1980

echo test transmission one a citizens band broadcast of pictures at an atrocity exhibition from the shadows of the sun out of the arc of the searchlight joyce jobson in halifax on friday the twelfth of july nineteen seventy four more life in a graveyard the rain keeping them in time for a look in the royal oak one more lager and then a fish supper with donald the lift home the chat the banter the chip shop shut out of the shadows the darkness he steps five foot four inches and quite good looking slightly wavy hair dark long sideboards he would not frighten anybody and says in a yorkshire way he says the weather is letting us down again and e know e am going to be in trouble severe cuts above both eyes and lacerations on the head her skull had suffered double fractures from an iron bar or hammer and for a moment the living soul is here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away from here intensive care just in case she had two small slashes in the small of her back each about six to eight inches long caused by a sharp instrument the clothing had first been lifted up before the marks were made then the clothing was rearranged where is kojak now he asks himself donald is it possible that you went out of the front door of your house and ran along the gardens around the side of the row of houses and waited in the dark for your wife is it possible donald it is you who out of the shadows the darkness step and attack your wife and say in a yorkshire way you say the weather is letting us down again was that you donald you have had your differences you and joyce we know and then you ran back along the gardens and sat back down in front of kojak that was you was it not the chopper man in a yorkshire way he says the weather is letting us down again and she is going to be in trouble severe cuts above both eyes and lacerations on the head her skull had suffered double fractures from an iron bar or hammer and for a moment the living soul is here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away from the silences in the shops the graffiti on the walls and doors the wet beds the days off work the days off school the days in the hospital the long days in the house the weather letting us down again and again and again the newspapers and the telephone calls the headaches and the pills the doctors and the police this is what the ripper has done to my wife the invisible man who put the dog hairs on her clothes who did not ladder her tights who left her white heels unmarked but still she sits in the house and gets depressed life pointless and crying out in a yorkshire way she screams the weather is letting us down again and they will put me away they will our sex life destroyed my daughters persuaded me to go out and buy clothes but e only did it to please them and they would laugh because e would never go anywhere to wear them and e used to enjoy cooking and cleaning but now e do it just to avoid sitting and thinking of chopper man a living soul here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die get away they say e could not be near a man or even look at one without feeling funny in a yorkshire way they all say the weather is letting us down again and e know it sounds horrible but sometimes e would look at my own husband sitting there the weather letting him down again and again and again my living soul here among the dead who are suspended and soon will die and e must get away from here from what ripper has done to me weather letting us down again the telephone call the silence before in a yorkshire way he says e missed you once but e will get you next time weather is letting you down again missed you once but not the next test

Chapter 1

A shot -

I’m awake, sweating and afraid.

Downstairs the telephone is ringing, before the dawn, before the alarm.

The LED display says 5:00, my head still full of murder and lies, nuclear war:

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.

I get out of bed and go downstairs and take the call.

I come back upstairs and sit in the cold on the edge of the bed, Joan still pretending to be asleep.

On the radio Yoko Ono is saying:

‘This is not the end of an era. The 80s are still going to be a beautiful time, and John believed in it.’

After a few minutes I say: ‘I’ve got to go to Whitby.’

‘It was him then?’ she asks, face still away.

‘Yes,’ I say, thinking -

Everyone gets everything they want.

I drive alone from Alderley Edge across the Moors, alone between the articulated lorries crawling slowly along the M62, the weather stark and grey, the landscape empty but for telegraph poles.

At 7:00 the radio breaks the news to the rest of the world:

‘The Yorkshire Ripper has claimed his thirteenth victim, as police confirmed that Laureen Bell, aged twenty, was killed by the man responsible…’

I switch off the radio, thinking -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

War:

It is Thursday 11 December 1980.

I arrive in Whitby at 11:00 and park in the drive of the large new bungalow, alongside three expensive cars.

There’s sleet in the sea-spray, freezing gulls wheeling overhead, the wind screaming through a thousand empty shells.

I ring the doorbell.

A tall middle-aged woman opens the door.

‘Peter Hunter,’ I say.

‘Come in.’

I step into the bungalow.

‘Can I take your coat?’

‘Thanks.’

‘This way,’ she says, leading me down the hall to the back of the house.

She knocks on a door, opens it, and gestures for me to go inside.

Three men are sat on the sofa and chairs, grey skin and red eyes, silent.

Philip Evans stands up: ‘Peter? How was the drive?’

‘Not so bad.’

‘What would you like to drink?’ asks his wife from the doorway.

‘Coffee would be nice.’

‘Have to be instant, I’m afraid.’

‘Prefer it,’ I say.

‘Ever the diplomat,’ laughs Evans.

‘Everyone else OK?’

The other two men nod and she closes the door behind her.

‘Let’s get the introductions out of the way and then we can get on,’ smiles Philip Evans, the Regional Inspector of Constabulary for Yorkshire and the North East.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of the Greater Manchester force. Peter, this is Sir John Reed, the Chief Inspector of Constabulary.’

‘We’ve met before,’ I say, shaking his hand.

‘A long time ago,’ says Sir John, sitting back down on the sofa.

‘Of course,’ nods Philip Evans. ‘And this is Michael Warren, from the Home Office.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, shaking the thin man’s hand.

Evans points to a big chair with wide arms: ‘Sit down, Pete.’

There is a soft knock on the door and Mrs Evans brings in a tray, setting it down on the low table between us.

‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she says.

‘Thank you.’

There’s a pause, just the wind and Mrs Evans talking to a dog as she retreats back into the kitchen.

Philip Evans says: ‘We’ve got a small problem.’

I stop stirring my coffee and look up.

‘As I mentioned on the phone, there’s been another murder. A nurse, twenty years old, outside her halls of residence. Leeds again.’

I nod: ‘It was on the radio.’

‘Couldn’t even give us a day,’ sighs Evans. ‘Well anyway, enough is enough.’

Michael Warren sits forward on the sofa and places a small portable cassette recorder beside the plastic tray on the coffee table.

‘Enough is enough,’ he echoes and presses play:

A long pause, tape hiss, and then:

‘I’m Jack. I see you are still having no luck catching me. I have the greatest respect for you George, but Lord! You are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when I started. I reckon your boys are letting you down, George. They can’t be much good can they?

‘The only time they came near catching me was a few months back in Chapeltown when I was disturbed. Even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective.

‘I warned you in March that I’d strike again. Sorry it wasn’t Bradford. I did promise that but I couldn’t get there. I’m not quite sure where I’ll strike again but it will be definitely some time this year, maybe September, October, even sooner if I get the chance. I am not sure where, maybe Manchester, I like it there, there’s plenty of them knocking about. They never learn do they George? I bet you’ve warned them, but they never listen.’

Thirteen seconds of hiss, then:

‘Take her in Preston, and I did, didn’t I George? Dirty cow. Come my load up that.

‘At the rate I’m going I should be in the book of records. I think it’s eleven up to now isn’t it? Well, I’ll keep on going for quite a while yet. I can’t see myself being nicked just yet. Even if you do get near I’ll probably top myself first. Well it’s been nice chatting to you George. Yours, Jack the Ripper.

‘No use looking for fingerprints. You should know by now it’s as clean as a whistle. See you soon. Bye.

‘Hope you like the catchy tune at the end. Ha. Ha.’

Reed leans forward and switches off the cassette just as Thank You for Being a Friend starts.

‘As you know that was June last year,’ says Warren. ‘What you won’t know is that Home Secretary Whitelaw immediately approved the use of the Police National Computer to back up covert surveillance operations of vehicles in the West Yorkshire area, to use birth and school registers to cross-reference these against all males born in Wearside since 1920. He also secretly approved the release of DHSS records to trace all males who have lived or worked in Wearside in the past fifty years. So far they’ve interviewed and eliminated 200,000 people, done over 30,000 house to house searches, taken over 25,000 statements, and spent the best part of four million pounds.’

‘And most of it on bloody publicity,’ says Sir John Reed.

‘Flush out the Ripper,’ whispers Philip Evans.

Sir John snorts: ‘Some bloody plan that was. 17,000 fucking suspects.’

‘Some bloody plan,’ repeats Michael Warren, putting in another cassette tape, pressing play again:

‘Every time the phone rings I wonder if it’s him. If I get up in the middle of the night I find myself thinking about him. I feel after all this time, I feel that I really know him.’

I look across at Reed, the grey skin and red eyes.

He’s shaking his head.

‘If we do get him, we’ll probably find he’s had too long on the left breast and not enough on the right. But I don’t regard him as evil. The voice is almost sad, a man fed up with what he’s done, fed up with himself. To me he’s like a bad angel on a mistaken journey and, while I could never condone his methods, I can sympathise with his feelings.’

Warren presses stop.

‘You know who that was?’

‘George Oldman?’ I say.

Philip Evans is nodding: ‘That was Assistant Chief Constable Oldman talking to the Yorkshire Post last week.’

Warren: ‘Thank Christ they called us.’

Silence.

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

Sir John Reed says: ‘Sixteen hours a day, six – sometimes seven – days a week.’

I shrug: ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.’

‘What do you know?’

‘About?’

‘About the whole bloody farce?’

‘Not much more than I’ve read in the papers.’

‘I think you’re being modest, Mr Hunter. I think you know a lot more,’ winks Reed.

I start to speak, but he raises his hand: ‘I think like most senior detectives in this country, I think you feel West Yorkshire have lost the plot, that the Ripper Tape is bollocks, that he’s laughing at us, the British Police, and that you’d like nothing more than to have a crack.’

I return his stare: ‘So is it bollocks? The tape?’

He smiles and turns to Philip Evans, nodding.

There’s a pause before Evans says: ‘There’ll be a press conference later today and Chief Constable Angus will tell them that Oldman’s out.’

I say nothing now, waiting.

‘Peter Noble’s been made Temporary Assistant Chief Constable with sole responsibility for the hunt.’

Again I say nothing, waiting.

Michael Warren coughs and leans forward: ‘Noble’s a good man.’

Nothing, just waiting.

‘But there are already calls for outside help, a fresh perspective etc., so Angus is also going to announce the formation of a brains trust, a Super Squad if you like, to advise Noble’s team,’ continues Warren.

Nothing, waiting.

‘This Super Squad will be Leonard Curtis, Deputy Chief Constable, Thames Valley; William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads; Commander Donald Lincoln, Sir John’s Deputy; Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Science Service; and yourself.’

Waiting.

Sir John Reed lights a cigarette, exhales and says: ‘So what do you think now?’

I swallow: ‘We are to advise?’

‘Yes.’

‘For how long?’

Michael Warren says: Two or three weeks.’

Reed is staring at the end of his cigarette.

I say: ‘May I speak frankly?’

‘Of course,’ says Philip Evans.

‘As a public relations exercise I think we might have some success in diffusing the undoubted criticism the Yorkshire force is going to face over the next week but, as for any practical use we might have, I think we’ll be distinctly limited.’

The whole room is smiling, grey skins and red eyes shining.

‘Bravo,’ claps Sir John Reed.

‘We called you here today,’ says Evans, handing me a thick red ringbinder. ‘Because we would like you to head up a covert Home Office inquiry into these murders, working tinder the guise of this Super Squad. You’ll be able to handpick up to seven officers to work with you; based in Leeds, you will be reporting only to myself here in Whitby. Your brief is to review the case in its entirety, to highlight areas of concern, should any arise, to determine strategies, to pursue all avenues.’

‘And to catch the cunt,’ spits Reed.

I wait, eyes on the prize.

Philip Evans says: ‘Questions?’

Quietly: ‘Why covert?’

Evans is nodding: ‘The public is unlikely to accept two simultaneous investigations. Secondly, nor will the West Yorkshire lads. Thirdly, we don’t want to wash our dirty linen in public etc., should there be any. Morale being what it is these days.’

I look around the room.

Sir John Reed says: ‘So go on, ask?’

‘Ask what, sir?’

‘Why me? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? That’s what I’d want to know.’

‘OK. Why me?’

Reed nods at Michael Warren.

‘Primarily your work with A10,’ says Warren. ‘And the fact that you’ve previously been involved with investigations into the West Yorkshire force.’

‘With all due respect, one investigation was over five years ago and failed to reach any conclusion, aside from making me possibly the most unpopular copper in the North. And the second one was over before it began.’

‘Eric Hall,’ Evans says to the other two.

I look down at the cup of cold instant coffee on the table before me, the light reflecting in its black surface.

‘Hunter the Cunt, they call you,’ laughs Sir John Reed.

I look up at him.

‘That bother you, does it?’ Reed asks.

‘No,’ I say.

‘So there’s your answer.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I make spies of them despite themselves,’ he smiles.

‘General Napier,’ I say.

Sir John Reed has stopped smiling: ‘You know your history.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know my history.’

Outside it’s snowing.

There is blood on my windscreen, a dead gull on the lawn.

I switch on the windscreen wipers and drive back alone across the M62, alone between the articulated lorries crawling slowly along, the weather stark, the landscape empty -

Just murder and lies, lies and murder:

‘The Yorkshire Ripper has claimed his thirteenth victim, as police confirmed that Laureen Bell, aged twenty, was killed by the man responsible…’

It’s after 8:00 when I get home.

Joan is watching TV Eye.

‘They’re repeating that Mind of the Ripper,’ she says.

I sit in front of the TV, watching the faces swim by.

I am forty years old, Joan thirty-eight.

We have no children.

I can’t sleep -

I never can.

My back bad, getting worse and worse, day by day.

Always awake, sweating and afraid, eyes wide in the dark beside Joan.

The radio on -

Always on:

Hunger strikers near death, thirty-two murdered in one LA weekend;

Gdansk, Tehran, Kabul, the Dakota;

The North of England -

No law.

I get out of bed and go downstairs.

I can hear the rain against the window pane, behind the curtains.

I go into the kitchen and put the radio on and wait for the kettle to boil.

The rain against the pane, a song on the radio:

‘Don’t be afraid to go to hell and back -’

I open my briefcase and take out the red ring-binder, the red ring-binder they gave me:

Murders and Assaults upon Women in the North of England.

The kettle’s boiling, whistling:

Everyone gets everything they want.

I unlock the back door and take the tea and the red ring-binder out into the black garden and the rain. I walk down the side of the garage to the shed I built at the back. I take the key from my dressing gown pocket and unlock the door to the shed.

I am cold, freezing.

I go inside, lock the door behind me and put on the light.

My room -

One door, one light, no windows; the smell of earth and damp, old exhaust fumes and ageing gardening gloves; a long desk across the length of the back wall, two grey metal filing cabinets standing guard on each of the side walls. Between them, on top of the desk, a computer and keyboard, a black and white portable television, a CB radio, a cassette recorder and a reel to reel, a typewriter. Under the desk, across the floor, wires and cables, plugs and adapters, boxes of paper, stacks of magazines and newspapers, tins and jars and pots of pens and pencils and paperclips.

I perch the tea on top of the red ring-binder on the corner of the desk and I switch on the two-bar electric heater and the computer -

Anabasis:

The bastard bits of an Acorn with Memorex RAMpacks, pirated parts from Radionics and Tandy, an unopened ZX80 still in its box, the whole machine covered in cassette tapes and blu-tack.

I sit down at the desk and stare at the wall above Anabasis:

At one map and twelve photographs -

Each photograph a face, each face a letter and a date, a number on each forehead:

I take the tea off the red ring-binder and open the first page:

Contents:

Divided by the years:

1974:

Joyce Jobson, attacked Halifax, July 1974.

Anita Bird, attacked Cleckheaton, August 1974.

1975:

Theresa Campbell, murdered Leeds, June 1975.

Clare Strachan, murdered Preston, November 1975.

1976:

Joan Richards, murdered Leeds, February 1976.

Ka Su Peng, attacked Bradford, October 1976.

1977:

Marie Watts, murdered Leeds, May 1977.

Linda Clark, attacked Bradford, June 1977.

Rachel Johnson, murdered Leeds, June 1977.

Janice Ryan, murdered Bradford, June 1977.

Elizabeth McQueen, murdered Manchester, November 1977.

Kathy Kelly, attacked Leeds, December 1977.

1978:

Tracey Livingston, murdered Preston, January 1978.

Candy Simon, murdered Huddersfield, January 1978.

Doreen Pickles, murdered Manchester, May 1978.

1979:

Joanne Thornton, murdered Morley, May 1979.

Dawn Williams, murdered Bradford, September 1979.

He’s already written the next chapter:

1980:

Laureen Bell, murdered Leeds, December 1980.

My chapter -

The last chapter.

I close the red ring-binder, the red ring-binder they gave me -

Nothing new.

I look up at the wall, the map and the photographs, the letters and the dates, the numbers:

Seven years, thirteen dead women, seven of them mothers, twenty orphaned children.

Reed’s voice echoing around the shed:

‘What do you know?’

My words echoing back:

‘Not much more than I’ve read in the papers.’

Echoing back round my head, this shed, this room -

My room -

The War Room -

My obsessions:

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

See them, smell them, taste them.

The War Room -

My War:

Motherless children, childless mothers.

I am forty years old, Joan thirty-eight.

We have no children, we can’t.

Somewhere back on the Moors, the visibility down to yards, I’d made that deal again:

I catch him, stop him murdering mothers, orphaning children, then you give us one, just one.

transmission two in cleckheaton on Cumberland avenue attractive anita bird on monday the fifth of august nineteen seventy four day clive had hidden every pair of my shoes grabbed my head and plunged it into a bucket of cold water he was a mental man who had been advised to keep away from women for at least five years but he had bought me a colour television and we made up but e was frightened of him and feeling a bit tearful playing crying in the chapel as e brought in the sheets from outside and folded them in the kitchen the kitten missing so e went to look for it and out of shadows the darkness he steps well dressed he was and smelt of soap a good looking waiter Italian or greek he wanted to come in for a cup of tea his racing eyes and dainty hands and in a yorkshire way he says do you fancy it not on your life e say and then the hammer comes down one two three times and he pulls down her panties and he raises her blouse and slashes her stomach and wants to stab but then the light goes on and the man is asking what is going on who is out there who is making all that noise come on what is going on out there nothing to worry about you go back inside everything is all right now are you sure yes nothing to worry about but she will need a twelve hour operation to remove the splinters of brain from her skull the last rites to live behind wires and alarms alone with her cats and her pictures of christ and david soul and khalid aziz the three inch dents in her head and the hair she cuts herself crying in the chapel e am in my own world the curtains pulled in a housecoat with her cats walking in the middle of the road scared of the shadows and the men behind her when six months before the mystery man had come to the corner shop and left messages every day for a week would she go out with him for an evening for a few drinks and spot of supper and he drove her into bradford to a city centre restaurant and she cannot remember which but she knows all waitresses wore black long skirts and he was friendly in a yorkshire way and he knew all about her even though they had never met before and he said his name was michael gill or was it gull a doctor gull he lived with his grandmother who was old and ill and that he also had a cat they finished their meal and he drove her home to cleckheaton and no he would not come in for a coffee because he had to go home to put grandmother to bed and he did not even give her a kiss on the cheek and she never saw him again and six months later she lay in the street the blows from cuban heeled boots and the lacerations across her stomach the kind that west indian boyfriends like her clive inflict upon girlfriends who have been unfaithful do you fancy it not on your life and then the hammer comes down one two three times he pulls down her panties and he raises her blouse slashes her stomach and she is not anita now she is anna and she will never be anita again cos anita died that night on cobblestones and times e wish e had not had that operation e wish e had died with her on cobblestones for then e would have known nothing but the blackness and nothing more for if e had known what lay ahead for me e would have refused what they term a life saving operation for my life is not saved it is lost so e have had fifteen thousand pounds compensation no amount of money can give me back my anonymity can give me back my boyfriends no money can remove the stigma of the ripper can give me back my doctor gull or was it gill michael gill fifteen thousand pounds compensation to live behind wires and alarms with my cats and pictures of christ scared of the shadows and the men behind me alone do you fancy

Chapter 2

7:00 a.m.

Friday 12 December 1980.

Manchester Police Headquarters.

The eleventh floor.

The Assistant Chief Constable’s office -

My office.

I’ve got my suitcase by the door, the radio on:

‘The early Christmas exodus is expected to continue from universities and colleges across the North of England as the President of the NUS issued the following statement:

‘Anyone who goes to any of the Northern Universities today will know immediately the pall this Yorkshire Ripper has cast over the whole student population…’

Going through the tray on my desk, the Christmas cards.

‘And in other news, it was announced that 30,000 pigs are to be slaughtered in an attempt to stop the further spread of swine fever…’

I hear the door across the corridor open and close.

I put the last papers in their folders and go out into the corridor.

I stand before the door of the Chief Constable and knock.

‘Come.’

I open the door.

Chief Constable Clement Smith is behind his desk.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

He doesn’t look up.

I stand, waiting.

Eventually he says: ‘So you took it?’

‘Yes.’

The Chief Constable looks up; his close-cropped hair, full black beard and dark eyes giving Clement Smith one expression:

Orthodox.

‘I’ve been asked to put together a team to assist me,’ I say.

Silence.

‘I’d like to take John Murphy and Alec McDonald, plus DI Hillman and DS Marshall from Serious Crime.’

‘Helen Marshall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know you can have up to three more?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you spoken to these people?’

‘No.’

‘Have you got a timetable in mind?’

‘With your permission, I’d like to get everyone together this morning.’

Silence.

‘I’ve got to be over in Wakefield for the afternoon press conference and I’d like to take John Murphy with me for that.’

Silence.

‘I’m due to meet Chief Constable Angus, George Oldman and Pete Noble, and then make a start.’

Silence.

‘If that’s OK with you?’

Eventually he says: ‘I’ve been instructed to give you whatever you need.’

‘Thank you.’

A pause, then: ‘I’ll have them meet in your office at ten.’

‘Thank you.’

Clement Smith nods and goes back to the work on his desk.

I walk to the door.

‘Peter,’ he says.

I turn around.

‘You made up your mind pretty quickly?’

‘Not something I felt I could refuse.’

‘You could have,’ he says. ‘I would have.’

‘I think it’s an honour, sir. An honour for the Manchester force.’

He goes back to the work on his desk again.

I open the door.

‘Peter,’ he says again.

I turn around.

‘Let’s hope so,’ he says. ‘Let’s hope so.’

10:00 a.m.

My office.

Detective Chief Superintendent John Murphy: Manchester-Irish, mother knew mine, early fifties, over twenty years’ CID experience, a couple of tours with me in A10, direct involvement in the so-called Ripper Hunt having been in charge of the 1977 Elizabeth McQueen investigation.

Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald: Scots, Glasgow-bred, late forties, five years with Vice, five years Serious Crime, direct involvement with the Ripper through the 1978 Doreen Pickles investigation.

Detective Inspector Mike Hillman: mid thirties, five years A10 with me, extensive anti-corruption work, now Serious Crime.

Detective Helen Marshall: early thirties, ten years Vice and Drug Squads, now Serious Crime.

The best we have -

Their eight bright and shining eyes on me:

‘Thank you all for coming and at such short notice.’

Nods and smiles -

‘I’ll get straight to it: I’ve been asked by the Home Office to head an investigation into the murders and assaults on women in the North of England publicly referred to as the work of the Yorkshire Ripper. Murders that as of yesterday now total thirteen.’

No nods, no smiles -

‘The brief of the investigation is to review and to highlight areas of concern, to advise alternative strategies, and to pursue and arrest the man responsible.’

Eight eyes on me -

‘I’ve asked you here this morning as I would like each one of you to be a part of this investigation. However, it is going to mean that you will be seconded from your present duties, that you will be over in Yorkshire a hell of a lot, that you will be away from your families, working twenty-four-hour days, seven-day weeks, limited time off.’

No nods, no smiles, just stares -

‘You know the demands and I would not wish to presume upon any of you. But I have worked with each of you and I believe you are the best people for this job.’

Hard stares -

‘So, if you cannot commit, say so now.’

Silence, then -

John Murphy: ‘I’m in.’

‘Thank you, John.’

Alec McDonald: ‘In.’

‘Thank you.’

Mike Hillman: ‘I hate bloody Yorkshire, but go on then.’

‘Thanks, Mike.’

Helen Marshall: ‘I’ll have to get someone to feed the dog, I suppose.’

‘Thank you.’

I sit back down in my chair: ‘Thank you, all of you. I knew I could count on you.’

Smiles again, the stares gone.

‘In a bit, John and myself will get over to Wakefield for their afternoon press conference. Everyone else should take the opportunity to hand over their present duties. Chief Constable Smith’s office will issue all the necessary authorisation later this morning.

‘After the press conference, I have got a meeting scheduled with Chief Constable Angus and Assistant Chief Constable Oldman. John’ll secure the offices and arrange hotels for us. But let’s provisionally agree to meet in Leeds tomorrow morning at nine, location to be confirmed later today?’

Nods.

‘Questions?’

Mike Hillman: ‘They know we’re coming?’

‘Brass, yes; but not their lads or the press and we should keep it that way.’

Nods again.

Alec McDonald: ‘You want us to start boxing up our files on McQueen and Pickles?’

‘Not straight off. Let’s see what they’ve got over there first.’

A nod.

Silence, then -

I say: ‘OK? Until tomorrow.’

We all stand up.

‘And thanks again,’ I say, eight bright eyes shining back.

The best -

Mine.

