1980

wearing tights and two pairs of panties one pair of panties removed my right leg out left leg in again the news from nowhere this from bradford Saturday the fourth of june nineteen seventy seven linda dark in a green jacket and a long black velvet dress in the shadow of the sikh temple on bowling back lane fresh from the mecca now tiffanys then the bali hai discotheque drunk and dancing he leads me into mystery where sighs cries and shrieks of lamentation echo throughout the starless summer air angry cadences shrill outcries the raucous groans and chants of a football crowd joined with the sounds of their hands him raising a whirling storm that turns itself forever through the starless summer air the day fading and the darkening air releasing all the creatures of the earth from their daily tasks drunk and dancing my plan was to walk until e saw a taxi rather than wait at the rank with the rest of them and as e was walking up pulled a white or yellow ford cortina mark two with a black satan look roof which stopped on the wakefield road the door opens and he leans across and offers me a lift and in e get the man is thirty five years old and maybe just six feet and of a large build with light brown shoulder length hair thick eyebrows puffy cheeks a big nose and big hands here this is the way but e am drunk from dancing and e keep nodding off and we are bumping up and down across some wasteland and e know what he wants but e am too drunk from dancing to care and e hate my husband who is a spoilsport does not like my drinking and dancing not that he has ever bothered to watch me dance and e ask the driver if he fancies me and he says he does so e tell him to drive to wasteland over yonder behind where pakis go nodding off bumping up and down across some wasteland e know what she wants and she says stop here because e have to have a pee and she gets out and is squatting down in the dark the sound of her urine on the wasteland under the starless endless black summer air of this here hell e hit her with the hammer and e rip her black velvet dress to the waist and e stab her repeatedly in the chest in the stomach and in the back but then e see lights going on in gypsy caravan an alsatian dog barking and e think she is dead so e drive away at high speed bumping up and down across wasteland and it is morning and e am not drinking or dancing e am cold freezing cold and crying people coming and looking at me lying on the wasteland my girdle pants and tights pulled down a blow to the back of the head stabbed four times in my chest in my stomach and in my back one a slashing stab wound that stretches from my breasts to below my belly button the surgeons they give me one of them life saving operations and e do not die e cannot die so e live with a hole in my head and scars across my belly where the sighs cries and shrieks of lamentation echo throughout the starless endless black night of this here hell wherein there is no hope of death alone in this starless endless night alone and banished from the disco mountain to never hear the songs that made me dance where he showed me the way where he won again no hope of death alone in this starless night alone among the junk and the rubbish where the dogs the ponies the cats the little gypsy children play with the old fridges and cookers the bicycles and prams and was it not here that one of them gypsy kids they hid in an old fridge and nobody found her and did she not die alone in that old fridge nobody looking for her among the broken sinks and meters the bits and pieces from the old council houses that have all been boarded up while them gypsy folk live in their caravans with their horses their dogs and drink in the farmyard while their

Chapter 8

Lit match, gone -

Dark Jack. Lit match, gone -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through his eyes: Winter, collapse -

Dark Jack. Winter, collapse -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through his eyes:

1980 -

Out, out, out.

Thursday 18 December 1980.

Stanley Royd Hospital, Wakefield.

I’m sitting in the car park, my back on fire -

In flames, waiting for Hook, striking matches -

The hum of pop times, Northern songs -

Listening to the news:

Civil Service strikes, air strikes, Ripper strikes,

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie -

Out, out, out.

No mention of Douglas and his daughter -

No mention of the war -

The murder and the lies, the lies and the murder.

Black and white, the sky and the snow -

Black and white, the photographs and news.

A tap on the window -

‘Morning,’ mouths Hook through the window.

I get out of the car -

It’s freezing -

The air grey, the trees black -

The nests still empty.

‘Nice place,’ says Hook, a black doctor’s bag in one hand.

‘Lovely,’ I smile and lead the way up the steps to the inside -

Again, the warm and sickly sweet smell of shit.

The woman in white puts down the black telephone and says: ‘Can I help you?’

Warrant cards out, Hook says: ‘We’re here to see Jack Whitehead.’

She nods.

I add: ‘Is Leonard about?’

She shakes her head: ‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

‘Quit.’

‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it? He was here on Tuesday’

‘Called up yesterday, said he’d had enough.’

‘We’ll need an address,’ says Hook. ‘And a surname,’ I say.

She looks from Hook to me and back again -

‘Marsh,’ she frowns. ‘Lived up Netherton way, I’ll have to look out the address.’

‘If you would,’ smiles Hook.

There’s a pause -

‘Can you take us up?’ I ask.

She shakes her head: ‘I’ll have to call Mr Papps, he’s in charge. He can take you up.’

She picks up the phone and asks for Mr Papps.

‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white.

We wait, standing amongst the furniture, watching the skin and bones shuffling past, watch them coming to a stop, standing, watching us watch them, waiting.

‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white again.

I turn away from their stares, reading the etched tracts in the lower green half of the wall:

Here house hex’d.

‘What do you think?’ asks Hook.

‘About?’

‘This Leonard Marsh bloke?’

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘He was hardly a bloke. Twenty at most. I thought he was a trustee or something. Didn’t realise he was staff.’

‘He had access to Whitehead?’

‘Yep,’ I nod.

‘Gentlemen?’

We turn back from the green and cream wall -

‘Mr Papps?’ says Hook.

The small chubby man in the blue blazer with the gold buttons nods: ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

‘No problem,’ says Hook. ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of Greater Manchester and I’m Chief Inspector Roger Hook, also of Manchester.’

Mr Papps keeps on nodding, shaking our hands: ‘Yes, the call was a bit vague. I’m not sure really how I can…’

I tell him: ‘Unfortunately, at this stage, it’s difficult to be anything other than vague. So I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with us, if you don’t mind.’

He’s still nodding: ‘You were on the telly the other day, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I came here on Tuesday. I believe I spoke to you on the phone?’

‘My assistant,’ says Mr Papps. ‘Is this about the Yorkshire Ripper then?’

‘No,’ says Roger Hook. ‘It’s not.’

I say: ‘I spoke to one of your patients, Jack Whitehead.’

Mr Papps, still nodding, thinking too much: putting two and two together and getting four.

‘We’d just like to clarify a few things Mr Whitehead said and also get a bit more background on him,’ I half-lie.

‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’ asks Hook.

‘This way,’ says Mr Papps and he leads us into a big cold room with big cold windows, all big black shadows thanks to the big black trees outside -

We sit shivering in more second-hand furniture.

‘What do you want to know?’ asks Papps.

‘Everything,’ says Hook. ‘Starters, when was Mr Whitehead admitted?’

‘Here?’

We nod.

‘Well, he’s been here since the September of 77.’

Me: ‘He was in Pinderfields before that though?’

‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘I think it was the June that he was admitted.’

Hook: ‘With a nail in his head?’

‘Yes,’ says Papps, lowering his voice.

‘And he did that himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

In this cold and black room Mr Papps is sweating, fiddling with the gold buttons on the blue blazer: ‘You don’t know about his wife, his ex-wife?’

‘No,’ says Hook.

Nothing, I say nothing -

Mr Papps, he wipes his brow and he tells Hook: ‘In January 1975, a man called Michael Williams believed he was possessed by an evil spirit. A local priest tried to perform an exorcism, however something went wrong and Williams ended up killing his wife and running naked through the streets of Ossett covered in her blood. The woman’s name was Carol Williams. She was Jack Whitehead’s ex-wife. Williams killed her by hammering a nail into the top of her skull. Worse, Whitehead was there. Saw it all.’

‘He was there?’

‘Yes, Mr Hook. He was there.’

‘Why?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘And Williams?’

‘I believe he’s in Broadmoor, but I’m not certain.’

‘So in 1977 Whitehead tried to do it to himself?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

‘The top of his skull.’

‘No, the place?’

‘The Griffin Hotel, Leeds.’

Hook turns to me: ‘That’s where you lot are staying, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I nod.

‘Bloody hell. Did you know?’

‘No,’ I lie.

He turns back to Papps: ‘And so he was brought to Pinderfields, and then here?’

‘Yes.’

‘You wouldn’t think you could survive, would you?’

I’m thinking of hollows and heads, craters and craniums, the pictures on the wall.

‘Actually, quite the contrary,’ says Mr Papps. ‘In the ancient world, a hole in the head was often used as a cure of other trauma or depression. Hippocrates wrote of its merits.’

Me: Trepanation?’

Papps is nodding: ‘Yes, trepanation. Apparently John Lennon was interested in it. And, as I say, it was quite common in the ancient world.’

‘But this is the modern world,’ says Hook. ‘And John Lennon’s dead.’

‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘The modern world.’

I ask: ‘So what progress has he made?’

‘You’ve met him? Not much.’

Hook: ‘Is he likely to?’

Papps is shaking his head: ‘Hard to say.’

‘He’s on medication?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you write out his prescriptions for us, the names of the drugs?’

Papps nods.

Me: ‘Visitors?’

‘Not many. I’d have to check.’

‘Would you?’

Papps nods again.

I say: ‘The lady on the desk, she tells us that Leonard Marsh has left you?’

‘Yes,’ says Papps.

‘Was he in charge of Mr Whitehead?’

‘Not in charge, no. But he certainly had helped look after him for quite a time. Since he got here.’

‘Whitehead?’

‘Yes,’ says Papps.

‘Why did he leave?’

‘Leonard? I’m not sure, just had had enough he said.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s difficult work, Mr Hunter.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Silence -

Then I say: ‘Who is his doctor?’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me.’

It’s Dr Papps?’

‘Yes,’ he smiles. ‘Didn’t I say?’

‘No,’ I say, standing up, frozen -

Papps sighs: ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’

Up the stairs, down the half-green half-cream corridors and across the landing, out of the main building, over the cold walkway and into the extension, locking and unlocking doors, back to Jack -

The last corridor; long and locked -

In the green paint, another etched tract:

Hex’d, I die.

Down the last corridor, long, to the last door, locked -

Dr Papps, keys out -

Hook, a free hand on the doctor’s sleeve: ‘Has Whitehead left the hospital in the last twenty-four hours?’

Papps: ‘Of course not.’

‘In the last week, the last month.’

‘Inspector, Mr Whitehead hasn’t left his bed, let alone his room, since he got here.’

‘He’s loose,’ I shouted.

‘Jesus,’ said Leonard. ‘Not again.’

Me: ‘How can you be certain?’

Papps gives the dangling keys a shake: ‘How could he?’

‘But…’ starts Hook, but I give him the wink and he stops -

Papps looks from Hook to me and back again -

I nod at the door -

Papps shrugs, turns the keys, and then the handle -

He pulls back the door -

Silence -

‘After you,’ gestures Papps and we enter the room.

It’s cold this time and lighter, the toilet in the corner still dripping, the chair gone.

I follow Hook’s gaze to the bed, to Jack Whitehead -

On his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, hands chained to the sides of the cot, eyes open.

Hook is clutching the black bag, searching through the grey light, searching through the shadows, searching Whitehead’s scalp, searching for the hole he’d made.

‘Mr Whitehead,’ I say. ‘It’s Peter Hunter. I was here the day before last?’

Silence, just the dripping, dripping of the toilet in the corner -

‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say again. ‘I’m here with Inspector Hook.’

More silence -

‘Jack?’ says Papps.

Dripping, dripping, dripping -

I turn to Dr Papps and tell him: ‘We have to ask Mr Whitehead a number of questions. Would you mind waiting down the corridor, sir?’

‘He’s probably not going to talk.’

‘Even so, if you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Fine,’ shrugs Papps, like it’s not, and he leaves the room.

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

I say: ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack?’

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

Hook coughs and steps forward -

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping -

‘Mr Whitehead,’ says Hook. ‘Your fingerprints were found on a cassette tape in Manchester yesterday. We’ve travelled here today to ask you how your fingerprints could have ended up on this cassette tape.’

Silence, complete silence until -

Until Jack sighs, eyes watering, tears slipping down his face, his cheeks, his neck, and onto the pillow -

Dripping -

We both step forward, closer to the bed -

‘Mr Whitehead?’ asks Hook.

But the tears are streaming now -

Dripping, dripping -

Hook opens the black doctor’s bag and takes out a portable cassette recorder.

‘Roger,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good…’

He 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 -

Just tears -

Jack’s tears -

Dripping -

Until -

‘That’s you,’ Hook is shouting, over at the bed, shaking Whitehead. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You knew Bob Douglas, didn’t you?’

Then suddenly a shot, a bolt -

Whitehead’s chest rises, his body twitches, his teeth gritted and bleeding -

And Hook’s turning to me: ‘What is it? What’s wrong with him?’

Again another shot, another bolt -

Chest risen, body twitching, teeth gritted and bleeding -

‘What is it?’ Hook is screaming. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Get Papps!’

A last shot, a final bolt -

Chest risen then fallen, a body twitching then still, teeth gritted then mouth open, blood bleeding -

A bloody stream down his face, his cheeks, his neck, and onto the pillow -

Dripping -

Hook is down the corridor shouting for the doctor -

Whitehead still, frozen -

I lean in close to the bed, feeling for the heart -

His mouth opens, bloody bubbles bursting on his lips and gums -

I lean in closer to the mouth, listening -

‘What?’ I say. ‘What is it?’

Closer to the mouth -

‘What?’

Listening -

‘Futures and pasts,’ he whispers. ‘Futures past.’

Hook and Papps are tearing back up the corridor -

‘What?’ I say, but he’s gone -

Silence, just their feet down the long, long corridor, then through the door, Papps pushing me to one side, panting, just questions, questions, questions, Papps pushing Hook back down the long, long corridor, for help, help, help, panting, Papps pushing down on Whitehead’s chest, breathe, breathe, breathe, panting, pushing open his mouth, kissing him, kiss, kiss, kiss, panting, then pushing me back into the wall, more questions, questions, questions, pushing down on his chest again, thump, thump, thump, panting, more feet down the long, long corridor, doctor, doctor, doctor, panting, Hook to me to Hook to Papps to Hook to me to Papps, questions, questions, questions, panting -

Just questions -

Questions and no answers.

Standing on the gravel in the cold drizzle, the bare trees and empty nests, watching the blue lights take him away, the woman in white from behind the desk handing Papps his blue blazer as he gets in the back of the ambulance with Jack for the short ride next door.

We walk to our cars.

‘Inspector!’ shouts the woman in white -

We both turn and she comes across the gravel to hand me two pieces of paper:

‘Leonard’s address,’ she says. ‘And Dr Papps said you wanted a list of Jack Whitehead’s visitors.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘You’re welcome,’ she smiles, but she doesn’t mean it, she can’t, why would she.

Lit match, gone -

Dark Jack.

Lit match, gone -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through her eyes: Winter, collapse -

Dark Jack.

Winter, collapse -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through her eyes:

1980 -

Out, out, out.

Millgarth, Leeds -

Outside the Ripper Room:

‘Inspector Craven? Can I have a word?’

‘Certainly Assistant Chief Constable Hunter,’ he says, saluting.

I walk over to the top of the stairs, Craven limping behind.

‘See much of Bob Douglas, do you?’ I ask him.

‘Every now and again, why?’

‘And how’s he doing?’

‘Fine. Last I heard.’

‘You’re not in touch much then?’

‘On and off, like I say. Less so now he’s over your way’

‘What’s he up to?’

‘Think it’s security work these days.’

‘Before that?’

‘When he quit he -’

‘When was that?’

‘75 sometime. He didn’t want to, mind – they made him.’

I nod: ‘So what did he do?’

‘Got a ton of brass, didn’t he? Bought a shop.’

‘A shop?’

‘Yeah, but he was never anything to do with any of this,’ he says, waving back over at the Ripper Room. ‘Before his time.’

‘I know.’

‘So why the sudden interest?’

‘He’s dead, Inspector.’

‘What?’

‘They found his body and that of his daughter in Manchester yesterday’

‘His body? What are you talking about?’ says Craven, pulling at his beard.

‘The bodies of Bob Douglas and his daughter.’

‘How? How did they die?’

‘They were murdered.’

Detective Inspector Robert Craven is swaying back and forth on his heels, shaking his head, eyes back and forth across my face, then over my shoulder -

I turn around and there’s John Murphy -

He looks from me to Craven and back again and says: ‘You heard then?’

‘Yep,’ I say, glancing back at Craven. ‘I was there.’

‘Christ,’ says Murphy.

‘Yep.’

‘His little lass and all?’

I nod.

Craven looks at us both and says: ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

‘Forget it, Bob,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a shock, go home.’

He shakes his head: ‘Ten minutes.’

In the upstairs room again, our room -

The one next to his -

With the dead again, always the dead -

Alec McDonald says: ‘Tracey Livingston, Preston, Saturday 7 January 1978.’

Eyes upon the table top, upon the notebooks and the files.

Tracey left the Carlisle Hotel in the centre of town after last orders Saturday night. Her body was discovered in her flat the next day. She was thirty-three years old and had three kids. She was also a convicted prostitute.

‘Death was due to four blows to the head with an instrument that has yet to be recovered. There were also stab wounds to the abdomen and back, though these would not have proved fatal.

‘Alf Hill was in charge.’

In the upstairs room, silence -

Then Alec says: ‘You want me to go on?’

I nod -

And so he says: ‘On the Sunday evening, her friend Bob Jenkins came round for her. They had arranged to go out for a drink. When there was no answer, he was concerned enough to break down the door. He saw blood on the hall floor and followed the trail into the bedroom. Tracey was in bed, apparently sleeping. Jenkins pulled back the blankets to find her dead, covered in blood. His words not mine. The caretaker called the police.

‘Alf quickly contacted George Oldman, and Yorkshire sent their boys over. Like with us and Doreen Pickles, it was a combined investigation.’

Alec looks up from his notes: ‘You were there yeah, Bob?’

Craven nods, eyes red bloody raw.

Alec: ‘Anything you want to say?’

Craven: ‘It was full-on.’

‘Full-on? How do you mean?’

‘Well, it was Alf Hill’s show. Had the works; reconstructions, TV, radio, even a bloody sйance.’ Murphy: ‘A sйance?’

‘Had us all up there in her flat, this spiritualist trying to make bloody contact.’

‘Get anywhere?’

‘What do you bloody think?’

‘How about this?’ asks Alec McDonald and reads:

‘It is desired to trace the following man who was involved in an incident with a prostitute in Preston city-centre in November 1975 and a similar described man who was seen to pick up Joan Richards, a prostitute who was murdered in Leeds in 1976. White male 30/40 years, five feet eight inches. Stocky build. Ginger-coloured hair which was untidy and a gingerish-coloured beard which was bushy round the cheeks but trimmed under the chin. Pointed nose and ruddy complexion.

‘This man was wearing a well-worn jacket and blue bib and brace type overalls with a pair of trousers underneath. It is thought he had two rings on fingers of left and possibly one on finger of his right hand. The back of his left hand is scarred. This is described as similar to a burn scar and stretches from the knuckles to the wrist. The back of his right hand is also possibly tattooed. This man has the appearance of a workman and probably spends his time in areas where prostitutes are known to loiter.

‘He has the use of a vehicle and it is thought that he had the use of a Land Rover or similar type vehicle from March 1975 to January 1976. It should be borne in mind that the Land Rover could have been in the possession of this man because of his employment and that he might not now have access to this vehicle. Also it could well be that the beard has been shaved off.

