeling back the years.

The two other policemen were coming back across the car park, wet and out of breath.

‘Fuck,’ said the older of the two, head down, hands on his knees.

‘Who we got here?’ asked the other.

‘Says he’s Jack Whitehead from the Post,’

The fat, older copper looked up, ‘Fuck me it is and all. Talk of the bloody devil.’

‘Don,’ I said.

‘Been a while,’ he nodded.

Not nearly fucking long enough, I was thinking, the day complete; this plagued day of blighted visions and wretched memory, no stones unturned, no bones still sleeping, the dead abroad, wrought from the living.

‘This is Jack Whitehead,’ Sergeant Donald Humphries was saying, the rain heavy on the canopy above our heads. ‘It was him and me who found that Exorcist job that night I was telling you about.’

Yeah, I thought, like he ever talked about anything but that night, like for a moment he understood the things we saw that night, that night we stood before the hills and the mills, before the bones and the stones, before the living and the dead, that night Michael Williams lay naked in the rain upon his lawn and cradled Carol in his arms and stroked her bloody hair for one last time.

But maybe I was doing him a disservice, for the smile went behind a clouded face and he shook his head and said, ‘How’ve you been Jack?’

‘Never better. And yourself?’

‘Can’t complain,’ he said. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

‘Bit of supper,’ I said.

He pointed to the bag in my hand and smiled, ‘Spot of shopping and all?’

‘Less than 200 days to Christmas, Don.’

I drove back, hitting eighty.

I did the steps in a heartbeat, opened the door, boots off and on to the bed, opened the mag, glasses on and into Clare:

Spunk.

Issue 3 – January 1975.

I turned it over, nothing.

I opened up the inside, something:

Spunk is published by MJM Publishing Ltd. Printed and Distributed by MJM Printing Ltd, 270 Oldham Street, Manchester, England.

I went over to the telephone and dialled Millgarth.

‘Detective Sergeant Fraser please.’

‘I’m afraid Sergeant Fraser went off -’

‘Telephone down, back to the bed, back to – Carol, striking Clare’s pose.

‘This what you like?’

‘No.’

‘This what your dirty little Chinese bitch does?’

‘No.’

‘Come on, Jack. Fuck me.’

I ran into the kitchen, opened the drawer, took out the carving knife.

She had her fingers up her cunt, ‘Come on, Jack.’

‘Leave me alone,’ I shouted.

‘You’re going to use that are you?’ she winked.

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You should take it Bradford,’ she laughed. ‘Finish what he started.’

I flew across the room, the knife and a boot in my hands, on to the bed, battering her head, her white skin streaked red, her fair hair dark, everything sticky and black, laughter and screams until there was nothing left but a dirty knife in my hand, grey hairs stuck to the heel of my boot, drops of blood across the crumpled colour spread of dear Clare Strachan, fingers wet and cunt red.

My fingers were turning cold, dripping blood.

I’d cut my hand on the carving knife.

I dropped the knife and boot and put a thumb to my skull and felt the mark I’d made:

I suffer your terrors; I am

desperate.

I turned and there she was.

‘I’m sorry,’ I wept.

Carol said, ‘I love you, Jack. I love you.’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Sunday 12th June 1977

Chapter 15

In the dream I was sitting on the sofa again, on the wasteground, the sofa thick with blood, the blood seeping into my clothes and into my skin and next to me, sat beside me, was that journalist jack Whitehead, blood running down his face, and I looked down and Bobby was on my knee in his blue pyjamas holding a big black book and he started to cry, and I turned to jack Whitehead and said, ‘It wasn’t me.’

She’s asleep on the big hard chair next to mine, Bobby back home with next doors.

I get up to go, knowing he’s going to die, knowing it’ll be the minute I’m gone, but knowing I can’t stay, can’t stay knowing:

Knowing I’ve got to find those files, find those files to find him, find him to stop him, stop him to save her, save her to end these thoughts.

Knowing I’ve got to end these thoughts of Janice.

Knowing I’ve got to end these thoughts of Janice, end these thoughts of Janice to end everything, end everything to start again HERE.

Here with my wife, here with my son, here with her dying father.

My new deal, new prayer:

Stop him to save her,

Save her to start again.

To start again.

HERE.

She opens her eyes.

I nod morning and apologies.

‘What time did you get here?’ she whispers.

‘After I knocked off, about eleven.’

‘Thanks,’ she says.

‘Bobby with Tina?’ I ask.

‘Yeah.’

‘She mind?’

‘She’d say if she did.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I say, looking at my watch.

She moves to let me pass, then catches my sleeve and says, ‘Thanks again, Bob.’

I bend down and kiss the top of her head. ‘See you later,’ I say.

‘See you,’ she smiles.