Over the Moors again, between the articulated lorries, stark and empty, snow across their cold, lost bones -

John Murphy and myself, the memories neither cold nor lost -

Ours.

The football exhausted, my hands tight on the wheel, eyes on the road, silent.

After a few minutes I put the radio on, listeners phoning Jimmy Young about the death of John Lennon, about the hostages in Iran and the Third World War, about a factory in Germany that needs no people, just machines, and about the Yorkshire Ripper, mainly about the Yorkshire Ripper:

‘We’ll paper every surface with a thousand posters saying: The Ripper is a Coward…’

Murder and lies, war:

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.

Murder and lies, lies and murder.

Murphy says: ‘When were you last over this way?’

‘Yesterday’

‘No, I mean with A10?’

‘Should have been Bradford Vice, 1977. Remember all that?’

He nods: ‘All set to come right? Interviews, the lot, then -’

‘Case closed.’

‘Muddy waters, eh Pete?’

‘You could stand your truncheon in it, John.’

He sniffs up: ‘Before that would have been the Strafford then?’

‘Yep.’

‘Fuck,’ whistles Murphy. ‘Bloody Yorkshire.’

‘Yep,’ I say -

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

The memories neither cold nor lost:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

A pub robbery that went wrong -

Three dead at the scene, three wounded, one of them fatally -

Two of the wounded, coppers -

Suspects escaped, armed police and roadblocks on the streets of Yorkshire, possible links to Republican terrorists given the proximity to Wakefield Prison.

Twenty-four hours later and it was four dead, two wounded policemen -

Nothing adding up -

Inquiry ordered -

January 1975 and in we came -

A10:

Me and Clarkie -

Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark, a friend.

Four weeks in -

A frantic phone call, a two-hour drive across these damned Moors again, home to bloody sheets and another miscarriage.

Clarkie took over, Murphy stepping in as his deputy

Two weeks on -

Clarkie collapses: pains in the chest, brought on by exhaustion.

Murphy in charge, Hillman as deputy.

Two more weeks -

Clarkie dead: pains in the chest -

Everybody home -

Case closed.

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

Memories neither cold nor lost.

‘Been a while since you seen George then?’ says Murphy, back.

‘Can’t bloody wait,’ I spit.

‘Brought your phrasebook?’

‘Phrasebook? No bastard speaks over there.’

‘Bloody heathens,’ nods Murphy.

I stare out at the lanes of lorries, the Moors beyond, the black poles and the telephone wires -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.

Murder and lies, war -

My War:

Murder and lies, lies and murder.

‘What kind of reception you think we’re going to get?’

‘Cold,’ I say.

‘Bloody Yorkshire.’

His.

Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:

Friday 12 December 1980 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and bad memories of thwarted investigations, of the walls of silence, the black secrets and the paranoia -

Professional hells.

January 1975 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and terrible memories of the thwarted, of the walls of silence, the black blame and the guilt -

Personal hells.

January 1975 -

Impotent prayers and broken promises, reneged and returned -

December 1980:

Wakefield, barren Wakefield.

West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Laburnum Road, Wakefield.

We park our black Rovers amongst the other black Rovers and go inside out of the rain to be directed back out, across the road to the gymnasium of the Training College.

We are early.

But I can hear the press waiting on the other side of the building, waiting -

Early.

Another uniform sends us down another corridor to a small room beside a kitchen.

And here, in amongst the catering, we find the Yorkshire Brass:

Angus, Oldman, and Noble -

Hiding and already beaten, standing between their sandwiches and their better days, their Black Panthers and their M62 Coach Bombings, their Al Shootings and their Michael Myshkins, those better days a long time gone.

‘Chief Constable Angus?’

He turns around.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he sighs.

The room is silent, dead.

I say: ‘This is John Murphy’

‘Yes,’ he says, not taking Murphy’s hand. ‘We’ve met before.’

Some other men step forward from the back of the room, familiar faces from conferences and old Gazettes, Oldman and Noble dropping back out into the corridor.

Angus introduces Murphy and myself to Bill Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads, to Donald Lincoln, Sir John Reed’s Number Two at the Inspectorate, and to Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Services, a man I’ve met a number of times before.

Leonard Curtis, the Thames Valley DCC, has been unable to make the trip and Sir John himself left for the Caribbean early this morning.

‘Crisis, what crisis?’ smiles Murphy as we’re ushered out the door, towards the gymnasium, towards the waiting pack.

The Pack -

Yesterday’s shock has turned to anger, outright anger.

They are baying for us, smelling wet blood and wanting it fresh.

Lots of it.

A suit from Community Affairs shepherds us through the double doors and into the fray, a sea of hate.

We wade down to the long plastic tables at the front, eight of us, Murphy waiting by the exit.

We take our seats; the pack sitting before us, photographers and TV crews standing over us, everyone jostling for an angle.

Outside the large gymnasium windows it’s almost dark, a black ocean, the sheets of glass reflecting back the bodies of the press, their lights, their cameras, their actions.

Angus taps his microphone.

I am staring up at the ropes dangling from the ceiling.

‘Gentlemen,’ begins Angus. ‘As you are aware, last night I attended an emergency meeting of the West Yorkshire Police Committee which was called in light of the confirmation of Laureen Bell as the thirteenth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.

‘I proposed a number of changes to the Investigation and the Police Committee have accepted them.’

‘Your resignation?’ shouts someone from the back.

Angus feigns deafness: ‘We have invited a number of senior detectives from across Britain and a leading Home Office scientist to assist us in our hunt for this maniac.

‘These men are Mr Leonard Curtis, the Deputy Chief Constable of Thames Valley, who unfortunately could not be with us today…’

‘Bit like the fucking Ripper, eh Ron?’

‘Mr William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads. Commander Donald Lincoln, the Deputy Chief Inspector of Constabulary. Mr Peter Hunter, an Assistant Chief Constable with Greater Manchester, and Dr Stephen Tippet from the Home Office Forensic Science Services.

‘These gentlemen represent the most experienced group of officers who could be mustered to assist our investigations. They will conduct a thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper. They will look critically at police action and advise their West Yorkshire colleagues as to appropriate strategies.

‘Furthermore I would like to announce some internal operational changes which the Police Committee have also approved.

‘As of today Peter Noble has been appointed Temporary Assistant Chief Constable and been taken off all other duties and given sole responsibility for the hunt for this man.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Oldman will remain as head of West Yorkshire CID with responsibility for every incident except the inquiry into these murders and attacks.

‘It is my sincere hope that, with the continued assistance and support of the public, these changes will bring about a speedy and successful end to these horrific crimes.

‘Thank you.’

The sea of hate swells -

A deafening, roaring wave:

‘Would the Chief Constable care to comment on allegations that valuable time was lost…’

‘Was Laureen not reported missing as early as ten-thirty?’

‘And comments from her flatmate that she called the police repeatedly to insist that a search be conducted…’

‘… comment on rumours that she bled to death while officers failed to respond to the repeated worries of her friends and flatmate?’

‘And that Miss Bell’s bloodstained handbag was discovered some time…’

‘That her bag was handed in and simply logged as lost property despite the bloodstains?’

‘… and would it not have been possible for roadblocks to have been set up?’

‘Have any suspects been arrested, any witnesses…’

Drowned, beached -

Oldman, a redhead resting in his left hand, glasses off, tears in his eyes.

Noble straining to pick questions from the torrent.

Angus, lips pursed, fingers in the dam.

The man from Community Affairs trying to keep afloat, sinking.

The rest of us, at sea -

Lost.

I look up at the ropes again, dangling -

Looking for a way out -

An exit -

An exit from:

‘… suggestions in some reports that the so-called Wearside Jack Tape, the Ripper Tape, that it is in fact a hoax?’

Silence.

Oldman eyes closed, Noble mouth open, Ronald Angus on his feet and shouting: ‘I would urge members of the public, all members of the public and the press to ignore suggestions that the recording is a hoax. I am 99% sure that the man on the tape, that the voice on the tape is genuine, 99% certain that this is the man we are looking for, that this is the Yorkshire Ripper.’

Looking up at the ropes, dangling -

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

A way out -

An exit.

‘Fuck.’

Doors slamming, jackets off, sandwiches flying, cans cracking.

‘Fucking cunts, the lot of them.’

In the back room, the Brass whipped.

‘A bloody shambles.’

The recriminations and the blame, looking for lambs, a scapegoat -

Community Affairs to the slaughter, Angus wielding the knife:

His turn for blood.

Oldman off to one side, staring into space:

The Scapegoat.

I leave Murphy by the silver foil and the sandwiches and walk over.

‘George,’ I say.

He looks up, taking off his glasses, thinner than I’ve ever seen him.

‘Can I sit down?’

He’s staring straight up at me, his eyes black and tiny holes.

‘George?’

‘Fuck off Hunter.’

There’s a hand at my elbow, Noble whisking me away.

‘We’ll meet in Millgarth at six,’ he’s telling me.

I’m nodding, staring back at Oldman, him back into space, black and tiny.

‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s had a shock that’s all,’ Noble is saying.

Nodding, staring into my own space -

White and huge -

Lost.

‘What was all that about?’ Murphy is shaking his head, reversing out of the car park.

Radio on:

‘Big changes were ordered today in the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper

‘He didn’t know,’ I say.

‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, announced that a brains trust of senior detectives from around the country and a leading forensic scientist are being drafted in to the hunt for the man who has now claimed

‘They don’t waste any bloody time, do they?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Angus also confirmed that Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable and Head of West Yorkshire CID, has been relieved of his command of the inquiry.’

We drive up the motorway, the Ml, listening in silence as the stories eventually change, as they move on to two and a half million unemployed, a job lost every two minutes, on to the H Blocks and the Eastern Bloc, to a local woman who cut her own throat with a pair of electric hedge clippers.

‘Jesus,’ mutters Murphy as we approach Leeds. ‘What a fucking place.’

Leeds -

Wakefield deserted and barren, Leeds twice that hell and more -

A collision of the worst of times, the worst of hells -

The Medieval, the Victorian, and the Concrete: The dark arches, black mists and broken windows of industrial decay, industrial murder, industrial hell -

Dead city abandoned to the crows, the rain, and the Ripper.

And today, this day:

Friday 12 December 1980 -

It looks no different than we remember, than we feared -

Dread spectre from a woken nightmare -

A past trapped in a future, here and now: Friday 12 December 1980 -

Screaming in the wind -

A bloody castle rising out of the bleeding rain, a tear in the landscape -

Leeds, the grim and concrete medieval:

Dead city -

The crows, the rain, and the Ripper -

The Ripper, King -

The King of Leeds.

In a cold and rotting cafй, in the shadow of an industrial estate, we drink cold and rotting tea to kill the time, lorry drivers eating the fish special, kids playing the slot machine.

It’s pitch black as we pull into the underground car park beneath Millgarth Police Station, Kirkgate Market closing up. Moments later and we’re running back up the ramp and into the rain, the lift not working, the market gutters overflowing with rotten vegetables and foul water, Murphy cursing Leeds and Yorkshire, their coppers and their killer.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please.’

The fat sergeant on the desk, his face and hands covered in boils, he sniffs up: ‘And you are?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter and Chief Superintendent Murphy from Manchester.’

He wipes his nose in his fingers: ‘Wait over there.’

‘We have an appointment,’ hisses John Murphy.

‘Fat lot of bloody good that’ll do you if he’s not in.’

I lead Murphy over to plastic chairs under bright strip lights, the smell of wet police dogs rank and strong.

‘Fuck him,’ mutters Murphy.

‘He’s not worth it, John.’

And we sit in silence, staring at the boot marks on the linoleum floor, picking off the dog hairs, waiting -

Waiting for it to start.

And sitting here, staring into the black marks, the dog hairs, I realise how long I’ve been waiting -

Waiting for it all to stop:

Five years -

Five years to come back and right the wrongs, to make it right, make it all worthwhile -

The five years of marriage and miscarriage, of wet pillows and bloody sheets, of doctors and priests, of the drugs and the tests, the broken promises and plates -

Five years of -

‘Manchester? You can go up.’

‘About fucking time,’ says Murphy.

The Sergeant looks back up from his desk: ‘Just Mr Hunter that is.’

I’ve got my palms up between Murphy and the desk: ‘You try and get hold of someone, see if you can sort out the hotel. I’ll talk to Noble about the offices. Yeah?’

He’s got his eyes on the Sergeant, the eyes and boils back on his desk.

‘John?’

‘Right, right, right.’

I say: ‘Then I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so. OK?’

He’s still got his eyes on the Sergeant, but he’s nodding: ‘More good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality.’

The Sergeant doesn’t look up.

‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble, sitting back down behind his desk.

‘No harm done,’ I say as I take a seat across from him.

‘Well that’s OK then,’ he smiles.

He’s older than me, but not by much -

Forty-five at the most; thick hair starting to turn grey, a moustache that gives him the look of a man still hard, still in the chase; and on a morning as he shaves he’s thinking of Burt Reynolds, fancying his chances, still in the hunt.

‘It’s not going to be much of a picnic for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Though I suppose you must be used to it by now.’

‘Sorry? Used to what?’ I say, staring at the photograph of two children on the windowsill behind the desk.

‘Not getting the red carpet.’

‘Don’t expect it.’

‘That’s lucky then,’ he laughs.

The door opens and Chief Constable Angus comes in: ‘Gentlemen.’

‘We were just getting started,’ says Noble, standing up.

‘Well I say we call it a night,’ laughs Angus. ‘After bloody day we’ve had, I say we extend some hospitality to Mr Hunter here and get him some dinner…’

‘I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet John Murphy in…’

‘Don’t worry about John,’ winks Angus. ‘Dickie Alderman and a couple of the lads are taking care of him. They’ve sorted you out rooms at the Griffin and they’ve gone for a pint or two. Or three.’

‘The Griffin?’

‘City centre. Be ideal.’

I pause, then say: ‘I had wanted to make a start right away.’

‘Course you had,’ smiles the Chief Constable. ‘And you will. But we can get just as much done over a steak and a couple of drinks as we can up here.’

They are both at the door, waiting.

‘I need to make a call to Manchester.’

Noble points at the phone on his desk: ‘Be my guest.’

The Draganora Hotel is a modern skyscraper near Leeds City Station, its third-floor restaurant dark and empty.

We take our seats in the window, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.

‘It’s one of them carvery deals,’ smiles Angus. ‘Help yourself to as much as you want and keep going back up until they have to carry you out.’

We order drinks and then head over to the long table at the back of the room, the food lying waiting for us under dim orange lights.

Noble and myself follow Angus along the line, piling on under-cooked meat and over-cooked vegetables until there’s no space left on our plates.

And as we eat we make small talk about the poor seasons Leeds and Man U. are having, the jailing of Lord Kagan, the murder of John Lennon; the three of us careful to avoid the obvious, careful to avoid the fact that we are the only diners in the restaurant of a four-star Leeds hotel a week before Christmas, careful to avoid the reason we are here and no-one else.

Noble goes back up for more.

‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ Angus is saying.

‘You weren’t a fan then?’ I ask.

‘To be honest with you Mr Hunter, I reckon they weren’t that popular over this way. Be different for you mind, coming from over there I suppose. But on this side, we pride ourselves on not following trends.’

‘Still talking about bloody Beatles, are you?’ says Noble, back with a plate for himself and another for his Boss.

‘I was just telling Mr Hunter here, how Yorkshire is always the last bastion of common sense. Like the bloody resistance, we are,’ laughs Angus.

‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ nods Noble, ploughing through his second-helpings.

I sip at my gin and watch the rain, wondering if Joan has gone to bed yet.

Angus is still piling it on his fork, still laughing: ‘You’re not on bloody hunger strike are you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’

‘Thought you might be off your grub in sympathy.’

‘What?’ I say, smiling but not following.

Angus looks up from his cold pink meat: ‘The Maze. You’re a Roman, aren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, no offence. Heard you were.’

‘No.’

‘Well anyway,’ he says, putting down his knife and fork and taking out an envelope from inside his jacket. ‘If you’re not eating you might as well have a butchers at this.’

I take the envelope and open it.

Inside is a memorandum from Angus to Sir John Reed, Philip Evans, and myself -

A memorandum outlining the terms of reference for my investigation into their investigation.

I look up.

Angus and Noble have stopped eating and are watching me.

‘Another drink?’ asks Noble.

I nod and go back to the memorandum -

The memorandum that in two sentences states that I have been invited by the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police to review inquiries made into the murders and attacks attributed to the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, that I am to recommend any necessary changes to operational procedures, and that I am to make those recommendations directly to Chief Constable Angus. During the course of my review, should any evidence arise to suggest that any persons involved in the Ripper inquiry are themselves guilty or suspected to be guilty of any offences or negligence, then that evidence is to be immediately forwarded to the Chief Constable and no further or independent action is to be taken on the part of the review.

‘I hope you don’t feel that there’s any attempt here to circumscribe or in any way limit the scope of your investigation,’ smiles Chief Constable Angus. ‘However, and Sir John and I are in complete agreement on this one, an open-ended investigation such as this, any open-ended investigation for that matter, well they can so easily develop into some kind of amorphous bloody mess that, in fact, serves only to obscure and hinder the initial investigation. Am I right?’

‘Absolutely,’ nods Noble.

I take a sip from my fresh gin, counting backwards from a hundred, and then say: ‘You do know why I was brought in?’

‘Yes,’ says Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.

‘That’s OK then.’ I smile.

Ronald Angus and Peter Noble both take big swallows from their glasses, then Angus glances at his watch and Noble before turning back to me and saying: ‘We’ve arranged for you to have an office right next door to the Ripper Room. That’ll give you easy access to the people and the papers you need.’

‘Thank you.’

Angus nods and then suddenly asks: ‘How’s your wife these days?’

‘Well, thank you,’ I say, lost again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to pry but I heard she hadn’t been so well, that’s all.’

‘She’s fine, thank you.’

Silence -

Just the restaurant dark and empty, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.

Silence, until -

Until Noble suggests: ‘Shall we go to the bar?’

‘The Casino?’ adds Angus.

‘To be honest with you both,’ I smile. ‘It’s been a long day and I’d rather just get to the hotel if that’s all right?’

‘You’re the guest,’ says Angus.

‘I’ll drop you off,’ offers Noble, standing and signalling for the bill.

We take our coats and go down the escalator and wait for the cars to be brought round, the night cold and damp, the conversation dead.

‘Thank you for the meal,’ I say, shaking Angus by the hand.

‘Good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality,’ winks Angus. ‘You sleep tight now Mr Hunter. Make sure them Yorkshire bugs don’t bite.’

The Griffin is an old hotel on Boar Lane.

I say goodnight to Peter Noble and dash for the door and the lobby.

Inside there seems to be some kind of renovation work underway, white sheets hanging from the walls, draped across the furniture.

It’s almost nine o’clock.

I’m the only person here.

I ring the bell and wait.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a receptionist, coming out of a back room.

‘Yes, I should have a reservation. My name is Hunter, Peter Hunter.’

He opens a book on the counter and goes down a list with his finger.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have anyone here by that name.’

‘Murphy? John Murphy?’

‘Ah, yes. Are you sharing with Mr Murphy?’

‘I hope not. I think maybe the reservation was made through a Superintendent Alderman from the Millgarth Police Station?’

He’s nodding: ‘Yes, yes.’

‘Has Mr Murphy checked in yet?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Would it be possible to book me into a separate room?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Please.’

‘Can you give me half an hour? We’re a bit short and some of the rooms are being redecorated.’

‘That’s fine. Can you lend me an umbrella?’

‘Bar’s open if you’re wanting a drink.’

‘I need a walk.’

He goes back into the office and returns with a black brolly.

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘You know where you’re going?’ he asks.

‘Yep,’ I say.

‘Course you do,’ he laughs. ‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’

Back into the rain, back into the night, through deserted city streets, under broken Christmas lights swinging in the wind, along Boar Lane, the shopping centres and the vacant offices dark and huge, black canyon walls looming, up Market Street, the queues of empty buses all lit up with no place or passengers to go, through the Kirkgate stalls, past the mountains of rubbish, the rats and birds feeding, back to Millgarth, back underground, and two minutes later I’ve reversed the car up and out of the garage and am away, following the signs out to Headingley.

Two nights on and everything dead now -

A Leeds & Bradford A to Z in one hand, I come to the place where Headingley Lane becomes Otley Road, to the Kentucky Fried Chicken, to where the bus stops, to Alma Road and Laureen Bell.

I back into a dark wide drive and turn the car around.

I drive back towards the Kentucky Fried Chicken and pull into the car park, positioning the car so I face the main road, then I go inside.

It’s stopped raining but I am still the only customer.

I order some pieces of chicken and chips, a cup of coffee, and wait under the white lights for over ten minutes while the Asian staff prepare the order, staring at another light reflected in another cup of black coffee.

I take the food back out to the car and sit in the night, the window down, picking at the pale and stringy meat, watching the street.

No-one.

Two nights ago it must have been different.

I drink down the cold coffee, wanting another, the food salty.

I get out of the car and walk across the road to the bus stop.

It’s 9:53, the Number 13 coming up Headingley Lane.

It doesn’t stop.

I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road.

There’s police tape and two dark cars waiting.

I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers sitting in the police cars.

At the end of the road is a school and I stop at the gates and stand and stare back down Alma Road -

Alma Road -

An ordinary street in an ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to another man’s daughter, to another man’s sister, another man’s fiancйe -

An ordinary street in an ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to Laureen Bell and shattered her skull and stabbed her fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye -

And then, in this ordinary street in this ordinary suburb, he stopped -

For now.

it not on your life transmission one found by a milkman at six on friday the sixth of june nineteen seventy five on the prince philip playing fields scott hall leeds with multiple stab wounds to abdomen chest and throat inflicted by a blade four inches in length three quarters of an inch in width one edge sharper than the other severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown inflicted by a hammer or an axe a white purse with mummy in biro on the front containing approximately five pounds in cash was also noted to be missing from the deceaseds handbag this is the world now containing approximately five pounds in cash all this and heaven too missing but e only have eyes for you in tight white flared trousers and a pink blouse and short blue bolero jacket at twenty to ten in the royal oak at ten in the regent at ten thirty in the Scotsman fourteen whiskies and a tray of curry and chips at one ten AM stopping motorists at the junction of sheepscar street south and roundhay road leeds attempting to obtain a lift it is known from an eyewitness that an articulated lorry with a dark coloured cab and a tarpaulin sheeted load stopped at the junction of roundhay road and sheepscar street south this is the world now her handbag strap looped around her left wrist six buttons on the grass five from her blouse and one from her blue bolero jacket her brassiere pushed up her trousers pulled down about her knees her panties in their normal position there was a positive semen reaction on the back of her trousers and panties her head had suffered two lacerations one of which had penetrated the thickness of her skull there was a stab wound in her neck and fourteen wounds in her chest and abdomen although the murder weapons have not been found and no mention of the head injuries or of the weapon should be disclosed to the press all information to the murder room this is the world now a good time dead on the grass her children waiting at the bus stop for two hours for mummy to come home from shebeens the regent the white swan the Scotsman the gaiety barbareilas room at the top friday night is crumpet night if you cannot pull tonight you will never pull buy the lady a barbarella legspreader this is the world e was driving through leeds at night e had been having a couple of pints and e saw this woman thumbing a lift and e stopped and asked her how far she was going and she said not far thanks for stopping and jumped in and e was in quite a good mood and then she said did e want business and e said what do you mean and she says bloody hell do e have to spell it out so we drove to the park in my green ford capri and before we started she said it cost a fiver and e was a bit surprised e was expecting it to be a bit romantic and e am not the type that can have intercourse in a split second e have to be aroused but all of a sudden she said e am off it is going to take all fucking day you are fucking useless you are and e felt myself seething with rage and e wanted to hit her and e said hang on do not go off like that and she said oh you can manage it now can you and she was taunting me e said can we do it on the grass and she stormed off up field and e took the hammer from my tool box and followed her and spread my coat on the wet grass and she sat down and unfastened her trousers and said come on get it over with and e said do not worry e will and e hit her with the hammer and she made a lot of noise and so e hit her again and then e took out knife from my pocket and e stabbed her fifteen times e think and her arm kept jerking up and down and so e kept at her until she was very dead and then e shot off home this is the world now containing approximately five pounds in

Chapter 3

There were people on the TV singing hymns -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -

And when I switched off the TV, when I pulled back the curtain, everything outside was white and without feature, except for the parked cars and the ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.

I’m awake, sweating and afraid -

The word shreds on my lips thinking, what face or no-face does he see?

I reach out for Joan but she’s not there -

I’m alone in cold hotel sheets, the radio on:

Dirty protests, hunger strikes, three London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman, Helen Smith…

I turn over and reach for my watch on the bedside table:

It’s 5:10 -

Saturday 13 December 1980.

It’s still dark and freezing outside, the rain gone -

Just the Ice Age.

I walk up the precinct beside the Bond Street Centre.

I buy a Yorkshire Post and go back to the Griffin.

I sit in the dining room, the first guest, and order breakfast.

The smell of paint, the synthesizer rendition of Hoist’s The Planets and the hiss of the speakers, the bad dreams -

I’ve a headache.

It gets worse:

I open the Yorkshire Post, read their reports of the Ripper, of yesterday’s press conference -

I read my name.