‘Suggestions to the identity of this man should be passed to the incident room in Preston or the Murder Room in Millgarth.

‘Message ends.’

Silence -

Then McDonald says: ‘Remind you of anyone we know, Bob?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ spits Craven.

‘What do you think it’s supposed to mean? Does that description remind you of anyone you know?’

‘Fuck off,’ he shouts and gets up and leaves the room -

More silence, minutes of it.

Then Hillman: ‘What was all that about?’

‘He’s had a bit of a shock has Bob,’ I say, catching Helen Marshall’s eye -

The tears in her eyes.

‘Roger?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed -

It’s almost eleven.

‘Pete,’ says Roger Hook, Detective Chief Inspector Roger Hook.

‘Pleasant journey back, was it?’

‘Delightful.’

‘Any news?’

‘We’ve let Dicky Dawson go.’

‘Good.’

‘He’ll be back in on Monday.’

‘What time?’

‘Ten.’

‘Who’s his solicitor?’

‘Michael Craig.’

‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘You haven’t called Pinderfields, have you?’

‘Wakefield? No. Did you?’

‘No, but I suppose I better.’

‘The Chief wasn’t right impressed.’

‘Didn’t think he would be. What did he say?’

‘What didn’t he say. Apparently that Papps bloke’s been raising bloody hell.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What could I say? We questioned the bloke and he lost consciousness.’

‘Sod them,’ I say.

‘Not like you, Pete,’ says Roger.

‘Bad day.’

‘Bad week?’

‘Month.’

‘Year?’

‘One of the worst,’ I laugh.

‘You said it.’

‘Don’t suppose SOCO got anything else from Ashburys?’

‘No.’

‘The tape?’

‘Sent a copy to the University.’

‘All right, I’ll let you get back to it.’

‘Cheers, Pete.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Thirty minutes later the phone goes again -

I pick it up: ‘Hello?’

Silence -

‘Hello?’

Silence -

‘Who is this?’

Silence -

I say nothing -

They hang up.

Thirty minutes later the knock on the door -

I open it -

There’s no-one there -

Just an empty corridor, silent -

I walk to the end -

But there’s no-one there -

Nothing.

Back in the room, the phone’s ringing -

I pick it up: ‘Hello?’

‘Can’t sleep?’ asks Joan.

‘I’ve given it up.’

‘What? Sleep?’

‘Yep,’ I nod.

‘I just called to say goodnight.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up.

Lit match, gone -

Dark Jack. Lit match, gone -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through my eyes:

Winter, collapse -

Dark Jack.

Winter, collapse -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through my eyes:

1980 -

Out, out, out.

children play among the waste no hope of death alone this night you are the ripper why are you not married who does your washing if you are not married do you like women have you ever been with a whore transmission four at about five forty five AM on Wednesday the eighth of june nineteen seventy seven the body of rachel Johnson sixteen years of age shop assistant of sixty six saint marys road leeds seven was found in the adventure playground compound between reginald terrace and reginald street chapeltown leeds last seen alive at ten thirty PM tuesday seventh of june nineteen seventy seven in the hofbrauhaus merrion centre leeds she is described as follows five feet four inches with proportionate build shoulder length fair hair and wearing a blue and yellow check gingham skirt a blue jacket dark blue tights and high heeled clog fronted shoes in black and cream with brass studs around the front so far as can be ascertained the deceased had been subjected to violent blows about the head with a blunt instrument and had not been sexually assaulted it would appear that the person responsible may also be responsible for the deaths of theresa campbell at leeds on the sixth of june nineteen seventy five joan richards at leeds between the fifth and sixth of february nineteen seventy six and marie watts at leeds between the twenty eighth and twenty ninth of may nineteen seventy seven details of the injuries to the deceased should not be disclosed to the press there is no evidence that rachel Johnson was an active prostitute the body had been dragged a distance of some fifteen to twenty yards from where the initial assault took place her assailants clothing will be heavily bloodstained particularly the front of any shirt or trousers worn by him it is desired to trace the following described man who was involved in an incident at white abbey bradford in november nineteen seventy six and a similar described man who was seen to pick up joan richards a prostitute who was murdered at leeds in february nineteen seventy six white male thirty to forty years five feet eight inches stocky build ginger coloured hair which was untidy and a gingerish coloured beard bushy around the cheeks but trimmed under the chin pointed nose and ruddy complexion this man was wearing a well worn jacket and blue bib and brace type overalls with a pair of trousers underneath it is thought that he had two rings on fingers of left and possibly one on finger of his right hand the back of his left hand is scarred this is described as similar to a burn scar and stretches from the knuckles to the wrist the back of his right hand is tattooed and he has the appearance of a workman and probably spends time in areas where prostitutes are known to loiter he has the use of a vehicle and is thought that he had use of a land rover or a similar type vehicle from june nineteen seventy five to february nineteen seventy six it should be borne in mind that the land rover could have been in the possession of this man because of his employment that he might not now have access to this vehicle also could well be that the beard has been shaved off e had changed my mind and danced with the boy until it was my time to go and eat chips together outside C and A and walk up to saint jimmies and lie together under the big trees and the starless endless black summer air e start walking up past grandways and the gaiety and e was startled by noise her clogs made scraping long ground as e dragged her into an adventure playground to stab her again and again she smelted so sweet so clean when she bent down to kiss me goodbye she was perfect just like a flower almost bursting with optimism and the sheer joy of life

Chapter 9

No more sleep.

No more sleep, just -

Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.

No more sleep, just -

Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that -

And then they’re gone -

Just like that.

Just Exegesis etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken -

Et sequentes.

The notes are everywhere, across the floor, the bed, the cheap Griffin furniture, my writing illegible even to me. I rip out and screw up the piece I’m writing, check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock, put the phone back off the hook and leave it on the bed, turn the radio up, and then I start again:

At 3:10 p.m. on Friday 27 January 1978, the naked body of Candy Simon born 6/6/60, a half-caste Jamaican found partially concealed in a timber yard off Great Northern Street, Huddersfield. Severe injuries to the head with blunt instrument and stab wounds to the body. Deceased was an active prostitute, recently moved to Huddersfield from Bradford. Was reported missing from home on 26 January by flat-mate, also an active prostitute. Had last been seen on Tuesday 24 January by flat-mate at 21:00 on Great Northern Street, Huddersfield, getting into a dark blue-coloured saloon car, possibly an Audi 100LS driven by a white male about thirty-five years of age and of smart appearance.

I stop and then writing:

Bradford?

Flat-mate?

Traffic wardens’ records?

I move on:

At 8:15 a.m. Saturday 27 May 1978 the body of a female was found on wasteland in Livingston Street at its junction with April Street, Brunswick, Manchester, at the rear of the Royal Infirmary. Deceased identified as Doreen Pickles, born 8/8/40, alias Mary Brown, alias Anne Pickles. Deceased was a convicted prostitute and the area behind the Royal Infirmary known as a place frequented by prostitutes and their clients. Death due to blows to the head with a blunt instrument, a severe abdominal wound, and a stab wound to the neck. Time of death estimated to be between midnight and 3:00 a.m. May 27.

I stop, thinking:

Next murder would be one year later -

Re-check case files on other prostitute murders in North of England, 1970 to 1980, not attributed to YR.

I stare across the floor, the bed, the cheap Griffin furniture. I check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock, put the phone back off the hook, turn the radio back up, and I lie upon the notes, upon the bed -

Et sequentes.

No more sleep.

No more sleep, just -

Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.

No more sleep, just -

Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that -

And then they’re gone -

Just like that.

Just Exegesis etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken -

Et sequentes.

No sleep, just -

Dark heart of the night, dark corner of the room:

I check my watch, turn the radio down, pick the phone up off the bed and get a dialling tone, check my watch against the speaking clock, put the phone back off the hook, turn the radio back up, and I walk across the dark room to the dark corner -

Here sits the box from Mrs Hall.

I put the light back on and I open it:

Eric’s box -

Files, piles and piles of files, and a couple of cassettes:

A & B .

I take the Memorex cassettes over to the Boots portable cassette machine. I turn the radio off and put the first one in -

I press play -

I sit back down on the bed and I take out the files and begin to read as the cassette plays:

‘He beat the fucking shit out of me. Right there in the fucking car park.’

‘Eric, Eric

‘Don’t fucking Eric, Eric me. This cunt’s got my fucking car. Broke into my fucking house.’

‘Eric, Eric

‘I want Eraser done and done fucking right’

‘Eric, shut up and listen.’

‘No, you shut up and you listen: I’m telling you he broke into my house, my own bloody house, he’s driving around in my fucking car, and he knows everything. Everything. So you tell me what the fuck you’re going do about the cunt.’

‘Eric, I mean it. Listen: it’s done.’

‘Done? What is?’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s finished.’

‘Finished? What about the car? Where the fuck’s my car?’

One of the lads’ll bring it round.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Eric, another time. Not now.’

I want to know?’

‘No, you don’t Eric’

Eject, flip, press play -

‘I’ve had enough. I can’t take anymore of this shit. First Eraser and now fucking Hunter.’

I stop reading -

‘Eric, you worry much too much.’

Same voices:

‘Peter Hunter’s coming and you’re telling me I worry too much. I’m already fucked up thanks to that fucking Fraser twat and now I’ve got to fucking talk to Hunter the Cunt.’

‘Don’t say a bloody word, Eric’

‘It’s alright for you, isn’t it? Not Leeds or Manchester, is it? Has to be sodding Bradford.’

‘Eric, for fuckssake.’

‘Look what happened to Porn Squad, – Moody and Virago.’

‘Eric, I know Peter Hunter and he’s not a problem.’

‘That’s what you say.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I say and you’ll fucking do what I say.’

Or what?’

‘Eric, don’t fucking start.’

‘No. I want to know what you’ll do if I’m not a good boy, if I don’t do what I’m told.’

‘Eric, we’re the only friends you’ve got. So stop fucking around.’

‘Or what?’

‘Or we’ll start fucking around with you.’

A pause, silence -

‘I’m sorry, I’m just upset.’

‘I know you are. We all are.’

‘I’m going to have to take a fall, aren’t I?’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘I can’t do fucking time, Richard. I can’t.’

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ll look after you.’

Stop.

My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry -

I’m thinking:

June 1977.

I’m wondering:

Richard?

I’m writing:

Leeds? Manchester?

I say out aloud, say alone:

‘Saint Cunt.’

I take out cassette A and replace it with B:

‘She’s dead.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

A different voice, familiar -

‘I want to know who fucking did it?’

‘Eric, she’s dead. Just leave it.’

‘Was it Eraser?’

‘Eric, you’ve got to fucking get it together mate. Eraser’s saying it was you. They’re going to come and have a word.’

‘I can’t do this.’

‘You’ve got to.’

‘Was it him?’

‘Fuck knows. Doesn’t matter.’

‘Course it fucking matters.’

‘No, it doesn’t. What matters is you keeping it together and getting through this.’

Stop.

Eject, flip, press play:

‘He had the fucking mag, didn’t he?’

‘What did he want?’

‘Money. Brass, what else.’

‘How much?’

‘Five grand.’

‘Pay him.’

‘But he’s a fucking journalist, he’ll just keep coming back.’

‘No he won’t.’

‘You sure?’

‘Trust your Uncle Bob.’ Stop.

My heart’s beating fast, mouth dry -

Wondering:

June 1977.

Thinking:

Uncle Bob?

Writing:

Detective Inspector Robert Craven?

At the bottom of the box, a magazine -

A porno mag:

Spunk.

Issue 13, March 1976.

65p .

Inside -

SPUNK is published by MJM Publishing Ltd, printed and distributed by MJM Printing Ltd, 270 Oldham Street, Manchester.

I turn the pages, the bodies and the hair, the faces and that stare -

A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips -

Saying out loud, alone:

‘Janice Ryan.’

No more sleep.

No more sleep, just -

Two huge wings that burst through the back, out of my skin, torn, two huge and rotting wings, big black things that weigh me down, heavy, that stop me standing.

No more sleep, just -

Wings, wings that burst through my back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, big black wings that weigh me down, heavy, that -

And then they’re gone.

Just like that -

Just Exegesis etched into my chest, my nails bloody, broken -

Et sequentes.

embedded in her chest a broken bottle of pop the screw top still on the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal thoughts lost and thoughts found transmission twelve noon Sunday the twelfth of june nineteen seventy seven the body of Janice ryan a twenty two year old known prostitute found secreted under an old settee on waste ground off white abbey road bradford death due to massive head injuries caused by a blunt instrument or boulder or rock and is thought that death occurred some seven days before due to partial decomposition of the body the killer had jumped on her chest causing broken ribs which ruptured the liver there were no stab wounds and is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other circulated prostitute murders publicly referred to as ripper murders the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do her brassiere had been pulled above her breasts her panties pulled down to the pubic region her skirt which had been removed was found under her body she was killed in some other place and had then been dragged by her collar to the settee her handbag not found when her body was discovered her left arm was tangled in the springs of the settee indicating that the killer had placed it on her body after rigor mortis had set in a period of at least four hours after death some days after death the body had been moved and a yorkshire post dated Saturday the eleventh of june nineteen seventy seven headline victims of a burning hate placed underneath it could not have blown there it had been deliberately placed there the body then moved on top of the cuts that will not stop bleeding the bruises that will never heal occult dreams psychic themes war crimes to map out the demon spheres with webs and wires that bind the days together man in amongst the golems dwells and scars them with his thoughts lost and thoughts found such terror can his hammer do six six six times a killer more victims as murder hunt police say there is no copy cat dear george from hell e am sorry e cannot give my name for obvious reasons e am the ripper e have been dubbed a maniac by the press but not by you you call me clever because you know e am you and your boys have not a clue that photo in the paper gave me fits and that bit about killing myself no chance e have got things to do my purpose is to rid streets of them sluts my one regret is that young lassie Johnson did not know cause changed routine that nite but warned you and jack at the post up to five now you say but there is a surprise in bradford get about you know warn whores to keep off streets cause e feel it coming on again sorry about young lassie yours respectfully jack the ripper might write again later e not sure last one really deserved it whores getting younger each time old slut next time hope initially the corpse had been well concealed soil rubble turf had been piled on top of it then the abandoned sofa placed on top of the heap apparently some time after rigor mortis had set in because the arm was well entangled in the sofa springs horse hair from the sofa had been stuffed into her mouth and the autopsy revealed she was also pregnant and told a friend e was going to earn some money and he was cruising along slowly when he had to brake suddenly because of the car in front e recognised the car and e tapped on the window and got in and he said where did you spring from so sud-

Chapter 10

Oldham Street, Manchester -

Saturday 20 December 1980.

In the car, the radio on:

Provisionals to end Dirty Protest as forty men take food.

More London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman.

Hunt to find sadistic gangland killers of ex-policeman and daughter.

Funeral of Ripper victim Laureen Bell.

I switch the radio off and get out of the car and cross the road.

It’s raining, a cold and dirty Manchester rain -

A funeral rain.

270 Oldham Street, black and from before the war, six or seven storeys high without a light.

Just inside the doors are the nameplates, various textile and clothing firms.

No MJM Publishing or Printing Ltd -

Fuck.

I look around, the ground floor offices silent.

There are stone stairs to the left, a lift to the right -

I take the stairs.

On the first floor, lights and the slight hum of machinery.

I tap on the old glass door that says Manchester Divan and open it -

It’s a big room, desks and cabinets by the door, machines and other equipment at the back. There are a lot of brightly dressed Indian or Pakistani women working the machinery. The windows are grey and give no light and the room smells of sweat.

An old Indian or Pakistani man with a beard and a hat looks up from his desk and says: ‘Yes?’

‘My name is Peter Hunter and I’m a police officer,’ I say and show him my identification.

‘Yes?’ he says again, nervously.

‘I’m looking for a company called MJM Publishing or MJM Printing Limited? I believe they had offices in this building?’

The man is nodding: ‘Yes, they were on the third floor.’

‘Can you remember when they left?’

‘About two or three years ago.’

‘You don’t know what happened, do you? They move, go under?’

He’s shaking his head: ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Who owns the building?’

‘Asquith and Dawson are the agents.’

‘Dawson?’

Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties -

A friend.

‘Yes, Asquith and Dawson by the library.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, an echo -

‘I can’t do time, Richard. I can’t.’

On the third floor landing the window is broken and there is dust and rubbish in the corners, in front of a door that still says MJM Publishing & Printing Ltd.

Across the landing is a second office: Linton & Sons.

There are no lights on and no-one’s answering the door.

I squat down and pick through the rubbish outside MJM’s door -

Nothing, just rubbish.

I try the door and it rattles but I think better of it.

Nearly 10:30 -

Manchester Police Headquarters -

The eleventh floor -

The Assistant Chief Constable’s office -

My office -

Just as I’d left it, but for the mountains of post in the tray.

I walk across the corridor and knock on the Chief Constable’s door.

‘Come.’

I open the door -

Chief Constable Smith behind his desk, Christmas carols playing.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

‘Thought you were in Leeds,’ he says, not looking up.

‘Yeah, I should be but something’s come up I thought you’d want to know about.’

He looks up: ‘What now?’

‘MJM Publishing and Printing?’

He’s shaking his head: ‘Never heard of them.’

‘They used to have premises on Oldham Street. Publish pornography’

‘Really? Pornographers?’ he asks, eyes lighting -

Pet hates.

‘Yeah, under-the-counter type stuff,’ I say, reeling him in.

‘Is that right? Oldham Street?’ he says. ‘You’d better sit down then, hadn’t you.’

I nod.

‘Go on,’ he says.

‘Janice Ryan was in one of MJM’s magazines.’

‘And?’

‘I found the magazine among Eric Hall’s papers. This morning I went to check out the address and found out that MJM have either gone under or moved. But guess who owns the lease on the building?’

On Oldham Street? Who?’

‘Asquith and Dawson.’

‘Richard Dawson’s firm?’

‘Yep.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he shrugs. ‘Asquith and Dawson must own half the bloody buildings in Piccadilly. They own lease on the Arndale, don’t they?’

‘But there’s a clear link here, yeah? With the Ripper?’

‘On Wednesday you were saying chances were Ryan wasn’t a Ripper job?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m sure this is the link between Dawson, Douglas, and Whitehead and the words on that tape; the link we were looking for.’

‘We? You, more like.’

‘OK, the link I think we should be looking into: Dawson, Douglas, Whitehead, Hall, Ryan, and now back to Dawson.’

‘And you Pete, don’t forget yourself.’

On the dark stair -

‘Right,’ I say. ‘And me.’

Chief Constable Clement Smith sniffs up: ‘Roger says you didn’t get right far with Mr Whitehead.’

‘No.’

He sighs, sits back in his chair, then says: ‘We’ve got Dawson coming back in on Monday morning. Are you going to be here?’

‘Don’t think so, no. Not in the morning.’

‘Well, have a word with Roger and see if he can follow up this MJM stuff and put a question in on Monday.’

‘OK,’ I say and stand up.

‘Pete?’

I stop at the door: ‘Yes sir?’

‘You look shattered,’ he says, looking back down at the work on his desk. ‘You want to cut out all this back and forthing between here and there.’

‘I know,’ I nod.

‘Too much for you, you just say the word.’

‘No, it’s OK.’

He looks up again: ‘You spoken to Philip Evans recently?’

‘No.’

