1977

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Thursday 16th June 1977

Chapter 21

I look at my watch, it’s 7.07.

I’m on the Moors, walking across the Moors, and I come to a chair, a high-backed leather chair, and there’s a woman in white kneeling before the chair, hands in angel prayer, hair across her face.

I lean down to scoop the hair away and it’s Carol, then Ka Su Peng. She stands up and points to the middle of the long white dress and a word in bloody fingerprints there writ:

livE.

And there on the Moors, in the wind and in the rain, she pulls the white dress up over her head, her yellow belly swollen, and then puts the dress back on, inside out, the word in bloody fingerprints there writ:

Evil.

And a small boy in blue pyjamas comes out from behind the high-backed leather chair and leads her away down the corridor, the threadbare carpet, the dirty walls, the smell.

We come to a door and stop.

Room 77.

I woke with a start in my car, my chest tight, sweating and breathing fast.

I looked at the clock in the dashboard.

7.07.

Fuck.

I was on Durkar Lane, Durkar, at the bottom of Rudkin’s drive.

I looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing.

I sat there, waiting.

Twenty minutes later, a woman in her dressing-gown opened the front door and took in the two pints of milk from the doorstep.

I waited until she’d shut the door, then I started the car, put the radio on, and drove off.

Down into Wakefield, out along the Dewsbury Road, over Shaw-cross, down through Hanging Heaton and into Batley, radio on:

‘Two masked men who broke into a sub-post office in Shadwell, beat up the sub-postmaster and his wife, and fled with Ј750, are being sought by the police. One of the men is said to be “very violent”.

‘Mr Eric Gowers, aged sixty-five, and his wife May, aged sixty-four, were taken to hospital but later allowed home.’

Through the centre until I pulled up on the outskirts of Batley, just beyond the Chinese take-away on the Bradford Road.

Just beyond RD News.

Just beyond a bronze Datsun 260.

I dialled her flat.

No answer.

I hung up.

I stood in the red telephone box again, looking up at the window above the newsagent.

‘Is Eric there?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘A friend.’

John Rudkin was looking out of the window, one hand on the frame, the other square, palms open, not smiling.

‘This is Eric Hall.’

‘You got the money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Be in the George car park at noon.’

I hung up, staring at John Rudkin.

I went back to the car and waited.

Thirty minutes later, Rudkin came out of the shop carrying a child in his arms, followed by a woman in sunglasses.

The boy was wearing blue pyjamas, the woman black.

They got into the Datsun and drove off.

I sat there.

Five minutes later, I got out of the car and went round the back of the shops, down the alley, past the dustbins, the piled-up bin bags, the rotting cardboard boxes, counting the windows as I went.

I did my sums and looked up at two windows and two pairs of old curtains staring down from up above the back wall, the back wall with the broken bottles cemented in its lip.

I tried the red wooden door and opened it slowly.

All I needed now was the Paki from inside to pop his brown mug out.

I closed the door to the yard behind me and picked my way through the crates and the Calor gas canisters and got to the back door.

Wondering what the fuck I would say, I opened the door.

There was a passage out to the front of the shop, stacked high with boxes of Walkers crisps and old magazines. To my right were the stairs.

In for a penny, I took my chance and crept up them.

At the top was a white door with glass in it.

It was dark beyond the glass.

I stood there, listening.

Nothing.

In for a pound, I tried the door.

Locked.

Fuck.

I tried it again, knew it would give.

I took out my penknife and slid it in between the wall and the door.

Nothing ventured, I leant in.

Nothing.

Nothing gained, I tried it again.

The knife broke in the hinges, the frame of the door splintered, my hand cut and bleeding again, but I was in.

I stood there, listening.

Nothing.

Another dim passage.

I wrapped my handkerchief around my palm and walked softly down the passage to the front of the flat, three closed doors off to the sides.

The flat stank, the ceilings as low and oppressive as the smell.

In the front room there was a settee, a chair, a table, a television, and a telephone on a box. Empty pop bottles and crisp packets littered the floor.

There was no carpet.

Only a big dark fucking stain in the floorboards.

I went back down the passage and tried the first door on the right.

It was a small kitchen, bare.

I tried the door on the left.

It was a bedroom, one with a pair of old curtains, thick, black and drawn.

I switched on the light.

There was a huge double bed, stripped, with another big dark fucking stain on the orange flowered mattress.

There were fitted wardrobes down one wall.

I opened them.

Lights, photographer’s lights.

I closed the wardrobe doors and switched off the light.

Across the passage was the last door.

It was a bathroom and another pair of old curtains, drawn and black.

There were towels and there were mats, newspapers and paints, the bath spotless.

I ran cold water over my hand and wiped it dry.

I closed the door and went back down the passage.

I stood at the top of the stairs and pulled the splinters from the white door.

I tried to force the lock back in, but it wouldn’t go.

I left the door as it was and went back down the stairs.

I stood on the bottom step, listening.

Nothing.

I went out the back way, into the yard, through the red wooden door, and out.

I walked down the alley past the dustbins, the piled-up bin bags and the rotting cardboard boxes, a little yellow dog watching me go.

I went back round the front of the shops, past the Chinky, and got back into my car.

It was just gone eleven.

I dialled her flat.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up.

I drove past the George, Denholme, pulled up, reversed up a drive and turned back round.

I had a bad feeling, but I couldn’t let it go, couldn’t leave it like this.

I drove slowly back along the road and turned down the side of the pub, into the car park round the back.

It was almost noon.

There were four or five cars parked, three facing out towards the hedge and the fields, two with their noses against the back of the pub.

None of them were blue Granadas.

I parked in a corner, that bad feeling still feeling bad, looking out on the hedge and the fields.

I sat there, waiting, staring into the rearview mirror.

There were two men sitting in a grey Volvo, waiting, staring into their rearview mirror.

Fuck.

Two cars along, Eric Hall got out of a white Peugeot 304.