The porridge comes and goes and I’m staring at a cold mixed grill, the terrible colours running together, wishing I was back home with Joan.

‘Just what the doctor ordered, that,’ says John Murphy, sitting down.

‘Big night?’

‘Ah, you know; building bridges, that kind of thing. And yourself?’

‘Dinner with Angus and Noble.’

‘No George?’

‘No George.’

‘And?’

‘Not much; just defined the terms of our investigation for us.’

‘What?’

I hand him the letter: ‘Did you call the others?’

He nods, eyes on the piece of paper before him: ‘Meeting us here at half eight.’

‘Good.’

‘What is this bollocks?’ he says, finished reading.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to make some calls.’

Murphy’s breakfast arrives and he sets about it.

I order a fresh pot of tea.

‘How was Dickie Alderman?’

‘Friendly enough. You know him?’

‘Not really; just the face. Learn anything?’

‘Morale’s shocking. George going’s about the last straw for most of them. We’re not going to help.’

‘That why they put us here?’ I say, watching the workmen arrive.

Murphy smiles: ‘Yorkshire hospitality.’

‘Bastards, eh?’

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and dial Whitby:

‘Philip Evans speaking.’

‘This is Peter Hunter.’

‘Pete? How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Settled in?’

‘We’ve got an office and the hotel’s sorted.’

‘Saw the press conference. Looked rough?’

‘It was.’

‘How are they treating you?’

‘Not bad, but I am calling about Chief Constable Angus.’

‘I see.’

‘I was wondering if you’re aware of a letter he’s given me in which he’s basically outlined the terms of reference for our investigation?’

‘I see.’

‘Have you seen it?’

There’s a pause, then Evans says something I can’t catch -

I say: ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

‘Can you forward the letter to me? And I think it’d be wise if you did the same with any future correspondence pertinent to the Inquiry.’

‘No problem. Is Sir John aware of the letter?’

‘I couldn’t say. He’s on holiday until the New Year.’

‘Yes, someone said. Should I contact Donald Lincoln?’

‘No, I’ll do that.’

‘So I should just ignore the letter?’

‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort everything out.’

‘I’m a bit concerned that…’

‘Don’t be. Leave the politics to me and just concentrate on the investigation. Any hint of obstruction on Yorkshire’s part, pick up the phone and I’ll put a stop to it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Keep in touch, Pete.’

‘I will.’

‘And remember, it was never going to be a picnic’

‘Goodbye.’

I hang up and dial Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Peter Hunter.’

Hold.

‘I’m afraid the Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’

‘But I’m -’

The dial tone.

In the lobby of the Griffin, in between the white sheets and the splattered ladders, they’re waiting:

Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald.

Detective Inspector Mike Hillman.

Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.

‘Good morning.’

Nods and greetings, twitching and blinking.

I sit down next to John Murphy, the five of us round a low marble-topped table, a plastic bag keeping the paint off.

‘Sorry about this,’ I begin. ‘We have been promised an office in Millgarth, but it’s yet to be set up. I thought we might as well make a start here.’

‘Better than bloody Millgarth,’ laughs Mike Hillman, an eye to the dйcor.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’

They’re all leaning forward, notebooks out.

‘I’m going to give you each a year or two of the investigation and twenty-four hours to get to grips with the files. First thing tomorrow morning we’ll meet and start going over the files together. This way you’ll have detailed and specific knowledge of certain cases and a good overview of the investigation as a whole.

‘Each of the cases you’re assigned, you’re going to need to know inside out, to the finest detail, but -’

A pause, a beat:

‘You need to pay special attention to the following and list:

‘The names of all persons mentioned, be they witnesses, suspects, whatever, listed alphabetically.’

A low whistle from Alec McDonald.

‘It’ll be a long list, aye Alec,’ I say. ‘And I’m not finished; plus I want descriptions of all suspects, descriptions of all cars sighted or investigated, alphabetically by make, year, and colour. Finally the names of all policemen involved in the case, alphabetically.’

‘Policemen?’ repeats Hillman.

‘Yes. No matter how minor their role.’

Silence -

‘OK?’

Silence -

‘Mike 1974 and 75, including Clare Strachan.’

A nod.

‘Helen, 76.’ Another nod.

‘John, you got the short straw: 77.’

‘Liz McQueen?’

‘Amongst others.’

Alec McDonald sighs: ‘78 and 79?’

‘No, that’d give you five,’ I say. ‘Just 78. I’ll take 79 and this last one.’

Notebooks open, already writing.

Me: ‘OK, listen -’

Another pause, another beat, before I say: ‘His name, the Ripper’s name, it’s in those files. They’ve met him.’

Helen Marshall says quietly: ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked for the names of any person who has been arrested in connection with any crime involving prostitutes, again no matter how minor or insignificant. Because he’s known.’

‘George Oldman did say if he met the Ripper he’d know him instantly,’ says Mike Hillman.

I close my eyes, hands together -

‘Let me add that you’re to list everyone irrespective of blood type or accent. Especially accent.’

‘So we’re not looking for a Geordie then?’ grins Alec McDonald.

‘No.’

A last pause, then -

‘We’re looking for the Yorkshire Ripper.’

One final beat -

‘And we’re going to find him.’

Back upstairs, on the edge of the hotel bed, dialing Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter.’

Hold.

Murphy’s leaning against a cheap chipped dressing table, snow falling on the roof of Leeds City Station, the windows rattling with the trains and the traffic, the wind and the draughts.

‘You realise how many bloody names we’re going to get?’

I start to speak, but put my hand up, listening -

‘The Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’

I say: ‘You tell him it’s urgent.’

‘I’ve been told to hold all calls.’

It’s an emergency.’

‘But -’

‘I am Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter of the Greater Manchester Police Force and I’m ordering you to put me through.’

Hold.

‘Fucking hell,’ mutters Murphy.

I take a deep breath.

‘Peter Noble speaking.’

‘Peter? Peter Hunter here. Sorry to disturb your meeting.’

‘Yes?’

‘The office? Is it available? What’s happening?’

‘What?’

‘The Chief Constable said last night that an office on the same floor as the Murder Room would be made available for the use of me and my team, yeah?’

‘And you want it now? This minute?’

‘Please.’

Silence -

I look up from the grey carpet.

Murphy’s shaking his head.

Noble asks: ‘Where are you?’

‘The Griffin.’

‘It’s nine -’

‘Half past.’

‘Whatever. An office will be ready by one.’

‘That’s the earliest -’

‘The earliest.’

‘OK if we come over now and start getting copies of the files we need?’

Another silence -

Noble: ‘No-one’s explained the system then?’

‘What system?’

‘Well, we obviously can’t just let you take stuff willy-nilly.’

‘Of course -’

‘Not a bloody library.’

‘Of course not. We’re going to need to log -’

‘Actually, no. Well, yes; you’re going to have to log it, that’s right. But you’re also going to have to request the files first.’

‘OK. We’d like to request access to copy all the case files pertaining to the Ripper Investigation.’

‘Look -’

‘Everything.’

‘Look -’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Look, that’s not going to happen.’

‘What do you mean?’

Another silence, longer -

‘You better come over. I’ll call the Chief Constable.’

‘Fine.’

‘Ten o’clock?’

‘Ten it is.’

I hang up.

Murphy’s looking at the dirty snow, watching a train pull out of the station -

‘That’d be the Manchester train,’ he says. ‘Train home.’

Step inside -

Noble and I are sat in silence, waiting for Angus.

I’m facing the window and the snow, my back to the door, massaging my temple.

He’s just sat there, waiting, watching the door.

Angus is on his way from Wakefield and again I’m wondering why the Chief Constable’s office is over there and not here in Leeds, not here in his biggest city, not closer to his second largest, Bradford.

Then the door opens and here he is -

No knock -

Noble standing to change places, Angus sitting down in his seat, me in the same chair -

Angus: ‘Gentlemen?’

Noble’s gushing: ‘There’s a couple of things we need to get straight…’

Angus isn’t listening, just looking at me.

‘… an office next to the Murder Room,’ Noble’s saying.

Angus stands up: ‘Let’s have a look then.’

We follow him out of the door and up the corridor, up towards the Murder Room, the Ripper Room, the telephones ringing and the typewriters clattering, up to a small windowless room next door.

A couple of uniforms are carrying boxes and bin-bags out.

Those are for you to use,’ says Noble, pointing at two grey metal filing cabinets on the other side of a brown table.

‘Do you have the keys?’

Noble sighs: ‘I’ll be sure to get them for you.’

‘And for the office itself?’

He nods once.

‘So this is OK?’ asks Angus.

‘Phone lines?’

‘How many do you need?’

‘Two. Minimum.’

‘OK. Tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. Now what about the files themselves?’

‘What about them?’

‘The procedure? How do we get access to them?’

‘Just ask me,’ says the Chief Constable.

Noble’s closed the door, the three of us standing around the table, the bare bulb almost at eye-level.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’d like access to copy each of the files that pertain to the Ripper Inquiry.’

Angus smiles: ‘You know how much bloody stuff that is?’

‘No, but I imagine it’d be a lot.’

‘It is.’

‘But I still need access to it all.’

‘This is an ongoing active investigation. These files are constantly being updated and reviewed.’

‘I would hope so. But the fact remains that I need access to them.’

‘To a large extent, without a guide, they’ll be meaningless.’

‘Then if you can supply a guide that would be a great help. But obviously, without ready access to the files I can’t do the job I have been asked to do by Sir John and the Home Office.’

Angus’s face has changed, benign and kindly Uncle Ron gone: ‘Obviously. And I appreciate that but, Mr Hunter, for your part you must also appreciate that I can’t have these files just wandering off here and there.’

‘Obviously’

‘And the copying alone’ll be a huge undertaking.’

‘Then just grant us the access we need.’

Noble’s staring at Angus, Angus at me, me at him -

Eventually Angus says: ‘We’ll put you another desk in here, a couple more chairs. I’ll provide you with a guide, a liaison officer. Your people ask him to get them the files they need; he’ll provide, log and replace them as required.’

‘Thank you.’

He looks at his watch: ‘One o’clock?’

Noble and I nod.

‘One o’clock,’ repeats Angus and opens the door for me.

It’s eleven by the time I get back to the Griffin.

They’re sat there, waiting.

I lay it out.

They mutter, roll their eyes, and take an early lunch.

Upstairs, I dial Whitby:

Philip Evans is away for the rest of the day.

I lie down on the bed, my thoughts scrambled messages, a migraine headache sparring with the pains in my back, jarring with the radio:

Old science fiction and future histories, the news from nowhere, the screams from somewhere -

Hoping for something more, I close my eyes.

When I open my eyes it’s 12:30, the pain still here -

In my back, behind my eyes.

I get up, wash my face, and take the lift downstairs.

Outside it’s stopped snowing but the sky is almost black with heavy cloud and premature night.

I walk through the sludge and the mud to the Kirkgate Market and Millgarth, freezing.

The rest of them are waiting for me by the desk.

I lead the way upstairs.

Noble is waiting outside the Ripper Room, waiting to introduce us.

‘I believe you’ve actually met?’

Bob Craven has his hand out, half the Ripper Room crowding out into the corridor.

‘What were you back then, Bob?’ laughs Noble.

‘Just a plain old Sergeant,’ Craven smiles.

‘Well, times change; Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter meet Detective Superintendent Robert Craven.’

We shake hands, the grip cold and tight:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

The pub robbery that went wrong.

Four dead, two wounded policemen -

Sergeant Robert Craven, wounded hero cop battles for life etc, etc, etc.

‘You look a little better than the last time we met,’ I say.

He laughs: ‘You don’t.’

‘Bob’s going to be the liaison,’ says Noble.

I say nothing.

‘Your guide.’

Nothing, waiting for Noble to keep on justifying it:

‘Bob’s been involved from day one. He’s worked a lot of the cases, worked Vice, probably forgotten more than most of us’ll ever know.’

‘That would be a shame,’ I say.

Noble stops: ‘You know what I mean, Mr Hunter.’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it.’

‘The keys?’ I ask. ‘Did you get the keys?’

‘Bob’s got them,’ Noble says, walking off, leaving Craven dangling them from the end of his finger.

I ignore him and go to open the door -

It’s locked.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ smiles Craven. ‘Allow me.’

By three the tables are covered in piles of files, Craven going back and forth to the Ripper Room next door, my team scratching and scribbling away for dear life under the low blue clouds of cigarette smoke hanging by the bare bulb.

‘Telephone,’ says Craven, coming back with another stack of manila folders.

‘For me?’ I say.

‘Yeah, next door. Line 4.’

I get up.

‘It’s the wife,’ he winks as I get to the door.

I walk next door -

Next door into the Ripper Room -

Into the photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -

The charts and the boards, the chalk and the pen on every surface -

The mugs on the desks, the cigarettes in the ashtrays -

Everywhere:

Repetition, tedium -

Indexes, cross-index -

Files, cross-file -

References, cross-reference -

Everywhere:

Process -

Repetitious, tedious process -

Second after second -

Minute after minute -

Hour after hour -

Fifteen, sixteen hours a day -

Day in, day out -

Six, seven days a week -

Week in, week out -

Four weeks a month -

Month in, month out -

Twelve months a year -

Year in, year out -

Year after year, month after month, week after week, day after day, hour in, hour out, minute in, minute out, second in, second out, for -

Five years.

A fat man in a sports coat’s holding out the receiver -

‘Joan?’ I say, taking the phone.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ she says. ‘But the Chief Constable’s office just called.’

‘The Chief Constable’s office?’

‘About tonight? They wanted me to tell you that they’ve arranged for the tux to be sent round in about an hour.’

‘The tux? Tonight?’

‘Yes. I said I didn’t know when you’d be back so they wanted me to let you know.’

The Christmas Ball -

‘I’d forgotten.’

‘I thought you might have,’ she laughs. ‘Shall we cancel?’

‘No, we can’t. You’re sorted out?’

‘Yes. I’d completely forgotten too but…’

‘Well, it’ll be good. I’ll be back in a bit, stay the night, and come back first thing tomorrow.’

‘OK.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘I’ve got to go.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I put back the phone, conscious the whole of the room is watching me -

The photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -

The Ripper Room -

Him.

I drive back fast, over the Moors -

Fast over their cold, lost bones, the radio on loud:

Hunger Strikes & Dirty Protests -

Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.

Fast, over the Moors -

Over their cold, lost bones, the radio on:

Earthquakes & Hostages -

Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.

Over the Moors, radio gone -

Cold, lost bones:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

The pub robbery that went wrong.

Four dead, two wounded policemen -

Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas.

Driving, hating -

I hate Bob Craven and I don’t know why -

Don’t like the maybe why:

Hated him then, hate him now -

Hated him since the day I met him, stuffed full of tubes and drugs on a Pinderfields bed.

Hated him like it was only yesterday:

Friday 10 January 1975 -

In we came:

Me and Clarkie -

Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark.

Two weeks on and they’d still got roadblocks across the county, the stink of an English Civil War, me and Clarkie walking down that long, long corridor, armed guards on the bloody hospital doors, Craven and Douglas on their backs in their beds, the only survivors.

Me and Clarkie, we shook hands with Maurice Jobson -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend -

The Owl.

There were a lot of other faces about, that rat-faced journalist Whitehead from the Post for one.

They didn’t know me then, but they would.

Douglas was sedated and Craven ought to have been -

Lying there, head back, calling out from the depths, eyes twinkling up from those same depths, screaming:

‘Kill the cunt! Kill ‘em all!’

But that was as close as we ever got -

Jobson wouldn’t let us near him: ‘Man’s in no state. Took a butt to the head.’

And for all the promises we’d got coming, all the cups of tea up the Wood Street Nick, we never did get a good go at him.

Over the Moors, snow across their cold, lost bones -

Clarkie turned to me and said: ‘It stinks. Fuck knows why, but it does.’

And I stared out at the lanes of lorries, the black poles and the telephone wires, thinking -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

War:

My War -

‘Bloody Yorkshire,’ hissed Clarkie. Over the Moors -

Cold, lost bones:

It stank then and it stinks now, that same old smell -

Bloody Yorkshire.

The house, my affluent detached house and two-car garage is quiet, dark, one light on in an upstairs room, the curtains open.

I push open the bedroom door and there she is, in front of the mirror in her dressing gown, eyes red.

‘You OK?’

‘You startled me.’

‘Sorry. You been crying, love?’

‘No,’ she smiles. ‘Just soap.’

I walk over to her and kiss the top of her hair.

‘Didn’t expect you so soon,’ she says.

We’re looking at each other framed in the mirror, something missing.

‘I thought I’d put the tree up.’

‘We’ve left it a bit late, haven’t we? All the stuff’s up in the attic.’

‘I’ll get the steps from the garage. Have it up in no time.’

‘You’ll get filthy.’

‘Got time, don’t worry.’

‘Up to you.’

‘Got to make the effort.’

She’s nodding, staring back into the mirror, back into her own eyes -

‘Those lights are so old,’ she says.

The Christmas Ball, the Midland Hotel -

Saturday 13 December 1980.

Through the black city streets, the broken lights and the Christmas ones, down Palatine, Wilmslow, and the Oxford Roads, the official black car and driver taking us in towards the red and the gold, the money and the honey, the home of the loot, holding hands in our rented clothes on the back seat of a car that is not our own, through dominions of disease and depopulation, the black streets that would have you dead within the hour, taking us in towards a thousand hale and hearty Manchester folk, drunk in the seclusion of the Midland Hotel, the castle of loot, an abbey to the anointed and self-appointed City Fathers, with their city mothers, wives and daughters, their secret lovers, whores and sons.

Without no one -

Through the black city streets to the place where the red carpet meets the street at the doors to the Midland, these gates of iron in these strong and lofty walls with no hint of ingress or egress, where all that is outside can never be in and to hell with it, damn it, for here inside are the bright lights, the purples and the gold, the servants and the servings, the musicians and the music, the dancers and the dance, the Masked Christmas Ball.

Without nothing -

Through the beauty and the beautiful, the security and the secure, the fat and the fat, we are led to our seats, Joan’s arm tightening inside my own, our masks in place, through the high double doors into the dim velvet sea and the palatial splendour of the Dining Room, her Gothic windows of stained glass, the thrown shadows of her lamps and candles, her ornaments and tapestries ceiling to floor, all heavy with the weight of wealth, the stains of class and brass and the deep blood colour of Christmas reds, of Herod and his kids.

Within dreams -

‘Something wicked this way comes,’ smiles Clement Smith, the Chief Constable raising his mask with a wink as our wives fall into the comfort of compliments.

I sit down next to him, shaking hands with an MP, a councillor, a millionaire and all their present wives, local Masons and Rotarians the table of them -

‘How goes the war?’ laughs Clive Birkenshaw, the councillor drunk on a punch as crimson as his face.

‘The hunt more like,’ says Donald Lees of the Greater Manchester Police Authority.

‘What?’ I say.

‘You’ve been over in Yorkshire after their Ripper?’

I nod, the laughter and the music too much.

‘Most apt,’ Lees carries on, leaning across the corpse of his wife. ‘Hunter in Ripper Hunt, said the Manchester Evening News.’

‘Apt,’ comes the echo around the tablecloth.

‘Any luck?’

I look down at my hand, shaking my head, and I bring the whiskey up to my lips and let it fall down my throat.

Joan and Clement Smith have changed seats so the wives can chat.

I take another mouthful.

Clement Smith orders more.

I’m exhausted -

The cigars already out, the dance-floor filling, time flying -

And then suddenly across the room I think I see Ronald Angus and Peter Noble on another table by the door but, when I look again, it isn’t -

Can’t have been and Leeds is just a dream -

A terrible dream -

Like the Ripper, their Ripper.

I sit back in my chair, letting the Velvet Sea wash over me, playing her tricks with the horizon; the wail of violins, the hoarse voice of Clement Smith deep in debate, his wife and mine making their way through the waves, off to powder their noses.

Then I feel a hand on mine -

I look down at a man crouched beside my chair: ‘Pardon?’

‘I said we have a mutual friend.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Helen,’ he grins, a short thin man with brown stained teeth.

‘Helen who?’

But he just winks: ‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’

‘What?’

But he’s wading away, back into the velvet sea, waving, back into her dance.

I interrupt Clement Smith: ‘Who was that?’

‘Who?’

‘That man, the one who was just at the table? Talking to me?’

Smith’s laughing: ‘Wearing his mask was he?’

‘No, but I can’t place him.’

He sits up slightly in his seat: ‘I didn’t see him. Sorry. Where is he?’

‘Doesn’t matter, just wondered who he was.’ I pick up a glass and drink some more, lost -

‘Peter?’

I look up from the drink: ‘Richard. Merry Christmas.’

‘If only,’ he says.

The man is tall and gaunt, pale as a ghost, the black mask in his hand and a blood-red shirt only accentuating his grim pallor, mumbling.

‘What?’

He asks: ‘We talk?’

I stand up, nodding, leaving my cigar in the ashtray, and follow Richard Dawson through the tables and out into the Lobby -

Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties, a friend.

He’s shaking, sweating.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

He says: ‘Do you know Bob Douglas?’

Ghosts -

Again the ghosts of Christmases past:

Again the Strafford Shootings -

Again the wounded coppers:

Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas.

I nod: ‘Used to. Why?’

‘Well, I’ve been using him as a security advisor. Anyway, late last night he calls to tell me that he’s heard that I’m the subject of a bloody police investigation; then at lunchtime today my bank in Didsbury calls and says that a couple of detectives have taken away all their financial records pertaining to my accounts with them.’

‘What?’

‘I’m in bloody shock.’

‘You should’ve called straight away’

‘I didn’t want to. I’d seen you were over in Leeds and I don’t like to take advantage of the fact that we’re friends or anything.’

‘Richard! What are friends for?’

He smiles wanly.

‘Let’s sit down,’ I say, walking us over to a pair of crimson and gold lobby chairs.

‘Spoiling your evening,’ he mumbles again.

‘Rubbish. Start from the beginning.’

‘That’s a good question in itself. I didn’t know there was a beginning, didn’t know anything had started until last night.’

‘What about Bob Douglas? When did he come on the scene?’

‘End of October, start of November. I was worried about the house. He came out and had a look, tightened things up. I got to know him, like him.’

‘You know about -’

‘Yeah, yeah. Told me all about it. Why? What do you know about him?’

‘I went over there after the shootings, but he was sedated so I never actually spoke to him. By all accounts he was a good bloke. Good copper. When he left, he went kicking and screaming.’

‘That’s what he said. Ten years in the police, then out on his arse.’

I nod: ‘So after the house, what kind of stuff was he doing for you?’

‘Consulting. Insurance work. Nothing heavy.’

‘Until last night?’

‘Yes. Called about midnight. Said he’d been out and about, you know. And he’d heard from a so-called reliable source that I’d been targeted for investigation.’

‘A reliable source?’

‘A policeman. One of your lot.’

‘He say who?’

‘Said he couldn’t.’

‘He say why you were being investigated?’

He looks down at his hands, the carpet: ‘Financial irregularities. Supposedly’

‘What kind of financial irregularities?’

‘We don’t know. That’s all he heard.’

‘Did he get a name? Of the man in charge?’

‘Roger Hook.’

Fuck.

‘What about the bank? They give you anything more?’

‘No,’ he’s shaking his head. ‘Bloody humiliating though, I can tell you. Your bank manager, your golf partner and friend, calling you at home to tell you that the police have been in asking about you, taking away their records on you.’

‘I’m sorry, Richard.’

‘You know this Roger Hook?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘It doesn’t make any difference. You’ve nothing to hide.’

He looks up from the carpet, his hands: ‘Who knows what they’ll find.’

‘What?’ I say. ‘There’s nothing to find, is there?’

His eyes still aren’t meeting mine.

‘Richard,’ I say. ‘Tell me there’s nothing to find.’

‘Who knows?’

‘You do, for Chrissakes man.’

‘Look -’

‘Jesus, Richard.’

‘I need your help.’

I look him in the eye, hold him there, tell him: ‘There’s nothing I can do for you.’

‘Pete -’

I stand up, ready to walk.

‘There’s something else,’ he says.

I stop.

‘About you,’ he says.

‘Me? What about me?’

‘You asked me why, why I was being targeted?’

I nod.

‘Douglas said it’s down to you.’

‘What is? What are you talking about?’

‘This. I’ve been singled out because I’m friends with you.’

‘Rubbish. Utter rubbish.’

He has hold of my arm: ‘Peter -’

‘Douglas is wrong. You’re wrong.’

‘To put you in your place, that’s what they told him.’

I turn away, freeing myself from his grip.

Him: ‘What are you going to do?’

I turn back: ‘Nothing.’

‘You’re just going to leave me up to my neck in all this?’

‘There’s nothing I can do, Richard. You’re under investigation.’

‘Because of you, I am.’

I’m walking away again, deaf to him -

But he has the last word, across the lobby and through the Dining Room doors, spinning me round, hissing into my face: ‘What are friends for, eh Pete?’

Walking away, walking away through the velvet sea, Joan talking to Linda Dawson, his wife -

The pair of them turning, smiling.

Him: ‘What are friends for, eh?’

Me taking her by the arm, through the darkness and the decay, pulling her away, away from the music and the blood -

‘What are friends for?’