‘You ought to. You should tell him about all this.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Best he hears it from you first.’

I nod and close the door behind me.

‘Small bloody world, isn’t it,’ says Roger Hook, shaking his head -

We’re sitting in his office, drinking coffee with lumps of artificial milk swimming on the surface.

I say: ‘You see that’s just it; I don’t think it is.’

‘What?’

‘A small world.’

‘So let me get this straight: you’re telling me that your mate Tricky Dicky rents out a building to some pornographers who use Janice Ryan as a model, the same Janice Ryan who’s knocking off Robert Fraser and Eric Hall, the same woman who gets done in by the Ripper, so then Jack Whitehead tries to blackmail Eric Hall, and three years later his prints turn up on a cassette tape that also has your name on it, turns up in the mouth of an ex-Yorkshire copper, a dead ex-Yorkshire copper who was working for, wait for it, wait for it – working for Richard Dawson, Tricky Dicky himself. Your mate. But it’s not a small world, eh Pete?’

‘No.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘It’s a big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells, and when those hells collide it’s time for us to sit up and take fucking notice.’

Silence -

Roger Hook uncomfortable, he takes a mouthful of cold coffee before he says: ‘So what now?’

‘I’ll go round to Asquith and Dawson, see what happened to MJM Publishing Limited.’

‘You don’t have to do that. Send Ronnie.’

I roll my eyes and stand up.

‘Not Ronnie then. Anyone, it’s just bloody legwork.’

‘I like legwork.’

‘Please yourself,’ he says. ‘Usually do anyway.’

I stop at the door, turn around and say: ‘Reminds me. Did anyone talk to that orderly at Stanley Royd, Leonard Marsh?’

‘Shit, sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it when I’m back over there.’

‘Lucky you like legwork,’ Hook smiles.

‘Isn’t it.’

Asquith and Dawson, big fat offices on the corner of Mosley Street and Princess Street.

At reception, I ask the young girl in the roll-neck sweater: ‘Is Mr Dawson in?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s Saturday.’

‘I’m from the police, love,’ I say. ‘And I know it’s Saturday’

‘But he’s not in,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears.

‘OK, then I need you to help me get some information.’

‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m new.’

‘Is there anyone old here?’

‘No, it’s Saturday. Sorry, I mean no.’

I sigh: ‘You’re on your own then?’

‘Everyone else is out,’ she nods.

‘When will they be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK,’ I say, taking out my ID. ‘I’d like you to find the records on one of your properties on Oldham Street. Number 270.’

‘But I don’t know how.’

‘I’m just after a forwarding address.’

‘A forwarding address?’

‘Yes, the people have moved and we need to get in touch with them. It’s very important police business.’

‘But I don’t know where they keep that kind of information.’

‘Well, where are the records?’

‘Upstairs, on top floor I think.’

‘Can you show me?’

‘Mr Asquith says I’m not to leave the desk.’

‘OK, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ll just nip up and have a look and be back in a sec’

‘I’m not sure that’s OK.’

‘Is it open?’

‘Yes, it’s open but…’

‘OK, then. You can hang on to this,’ I say, handing her my ID. ‘Any questions you have you call the Manchester Police Headquarters. I’ll be back in five minutes.’

I leave her holding the wallet and start up the stairs -

‘Top floor?’ I call back.

She nods, staring at the ID.

I take the stairs two at a time, past the empty offices with their big yellow computers and their potted black plants, their posters of foreign lands and pastel wallpapers -

At the top of the stairs, there’s a set of double doors -

I open them and -

Fuck:

I stare at rows and rows of filing cabinets -

I walk down the rows and rows, peering in drawers as I go, properties listed by obscure references -

I turn and walk down another row, again opening drawers as I go -

Bingo:

Client records.

Down the row I go, heading for the Ms -

I pull open the drawer marked Mi – Mo -

I flick through, I flick through, I flick through -

Yes:

MJM Publishing & Printing Limited.

It’s a thick file, bound in manila card.

I want copies, but I’ve no chance.

I flick through, I flick through. I flick through -

Flicking through for a forwarding address -

Yes:

MJM Publishing Ltd, c/o 230 Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks.

I take it and am away -

Down the stairs -

The young girl at the desk is still holding my wallet, staring at it.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

She hands me my ID.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.

‘Helen.’

‘That’s a nice name,’ I say. ‘My favourite.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiles.

‘Bye,’ I say.

‘Bye.’

Back in the office, I call Philip Evans:

‘Hello, this is Peter Hunter. Could I speak to Mr Evans please?’

‘I’m afraid Mr Evans is not at work today.’

‘OK. I’ll call back on Monday then.’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re not expecting Mr Evans back until after Christmas.’

‘Really? OK. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Bye.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back. I flick through my address book, looking for Evans’ home number -

It’s not there.

I pick up the phone and call his office again but the line’s engaged.

After a few minutes I try again but it’s still engaged, so I go back to the cards and the letters in my tray.

At about three, I call Leeds:

‘Can you put me through to Chief Superintendent Murphy, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Hang on.’

I hang on -

‘Chief Superintendent Murphy’s not here.’

‘Thank you.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back.

I pick up the phone and call Philip Evans’ office again:

No-one’s answering.

I go back to the cards and letters in my tray.

At about half-four, I call Wakefield:

‘Can you put me through to the Chief Constable, please?’

‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Just a moment, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

I wait -

‘This is Chief Constable Angus speaking.’

‘Sorry to bother you, sir. This is Peter Hunter.’

‘What can I do for you Mr Hunter?’

‘I’d like to arrange to have some time with a couple of your senior detectives, ones who’ve been involved in the inquiry.’

‘I see.’

‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, provided we can spare them.’

‘Of course.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.’

‘OK. When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘I know, but we’re going to be into Christmas soon. It won’t take long.’

‘I’ll give Pete Noble a call and see what we can do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Til have him call you. You at Millgarth?’

‘No, sir. I’m in Manchester.’

‘Manchester? Any progress with Bob Douglas?’

‘No, sir.’

A pause, then: ‘I see, so when will you next be deigning us with your presence over here?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘OK, then I’ll either have the lads waiting for you or a message.’

‘I can call back later?’

‘No, you get off home Mr Hunter.’

‘Thank you,’ I’m saying, but the line’s already dead.

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, listening to the radio:

The football scores coming in:

Thirteen-nil.

After a few minutes I get up, take my coat from the back of the door, switch out the light and leave, locking the door behind me -

Back a minute later to check, then gone again.

The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -

The scene of the crime:

It’s dark as I park on the empty wasteland, just a police car sitting in the gloom, here to watch:

DEATH -

All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -

Trains pass, a dog barks, a man screams words I can’t catch.

I stumble across craters still filled with dead water, torch in hand, nodding at the officers in the car -

Before me, the building looms – dark and towering, eyes dead, here to stare:

DEATH -

A figure walks, dreadful -

Trains pass, a dog screams, a man barks words I can’t catch -

I turn, but there’s no-one.

In the doorway I switch off the tapes in my head, here to listen:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

I step inside -

The workbenches, the chains and the tools; the machines silent.

I step forward, listening: DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -

I run my hand across the heavy bench, across the dark stains, across the etchings and the carvings, the messages, the signs and the symbols -

The cry of the wind through the pane -

The torchlight across the chains, a searchlight:

DEATH -

All this and heathen too -

The beam falls upon the door, ajar -

I walk across the floor to the door and push it open, a third time -

The muddy bath, the dirty water, the light from up above, from:

DEATH -

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

I bend down and nm my hand over the dark sides, over the heavy water, across the scratchings and the markings, the messages, the signs and the symbols -

In my hand, black and bloody water -

I turn the torch upon my own hands, looking:

DEATH -

Never let her slip -

I turn and walk back out towards the door, following the light from the torch, ceiling to floor, wall to wall, and back to the floor -

Above the door, in the beams above the door -

Swastikas, huge white swastikas and two words: HTAED -

Yrotcaf htaed.

I’m sat in the car in the drive outside my house.

The Christmas tree lights are on inside.

I switch off the radio and go in -

Joan’s watching the TV.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘I wasn’t expecting you back tonight,’ she says, getting up, kissing me on the cheek. ‘You’re cold, freezing.’

‘Had some stuff to take care of at the office.’

‘Should have said,’ she says, going into the kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Sandwich?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

She comes back in with a cup of tea: ‘There you go.’

‘What are you watching?’ I ask.

‘Christmas at Robin’s Nest,’ she laughs, sitting down beside me on the settee.

‘Funny?’

‘Mm, suppose,’ she shrugs.

I lean forward and pick up the pamphlet on adoption from the coffee table -

‘A Vietnamese baby?’ I ask.

She nods: ‘What do you think?’

‘I told you, I think it’s a good idea.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really,’ I say. ‘What do we have to do?’

She hands me an application form and says: ‘We both have to complete one of these, send it off, and then they’ll call us for an interview.’

‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ I say. ‘Better pass me a pen then hadn’t you.’

‘You’re sure then?’ she asks.

‘Positive, love.’

‘Thank you,’ she smiles. ‘Thank you.’

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

In the middle of the film, the telephone:

‘Peter Hunter speaking?’

‘Peter? This is Richard.’

Fuck -

‘What can I do for you, Richard?’

‘You were at the office today?’

‘Yes.’

‘What the bloody hell were you doing there?’

‘Looking for you.’

‘Me? Why? What now?’

‘Look, calm down.’

‘Fuck off, this has got completely out of hand.’

‘Richard, look: I just wanted to ask you about some property you rented to a company. That was all.’

‘Company? Which company?’

‘Not on the phone, Richard. We’ll talk about it on Monday.’

‘No we bloody won’t. We’ll talk about it now.’

‘That’s not a good idea.’

‘Well neither was gaining entry to my office without a warrant.’

Fuck, fuck -

‘Richard -’

‘Which company?’

Fuck, fuck, fuck -

‘MJM Publishing.’

A pause, silence, then: ‘What about them?’

‘Look Richard, we’ll go into it on Monday.’

‘Fuck off, Peter. What about them?’

‘Look, it’s probably nothing to do with you.’

‘Probably nothing to do with me? What then?’

‘OK, look: their name came up in connection with something to do with the Ripper Inquiry.’

‘The Ripper? The Leeds Ripper?’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

‘So when we did a check it turned out the building they’d been renting was one of yours.’

Another pause, silence, then: ‘And that’s it?’

‘You tell me?’

A longer pause, silence, finally: ‘There’s nothing to tell; Colin dealt with them anyway.’

‘Fine. Don’t worry about it then.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Goodbye Richard.’

‘See you on Monday,’ he says and hangs up -

Fuck.

In the War Room, in the night -

The photographs and maps -

The computer and cassettes -

The papers and pornography -

The words and the notes, the Exegesis -

The bodies and the faces, Spunk -

A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips -

In the War Room, in the night, on my knees -

Before the photos and the maps -

The computer and the cassettes -

The papers and pornography -

The words and the body, the notes and her face -

Exegesis and Spunk -

A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come.

Early June, 1977 -

We were sitting in the A10 suite at Manchester Police HQ -

On the blackboard I had written two words:

Bradford Vice.

‘Any idea on where the tip came from?’ asked Mike Hillman.

I shook my head: Obviously someone inside, but the deal was no names.’

‘It’s bound to come out,’ Murphy shrugged.

I nodded: ‘Not much we can do about that.’

‘Be nice for whoever it is when it does,’ smiled Murphy.

‘So who we got?’ asked Hillman.

‘The statement implies a number of senior officers

‘Fuck,’ tutted Murphy.

‘But,’ I continued. ‘Only one officer is actually named, this Detective Inspector.’

I stood up and wrote two more words on the board: Eric Hall.

I wake in the War Room, in the night, on my knees -

I put the stuff away and switch off the computer, the cassette recorder, the heater and the light.

I go back inside and upstairs -

Joan is asleep.

I switch on the radio and undress and get into bed next to her -

I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the country music, trying to stay awake, but -

Yrotcaf Htaed, in blood and above the door.

The moon was shining through the skylight, and I was gazing at the little girl 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 -

Yrotcaf Htaed, in blood and swastikas above the door.

And I turned and walked away and everything outside was white and also without feature, without feature except for the parked police car, except for the police car and the white gulls and the black ravens, the white gulls and black ravens circling overhead screaming, circling overhead screaming -

Helen Marshall and the girl screaming:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

– and then there was a shot.

denly and e said just good timing you can put it down to fate and off we set transmission five from the office of the dead found on monday the twenty eighth of november nineteen seventy seven in southern cemetery manchester elizabeth mcqueen dead a week or more from brain damage caused by blows to the head from a hammer or an axe with a number of postmortem lacerations being in total eighteen stab wounds to the breasts and chest the stomach and vagina stomach ripped open intestines pulled out knife wounds from her left shoulder to her right knee and there were six further wounds to her right side some of the gashes were eight inches deep an unsuccessful attempt had been made to sever her head body was then attacked by the vermin of the field alas a handbag was not recovered vinyl leather look believed to be dark brown nine inches long seven inches high three inches wide with two carrying handles and one shoulder made of the same material zip fastener and wrap over strap which fastens with a clasp on the side of the bag on which there are two external pockets it contained approximately fifteen pounds in bank of england notes items of cosmetics and a few pieces of yellow tissue paper alas the children in bed missing mummy the children wake missing mummy the children eat cornflakes for breakfast missing mummy the children get dressed missing mummy the children go to school missing mummy the children play with their friends in the cold missing mummy the children eat spam for lunch missing mummy the children listen to the teacher read a story about a spider missing mummy the children buy a texan on their way home from school missing mummy the children eat beans for tea missing mummy the children have a bath missing mummy the children watch starsky and hutch missing mummy the children fight missing mummy the children cry missing mummy the children sleep missing mummy the children dream missing mummy the children dream terrible dreams of missing mummy with no head moving along no differently from all the rest mummy holds her severed head up by its hair swinging it in one hand just like a lantern and it looks at them and says alas from the office of the dead out of the terrible depths have e cried unto thee lord hear my voice o lord let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications if thou lord should mark iniquities o lord who should stand but there is forgiveness with thee and e have stood by thee according to thy law my soul has waited on thy word my soul has hoped in thee o lord from the morning watch unto the evening there is hope in the lord for with the lord there is mercy and with him is redemption and he shall redeem me from all my iniquities give me eternal rest o lord and let perpetual light shine upon me lord our father have mercy Christ have mercy on e who was known in the reno and the nile as mad lizzie but am now known only as the spaghetti lady two kerbies waiting but e had to go and choose him did e not with his nice smile and clean clothes that would not frighten anybody we drove up to the southern cemetery because it is dead quiet here e laughed and he smiled and said e bet it is and e lead him into the darkness where he hit me with the hammer and e fell to the ground and e was moaning and he hit me again and again eleven times then he left me alone until one week later he comes again drags me out of the bushes strips me of everything e am wearing even my boots stabs me in my breasts and chest and with a knife he cuts me open from my knee to shoulder with a piece of broken pane

Chapter 11

Half past seven -

Sunday 21 December 1980:

Bradford Road, Batley, halfway between Leeds and Bradford.

I park by a woollen factory that has 229 as an address and cross the road -

I walk past an estate agents, cross another smaller road leading up to the Batley Grammar School, and there it is, between the Chop Suey and a chemist -

Number 230, Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks:

RD News.

I walk past the newsagents, cross the road by the red bus shelter with no glass left, and stand on the other side of the road, taking a good look:

One door, big window full of Christmas adverts and gas heaters downstairs -

One window, curtains drawn upstairs.

I cross back over and go inside the shop -

There’s a tall Indian or Pakistani putting the papers out in front of the counter.

He turns and he nods when he hears me come in -

I look at the piles of Sunday papers, the shelves of sweets and boxes of chocolates, the gas canisters and heaters, the cans of pet food and processed meat, the birthday and the Christmas cards, the beer and the spirits, the cigarettes behind the counter covered with more sweets.

I go through the top shelf -

Penthouse, Playboy, Escort, Razzle, Fiesta etc.

‘You got Spunk?’ I ask.

‘You what?’ says the Indian or Pakistani.

‘Magazine called Spunk?’

‘Never heard of it mate,’ he says.

‘Mucky mag, it is.’

‘Never heard of it,’ he says again, but he’s stopped what he’s doing and is moving back behind the counter.

I pick up a Sunday Mirror that promises photographs from Laureen Bell’s funeral -

I hand him the right money and ask him: ‘You own this place do you?’

‘You what?’ he says, putting the coins in the till.

‘Just asking if this is yours?’ I say, looking round.

‘Why?’

‘Just asking that’s all.’

‘We rent it actually, if you must know.’

‘And the upstairs, you rent that as well?’

He’s pissed off is the Indian or Pakistani and he lets me know: ‘What’s it to you?’

I take out my warrant card.

‘Why didn’t you just say?’ he asks me.

‘You got a licence for that lot?’ I ask him, nodding at the booze.

‘Yeah.’

‘There’s no sign.’

‘Sorry. We’re getting one.’

‘That’s all right then.’ I shrug.

He stands there behind the till, looking nervous.

I ask him again: ‘So what about upstairs?’

‘You what?’

‘That yours?’

‘I told you, we just rent it.’

Again: ‘The upstairs?’

‘No.’

‘Who’s upstairs then?’

‘Don’t know do I.’

‘You don’t know who lives upstairs? Come on.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Who does?’

‘Landlord, I suppose.’

‘Who is?’

‘Mr Douglas.’

Fuck -

‘And where’s he?’

Other side of Moors somewhere.’

‘You don’t have the address, do you?’

‘Not on me, no.’

‘So how do you pay him?’

‘He comes round once a month, doesn’t he.’

‘His first name Bob, is it?’

‘Yeah, it is. He was a copper and all – you probably know him.’

‘Probably do,’ I say. ‘Small world.’

I take the Bradford Road through Batley and into Dewsbury, then the Wakefield Road up through Ossett and into Wakefield, the radio talking about the Laureen Bell funeral:

‘A packed village church listened in tears and silence to Laureen’s favourite record, Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water, before which the vicar had read from St John.’

In the centre of Wakefield I park off the Bullring, staring up at the first floor of the Strafford -

The first floor of the Strafford still boarded up after all these years -

After all these years back again, back in this big black bloody world -

This big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells -

A million black and bloody hells in this big black bloody shrinking world -

Where hells collide:

Wakey Fear -

January 1975, that second week:

Black snow blowing across the Bullring, blue tape keeping the pavement and the entrance clear.

Clarkie and I climbed over the tape, Clarkie saying: ‘So half one, just as they’re about to knock off, Craven and Douglas get the call – shots fired at the Strafford and, while Wood Street are scratching around for the Specials, Craven and Douglas park right out front and head straight up here.’

‘Call logged 1:28 a.m., anonymous?’

‘Yep,’ said Clarkie. ‘Anonymous.’

We started to climb the stairs to the left of the entrance to the ground floor pub, me saying: ‘And they’re aware that shots have been fired and that the SPG are being deployed, yet still they charge right up here?’

‘Hero cops, remember?’

‘Dumb bastards, morelike.’

At the top of the stairs, I pushed open the door -

Two weeks on and the room still stank of smoke, still stank of the bad things that had gone on here, still stank of death -

The mirror and the optics behind the bar, shattered; the jukebox in the corner, in pieces; the carpets and the furniture in sticks, stained.