I watched him coming towards me, hands deep in his sheepskin.

He came round the back of the car and tapped on my window.

I wound it down.

He leant down and asked me: ‘What you waiting for? Christmas?’

‘You got the money?’

‘Yeah,’ he said and stood back up.

I was staring into my rearview, watching the two heads in the Volvo. ‘Where is it?’

‘In the car.’

‘What happened to the Granada?’

‘Had to fucking sell it, didn’t I? Pay you.’

‘Get in,’ I said.

‘But the money’s in the car.’

‘Just get in,’ I said, starting the car.

He walked round the back and got in the other side.

I reversed out and down the side of the George.

‘Where we going?’

‘Just for a drive,’ I said, turning into the traffic.

‘What about the money?’

‘Fuck it.’

‘But…’

Eyes on the road, I was into the rearview every second glance. ‘There were two blokes sat in a grey Volvo, back there. You saw them, yeah?’

‘No.’

I hit the brakes and swerved into the side of the road, into the verge.

‘Them,’ I said, pointing at a grey Volvo flying past. ‘Fuck.’

‘Nothing to do with you?’

‘No.’

‘You wouldn’t have been thinking of doing me in or shooting me or anything clever like that, would you?’

‘No,’ he said, sweating.

I reversed back down the verge and swung back round the way we’d come.

Foot down, I said, ‘So who the fuck were they?’

‘I don’t know. Honest.’

‘Eric, you’re a dirty fucking copper. An old hack like me turns up on your doorstep and asks for five grand, you just going to roll right over? I don’t fucking think so.’

Eric Hall said nothing.

We drove back past the George, the Volvo gone.

‘Who you tell?’ I asked him again.

‘Look,’ he sighed. ‘Pull up, please.’

I went a little way on then parked near a church on the Halifax Road.

For a bit we just sat there, silent, no sun, no rain, nothing.

Eventually he said, ‘I’m up to my bloody neck in it as it is.’

I said nothing, just nodded.

‘I’ve not exactly played by the fucking rules, you know what I mean? I’ve turned a blind eye every now and again.’

‘And not for free, eh?’

He sighed again and said, ‘And who the bloody hell ever has or ever fucking would?’

I said nothing.

‘I was going to pay you, straight up. Still will, if that’s what it takes. Not five grand, I haven’t got it. But I got two and half for the car and it’s yours.’

‘I don’t want the fucking money, Eric. I just want to know what the fuck’s going on?’

‘Them blokes in the car park? I haven’t a fucking clue, but I’m betting they’re something to do with that cunt Peter Hunter and his investigation.’

‘What did they suspend you for?’

‘Backhanders.’

‘That all?’

‘It’s enough.’

‘Janice Ryan?’

‘Shit I could do without right now.’

‘When did you last see her?’

He sighed, wiping his palms on the tops of his thighs, and shook his head, ‘Can’t remember.’

‘Eric,’ I said. ‘Fuck the money and tell me. By time Hunter’s finished with you, you’re going to need every fucking penny you can get your dirty little hands on. So start by telling me some fucking truth and save yourself two and half grand.’

He looked up out the top of the windscreen, up at the black steeple in the sky, then he put his head back in the seat and said softly, ‘I didn’t fucking kill her.’

‘Did I say you did?’

‘Two weeks ago,’ he said. ‘She called me, said she needed money to get away, said she’d got some information to sell.’

‘You meet her?’

‘No.’

‘You know what kind of information she had?’

‘About some robberies.’

‘Which robberies?’

‘She didn’t say’

‘Past or future?’

‘She didn’t say’

I looked at the fat frightened face, saw it sweating in my passenger seat.

‘You tell anyone this?’

He swallowed, nodded.

‘Who?’

‘A sergeant from Leeds. Name’s Fraser, Bob Fraser.’

‘When did you tell him?’

‘Not long after.’

‘Why’d you tell him?’

Eric Hall turned his face my way and pointing at his eyes said, ‘Because he fucking beat it out of me.’

‘Why’d he do that?’

‘He was pimping her, wasn’t he?’

‘Thought that were you?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘That magazine, those pictures? What do you know about them?’

‘Nothing. Straight up. She never mentioned them.’

I sat at the wheel, lost.

After a while, Eric Hall said, ‘Anything else you want to know?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Who the fuck killed her?’

Eric Hall sniffed up and said, ‘I got my fucking theory.’

I turned to look at him, at that fat fucking slug of a man, a man happy to save himself two fucking grand though his soul was racked with lies, though hellfire and only hellfire awaited him.

‘Do tell, Sherlock?’

He shrugged like it was no big deal, like it was on the front of every fucking newspaper, like the fat slug lived to fight another day, and smiled, ‘Fraser.’

‘Not Ripper?’

He laughed, ‘The Ripper? Fuck’s that?’

I stared up at the cross above us and said, ‘One last thing.’

‘Shoot,’ he said, still smiling.

The cunt.

‘Ka Su Peng?’

‘Who?’ he said, too quickly, not smiling.

‘Chinese girl? Sue Penn?’

He shook his head.

‘Eric, you’re Bradford Vice right?’

‘Was.’

‘Sorry, was. But I’m sure you can still remember all your girls. Specially ones Ripper had a fucking pop at right in the middle of your bloody patch. No?’

He said nothing.

I said again, ‘It was Ripper, yeah?’

‘That’s what they say’

‘What about you? What do you say?’

‘I say let sleeping dogs lie.’

I started the car and turned back the way we’d come, driving in a fast silence.

I pulled up outside the George.

He opened the door and got out.

‘Kill yourself,’ I whispered.

‘What?’ he said, looking back into the car.

‘Shut the door, Eric,’ I said and put my foot down.

I dialled her flat.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again. No answer.

I hung up.

Back into Bradford, out of Bradford, back into Leeds, foot down all the way: Killinghall Road, Leeds Road, the Stanningley bypass, Armley.