Within nightmares.

The house is black.

I put the car in the garage and go inside.

Joan’s sitting on the settee in the dark, her coat still on.

I switch on the Christmas tree lights and sit down beside her.

‘What is it? What happened with Richard?’ she says. ‘He’s under investigation. To do with his business.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘No. But he thinks it’s something to do with his friendship with me, with us.’

‘What?’

‘Someone told him that’s why he’s under investigation.’

‘Who told him that?’

‘An ex-copper. You don’t know him.’

‘And is it right? Is that why he’s under investigation?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘What am I going to say to Linda?’

‘I don’t know but, until all this is cleared up, we’re going to have to be careful.’

She is nodding.

‘I’m sorry, love.’

She keeps nodding.

I can’t think of anything else to say, anything to make any of it any better.

I lean forward and pick the Evening News off the coffee table.

It doesn’t help:

Laureen’s Mum in Ripper Plea.

Dirty Protests.

Under the newspaper are some forms and a pamphlet -

Application forms to adopt.

‘What are these?’ I ask, picking them up.

Joan tries to take them from me: ‘Not now, love,’ she says. ‘Talk about it another time.’

‘A Vietnamese baby?’ I say, looking down at the cover of the pamphlet.

‘Not now, Peter,’ she says again, taking the papers from me as she goes upstairs.

Later in bed, I hug her and we try to have sex but I can’t -

And after, I say: ‘I think it’s a good idea.’

She doesn’t say anything -

And after that we lie in the double bed, staring up at the ceiling, apart -

On the dark stair -

She turns away on her side and I get up and put the radio on.

I get back into bed and lie there -

Awake, sweating and afraid -

Eyes wide -

On the dark stair -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors -

There were people on the TV singing hymns -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -

And at my feet, they had her down on the floor at my feet, her hands behind her back, stripped and beaten, three of them raping her, sodomising her, taking their turns with a bottle and a chair, cutting her hair, pissing and shitting on her, making her suck them, making her suck me, ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

Joan’s holding me, my heart beating, breaking.

‘What on earth were you dreaming about?’

I can feel come in my pyjamas.

‘Nothing,’ I say, thinking -

No more sleep, no more sleep, no more sleep.

cash all this and heaven too missing the news from nowhere what e was once alive e still am dead a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it dark brown trousers and brown suede calf length boots found friday the twenty first of november nineteen seventy five one laceration to the back of her head caused by a hammer and extensive injuries to her head face body and legs caused by violent kicking and stamping on her left breast were bite marks which indicated a gap in the upper front teeth of the attacker there were no stab wounds in a deserted garage in preston in a row of six narrow garages each splattered with white graffiti the doors showing remnants of green paint they lie off church street the garages forming a passage to the multi storey car park at the other end number six has become a home of sorts for the homeless destitute alcoholics drug addicted prostitutes of the area small about twelve feet square and entered through either of the double doors at the front there are packing cases for tables piles of wood and other rubbish a fierce fire has been burning in a makeshift grate and the ashes disclose the remains of clothing on the wall opposite the door is written the fishermans widow in wet red paint in every other space are bottles sherry bottles bottles of spirits beer bottles bottles of chemicals all empty a mans pilot coat doubles as a curtain over the window the only one looking out on nothing and e saw the floor was wet with anguished tears the damned silent and weeping and walking at a litany pace the way processions push along in our world and without a word he handed her a five pound note and she unclipped her shiny black plastic handbag placed it on the floor of the garage and bending down she removed one of her boots lowered her trousers and stepped out of the legs and repeated the process with her panties she braced her back against the garage wall and she was ready a moment later he had entered her lifting her brassiere to play with her breasts he discovered a second brassiere he lifted it up and began to kiss and suck the left breast moving his mouth a few inches above the breast he bit deeply and climaxed turning her around he attempted to bugger her and again he had an orgasm he was still inside her body half leaning away from him when he smashed her on the back of the head and she fell forward onto the floor he zipped up his trousers and began to kick her on the face on the head on the breasts on the body on the legs he kicked her and went on kicking her he dragged her body a few yards further away from the door put her legs back into her trousers and pulled them up leaving the second brassiere above the breasts he pulled down the first one stuffed one boot tightly between her thighs he removed her overcoat and placed it over her body and over her face he picked up the shiny black plastic handbag left the garage and hid the handbag in a refuse tip four hundred yards from the garage the purse he tucked under a bush in avenham park he kept her three rings and lighter swabs from the vagina and anus indicated semen had been deposited by a secretor of the rare blood group B the blood group of the man at the hostel who had had sexual intercourse with the dead woman the previous day was discovered to be group A her shiny black plastic handbag and purse missing a diary thought to be in her bag could hold the clue to the womans killer and e am anxious about anyone who has been missing from preston since last thursday up to four now they say three but remember preston nineteen seventy five come my load up that one

Chapter 4

In the War Room I switch on the cassette recorder:

And when we die

And float away

Into the night

The Milky Way

You’ll hear me call

As we ascend

I’ll say your name

Then once again

Thank you for being a friend.

I put the thirteenth photograph on the wall, the smell of earth and damp in the twelve photos, in the map, in the files, the smell of earth and damp in the floor and in the walls, and I sit back down in the earth and damp, eyes closed.

No more sleep, no more dreams, no more blood on the sheets -

Just on the floor and on the walls -

On the walls, all over the walls.

I lock the shed door behind me and go back inside.

I wash, dress, and don’t wake her.

I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the radio playing:

Afghanistan, Poland, Iran, Northern Ireland, the world -

This whole empty forgotten world at war.

And the lies -

The murder and the lies, the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, of the voices and the numbers:

13% pay demand, 10,000 hunger strike march, 150 of 701 words, 20,000 steel jobs to go, Leeds 1, Forest 0, Kipper 13, Police 0, 13-nil, 13-nil, 13-nil, 13-nil…

In the car park at Manchester Police Headquarters there’s a car in my space, the reserved space that says:

Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable

There are a lot of empty spaces but I still park next to the other car.

There are two men sat in the car.

I don’t recognise either of the men, though the driver’s staring at me -

He smiles.

I get out of my car, lock it, and go inside.

I sign in and ask the Sergeant on the desk to go and have a word with the two men in the car outside.

I go upstairs to my office -

It’s locked.

I take out my keys and open it.

It’s just as I’d left it.

I sit down behind my desk and begin to make the necessary calls:

But no-one’s answering at Richard Dawson’s house -

Roger Hook is unavailable -

And the Chief Constable’s at chapel until twelve, half past at the latest.

I look at my watch:

It’s nine o’clock -

Sunday 14 December 1980.

The phone rings: ‘Yes?’

‘Sir. It’s the desk downstairs. That car, sir? It wasn’t there. But your space is free so would you like me to arrange to have your car moved?’

‘It’s OK. Thank you.’

I hang up.

The phone rings again:

‘Sir. It’s your wife.’

I press the button, the flashing orange button: ‘Joan?’

‘Peter?’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s the Dawsons, love. Linda’s been on the phone, hysterical. Their house was raided first thing…’

‘Raided?’

‘Police. Manchester Police. Turned the place upside down.’

‘When?’

‘This morning, five o’clock. Taken away all their papers, photos.’

Shit

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some calls.’

‘I’m sorry, after what you said last night, but Linda’s in pieces…’

‘It’s OK. Where’s Richard?’

‘He was at Linda’s parents I think, but…’

‘OK,’ I say again. ‘I’ll make some calls, try and find out what’s going on.’

‘What shall I tell her?’

‘Tell her not to worry, that I’m dealing with it.’

‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’d better go.’

‘Bye,’ she says.

‘Bye.’

I hang up and reach straight for the phone book -

I find Bob Douglas’s home number -

I dial -

It rings -

He answers -

I say: ‘Is Deirdre there?’

‘What?’

‘It’s Mike. Can I speak to Deirdre?’

‘You got the wrong number, mate,’ says Bob Douglas and hangs up.

I dial two numbers again:

No answer at the Dawsons -

None from Cook.

I go through my address book:

Mark Gilman at the Manchester Evening News is off -

Neil Hartley in Cheshire heard Cook was looking into some dodgy finances -

John Jeffreys heard something about heads rolling -

Big Heads, that’s all.

I pick up my coat and go back down to the car, parked in the wrong space.

Bob Douglas lives in a detached house in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport.

I walk up the drive and ring the doorbell.

Douglas opens the front door -

He’s put on weight and lost some hair and his clothes give him the look of a short and guilty man on his way to court.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he smiles.

‘We need to talk.’

‘I thought you might say that.’

‘You going to invite me in then?’

Bob Douglas holds open the door and sees me through to the lounge.

I sit down on a big settee, the smell of a roast in the house.

‘Drink?’

‘Cup of tea’d be nice.’

‘I’ll just be a minute then. Wife’s not in,’ he says and leaves me alone in his lounge with its unframed Degas print, the Christmas cards and tree, the photos of his wife and daughter.

He brings in the teas and hands me mine: ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thanks.’

He sits down in one of the matching chairs.

‘Nice looking lass,’ I say, nodding at a school portrait.

‘Aye. Keeps me young.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Be seven in February.’

‘You’re a lucky man.’

Bob Douglas smiles: ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘Go on then.’

I tell him: ‘I saw Richard Dawson last night.’

‘At the Midland Ball?’

‘Yes. Although he wasn’t exactly having one.’

‘Upset was he?’

‘Yeah, but I reckon he’s feeling even more upset right this minute.’

‘You heard then?’

‘His wife called mine first thing. He call you?’

‘No, but I reckoned it’d be this morning.’

I take a sip of my tea and wait to see if he’s going to say any more -

He takes a sip of his and says nothing.

I say: ‘What’s going on, Bob?’

‘What did he tell you?’

I put my tea down on one of his coasters, one of an etching of a famous golf course, and I say: ‘Sod what he told me. I’m asking you.’

He’s sat forward now, his hands on his knees, looking nervous.

‘Spit it out,’ I say.

‘All I know is Roger Hook, he’s heading up some operation into Richard Dawson. Been on the cards a while like, but someone…’

‘What kind of operation?’

‘He’s bent isn’t he? Everyone knows that.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? It was just going to be taxman, but then they heard Brass might be in for it, so Smith stuck Hooky on it. Dead hush-hush. Get it sorted out.’

‘They heard? Heard from who?’

The front door opens -

Child’s feet, a woman’s voice following -

The lounge door bursts open -

I stand up.

The girl freezes, thin and skinny as a tiny toy rake.

‘Hello, love,’ I say.

The girl looks at her Daddy -

Her Dad smiles: ‘Come say hello, Karen.’

But the girl goes back behind the chair.

Bob Douglas’s wife comes in, rain in her hair, and then stops dead.

Her husband says: ‘Sharon love, this is Peter Hunter. The Assistant Chief Constable.’

‘Yeah?’ she says, shaking my hand but looking at him.

‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Douglas as casually as he can.

I nod and smile.

His wife takes the girl by the hand, her face anxious. ‘Come on, Karen. Let’s get the dinner on,’ she says, closing the door on us.

I sit back down.

Douglas is white.

‘Who?’ I smile.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Fuck off,’ I hiss. ‘You do.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Another copper?’

He’s looking down at the carpet, the big flowers and birds, shaking his head: ‘I don’t know.’

‘But they’re saying it’s me. I’m dirty.’

He looks up and nods.

‘Saying this started because of me?’

‘Someone tipped them…’

‘Who tipped them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you’d tell me if you did, right Bob?’

He smiles -

I don’t -

I say: ‘OK, so who the fuck was it told you all this?’

‘Ronnie Allen,’ he whispers, glancing at the door.

‘There’s a fucking surprise.’

Douglas shrugs.

‘And you’re sure Ronnie didn’t give you any other names?’

‘I swear.’

‘He never said who told him?’

‘No.’

‘Never said who tipped them?’

‘No.’

‘Not the Ronnie Allen I know.’

Douglas shrugs again.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, according to Ronnie fucking Allen, how is it that I’m supposed to be dirty?’

He’s back looking down at the carpet. ‘Mr Douglas?’

‘No specifics,’ he says. ‘Just business.’

‘Just business?’

He doesn’t look up.

‘And this is just me and Dawson?’

He nods.

‘To put me in my place?’

‘That’s what Ronnie said.’

‘Why? Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who hates me that much, Bob?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’

‘You?’

He looks up: ‘Me? I don’t know you.’

‘Right. So don’t be talking about people you don’t know.’

He looks right at me, but says nothing.

I stand up. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Douglas.’

He’s still sitting in his chair.

I walk over to the lounge door and then I stop and I say: ‘And if I was you Mr Douglas, I’d be careful.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘You don’t want to be going about giving folk the impression you know more than you do.’

He stands up: ‘Is that a threat, Mr Hunter?’

‘Just a bit of advice, that’s all,’ I say and open the door.

His wife and daughter are in the hall, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her holding the tiny little lass tight around her waist.

No-one says anything.

I open the front door and step outside, turning to say goodbye -

But Douglas strides out into the hall and slams the front door.

I stand in their drive, the rain and their door in my face, everything bad, everything sad, everything dead -

Raised voices inside.

I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the place empty and deserted on a wet and bloody Sunday before Christmas, the lights out.

I turn into the car park at Headquarters and that car’s back, there in my space -

Two men inside.

I pull in next to it, get out and tap on the glass.

The driver winds down his window -

I tell him: ‘This space is reserved.’

‘Sorry,’ he says and winds the window back up -

I start to knock on the glass again, saying: ‘Can I ask you…’

But the car reverses and pulls away -

I take down the license plate:

PHD 666K .

Upstairs, I dial the Chief Constable -

He’s back home:

‘What the bloody hell happened to you last night,’ he’s saying. ‘One minute you were there, next minute…’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.’

‘Is this bloody work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

‘I won’t be here, I have to go back to Leeds.’

‘You’re at the office now?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Talk.’

‘Not on the phone, sir.’

A pause, then: ‘What’s this about?’

‘I think you know.’

He’s angry: ‘No I don’t or I wouldn’t ask you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s about Roger Hook’s investigation into Richard Dawson.’

Silence, then: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I hang up and look at my watch:

It’s gone noon, but already night outside.

At one-thirty Chief Constable Clement Smith telephones and asks me to step across the hall to his office.

I knock once and am told to come.

Clement Smith is behind his desk in a sports jacket, writing; Roger Hook across from him with his back to the door, waiting.

‘Afternoon,’ I say.

Roger turns and smiles: ‘Afternoon, Pete.’

I sit down in the chair next to him, facing Smith -

Smith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, continuing to write -

Roger Hook sat there, just waiting -

Until, after two minutes of this, Smith looks up and says: ‘Go on then.’

I swallow, angry: ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation that would seem to be involving me on a personal level,’

‘So go on.’

I glance at Detective Chief Inspector Hook and back to Smith: ‘Now?’

‘That’s why you dragged us all the way in, wasn’t it?’

I say: ‘I would prefer to have the conversation in private.’

‘Stuff what you’d prefer Pete; it’s Sunday bloody afternoon.’

Hook stands up.

‘Sit down,’ says Smith.

‘Sir, I don’t mind…’ says Hook.

Smith has his hand raised: ‘I mind.’

Hook stops and sits back down.

Smith is staring at me, eyes black and waiting -

‘OK,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Dawson, who I believe we all know?’

Smith and Hook nod.

‘Well last night, at the Midland Hotel, he tells me that yesterday morning police officers visited his bank and took away records relating to him. He said that a former Yorkshire police officer, Bob Douglas?’

Smith and Hook nod again.

‘He said that Douglas had told him that the reason for this investigation was because of his friendship with me. To put me in my place. Richard Dawson then asked me for help and I declined to assist him, as he was under investigation. This morning, however, I learnt that his house had been raided and, following a meeting I’ve just had with Bob Douglas, I would very much appreciate being told to what extent this investigation is concerned in any way with my friendship with Richard Dawson, or with me personally.’

I pause, then add: ‘I realise this is irregular and against procedure and I would like to stress that I’m not asking for, nor do I expect, any information about the investigation into Richard Dawson, other than whether or not it relates to me.’

Then I stop, waiting -

Smith sighs and turns his gaze to Hook, nodding -

Hook shrugs and says: ‘It doesn’t.’

Smith turns back to me, eyes black and twinkling.

‘That’s it?’ I say.

‘Dawson is under investigation,’ continues Hook. ‘But, for the moment, it doesn’t have anything to do with you or any other police officer.’

‘So why the secrecy?’

‘Well, that said, Richard Dawson is known socially by a number of senior police officers, as well as a number of other prominent local persons. So we’re treading carefully.’

‘As should you,’ says Clement Smith, those black eyes on me -

I sigh, sitting back in my chair.

Smith continues: ‘There could be a lot of fallout – especially if the press start jumping to the same bloody conclusions as one of my own Assistant Chief Constables.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thought of being stuck over in Yorkshire, hearing all these stories…’

‘Two days and cursed bloody place is making you paranoid.’

‘No more than usual,’ I smile.

‘Now you know how you make other folks feel then,’ laughs Hook.

‘Was that the point?’ I say, not smiling.

‘No,’ says Detective Chief Inspector Hook.

‘Then you better tell Ronnie to keep it shut – he’s the one been telling Douglas bollocks about secret squads and putting me in my place.’

‘Sorry,’ he says, fucked off. ‘He’s got a big mouth and talks bollocks.’

Smith’s staring at Hook now, the black eyes on him -

‘I’ll take care of it,’ says Hook.

Smith stands up and says: ‘Can I go home now?’

Back down in the car park and there’s a man standing by my car.

Familiar, he looks familiar -

Me: ‘Can I help you?’

He raises a hand and shakes his head, walking over to another car -

A white one.

‘Wrong motor,’ he says, smiling.

I get in my car -

The black one.

And then somewhere over the Moors, I remember it’s a Sunday and almost Christmas and I suddenly hate myself, wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing, what the fuck I thought I was going to do, the bad dreams not leaving, just staying bad, like the headaches and the backache, the murder and the lies, like the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers:

Thirteen.

5:00 p.m.

Sunday 14 December 1980:

Millgarth, Leeds.

Dark outside, darker in:

A ritual -

A sйance:

Round the table, hands and knees touching, between the cardboard boxes and the gorged files -

Mike Hillman is calling up the dead, passing out photographs, saying:

‘Theresa Campbell, murdered 26 June 1975. 26-year-old mother of three and convicted prostitute. Partially clothed, bloodstained body was discovered on Prince Philip Playing Fields, Scott Hall, by Eric Davies, a milkman.’

Peel -

‘Post-mortem revealed multiple stab wounds to abdomen, chest, and throat inflicted by a blade 4 inches in length, ѕ of an inch in width, one edge sharper than the other; severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown, possibly inflicted by an axe. A white purse with Mummy on the front, containing approximately Ј5 in cash, was also noted to be missing from the deceased’s handbag. Neither murder weapons or purse have ever been found.’

He stops to let the pictures speak -

They all look up from the six by fours, all but DS Marshall -

Are there tears in her eyes?

‘Those are the facts,’ he says, repeating: ‘The facts. The rest is hearsay; but here goes -

‘Campbell had spent the evening at the Room at the Top nightclub in Sheepscar. She was last seen attempting to stop motorists at the junction of Sheepscar Street South and Roundhay Road, Leeds at 1:00 a.m.

‘According to the witnesses you have listed before you, it is believed that an articulated lorry with a dark-coloured cab and a tarpaulin-sheeted load stopped at the junction of Roundhay Road and Sheepscar Street South alongside Campbell and it is believed she had a conversation with the driver.

‘This location is the main route from the Al Wetherby Roundabout to the Leeds Inner Ring Road which services HGVs travelling on the M62, either east or west.’

Hillman pauses; we all glance up, all but Marshall -

A tune in my head, a song from somewhere:

I only have eyes for you -

The dream still here, here in my mouth, hanging in the room, the taste in my mouth -

The taste of blood, the smell:

‘They call it the Box,’ says Hillman.

There’s a soft knock at the door and a young constable hands Bob Craven a note -

He glances at it, looks up at me, and passes it forward -

I open it:

Call Richard Dawson.

I put it in my pocket.

‘And that’s the last anyone saw of her till the milkman,’ Hillman’s saying.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘If there are no questions, let’s move onto the structure of the investigation. Mike?’

‘Fish and chip job as it was seen then, they still put Chief Superintendent Jobson on it, plus a couple of other names that’ll keep coming up: Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice, DIs as they were back in 75.’

There are nods.

‘Good team,’ I say, watching Craven -

His face blank but for a slight light in those dark eyes, a slight smile -

And then he suddenly says: ‘Best men we’ve got.’

‘Anyway,’ continues Hillman. ‘Those were the big guns and the same team used for Joan Richards and everything up to Marie Watts. After that Oldman and Noble take the reins and Jobson’s given the early bath.’

‘What about Alderman and Prentice? What happened to them?’ asks McDonald.

‘Still here. A complete list of every copper involved is in the copies I’ve given you, alphabetically by rank.’

I’m still watching Craven, knowing he was there -

Knowing his name is in there, here -

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mike. We’ll be going over the cases in more detail later as we see how they relate. OK?’

Silence -

‘Next?’

‘Richards or Strachan?’ asks Marshall.

‘Do it chronologically.’

‘Right,’ says Mike Hillman, nodding at Helen Marshall. ‘Me again:

‘OK. Whether you accept Strachan as a Ripper job or not,’ says Hillman. ‘She died like this:

‘A convicted prostitute and registered alcoholic, Clare Strachan was taken to some disused garages on Frenchwood Street, a well-known Preston red-light area. She had sex and was then hit on the head by a blunt instrument, kicked in the face, head, breasts, legs and body. Then the attacker jumped up and down on her chest, causing a rib to puncture a lung and kill her. She had bite marks on her breasts and had been penetrated by a variety of objects and twice sodomised, once post-mortem. She was found the next morning by a woman walking her dog.’

Silence, dark silence -

Mike coughs and then goes on: ‘Alf Hill was in charge, Frank Fields his number two, again top men on it. Initially, no link was established with Theresa Campbell. Following the murder of Joan Richards, two detectives went over to Preston and again no evidence was found to connect the killings. Right, Bob?’

Bob Craven nods, saying nothing.

‘You went over, right?’

‘Yeah.’

Mike Hillman shakes his head and smiles: ‘Thanks a lot, Bob. OK, the link with the Ripper was made following the letters received after the murder of Marie Watts in 1977. As you know, the letters made reference to the murder of Clare Strachan and tests conducted revealed that the killer of Strachan and Watts and the letter writer were all blood type…’

‘B,’ says Craven.

‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Mike. ‘Again all the names and dates have been listed on the sheet before you.’

‘Bob?’ John Murphy says turning to Craven.

‘Yeah?’

‘They send anyone over from Preston?’

‘What?’

‘You went over after you got Joan Richards, how about them? Had they sent anyone over after Clare Strachan?’

‘Frank Fields.’

Murphy nods: ‘And Frank didn’t make any link?’

‘No.’

I say: ‘Right, as Mike’s just said, this is the one that the letters and the tape specifically refer to, the letters and tape that have largely been included on the strength of this murder.’

‘And the blood group,’ adds Craven.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But let’s get this straight, initially, didn’t you and…’

‘John Rudkin.’

‘Right, didn’t you and Rudkin report that this murder shouldn’t be considered the work of the same man who killed Campbell and Richards?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘That was until we got the sample off Watts and the tests on the envelope.’

‘So, initially, why did you think otherwise?’

Craven smiles: ‘Feel like I’m in bloody court.’

‘Relax, Bob. You’re among friends,’ I say.

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah,’ says Murphy.

He’s still smiling: ‘Look, initially, the only real link between Campbell and Strachan, Richards and Strachan was that they were all slags. Strachan had been raped, had a milk bottle up her, had it up the arse, then been kicked to death. Indoors. Completely different.’

‘Until the letters and the tape?’

‘Until the letters and the tape.’

‘And then she was in,’ I say.

‘You better believe it.’

I ask him: ‘Do you want to add anything else?’

‘Two kids in Glasgow.’

‘Husband?’

‘Drowned at sea.’

‘Anything else?’

Craven smiling to himself: ‘Not about her, no.’

‘You want to talk us through Joan Richards?’

‘No.’

‘Go on. You were in on this one right from the get go, yeah?’

‘Just about.’

‘Please, it’d help us out a lot.’

‘Not treading on anyone’s toes, am I?’ he asks, looking at Helen Marshall -

There are tears in her eyes -

Fuck -

‘No,’ I say, trying to catch her eye -

The tears in her eyes.

Craven sighs, shrugs his shoulders and says almost automatically: ‘Joan Richards was found on February 6 1976 in an alleyway on the Manor Street Industrial Estate, off Roundhay Road, Leeds. She had severe head injuries caused by a hammer and a total of fifty-two stab wounds to the neck, chest, stomach, and back. Her bra had been pulled up over her tits and a piece of wood placed over her fanny. There were boot prints on her legs. Wellies. Farley, the pathologist, immediately linked it with Theresa Campbell. The Owl, Maurice – he was still in charge, Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice with him. Me and Rudkin were brought in after Farley linked it with Campbell. Sent us over to Preston, the rest you know.’

Marshall is staring at him -

Tears in her eyes.