Clarkie said: ‘So in they come and see bodies and men in hoods and it’s bang! Douglas gets a bullet in the shoulder and thwack! Craven gets a butt to the skull and then the gunmen exit, just minutes before the Specials arrive.’

I was nodding, taking out the SPG report, reading out loud: ‘1:45 a.m., Tuesday 24 December 1974, officers deployed to the Strafford Public House in Wakefield in response to reports of shots fired. On arrival at the scene, officers found the downstairs empty and proceeded up the stairs. On entering the first floor bar, officers found three people dead at the scene and three seriously injured, two with gunshot wounds. There was no sign of the people responsible and calls were made to immediately set up roadblocks. Ambulances were called and arrived at 1:48 a.m.’

I stopped reading -

Clarkie was squatting down, eyes closed.

‘What you thinking?’ I asked him.

He looked up: ‘OK, let’s back up a bit?’

I nodded.

‘We’ve got to sort out what happened before Craven and Douglas, before the Specials.’

Me: ‘Go on.’

‘Well, looking at the sketches and the photographs,’ he said, doing just that. ‘We’ve got the barmaid Grace Morrison, dead behind here,’ and he walked behind the bar, putting the photograph down next to the till -

‘Then we’ve got the three men: Bell dead here,’ and Clarkie put a photo down on the sofa that ran along the window -

‘Box there,’ he pointed, handing me a photo to put down on the floor in front of the bar. ‘And Booker, bleeding to death next to him.’

Four photographs -

Four black and white photographs -

Stood there in the centre of the wreckage, Clarkie and me staring at the four black and white photographs laid out across the room.

‘Order?’ he asked me.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘We’ve got three guns: a shotgun, a Webley, and an L39 rifle.’

‘An L39? That’s the new police rifle,’ said Clarkie.

‘Yep. Popular weapon these days.’

‘So who got what?’

‘Box, Booker, and Douglas get the shotgun; Bell the L39 and the barmaid the pistol, the Webley.’

‘Well, Craven reckoned on a four-man team. We got three guns.’

‘Still can’t get the order clear, can you?’ I said.

‘This is what I reckon,’ said Clarkie, back over by the door. ‘Night before Christmas Eve, everywhere quiet waiting for the big night tomorrow; gone one, the downstairs closed. Strafford a well-known afterhours, bit of brass. Car pulls up outside, they hit the stairs running, burst in, shouting for the till – but there’s buttons, it’s a fuck up. They turn on the public – except this public is Derek fucking Box, professional villain and hardman, and his mate Paul. And they’re fucked if they’re going to hand over their big posh new watches to some crew of out of town nonces.’

Out of town?’

‘No-one local’s going to do the Strafford, Pete.’

‘Kids?’

‘Come on, an L39? This is some heavy bloody ordnance they’ve got here.’

I stared over at the sofa, at the hole in the back of the chair, the hole that went through into the wall -

The hole where 01’ Billy Bell had been sitting, his broken glass still on the floor.

Clarkie was saying: ‘So Derek and Paul are giving them bollocks and one of them let’s Derek have it, then Paul, and then it’s in for a penny in for a pound, bye-bye Billy, bye-bye Grade – who’s been screaming her fucking tits off anyway.’

I was nodding along, glancing at the photo on the bar.

‘Then they’re doing the till and their pockets, when in come our hero cops, and it’s thwack, bang, thank you Wakefield.’

Me: ‘Thanks for nothing.’

‘Four dead, two wounded coppers – and all for the change in their pockets.’

‘Can’t see it,’ I said. ‘Can’t see it.’

‘You will,’ said George Oldman, in through the back door with Maurice Jobson. ‘You will.’

Millgarth, Leeds -

Sunday 21 December 1980:

Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, Marshall.

‘Where’s Bob Craven?’ I ask -

Everyone shrugs their shoulders.

‘Well,’ I say. ‘This one’s me.’

Eyes down -

Silence in the dark room for the ritual of the dead -

Thinking, is this how the dead live:

‘At 6:30 a.m. on Saturday 19 May last year the body of Joanne Clare Thornton, a 19-year-old bank clerk, was found in Lewisham Park, Morley. She was not a prostitute nor was her moral character questionable. She was last seen alive when she left her aunt’s house at 11:55 p.m. on Friday 18 May to walk to her own home, a distance of just over one mile. Death was estimated to have occurred between 12:15 a.m. and 12:30 a.m. on Saturday 19 May 1979.

‘That death came from two blows to the back of the head as she walked through the park and was instantaneous, her skull fractured from ear to ear. Her killer then dragged her onto the grass, repositioned her clothes and stabbed her twenty-one times in the abdominal area, six times in the right leg, and three times on and in the vagina. When he had finished he placed one shoe between her thighs and her own raincoat over her.

‘Joanne lay like that until 6:30 when she was initially spotted by a bus driver who believed it was a bundle of rags and reported it as such when he returned to his depot. By that time, however, a local woman on her way to work had already realised what exactly that pile of rags was and reported it to the police.

‘George Oldman issued the following statement:

‘If this is connected with the previous Ripper killings, then he has made a terrible mistake. As with Rachel Johnson, the dead girl is perfectly respectable. It appears he has changed his method of attack and this is concerning me; now in a non-red light area and attacking innocents. All women are at risk, even in areas not recognised as Ripper Country.’

‘There was a big response,’ I continue, glancing at Helen Marshall. ‘And witnesses came forward providing us with one solid description plus three motors -

‘At about nine on the Friday night, a man had attempted to pick up a Jamaican woman as she walked along Fountain Street in the centre of Morley. He was driving a dark-coloured Ford Escort and was described as being about thirty years of age with dirty blond collar-length hair, which was greasy and worn over his ears. He had what was described as a Jason King moustache which ended halfway between the corners of his mouth and chin, with a square face and jaw and was generally described as being of a scruffy appearance. He was wearing a brown-brushed cotton shirt with a tartan check, open at the neck, under a tartan lumber jacket with a beige or white fur collar.

‘The same man was spotted at about midnight parked in the same Ford Escort outside a cafй on the Middleton Road, across from Lewisham Park. The witness described the Escort as being made between 1968 and 1975, which would make it something between a G and N redg.

‘A photofit of this man was shown to Linda Clark, who was the woman who’d been attacked in Bradford in June 1977, and has to date provided us with the best description of the Ripper.’

‘Assuming she was attacked by Ripper, that is,’ says Murphy.

‘Yep,’ I sigh. ‘Assuming she was attacked by the Ripper.’

‘Sorry,’ says Murphy, palms up -

‘No John, you’re right; we can’t assume anything. However,’ I continue: ‘When she was shown the photofit of the Morley man, Linda Clark said: “That’s him, Dave. The man who attacked me.” According to Oldman.’

‘Dave?’ says Helen Marshall.

‘That’s the name the man who picked her up had given her.’

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘That car was a Cortina, yeah?’ asks Murphy.

‘Mark II, white or yellow,’ adds Hillman.

‘Anyway,’ I say. Other Morley motors that have yet to be eliminated are a dark-coloured Datsun saloon, parked by the park with its lights off, and a tan or orange-coloured Rover 2.5 or 2.6 litre that was also seen passing the park on two occasions just before midnight. Neither of the drivers of these two vehicles have ever come forward.’

They’re taking notes, getting ready to check their files, their lists -

Hillman looks up: ‘Going back a bit, the positioning of the shoe, that’s similar to Clare Strachan and the boot.’

‘Good point,’ I say. ‘And that’s obviously another thing keeping Strachan in the frame.’

Marshall: ‘It’s also similar to the piece of wood found on Joan Richards.’

‘Yes,’ I nod, then: ‘One other odd thing.’

They stop writing and look up.

‘A woman of Joanne’s age and description was seen walking close to the park in the direction of her home with a man described as being in his early twenties, five foot eight, with mousy-coloured greasy hair brushed right to left and a little wavy. He had stubble and prominent cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and was wearing a three-quarter-length dark-coloured coat and jeans.

‘If this wasn’t Joanne and the Ripper, then this couple have yet to come forward. If it was Ripper and victim, then the description is at odds with previous ones.’

‘Unless there were two of them,’ whispers Marshall.

‘That’s what I said,’ winks Murphy.

‘No, not two separate Rippers. Two of them together – doing the killings together.’

‘What? A bloody tag-team?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘A bloody tag-team.’

No-one speaks, eyes moving from her to me and back again until -

Until there’s a knock on the door and a uniform says: ‘Mr Hunter, Detectives Prentice and Alderman are here.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘One last thing -they pulled a size eight boot print from the park very similar to the ones also found on Joan Richards and on Tracey Livingston.’

Taking notes, getting ready to check their files, their lists -

Finished, I close my notebook and stand up.

‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘I’m going to have a chat with Jim Prentice and Dickie Alderman; would you mind sitting in?’

‘Not at all,’ he says, getting up.

‘OK, I’ll see the rest of you back at the hotel tonight, if not before. Tomorrow we’ll do Dawn Williams after the morning briefing and I’ll also update you on Laureen Bell.’

‘If there’s anything to update,’ says Hillman.

‘Yeah, if there is anything.’

Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice are waiting for us downstairs.

Dick doesn’t even say hello -

Jim says: ‘Where do you want to do this?’

‘It’s your Nick,’ I say -

‘But it’s your show,’ he says.

‘Interview room?’ offers Murphy -

‘The fucking Belly?’ laughs Alderman.

‘Lead on,’ I say.

Alderman’s grinning as we follow him and Prentice down the stairs to their interview rooms; to the Belly -

Alderman opens a heavy door and we step inside one of their well-scrubbed bright rooms -

‘Just get another chair,’ says Prentice and goes next door.

We sit around the empty table, me and John Murphy on one side, Alderman on the other, Prentice sitting down beside him when he comes back in -

We’ve got our notebooks out, me and Murphy.

‘All right if we smoke?’ asks Prentice.

‘Go ahead,’ I say, declining the open pack.

Murphy takes one and the three of them light up.

‘Got any sandwiches?’ laughs Alderman.

‘No,’ I say, flicking through my notes. ‘No beer either.’

‘Just pulling your leg,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I say, finding my place. ‘Let’s get started.’

‘All ears,’ winks Alderman.

‘First of all, many thanks for making yourselves available. As you know, we’ve been asked to review all aspects of the Ripper Inquiry and to make any recommendations we might find, based on what we see.’

‘And what do you see?’ asks Alderman.

‘Please,’ I smile. ‘We aren’t at that stage yet; that’s why we’re grateful that you’ve agreed to have this talk with us.’

‘Like we had a choice?’ he sniffs.

I ignore him: ‘Both of you have been involved with the inquiry from the off, and are still involved, so obviously you both have a tremendous amount of knowledge about the different investigations, the methods and procedures.’

I pause, glancing their way -

Prentice is stubbing out his cig, eyes on me; Alderman jumpy, not like him.

‘Let’s start at the beginning: Theresa Campbell.’

‘That’s not the beginning,’ says Alderman. ‘What about Joyce Jobson and Anita Bird?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise either of you were involved with those attacks.’

‘We weren’t,’ says Prentice, looking at Alderman.

‘Just saying that Campbell wasn’t the first, that’s all,’ says Alderman.

‘OK then,’ I nod. ‘The first murder.’

‘That’d be a bit more accurate,’ smiles Alderman.

‘Both Campbell and Richards were the same team?’

Prentice nods: ‘Chief Superintendent Jobson, out of here.’

‘And you two were the senior detectives?’

‘Yes,’ says Alderman. ‘Still are.’

‘Other detectives involved then were John Rudkin and Bob Craven?’

Jim Prentice nods.

‘I spoke with Maurice last Tuesday, he spoke very highly of this set-up.’

Prentice is still nodding, Alderman staring straight at me now -

I say: ‘Impression I got was that Maurice thinks that, had this team been kept together, you’d have caught the Ripper by now.’

Silence -

‘So,’ I continue. ‘I’m obviously interested in what you both think, given you’ve worked under both Maurice and George Oldman, and now Pete Noble?’

‘What?’ laughs Alderman. ‘You’re asking us whether we think if Maurice had been kept on, whether we’d have got the Ripper by now?’

‘I’m just interested…’

‘You drag me in here on a Sunday, my first fucking Sunday off in three months, to ask me that? Is that your best fucking question Mr Hunter?’ he says, standing up -

‘Sit down,’ I say. ‘And don’t fucking try this on me.’

‘Try what?’

‘You sit down and you hear me out.’

He’s staring at me, my heart fucking pounding -

‘Superintendent,’ I say, nodding at the chair -

He sits down.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Now, I’d like to know about the differences in the styles of the various operations, if you don’t mind.’

Prentice coughs and says: ‘Everything was different, yeah? I mean, you’ve got to remember this was five years ago, much smaller inquiry.’

‘Who put them together?’

‘Campbell and Richards?’

I nod.

‘Maurice did, but it was obvious minute we saw her.’

Murphy: ‘Richards?’

He nods: ‘But we didn’t have Preston in. Not Strachan at this stage.’

Me: ‘And when was that then?’

‘77, after the blood tests and the letters,’ says Alderman, smiling: ‘Like you don’t know.’

‘You’d been over there though? In 76?’

‘Not us personally, but we’d sent people over and they’d sent some of their lot here.’

‘John Rudkin and Bob Craven right?’

Alderman shrugs: ‘In 75?’

I nod.

‘Sounds right,’ he says. ‘But we’ve been back and forth across them sodding Moors so many times, you tell us; you’re one with it all written down in front of you.’

Ignoring him: ‘So then Rudkin and Bob Fraser went back in 77?’

Prentice nods.

Me: ‘But by this time it’s George and Pete Noble?’

They’re both nodding.

‘Prostitute Murder Squad?’

‘Yes,’ says Prentice.

I ask him: ‘So Strachan was in and out for quite some time?’

‘Initially, yeah.’

‘And that’s also been true of a number of the other murders and attacks?’

‘Like who?’ says Alderman.

‘Well, Strachan, Janice Ryan, Liz McQueen, Tracey Livingston?’

Alderman smiles: ‘Well you’d have to ask John here about Liz McQueen.’

‘Thanks,’ says Murphy.

‘No offence, mate,’ says Alderman. ‘But that was you, not us.’

‘And,’ I continue. ‘There are a number of other murders and assaults that at one time or another have been linked to the inquiry and are now considered separate.’

Alderman: ‘Like who?’

I flick forward: ‘Vera Megson, Bradford, February 1975; Rachel Vaughan, Leeds, March 1977; Debbie Evans, Shipley, also 1977?’

‘What about Mary Wilkie?’ asks Alderman.

‘What about her?’

‘Prostitute, battered to death by Leeds Cathedral in 1970.’

‘April ninth,’ I say and look at him, waiting -

‘Unsolved,’ he says.

‘Like all the others,’ I say.

Him: ‘So what’s your point?’

‘My point is, what’s in and what’s not and who decides?’

There’s silence again, silence until Prentice sighs and says: ‘Any murder or assault of a woman in the North of England has to go through here. You know that.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know that.’

‘So,’ grins Alderman. ‘You want me and Jim to go through every fucking unsolved murder in Yorkshire?’

‘A lot are there?’ winks Murphy.

Alderman ignores him, but the grin’s gone: ‘And you want us to tell you why or why they’re not Ripper cases?’

‘Not every one,’ I say. ‘Just one.’

Silence -

Then: ‘Just Janice Ryan.’

Bull’s eye -

Eye to eye with Alderman across the table -

Hate, naked fucking hate -

You could cut it with a knife, the fucking hate in this room -

The fucking hate across this table down here in the Belly -

Cut big slices, big fucking slices off the bone until -

‘So what do you want to know about Janice?’ asks Prentice, playing the Smart Man.

‘Well from what we’ve read, the two of you were put in charge after Bradford passed it to the Ripper Room. But neither of you thought it was the Ripper until that letter turned up at the Telegraph & Argus.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got everything,’ says Alderman and stands up -

‘Sit down,’ I say, quietly.

Prentice reaches up and pulls him down into his seat.

I say to them both: ‘I want you to tell us why you thought Janice Ryan wasn’t murdered by the Yorkshire Ripper.’

Prentice: ‘The injuries; there were no stab wounds.’

‘Same as Strachan,’ I say.

Prentice shrugs.

‘Look,’ I say. ‘You’re both senior detectives, good at your jobs some folks reckon. But the way this looks to me, pair of you didn’t recognise a Ripper job when you saw one – losing days and days trying to fit up Bob Fraser, another bleeding copper.’

Alderman’s on his feet again: ‘Fuck off! You can fucking talk, fitting up coppers, you hypocritical fucking cunt…’

Bull’s eye -

But Prentice is again pulling him back down, again playing the Smart Man: ‘Sit down, Dick.’

But I’m leaning across the table, into Dick’s face: ‘So what were you doing, letting him get away?’

‘Fuck you!’

‘No, fuck you Dick!’ says Murphy, between us. ‘We’re asking you how come you didn’t think it was Ripper. You’d worked on enough…’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Bit of a balls up, all in all,’ I smile -

He’s red-faced is Alderman -

Red-faced and ready to fucking pop -

‘Lucky he fucking wrote that letter,’ I say. ‘Else you’d never have put it together. She’d have just been another one of those many unsolved…’

And he’s across the table again, shouting: ‘Because it wasn’t the fucking Ripper, was it. It was fucking Fraser, everyone knows that. Tell him Jim.’

Bull’s eye -

‘Shut up, Dick. Shut up,’ Prentice is saying, the last of the Smart Men -

Dick Alderman out of his tree and control: ‘No, you fuck off. I’m not having this fucking piece of shit stroll into here and tell me I can’t…’

Murphy: ‘Jim? Jim? What’s he talking about?’

Prentice: ‘He’s talking bollocks, course it was Ripper.’

Alderman: ‘Fuck off!’

‘No, you fuck off Dick!’

I stand up and say: ‘I think we’d better leave you gentlemen to it.’

They stop arguing, staring up at me -

‘We’ll come back another time,’ I say. ‘When you’ve got your stories straight.’

I’m sat in our room, the one next to the Ripper Room -

Hillman and Marshall are cross-checking cars from the Joanne Thornton inquiry.

The door opens, no knock -

It’s Peter Noble, a face of bloody black thunder.

‘Pete?’ I say.

‘Can I see you in my office?’

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute, will you?’

He nods and slams the door -

Hillman and Marshall are looking at me.

‘What’s all that about?’ asks Hillman.

‘Can’t imagine,’ I smile and stand up.

I knock on Noble’s door -

‘Come,’ he says and I do.

‘Pete,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You spoke with Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean, what happened?’

‘What I say I mean, what happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I shrug.

‘Nothing?’

‘Look, no offence, but I’m not obliged to report to you on interviews conducted for a Home Office review.’

Bad move -

He’s furious, absolutely seething, fucking livid: ‘No, but you are obliged to disclose information you might have that would assist in an on-going investigation.’

‘And who told you that?’

‘The Chief Constable, just after he’d got off the phone with Philip Evans, the man who drew up the parameters of your review.’

‘Well firstly, I’d have to check that myself with Mr Evans and, secondly, it’s an academic argument anyway seeing as we don’t have any information that is not already available to your inquiry.’

‘Bollocks,’ he shouts.

‘There’s no need for that,’ I say.

‘No need for that,’ he laughs. ‘What about this?’