Under the dark arches, tempted by a last afternoon drink, succumbing in the Scarborough, a quick whisky into the top of a pint, down in one in the shadow of the Griffin.

Into the end of the afternoon, a breeze blowing through the centre, plastic bags and old papers round my shins, looking for a telephone that worked, just one.

‘Samuel?’

‘Jack.’

‘Any news?’

‘They let Fraser go.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t suppose you know where he is?’

‘What?’

‘He was supposed to check in at Wood Street Nick this morning, but he never.’

‘He never?’

‘He never.’

‘Anything else?’

‘One dead darkie.’

‘Ripper?’

‘Not unless he’s started on blokes and all.’

‘No, anything about Ripper?’

‘No.’

‘Bob Craven in?’

‘You sure?’

‘Put us through, Samuel.’

Two clicks and a ring.

‘Vice.’

‘Detective Inspector Craven please,’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Jack Whitehead.’

‘Hang on.’

Two fingers over the mouthpiece and a shout across the room.

‘Jack?’

‘Been a while, Bob.’

‘It has that. How are you?’

‘Well, and yourself?’

‘Keeping busy.’

‘Got time for a pint?’

‘Always got time for a pint, Jack. You know me.’

‘When’s best for you?’

‘About eightish?’

‘Yeah, fine. Where do you fancy?’

‘Duck and Drake?’

‘Eight o’clock it is.’

‘Bye.’

Through the dirty afternoon streets, the breeze wind, the plastic bags birds, the newspapers snakes.

I turned into a cobbled alley out of the gale, searching for the walls, the words.

But the words were gone, the alley wrong, the only words lies.

I walked up Park Row and on to Cookridge Street, up to St Anne’s.

Inside the Cathedral was deserted, the wind gone, and I walked down the side and knelt before the Pieta, and I prayed, a thousand eyes on me.

I looked up, my throat dry, my breathing slow.

An old woman was leading a child by the hand down the aisle towards me, and when they reached me, the child held out an open Bible and I took it from him and watched them walk away.

I looked down and I read the words I found:

During that time these men will seek death, but they will not find it; They will long to die, but death will elude them.

And I walked through the Cathedral, through the double doors, through the afternoon, through the plastic bags and the snakes, I walked through it all.

Everything gone, everything wrong, only lies.

The office was dead.

I went down the hall and into records.

Into 1974.

I spun the microfilm through the reels, over the lights. Into Friday 20 December 1974. Front Page:

WE SALUTE YOU.

A photograph -

Three big smiles:

Chief Constable Angus congratulates Sergeant Bob Craven and PC Bob Douglas on a job well done.

‘They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.’

I pressed print and watched those three big smiles, those outstanding police officers come out.

Watched that by-line:

BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR

I knocked on Hadden’s door and went in.

Still sat behind the desk, his back still to Leeds.

I sat down.

‘Jack,’ he said.

‘Bill,’ I smiled.

‘Well?’

‘Fraser’s done a runner.’

‘You know where he is?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

‘I have to check.’

He sniffed up and tidied up some pens on his desk.

I asked, ‘You got anything new?’

‘Jack,’ he said, not looking up. ‘You said something about Paula Garland, the last time you were in.’

‘Yeah.’

He looked up, ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘You said something about a connection, a link?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Bloody hell, Jack. What have you found out?’

‘Like I said, Clare Strachan…’

‘The Preston Ripper job?’

‘Yeah. She went by the name Morrison and under that name she’d made a statement as a witness in the Paula Garland murder.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘Yeah. Fraser said Rudkin and maybe some other officers knew this, but it’s never been officially recorded in the Preston inquiry. Or anywhere else.’

‘And there’s nothing else?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing you’re not telling me?’

‘No. Course not.’

‘And you found this out from Sergeant Fraser?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Just getting it straight in my mind, Jack. Just getting it straight.’

‘You got it straight then?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, eyes on mine.

I stood up.

‘Sit down a minute, Jack,’ he said.

I sat down.

Hadden opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a large manila envelope.

‘This came this morning,’ he said, tossing it across his desk. ‘Take a look.’

I pulled out a magazine.

A nack mag, pornography.

Cheap pornography.

Amateurs:

Spunk.

The corner of one page folded down.

‘Page 7,’ said Bill Hadden.

I turned to the marked page and there she was:

Bleached white hair and flaccid pink flesh, wet red holes and dry blue eyes, legs spread, flicking her clit:

Clare Strachan.

I was hard again.

‘This morning?’ I asked, throat hoarse.

‘Yeah, postmarked Preston.’

I turned the envelope over, nodding.

‘Anything else?’

‘No, just that.’

‘Just the one issue?’

‘Yeah, just that.’

I looked up, the mag in my hands.

Hadden said, ‘You didn’t know she was doing this kind of stuff?’

‘No.’

‘You any idea who might have sent it?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t think your Sergeant Fraser’s gone west do you?’

‘No.’

‘I see,’ said Hadden, nodding to himself. I said, ‘What we going to do with it?’

‘I want you to make some calls, find out what the fuck’s going on out there.’

I stood up.

He was picking up a phone as he said, ‘And Jack?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, one hand on the doorknob.

‘Be careful, yeah?’

‘I always am,’ I said. ‘I always am.’

I dialled her flat.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up.

I looked at my watch:

Just gone six.

Slight change of plan.

Down the hall and back into records.

Back into 1974.

I spun the microfilm again, through the reels and over the lights.

Into Tuesday 24 December 1974.

Evening Post, Front Page:

3 DEAD IN WAKEFIELD XMAS SHOOT-OUT

Sub-headed:

Hero Cops Foil Pub Robbery

A photograph -

The Strafford, the Bullring, Wakefield.

A horrific shoot-out late last night in the centre of Wakefield left three people dead and three seriously injured in what police are describing as ‘a robbery that went wrong.’