I say: ‘Background?’

‘She was new to it. Husband knew what she was up to. Pimped her. Sometimes used his van, but not this time. There was a load of bollocks in papers that didn’t help. Stuff about the killer taking her van and shit like that.’

‘This when the Ripper stuff started?’ asks Hillman.

‘No, that was after Marie Watts,’

I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, wasn’t it?’

‘Probably.’

Silence, the room getting smaller, darker -

The cabinets taller.

A knock on the door -

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yes?’

‘Telephone. Emergency.’

I stand up.

Craven says: ‘Take it next door. It’s dead.’

I nod and push past them and out -

The Ripper Room, dead -

Just their photos staring down from their walls, dead.

‘Peter Hunter speaking?’

‘It’s Richard.’

‘What is it?’

‘What is it? What do you mean, what is it? You know what happened this morning? Five o’bloody clock this morning?’

‘Joan told me.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘And fucking what? They…’

‘Richard, I can’t do anything. My hands are tied.’

‘Your hands are tied? Fucking hell, Peter. Talk about…’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say and hang up.

I go back to the small room next door, heart pounding, angry -

No one speaking -

Going up to seven -

‘Sod it. Let’s call it a night,’ I say, the ghosts scattering, scuttling back -

They all stand up at once.

‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘Have a word?’

He nods and follows me back next door.

We sit down at a desk in the Ripper Room -

Their Ripper Room.

‘Something’s going down back home. Pick your brains?’

‘Course. Fire away’

‘Bob Douglas? Remember him?’

‘Craven’s mate from the Strafford, oh aye,’ laughs Murphy. ‘Moved over our way, didn’t he?’

‘Yep, Levenshulme. Heard anything of him recently?’

‘Into some kind of security work, I think.’

‘Well, you know Richard Dawson? He’s been using Douglas for this and that and now Dawson’s being investigated for some kind of financial irregularities or something. Anyway, Douglas told him that this investigation, it’s down to his friendship with me. That’s why he’s being investigated; to put me in my place.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘What I thought. But this morning I went to see Douglas.’

‘Yeah?’ says Murphy, quietly. ‘Was that wise?’

‘I just wanted to get it straightened out. Joan’s good friends with Linda Dawson, you know. And I need to be thinking about this here, not Bob bloody Douglas.’

‘And?’

‘Douglas said he’d got it from Ronnie Allen.’

‘Verbals himself.’

‘Yep.’

‘He’s a bloody knob, isn’t he? Ronnie?’

‘Gets worse. Hooky’s in charge.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yeah. And they raided Dawson’s house first thing this morning.’

‘Fuck, fuck.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You want me to put the feelers out?’

‘Well I spoke to both Hooky and Clement Smith and they reckon it’s nothing sinister. Finances. Said I’m paranoid.’

‘Peter Hunter paranoid?’ laughs Murphy, but his eyes are dead.

‘Reckon I am.’

‘But him knowing you? That’s not paranoia.’

‘But it’s not only me. Smith’s mates as well.’

‘I know him too. Might be next?’

I smile: ‘Lot of folk.’

‘See, don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That what the Chief said?’

‘You know Smith; he just said to keep my distance for now. But…’

‘But if I do happen to hear anything, or ask someone, then…’

I smile again: ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he nods.

‘About what?’ says Craven suddenly, there in the Ripper Room -

His room -

His Ripper.

‘Nothing to worry you about, Bob.’

‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then?’ smiles Murphy.

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘And I’ll bid you two gents a goodnight.’

‘Not having a swift one?’ says Craven. ‘Not tonight, Bob,’ I say, patting him on the shoulder as I go out.

He winks: ‘Got a date, have you?’

Headingley -

It’s been four nights now, everything still dead -

Forever dead.

I pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken car park, once again positioning the car so I face the main road, and then I go inside.

Again, I’m the only customer.

I order the same chicken and chips, the cup of coffee, and wait under the same white lights for another ten minutes while the same Asian staff prepare the order, staring at the light reflected in the coffee.

I take the food back out to the car and sit in another night, the window down, picking at the pale stringy meat again, watching the street -

No-one.

I drink down the cold coffee.

I get out of the car and walk across the road to the bus stop.

It’s 9:53, the Number 13 coming up Headingley Lane -

Like clockwork.

And again, it doesn’t stop.

I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road -

Alma Road, with its police tape and one dark car waiting.

Again I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers in the police car.

And at the end of the road, by the school, I stop at the gates again and stare back down Alma Road -

Again, Alma Road -

The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to another man’s daughter, to another man’s sister, to another man’s fiancйe -

The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to Laureen Bell, an ordinary girl, and shattered her skull and stabbed this ordinary girl fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye -

And in this ordinary street, in this ordinary suburb, in this ordinary world, I listen to the silence and the song it sings:

And when we die

And float away

Into the night

The Milky Way

You’ll hear me call

As we ascend

I’ll say your name

Then once again

Thank you for being a friend.

This ordinary world -

This whole, empty, forgotten, ordinary world at war.

dirty cow e know this face from somewhere e am sure transmission two the body of joan richards forty five years found in a derelict building of the industrial estate on manor street leeds seven at five past eight today friday the sixth of february nineteen seventy six it is known that the woman has recently been an active prostitute in the chapeltown area of leeds when found she was wearing blue green and red checked overcoat blue and white horizontal striped dress white sling back shoes fawn handbag black knickers brown tights it is known that between the times six ten PM and ten thirty PM thursday the fifth of february nineteen seventy six she was in possession of a white commer van with ladders on the roof motive appears to be hatred of prostitutes the man we are looking for is the type who could kill again assailant may be heavily bloodstained and is believed to be wearing heavy ribbed rubber boots or heavy Wellington boots registration number JRD six six six K vehicle has been found on a car park belonging to the gaiety hotel roundhay road leeds approximately half a mile from the scene of the crime and any sightings of the woman or the vehicle should be notified to this office the deceased suffered severe injuries to the skull consisting of lacerations and a number of small skull fractures believed caused by a hammer and fifty two stab wounds to the lower throat and neck upper chest lower abdomen and back possibly caused by an instrument similar to a philips screwdriver cross pattern type that bordered on the maniacal on one of her thighs the impression of a heavy ribbed rubber boot or Wellington boot was found though there had been no sexual interference to the vagina the brassiere was removed to a position above the breasts and dress and there are several indications that the person responsible for this crime may also have been responsible for the death of the prostitute theresa Campbell at leeds on sixth of june nineteen seventy five he is a sadistic killer and may well be a sexual pervert particular attention should be paid to persons coming into custody for the footwear described who may also have a vehicle containing tools of the type described and will perhaps be a workmans van a search of records for persons convicted of serious attacks upon prostitutes would be appreciated and here the tears we first wept in the black snow knot and cluster and fill the hollow parts around the eyes lord break these hard veils the pain that swells our hearts here in a place in hell called leeds e saw her outside the gaiety in that place and e picked her up and drove her to derelict land at the centre of this evil plain this the place in which we found ourselves parked away from the lights her overwhelming smell of cheap perfume making me feel nauseated and so e had to get her outside so e got her to hold a torch while e raised the bonnet of the car to examine the engine then e took a couple of steps back and aimed two blows at her head with the hammer then e took her into the shadows and pushed her sweater cardigan and brassiere up to expose her breasts and e stabbed her fifty two times in the breasts neck back and low abdomen with a cross ply philips screwdriver and e took a piece of wood and thrust it between her legs to show her as disgusting as she was in possession of a white commer van with ladders on the roof motive appears to be hatred of prostitutes the man we are looking for is type who could kill again assailant may be heavily bloodstained and wearing heavy ribbed rubber boots e drove to my mother in laws with a feeling of justification and satisfaction and next day it was my mothers birthday and e made sure e delivered her card the snowflakes are dancing on the radio a broken

Chapter 5

6:00 a.m. -

Monday 15 December 1980:

Millgarth Police Station, Leeds.

The room next to the Ripper -

The door open, the light on -

‘Helen?’ I say.

DS Marshall looks up from the file on the desk, a hand on her heart -

‘Peter.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

‘No, I was miles away’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Don’t know,’ she says, looking at her watch.

‘Couldn’t sleep?’

She nods.

‘Me too,’ I say, sitting down. ‘Who let you in?’

‘It wasn’t locked.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault, don’t worry.’

She sits back in her chair, pushing the file away.

‘What are you looking at?’ I ask.

‘Well I got lucky, yeah? 1976.’

‘A quiet one. Favouritism from the Boss.’

‘People will talk.’

I’m blushing: ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, they’ll say you’re sexist. Specially if you don’t even let me precis them.’

‘Me sexist? One murder, one attack; Joan Richards and that Chinese girl? I don’t think so.’

She’s smiling.

‘And,’ I say, ‘I’m sorry about last night. But Bob Craven was…’

She stops smiling: ‘You know she’s dead?’

‘Who?’

‘That Chinese girl.’

‘Sue Peng? No, when?’

‘77. Suicide.’

Ghosts, more ghosts -

Chinese ghosts.

‘What?’ Helen Marshall is staring straight through me.

‘Said I didn’t know that.’

‘As good as murdered.’

We sit in silence -

Helen rubbing her eyes, me with that taste in my mouth -

I ask: ‘Have you had any breakfast?’

‘No.’

‘Want some?’

In the canteen we set down our trays on a table, the morning papers abandoned by the last shift -

Headlines hurting:

Ј100,000 Ripper Reward.

Victim’s Mother in Ripper Plea.

Women Arm Against Ripper.

Ripper Telephone Threat Studied.

That playground taunt, haunting:

Ripper, Ripper -

Hunt, hunt,

Ripper, Ripper -

Cunt, cunt.

‘Well, well, well. What have we here?’ says Murphy, joining us.

‘Sorry, John.’

‘Just stand me up, why don’t you?’ he says, winking at Marshall: ‘Watch him, love. He’ll make you all these promises; breakfast at Millgarth, dinner at the Ritz. Then not a dickybird.’

Helen Marshall is looking down at her plate, not smiling.

‘Good night?’ I ask him.

‘A quiet one with your mate Sergeant Bob.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ he sighs.

‘As bad as it sounds?’

‘He’s an odd bloke, isn’t he?’

‘Don’t know. Last time I met him he was in Pinderfields Hospital, wires sticking out of him.’

‘Well they managed to rebuild him; just think they forgot a few bits.’

‘Like?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Just strikes me as odd.’

‘Learn anything?’

‘Well, he certainly isn’t modest, our Bob. Thinks he should have been put in command.’

‘So I take it he doesn’t think much to what’s been going on?’

‘Thinks they’ve wasted a lot of time. Thinks like us, they’ve probably had Ripper in and let him go.’

‘Any names?’

‘Not saying if he has; but he has his theories all right.’

‘Share them with you?’

‘No but I reckon he’s got his finger in a few pies, our Bob. Wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t on his way out; thinking of taking his theories with him, take them to the papers,’ he says, tapping the Yorkshire Post.

‘Spying?’

‘Oh aye. Course he is.’

‘Who for?’

‘That’s the question,’ says Murphy, quietly. ‘That’s the question.’

Helen Marshall looks up, nodding at the queue for the food -

Detective Superintendent Robert Craven is asking for extra sausage.

The three of us look at each other, eyes meeting, grins broad, laughing for a moment before we get up to go.

I stand at the door to the Ripper Room, catching the tail end of the morning briefing, the backs of a hundred heads before those walls, those walls with their alien landscapes of wastelands and buildings, tires and tools, of wounds -

The shallows and the hollows, the indentations -

The same shallows and hollows, the same indentations from the walls of my room -

My War Room.

Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Noble is telling the packed room: ‘So that’ll be press conference.’

There’s no cheer. ‘OK. Get to it.’

The room disperses, half of them pushing through the door past me, the others slumped back over their desks, back behind the piles and piles of paper that rise and tower from each one.

I wait until it’s clear and then go over to Noble, huddled with Alderman and Prentice and a couple of his other top men.

They all step back as they see me come, the conversation dead -

‘Morning gentlemen,’ I say.

Nods are all I get.

‘Can I have a word when you’re finished?’ I ask Noble. ‘I was coming next door anyway,’ he says. ‘Yeah?’ I say.

‘Yeah. Going up to Alma Road, if you want another look? Daylight?’

Another look? Daylight?

I let it go, face blank -

‘Thanks,’ I smile. ‘Appreciate it.’

‘Just room for you, mind.’

‘Fine.’

‘Meet you out front in ten minutes?’

‘Right.’

‘I don’t envy you,’ Noble is saying, as the driver pulls off the Ring Road and onto Woodhouse Lane.

‘I never imagined you did,’ I say.

We’re sat in the back, Dickie Alderman up front with the driver.

‘But,’ I add. ‘Can’t say I envy you much either.’

Noble laughs: ‘You wait. You will.’

‘How’s that?’ I smile, glancing at the concrete outside, the grey concrete stained black by the rain.

‘When I catch the bastard.’

‘Feeling lucky are you?’

‘Always. Give me a month.’

‘You should tell the papers,’ I laugh.

‘Piss off,’ he smiles.

The car slips into silence as Woodhouse Lane becomes Headingley.

As we come up to Alma Road, Noble suddenly asks: ‘How you getting on with Bob Craven?’

‘Fine,’ I say.

‘Why?’

‘Just asking,’ smiles Noble. ‘Just asking.’ That’s the question.

The car turns right onto Alma Road and pulls up in front of a parked Panda.

It’s raining heavily again.

We get out.

There’s tape around the shrubbery, the bushes.

We walk towards it.

Noble is stood next to me, squinting back down the road through the rain -

‘She got off the bus at nine-twenty,’ he’s saying -

Saying to himself: ‘Crossed the road and walked down here.’

He looks back to the other end of Alma Road -

‘Flat’s just up there,’ he says.

We stand in the rain before the bushes, Noble, Alderman, and me -

‘He come up behind her,’ says Alderman. ‘Hit her on the head and took her behind the bushes.’

No one says anything.

Alderman’s words just hanging there until -

Until Noble turns and we follow him back to the car, the driver stood under a black umbrella smoking.

Inside the car, I say: ‘Been fifteen months, yeah? Since the last one?’

Noble nods, Alderman turning around in the front seat.

I continue: ‘Makes you wonder what he’s been doing?’

‘We’re already running prison checks,’ says Alderman.

‘He’s not done time,’ I say.

Noble looks away from the window: ‘What makes you so certain?’

‘You’d have had him if he had.’

Alderman says: ‘What about the Services? Ireland?’

‘Maybe, but I doubt it.’

Noble agrees: ‘Someone would have said something.’

‘What then?’ asks Alderman.

‘You got a hobby?’ I ask him.

‘What?’

‘What’s your hobby?’ I say again.

‘Shooting. Hunting. Why?’

‘Where do you go?’

‘All over.’

‘Where?’

‘Eccup, that way’

‘How often do you go?’

‘Not as often as I’d like.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Work.’

‘Work?’

‘Aye, work. Because of bleeding Ripper for a start. Why?’

‘But before, before all this, you got out fairly regular?’

‘Yeah, except when kids were right young, yeah.’

‘How about before kids were born?’

‘Oh aye. Every day off I had.’

I nod: ‘That’s my point.’

‘What? What’s your point?’

I say: ‘He’s the same.’

‘Who?’

‘The Ripper.’

Alderman’s grinning: ‘What? He’s into shooting and all?’

Noble’s shaking his head: ‘He means he’s got the same bollocks in his life we all have. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

I nod: ‘When we get him, you’ll see the same patterns we all have, same pressures, rhythms: work, the wife, kids, holidays.’

Alderman: ‘You reckon Ripper’s married with kids? Fuck off.’

‘He’s married, I bet you.’

‘How much?’

‘Whatever you can afford.’

‘That the Ripper’s married with kids?’

‘Married,’ I say. ‘No kids.’

‘A hundred quid says you’re wrong,’ says Alderman, hand out.

We shake on it: ‘Hundred quid it is.’

Noble interrupts: ‘Why you so sure?’

‘You’re the bloke that got Raymond Morris,’ I say. ‘It’ll be the same, Pete.’

Stafford, 1965-67.

Noble looks away, the rain in sheets down the car windows.

‘What do you mean?’ says Dickie Alderman.

Noble, watching the water come down, whispers: ‘Raymond Morris had alibis from his wife.’

Three little girls, raped, suffocated, dumped.

His window has misted over, the car stuffed.

Alderman is shaking his head: ‘No-one would cover for this cunt.’

‘She doesn’t think she is doing; doesn’t see him for what he is,’ I say, then: ‘But neither do we.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘No, half that Ripper Room are looking for a hunchbacked Geordie with hairy bloodstained hands, flesh between his teeth and a hammer in his pocket.’

Noble, a face full of fear and sneer: ‘Yeah? So who should we be looking for, Pete?’

I tell him what he already knows – knows in his heart, knows in his head: ‘He’s mobile, has his own vehicle. It must have come up numerous times in the sweeps, so he has to have a reason to be where he shouldn’t be – taxi driver, lorry driver, sales rep…’

Noble: ‘Copper?’

‘Copper…’

‘Fuck off,’ snorts Alderman.

I shrug: ‘He’ll have a good local knowledge as a result of his work and because he’s from round here – lives and works round here.’

Alderman: ‘You can’t say that? If he’s a lorry driver, he could be living any-bloody-where?’

‘No,’ I say quietly, shaking my head and wiping the side-window clean. ‘He’s from round here because he hates it, hates it enough to kill it – so he has to have been around here long enough to hate it, to want to kill it.’

Noble: ‘Go on.’

‘He’ll have a record, however minor.’

Alderman: ‘Why?’

‘Because when he was younger, he couldn’t control the hate like he can now. He’ll have made mistakes…’

‘We’d know,’ says Alderman.

‘Not if you’re not looking.’

‘We’re fucking looking,’ spits Alderman, almost over the seat and at me.

Me, hands up: ‘But for what? An unmarried hunchbacked Geordie with hairy bloodstained hands, flesh between his teeth and a hammer in his pocket?’

‘Fuck off, Pete,’ says Noble.

‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You should go back over every statement where the bloke’s been covered by his wife.’

‘Fuck off,’ says Alderman.

‘Start with your top ten.’

‘Impossible,’ says Noble.

‘You’ve had him, you know you have.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘But somehow you’ve let him go.’

Silence -

Just the rain on the roof.

Noble leans forward and taps on the driver’s window -

The driver opens the door, shakes the rain from his umbrella and gets in, the smell of cigarettes and damp with him.

‘Millgarth,’ says Noble.

As the car pulls into the underground car park, I turn to Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble and ask: ‘How did you catch Morris?’

‘Luck,’ he says. ‘Bloody luck.’

‘Bollocks, Pete,’ I say. ‘Bollocks.’

Alderman looks around in the front seat again, but Noble’s gone.

Back in our room, the one next to theirs, next to his, I close the door behind me.

They’re all there, plus Bob Craven, looking up from their work, waiting, expectant:

‘I should have said this before, but when you’re taking down all these names, can you denote the married ones.’

John Murphy smiles: ‘We have been.’

‘Thank you,’ I smile back, nodding: ‘Then let’s move on.’

Another Millgarth afternoon -

Dark outside, darker still in:

Another sйance -

Same ritual -

Round the table, hands and knees touching, more calls to the dead -

John Murphy this time, sheet-white with black-rings, calling them:

‘What a fucking year it was, 1977:

‘First up, Marie Watts, formerly Owens, thirty-two years of age, found dead Sunday 29 May on Soldiers Field, Roundhay; extensive head injuries, stab wounds to the abdomen, and a cut throat. Watts was a known prostitute and the connection with Campbell and Richards was obvious, leading to the formation of what was then known as the Prostitute Murder Squad. This was headed up by ACC Oldman, with Pete Noble the effective day-to-day gaffer.’

Murphy pauses, looking at Bob Craven, then continues:

‘As Bob said yesterday, it was the Watts murder where the press coined the Yorkshire Ripper moniker. Also when the first letter arrived. Plus the B type blood grouping taken from semen stains off Watts’ coat – it was them stains that linked in Clare Strachan in Preston and the letters, using saliva tests and the content of the letters and later the tape.’

Long pause, a deep, deep sigh, then:

‘The names, the numbers, the descriptions, the whole bloody lot, it’s all there and, to be honest if it hadn’t have been for what came next, who knows if we’d be sitting here today’

Here she comes, here she comes, here she comes again:

‘Skipping over, for now, the Linda Clark attack in Bradford, one week on from Marie Watts and the body of sixteen-year-old Rachel Johnson was found in the Reginald Street adventure playground on the morning of Wednesday 8 June, morning after the Jubilee. She had suffered appalling head injuries, though had probably died some time after the initial attack had taken place. She was not a prostitute, a ‘good-time girl’, or anything other than a sixteen-year-old Leeds shop assistant on her way home from a first bloody date.’

We’re all looking at the floor or the walls or the ceiling, our nails or our pens or our papers, anywhere other than Murphy and his files and photographs of her.

‘I’m sure,’ he says. ‘Like me, you remember her.’

All of you, I’m thinking -

I remember all of you.

‘Break,’ I say and stand up and walk out of the room, into the light of the corridor, through the phones and the typewriters, into the toilets and into a cubicle and throw up.

I am walking down the stairs, heading for a paper and some air, when there’s a hand at my elbow -

Bob Craven: ‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to ask you something?’

‘Go on.’

‘That business about noting down the married blokes, you’re saying you think he’s married?’

I look at Detective Superintendent Craven, the black beard and tick, the eyes to match -

I say: ‘You got time for a coffee, Bob?’

‘Have you?’

‘A quick one,’ I nod and we walk back upstairs to the canteen.

I bring over the coffees and sit down across the plastic table from him -

‘You take all this very seriously,’ I say.

‘Is there any other way?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; what I mean is, you’re in deep.’

‘That a crime?’

‘No.’

He stops stirring his coffee and looks up: ‘I’ll be honest with you, it eats me up; same for a lot of the lads.’

‘Been a long time?’

‘Too long.’

‘You got any theories?’

He smiles: ‘Oh aye.’

‘Going to share them?’

‘With you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s not why you’re here, is it Mr Hunter? Not really?’

‘What do you mean?’

The beard and eyes shining under the canteen lights: ‘It’s not just about Ripper, is it? It’s about seeing how many of us you can take down with him.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘It’s in your nature.’

I push the cup away and stand up: ‘I am here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to catch the Yorkshire Ripper.’

He’s staring up at me, almost smiling, smirking.

I should walk away, should leave him to it, but I don’t, I stay and I say: ‘There is a paranoia in this force, a paranoia that makes it dumb as well as blind.’

He’s smiling, laughing now, a white slash of teeth in the black beard.

I can’t walk away, can’t stop myself: “Unless that is, you have all got something to bloody hide.’

‘Like what?’ he’s staring up at me: ‘Like what?’

‘Fuck knows. Your stupidity?’ I say and regret it and know I always will.

‘Mr Hunter, I’ll tell you this: we’re going to catch our Ripper, not you.’

‘Then you’d better get a fucking move on,’ I say and turn and walk away.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide -

‘Janice Ryan,’ says Murphy, and then stops, dead -

We all look up, the room cold and dark -

No way to kill this pain inside -

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he says, eyes fixed on Bob Craven coming in late, sitting down next to me.

No escape from your heart -

‘Bradford prostitute, moved to Leeds, but wound up dead under a sofa on waste ground off White Abbey, back in Bradford. Time of death has never been conclusively proven, but must have occurred sometime in the seven days preceding the discovery of the body on Sunday 12 June, 1977.’

No escape from your lips -

‘Furthermore, following the initial discovery, Ryan was not immediately connected to the Ripper. Reasons for this would appear to have been two-fold: scene of crime being Bradford not Leeds, despite the inclusion of Clare Strachan in Preston only the week previously’

No escape from you baby, from your fingertips -

‘The second reason was the type of injuries; so while Ryan suffered head injuries, she had actually died from internal abdominal injuries caused by someone jumping up and down on her, which again linked her only to Strachan.’

No escape from you darling, all night and day -

‘Ryan got herself included thanks to the letter that arrived at the Telegraph & Argus on Monday 13 June, a letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and stating that there was a surprise in Bradford.’

No escape from you baby, no place to stay -

John Murphy looks up: ‘So, to my mind, that means one of two things: either it was the Ripper or it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t, then neither was Clare Strachan. And that would mean one thing and one thing only: we’d have got ourselves two Jacks, not one.’

No escape, no escape at all.

At ten-thirty we’re sitting in their over-lit canteen, spread over two tables and six plates of uneaten food, the brightness boring into tired eyes.

There is little talk, DCI McDonald and DS Marshall still poring over their notebooks, the rest of us ordering, indexing and referencing; rationalising the things we’ve read.

‘We should call it a night,’ I say.

There are nods and yawns, Hillman stretching, some talk of a nightcap.

I walk downstairs with Murphy, neither of us saying much.

At the desk, I say: ‘I’m going to walk.’

‘Not fancy a quick one?’

‘Not tonight, John. Thanks.’

‘See you at breakfast then?’ he smiles.

‘If I don’t get a better offer,’ I laugh and say goodnight.

Outside it’s raining and black, the streets empty.