And he tosses a copy of Spunk across the table, Issue 13.

I ask him: ‘Where did you get this?’

‘Manchester, who tell me you’ve had it at least two bloody days.’

‘So what? You’ve had it best part of three bloody years.’

‘What?’

‘Ask George and Maurice.’

‘Ask George and Maurice what?’

‘Copies were given to them by Eric Hall’s widow.’

He’s shaking his head: ‘You should have said something.’

‘I thought you knew.’

He lights a cigarette: ‘This still doesn’t mean you can come in here and intimidate my officers.’

‘Intimidate your officers?’ I say. ‘Like who?’

‘Prentice and Alderman.’

‘Intimidate Dick Alderman? Now that is bollocks, Pete.’

‘No it’s bloody not,’ says Noble, gathering steam again. ‘I’ve had Dick in here threatening to resign, saying you insulted him, insulted his reputation.’

‘Look,’ I say. ‘Dick lost his temper. He said things I’m sure he regrets and we will need to speak to him again. But that’s as far as it went.’

‘Not according to Dick and Jim.’

‘What did they say?’

‘Said you made insinuations about their handling of the Janice Ryan inquiry.’

‘Yep, I did. And Dick Alderman refuted those insinuations, saying he didn’t believe Janice Ryan was in fact killed by the same man responsible for the other Ripper murders.’

‘Come on Peter, that’s rubbish.’

‘Is it?’

‘In my opinion, absolute rubbish.’

I shrug: ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, furious again.

‘OK,’ I nod.

‘Nothing until we speak to the Chief Constable tomorrow.’

‘Fine,’ I say and leave him to it.

The Griffin, the bar downstairs -

It’s late and everyone else has gone to bed, everyone but me and Helen Marshall and the bloke behind the bar who wishes we would:

‘I’d have liked to have seen the look on his face,’ she’s laughing -

‘Priceless,’ I’m saying, miles away – no idea who or what we’re talking about.

She’s drunk I think, saying: ‘They don’t like us, do they?’

‘Listen,’ I say. ‘It’s late. You should go up.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ve got some things to do.’

‘What?’ she laughs, looking at her watch.

‘Just going for a drive, that’s all.’

‘Can I come?’ she says, not looking so drunk anymore.

‘If you want,’ I say and stand up, my hand out.

It’s gone midnight -

We walk through the deserted city centre, freezing.

‘Horrible place,’ she says, looking up at the ugly black buildings, then down at the dirty pavement.

I nod and lead the way through the Kirkgate Market, grateful for the cold and the night.

Minutes later, we pull out of the Millgarth car park and are away.

‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I switch on Radio 2.

‘Batley,’ I say.

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah,’ I say and then I tell her about Janice Ryan and Eric Hall, about Eric Hall and Jack Whitehead, about Jack Whitehead and Bob Douglas, about Bob Douglas and Richard Dawson, about Richard Dawson and MJM Limited, about MJM Limited and Richard Dawson and Bob Douglas and Jack Whitehead and Eric Hall and Janice Ryan -

About murder and lies, lies and murder -

War.

And after all that she just sits and stares out of the window until she says again: ‘Horrible place.’

Parked on the Bradford Road, the light on in the car, I show her the magazine -

I say -

And she flicks through the pages until she comes to Janice Ryan.

Helen Marshall, ex-Vice Squad, glances at the photo and nods and hands it back.

‘You heard of it?’ I ask -

‘No,’ she says.

‘Wait here,’ I say and get out of the car, hard.

I’ve not put on the torch yet as I stumble around in the alley behind RD News -

There are cardboard boxes and piles of rubbish heaped up in front of the back-gate to the shop -

And it’s locked, the gate -

I jump up and hoist myself far enough over to slip the bolt at the top of the gate -

And I jump back down, but the gate still won’t open -

So I jump back up and hoist myself over and down the other side and into the tiny yard -

I go to the back door and knock -

There’s a dog barking somewhere down the alley, but no lights go on.

I’m frozen, but I’ve got my gloves on now -

I take out my key-kit and break the lock and more laws than I can think of, but fuck ‘em all – locks and laws.

I turn the handle and open the door -

The hallway is cluttered, full of boxes and gas canisters, stairs going up on the right -

And I’ve got the torch on now, heading up the stairs -

At the top, there’s a wooden door, solid -

I knock, wait, and then I take out the kit again -

And it’s a fucker this one, especially with the light on the floor and these gloves, but it gives in the end, – like they all do.

I turn the handle and open the door -

Another hall, the air stale, dead -

I walk down the hall to the front of the flat, the place deserted, no carpet -

In the front room, I pull back a curtain and can see the car and Helen Marshall parked down the road -

The light from the street, the torch, they show me what I already know:

No-one lives here -

Just scraps of furniture, – a sofa, two chairs, a table, a telephone -

I shine the torch on the dial, but there’s no number -

I pick up the phone and get a dialling tone that tells me what I already suspect:

Someone comes here.

I put the receiver down, but leave it off the hook -

I walk back down the hall, an empty kitchen to the right, a bathroom and toilet next to it, a bedroom to the left -

I step into the bedroom -

I take a chance and switch on the light:

A big bedroom, a big bed with a stained orange-patterned mattress, a pair of black curtains -

Fitted cupboards down the side of the bed -

I take out Spunk -

I turn:

Under the spread legs, below her cunt, an orange-patterned mattress -

Back behind her open mouth and closed eyes, above that cock, black curtains -

I drop the magazine on the bed and open the cupboards -

Lights, cameras, the action:

In piles -

Spunks, the whole bloody lot -

And I want photos, all the photos I can get -

I race through the piles, taking out all the different ones I can find -

They’re in order, the piles, and in the end I’ve ten copies; only issues 3, 9, and 13 missing -

But I’ve already got 13, the last one.

I close the cupboard door and gather the magazines -

I turn off the light with my elbow and walk back down the hall -

I kick open the door and close it with my back -

It won’t lock and they’ll know I’ve been -

But that’s OK:

I WANT THEM TO KNOW I’VE BEEN HERE.

I go back downstairs and leave the back door open and kick off the lock on the gate:

JUST SO THEY’LL KNOW ABOUT IT SOON.

I walk down the alley and back round to the car -

Helen Marshall sees me coming and gets out -

‘What’s all that?’

‘Spunk,’ I say -

She opens the driver’s door and I get in -

She comes back round and sits down beside me in the passenger seat -

I’ve got the Spunks in a pile on my knee -

She takes them from me, silently skimming the covers, the spreads -

‘What we going to do?’ she asks.

‘Go through these, keep an eye on that place, and see what happens.’

‘I see,’ she says.

‘You tired?’ I ask her.

‘No,’ she says, defensive.

‘Good,’ I smile. ‘Because we’re going to have to do this in shifts.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going to need to watch this place twenty-four hours.’

‘What about the others?’

I shake my head: ‘Maybe later, but for now I want it to be just you and me.’

‘Me, you mean.’

‘If you don’t want to do it, just say.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ she says, like it’s not.

‘Thank you,’ I say -

‘Mention it,’ she says.

I’m drifting -

Pornographic dreams of empty rooms, black curtains and orange-patterned mattresses -

Empty TV sets, black birds and -

‘What?’

I open my eyes -

The car – the air dirty, the dawn grey.

‘What did you say?’ Helen Marshall is asking me -

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Think I must have nodded off.’

‘You said my name, that’s all.’

‘Sorry, must have been dreaming.’

She laughs: ‘Should I be flattered?’

‘No, it was a nightmare,’ I say.

‘Charming first thing, aren’t you?’

‘Sorry,’ I smile. ‘I better go.’

‘Taxi?’

‘Have to be,’ I say and get out of the car.

‘What about these?’ she asks, pointing at the pile of Spunks on the back seat.

‘Best pass them here,’ I say.

‘You got a bag for them?’

‘In the boot,’ I say and go and get it -

After we’ve done that, I lean back into the car and say: ‘Take care and thank you.’

‘Mention it,’ she says again, an echo.

‘Call Millgarth or the Griffin if you see anyone.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ she’s saying.

‘And get the plates,’ I say, handing her the keys and closing the door, – her sliding into the driver’s seat.

And then I turn away and walk off towards Batley Bus Station and as I go she presses the horn once and I turn back and wave – but I can’t actually see her, and in the Bus Station I use the phone and call Joan and then I get a taxi back to the Griffin, eleven issues of a pornographic magazine on my lap but, as I count them there in the back of the taxi, there’s only ten and for a sudden moment my blood runs cold thinking I left Issue 13 on the bed above RD News, but it’s here, so I think I must have miscounted and I’m another issue short, but they’ll turn up, the missing ones, they always do, – eventually.

from a greenhouse and e smell bad lying there for over a week and he vomits and tries to cut off my head with a hacksaw because he wants to make a big mystery of me but alas this is still nineteen seventy seven and it is december now and e am cold down garthorne terrace hoping to do a bit of business outside the gaiety before e go home and now e am on gipton avenue a dark coloured car driving slowly along looking for love the car parked by the kerb the driver waving to someone in a-house bye now see you later take care and he is all right about thirty years old stocky around five feet six inches tall with dark wavy hair and beard wearing a yellow shirt and a dark anorak with a zip and a pair of blue jeans he turns to me he says are you doing business e say yes and he says five pounds e say yes and e get in his car he says he knows a right quiet place on spare ground off scott hall street and e know it is about a mile and a half away and he is very chatty and friendly and says his name is david but he prefers dave e say very well dave it is and he says what is yours e say carol but my name is really kathy kathy kelly e ask him what he was doing back on frankland place he says he was saying goodnight to his girlfriend who is sick and he has his needs you know e say yes e know do not we all and he has them come to bed eyes and it might sound daft now but e quite fancy him a bit of a good looking and he knows it type and he would not frighten anybody because he knows a lot of the girls he is a regular punter and he is talking away about hilary and gloria and is not hilary the one with Jamaican boyfriend so e am thinking that he cannot be leeds ripper can he we get to spare ground off scott hall street and dave says we should have sexual intercourse in the back of the car e say ok but you must pay me first and he says he will pay me after e say you can fuck right off e know your plan my knickers off with your muck up me and fuck all else as you drive off with your bloody fiver and e get out but wait he says there is no need for that he has his wallet out so e try the back passenger door but it is locked and he says he will come round and open it and as he passes behind me e feel a searing sickening blow on top of my head and e am screaming loudly holding my head e am falling to the floor trying to grab hold of his blue denim jeans and e can feel more blows coming until there is only darkness blackness dirty prostitute bitch you whore you bitch you dirty stinking prostitute bitch e can hear a dog barking and him walking back to his car the slam of the door the back wheels skidding with a lot of spin as he drives off e just lie there on the spare ground the terrible pain in my head the dog barking no one coming no siren so e try to stand walk across the rough ground on to road try and get to a telephone e see this lad and lass and they see my head and face all covered in blood and she starts screaming he runs off to phone an ambulance and e am sitting there in street with this girl who is hysterical and one of girls e know comes up asks me what has happened here e tell her and she says you have come in your hair with the blood e say it was the ripper then that is rippers come she says you are luckiest woman in england and e sit there in road with blood and come in my hair my head with a hole young lass screaming freezing to death and e say e do not feel lucky she says you will mark my words you lucky cow with a depressed fracture behind my ear on the left side of my head measuring one and a half inches by one inch and the seven lacerations each about two inches long plus a four inch scar on my left hand where bruises were and police said it was definitely him ripper because they found

Chapter 12

The Ripper Room -

Millgarth, Leeds -

Monday 22 December 1980:

Standing room only -

Smoke, sweat, and no smiles on 150 sad bloody faces.

Chief Constable Angus and Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Noble down the front -

Me at the back, by the door -

No Alderman or Prentice.

‘It was a long weekend,’ Noble is saying. ‘I know a lot of us were at the funeral, Saturday.’

Shit, I’m thinking.

‘And I know like me, for all of us who were there it’s only strengthened our resolve to catch this bastard. But now we’ve got this -’

Noble picks up a piece of paper off the table and reads aloud:

‘Sunday 21 December, 9 p.m., Manchester offices of the Daily Mirror received a telephone call delivered by a man with an accent strongly resembling the one on the so-called Ripper Tape. No recording was made, but the content was as follows:

‘I’m Jack and I warned you I’d strike again and I’ll kill again on Tuesday, this time student so warn them to keep off streets.’

Noble stops reading, looking up at the room -

The Ripper Room:

Smoke, sweat, and 150 bloody curses.

‘Jim Prentice and Dick Alderman are in Manchester now talking to the people at the Mirror, but whether it’s him or not,’ Noble continues over the rising din, ‘it’s already on radio and it’ll be on every front page tonight and tomorrow.’

150 more bloody curses, louder and louder until -

Until Chief Constable Angus stands up: ‘All right, I know this is the last thing we need but, once again, I have no choice but to cancel all leave for the next forty-eight hours. We’re already stretched thin thanks to all these bloody protests at the cinemas, but I have spoken with a number of the local councils to try and get some sort of ban on some of these films.’

Nods all round.

‘Luckily most of the students have already gone home but,’ says the Chief Constable. ‘Tonight and tomorrow night we have to put on a show of strength. Assistant Chief Constable Noble’s drawn up the rota for you lot here and will hand it out at the end of this briefing. But I just want to add that, as the Assistant Chief Constable said, I know a lot of you were in Hartlepool for the funeral and I know you want to keep at it and that this kind of thing is the last thing you want. But we’ll nail the bastard, so let’s all just keep our wits about us. Thank you.’

Noble steps forward again: ‘OK, better news; we have now eliminated all vehicles sighted by witnesses on Alma Road last Wednesday night, Thursday morning. Bar one: the old dark-coloured car seen reversing the wrong way down the street. Officers have once again sat with the witness to try and get a more detailed description of the car in question. But officers should pay particular attention to old and dark-coloured vehicles as you crosscheck old statements and take any further statements.

‘Later today we also hope to have the new photofit complete and available for distribution. As some of you know, this description of a man seen in the vicinity of Alma Road last Wednesday night very much resembles those descriptions given by Linda Clark and statements taken in Morley, following the murder of Joanne Thornton.

‘Finally, surveillance will continue on the five individuals at the top of our lists and, obviously, we will step up these efforts over the next forty-eight hours in light of the Manchester call. Thank you,’ he says and nods at an assistant who begins to hand out sheets of paper.

I’m the first out the door, heading back next door, when there’s an arm on mine -

Bob Craven: ‘The Chief Constable asked me to have you meet him in Assistant Chief Constable Noble’s office after the briefing.’

‘Thank you very much, Inspector,’ I say.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he mutters, walking off.

‘What?’ I say -

He turns: ‘Pardon?’

‘I said what did you say?’

‘Don’t mention it,’ he smiles -

‘Don’t mention it?’

‘Yes,’ he says, walking away. ‘Don’t mention it.’

I knock on the door -

‘Come.’

I open the door and step inside Noble’s office -

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ I say.

Angus is sat in Noble’s chair, Pete on the other side of the desk.

The Chief Constable gestures for me to sit down next to Noble -

I take my seat and wait.

‘You were at the briefing then?’ asks Angus, eventually.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Last thing we bloody need,’ says Noble, to my right.

‘Can imagine,’ I agree.

There’s a bit of silence now, pens tapping, paper shuffling -

A bit of this, then Angus says: ‘Look, I hear there were some words exchanged yesterday. Some confusion?’

‘Confusion?’

‘Well, from what I gather,’ says Angus, glancing at Noble. ‘Your interview with Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice ended badly and then there was some question mark about disclosure of information pertinent to the on-going investigation.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Angus frowning, picks up a copy of Spunk and says: ‘Well, for a start, what about this?’

‘As I told Pete yesterday, I’d been led to believe that this magazine had been given to George Oldman by Maurice Jobson, or vice versa, courtesy of Eric Hall’s widow.’

‘That’s true,’ Angus nods.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘So I presumed George had passed it to the Ripper Squad, as he was in charge at that time.’

‘Well, you’d have to ask Assistant Chief Constable Oldman about that.’

‘I’d like that very much,’ I say.

Angus is smiling, hands up: ‘Now just a minute. In case you weren’t aware, George Oldman is on sick leave.’

‘Sick leave? No I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘So, unfortunately, any interview would be out of the question at this time.’

‘I see. Is it serious?’

‘He has a heart condition.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I would like to know from you however,’ he goes on, ‘as to the progress you’re making and if there’s any other information you’d like to share with us?’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say. ‘But I think it would be improper of me to speak with you before I’d spoken with either Mr Evans or Sir John Reed.’

Of course, but I did speak with Mr Evans myself yesterday and he wanted me to emphasise to you the unique circumstances here, this being an on-going investigation and the possibility of you discovering or being in possession of information that might lead to the conclusion of this investigation.’

‘Sir, I assure you, had I information that I felt would lead to the arrest of a suspect - I would waste no time in sharing it with the Assistant Chief Constable here.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You have my word.’

‘Then that’s that then.’

I nod.

Silence -

Silence until I say: ‘Is that all?’

‘One other thing,’ says Noble, turning in his chair. ‘There’s been a request for a press interview with you.’

‘Who from?’

‘Sunday Times, I think.’

I look at Chief Constable Angus; he’s frowning: ‘Do you want to do it?’

‘Not bothered, unless it helps publicity-wise?’

Noble sighs: ‘We’ve got more than enough of that.’

‘Would have to be with our Press Officer,’ says Angus.

I nod: ‘Let’s see what they have to say. Any problems, I’ll talk to you and Philip Evans.’

Angus shrugs his shoulders: ‘Fine.’

Noble says: ‘I’ll have the Press Office set it up. This afternoon?’

I nod again.

‘Thank you,’ says Angus -

I take my cue and stand and leave.

I press play:

‘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 you that but I couldn’t get there. I’m not quite sure when 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.’

Pause -

Thirteen seconds, count them:

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve 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 good 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.’

And then -

‘I’ll say your name

Then once again

Thank you for being a friend.’

Stop.

Silence -

Seconds, minutes of silence in the dark room -

Minutes of silence until -

Until I say: ‘This was received June 20, last year. I’m sure you’re all probably as sick to death of the sound of that voice as I am, – but I want to spend some time on this today because it has had such a bloody bearing on the investigation, both in what came next and what it meant for all that had gone before.’

Murphy, McDonald and Hillman, the three of them nodding along -

Craven in the corner -

No Marshall.

‘Right, as you know, they’d had the letters; four in all: the first three were all in June 77, two addressed to the Yorkshire Post journalist Jack Whitehead,’ I say, eyes on Craven -

No reaction.

‘The third one was to George Oldman, but sent to the Telegraph and Argus offices in Bradford. And the last one was sent in March 1978, again addressed to Oldman, but this time to the Daily Mirror in Manchester.’

Murphy: ‘That’s where they got the call last night?’

I nod: ‘Right, but that call aside for now, the tape and all four letters are without any real doubt the work of the same man. All five items share the same handwriting, blood groupings from saliva tests, and the same traces of oil and minerals. The first three letters and the tape make specific reference to the murder of Clare Strachan in Preston, while the fourth letter talks about the murder of Doreen Pickles in Manchester.’

‘May I?’ interrupts Hillman.

‘Go on.’

‘That fourth letter was also postmarked Preston.’

I nod: ‘And that is?’

‘Scene of the Strachan and Livingston murders.’