According to a police spokesman, police were called after shots were reported at the Strafford Public House in the Bullring, Wakefield, at around midnight last night. The first officers on the scene were Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas, the two officers who last week were commended for their part in the arrest of the man suspected of the murder of Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay.

When the two officers entered the Strafford they discovered a robbery in progress and were shot and beaten by unidentified gunmen, who then escaped.

Members of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police’s Special Patrol Group arrived minutes later to find the two hero cops and another man suffering from gunshot wounds and three people dead.

Roadblocks were immediately set up on the Ml and M62 in all directions and checks ordered at all ports and airports but, as yet, no arrests have been made.

Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas were described as being in ‘a serious but stable condition’ in Wakefield’s Pinderfield Hospital.

Police are refusing to release the names of the dead until the next-of-kin have been contacted.

An Incident Room has been set up at Wood Street Police Station, Wakefield, and Detective Superintendent Maurice Jobson appealed for any member of the public with information to contact him in confidence as a matter of urgency. The number is Wakefield 3838.

I pressed print and watched those big lies, those outstanding lies come out.

Watched that by-line:

BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR

The Duck and Drake, in the gutters of the Kirkgate Market.

A gypsy pub, in the shadows of the Millgarth Nick.

Eight o’clock.

I took my pint and my whisky to the table by the door and waited, a plastic bag on the other seat.

I tipped the whisky into the pint and drank it down.

It had been a long time, maybe too long, maybe not long enough.

‘Same again?’

I looked up and there was Bob Craven.

Detective Inspector Bob Craven.

‘Bob,’ I said, standing up, shaking hands. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Bloody Zulus got a bit restless up Chapeltown couple of weeks ago.’

‘You all right?’

‘Will be when I get a pint,’ he grinned and went off to the bar.

I moved the plastic bag on to my lap and watched him at the bar.

He brought two pints over and then went back for the whiskies.

‘Been a while,’ he said, sitting down.

‘Three years?’

‘Only that long?’

‘Aye. Seems like a lifetime,’ I said.

‘A lot of water under the bridge. A bloody lot.’

‘Last time must’ve been before Strafford then?’

‘Must have been. Straight after that’d have been Exorcist business you had, yeah?’

I nodded.

He sighed: ‘Fucking hell, eh? Things we’ve seen.’

‘How’s the other Bob?’ I asked.

‘Dougie?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well out of it, isn’t he?’

‘You weren’t tempted then?’

‘Pack it in?’

I nodded.

‘What the fuck else would I do? And you?’

I nodded again. ‘But what about Bob, what’s he do?’

‘He’s all right. Put his comp into a paper shop. Does all right. See him and I’m not saying there aren’t times when I wish it had been me who took the bullet. You know what I mean?’

I nodded and picked up my pint.

‘Little shop, little wife. You know?’

‘No,’ I shrugged. ‘But tell him I was asking after him, won’t you?’

‘Oh, aye. He’s still got your piece up on wall. We Salute You, that one.’

I sighed, ‘Only three years, eh?’

‘Another time, eh?’ he said and then picked up his pint. ‘Here’s to them; other times.’

We touched glasses and drained them.

‘My shout,’ I said and went back to the bar.

At the bar, I turned and watched him, watched him sitting there, watched him rubbing his beard and flicking at the dust on his trousers, picking up the empty pint glass and putting it down again, watched him.

I brought the drinks over and sat back down.

‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough Memory bloody Lane. What they got you on these days?’

‘Ripper,’ I said.

He paused, then said, ‘Yeah, course.’

We sat there, silent, listening to the noise of the pub: the glasses, the chairs, the music, the chat, the till. Then I said, ‘That’s why I called you actually’

‘Yeah?’

‘Ripper, yeah.’

‘What about the cunt?’

I handed him the plastic bag. ‘Bill Hadden got this in morning post.’

He took the bag and peeked inside.

I said nothing.

He looked up.

I looked at him.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

I followed him into the black Market, into the shadows of the stalls, the evening wind blowing the rubbish and the stink in with us.

Deep in the dark heart, Craven stopped by a stall and took out the magazine.

‘Page is marked,’ I said.

He turned the pages.

I waited -

Heart cracking, ribs breaking.

‘Who knows about this?’ he asked, his back to me.

‘Just me and Bill Hadden.’

‘You know who this is, don’t you?’

I nodded.

He turned round, the page open and dangling from his hand, his face black and lost in the shadows and the beard.

‘It’s Clare Strachan,’ I said.

‘You know who sent it?’

‘No.’

‘There was no note?’

‘No. Just what you got there.’

‘They’d marked the page though?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You still got the envelope?’

‘Hadden has.’

‘You remember when and where it was posted?’

I swallowed and said, ‘Two days ago in Preston.’

‘Preston?’

I nodded and said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

His eyes flew across my face: ‘Who?’

‘Ripper.’

There was a smile deep in there, just for a moment, deep behind that beard.

Then he said quietly, ‘Why you call me, Jack? Why not straight to George?’

‘You’re Vice, yeah? Your neck of the woods.’

He stepped forward, out of the shadow of the stall, and he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing, Jack. Bringing this to me.’

‘I thought so.’

‘You going to print anything?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘Well then, I won’t.’

‘Not yet.’

‘OK.’

‘Thanks, Jack.’

I moved out of his grip and said, ‘What now?’

‘Another pint?’

I looked at my watch and said, ‘Better not.’

‘Another time, then.’

‘Another time,’ I said.

At the edge of the Market, out of the heart, the shit and the stink still strong, Detective Inspector Bob Craven said, ‘Give us a call, Jack.’

I nodded.

‘I owe you,’ he said.

And I nodded again – unending, this whole fucking hell unending.

The footnotes and the margins, the tangents and the detours, the dirty tabula, the broken record.

Jack Whitehead, Yorkshire, 1977.

The bodies and the corpses, the alleys and the wasteland, the dirty men, the broken women.