I drive from Leeds to Wakefield, the Ml Sunday morning quiet, radio loud:

Eighty-four arrested outside the Grunwick Processing Laboratories in Willesden. The Metropolitan Police accused of unnecessary brutality, aggressive and provocative tactics.

I park on Wood Street, another shower starting, not a soul to be seen.

‘Bob Fraser, from Millgarth.’

‘And what can I do for you, Bob Fraser from Millgarth?’ asks the Sergeant on the desk as he hands back my card.

‘I’d like to see Chief Superintendent Jobson, if he’s about?’

He picks up the phone, asks for Maurice, tells him it’s me, and sends me up.

I knock twice.

‘Bob,’ says Maurice, on his feet, hand out.

‘Sorry to barge in like this, without ringing.’

‘Not at all. It’s good to see you Bob. How’s Bill?’

‘Just come from the hospital actually. Not much change though.’

He shakes his head. ‘And Louise?’

‘Bearing up as ever. Don’t know how she does it.’

And we slip into a sudden silence, me seeing that taut boned body in its striped pyjamas sipping tinned fruit off a plastic spoon, seeing him and Maurice, the Owl, with his thick lenses and heavy rims, the pair of them taking thieves, pulling villains, breaking skulls, cracking the Al Shootings, getting famous, Badger Bill and Maurice the Owl, like something out of one of Bobby’s books.

‘What’s on your mind, Bob?’

‘Clare Strachan.’

‘Go on,’ he says.

‘You know Jack Whitehead? He gave me these, got them off Alf Hill in Preston,’ and I hand him the Wakefield file references.

Maurice reads them, looks up and asks, ‘Morrison?’

‘Clare Strachan’s other name.’

‘Right, right. Her maiden name, I think.’

‘You knew?’

He pushes the frames up the bridge of his nose, nodding. ‘You pulled them?’

Less sure, I hesitate and then say, ‘Well, that’s half of why I’m here.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’ve been pulled.’

‘And?’

I swallow, fidget, and say, ‘This is between us?’

He nods.

‘John Rudkin took them.’

‘So?’

‘They’re not in her file at Millgarth. And he’s never even mentioned them.’

‘You spoken to him?’

‘I haven’t had chance. But there’s another thing as well.’

‘Go on.’

I take another deep one. ‘I went over to Preston with him a couple of weeks ago, and we went through all the files.’

‘About Clare Strachan?’

‘Yeah, and we were to take copies back. Anything we didn’t have, anything we might have missed. And, anyway, I saw one of the files he was taking back and he’d taken the originals, not copies.’

‘Could’ve been a mistake?’

‘Could have been, but it was the Inquest.’

‘The Coroner’s Report?’

‘Yeah, and the blood grouping looked wrong. Like it had been typed in later.’

‘What did it say?’

‘B.’

‘And you think Rudkin had altered it?’

‘Maybe, I don’t…’

‘When you were over there the last time?’

‘No, no. He went over after we got Joan Richards.’

‘But why would he want to change it? What would be the point?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m just saying it looked wrong. And one way or another he knows it’s wrong.’

Maurice takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and says, ‘This is serious, Bob.’

‘I know.’

‘Really bloody serious.’

He picks up the phone:

‘Yes. I’d like a check on two files, both Morrison, initial C. First one is 23rd August 1974, Caution for Soliciting 1A. Second one is 22nd December 1974, Witness Statement 27C, Murder of GRD initial P.’

He puts down the phone and we wait, him cleaning his specs, me biting a nail.

The phone rings, he picks it up, listens and asks:

‘OK. Who by?’

The Owl is staring at me as he speaks, unblinking:

‘When was that?’

He’s writing on the top of his Sunday paper.

‘Thanks.’

He puts down the phone.

I ask, ‘What did they say?’

‘A DI Rudkin signed them out.’

‘When?’

‘April 1975.’

I’m on my feet: ‘April 1975? Fuck, she wasn’t even dead.’

Maurice stares down at his newspaper, then looks up, eyes rounder and wider and larger than ever:

‘GRD-P,’ he says. ‘You know who that is?’

I slump back down in my chair and just nod.

‘Paula Garland,’ he says to himself, the mind behind the glasses off and scuttling along the corridors down to his own little hells.

I can hear the Cathedral bells.

Palms up, I ask, ‘What are we going to do?’

‘We? Nothing.’

I start to speak, he raises a hand and gives me a wink: ‘Leave it to your Uncle Maurice.’

For the second time in a week I park between the lorries of the Redbeck car park, though I can’t remember much about the last time I was here.

Just the pain.

Now I just feel hungry, starving.

That’s what I’m telling myself it is.

I go into the cafe, buy a sausage and chip sandwich and two cups of hot sweet tea.

I take them out and round to Room 27.