‘Good point, Mike,’ I say. ‘So the amount of publicity the recording, the letters generated, the sheer number of leads as you’ve all seen – it’s staggering.’

‘Overwhelming,’ says Alec McDonald.

‘But let’s remember,’ says Murphy. ‘It was a bloody leak that got them into this.’

‘That’s right,’ I say, again with a glance at Craven. ‘They’d made no decision on whether to go public with the tape. In fact, word is George was dead against it, especially since he’d always claimed the June 77 letter to the Argus had been a hoax. But then there was the leak, again to the Argus, and they had no choice.’

‘Bad time for them,’ Murphy continues. ‘They were leaking like a bloody sieve, all them stories about faked overtime, dubious expenses, it was all coming out.’

Craven in the corner has his eyes closed, head forward.

‘And three months later,’ I say, quietly. ‘It got even worse.’

I open the notebook and read:

‘On the morning of Sunday 9 September last year, the body of Dawn Williams was found hidden in a pile of rubbish behind an empty terrace house in Ash Lane, behind the Bradford University at which the deceased was a student.

‘She had been killed by a single blow to the back of her skull. Her clothing had then once again been repositioned and she had been stabbed nine times in the trunk, mostly in the abdominal area.’

I stop and hand them the copies I’ve made of the lists of witnesses, the lists of police officers, the lists of vehicles, lists of the possible tyre widths and so on -

Twenty-three pages of lists.

I continue: ‘It was after this murder that Oldman issued the following information and instructions to all police forces in the North of England -

‘Taken from the introduction to the revised and updated Murders and Assaults upon Women in the North of England it said:

“It is significant that although most of the early victims are prostitutes or women of loose moral character, in the majority of cases no obvious sexual interference has taken place, and the motive for each time is a pathological hatred of women. In the most recent cases, innocent women have been attacked. In the majority of these offences, vicious hammer blows to the back of the head have occurred, and it is generally thought that this precedes the stabbing of the victim. In some cases the clothing of the victim is moved to expose the breasts and lower abdomen, prior to stab wounds being inflicted. No stabbing has occurred through clothing.

“The three common factors in all the crimes are:

a) The use of two weapons: a sharp instrument and a 1ј pound ballpein hammer.

b) The absence of sexual interference, except in one instance.

c) The clothing moved to expose breasts and pubic region.

“Through evidence gathered, the following five-point list should be used for the purposes of elimination:

1. The man was born before 1924 or after 1959.

2. The man is an obvious coloured person.

3. The man is a size nine shoe or above.

4. The man has a blood group other than type B.

5. The man does not have a Geordie or North Eastern accent.

“It should be remembered that it may be that the man responsible has come to police attention in the past for assaults on prostitutes and women which did not result in serious injury, and suggestions regarding the identity of the person responsible, or any other information about similar assaults, not necessarily fatal, would be appreciated.”’

I stop.

Silence.

I say: ‘And that brings us to here and Laureen Bell.’

I close the folder and look at my watch:

Noon -

Fuck -

I need another car, need to get back over to Batley, to Marshall -

Murphy, McDonald, and Hillman looking at me -

Craven’s fucking asleep in the corner -

‘OK,’ I say. ‘We need to now start compiling the crosschecks, completing various lists, speaking to the officers involved. We’ll start now and then meet tomorrow morning, first thing, see how far we’ve got.’

‘Wake him, shall I?’ grins Hillman, nodding at Craven -

I put my finger to my lips: ‘Better let him sleep.’

I’m at the desk downstairs, trying to get a car, when there’s a word in my ear:

Tress are here, sir.’

I turn round -

It’s one of the Yorkshire Press Office, Evans I think -

‘Sunday Times?’ he says.

‘Shit,’ I say, looking at my watch again.

‘Problem, sir?’

‘No. Where are they?’

‘The Assistant Chief Constable’s office. Mr Noble said we could use that.’

‘Fine,’ I say and follow him back upstairs.

There are two journalists waiting for us:

‘Anthony McNeil,’ says a tall man in glasses.

I shake his hand.

‘Andy Driscoll,’ says the other man as I take his hand.

‘I’ve never been interviewed by two people at the same time,’ I say, smiling at Evans as he sits down at the back of the room.

‘Well,’ says McNeil. ‘Andy’s just along for the ride.’

I sit down at Noble’s desk: ‘Is that right?’

‘No, he’s only joking sir.’

‘Well, OK. Shall we make a start?’ I ask.

‘Do you mind?’ asks Driscoll, putting a small pocket cassette recorder on Noble’s desk.

‘Should get one myself,’ I smile, switching on the one in my pocket.

‘OK,’ says McNeil. ‘You were brought in here as part of the Brains Trust and -’

‘Your words not mine,’ I interrupt.

McNeil smiles: ‘Right, fair enough. So I wonder if you could tell us what progress you and the other members of this Super Squad have made so far?’

I smile: ‘Super Squad is it now?’

‘Well, it is supposed to be the top detectives from across the country’

‘I’m flattered.’

‘But,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is it deserved?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Progress; that’s what people want to hear about,’ he says. ‘What progress you have or haven’t made.’

I say: ‘Is that a question?’

He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them and says: ‘Yes, that’s a question.’

‘Mr McNeil,’ I say as quietly and calmly as I can. ‘Our job is to look at the operation and to advise and to make appropriate recommendations.’

McNeil smiles and gives me a bloody wink: ‘Is that an answer?’

‘That’s putting it a touch mildly, is it not?’ interrupts Driscoll.

I try and smile: ‘I thought you were along for the ride?’

‘I’m not – but can the same be said of you and this so-called Super Squad?’ laughs Driscoll.

Before I can respond, McNeil’s already telling me: ‘What I mean to say is, this team were brought in for what was described as, and I quote: “a complete and thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper.” Was that or was that not the brief?’

‘That is the brief and that’s what we are in the process of doing.’

‘Thank you,’ snorts McNeil. ‘So would you mind telling us then how much progress you’ve made in the course of this review.’

‘It’s on-going, Mr McNeil.’

Obviously.’

‘Well, obviously, if it’s on-going it is therefore not complete and so I can’t comment,’ I say, my voice rising, looking at my watch, thinking about Helen Marshall. ‘What more do you want me to say?’

But then he pounces: ‘Something to give hope to the thousands of students fleeing the cities of the North tonight; something to give hope to the millions of women who aren’t lucky enough to be able to flee from the cities of the North, who must spend another Christmas, their sixth, trapped inside their homes, dependent on lifts from fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, any one of whom might be the Yorkshire Ripper himself; something to say to these mothers and sisters, these wives and daughters, not to mention something for Mrs Bell and the twelve other mothers who have no daughters and the nineteen children who have no mothers, all thanks to him; him and your inaction.’

Silence; silence but for the noises of the station around us -

The station where somewhere men’s voices can be heard singing an obscene version of Jingle Bells -

The man at the back from the Press Office or Community Affairs or whatever they call it, he gets up and leaves the room -

I look up at McNeil who’s shaking his head, his eyes on me -

Outside the singing stops, leaving just the silence until Evans returns and takes his seat at the back again.

McNeil sighs and says: ‘If you’ve nothing to say in response to that, then I wonder if I might ask you for comment on a number of fundamental criticisms that have been levelled in the direction of West Yorkshire and the inquiry in general?’

I’ve got my hands up, but to no avail -

‘Firstly,’ he presses on. ‘There’s the issue of Miss Bell’s missing bag and it turning up covered in blood and marked as lost property a good twenty-four hours after her body was discovered, despite being handed in to police officers prior to the discovery of her body, not to mention the statements given by her flatmates insisting that officers look for Miss Bell when she failed to return home on time.’

‘The Chief Constable has already publicly addressed those criticisms, as you are fully aware.’

‘So you’ve nothing to add?’

‘Nothing.’

‘OK then, how about the fact that Candy Simon and Tracey Livingston were also both reported missing to police officers prior to the discovery of their bodies and, in Candy’s case, her bloodstained underwear was also found.’

‘I’ve nothing to say about that either.’

‘OK, something closer to home then. Have you managed to get any explanation for the fact that it took Manchester police a whole week to locate Elizabeth McQueen’s handbag, despite the fact that it was less than 100 yards from where her body had been discovered.’

‘Mr McNeil,’ I say, fists up. ‘All these issues that you raise are obviously matters of concern to us and are part and parcel of the review that we’ve undertaken but, honestly and I hope for the last time, let me say that it would be unprofessional of me to pass comment on these matters at this time.’

‘Unprofessional?’

‘Yes.’

Driscoll hands McNeil a piece of paper from his briefcase and McNeil says: ‘May I read you something?’

‘Feel free,’ I sigh.

McNeil reads: ‘So much about the Ripper is ifs and buts – one cannot be 100% certain, for instance, that all the murders are linked. What we are saying is that they are all similar and are the ones we are most interested in. For reasons obvious to all officers there is a certain amount of information that has to be kept back for the vital confrontation with the man responsible for the killings.

‘On the balance of probability the man who sent the tape and wrote the letters is the Ripper but there can always be a question mark and it would be wrong for officers to eliminate suspects because they had not got a Geordie accent. We give certain guidelines but in the end, I feel, it will be some officer’s intuition that leads us to the killer. Hopefully, some officer will be in the right place at the right time and give us the break we need. So let’s make that break and nail him.’

McNeil stops reading.

Silence once again -

Until Driscoll says: ‘You’ve never heard that before, have you Mr Hunter?’

I shake my head: ‘No, that’s the first time. Who said it?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble in this month’s issue of the West Yorkshireman.’

I glance over at Evans, who says: ‘It’s the West Yorkshire Police newspaper.’

‘Right,’ I nod.

‘Do you have any comment to make about that?’ asks McNeil.

‘It’s good advice.’

‘What about him saying that all the murders might not be linked, that the tape might be a hoax?’

‘He didn’t actually say that. But what he did say was good advice.’

‘What about the murders not all being linked, what about that?’

‘He’s right, you can’t be 100% certain.’

‘Janice Ryan? What about her? Always been a big question mark over her.’

‘Like I just said, you can’t be 100%.’

‘So you’re not at present investigating any connection between the murders of Janice Ryan and a Bradford Vice detective called Eric Hall?’

Evans is on his feet, trying to interrupt -

I’m shaking my head: ‘No we aren’t.’

‘That’s not what his widow is saying.’

Me: ‘You’ve spoken to Mrs Hall?’

McNeil and Driscoll both nod -

‘She’s mistaken then,’ I say.

‘And so there’s no truth in reports that the murders of Hall and Ryan are being linked in any way to raids earlier today on premises in Greater Manchester, which are in turn being connected to the murders there of Robert Douglas and his six-year-old daughter Karen last week?’

‘I don’t know anything about any raids.’

Driscoll: ‘Well we’ve received information that the offices of Asquith and Dawson and various city centre premises belonging to them were raided at dawn today’

I’m looking at Evans, who’s still stood up and looking at me, our eyes and hands all over the place -

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ I say, eventually.

McNeil: ‘Are you aware that there are rumours circulating to the effect that you are to be removed from this so-called Brains Trust, this Super Squad, due to your personal connections to Richard Dawson, the man targeted in today’s raids?’

‘That’s it,’ says Evans. ‘I’ve heard enough of this.’

They both stand up, McNeil and Driscoll, their hands raised in apology -

Mouthing and whispering this and that about getting off on the wrong foot -

Foot in their mouths, no offence intended -

But I’m just sat there, reeling -

When Anthony McNeil leans across the desk, hand out: ‘Thank you for your time.’

I put my own hand out automatically, unable to speak -

And then he tightens his grip on my hand and whispers: ‘You think the tape’s a hoax, don’t you?’

Evans: ‘Mr McNeil -’

‘Yes or no?’

Evans: ‘He’s not going to be drawn into -’

‘Yes or no?’

Silence again, fucking silence -

McNeil, Driscoll, and Evans, all staring at me -

Staring at me sat there behind Noble’s desk -

In Noble’s chair -

‘Yes or no Mr Hunter?’

‘No.’

Searching for a phone and a car, upstairs and down, Millgarth giving me the bloody run around, the finger -

At last, long bloody last, into a phone in a corner of the Ripper Room: ‘Roger?’

‘Pete? Thank Christ for that.’

Me: ‘What the fucking hell’s going on?’

‘Smith’s only had Vice raid Dawson’s office and that place you went on Oldham Street.’

‘Shit.’

‘And he’s told the press of possible links to the Douglas murders.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Gets worse, mate.’

‘What?’

‘Dawson never showed up this morning.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Fuck knows. His solicitor knows nothing, sat there waiting like us, couldn’t get in touch with him.’

‘You called his wife?’

‘Not a clue. Hysterical.’

‘Shit, she’ll have been onto Joan.’

‘He called you has he?’

‘No.’

‘You heard about the raids?’

‘From the Sunday bloody Times.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Yeah, told me I was going to be removed from the Ripper because of it.’

‘Because of Dawson?’

‘Yep.’

‘Bollocks. You coming back over?’

‘Can’t,’ I say, looking at my watch again -

Fuck:

Gone two.

‘Pete?’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Said, keep in touch mate.’

‘OK.’

I hang up and sprint downstairs, then shit -

Back up to our room again for the bag of Spunks -

Nods at Murphy and McDonald, weird looks from the pair of them -

Then back downstairs again, underground.

Snow -

At least they’ve given me a Saab -

I push out of Leeds, radio on:

‘Some shops are closing early today to allow staff to go home in daylight, this following a telephone threat to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper, saying he would kill again today or tomorrow.’

Black snow -

The car freezing -

So this is Christmas?

Roads dead, coming down through Morley, thinking of Joanne Thornton, heading down into Batley, thinking of Helen Marshall -

And what have we done?

On to the Bradford Road, out of Batley itself and I can see the car up ahead, parked in the same spot -

I pull up a little way behind and lock the car and jog down the road, the snow now just a dirty cold grey rain, the long night coming down.

I tap on the driver’s door and look in -

No-one.

Fuck.

I try the door -

Locked.

I look up the road, down the road, across at RD News -

Deserted, the whole place, but for a steady stream of lorries in the rain.

Fuck, fuck.

And then I see her, coming out of the phonebox further up, her jacket over her head, running back towards the car in the lorry lights and sleet -

She sees me, jumps -

‘I was just calling you,’ she says, opening the car door, glancing back over at the newsagents.

‘Why? Something happened?’

‘No, no,’ she says, getting in and opening the other side for me -

We close the doors and sit there, the car cold and stale, her looking old and rough.

‘I just wanted to know when you’d be coming back,’ she says, embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been a bloody rotten day’

‘Laugh a minute here,’ she smiles.

‘Quiet?’

‘As the grave.’

‘You eaten anything?’

‘A pair of driving gloves and a map book.’

‘Sorry, should have brought something.’

‘I can last,’ she says.

I say: ‘You get off now.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll stay’

‘What time shall I come back?’

‘You’ve done enough.’

‘No, I want to.’

‘You sure?’

‘I wouldn’t say if I wasn’t.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

‘No, you better get something to eat, get some sleep.’

‘Think I’ve gone past sleep.’

‘Actually there is one thing,’ I say, taking out my notebook.

She’s smiling: ‘Thought there might be.’

‘Could you just ring Mrs Hall? Seemed to get on, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Just see how she is.’

‘That it?’ she laughs. ‘See how she is?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I had this interview with a right pair from the Sunday Times. They said they’d been talking to her. You could just ask her about them?’

‘Ask her what about them?’

‘What they’d asked her, what she said.’

‘OK. The subtle approach?’

I tear out the page with Mrs Hall’s number on it -

‘It’s the top one,’ I say.

‘Who’s the other one?’

‘The Reverend Laws.’

‘I was just thinking about him,’ she says.

‘How awful for you.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘Fair enough,’ she says.

I open the passenger door -

‘What time do you want me back?’ she asks.

I look at my watch and say: ‘Eleven, eleven thirty?’

She nods and starts the car: ‘See you then.’

‘Take care.’

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she laughs as I close the door.

‘No,’ I say, and she pulls away, – gone.

Back in the Saab, I drive up the road for a bit until I’m opposite the park where I reverse into the drive of a house with an unlit Christmas tree in the window and then head back down past RDNews, parking near enough to be able to watch the upstairs window in the rearview mirror and the back of the alley in the wing, winding down the window a crack to stop the car steaming up and then I sit there, radio on, – listening, watching, waiting.

same half worn india autoway cross ply tyres that were on front wheels at the scene of my mate marie watts so e truly am luckiest woman in yorkshire a lady well known in the preston area short black leather jacket blue jeans blue shirt carrying a blue denim handbag slim dark haired and attractive with a full sensual mouth stare into her you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to transmission six tracey livingston thirty one found in her flat on ash lane preston Saturday the seventh of January nineteen seventy eight death due to four blows to the head with an instrument which has not been recovered stab wounds to the abdomen and possibly to the back which would not have proved fatal the wounds were such that the assailants clothing will be heavily bloodstained stare into her misery and she looks at you and with both hands she opens her chest and says see how you tear me see the monstrous punishment you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to a lumpy bundle covered in blankets she had initially been attacked as she stepped through her door and had received four massive blows to the head her killer had then removed her coat before lifting her onto the bed her faded denim jeans and pants had been dragged down together but her jeans had been partially pulled back up her bra had been hoisted above her breasts which were exposed she had been stabbed six times in the stomach and there were further signs of stabbing attempts to her back although her skin was not broken and some slash marks along the left side of her body caused by a knife or chisel approximately half an inch wide a blood sample showed that tracey had consumed twenty measures of spirits and had died at midnight a vaginal swab revealed the presence of semen but this was thought to be as a result of sexual activity some time before a size seven boot print from a dunlop Warwick Wellington boot the same as that found on joan richards thigh found on the bottom bed sheet in the silence of a flat after death just the clock and the drip of the tap the blood in pools in the hall the lumpy bundle covered in blankets on the bed just the clock and the drip of the tap the thick dark hair matted with the thick dark blood the repeated knocking on the door the silence of a flat after death on her thigh a bloody hand print on her bed sheet a bloody boot print she was banging on the roof of a car obviously the worse for drink and using the sort of foul language no decent woman would have been using and when e stopped she jumped in beside me without any coaxing and we drove to her flat and e took my claw hammer from under the seat and stuffed it inside my coat and hung my coat up inside her flat and then e waited until she was sitting on the bed with her back to me before e struck with four blows that knocked her to the floor and then e hoisted her up and back onto the bed and exposed her breasts and the lower part of her body and then e hit her with one end of the hammer and clawed at her with the other watching the marks appear in her flesh and e stuck a knife into her stomach and because we were inside the blood looked red for the first time and not the black colour it always looked in the dark and e threw the sheets over her and left her alone in her bedroom making horrible gurgling sounds though e knew she would not be in any state to tell anyone what had happened for e knew it would be a long time before they would come and e knew they would look away e knew they could not stare into her misery her looking at them with both hands opening her

Chapter 13

A shot -

Awake, sweating and afraid in the car in the night – the car dirty, the night black.

I look at the clock:

Midnight -

Shit.

I switch on the overhead light and check my own watch.

I switch off the light again:

Sat in the dark, thinking -

Where is she?

I get out of the car -

I walk up the road in the sleeting rain to the phonebox -

I open the door and -

BANG!