Jack the Ripper, Yorkshire, 1977.

The lies and the half-truths, the truths and the half-lies, the dirty hands, the broken backs.

Two Jacks, one Yorkshire, 1977.

Down the hall and back into records.

Into 1975.

I spun the microfilm one last time, through the reels and over the lies.

Into Monday 27 January 1975.

Evening Post, Front Page:

MAN KILLS WIFE IN EXORCISM

Sub-headed:

Local Priest arrested

But I couldn’t read, couldn’t read another -

I dialled her flat.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up and dialled again.

No answer.

I hung up.

I pulled into the Redbeck car park and parked between the dark lorries, the empty cars, and switched off the radio with the engine.

I sat in the night, waiting, wondering, worrying.

I got out and walked across the car park, through the potholes and the craters, a black moon rising.

Outside Room 27, I paused, listened, knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked, listened, waited.

Nothing.

I opened the door.

Sergeant Fraser was lying on the floor in a ball, the chair and table splintered, the walls bare, lying on the floor in a ball under all the shit that had been up on the walls, lying on the floor in a ball of splintered wood, in a ball of splintered hell.

I stood in the doorway, the black moon over my shoulder, the night across us both.

He opened his eyes.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Jack.’

He raised his head to the door.

‘Can I come in?’

He opened his mouth slowly and then closed it again. I walked across the room to him and bent down. He was clutching a photograph -

A woman and child.

The woman in sunglasses, the boy in blue pyjamas.

His eyes were open and looking up at me.

‘Sit up,’ I said.

He gripped my forearm.

‘Come on,’ I said.

‘I can’t find them,’ he whispered.

‘It’s OK,’ I nodded.

‘But I can’t find them anywhere.’

‘They’re OK.’

He tightened his grip, pulling himself up on my arm. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘They’re dead, I know they are,’

‘No, they’re not.’

‘Dead, like everyone else.’

‘No, they’re fine.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I’ve seen them,’

‘Where?’

‘With John Rudkin.’

‘Rudkin?’

‘Yeah, I think they’re with him.’

He stood up, looking down at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘They’re dead,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘All dead,’ he said and picked up a table leg.

I tried to stand upright, but I wasn’t quick enough.

I was too slow.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 17th June 1977

Chapter 22

Kill them all.

Driving.

Radio on:

‘The charred remains of an unidentified black man were discovered yesterday on Hunslet Can.

‘A post-mortem revealed that the man had died from stab wounds, before being doused in petrol and set alight.

‘A police spokesman said that a definite attempt had been made to disguise the identity of the victim, leading police to believe the man may have had a police record.

‘The man is described as being in his late twenties, about six foot tall, with a big build.

‘Police appealed for members of the public with any information as to the identity of either the victim or his killers to contact their nearest police station as a matter of urgency. Police stressed that all information will be treated in the strictest confidence.’.

Radio off.

Driving, scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreaming:

Kill them all.

It’s dawn.

I stop at the bottom of Durkar Lane.

There’s a car in his drive, milk on his doorstep, my family inside.

And I sit there at the bottom of his drive, wishing I had a gun, crying.

I stop.

Dawn, 1977.

I press the doorbell and wait.

Nothing.

I press it again and don’t stop.

I see a pink shape behind the glass, hear voices inside, the door opens and there’s his wife, and she’s saying, ‘Bob? It’s Bob. Just a minute.’

But I can hear Bobby and I push past her, up the stairs, kicking open doors until I find them in the back bedroom, her sat up in bed holding my son, Rudkin pulling on his jacket, coming towards me.

‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’re going.’

‘No-one’s going anywhere, Bob,’ says Rudkin, putting a hand on me, starting the fight, me bringing the chair leg up into the side of his head, him holding his ear, swinging out, missing, me grabbing his hair and pulling his fucking face down into my knee, again and again, until I can hear shouting and screaming and crying, Rudkin’s wife pulling me off him, scratching my cheeks, Rudkin still swinging out until he finally connects and I fall back through the door, turning and slapping his wife away, Rudkin punching me hard in the side of my face, my teeth into my tongue, blood everywhere, though fuck knows whose, her shielding Bobby, almost standing on the far end of the double bed, arms tight about him.

And then there’s a pause, a lull, just the sobbing and the crying, the throbbing and the aching.

‘Stop it, Bob,’ she’s crying. ‘Stop it, will you!’

And all I can say is, ‘We’re going.’

Then Rudkin brings his fist down into my face and it all starts up again, me bringing my head straight into his, stars fucking everywhere, him reeling back, me following through, chasing exploding stars and meteorites across the room with my fists, across John bloody Rudkin’s face, kicking and punching him into a big black fucking hole, reaching the bed and grabbing Bobby and trying to pull him free until Rudkin takes me round the neck and starts choking the living fuck out of me.

‘Stop it,’ she’s crying. ‘Stop it, will you!’

But he doesn’t.

‘Stop it, John,’ she’s crying. ‘You’ll kill him.’

Rudkin drops me to my knees and I fall forward into the bed, my face in the mattress.

He steps back and there’s another pause, another lull, still the sobbing and the crying, the throbbing and the aching, and the longer it goes on, the pause, the lull, the longer I lie here, the sooner they’ll relax.

So I lie there, eating bed, waiting until Louise, Rudkin, his wife, until one of them lets me get a look in, lets me get what’s mine:

Bobby.

And I lie there, limp, still waiting until Rudkin says:

‘Come on, Bob. Let’s all go downstairs.’

And I can feel him weaken as he bends down to pull me back up, feel him weaken as I reach down for the chair leg, as I bring it up and round and into the side of his face, as he falls howling into the bedroom window, cracking the glass, her watching him go, so I can reach up and take Bobby from her and I’m on my feet and out the door and through the wife who’s tumbling back down the stairs as fast as I’m following her, Louise on my heels, shouting and screaming and crying, until I trip on Rudkin’s wife at the foot of the stairs and Louise topples over me, Rudkin stumbling into the pile-up, blood running down his face, into his eyes, blinding the cunt, me shouting, bellowing, howling:

‘He’s my fucking son and all!’