I open the door and go inside.

The air is old and cold, the smell of sweat and fear, death everywhere:

I stand in the dark centre of the room and I want to rip the soiled grey sheets down, pull the mattress from the window, burn the photos and the names from the walls, but I don’t.

I sit on the base of the bed and think about the dead and the missing, the missing and the dead:

Missing the dead.

I drive back to Leeds with a splitting headache, the sandwich cold and uneaten on the passenger seat.

I switch on the radio:

Yes Sir I Can Boogie.

I think about what I want to say to Rudkin, think about all the weird shit he’s said that now makes sense, think about all the shit I think he’s done, all the shit I know he’s done.

I park and walk into Millgarth -

into running bodies, shouts and boots, jackets on and tearing off, thinking:

There’s been another:

JANICE.

‘Fraser! Thank fucking Christ,’ shouts Noble.

‘What?’

‘Get over to Morley, Gledhill Road.’

‘What?’

‘There’s been another.’

‘Who?’

‘Another fucking post office.’

‘Shit.’

And bang, just like that I’m back on Robbery.

Mr Godfrey Hurst looks like someone’s sewn oranges into his skin, all the holes in his face swollen shut.

‘Heard the knock,’ he’s trying to say. ‘Came down the stairs and I opened the back door and thwack! Reckon they must have shoved door back in my face. Next news I’m on the floor then thwack! Reckon they must have kicked me in the head.’

‘That’s when I came down,’ says Mrs Doris Hurst, bird-thin, sheet-white, still stinking of piss. ‘I screamed and then one of them slapped me right hard across my face and then he put bag on my head and tied me up.’

Around us, parents are bringing in children with broken limbs and bleeding skins, nurses leading the injured and the worried back and forward through Casualty, everyone crying.

‘Believe it or not,’ I say as I take down what they’re saying. ‘Believe it or not, you’re both very lucky’

Mr Hurst squeezes his wife’s hand and tries to smile, but he can’t, he can’t because of the stitches, all thirty-five of them.

I ask, ‘How much did they get away with?’

‘About seven hundred and fifty quid.’

‘Is that a lot for you?’

‘We never used to have anything at all over weekend, but Post Office they’ve stopped collecting on Saturdays.’

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Cuts, I suppose.’

I turn back to Mrs Hurst. ‘You get a look at them?’

‘Not really, they were wearing masks.’

‘How many were there?’

She shakes her head and says, ‘I just saw two, but I had feeling there were more.’

‘Why did you think that?’

‘Voices, the light.’

‘This was about what time?’

Mr Hurst says, ‘About seven-thirty. We were getting ready for Church.’

‘And you said there was something about the light, Mrs Hurst?’

‘Just that kitchen looked dark, so I thought maybe there were more than two.’

‘And can you remember what they were saying?’

‘One was telling other to go upstairs.’

‘Did you hear any names or anything?’

‘No, but after they’d put bag on my head and tied me up, they seemed angry like, that there wasn’t more money, angry with someone.’

‘Can you remember exactly what they said?’

‘Just that…’ she purses her lips. ‘Exactly?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s important.’

‘One of them said that someone had, you know, fucked up,’ Mrs Hurst blushes and then adds, ‘Excuse me.’

‘And what did the other one say?’

‘Well, that’s what I mean. I think there was a third voice and he said that they’d deal with it later.’

‘A different voice?’

‘Yes, deeper, older. You know, like he was boss.’

I look at Mr Hurst, but he shrugs, ‘I was out cold. Sorry.’

I turn back to Mrs? and ask her, ‘These voices, where do reckon they were from?’

‘Local, definitely local.’

‘Anything else?’

She looks at her husband and then, slowly, shaking her head, says, ‘I think they were, you know, black men.’

‘Black men?’

‘Mmm, I think so.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Size. They were big and their voices, they just sounded like black men’s voices.’

I keep writing, wheels turning.

Then she says, ‘That or they were gypsies.’

I stop writing, wheels braking.

A nurse comes up, plain but pretty. ‘The doctor says you can both go home now if you want.’

Mr and Mrs Hurst look at each other and nod.

I close my notebook and say, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’

We turn into Gledhill Road, Morley, my old stomping ground and I’m thinking Victoria Road’s not far, wondering if they remember Barry Gannon, certain they remember that Clare Kemplay lived on Winterbourne Avenue, wondering if they were out that night looking for her, then thinking I must remember to call Louise, tell her I’ll probably be late, thinking maybe we can work this out, and that’s what I’m thinking when I see the squad cars parked in front of the post office, still thinking that when I see Noble and Rudkin getting out of the first car, that’s what I’m thinking when I turn to Mr Hurst and say, ‘It wasn’t me,’ that’s what I’m thinking when it gets really fucked up, forever, and -