I’m flat on my back on the pavement, glass raining down -

There are bells ringing and there are screams, feet running -

People tearing out of the Chop Suey -

And I’m trying to stand up when -

BANG!

More glass raining down, more bells ringing, more screams, more feet running and I’m up -

Up and across the road, a car braking and swerving to avoid me -

There is smoke billowing out of RD News, the whole front gaping open -

‘Gas!’ someone’s shouting. ‘Gas!’

I sprint past the chemist, its glass all gone, alarm deafening -

Chinese waiters running here and there, the restaurant emptying -

Women customers tripping in long dresses and high heels, men with blood in their hair, on their faces, their hands -

Round the back and into the alley, people in their dressing gowns and coats coming out, dogs barking -

And I get to the back gate and it’s open and I go into the yard and there are sirens now -

And I reach for the back door and I open it and -

BAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

I’m flat on my arse again -

Face burnt back by the intense heat, the smoke and the flames -

And there are people in the yard pulling me away, talking in different tongues -

Back out in the alleyway, an old woman saying: ‘You all right, love? Told them about all them gas canisters, I have.’

I push her away and go back down the alley but the fire engines are already here, an ambulance pulling up -

And the flames are licking out the windows, touching up the walls -

I turn and see two uniforms at the other end of the alley, so I jog back the other way -

Back round on to the Bradford Road, melting into the crowd that’s forming back down the road, all muttering and chuntering on about gas -

Scanning the faces -

Then I ease myself away, back to the car -

And I get in and am gone.

Foot down, heading up through Hanging Heaton, making my way back through Morley and into Leeds.

I park under the arches near the station and switch on the light:

I’ve got cuts across my face, blood in my ears, blood in my hair, blood on my hands.

I switch off the light and take the bag of Spunks from the back seat and get out, locking the door, tearing back up to the Griffin.

‘Helen?’ I shout, banging on her door -

I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’

A door opens down the corridor:

It’s Hillman, a pair of blue pyjamas -

Shit.

‘What’s wrong?’ he’s saying, coming down the corridor. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, stood there covered in blood and clutching a bag of porn.

‘What happened to you?’

‘There was a fire. It’s nothing serious. Where’s Helen?’

‘A fire? Where?’ he’s asking, saying: ‘You look terrible, you should go to hospital.’

‘Mike,’ I say, grabbing him. ‘Where’s Helen?’

He’s shaking his head: ‘She was in the bar earlier.’

‘When?’ I say, looking at my watch.

‘I don’t know. What time is it now?’

‘Almost two,’ I say. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ he keeps saying. ‘I think she was going to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says again. ‘She was acting a bit odd.’

‘Odd?’

‘Like she had something on her mind.’

‘What time?’

‘About eight, nine maybe.’

‘She say anything to John or Alec?’

‘Doubt it; I was sat with Mac and no-one’s seen Murphy since this afternoon.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Murphy? No idea.’ Then he says: ‘You’re hurting me, sir.’

And I look down at my hands gripping the tops of the arms of his pyjamas and I let him go, bloody marks across him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘You need to see someone,’ he says, an arm helping me along.

‘Who? See who?’

‘A doctor I mean.’

I pull away: ‘I can’t.’

‘You look bloody awful.’

‘Just cuts and bruises,’ I say, taking out my key.

‘You need to get them looked at.’

‘I’m going to my room, I’ll be fine.’

He stands in front of his own door, watching me.

I walk off: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

I nod and raise my hand, a thumb up.

At my door, I turn and look back down the corridor -

But he’s gone.

I open my eyes -

The telephone’s ringing -

I reach across the bed, across the open copies of Spunk, the sheets from the Exegesis, and I pick up the phone: ‘Helen?’

‘Peter?’

I say: ‘Joan, I’m sorry.’

‘Been so worried about you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to sit up on the bed, grey light coming through the thin hotel curtains.

‘Where have you been?’

I look at my watch:

It’s seven o’clock -

Tuesday 23 December 1980.

‘Peter?’

‘Sorry. What did you say?’

‘I asked where you’ve been?’

‘Surveillance.’

‘Surveillance?’

‘There was no phone, I’m sorry.’

‘I was just worried, that’s all.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You sound terrible.’

‘Just tired.’

‘Were you asleep?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Have you heard from Linda?’

‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call; Richard hasn’t been home since Sunday and she thought he might be with you.’

‘With me?’

‘She drove over looking for you.’

‘Oh no.’

‘You don’t know where he is then?’

‘No; Roger Hook told me he didn’t show up for the questioning yesterday morning.’

‘Questioning?’

‘It was just routine. He knew it was, but then Clement Smith went and had Vice raid his offices.’

‘Vice?’

My head’s throbbing: ‘Yeah, Vice.’

Joan says: ‘You think he’s all right?’

‘I think he might have gone abroad, you know?’

‘No, not Richard. Not without telling Linda.’

‘He’s not been himself, love. Really nervous, paranoid.’

‘Where would he go?’

‘The house in France.’

‘No? You really think so?’

‘Where else would he go?’

‘Should I say anything to Linda?’

‘If she calls again, you could mention it,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember if it had a phone, can you?’

‘It didn’t.’

‘You sure?’

‘You said that was the best thing about the place.’

I’m sat on the bed, on one of the magazines, holding the phone, nodding -

My head splitting: ‘You’re right.’

Joan says: ‘When you coming home, love?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’

‘I know. I’ll be definitely back tomorrow night. Maybe before.’

‘Hope so.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ she says.

‘Bye-bye.’

‘Bye-bye.’

She hangs up and I sit on the bed, on one of the magazines, the phone dead in my hand, staring into the hotel mirror.

After a few minutes, I stand up and go into the bathroom and change my clothes and wash the blood from my face and my hair, off my hands, rinsing the sink clean after I’m done, clean of the brown water.

‘Helen?’ I say, banging on her door -

I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’

I try the door -

Locked -

Fuck.

Downstairs in the lobby of the Griffin, I ring the bell -

‘Can you tell me if Miss Marshall is in?’ I ask the receptionist.

He looks down his list and turns to the keys hanging on the pegs behind him and then looks back at me and shakes his head: ‘She’s out.’

I’m about to go but then ask him: ‘Any messages?’

‘Mr Hunter?’

I nod.

‘I believe your wife called a number of times last night.’

‘That all?’

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sure.’

It takes the best part of an hour to Levenshulme, the rain sleet then snow then sleet then rain, the roads empty, the landscape dead.

At ten o’clock, local radio tells me the news:

‘An explosion last night destroyed a newsagents and badly damaged adjoining premises on the Bradford Road, Batley. Nine people were taken to hospital to be treated for shock and cuts caused by flying glass. One person had to be kept in for further treatment. Fire officers are investigating claims that the explosion was caused by gas canisters sold at the newsagents.

‘Many shops will again close early tonight as police continue to investigate a call made to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and threatening to kill again today. Meanwhile police released a new description and photofit of the man seen in the Alma Road vicinity of Headingley at the time police estimate Laureen Bell was brutally murdered.

‘The man is described as…’

I switch off the radio -

I know what he looks like.

I park on their road in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport, the Exegesis on my lap, listening to the tapes in my head:

Robert Charles Douglas: October 12, 1946 – born Mirfield, West Yorks; April 1964 – joins Bradford police; August 1973 – marries Sharon Pearson; February 1974 – daughter Karen born; December 17, 1974 – arrests Michael Myshkin; December 24, 1974 – shot and wounded Strafford Arms, Wakefield; October 13, 1975 – forced to retire from West Yorkshire Police. Moves to Manchester.

Stop -

Rewind:

Bradford police -

Eric Hall, Detective Inspector Eric Hall -

Bradford Vice.

Rewind:

‘Trust your Uncle Bob.’

Thinking -

Uncle Bob?

Wondering -

Detective Inspector Robert Craven -

Or former policeman Robert Douglas -

Stop.

I take a couple of painkillers for my back -

Then I put a couple of copies of Spunk in a carrier bag and I get out, lock the door, and walk up their road through the slight rain to their detached house.

There are no lights on, no car in the drive.

I walk up to the front door and ring the bell and wait -

A woman’s voice from behind the patterned glass says: ‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Douglas?’

‘Yes?’

‘Police, love.’

I hear the chain go on and then the door opens -

Sharon Douglas peers through the gap and over the chain: ‘Police?’

‘Yes,’ I nod, showing her my identification.

‘This about Bob and Karen?’

‘Yep, in a way. Can I come in?’ She takes the chain off and opens the door -

I step inside the dark detached house. ‘Go through,’ she says, nodding at the lounge door to the right -

I go into the lounge with it’s unframed Degas print, the Christmas cards and the tree, the photos of their daughter, the TV on, the sound off.

‘Sit down,’ she says -

I sit down on the big settee.

She sits down in one of the matching chairs next to an electric fire with artificial glowing coal -

Mrs Douglas is still red and black around her eyes, but no longer bloated with tea and sympathy; good-looking, she’s got short blond hair, like Lady Diana Spencer, purple trousers and a black sweater.

I say: ‘There was a fire in Batley last night at the newsagents your husband owns.’

‘They called in the night,’ she nods.

‘Who did, love?’

‘The police,’ she nods again, fighting back the tears: ‘I wanted to go over there, to the shop, but I’ve no car have I?’

‘Family, friends, give you a lift?’

‘Not local, no.’

‘Where you from?’

‘Bradford.’

‘Manchester born and bred me,’ I say. ‘Live out at Alderley Edge.’

She smiles: ‘Nice.’

‘We like it,’ I say. ‘Miss it, do you? Being a Yorkshire lass, stuck over here with us pagans?’

She nods again.

I say: ‘Will you go back?’

She shakes her head, biting her lip.

‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’

‘It’s too soon to go,’ she says. ‘All her things are here, her toys, all his stuff.’

I ask: ‘Why did you move over this way?’

‘Bob,’ she says. ‘Wanted to get away’

‘From Yorkshire?’ I smile. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’

She smiles politely, eyes dead and blank.

I ask: ‘Were you married long?’

‘Seven years.’

‘So he was a copper when you met him, Bob?’

Nodding: ‘Yeah, did you know him well?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not well.’

‘He didn’t want to leave, you know?’

‘So I hear.’

‘We did all right though.’

‘He never worked at this shop in Batley then?’

‘No. Wasn’t him, was it. He rents it to some Pakis.’

‘So what did he do?’

‘He’s got his business interests.’

‘His business interests?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ she shrugs.

‘Fair enough,’ I say.

‘Sorry, look at me forgetting my manners,’ she says, standing up suddenly. ‘Have a cup of tea, will you?’

‘Go on then. If you’re making one.’

She crosses the room and then stops in the doorway: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Peter Hunter,’ I smile.

‘Sharon,’ she smiles back. ‘Sharon Douglas…’ and then she stops -

Stops and turns right round -

I’m still smiling at her.

‘Peter Hunter, did you say?’

I nod, smiling.

‘You were here on Sunday, that was you. You’re the bloke that investigates all the police, aren’t you?’

I try to keep smiling: ‘And we met at Headquarters -’

‘And you were over in Wakefield after Bob got shot, I remember you now. They were always -’

‘They were always what, love?’

But she looks right at me, shaking her head: ‘I think you’d better leave.’

I stay put, right where I am: ‘They were always what, Sharon?’

‘I want you to leave.’

I stand up and take a Spunk out: ‘I need to talk to you about these.’

‘Get out!’ she shouts, not even a glance at the magazine.

‘These his business interests, are they love?’

‘Get out!’

‘Look at it, Sharon.’

‘Get out!’

I walk towards her: ‘This how you two met, was it?’

‘Fuck off!’ she shouts, heading for the door -

I follow her out into the hall: ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ve got them all. Every bleeding issue.’

She opens the door and grabs my arm, pulling and then pushing me out into the drive -

‘Bastard!’ she screams. ‘My daughter’s dead, you fucking bastard!’

‘Which issue were you -’

‘Fucking bastard!’ she spits and slams the door.

I hold the magazine open up to the glass, saying: ‘Have to make some copies for your neighbours.’

‘I’m calling the police,’ comes the voice from the other side of the door -

‘Good idea,’ I say, walking off. ‘We love a bit of smut.’

And then somewhere over the Moors again, I remember it’s almost Christmas and I hate myself afresh, 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, the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers:

666 .

Parked by a church on the way into Denholme, the Exegesis on my lap, listening to the tapes in my head again -

Listening and revising, filling in the blanks -

Fleshing out the bones -

Convinced:

Robert Charles Douglas was born in Mirfield, West Yorkshire on October 12, 1946, sharing a birthday with the cultist and black magician Aleister Crowley. Attended Mirfield Grammar School, briefly enrolling at a technical college before leaving to join the Bradford police when he was eighteen. Age of twenty-seven, Douglas married Sharon Pearson, a glamour model ten years his junior. February 1974, daughter Karen born. 1974, as a Detective Constable, Douglas became nationally known as one of the two policemen responsible for the arrest of Michael Myshkin, the man later convicted of the murders of Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, and Clare Kemplay. Only weeks later Douglas was again in the headlines, this time as the victim of a serious gunshot wound received as he attempted to foil a robbery at the Strafford Arms public house in the centre of Wakefield. Forced to retire from the police on disability grounds on October 13, 1975, the day after his twenty-ninth birthday. It was a decision he’d annealed three times. With the substantial compensation for the injuries and his forced retirement, Douglas bought a new house in Levenshulme in Manchester and a newsagents in Batley. He later sublet the newsagents in order to concentrate on other business interests with a Bradford Vice detective named Eric Hall and a Manchester businessman called Richard Dawson. They started publishing a pornographic contact magazine - Spunk. His life however began to deteriorate from October 13, 1975. Always a heavy drinker – even as a serving policeman Douglas was considered to be ‘unstable’ and ‘a weak link’ by some of his colleagues – from 1975 on, Douglas was involved in a number of minor incidents all of which, however, highlighted a growing dependency on alcohol. Throughout 1977, Douglas was frequently reported missing by his wife and, on his intermittent returns to their Manchester home, police were called by neighbours reporting insulting and threatening behaviour and physical assaults upon his wife. In June 1977 both Eric Hall and his girlfriend, a sometime Spunk model called Janice Ryan, were murdered. Douglas was not mentioned in either investigation. During the summer of 1979, Douglas was actually listed as a missing person by local police who were unable to locate him. He eventually turned up at his brother’s flat in Glasgow in September 1979. He returned to his wife later the same month, apparently having given up drinking. He remained in Manchester until late November 1980 when he once again began disappearing for days at a time. Bob Douglas was scared, running – sometime between Tuesday 16 and Wednesday 17 December 1980, Bob Douglas and his daughter were murdered.

Douglas, Dawson, and Hall -

Convinced:

Obsessed, possessed, convinced.

I pull up once more in front of that lonely house with its back to the Denholme golf course and I walk up the drive and I ring the bell -

Another voice from behind another door: ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Hall? It’s Peter Hunter.’

I listen to a chain being dropped and two locks sliding back -

The door opens:

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter,’ smiles Libby Hall -

‘Is it?’ I say, looking round at the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me.

‘Come in,’ she says. ‘I seem to be quite the flavour of the month.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and walk through into the front room.

‘Do sit down,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ I say again and sit down on the big golden sofa.

‘What happened to your face?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Really,’ she smiles. ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve just had one.’

‘If you’re sure I can’t tempt you?’ she laughs, sitting down beside me on the sofa.

‘You said you’d been having a lot of visitors?’

‘It seems so,’ she smiles. ‘First you and DS Marshall, then the Reverend called by again, not that that was such a surprise, then Helen Marshall came back last night, and now you again, not to mention my son; he’s forever popping in and out, checking up on me no doubt.’

‘You saw DS Marshall yesterday then, did you?’

‘Yes, she rang and asked if it would be OK. Because it was a bit late.’

‘What time was it when she got here?’

‘About nine thirty, I think,’ she says, puzzled.

‘Did she stay long?’

‘No, why? Is anything the matter?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’

‘No, why should it have done?’

She’s tugging at her necklace, at the skin beneath: ‘Well, you know? The Ripper promising to kill again?’

‘Mrs Hall, I assure you there’s nothing wrong. I was up this way and I thought seeing as I’m in the area, I’d pop in and say hello. But I know DS Marshall was planning to have a chat with you, just our paths haven’t crossed today. That’s all.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunter. But it’s just she didn’t look so well either.’

‘I think she’s just tired, what with the Ripper Inquiry and all.’

‘That’s what she said. I thought you were going to say she’d been in some kind of accident or something.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘That’s all right then,’ she smiles.

‘She didn’t ask you about these two fellers from the Sunday Times, did she?’

‘Yes, yes. That’s a queer business, that is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well I never spoke to anyone from the Sunday Times, did I?’

‘You speak to any journalists recently?’

‘Mr Hunter, would that I had,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve tried, but no-one wants to know.’

‘Talk to anyone recently? Other policemen? Anyone?’

She’s shaking her head: ‘That’s what Helen Marshall asked and I’ll tell you the same as I told her: No – unfortunately’

‘Did DS Marshall ask you anything else?’

‘Bit about the Reverend, bit about Mr Whitehead.’

‘Right,’ I nod.

‘Hear Mr Whitehead isn’t so well?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘Had some kind of seizure?’

‘Yes, I believe that’s what it was.’

‘But he’s out of the woods apparently?’

‘Is that what DS Marshall said?’

‘Helen? No, it was the Reverend Laws told me.’

‘So what time did she leave?’

‘Oh, about ten, ten thirty maybe? She didn’t stay more than an hour, if that.’

I glance at my watch.

‘You’re sure nothing’s happened? Not trying to spare me something, are you Mr Hunter?’

I say: ‘She’s fine. But do you mind if I just ask you a couple more questions?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ve been going through Eric’s things, the stuff you gave me, and I came across a magazine; a pornographic magazine.’

‘Yes,’ she says, not missing a beat, a blink: ‘Spunk.’

I nod and say: ‘You know anything about it?’

‘Only that Janice Ryan was in it.’

‘You never heard Eric mention it?’

‘No.’

‘How about a company called MJM Limited?’

‘Does sound familiar actually.’

I sit forward: ‘Yes?’

‘They make films, don’t they?’

‘Maybe. What do you know about them?’

‘They have that lion at the start? Them yeah?’

I sit back in my chair and smile: ‘That’d be MGM, Mrs Hall.’

‘Sorry, who did you say?’

‘MJM.’

‘No, I don’t think so then.’

‘What about a man called Richard Dawson?’

She’s shaking her head: ‘No.’

‘Your husband know anyone at all called Richard?’

She pauses, then says slowly: ‘No; not that I can think of.’

‘No-one? Not one single person?’

‘Well, there’s our son Richard of course.’

I say: ‘How about a Bob Douglas? Did he ever mention a policeman called Bob Douglas?’

‘Yes,’ she says, sitting up. ‘Dougie? Yes. His wife Sharon and the little girl -’

‘Karen,’ I say.

‘Yes, Karen.’

‘You friends with them, were you?’

‘Friends? Suppose we are – were anyway.’

‘Been over to their house, have you?’

‘Me, no. Manchester?’

‘Levenshulme.’

‘That’s right. I know Eric went there a couple of times and Dougie used to come over here and play a round or two with Eric every now and again.’

‘Golf?’

‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘Though Dougie, Bob that is – he apparently thought he was a lot better than he actually was. They did come to dinner once as well.’