Her shouting, screaming, crying:

‘No, no, no!’

Bobby pale with shock and shaking in my arms on top of Rudkin’s wife, under the other two, me trying to pull us out from under them until Rudkin gets a punch, a kick, a fuck-knows-what into my ear and I fall back, Bobby gone, her pulling them free, Rudkin pinning me down, me doing the shouting, the screaming, the crying:

‘You can’t do this. He’s my fucking son.’

And she’s backing into their living room, her hand on his head, his head in her hair, until she says:

‘No he’s not.’

Silence.

Just this silence, that silence, just that long, long, fucking silence, until she says again:

‘He’s not.’

I try to stand, to push Rudkin’s foot off me, like if I stand I’ll be able to understand the shit she’s saying, and at the same time Rudkin’s wife is repeating over and over:

‘What? What do you mean?’

And there’s him, head to toe in blood, palms up, saying:

‘Leave it. For christssakes, leave it.’

‘But he needs to fucking know.’

‘Not now he fucking doesn’t.’

‘But he was fucking a whore, a dead fucking whore, a dead fucking pregnant whore.’

‘Louise…’

‘Just because she’s dead doesn’t make it any fucking different. It was still his kid she was carrying.’

I get to my knees, arms out towards them, towards Bobby, my Bobby.

‘Get away!’

Rudkin screaming, ‘Louise…’

And then his wife walks over and slaps him across the face and stands there just looking at him, just looking at him before she spits in his face and walks out the front door.

‘Anthea,’ he shouts. ‘You can’t go outside like that.’

I stand but he’s still got me, shouting at his wife:

‘Anthea!’

And my hands are out to Bobby, the back of his head, my Bobby.

‘Get away,’ she says. ‘John, get him away from us!’

But he’s torn is John Rudkin, torn between letting his wife go and letting me loose, and it’s making him weak and making me strong, me seeing Bobby just a couple of feet across the room and then I’m away and over there, a punch into the side of her lying fucking head and another until she lets me take what’s mine, let’s me have him, let’s me have my Bobby, Rudkin walking straight into my fucking elbow, me with one hand on Bobby, the other holding on to Rudkin’s hair, spinning him into his marble mantelpiece and on into Louise, him sending her flying so me and Bobby are out the room, into the hall, out through the door, and down the drive, Bobby crying and calling for his Mummy, me telling him it’s all right, everything’s going to be all right, telling him to stop crying, Mummy and Daddy are just joking, and all the time I can hear them behind me, hear their feet, hear her saying:

‘John, no! The baby! Mind Bobby!’

And suddenly I feel my back go, like I don’t have one anymore, and I’m down on my knees in his drive and I don’t want to drop Bobby and I don’t want to drop Bobby and I don’t want to drop Bobby and I don’t want to drop Bobby and I don’t want to drop Bobby.

‘No! You’ll kill him!’

And then I’m lying face down in his drive and Bobby’s gone, lying face down in his drive with them walking over me, running for the car, him clattering the cricket bat down on to the ground by my head, her saying:

‘We’re even, Bob. Even.’

And then they’re gone, everything white, then grey, and finally black.

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 17th June 1977

Chapter 23

I look at my watch, it’s 7.07.

I’m riding in an old elevator, watching the floors pass, going up.

I step out of the elevator and on to the landing.

A young boy in blue pyjamas is standing there, waiting.

He takes my hand and leads me down the corridor, down the threadbare carpet, the dirty walls, the smell.

We come to a door and stop.

I put my fingers on the handle and turn.

It’s open.

Room 77.

I woke on the floor, a terrible black and heavy pain across my skull.

I put my hand to the side of my head, felt the dried, caked blood.

I lifted my head, the room bathed in bright light.

Morning light, a morning light from out on the Common, from out on the Common where the steam rose from the backs of the ponies and the backs of the horses.

I sat up in that morning light, sat up on the sea of ripped-up paper, the smashed-up furniture, putting the photographs and the notes back together.

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie - every fucking where.

But all the Queen’s horses, all the Queen’s men, we couldn’t put Eddie together again.

Couldn’t keep Jackie together again either.

I tried to stand, felt sick in my mouth, and pulled myself over to the sink and spat.

I stood and ran the tap, cupping the cold grey water over my face.

In the mirror, I saw him, me.

Limbs of straw and will of wicker, trampled under hooves, horses’ hooves, Chinese horses.

I looked at my watch.

It was gone seven.

7.07

I sat in my car in the Redbeck car park, squeezing the bridge of my nose, coughing.

I started the engine, turned the radio off, and pulled away.

I drove into Wakefield, past the ponies and the horses on Heath Common, black stacks where the beacons had been, and up through Ossett and down through Dewsbury, black slags where the fields had been, past RD News and out of Batley, into Bradford.

I pulled up on her street, parking next to a tall oak decked out in her best summer leaves.

Green.

I knocked again.

It was cold on the stairs, out of the sun, the leaves tapping on the windows.

I put my fingers on the handle and turned.

I went inside.

The flat was quiet and dark, nobody home.

I stood in her hallway, listening, thinking of the place above RD News, these places where we hid.

I went into the living room, the room where we’d met, the orange curtains drawn, and I sat down in the chair in which I always sat and I decided to wait for her.

The cream blouse and matching trousers, that first time. The bare bruised and dirty knees, the last time.

Ten minutes later I got up and went into the kitchen and stuck the kettle on.

I waited for the water to boil, poured it into a cup and went back into the living room.

And then I sat there in the dark, waiting for Ka Su Peng, wondering how I got here, listing them all:

Mary Ann Nichols, murdered Buck’s Row, August 1888.