And as I wait to cross at the traffic lights, I watch the cars, the white faces behind the wheels, wondering, making deals, idle threats -

Beneath the Christmas lights on Boar Lane, I walk without direction, suddenly overwhelmed by immense regret and pain, the terrible and familiar sensation of more to come and the impotence that goes with it.

At the door to the Griffin, I have tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, terrible, cold tears.

I take my key from the desk and am walking across the lobby when he rises from his seat -

‘Mr Hunter?’ asks a tall emaciated man with long thin grey hair and features.

I nod.

‘My name is Martin Laws and I’d like to talk with you if you could spare me five minutes?’

The man is wearing black, carrying a hat and a bag -

‘Are you a priest, Mr Laws?’ I ask him.

‘Yes,’ he nods.

‘OK,’ I say, glancing at my watch and pointing at the nearest pair of high-backed lobby seats.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

We sit down opposite each other, him with his hat between his fingers.

‘What can I do for you, Father?’

‘I’m actually here on behalf of Elizabeth Hall.’

‘Yes?’ I say, looking at the black bag at his feet.

‘Eric Hall’s wife? Libby Hall?’

I nod.

‘Mrs Hall saw you on the news, at the press conference. She’s very anxious to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘The murder of her husband.’

I sit back in the chair: ‘Father, with all due respect, I think that falls somewhat outside the perimeters of this present investigation. If Mrs Hall has information about her husband’s death, I’m sure the -’

Mr Laws has his hand raised -

I stop talking.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he says softly, handing me an envelope from his pocket. ‘From what Libby has confided to me, the murder of her husband falls very much inside the perimeters of your investigation.’

I look at the envelope in my hands, reluctant.

‘Please?’ says Laws. ‘I…’

‘Mr Hunter -’

I open the envelope, take out the letter, and read:

Dear Mr Hunter,

I was heartened to learn that you have been asked to assist in the Ripper Inquiry. I have information that you will find very useful, information concerning the murder of my husband Detective Inspector Eric Hall and his involvement with the so-called Yorkshire Ripper. It is my belief that he was killed because of his acquaintance with Janice Ryan, the sixth victim, and his knowledge of a police cover-up.

I can prove this.

Yours Sincerely,

Elizabeth Hall

I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope -

No escape, no escape at all -

‘How is she?’ I ask Laws.

‘Not well, but she is very determined to see you.’

‘I can send round one of my team?’

‘She is insistent on speaking to you. Only you.’

Bloody hell -

‘Tomorrow morning?’

Mr Laws nods but says: ‘Now? She’s outside in my car.’

Fuck -

‘It would mean a lot,’ he adds.

I sigh and stand up: ‘OK. Let’s go.’

I follow Martin Laws out of the Griffin and back into the night and the rain, follow him round the back of the hotel, past the Scarborough Public House, down the dark arches and under the railway tracks until we come to an old green Viva parked in the gloom.

Mr Laws taps gently on the passenger window and a frightened white face suddenly springs from the black to the glass -

I jump back, my heart racing.

He unlocks the door.

‘You can talk inside,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait over here till you’re done.’

He opens the door for me and I lean down inside, swallowing my heart -

‘Mrs Hall?’

The woman nods, her teeth biting into her lower lip, a hand pulling at the skin of her neck.

I push forward the front seat and get in beside her, shutting the door.

‘Lock the door please,’ she whispers.

I press it down and wait -

She sits here in the dark of the back seat beside me, underneath the arches, rubbing her hands round her neck and up and down her shins -

‘They don’t believe me,’ she says. ‘I know that. You won’t either.’

‘I -’

‘No, they’ll tell you what they did to me. You probably already know. They’ll say that’s why she’s like that, says the things she does. Then they’ll pause and shake their heads and say she’d have been better off dead, the things they did.’

I’m staring ahead, staring between the backs of the front seats.

‘Do you know what they did to me?’

‘I know a bit -’

‘Well, I’ll tell you shall I? Get it out of the way.’

‘There’s really no need, Mrs Hall.’

‘But you see there’s every need, Mr Hunter.’

She turns to face me in the dark, a hand on my arm:

‘It was Sunday 19 June 1977. I’d been to church, evensong. I came home, opened the door, and they grabbed me, dragged me by my hair into the dining room and Eric, sitting there in front of the TV with his throat cut. Then they tied my hands behind my back and left me on the floor at his feet, in his blood, while they went into the kitchen, making sandwiches from our fridge, drinking his beer and my wine, until they came back and decided to have their fun with me, there on the floor in front of Eric. They stripped me and beat me and put it in me, in my vagina, in my bottom, in my mouth, their peruses, bottles, chair legs, anything. They urinated in my face, cut chunks of my hair off, forced me to suck them, lick them, kiss them, drink their urine, eat their excrement. Then they took me to the bathroom and tried to drown me, leaving me unconscious on the floor for my son to find.’

Silence, darkest silence -

‘A robbery, revenge; that’s what they said it was, the police.’

She looks at me and I nod: ‘The same gang who’d been responsible for a number of post office robberies and murders, that’s what I heard.’

She’s smiling: ‘The Nigger Gang?’

‘They weren’t black?’

‘Oh, they were black all right, Mr Hunter. As the ace of spades.’

‘Well, I -’

‘You don’t see my point, do you?’

I turn to face her again: ‘It’s not that, Mrs Hall. Not that at all. I just want to say I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem enough. But I am; I’m really sorry this happened to you.’

She swallows and takes my hand in hers: ‘Mr Hunter, before he was murdered, Eric was suspended. He kept talking about you, how you were going to be coming over, that he’d done some bad things and you’d find out and he’d be finished.’

I’ve got my eyes closed, wanting her to stop.

‘And then you never came and he ended up dead and I -’

Summer Seventy Seven -

A10 on a roll:

The Porn Squad, the Dirty Squad -

Drury, Moody & Virago:

‘The architects of this conspiracy of corruption; monumentally evil men who lived among the sewerage of society.’

West Yorkshire next, Bradford Vice, then someone called the dogs off -

Eric Hall dead.

‘He hated you, Mr Hunter. They all do. But they hate you because they know you find things out, find them out, that you’re a good man. Even Eric, he called you Saint -’

‘Saint?’

‘Saint Cunt.’

I smile, but then it’s gone and I’m back there:

Summer Seventy Seven -

The last miscarriage.

Baby dead.

I look up -

She says: ‘So I think you can help me.’

‘How?’

‘Eric knew Janice Ryan. Knew her very well. When she turned up under that sofa, he was a suspect and so was another policeman: a Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth. You remember him?’

‘Killed himself on the Moors?’

‘Yes he did; two days before Eric was murdered. Did you know he’d been involved in the Ripper Hunt?’

‘No but, to be honest, today was only our third day.’

‘Well, Eric was sure this Sergeant Fraser had killed Ryan. She was pregnant with his child and, as I say, they had him in -’

‘Who?’

‘This man Fraser. They had him in for it, but then another letter came, supposed to be from Ripper, and that was that. He was out, scot-free, and she was Number 6.’

‘And you don’t believe she was killed by the Ripper?’

‘No.’

‘You think Fraser killed her?’

‘Or someone else.’

‘Someone else?’

‘Well, Eric didn’t keep his mouth shut did he? He said it was Fraser, especially after the bloke topped himself. That Saturday, the day before, he kept on and on about it. Calling people up, the papers. That journalist Jack Whitehead, he’d been up at the house that same week. Eric was calling anybody, anybody who’d listen. So someone put them onto Eric. To shut him up.’

‘Someone put this gang onto Eric? Because he thought Fraser killed Janice Ryan?’

‘Because he knew it wasn’t the Ripper.’

I’m staring between the seats, the sound of the clock filling the car, watching the lights at the other end of the arches.

‘You said you had proof?’

She is nodding: ‘Eric wrote a lot of stuff down. He kept copies, tapes. He knew he’d need them someday.’

‘Who have you told?’

‘Me? Anyone who’d listen.’

‘What about the copies, the tapes? You told anyone about them?’

‘George Oldman.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said I should turn everything over to the man in charge of the investigation into Eric’s death.’

‘Who was?’

‘Is, Mr Hunter. It’s still open. No-one’s been arrested.’

‘I’m sorry. Who is -’

‘Maurice Jobson.’

The Owl.

‘And did you?’

‘What?’

‘Give him Eric’s notes?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘When it happened; three years ago.’

‘And what did Maurice Jobson say?’

‘Said he’d get back to me.’

‘And did he?’

‘What do you think?’

‘So you’ve no idea what he did with Eric’s stuff?’

‘No.’

‘So he might have handed it all over to George Oldman? To the Ripper Squad?’

‘He might have, yes. And you might sprout wings and fly home.’

I smile: ‘So I take it no-one’s ever contacted you about the stuff since?’

‘No.’

‘Can you remember what was in these notes?’

‘Mr Hunter, I made copies.’

‘Who knows that?’

‘Only you now.’

I nod outside: ‘Mr Laws?’

‘Only you.’

‘I see.’

‘He did bad things, Eric. I know that. He was no saint -’

‘Not like me.’

‘No, not like you. But he didn’t deserve what happened to him, not that.’

Not like me -

Saint Cunt.

I take the lift up to my room -

It’s stifling, the radiator on full.

I open a window on the unpleasant night and her ugly rain, the haunted station and the silence.

I sit on the edge of the bed, hating Leeds, hating Yorkshire.

I shut the window, draw the dusty curtains.

I close my eyes and let the radio eat the silence thinking -

It’s always the way, out this way.

In the middle of the night I’m awake again, sweating and afraid -

Hymns on the radio, that dream of TVs and faces with no face, that taste in my mouth -

Awake, the pains in my back, reaching for Joan, fighting back the tears, reaching for someone -

No-one there.

transmission October nineteen seventy six white abbey bradford ka su peng found in a telephone box by police with two holes in her head in need of fifty eight stitches from a black and crinkly bearded man who picked her up outside the perseverance on lumb lane in my dark car with my tired eyes and crinkly beard we drove to the playing fields and e said how much and she said a fiver and e said ok but you must get out of the car and take off your clothes and lie on the grass and she did not want to e could see it in her eyes where snowflakes were dancing but she said e have to urinate and she was squatting down like a real lady urinating in the grass when e dropped my hammer she said e hope that was not a knife and e said no it was my wallet just strip and she had almost finished her urinating that was when e hit her on the head with the hammer and e hit her on the head with the hammer again and she lay in the grass with her hand to her head the hand all covered in blood lay on the grass and e just stood and watched her looking at her hand the hand all covered in blood the snowflakes dancing and e masturbated and then e threw the tissues at her and put a fiver in her bloody hand and said please do not call the police or e will come and kill you again next time snowflakes are dancing and he stood there looking down at me moving his hand up and down the snowflakes dancing and he said please do not call the police or e will have to kill you and he put a five pound note in my hands and he went away and e managed to half walk half crawl to the telephone box and call an ambulance and they came and took me away and put fifty eight stitches in my head and back and e was in hospital for seven weeks and they said you are lucky to be alive but all e could remember was dialing nine nine nine lying on the floor of the telephone box waiting the snowflakes dancing and a man in a dark car kept driving past and he seemed to be staring and looking for me and it was the man who hurt me you are lucky to be alive they told me but psychic phenomena activated by epileptic discharge arising in the temporal lobe may occur as complex visual or auditory or combined auditory visual hallucinations or illusions or memory flashbacks erroneous interpretations of the present in terms of the past as an inappropriate feeling of either familiarity or strangeness deja vu jamais vu phenomena or as emotions commonly fear these phenomena are called experiential as they assume a vivid immediacy for the effected patient which they liken to actual events yet the patients are also aware that these phenomena occur incongruously and out of context as if they were superimposed upon the ongoing stream of consciousness with the exception of fear which is often interpreted as fear of impending events or attack or snowflakes dancing but you are lucky to be alive lucky to be alive to be alive but e am not now for e live in the place where the leaves are black and the branches are twisted and entangled and bloom poisoned thorns and around me echo wails of grief that over and over cry you are lucky to be alive lucky to be alive to be alive but cut this wood and the blood turns dark around the wound and from the splintered trunk pours a mixture of words and blood so eat my leaves in this mournful forest where my body torn away from itself hangs forever among the thorns of my own alien shade my home a hanging place where my many wounds breathe grieving sermons in blood and the mutilations that have separated me from all my leaves gather them round the foot of this sad bush the snowflakes dancing alive in the grass with a fiver in my bloody hand transmission three received

Chapter 6

Leeds -

Millgarth:

The canteen -

Under the hum of the lights, the machines and their numbers: two, one, four, six, eight -

Tuesday 16 December 1980:

Almost eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight:

I wait until Murphy’s finished eating his breakfast and then say: ‘Something else came up last night.’

He looks up from his dirty plate, a mouthful of toast.

I say: ‘Go for walk?’

Murphy raises his eyebrows slightly, shrugs, and then follows me down the stairs and out into the Market -

It’s gloomy but dry, no sun, only thick grey sheets of cloud.

We walk up George Street until we find a small cafй.

A couple of sweet teas in front of us, Murphy sits waiting -

I say: ‘You remember we were talking about Eric Hall?’

He nods.

‘His widow came to the hotel last night.’

‘You’re joking?’

I shake my head: ‘With a priest.’

‘What did she want?’

‘Reckons Eric was up to his neck in the Ripper.’

‘Yeah so? Bradford Vice wasn’t he? Bound to be.’

‘Yeah, but above and beyond the call of duty.’

‘Ah, fuck.’

‘He was involved somehow with Janice Ryan.’

‘Fucking never-ending this shit,’ he sighs: ‘Go on.’

‘Says her Eric was even a suspect at one point.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘So was another copper, one from Millgarth; the one that killed himself?’

‘Bob Fraser?’

‘Yep.’

Murphy lights a cigarette: ‘Load of old bollocks though, yeah?’

I nod: ‘Perhaps.’

‘And that was it? That was all she said?’

‘She spelt it out; says that Eric Hall was killed because he knew it wasn’t the Ripper who did Ryan.’

Murphy’s smiling: ‘I might agree with her that there’s a fair chance the Ripper didn’t do Ryan, but she can piss right off about Eric. He was as bent as a two-bob fucking note. We were bleeding going to nick him.’

‘Yep,’ I say, nodding.

Murphy leans forward: ‘I thought he was supposed to be into something with a gang of blacks who were knocking off post offices. Remember that?’

I keep nodding.

‘It went belly up, so they took it out on Eric. And his wife. That’s what we heard, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I feel sorry for her, the poor cow. But I still reckon Eric brought it all on himself.’

‘And her.’

‘And her.’

‘Maurice Jobson was in charge; is in charge of it.’

‘They never got anyone then?’

‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

‘What? That Yorkshire never got anyone? Get away, these blokes haven’t nicked anyone since Michael bloody Myshkin.’

‘No, no – odd Maurice heading up the investigation?’

‘Why?’

‘Well he’s what? Wakefield?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And where was Eric Hall done?’

‘His house?’

‘Yeah, which is Denholme. Bradford.’

‘But Eric was out of Jacob’s Well. They’re hardly going to hand it over to his own mob are they?’

I shrug: ‘Suppose not. But why Maurice?’

‘Fuck knows and, to be honest, who the fuck cares.’

‘Something does bother me, John – but I can’t put my finger on it.’

‘I can: the same old Yorkshire horse-shit we get every time we come over here,’ he yawns. ‘But if you want me to add this to the list, after your mate Tricky Dicky Dawson, then I’ll ask around.’

I can’t tell if he’s pissed off with me, or trying to piss me off -

I push away the cold tea: ‘She said Eric had notes, copies of stuff, some tapes. She gave them to Maurice Jobson, but never heard anything back. She reckons they prove that the Ripper didn’t kill Ryan, and back up a lot of other stuff too.’

Murphy upright, interested: ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I was thinking, you’re doing Janice Ryan right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Eric Hall’s name is bound to be in there somewhere, bound to come up. And Bob Fraser.’

He’s nodding.

‘So why don’t you ask Craven to let you see the file on Eric and the one on Fraser? See if Eric’s tapes and stuff is in there.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Eric’s notes. Anything?’

‘Right. And if it’s not?’

‘She’s got copies.’

‘Yeah, suppose so,’ he says, staring away over my shoulder and out the window.

‘You OK?’

‘Ah, you know,’ he says, standing up. ‘It’s fucking Liz McQueen next, isn’t it?’

The room upstairs -

Smaller and darker than ever -

Another call for the dead, reverse charges:

I say: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’

The Spaghetti Lady -

‘This is me,’ says Murphy. ‘And I’ll keep it brief.’

The room is hushed, Craven a notepad out for the first time, waiting for John to begin:

‘On Monday 28 November 1977, the naked body of a woman was found in Southern Cemetery, Manchester. She was later identified as Elizabeth McQueen, born on October 31 1946 in Edinburgh. McQueen was married with two children and had two cautions for soliciting. Death had resulted from brain damage caused by several blows to the head from either a hammer or an axe. The lower body had a number of lacerations, which had been inflicted after death by a sharp instrument. An attempt had also been made to sever her head. No weapons have ever been recovered.

‘McQueen had been last seen on Saturday 19 November 1977 when she’d left her home in Kippax Street, Rusholme. It has always been the belief that she met her death shortly afterwards.

‘When she left her home she was carrying a handbag which was initially not recovered. A workman found the bag on December 5. Hidden in the lining of the bag was a brand new five-pound note.

‘I was in charge of this Inquiry.’

Murphy pauses, stops dead, then says: ‘And I fucked it up.’

Silence -

It’s always the way -

‘As I say, our initial search of the crime scene failed to recover the missing handbag. We lost time and we never got it back.’

Another pause, another stop, another silence -

‘Before the bag turned up, I’d come over to Wakefield and met with George Oldman. We’d decided that while there were similarities, there were also several dissimilarities.’

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

I’m staring down at George’s press release before me:

‘We have no reason to believe at this stage that there is any connection between the murder in Manchester and the ones I am investigating.’

‘Then we found the bag and the fiver, and the rest you know.’

Another release, John’s:

‘We have a line of enquiry which is directly connected with the murder of a woman in Manchester and we are following that line of enquiry in the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police area. There is a team of detectives from Greater Manchester who are working with detectives from West Yorkshire. We will be visiting factories in the Bingley, Shipley and Bradford areas and are interviewing all male employees. As to any links with the unsolved murders in West Yorkshire, it is far too early to draw any conclusion and Mr Oldman and myself are keeping an open mind.’

Murphy staring at the tabletop, silent -

An open mind -

I say: ‘Any questions?’

Silence -

‘Break then.’

On the bright stair, John Murphy his head in his hands -

I put a hand on his shoulder -

He looks up, eyes red.

I say: ‘I’m going to head over to Wakefield for the press conference; try and get a word with Maurice as well.’

He nods.

‘You OK to hold the fort here?’

He nods again.

‘I reckon this is a good place to pause, take stock. Also we could do with a recap on the ones that got away: Jobson, Bird, Peng, Clark, and Kelly, yeah?’

‘Right.’

I look at my watch:

Eleven -

I say: ‘I’ll meet you back at the Griffin about sixish?’

‘Fine.’

I stand up.

He looks back down at the stair again.

‘John?’ I say.

He looks up.

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

‘No, I’m not,’ he says. ‘That’s just it.’

The Road to Wakey Fear -

Rain, rain, and a bucket load of pain:

The Four Horsemen riding on the radio waves, the Ripper laughing at their heels, whip in hand:

2,133,000 record jobless, Helen Smith, the Yorkshire Ripper; all hostages alive and well.

Abba and the football, winter:

The wet lanes, the dark tires, the wet trees, the dark skies, and here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, banging on my head with a piece of rock -

The Wakey turning, braking hard:

Never let her slip away -

And then it was Nineteen Seventy Five again, war across the UK:

Wood Street -

Wakefield, January 1975:

Me and Clarkie sat across from Maurice Jobson -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:

The Owl.

The Strafford, always the bloody Strafford.

Four dead:

Derek Box.

Paul Booker.

William ‘Billy’ Bell.

And the barmaid, Grace Morrison.

Box, Bell, and Morrison: D.O.A. Christmas Eve 1974.

Booker never going to make it, dead on Christmas Day.

Craven and Douglas: ‘hero cops on the mend’ with a visit and a handshake from the Home Secretary.

January 1975 -

Maurice Jobson, legend, said: ‘Some bloody Christmas that was, eh?’

‘Anything new?’

‘No.’

‘What about Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas?’

‘Doing OK, like the papers say.’

‘Anything more from them?’

‘No. Dougie still can’t remember a thing. Bob, nothing new.’

‘But he’s…’

‘The ranting’s stopped, aye.’

I opened up my notebook and said: ‘So there’s not a lot more than shots fired at the Strafford, they respond, up the stairs, bodies, smoke, four blokes in hoods with shotguns, more shots, beaten, left for dead. That’s it?’

‘That’s your lot,’ nodded Maurice.

‘I’d still like to speak to them.’

Maurice all smiles: ‘And you will, Pete. You will’

But I didn’t.

Two hours later the call from home -

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

There are corridors and passages, some lit and some not, there were doors and there were locks, some will open, some would not.

And that was that, until now -

1980 -

On the dark stair:

I knock twice.

‘Pete,’ he says, on his feet, hand out.

‘This a bad time?’

‘Not at all. Good to see you, Pete.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and sit down across from Maurice Jobson -

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:

The Owl.

‘You’re looking well,’ he says.

‘Really? Thank you,’ I smile. ‘You know why I’m here?’

‘The short straw?’

I laugh: ‘You could say that.’

‘So how’s it going?’

‘Slowly,’ I say.

Maurice nods, a sympathetic smile: ‘That’s war for you.’

I say: ‘Anyway, I’d like to go over the initial investigations with you; the ones you were in charge of?’

‘Right.’

‘And I’ve also got a couple of questions about Clare Strachan and Janice Ryan as well.’

A nod.

‘Is that OK?’

‘Fire away, Pete. Fire away’

‘All right, you headed up Theresa Campbell and Joan Richards; so I was wondering, aside from the stuff that’s in the files, all the documented stuff, if there was anything you wanted to add, anything that you felt needed emphasising, points that need raising, anything at all basically’

Maurice Jobson leans forward in his chair and smiles: ‘What you want to know is why they took me off them, yeah?’

‘Crossed my mind, yep.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you shall I? The minute I clapped eyes on the body of Theresa Campbell, I knew that the man who killed her would kill again and continue to kill until we stopped him. He’s got the urge Pete, and that kind of urge doesn’t go away. Nine months later, less than two miles from where I’d stood and looked down at Theresa Campbell, I stood in the dirty snow of a dismal alley and looked down at what he’d left of Joan Richards. He’d stabbed her fifty-two times, Pete. Fifty-two bloody times. I told the Brass, told George, the lads, the press – anyone who’d bloody listen, told them all that he’d kill and kill again and keep on killing. But Theresa and Joan, they were slags Pete. Whores, as they say over here. And no-one mourns a whore, except her kids, her husband, her mates, and the bloody coppers that have to look at her dead fucking body in the snow. So no-one was right bothered, except me and my lads, but then we got a stroke of luck. A little stroke Pete, and that’s all it takes right?’

I nod.

‘Another whore comes forward and says she saw Joan’s last customer, saw his face and saw his motor.’

Maurice leans back in his chair, eyes closed, a mantra:

‘Thirty years old, short and fat, mouse-coloured hair, full beard with sideburns, round nose and hooded eyes. His left hand was deformed, with a scar as if it had been burned and which extended from the knuckles on the back of the hand up the wrist. He was also wearing a plain gold, square-topped ring on the third finger of his left hand and also a plain gold ring on the second finger of the same hand. He was wearing a dark blue working jacket over dark blue overall-type trousers and black boots or Wellingtons with a thick sole pattern. His clothing was covered in dust. He was driving a dark green Land Rover with a hard top, which was darker than the rest of the body. The passenger door was patched up with silver or grey paint. There was a small aerial on the front nearside wing near the windscreen.’

Maurice pauses, opens his eyes and leans forward, keen:

‘When we released this information, other girls came to us and said they also recognised this bloke as a regular punter, thought he was Irish, maybe called Sean. We also got tire marks to match the Land Rover near where we found Joan. A little stroke Pete, and this was the way we went.’

Maurice pauses again for a moment, staring at me.

‘Do you think we were wrong, Pete?’

I shrug, unsure what to tell him.

‘Anyway, that was the way we went,’ he sighs. ‘Mind, not that anyone really gave a toss. Still, didn’t stop us and we just kept on going, wading through the cars and the tires, knowing we’d come to him, knowing we’d find him. But then it gets to end of 76 and he’s not killed again has he, so they start to wind us down, send me back over here and that was that. Six months later Marie Watts comes along, George takes it himself, a couple of weeks later the letters start and we get the Johnson lassie and so then, by time you get to the bloody tape, that really was fucking that.’

‘And you think that was a mistake? The tape?’

‘Pete,’ he says. ‘I’m saying nowt, except you wouldn’t catch me panting along behind that banner.’

I ask him: ‘What about Clare Strachan? You think…’

‘Same. All tied up with them bloody letters and that fucking tape.’

‘75, you sent Bob Craven and John Rudkin over, yeah?’

‘Yeah. Be about first thing Bob did when he got back.’

‘And, back then, neither them nor you made a link with Theresa Campbell?’

‘There was none to make.’

‘And now?’

Palms out, open, he says: ‘Who can say, Pete? Who can say?’

I say nothing, the pair of us just sat there, just sat there in the silence -

After a bit I say: ‘Whatever happened to John Rudkin?’

Maurice Jobson rolls his eyes: ‘Not a happy chapter for us, any of us.’

I sit there, more silence, waiting -

He says: ‘You were going to ask me about Janice Ryan, weren’t you?’

I nod.

‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll save you some bother. Ryan was involved with two coppers; Eric Hall, who I believe you were all set to come and have a pop at?’

‘Yep.’

‘Well you probably know then that he was, apparently, pimping Janice Ryan. Janice Ryan who, it turns out, was also fucking one of our lads, Bob Fraser. Heard of him?’

‘Yep.’

‘Thought you might have. Well, when Ryan turned up dead under a sofa in Bradford, it turned out she was pregnant and Bob Fraser was the father.’

I keep it shut now, letting him go on -

‘This is the same Bob Fraser who was married to Louise Molloy. Heard that name?’

‘No.’

‘Bill Molloy?’

I sit forward: ‘Badger Bill?’

Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, one half of that same legend, nods -

The Badger and the Owl, boyhood heroes from an Eagle world, a Dan Dare world, a different world -

I say: ‘He was your partner wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. And Bob Fraser was married to his daughter, Louise.’

‘Bloody hell,’ I say.

‘It gets worse, Pete. Much worse.’

I’m nodding, just nodding, my mind turning, spinning.

He says: ‘When we found out the Ryan slag had been pregnant, we had Hall and Fraser straight in, Hall saying Fraser had done her, Fraser saying it was Hall, a right bloody mess - George doing all he could to keep it out of papers. Middle of all this, Bill dies; been on the cards, cancer. Next news, a letter turns up from bloody Ripper saying it was him, Ripper who did Ryan, so that was that again. We let Fraser go, but then Fraser only goes and finds out that his Louise has also been having an affair with John fucking Rudkin, his senior officer, and that Rudkin is father of his lad. Tips Fraser over edge this does, gasses himself up on Moors, as you know.’

I nod.

‘Couple of days later, Eric Hall gets his throat cut and his wife raped.’

‘And you got that?’

‘For my sins, aye. Didn’t want Bradford on it, didn’t want you either,’ he laughs. ‘I was off Ripper, so it was me. Like I had nowt better to do.’

‘Never got anyone?’

‘No, and we never will.’

‘But?’

‘But he was up to his fucking neck in shit, was their Eric. I mean, you were going to do him anyway?’

I nod again.

‘Some reckon he was running a string of whores and maybe, just maybe, he was into it with a gang of nignogs who were knocking over sub post-offices. You remember that?’

Nodding again, saying: ‘You get anywhere with that?’

‘You heard of the Spencer Boys?’

‘No.’

‘Spend time over here and you will. Five of them: two brothers, Steve and Clive Barton, a Kenny somethingorother, a Keith Lee and a Joseph Rose. Thinking was that it were them that did the post offices, but Robbery couldn’t pin it on them. Anyway, pain in the fucking arse it was, – but what goes around comes around, as they say: Clive got banged up for GBH or something, Kenny and Keith got fitted up by Drug Squad, all in Armley doing big stretches. No parole. Steve did a runner and then the burned body of a nigger turned up on Hunslet Carr and we’ve always reckoned that was Joe Rose, who no-one’s seen hide nor hair of since 77.’

‘And you think they did Eric Hall?’

‘Don’t think it Pete, I know it.’

‘How?’

‘Two schools of thought here, but what we know for sure is Eric and these boys had a mutual acquaintance in Janice Ryan. Either Eric was in with them from the start or he wasn’t and Ryan told him about the Spencer Boys and their hobby and then Eric tried to blackmail them. Either way, they had to shut him up.’

‘Which way you lean?’

‘Me? The third way; I like to think best of people Pete, so I’d like to think he was building a case or something and they found out.’

I smile: ‘That’s what his wife says.’

‘You’ve spoken to her?’

‘She came to see me. Said she had information about Janice Ryan. Said Eric was killed because he knew too much, that he had files and stuff, that she gave them to you.’

‘Poor cow,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘The things they did to her. She gave me them files but, between you and me, it’s just his bloody ramblings. But like I say, it’s a better way to remember a copper.’

I nod and we fall back into the silence, rain outside the window, the room cold -

Then I cough and ask: ‘What’s this journalist Jack Whitehead got to do with all this?’

‘Jack? Well, your Widow Hall claims Jack found out Eric was connected to Janice Ryan and tried to blackmail him.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘No. Tell you Pete, 1977 was one hell of a summer, as they say’

‘Did you question him?’

‘Jack? Hardly’

‘What you mean?’

‘Well, our Jack’s been a bit quiet lately’

‘What? He’s dead?’

‘Good as. He’s in Stanley Royd, isn’t he?’

‘Stanley Royd?’

‘The Bin, Loony Bin, Nut House, Funny Farm? Just up road from here.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Only went and tried to hammer a twelve inch bloody nail into his own fucking head, didn’t he?’

Say again: ‘You’re joking?’

‘Wish I were Pete, wish I bloody were.’

‘Bloody hell.’

Maurice Jobson looks at his watch and says: ‘You’re going to be late.’

I look at my watch:

Shit, the press conference -

I stand up, shaking hands with him, saying: ‘Thank you, Maurice.’

‘Anytime, Pete. Anytime.’

Then at the door: ‘Christ, Maurice, I almost forgot…’

‘What?’

‘You never said…’

‘Never said what?’

‘What happened to Rudkin, he in the Bin too?’

‘As good as,’ he smiles. ‘Emigrated to Australia.’

‘With the Badger’s daughter?’

‘And the little lad,’ he says and hands me a photo from his wallet:

A woman and a boy on a beach with a ball -

‘You got kids haven’t you?’ says Maurice Jobson.

Summer Seventy Seven -

The last miscarriage -

The baby dead -

One hell of a summer -

One hell:

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I haven’t.’

In dark winter the hounds of hate, the steam upon their tongues and backs, they await -

Out of breath, I take my place at another showdown:

The Training College gymnasium -

‘No-one,’ Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble is saying, ‘no-one wants to stop this man more than me and my men.’

Ropes dangling from ceilings, hanging -

‘Furthermore, all attacks in the last fourteen months are being, as we speak, rechecked.’

As we speak -

‘Have you gained any further insights into the mind of the Ripper?’

‘I would not have thought he is very clever. He has had a great deal of luck on his side. I am sure if the public are vigilant and report things early, probably the next time his luck may run out.’

The next time -

‘You’re saying that he’s not very clever, but your predecessor, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman, he is on record as saying he thought the Ripper was very intelligent, crafty even, and that it would be a mistake to underestimate his intelligence.’

‘I am not underestimating him, I’m merely saying that he has had a lot of luck.’

‘Is it not true to say that to some extent the Police have gifted him certain pieces of luck; I’m thinking of the Manchester Fiver, of the mess in reporting Laureen Bell’s handbag and so on?’

‘I would dispute that and the insinuation, but these are obviously matters for due review.’

‘Did Mrs Bell’s appeal generate any fresh leads?’

‘It was a very brave thing to do and we got a lot of genuine responses, but some are sheer nonsense and they do slow…’

‘Would Mr Noble care to comment on The Ripper is a Coward posters?’

‘I have no comment to make other than to repeat that me and my men share the public’s frustration and, once again, to assure members of the public and particularly the women out there that we are doing all we can to catch this man.’

The women out there -

‘What about the reward of Ј100,000 offered by…’

‘I have nothing to add to what the Chief Constable said earlier.’

‘What about reports that morale in the West Yorkshire force is…’

‘Again, the Chief Constable has already answered that question.’

‘Have you got any feelings about the proposed film?’

‘Again, I have nothing to say except to add that I personally share the distaste voiced by some members of the community and press about such an idea.’

Share the distaste -

And then they turn to me:

‘Would Mr Hunter care to comment on the progress of the so-called brains trust review?’

‘It’s early days yet and, as you know, we are looking at the whole inquiry and when the entire review is complete I will be more than happy to answer any questions you might have.’

Mark Gilman from the Manchester Evening News: ‘Would the Assistant Chief Constable care to comment on the arrest this morning of the Manchester businessman Richard Dawson?’

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

No beer and sandwiches today -

Me at a payphone in the corner: ‘Joan? It’s me. I’ve just heard they’ve arrested Richard. You heard anything, heard from Linda or anyone?’

‘No, nothing. When did they arrest him?’

‘This morning.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Mark Gilman from the Evening News?’

‘No, there’s been nothing here, nothing on the radio.’

‘There will be. I’ll call again later.’

‘Bye-bye.’

‘Bye.’

The Stanley Royd Mental Hospital is up behind the Training College, five minutes down the road from Pinderfields Hospital -

Just off Memory bloody Lane:

Pinderfields Hospital, January 1975 -

The only time I’d ever met Jack Whitehead:

I was sitting in the waiting room outside intensive care, Clarkie out getting fish and chips, still waiting to speak to Craven and Douglas, staring at a Yorkshire Post, thinking about Joan, when there was a hand on my shoulder.

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yep?’ I said, looking up from the paper.

‘Whitehead, Jack Whitehead from the Evening Post. Have a word?’

‘What about?’

‘Well,’ said the thin-faced man in the Macintosh, sitting down beside me, ‘just have a chat about the shooting, the lads.’

‘The lads?’

‘Bob and Dougie.’

‘You know them, Mr Whitehead?’

‘Know them? Course I bloody do. Local heroes they are. They’re the lads that nicked Michael Myshkin. You heard of him, I take it?’

I nodded.

‘George told me you’re over here helping out.’

‘That’s one way of putting it I suppose.’

Jack Whitehead touched my arm and said: ‘And what would be another?’

And then I could hear my name over the tannoy: ‘Mr Peter Hunter. Telephone for a Mr Peter Hunter.’

And Jack Whitehead, he let go of my arm and winked: ‘Let’s hope it’s good news.’

But it wasn’t:

It was Joan and another dead baby -

Another dead dream.

Five years on, five minutes down the road; no respite: Stanley Royd, a huge old house squatting back from the road amongst the bare trees and empty nests, its modern wings extending out into the shadows.

Burned-black stone and the picked-grey bone of an Auschwitz, a Belsen -

I drive through the gateway and up the long, tree-lined drive.

Were they ash or were they oak?

I park on the gravel and walk through the drizzle up a couple of steps and open the front door.

A wave of warmth and the smell of sickness hits me, the smell of faeces.

I show my warrant card at reception and ask to see Jack Whitehead.

The woman in white behind the desk picks up the black telephone.

I turn around to wait, watching a television hidden in the corner amongst the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains.

I glance at my watch:

Three.

Thin skin and bones shuffle past in their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, the whisper of their slippers and their vespers, the scratchings and the mumblings of the day room.

‘Mr Hunter? Leonard will take you up,’ says the woman in white.

A big skinhead in blue denim overalls leads me up the stairs and down corridor walls painted half green and half cream, across the landing and out of the main building, over a cold walkway and into one of the more recent extensions, locking and unlocking doors as we go.

I say: ‘How long has he been here?’

‘Jack? Best part of three years.’

‘And yourself?’

‘Worst part of five,’ smiles Leonard, proud of his progress.

‘You’ve known him a while then?’

The orderly nods.

‘True they found him with a nail in his head?’

‘That’s what they say’

‘You didn’t see it though?’

‘He was next door for months.’

‘Pinderfields?’

The orderly nods again.

‘Get many visitors does he?’

‘A vicar and some of your lot. Not that there’s much point.’

‘Doesn’t say much I heard.’

Oh no, he talks all right. Not that he makes any sense.’

‘He’s drugged up, I take it?’

The orderly nods one last time and turns another key, opening the door onto a long corridor of locked cells -

‘This the secure wing, is it?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘And this is where you keep Jack?’

‘He’s got his own room,’ says the orderly, pointing at the last door.

He unlocks the door and opens it.

‘I’ll wait outside,’ he volunteers.

‘You sure that’s all right?’

‘He’s wearing restraints, but they’re to protect him not you.’

‘Protect him?’

‘From himself.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and step inside, closing the door behind me -

The room is darker and warmer than the corridor, bare but for a bog and his bed, a single chair and a patch of light from a high window.

I sit down next to the metal bed with the high barred sides.

Jack Whitehead is lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands chained to the sides of the cot, his eyes open and fixed on the light above, his face bleak and unshaven except for his scalp back in the shadows.

‘Mr Whitehead,’ I begin. ‘My name is Peter Hunter. I’m a policeman from Manchester. You probably won’t remember, but we met a long time ago.’

‘I remember,’ he says, his voice dry and cracked. ‘Hexed, I remember everything.’

The toilet is dripping -

‘I’d like to ask you some questions if I might; questions about some things that happened in 1977. About a policeman called Eric Hall?’

Dripping, dripping -

Jack Whitehead sighs, his eyes watering, a tear slipping down towards his ear.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, softly.

‘Don’t be,’ he says. ‘You haven’t done anything.’

‘Is…’

Dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Go on. Don’t be afraid.’

‘I’m not afraid, Mr Whitehead.’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

With a deep breath, I ask: ‘Is it true that you met Eric Hall? True that you knew him?’

‘I know Eric, yes.’

‘You know he’s dead?’

Jack Whitehead blinks, his damp eyes still fixed upon the ceiling -

Dripping -

‘Why did you meet him?’

‘Information,’ says Jack Whitehead, slowly.

‘About what?’

‘About the dead.’

‘The dead?’

Dripping, dripping -

‘You’re surprised?’ he smiles. ‘What did you think it’d be about? The living?’

‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, gripping the sides of my chair. ‘Did you try and blackmail Eric Hall?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Yes, I did.’

‘How?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Information.’

‘You had information on him or you wanted information from him? Which was it?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Two pieces of a broken heart; but do they fit? That’s the question, isn’t it?’

‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say, leaning forward. ‘Was this about Janice Ryan?’

Suddenly, a blink and he’s changed:

In gargoyle pose he’s crouched upright on his feet, hands still chained and clipped to the sides of the bed, his face turned up to where the sky would be -

I stand, knocking over the chair -

Two doors, always open. Who makes the witches? Who casts the spells? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the doors. Futures and pasts, futures past, rats teeth into my belly both. The dead not dead, lorry loads of meat rotting in containers, the salt lost. Big black dogs, choking at said containers, the salt gone. The dead not dead, voices prophesizing war, endless war. Why won’t you let them sleep? Why won’t you let them be? They send me shapes, they show me ways, but they never close the door. Never tonnes undone, loose again, loose again, the dead not dead.’

Silent, his head back, eyes white -

I step towards him and then straight back as he spits and foams through teeth gritted and bleeding:

‘Hunter! Hunter! Jbd ias hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

‘What?’

‘Hunter! Hunter! Hta edy rot caf sti rip sll iwl lik!’

‘What?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Hunter! Hunter! Sti rip sll iwl lik!’

‘What?’

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

‘What are you fucking saying? Tell me!’

Silence, his body empty, his face on his chest -

Dripping -

I step forward from the door and right the chair.

Dripping -

Drawn to his skull, I cannot look away.

Dripping -

Out of the shadows, in the patch from the window, I look down on the top of his scalp and the hole he’d made.

Dripping -

I want to touch, to put a finger in that hole, but I dare not.

Dripping -

Instead, I walk backwards to the door and open it.

I step out into the corridor, looking for Leonard -

I see him coming down the corridor towards me.

I glance back into the room -

Jack Whitehead unbound and upon his knees, gazing to the ceiling in suppliant pose, hands clasped in prayer.

He turns, a torrent of tears upon his cheeks -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Close the door,’ he says. ‘Please close the door.’

‘He’s loose,’ I shout at the approaching orderly -

‘Jesus,’ says Leonard, going in to his charge. ‘Not again.’

I am standing in a red phonebox somewhere in the dark on the way back into Leeds -

I say: ‘Would it be possible to meet?’

‘Of course.’

‘About seven? In the Griffin?’

‘Fine.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and hang up.

I knock on the door of her hotel room.

Helen Marshall opens the door, hair matted and eyes red again, the top button of her blouse undone.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

‘They called it a day.’

‘Are you busy? You doing anything now?’

‘No.’

‘I want you to meet someone. Do you mind?’

‘No,’ she smiles. ‘I don’t mind.’

From the high-backed chair, the Reverend Martin Laws rises.

‘Reverend Laws, this is Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.’

They shake hands.

‘DS Marshall is part of my team,’ I say. ‘And, to be honest, I’d prefer our conversations from now on to be conducted in the presence of DS Marshall or another member of my team.’

Laws is nodding, smiling: ‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’

‘No,’ I say, without a smile.

We all sit down.

The lounge is empty but for an old woman and a child reading a comic.

‘Reverend Laws,’ I say. ‘Do you mind telling us how you came to meet Mrs Hall and when that would have been?’

‘About two years ago. She’d heard of my work.’

‘Your work?’

The man leans forward in his chair, his hat on his lap, his bag between his boots, and he says: ‘I stop suffering.’

‘How had she heard of you?’

‘The word gets around, Mr Hunter.’

‘So she just rang you up out of the blue?’

‘I wouldn’t say it was the blue, Mr Hunter. But yes, she just rang me up.’

‘And what did she want?’

‘What everyone wants.’

‘Which is?’

‘For the suffering to stop.’

‘And that’s what you did?’

‘I can see you’re not a believer Mr Hunter, but that’s what I try and do.’

‘Stop suffering?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’ asks Helen Marshall, suddenly.

Martin Laws turns his head slightly and stares at Helen Marshall, silent, just staring -

‘How?’ she says again, looking down at her own hands.

‘I make it go away,’ he smiles.

‘But how?’

‘Magick,’ he laughs.

Tired, I say: ‘Mr Laws, would you mind calling Mrs Hall and asking when it might be convenient to see her?’

‘You wouldn’t prefer to do it yourself?’

‘I’d like us all to be there.’

Mr Laws stands up and walks over to the telephone on the front desk.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask DS Marshall.

‘I’m sorry, I think I’m just tired.’

‘Do you want to go up?’

‘No, I’ll be OK.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she snaps.

Mr Laws comes back over.

‘Do you want to take my car?’

‘We’ll follow,’ I say.

In the car, the drive to Denholme -

In the dark, Helen Marshall beside me.

‘You know what happened to her?’

‘I hate this place,’ she nods, staring out at the black Yorkshire night.

In the car, the drive to Denholme -

In the dark.

We pull up behind the old green Viva in front of a lonely house, its back to the endless night of a golf course.

It’s Sunday 19 June 1977 -

‘You’d think she would have moved,’ says Helen Marshall.

Back from church, evensong -

We walk up the drive, towards Mrs Hall and the Reverend Martin Laws.

I come home, open the door, and they grab me, drag me by hair into the dining room and Eric, sitting there in front of the TV with his throat cut -

She’s pulling at the skin around her neck.

‘Evening, Mrs Hall,’ I say.

‘Good evening, Mr Hunter.’

‘This is Detective Sergeant Marshall. I hope you don’t mind her coming along?’

‘Not at all,’ says Mrs Hall, shaking her head. ‘Please come in.’

Then they tie my hands behind my back and leave me on the floor at his feet, in his blood, while they go into the kitchen, making sandwiches from our fridge, drinking his beer and my wine, until they come back and decide to have their fun with me, there on the floor in front of Eric -

Here in the front room, in front of the TV, we sit down on the big golden sofa, displays of coins and medals in ornate cases.

They strip me and beat me and put it in my vagina, in my bottom, in my mouth, their penises, bottles, chair legs, anything -

Mrs Hall is in the kitchen, making tea, the Reverend Laws watching the road through the bay windows.

They urinate in my face, cut chunks of my hair off, force me to suck them, lick them, kiss them, drink their urine, eat their excrement -

She comes back with a pot of tea and four cups on a tray.

We drink the milky weak brew in silence.

I put down my cup and say: ‘Did Eric have a study or anything?’

She stands up: ‘It’s this way.’

Leaving Helen Marshall with Laws, I follow Mrs Hall out of the front room and into the back of the house.

She opens a door and leads me into a cold room with French windows staring out at the golf course.

Mrs Hall puts on a light, our thin deformed bodies frozen in the cold, cold room, reflected in the black glass -

Among the coins and medals, more coins and medals -

I say: ‘I’d like to take a look at Eric’s files, if that’s OK?’

‘Wait here,’ she says and leaves me.

I walk over to the windows and strain to see into the night -

There is nothing to see.

Mrs Hall comes back with a large cardboard supermarket box and puts it down on the desk.

I ask her: ‘These are the copies of all the stuff you gave Maurice Jobson?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Help yourself.’

I open the flaps and pull out envelopes and folders.

‘There’s quite a bit,’ I say. ‘I’ll need to take it with me?’

She doesn’t speak, just looks at the box on the desk.

‘You’ll get it all back, I promise.’

‘I’m not sure I want it back,’ she says, quietly.

I close the flaps: ‘Thank you.’

‘I just hope it helps,’ she says, staring at me.

I cough and ask her: ‘How did you meet Mr Laws?’

‘I was given his name?’

‘May I ask who by?’

‘Jack Whitehead.’

Then they take me to the bathroom and try to drown me, leaving me unconscious on the floor for my son to find -

‘But Jack’s in hospital. In Stanley Royd?’

‘And where do you think I’ve been for the last three years, Mr Hunter?’

I close my eyes, saying: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

‘Don’t worry,’ she smiles and turns off the light.

I pick up the box.

Back in the front room, Helen is still sat on the sofa, the cup balanced on her knees, Laws still watching the road.

‘We best be getting back,’ I say.

Helen Marshall stands up, her eyes red raw from tears.

‘Are you all right, dear?’ asks Mrs Hall.

I’m sorry,’ says Helen, looking at me. ‘I’m not sleeping well.’

Mrs Hall is shaking her head: ‘Isn’t that just the worst kind of hell?’

‘I’ll be OK. Thank you,’ says Helen at the door.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ I say. ‘Goodnight Mr Laws.’

‘Goodnight,’ he replies, not turning from the window.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say to them both and follow Helen Marshall back down the drive.

At the car she stops, staring back up at the house, Laws staring back down at her.

I put the box in the boot -

‘What did he say to you?’

‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Your wife’s been calling,’ says the man behind the desk at the Griffin.

‘Thank you,’ I say, taking my key.

‘I’m going to go up,’ says Helen Marshall.

‘Sure you’re all right?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.’

‘Don’t fancy a quick drink?’

‘Not particularly,’ she says, nodding towards the bar -

I look over and see Alec McDonald, Mike Hillman, and some of the Yorkshire lads, all the worse for wear -

‘I better go over,’ I say.

She nods and says: ‘Don’t forget to phone your wife.’

‘I won’t. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

I walk over to the bar just as Bob Craven gets another round in.

‘You having one, chief?’ he says.

‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘A quick one.’

‘Looks like you had one of them already,’ says one of the Yorkshire blokes, watching Marshall getting into the lift.

‘Steady on,’ says Alec McDonald, leaning across the table, drunk. ‘That’s out of order, that is.’

‘Looks fine to me,’ laughs Craven.

I take the Scotch from him: ‘Thank you, Bob.’

‘Mention it,’ he smiles.

‘Where’s John?’ I ask Alec.

‘Murphy? Fuck knows, sorry.’

‘You get much done?’

‘Aye,’ he slurs. ‘Fair bit.’

‘Bird, Jobson, that Ka Su Peng girl, Linda Clark,’ nods Hillman.

‘Kathy Kelly?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘See we got another roasting,’ spits Craven, chucking an Evening Post at me:

Clueless -

‘Not very nice that, is it,’ says Alec McDonald, trying to hit the top of the table.

I put the paper back down on the bar and ask him: ‘You heard anything over here about Dawson?’

‘Just that they’re charging him.’

‘Thought he were dead?’ says Craven, over my shoulder.

Me: ‘Who?’

‘John Dawson?’

‘John? No, this is Richard.’

‘Right, right,’ says Craven. ‘His brother.’

Fuck -

I say: ‘You knew John Dawson?’

‘Who fucking didn’t.’

Fuck -

‘Who fucking didn’t,’ he says again.

Upstairs in my room, almost midnight, I dial home: ‘Joan? It’s me.’

‘Oh, Peter. Thank god…’

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Come home, please.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got such a terrible feeling, Peter.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘An awful feeling that something bad’s going to happen.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know Peter, just come home please.’

‘I can’t, love. You know that.’

Silence -

‘Joan?’

‘Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘What is it, love?’

‘Just this feeling.’

‘When did it start?’

‘This afternoon. I’d had a nap and I had this nightmare…’

‘What happened?’

‘I can’t really remember. There was a girl in a bath and…’

‘What?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘A baby?’

‘No. Look, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I’m sorry, love.’

‘It’s OK.’

I say: ‘I’ll ring you in the morning, first thing.’

‘OK.’

‘You go to bed.’

‘OK.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too. Night-night.’

‘Night-night,’ and I hang up thinking -

Close my eyes for ten minutes then I’ll start on Eric’s files, then remembering they’re still back in the boot of my car, thinking I’ll get them soon, my eyes too tired, my eyes too bloody tired.