Annie Chapman, murdered Hanbury Street, September 1888.

Elizabeth Stride, murdered Berner’s Street, September 1888.

Catherine Eddowes, murdered Mitre Square, September 1888.

Mary Jane Kelly, murdered Miller’s Court, November 1888.

Five women.

Five murders.

I felt the tide coming in, the Bloody Tide, lapping at my shoes and socks, crawling up my legs:

‘What happened to our Jubilee?’

The tide coming in, the Bloody Tide, lapping at my shoes and socks, crawling up my legs:

Carol Williams, murdered Ossett, January 1975.

One woman.

One murder.

Felt the waters rising, the Bloody Waters of Babylon, those rivers of blood in a woman’s time, umbrellas up, bloody showers, puddles all blood, raining red, white, and bloody blue:

Joyce Jobson, assaulted Halifax, July 1974.

Anita Bird, assaulted Cleckheaton, August 1974.

Theresa Campbell, murdered Leeds, June 1975.

Clare Strachan, murdered Preston, November 1975.

Joan Richards, murdered Leeds, February 1976.

Ka Su Peng, assaulted Bradford, October 1976.

Marie Watts, murdered Leeds, May 1977.

Linda Clark, assaulted Bradford, June 1977.

Rachel Johnson, murdered Leeds, June 1977.

Janice Ryan, murdered Bradford, June 1977.

Ten women.

Six murders.

Four assaults.

Halifax, Cleckheaton, Leeds, Preston, Bradford.

The Bloody Tide, a Bloody Flood.

I closed my eyes, the tea cold in my hands, the room more so. She leant forward, parting her hair, and I listened again to her song, our song:

‘To remission and forgiveness, an end to penance?’

I needed a piss.

Oh Carol.

I opened the door and switched on the light and there she was:

Lying in the bath, water red, flesh white, hair blue; her right arm dangling down the side, blood across the floor, deep snakes bitten into her wrists.

On my knees:

I pulled her from the bath, I pulled her from the waters, wrapped her body in a towel and tried to squeeze her into life.

On my knees:

I rocked her back and forth, her body cold, her lips both blue, the black holes in her hands, the black holes in her feet, the black holes in her head.

On my knees:

I called her name, I begged her please, I told her the truth, no more lies, just to open her eyes, to hear her name, to hear the truth:

I love you, love you, love you…

And she said:

‘I do, Jack. I have to.’

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Friday 17th June 1977

Chapter 24

I park up on the Moors, in the place they call the Grave, the pain fading, the day too:

Friday 17 June 1977.

I take out my pen and go through the glove compartment.

I find a map book with some blank back pages and I rip them out.

I write page after page, before I stop and screw them up.

I get out and go to the boot, take out the tape and the hose and do what I have to do.

And then I just sit there until finally, finally I pick up the pen and start again:

Dear Bobby,

I don’t want a life without you.

They’ll tell you lies about me,

like the lies they told me.

But I love you and I’ll be there,

watching over you, always.

Love Daddy.

I switch on the engine and put the note on the dashboard and stare out across the Moors where all I can see out there, beyond the windscreen, all I can see is his face, his hair, his smile, his little tummy sticking out of those blue pyjamas, making a telescope out of his hands, and then I can’t see him for the tears, I can’t see him for -

The John Shark Show

Radio Leeds

Saturday 18th June 1977

Chapter 25

‘Thanks,’ I said and walked across the lobby.

I pressed seven and rode the Griffin’s old elevator, watching the floors pass, going up.

I stepped out of the elevator and on to the landing.

I walked down the corridor, down the threadbare carpet, the dirty walls, the smell.

I came to the door and stopped.

I put my fingers on the handle and turned.

It was open.

Room 77.

The Reverend Laws was sitting in a wicker chair in the window, Leeds City Station grey amongst the chimneys and the roofs, the pigeons and their shit.

Everything was laid out on a white towel on the bed.

‘Sit down, Jack,’ he said, his back to me.

I sat down on the bed beside his tools.

‘What time is it?’

I looked at my watch:

‘Almost seven.’

‘Good,’ he said, standing.

He drew the curtains and brought the wicker chair into the centre of the room.

‘Take off your shirt and sit here.’

I did as he said.

He picked up the scissors from the bed.

I swallowed.

He stood behind me and began to snip.

‘Something for the weekend?’

‘Just a little off the top,’ I smiled.

When he’d finished, he blew across the top of my head and then brushed the loose grey hairs away.

He walked back over to the bed and put down the scissors.

Then he picked up the Philips screwdriver and the ball-pein hammer and stood behind me, whispering:

‘Thy way is the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are unknown.’

I closed my eyes.

He put the point of the screwdriver on the crown of my skull.