Yrotcaf htaed, in blood above the door.

The moon was shining through the skylight and I was gazing at her lying in the bath. Thin and pathetic, in a shroud-like garment, lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile, her hands pressed tightly over her heart. And all around us, people were singing hymns, people with no face, no features, machines. Then she suddenly sat upright, hands still across her heart, and she shrieked with the gulls:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

at six fifteen AM today Sunday the twenty ninth of may nineteen seventy seven the body of a woman was found at the rear of sports changing rooms on soldiers field roundhay road near to west avenue leeds with severe head injuries a cut throat and stab wounds to the abdomen description twenty to thirty years five feet seven inches long dark hair medium build wearing a blue and white checked blouse brown cardigan zip up front with yellow two piece cotton suit fawn three quarter length suede coat with fur down the front brown calf length boots she was wearing tights and two pairs of panties one pair of panties had been removed her right leg was out of her tights and the panties that had been taken off had been stuffed down her tights she was struck three times on the head with a ball pein hammer with such severity that a piece of skull penetrated the brain he then stabbed her in the throat and in the abdomen with an equal severity such that her intestines spilled out the three quarter length suede coat was draped over her buttocks and thighs her brown calf length boots were draped neatly over her thighs her handbag was nearby and there was no indication that anything had been stolen from it unlike the previous bodies her brassiere had not been removed tests indicated that she had had sexual intercourse some time in the twenty four hours before her time of death was thought to be around midnight this woman has been living in the leeds area since October nineteen seventy six when she came up from london where it is believed she worked in hotels she was reported missing by her husband from blackpool in november nineteen seventy five love me e walk into the red room the numbers upside down you cannot speak no do not do that there is no need for that we have met before stretching back black nail varnish on your toes the meat no need for that we have met before stretching back black nail varnish on your toes the meat between your teeth e know this face love me the men at upstairs windows without smiles underneath her the dew and the grass this spring day on a sports field in leeds the damp dew and the flattened grass the boots to come and the boots that have been tall trees watching multiple fractures of the skull displaced clothing and mutilation of the lower abdomen and breasts with a knife or screwdriver a clear badge of identity a signature the brown cardigan blue and white checked blouse yellow jacket and skirt did not quite match what is the matter the jogger asked the woman on the ground at the rear of the sports pavilion when they removed my suede coat they saw the massive fracture of my skull from the three blows to my head with the hammer they saw me lying face down with my hands under my stomach and my head turned to the left with my brown hair of which e was always so proud my brown hair washed in my own blood my bra still in position but my skirt had been pulled up and e was wearing tights and two pairs of panties one pair of panties had been removed and my right leg was out of my tights and the panties that had been taken off had been stuffed down my tights for e had been menstruating menstruating for the last time and the coat e had been wearing was draped over my buttocks and legs in such a way as only my feet were showing and when they picked it up they saw my brown calf length boots had been taken off my feet and placed upon my thighs and then they turned me over rolled me over in the grass and they saw e had been stabbed in the neck and throat and had three stab wounds in the stomach all savage downward strokes so severe that my insides were outside the numbers upside down the rooms all red

Chapter 7

In the night, the call -

Clement Smith, Chief Constable: ‘I need you back here. Vaughan Industrial Estate, off Pottery Lane.’

‘What is it?’

‘A bad one.’

‘You going to tell me anything more?’

‘Roger Hook asked for you. That’s all I know.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘I’ll see you there then.’

‘See you there.’

Another black drive through another black night -

Over the Moors -

The murder and the lies -

The cries and the whispers -

Of children.

Here always their cries, always their whispers -

Always murder and always lies -

Always the Moors -

Always night and always black.

Down through Prestwich, through Cheetham Hill and Collyhurst, to Ardwick and the wrong side of bloody tracks:

The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -

Low dark buildings in the cold rain and the blue lights, police the black wraiths against the white light, their cloaks wings about a factory:

DEATH -

All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -

I park between the vans and the cars, in a crater filled with dead water and a bird, a sparrow.

I turn up the collar of my coat against the rain and stumble -

The young policeman at the gate lifts his hood to check my card and point me towards an open mouth:

DEATH -

A figure walks behind me, dreadful -

In the doorway stand Clement Smith and Roger Hook, white faces staring at the floor, silent eyes raised my way, stung red with the cold and the rain, the tears -

Tongues moving but without words, a cigarette, hands shaking but not shaken -

I walk through them, into:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools.

High skylights, rain against the pane -

Strapped down upon a workbench, trapped in chains, wrapped in:

DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -

I step towards the bench, closer -

Skinned naked and blistered, closer -

Blooded blackened and beaten, closer -

Skinned and naked, blistered and blooded, blackened and beaten, closer -

Face and hair burnt, twisted towards his left -

In his mouth, a cassette -

Bob Douglas: DEAD -

All this and heathen too -

To his left, a door ajar, its upper half glazed.

I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -

Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the light from a skylight, push and see:

DEATH -

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

I step towards the bath, closer -

Into the light from the pane, closer -

Towards her laying there in the bath, closer -

Into the pain from the dark, closer -

A thin and pathetic smile on her face, a black hole in a still heart -

In her hand, a teddy bear -

Karen Douglas:

DEAD -

Never let her slip -

I step backwards, back towards the child’s father -

Back towards Smith and Hook in the doorway, towards the hands and the tongues, the cigarettes, the cold and the rain, the tears -

Stepping back from, turning back from, running from:

DEATH -

Always the way.

Two hours later, damp skin and bones sat around the eleventh floor of Manchester Police Headquarters, phones ringing and boots running, this way and that -

Always this way and that.

I count twelve men -

Waiting:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Nine o’clock.

Ten minutes later, another knock at the door -

The cassette in a plastic bag, the science done.

Roger Hook plugs in a tape recorder and Clement Smith takes the cassette from the bag:

‘Prints?’

A scientist nods.

‘Who?’

The scientist shakes his head: ‘They’re checking.’

Smith holds it up, turning it in his fingers, the black felt-tip pen scrawled across the clear plastic:

‘All this and Heathen too,’ he reads, looking at me -

‘Ripper Tape,’ I say. ‘That was done over a copy of a cassette called All this and Heaven too by a singer called Andrew Gold.’

Twelve open mouths and twelve curses: ‘Fucking hell fire.’

‘This him?’ says someone -

‘Doesn’t make any sense, why…’

‘A bloke and his kid…’

‘An ex-copper…’

‘Poor bastard…’

‘Unless Douglas fucking knew…’

Clement Smith stands up, signalling to Roger Hook: ‘Gentlemen, shall we listen to the tape first?’

Twelve men nodding, silent.

Hook presses play:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this he love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

Hell:

‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

More hell:

‘How much do you love me?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Cries -

Cries:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

STOP .

Silence -

Nothing:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Nine thirty.

Nothing but -

Twelve pale faces, some flabby and some gaunt, twelve faces and twenty-four eyes staring at me -

I stand up -

‘Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?’ I ask Clement Smith. ‘In private.’

He stands and says to Roger Hook: ‘My office.’

Hook and I walk towards the door, twenty-four eyes on me.

‘And bring that,’ says Smith, pointing at the tape recorder.

We follow him down the corridor.

In his office, Hook plugs in the recorder -

‘Can we hear it again?’ says Hook.

Smith nods -

Hook presses play:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

Hell:

‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

More hell:

‘How much do you love me?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Cries -

Cries:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

STOP .

Silence, again silence -

Just the rain black upon the window, running -

The city grey below, swimming -

Drowning.

Roger Hook says: ‘What’s that last line?’

‘That’s my name,’ I say, looking at the Chief.

Smith swallows, says nothing.

‘Those words,’ I say. ‘Whatever they are, I’ve heard them before.’

Smith: ‘Where?’

‘Yesterday I went to see a man called Jack Whitehead. He was a journalist on the Yorkshire Post, - until he had some sort of breakdown and hammered a nail into his skull.’

‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook.

‘He’s in Stanley Royd Hospital in Wakefield,’ I continue. ‘Anyway I went to see him because he was involved with Eric Hall. Eric Hall was Bradford Vice and was supposed to be pimping Janice Ryan who, as you know, was Ripper victim number six.’

Smith and Hook are staring at me, blank.

‘Ryan was also the girlfriend of a Sergeant Robert Fraser, who was Ripper Squad.’

‘He was the one who gassed himself?’ asks Hook.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Anyway, there seems to be a school of thought in the West Yorkshire force that some of these murders aren’t actually Ripper jobs at all. Ryan being one of them.’

‘Really?’ sneers Hook. ‘They can actually think?’

‘Go on,’ hisses Smith, impatient.

‘I went to see Whitehead in connection with Eric Hall and Janice Ryan. He’s under sedation in their secure wing at Stanley Royd, but he was lucid for most of the interview up until the very end when I swear he said words, or words very like the words on the end of this tape.’

‘Do you want to listen to it again?’ asks Hook.

‘No,’ says Smith.

The telephone rings -

Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’

He listens, face unchanging, eyes on me, and then he hangs up.

Hook is saying: ‘It must be a foreign language or something?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, looking at Smith.

‘Should send it up to the University?’ suggests Hook, no one listening.

Clement Smith leans forward and presses the eject, taking out the cassette -

‘This writing,’ he says. ‘All this and Heathen too, you said it’s a reference to the Ripper Tape?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And the music at the start, that’s from a song on the same cassette as the song on the Ripper Tape - same album: All this and Heaven too.’

‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook. ‘It’s got Ripper all over it, this.’

Or that’s what someone wants us to think,’ I say.

‘Or you?’ says Clement Smith.

Me: ‘Pardon?’

‘You’re all over this too.’

‘I know,’ I say…’

‘You’d been to see Douglas; Douglas was working for Richard Dawson; Richard Dawson is a friend of yours.’

‘I know.’

‘And he’s under arrest.’

‘I know.’

Eyes on me, fixed, locked -

The telephone rings again -

Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’

He listens, says: ‘Bring it up.’

He hangs up, eyes on me.

‘What is it?’ asks Hook.

‘Another bloody message.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve pulled a piece of paper, a note – from the little girl’s throat.’

‘Fucking hell.’

Me: ‘What does it say?’

‘Find out, shall we?’

Back with the rest of them, the lost twelve.

Another scientist: ‘Preliminary post-mortem on the girl Karen Douglas revealed she died of a single stab wound to the heart.’

Did her Daddy see her die, hear her, – or did she see her Daddy die, hear him?

The pathologist holds up a clear plastic bag containing a grey piece of notepaper:

‘We also extracted this from the back of her mouth.’

Twelve-plus large men lean forward, straining, half-standing, shouting -

The pathologist raises a hand to the noise:

‘It says: 5 LUV.’

Twelve open mouths, twelve fresh curses: Tucking hell fire.’

The pathologist sits back down, nothing more to say.

Twenty-four eyes on Clement Smith, Chief Constable.

Out of the corner of your eye, a dark figure forms -

‘Enough of this fucking bollocks,’ spits Clement Smith, clawing at the table. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook will break down the teams with SOCO: door to door, known associates, witnesses, etc. Bring them in, write it down, the usual.’

The usual -

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, come with me.’

The Chief Constable’s office, the two of us alone -

‘Pete,’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got to be completely honest with me here…’

‘Of course. I always am.’

‘Please, let me finish,’ he says, looking up from his desk. ‘You can see how this looks, can’t you? It’s not good: ex-copper and his daughter murdered, horribly murdered, sadistically, links to prominent businessmen, top policemen, the Yorkshire bloody Ripper. A right fucking mess.’

Silence, the two of us looking at each other until -

Until I tell him: ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be blaming me?’

‘That’s paranoia, Pete. But I wish to Christ you’d kept out of this whole Richard Dawson thing.’

‘Here, here,’ I say. ‘But nobody told me there was a Dawson thing to keep out of, did they?’

‘But common sense would have told you not to talk to Douglas.’

‘Common sense? So you’re saying that was a mistake on my part?’

‘Of course I bloody am. And it’s bound to come out.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, pulling through his beard with his fingers. ‘I don’t bloody know.’

Silence, the two of us not looking at each other until -

Until the telephone rings -

Smith picks it up: ‘Yes?’

He listens, closes his eyes and says: ‘I’ll be down.’

He hangs up, eyes still shut.

I say: ‘His wife?’

He nods.

‘She was there on Sunday, when I went round.’

He doesn’t move.

‘I’ve met her. Do you want me there?’

He opens his eyes and picks up the phone: ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook please.’

He waits, eyes still avoiding mine -

‘Roger,’ he says. ‘Mrs Douglas is here. Meet us downstairs will you?’

He listens to Hook on the other end, then looks up at me as he tells him: ‘Let him stew. We’ll get to Richard bloody Dawson in due course.’

Then, just before he hangs up, he says: ‘And Roger? Don’t tell Dawson about Douglas. And make bloody sure he doesn’t find out.’

He slams the phone down -

It rings again -

‘What is it?’

He looks across at me and says: ‘Tell him Mr Hunter is unavailable.’

He hangs up again.

I say: ‘Who was it?’

‘Chief Constable Angus,’ he says, standing up.

The telephone starts to ring again -

‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Smith, sending the phone flying off the hook and across the desk, storming out of the room.

We knock once, softly, Smith, Hook, and I -

The policewoman opens the door -

Mrs Douglas, puffed and bloated with tea and sympathy, looks up: ‘He said he was just going into town, do some Christmas shopping. She said she wanted to come. I could tell he didn’t want her with him, because of the crowds I thought. But she cried and he gave in. Like he always does. Too bloody soft with her, he is.’

Silence -

Mrs Douglas, about to be gutted by questions and grief, looking at me.

Silence until -

Until Clement Smith begins, extending our official condolences and the like.

‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Douglas says.

‘We’re all very, very sorry,’ says the Chief Constable.

Mrs Douglas looks across at me: ‘Can I see them?’

I shake my head: ‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘They’re not here.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Somewhere else,’ I say.

‘They’re not at home?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re not at home.’

‘Yes, I thought it was strange they weren’t at home,’ she says, blinking, – looking from me to Smith, from Smith to Hook, from Hook to me, to the policewoman and back to me.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says again, sucking in her lips, -squeezing her hands together, whispering to herself, – pinching herself, wide awake and dying -

‘I just don’t understand.’

I push away the sandwich and stand up.

‘I’m going to ring Joan,’ I say.

Clement Smith nods.

‘What time do you want to do Dawson?’ Hook asks him.

Smith looks at his watch and then up at me: ‘Three?’

‘Fine,’ I say and leave them under the bright, bright lights.

‘Where are you?’ she says.

‘Here. Manchester.’

You could cut it with a knife, the silence -

‘What’s going on?’

‘A man who worked for Richard, he’s been murdered. And his daughter.’

I’d been to sleep and I had this nightmare -

‘His daughter?’

‘Yes.’

There was a girl in a bath -

‘How old was she?’

‘Six.’

You could cut it with a knife, the silence -

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know.’

I’d been to sleep and I had this nightmare -

‘I love you, Peter,’ she says. ‘I love you so much.’

‘Me too,’ Then: ‘Thanks, love. I’ll see you later.’

There was a girl in a bath.

Outside the interview suite I say: ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

Smith hisses: ‘I think we’re past good and bad ideas, don’t you?’

Roger Hook comes out of the room: ‘He’s happy to talk to us without a lawyer if Pete’s there.’

‘Well that’s his decision,’ says Smith. ‘If it was me, I’d want all the bloody lawyers present I could afford.’

‘Do you want me to advise him to get his lawyer here?’

‘No. Let’s just do it.’

Smith opens the door and we follow him in -

Richard Dawson stands up behind the table, worried.

‘Mr Dawson,’ says Smith, cutting him off. ‘I think you know everyone?’

Dawson is looking at me, nodding his head up and down.

A young uniform closes the door and sits down behind us.

We pull up chairs around the table, facing Dawson.

Hook puts a cassette into the tape recorder on the table and presses record:

‘Wednesday 17 December 1980. Three-fifteen p.m. Preliminary interview with Mr Richard Dawson in room one at the interview suite at Manchester Police Headquarters. Present Chief Constable Smith, Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, myself, Chief Inspector Hook, and Detective Constable Stainthorpe.’

Clement Smith lowers his head towards the tape recorder and says: ‘Mr Dawson, you’ve been advised that you may have your lawyer present, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘But at this stage you have chosen to proceed without legal representation?’

‘Yes. I am not being charged, am I?’

‘No, and you are aware that you can request a lawyer at anytime during the course of this interview?’

‘That’s fine. Thank you.’

‘OK. You’ve been asked here to discuss matters pertaining to allegations of financial irregularities in your company accounts. Specifically regarding tax and insurance payments, expenses.’

Richard Dawson is still looking at me, nodding his head up and down.

‘However,’ says Smith. ‘I’d like to begin by asking you some questions about a Robert Douglas, who I believe you recently hired as a security advisor?’

‘Yes,’ says Dawson, puzzled, still looking at me.

‘Would you mind telling us how you came to meet Mr Douglas and in what capacity he is employed by you?’

‘I was introduced to Bob Douglas at a local charity event organised for my son’s school. Mr Douglas’s daughter attends the same school and my wife and his wife are both on the PTA.’

‘And which school would this be?’

‘St Bernard’s in Burnage.’

‘Catholic?’

‘My wife is.’

‘OK. So…’

‘So I’ve known of Bob Douglas for a while and spoken to him on a number of occasions at school functions. My wife said he was a former police officer and I remember being vaguely aware that he had been involved in catching that Michael Myshkin and then he’d had to retire after being shot during some kind of robbery in Wakefield. Anyway, couple of months back there was a spate of burglaries in the Didsbury area and I decided it was as good a time as any to tighten up the security at home. I called Bob Douglas and he came out and did a very thorough but reasonably priced job for us. During the course of this we got on very well and since then he’s done other bits of work for me.’

‘Like?’

Still nodding, Richard Dawson says: ‘Security at the office, insurance estimates.’

‘Do you pay him a wage, Mr Dawson?’

‘A retainer, plus a fee for specific work.’

‘When did you last see or speak to him?’

To be honest, I can’t remember when I last saw him without looking at my diary. I have spoken to him though. Last Friday night he called to tell me he’d heard I was under investigation,’ he says, waving a hand at the assembled company.

‘And you’ve had no contact with Mr Douglas since then?’

‘None.’

A knock at the door.

Ronnie Allen comes in and hands a slip of paper to Roger Hook -

Hook glances at it and hands it to Smith -

Smith pulls his chair back from the table and reads the note -

He turns to Ronnie Allen: ‘Get everyone together. Eleventh floor, thirty minutes.’

Allen nods and leaves, careful to avoid my gaze.

Smith reads the paper again, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket -

He looks at Richard Dawson -

‘Mr Dawson,’ says Clement Smith, sitting forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a security guard found Bob Douglas and his daughter murdered in a warehouse in Ashburys early this morning.’

Richard Dawson pales, swallows, shaking his head from side to side -

Looking into my face, searching -

Desperately lost, pleading -

Mouth opening and closing, choking -

‘Mr Dawson?’ says Smith.

Richard Dawson, blank -

Smith: ‘Do you have anything to say?’

Silence, a long dark silence -

Then Dawson whispers: ‘Nothing, but I’d like to see my lawyer now.’

‘Fine,’ says Smith and stands up. ‘Chief Inspector Hook will make the necessary arrangements and set up a time.’

Hook nods and says into the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at three thirty-five p.m. December 17 1980.’

He presses stop, eject, and takes out the tape and writes on the cassette:

Dawson int/1/171280.

Richard Dawson is still looking at me -

We all stand up, all except Dawson.

I’m following Smith and Hook out when -

‘Pete,’ says Richard Dawson.

I turn around -

‘Thanks for being a friend,’ he spits.

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

Catch-up:

Hook looking at me, Smith holding out the piece of paper -

I take it, read:

Prints on cassette, Jack Whitehead.

Hook staring, Smith waiting -

I say: ‘Jesus.’

Hook nodding, Smith waiting -

I say: ‘Someone called Stanley Royd?’

Hook nodding: ‘Never left his bed.’

Me: ‘Fuck.’

Smith: ‘First thing tomorrow. The pair of you.’

The room upstairs -

Twelve black suits and twelve blank faces.

‘What are we going to tell the press?’ asks someone.

‘Nothing,’ says Smith.

I stand up -

‘Where are you going?’ says someone.

‘Ashburys.’

‘Now?’

‘We’ve missed something. I know we have.’

Twelve dark suits and twelve darker faces -

Their patience gone, my time up:

Exit.

On the way back to Ashburys, a prayer:

O Blessed Lord, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comforts;

I beseech thee, look down in pity and compassion upon this thy afflicted servant.

Thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess my former iniquities;

Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and my soul is full of trouble:

But, o merciful God, who hast written thy holy Word for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of thy holy Scriptures, might have hope;

Give me a right understanding of myself, and of thy threats and promises;

That I may neither cast away my confidence in thee, nor place it anywhere but in thee.

Give me strength against all my temptations and heal all my distempers.

Break not the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax.

Shut not up thy tender mercies in displeasure;

But make me to hear of joy and gladness, that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.

Deliver me from fear of the enemy, and lift up the light of thy countenance upon me, and give me peace, through the merits and mediation of Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

A prayer, on the way back to Ashburys.

Ashburys, cursed and godless:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Five o’clock.

Seven days before Christmas -

In hell.

I get out of the car and walk towards the factory -

Sun gone, only night and looming buildings dark and towering with their dead eyes, their empty rooms -

Pitch-black and deathlike, silent but for the screams of passing freight -

The ring of wraiths around a yellow drum of fire, breaking to let me pass -

In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -

At the door, the tape in my head:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

Hell:

‘How can the world he as sad as it seems?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

More hell:

‘How much do you love me?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Cries -

Cries:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

STOP .

At the door, thinking of the prints on the tape:

Jack Whitehead.

At the door, the note in her mouth:

5 LUV .

At the door, messages -

Messages -

Messages and signs -

Messages, signs and symbols -

Of death.

Everywhere the distractions, everywhere but here -

Here, symbols -

Here, signs -

Here messages:

In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -

Here death -

Only death -

No distractions -

Only messages -

Messages -

Messages and signs -

Messages, signs and symbols -

Of death -

Only death, a friend:

In the bleak midwinter, make a friend of death -

I step inside -

Inside:

Silence, deathlike.

Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools:

Jack Whitehead.

High skylights, night and rain against the pane -

The workbench bare, the body gone:

Bob Douglas.

I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -

Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the night from the skylight, bare:

Karen Douglas.

Head bowed, I stand before the empty bath -

Silence, deathlike:

Missed something -

Know we have -

Know -

I walk down the side of the garage to the shed at the back.

I take the key from my pocket and unlock the door.

I am cold, freezing.

I go inside, lock the door behind me and put on the light.

My room -

The War Room.

I sit down at the desk and stare at the wall above Anabasis:

One map, thirteen photographs -

Each photograph a face, each face a letter and a date, a number on each forehead.

I turn from one of the grey metal filing cabinets to the other -

From the one marked Ripper -

To the one marked Yorkshire.

I lean over to the grey metal filing cabinet marked Yorkshire and I take out a file – one from the front:

Douglas, Robert -

To an old newspaper dated:

Tuesday 24 December 1974 -

To the Front Page and the headline:

3 Dead in Wakefield Xmas Shoot-out -

To the sub-heading:

Hero Cops Foil Pub Robbery.

Then I lean over to the grey metal filing cabinet marked Yorkshire and again I take out a file – one from the back:

Whitehead, Jack -

To an old newspaper dated:

Monday 27 January 1975 -

To the Front Page and the headline:

Man Kills Wife in Exorcism -

To the sub-heading:

Local Priest Arrested.

Finally I open up a thick blank notebook.

Inside, I write one word in big black felt tip pen:

Exegesis -

Then I switch on the cassette and I begin:

And when we die

And float away

Into the night

The Milky Way

You’ll hear me call

As we ascend

I’ll say your name

Then once again

Thank you for being a friend.

I push open the bedroom door.

Joan is in bed, pretending to be asleep.

I go over to her and I kiss her forehead.

She opens her eyes: ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘The shed,’ I say.

‘All this time? It’s almost dawn.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s almost dawn.’

She closes her eyes again.

I undress and put on my pyjamas.

I switch off the light and get in beside her.

‘I love you,’ she says, snuggling up to me, closer -

‘Me too,’ I say, holding her in the cold bed and staring up at the ceiling, the smell of her hair, listening to the cars on the road and the rise and fall of her breathing.

They were here again, back -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face -

People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -

And at my feet, they had her down on the floor at my feet, her hands behind her back, stripped and beaten, three of them raping her, sodomising her, taking their turns with a bottle and a chair, cutting her hair, pissing and shitting on her, making her suck them, making her suck me, ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming -

Helen Marshall sucking me, Helen Marshall screaming:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

Awake, sweating and afraid, staring up at the ceiling, no cars on the roads -

Afraid again -

No more sleep, no more sleep, no more sleep -

Out of the grey morning, Joan reaching for me: ‘What’s wrong, love? What is it?’

Heart racing, beating, breaking -

I can feel come in my pyjamas again. ‘Nothing,’ I say, thinking -

Nothing -