And I saw – the two sevens clash and it happening again, and again, and again, coats over faces, boots placed on thighs, a pair of panties left on one leg, bras pushed up, stomachs and breasts hollowed out, skulls caved in, heavy duty manners, Dark Ages and Witch Trials, ancient English cities, ten thousand swords flashing in the sunlight, thrice ten thousand dancing girls strewing flowers, white elephants caparisoned in red, white, and blue with the prices we pay, the debts we incur, the temptations of Jack under cheap raincoats, another rollneck sweater and pink bra pushed up over flat white tits, snakes pouring from stomach wounds, white panties off one leg, sandals placed on the flabs of thighs, good-time girls with blood, thick, black, sticky blood, matting their hair with pieces of bone and lumps of grey brain, slowly dripping into the grass of Soldier’s Field, the fires behind my eyes, a white Marks & Spencer nightie, soaked black with blood from the holes he’d left, so full of holes, these people so full of holes, all these heads so full of holes, Daniel before the ancient wall in the ancient days, playing with matches behind my eyes, there written tophet: white Ford Capris, dark red Corsairs, Landrovers, the many ways a man can serve his time, HATE, no subject, no object, just HATE: Yorkshire Gangsters and Yorkshire Coppers, the Black Panther and the Yorkshire Ripper, Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay and Michael Myshkin, Mandy Wymer and Paula Garland, the Strafford Shootings and the Exorcist Killing: Michael Williams and Carol Williams, holding her there in the street in my arms, blood on my hands, blood on her face, blood on my lips, blood in her mouth, blood in my eyes, blood in her hair, blood in my tears, blood in hers, Blood and Fire, and I’m crying because I know it’s over, and above the fireplace opposite the door hangs a print entitled The Fisherman’s Widow, a man’s pilot coat doubles as a curtain over the window, Philips screwdrivers, heavy Wellington boots, ball-pein hammers, the Minstrel by a neck, the ginger beer, the stale bread, the ashes in the grate, just a room and a girl in white turning black right down to her nails and the holes in her head, just a girl, hearing footsteps on the cobbles outside, the heart absent, the door locked from the inside, keeping on running but knowing you won’t get far: shotguns in Hanging Heaton, shotguns in Skipton, shotguns in Doncaster, shotguns in Selby, Jubela, Jubelo, Jubelum, him stroking his beard, him shaking his head, winking once and gone, where you seek one there’s two, two three, three four; where you seek four three, three two, two one, the ones that get away and the ones that never can, the man I love, up in the gallery in the last days, the time at hand, when your sons and daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions and your old men shall dream dreams, no wonders for the dead, just dreams smiling through the gloom, meat between his teeth, patting his paunch, burping, primping his hair, stroking his moustache, grinning, arching an eyebrow, frowning and shaking his head, winking once and gone again after the horror: tomorrow and the day after, getting away again, wretched and close to death from my youth up, I suffer your terrors: I am desperate, my companions in darkness, and there’s got to be another way, The Fisherman’s Widow in wet red paint, sherry bottles, bottles of spirits, beer bottles, bottles of chemicals, all empty, just a room in hell, Twenty-five Years of Jubilee Hits, hell around every corner, every dawn, dead elm trees, thousands of them in dark panting streets, leering terrace backs, surrounded by silent stones, buried by the black bricks, through courtyards and alleyways, foot upon brick, brick upon head, the houses that Jack built, and he’s coming, ring-a-ring of roses, a pocket full of posies, he’s coming, fuck you – then you sleep/kiss you – then you wake, and he’s here and there is no hell but this one, Lucky Cow, up to five now they say four but remember Preston ’75, come my load up that one, Dirty Cow, God saves the People of Leeds and the cuts that won’t stop bleeding, the bruises that won’t heal, and I feel it coming on again so wear something pretty because this is why people die, this is why people, this is why, up to number five now you say, but there’s a surprise in Bradford, get about you know, Eddie, Eddie, Eddie; outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks, men seeking death but not finding it, longing to die but death eluding them, like remission and forgiveness, an end to penance, burning niggers on Hunslet Carr, gollums on the train, Nigerians face down in the Calder, the red and the white and the blue, the Valleys of Death, the Moors of Hell, lonely hells, endlessly: the set-ups and the frames, the fit-ups and the blame, the whispering grasses, the weeping, bleeding statues, neighbour against neighbour, brother against brother, families bound and slaughtered aboard Black Ships, mothers tied and watching daughters raped aboard Bride Ships, the White Ship sunk off Albion, me trapped on a train in a snowstorm on top of the Moors, in the rooms of the dead, in the houses of the dead, on the streets of the dead, in the cities of the dead, the country of the dead, world of the dead, us driving together along a road, after the rain, after the Jubilee, the fireworks spent, the red and the white and the blue gone, drowning in the bloody belly of the whale in the last few days, men eating shotguns, sucking gas, nigger gangs slitting the throats of fat white coppers as they sit in their houses watching Songs of Praise with their backs to the door, their sons swearing revenge, their children crying for the rest of their lives, endlessly: lost in rooms, chimneys taller than steeples, minarets taller than chimneys, cursed Islam in every town, Backyard Crusades, crusades for the dead, crusades without end, mornings that are night, sat in sudden silences, making calls from red boxes, policemen tall and blond, covered from head to toe in blood, evil connecting with evil, green trees shining silver with the stuff, sleep-starved dreams stretching the bones, racking them, the long faces from hell, singing their songs of the damned and the doomed: odes to the dead, prayers for the living, lies for the lot, screaming coaches flying past empty, doors open, chunks of cancerous phlegm sliding down the sink-hole, standing in the shadows in the wings of the truth, bruised by sleep, help me, in the shadows of her thighs, the blacks of her eyes, fuck you – then you sleep/kiss you – then you wake, in rooms above shops, the real flesh, the stones in my shoes, sat together on bloody sofas, the night Michael Williams drove a 12” nail into his Carol’s head, INTO MY CAROL’S HEAD, to save her soul alive, my Carol, thinking I’ve forgotten something, Chinese horses flying past, backs empty, eyes open, talking nothing but surrender, futures written as pasts, people left behind in private, sovereign angsts, right royal hells, telling lies and telling truths full of holes, so full of holes, these people so full of holes, all these heads so full of holes, the time at hand, outside the dogs and sorcerers, the whoremongers and murderers crouched in Southern cemeteries raining down blows to the heads of Scottish slags with blunt household instruments, in 1977 suffering your terrors, in 1977 I am desperate, in 1977 my companions are in darkness, in 1977 when young men see visions and the old men dream dreams, dreams of remission and forgiveness, an end to penance, in 1977 when the two sevens clash and the cuts won’t stop bleeding, the bruises not healing, the two witnesses – their testimony finished, their bodies lying naked in the streets of the city, the sea blood, the waters wormwood, women drunken with the blood and the patience and faith of the saints, and I stand at the door and knock, the keys to death and hell and the mystery of the woman, knowing this is why people die, this is why people, in 1977 this is why I see -

He brought the hammer down.

– No future.