‘Bob Douglas and his wife?’

‘Yes, just the once. She’s a lot younger than I am, so I suppose you couldn’t expect them to, you know, be coming down all the time.’

‘When did you last see them?’

‘Not since…’

‘Right,’ I say, quickly.

‘Same with a lot of folk.’

Moving fast now: ‘How did they meet?’

‘Bradford, when Dougie first started.’

‘Of course,’ I nod.

‘Wasn’t there long before he was transferred,’ she’s saying, staring off into the heavy gold curtains. ‘But then when he got shot and there was all that business and then they got the house over there, well I think they just had less chance to see each other.’

‘But they got on well?’

She frowns: ‘He wasn’t right was Dougie – not after the shooting.’

‘So I hear.’

‘But would you listen to me?’ she says, suddenly. ‘I’m as bad as them that talk about me, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Better off dead, kicking him out like that – that’s what they say about him; what Eric said. Better off dead – just like they say about me.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Better off dead, that’s what they say.’

I say: ‘Mrs Hall, I’m afraid Bob is dead.’

She tugs at the skin of her neck and says: ‘When?’

‘Last week. I thought you would have heard.’

She shakes her head: ‘No.’

‘He was murdered.’

Tugging at the skin of her neck, shaking her head: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking out at the road and the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me -

‘It was Eric’s worst nightmare that, you know?’ says Mrs Hall suddenly.

‘What was?’

‘Being kicked out like Dougie was. That and having to do time.’

‘Bob Douglas was hardly kicked out. Got a load of brass.’

‘Eric always said he’d kill himself rather than lose his job or go inside.’

‘That’s not an uncommon sentiment,’ I say.

‘Suppose that’s why they hate you so much. Call you what they do.’

Thinking, Saint Cunt -

Saying: ‘I suppose it is.’

‘Why Eric hated you.’

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I say: ‘It mightn’t have come to that.’

She smiles: ‘That’s not true, Mr Hunter. But thank you.’

I look at my watch -

When I look up, Mrs Hall says again: ‘What would you do?’

‘Pardon?’

‘If they threw you out?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What about prison? Could you do that?’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Would you think about killing yourself? Suicide?’

‘No.’

Then she says quietly: ‘He was all right was Dougie. Caught that Myshkin bloke, didn’t he?’

‘He did,’ I say and stand up -

‘You’re going?’

‘I better had.’

She stands up.

I walk over to the door -

She comes up behind me and opens it.

I say: ‘She didn’t say where she was going I suppose, did she?’

‘Helen? No.’

‘Well, thank you for your time again,’ I say, then add: ‘And you’re absolutely certain no-one else’s been to see you or called you in connection with Eric and Janice Ryan?’

‘I’m certain.’

‘Looks like I’ll have to be giving the Sunday Times a call,’ I say, eyes on the night.

‘Does sound like someone’s been telling you lies.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ I sigh. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Doubt it’ll be the last either,’ she smiles.

I take the A644 down into Brighouse and then make my way through Kirklees and back into Batley, stopping for a look at the black shell of RD News, still smouldering in the white flurries of snow, car lights picking out the flakes as they pass, Pakistanis and Chinamen coming and going, in and out, the windows of the Chop Suey and the chemists all boarded over.

On the Ml again, outskirts of Leeds -

The radio on, when:

‘Police have still been unable to identify the body of a man discovered this afternoon in the burnt-out flat above a newsagents on the Bradford Road, Batley, which was destroyed by fire late last night. Police and fire investigators were not initially treating the blaze as suspicious, however police confirmed tonight that they were appealing for witnesses to come forward. A police spokesman refused to speculate on the cause of both the fire and the man’s death but did confirm that arson had not been ruled out.’

I’m on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on, screaming into the Yorkshire night:

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

Millgarth, Leeds:

Looking for Marshall -

Looking for Murphy -

Looking for anyone, upstairs and down.

Ripper Room half empty; forty eyes on me in the door and then back down into their books and their papers, the files and the photographs, Christmas streamers strung from corner to corner across the ceiling.

I swipe a paper off an empty desk and head next door -

Dead:

The fuck were they?

The Evening Post headline:

Batley Blaze Body Found.

I skim it:

Firemen investigating the cause of last night’s fire at a Batley newsagents on the Bradford Road made a grim discovery late this morning when the body of an unidentified man was found in the first floor flat above the shop where the fire was thought to have started. The body was removed to Pinderfields Hospital for a post-mortem and identification.

Both the newsagents and flat were badly damaged in the fire which also caused extensive damage to adjoining properties and left nine people needing hospital treatment. Neighbours told the Evening Post that they heard three loud explosions at the time and believe the fire may have been caused by gas canisters which were stored on the premises. There was a shock among local people at the fatality and surprise that the flat had been occupied.

I reach for a phone and try to get through to Pinderfields, find out who’s doing the post-mortem, but they’ve all gone home or they’re lying.

I look at my watch:

Nine going on ten.

I stand up, I sit down, I stand up again -

Going down the corridor, looking for Angus or Noble, about to tum the corner when I hear two voices round the bend -

Two voices that stop me dead:

Craven: ‘I’m not going to be the fucking goat, no fucking way that’s going to happen and you can tell him that from me.’

Alderman: ‘It won’t come to that.’

Craven: ‘Better fucking hadn’t. Because there’s none of that all for one and one for all bollocks if it does. It’s Bob for Bob.’

Alderman: ‘Is that a threat? Is that what you want me to tell him?’

Craven: ‘It’s out of hand, that’s all I’m saying.’

Alderman: ‘We’ve seen worse, we both have. You know we have.’

Craven: ‘Yeah, and that’s what I’m telling you: there’s always been a goat and it isn’t going to be me.’

I walk backwards a few paces and then head forward, loud as I can, round the corner -

They both freeze, Alderman and Craven.

‘Gentlemen?’ I say.

‘Fuck off,’ spits Alderman and pushes past me down the corridor -

I ask: ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Bad day,’ says Craven.

‘Aren’t they all,’ I nod and hand him the Evening Post -

He looks down at the headline and the photograph of the burnt-out newsagents on the Bradford Road, looks at it and says: ‘I saw it.’

‘So who is it?’

‘Who is what?’

‘The body?’

‘Fuck knows,’ shrugs Craven, handing me back the paper.

‘You know who owned the place?’

‘Couldn’t give a shit,’ he says and walks off the way Alderman went.

I stand there, paper in my hand in the corridor, their corridor.

After a few moments, I knock on Noble’s door -

There’s no answer -

No-one home.

I park the Saab under the dark arches and walk back up to the Griffin, the carrier bag full of Spunks in my hand.

I walk straight into the bar, but there’s no-one there, no-one I know.

I go upstairs and I knock on Helen Marshall’s door -

Then Murphy’s -

Mac’s -

Mike Hillman’s -

Fuck.

Furious, I go back downstairs and have one whiskey in the bar and decide to head back to RDNews because I’ve got nowhere else to go and I can’t sleep until I get the post-mortem on the body, my back killing me anyway, although I’m fucked if I know how I’m going to get the post-mortem, and I’m heading out the front door of the Griffin when the smug little man from behind the desk says:

‘Mr Hunter?’

And I stop and I say: ‘Yep?’

‘Message for you.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and he hands me a crumpled old manila-brown envelope and I open it and-

chest saying see how you tear me see the monstrous punishment you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to this lumpy bundle covered in blankets on the bed in the silence of a flat after death the repeated knocking on the door transmission seven received at three ten PM on friday the twenty seventh of January nineteen seventy eight in a world where people do not care cast aside by those so cruel and treated like a mule unloved is to miss the love that all parents should give yet they cast you aside put you out of their minds they put you in care there is no love there yet the staff really care or they would not be there yet why was it me lord why me lonely and unloved in a timber yard off great northern street huddersfield why me last seen alive on tuesday the twenty fourth of January nineteen seventy eight where loneliness is to go outside and get into a white corsair for a quick five pounds to go outside to the lumber yard on great northern street in the black and dirty snow the viaduct overhead the liverpool leeds hull trains passing by lonely and unloved the taxi rank the black bricks the black wood the black damp the tip damp the derelict school damp the tripe works and abandoned houses damp the canal and the cattle market bloody and damp where the snow will not settle where people do not care the public toilets a countryside of pain and ugly anguish where you fall down in despair falling to your knees in prayer asking god to rescue you from this cruel snare but no one comes no one comes but him in his white corsair with his five pounds for a quick one amongst the wood the timber and the lumber in a world where people do not care e was lured into the deepest hole and e undid my trousers and wait he said he had to urinate and got out of the car and when he came back he asked me to get out and get into the back so we could have sexual intercourse and it was then he hit me and at first e thought it was with his hand and e said there is no need for that you do not even need to pay but he hit me again and it was not his hand but a hammer and he hit me again then e dragged me by my hair into a far corner of the yard and e was not moaning but e was not dead and e could not take my eyes off of him he said do not make any noise and you will be all right then he took off my panties and had intercourse with me and e lay there with him on top of me unloved and when he had finished intercourse he took out a knife and he stabbed me six times in my heart and chest stripped me threw all my clothes and things about and put my body into a narrow space between a stack of wood and a disused garage and covered me with a sheet of asbestos then he went home the next morning a driver found my black bloodstained panties and he hung them on the door to give the lads a bit of a laugh they also saw the bloodstains in the mud and on the polythene but they thought nothing of it because all sorts of things went on at night in the wood yard and they left me between the stack of wood and the disused garage in this countryside of pain and ugly anguish and still e wait for them to come and find me on friday e was a missing person so they gave the alsatian police dog my black bloodstained panties to sniff and within ten minutes the alsatian had found me between the stack of wood and the disused garage found me with my sweater and my bra pushed up and just a pair of socks left on it was three ten PM on friday the twenty seventh of January nineteen seventy eight and they say there is no greater pain than to remember in our present grief past happiness but e will tell you the greatest pain is to remember in our present grief past grief and only grief

Chapter 14

Five hours later and half the Manchester Police force are round my house but I’m still sat in Noble’s bloody office waiting for Chief Constable Ronald Angus to show his face, standing up and sitting down, on and off the phone to Joan, standing up and sitting down, Noble and Prentice and the rest of them in and out.

‘Sit down, Peter,’ says Angus as he comes in, patting me on the back.

Noble gets up from behind his desk to make way for Big Chief Ron.

‘Let’s have a look,’ he says, sitting down.

Noble hands him the sheet of paper encased in the plastic bag, the envelope in another -

Angus holds up the envelope: ‘Mr Peter Hunter,’ he reads. ‘The Griffin, eh?’

I nod.

‘Saturday?’ he says, squinting at the postmark -

‘Manchester,’ I say.

He puts down the envelope on the desk and picks up the letter:

Dear Officer,

Sorry I haven’t written before, but heed this early warning: will kill wife and kids.

Jack the Ripper.

Ronald Angus puts down the letter and looks up at me and then across the room at Peter Noble -

‘Handwriting’s same,’ says Noble.

Angus nods: ‘Or at least a very good likeness.’

‘We were waiting for you, but we’ve got the lab at Wetherby standing by’

Angus ignores him and asks me: ‘Have you been in touch with Mrs Hunter?’

‘Yes.’

‘You told her?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t have any kids, do you?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘That’s lucky’

I look at my watch:

It’s three in the morning -

Christmas Eve, 1980.

I look up and say: ‘I want to go home, sir.’

Chief Constable Ronald Angus looks at Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble and shrugs: ‘Fair enough.’

I stand up and turn to Noble: ‘Thanks, Pete.’

He nods and says: ‘We’ll be in touch.’

I turn to go as the phone starts ringing -

‘Drive carefully,’ says Angus as Noble picks up the phone.

I nod and open the door.

‘Mr Hunter,’ says Noble, one hand over the mouthpiece, gesturing for me to wait.

Me: ‘What is it?’

Angus, looking at Noble: ‘What?’

Noble nodding, into the phone: ‘Fucking hell.’

Me, at his side: ‘What?’

‘Right,’ says Noble and slams down the phone -

‘What?’ say Angus and me at the same time.

‘Eric Hall’s wife.’

Me: ‘What?’

‘She’s dead.’

Me: ‘What?’

‘Son found her hanging in the kitchen thirty minutes ago.’

The drive back out to Denholme:

Prentice, Noble, and me -

The snow blowing about but not settling, the car silent but for Christmas carols on the radio.

Prentice, Noble, and me -

There are tears in my eyes.

We park behind a blue and white at the bottom of the drive, a Ford outside the garage.

Noble leads the way up to the door, Prentice hanging back, and knocks -

A uniform opens the door, introduces himself, mutters a few words and we go through into the front room where a young man is sat on the gold sofa staring into what looks like a glass of whiskey.

Noble says: ‘Mr Hall? My name is Peter Noble, I’m the Assistant Chief Constable.’

The young man nods.

‘This is Peter Hunter, a policeman from Manchester who knew your mother.’

He nods again, glancing up at us.

The house is silent, just policemen walking about, here and there, as quietly as they can.

‘It’s Richard, isn’t it?’ asks Noble.

The young man says: ‘Yes.’

‘Well Richard, in a bit, someone will take you down to the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’ he asks.

‘I’m afraid someone has to formally identify the body’

‘I see.’

‘Yes,’ says Noble. ‘And I’m afraid we’re also going to have to go over a few things with you.’

‘Now?’

‘If you can. It’s best to get everything out of the way, saves having to keep going over things.’

He nods again and takes a sip from the glass.

Noble glances at me and we both sit down, me taking out my notebook.

Noble: ‘Do you want to tell us what happened then?’

‘I came back about twoish. I’d been out and I came in and the house was dark and I thought she must have gone to bed and I put on the light in here and there was a piece of paper on the floor and I picked it up and saw it was a letter so I just put it down here,’ he says, tapping the coffee table.

‘And then, as I was putting it down, I saw her out of the corner of my eye, through there in the kitchen. She was kneeling and I thought, “Now what you up to?” I went over to her, about to say something. Her head was bowed, her hands on top of the washing machine. I just stared at her, she was so still. Then I saw the rope, I hadn’t noticed it. The rope from the clothes rack was around her neck. I ran through into the hall and picked up the phone but then I went back into kitchen because I wasn’t sure, you know. But then I saw her face, all the saliva dangling from her mouth and so I went back and called 999.’

He stops and there’s just the sound of a clock ticking -

Then Noble asks: ‘What did you do then?’

‘I tried to cut her down but I couldn’t find a knife sharp enough.’

Noble nods.

‘Then police and the ambulance came,’ says Richard Hall, looking at his watch. ‘Think it was the police first.’

‘Was she expecting you?’ I ask. ‘Expecting you tonight?’

‘No.’

‘Is this the letter?’ asks Noble, picking up an envelope -

He nods.

Noble opens the envelope and reads the letter and then hands it to me:

Dear Richard,

I’m so very sorry to do this to you after everything you’ve had to deal with, but I just can’t keep going on like this. I hope now you’ll be able to make a clean break and get on with your life. I love you and I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

Mum.

I fold up the piece of paper and put it back inside the envelope and pass it over to Noble. He hands it to a uniform who bags it and takes it away -

Richard Hall looks round, confused.

‘You’ll get it back Richard. Don’t worry,’ says Noble.

He takes a big swig from the glass, swallows and says: ‘This bloody house.’

I nod, thinking the same, thinking about Joan.

‘Have you got anywhere you can go?’ asks Noble. ‘Anyone we should call?’

‘I’ll be right,’ says Richard Hall.

‘Let’s take you down the hospital, get everything out of the way.’

We all stand up and turn to the door -

Helen Marshall is stood in the doorway.

She moves to one side as Noble and a uniform take Richard Hall outside, Noble turning and asking me: ‘You going to be OK to get back?’

I nod.

‘See you later then,’ he says, looking at Marshall.

I nod again and walk back into the front room, Marshall following.

I sit back down on the sofa -

She sits down next to me.

The clock’s ticking.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘I had to go home.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was worried.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, swallowing.

‘How did you hear about this?’

‘Martin Laws.’

‘Laws? Reverend Laws?’

She nods.

‘He called you at home? At the hotel?’

‘At home.’

‘What’s he got your home number for?’

‘Leave it, Peter. Please?’

‘And how did he know?’

‘Said the son had called him.’

‘Fucking hell,’ I say, standing up and going into the kitchen.

A uniform is stood in the back door, smoking a cigarette.

I stand there, under the clothes rack, in front of the washing machine.

She comes up behind me and puts a hand on my arm: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What a mess,’ I say. ‘What a fucking mess.’

She drives me back through the night, through the dark towns and villages, the snow then sleet then rain, down the deserted streets and roads, the empty hills and fields, the rain then sleet then snow, everywhere dead, everyone dead, everything dead, and I’m wondering how long it’s been like this:

Night -

Dark, deserted, and empty night -

Everywhere dead.

Thinking about October 1965 and Brady and Hindley and all that came after, me a Detective Sergeant back then, twenty-five and freshly wed, that dark, deserted, and empty night David Smith called Hyde Police Station -

Everyone dead.

Digging ever since -

Everything dead.

Thinking, how much longer?

‘Joan?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the bed all covered with pages from the Exegesis, photographs from Spunk.

‘Peter? What’s happening?’

‘Nothing. Someone’s there with you?’

‘There’s a car outside, yes.’

‘Anyone call?’

‘Clement Smith.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, just to see everything was all right. Asked if you were there.’

‘Good of him to call.’

‘You know Roger Hook stopped by as well?’

‘I didn’t, no.’

‘Just after the first car came.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Yes, just to check everything was OK.’ I say: ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Wish you were here though.’

‘I’ll be back soon,’ I tell her, looking at my watch:

Fuck, almost noon:

Wednesday 24 December 1980.

There’s a knock at the door -

‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Drive carefully,’ she says.

‘I will,’ I say. ‘See you later.’

‘Bye-bye.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and go to the door -

It’s John Murphy.

‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘All things considered,’ I smile.

‘What a night, eh?’ he sighs.

‘Yeah.’

‘You coming down, going over to Millgarth, what you doing?’

‘I don’t know. Got a million things to get sorted before tonight. What about you lot?’

‘We’ve gone about as far as we can, for now.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘When we going to be back over here?’

‘Monday’

‘They’ll be happy about that,’ he nods.

‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Let’s all meet at Millgarth at two. Tell you lot what’s been going on, then we can all head home.’

‘That’d be nice,’ says Murphy.

‘I’m sorry, John,’ I say. ‘I did try and get hold of you.’

‘I know,’ he shrugs. ‘Just kept missing each other.’

‘Didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop or anything like that.’

‘I know.’

‘See you over there at two then?’

‘Two it is.’

I sit back down on the edge of the hotel bed and pick up the phone and dial directory inquiries and get the number of the Sunday Times:

‘The Editor, please?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not in today,’ a woman’s voice says.

‘OK. My name is Peter Hunter and I’m the Assistant Chief Constable for Greater Manchester.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. How can I help you?’ she asks.

‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you could put me through to Anthony McNeil or Andrew Driscoll?’

There’s a pause, then the woman says: ‘I’m sorry, sir. Can you just hold on a minute?’

‘Sure,’ I say and hold on -

Moments later, the woman says: ‘I thought so, we don’t have an Anthony McNeil working for us and we did have a Mr Driscoll, but he retired quite a while ago.’

‘Retired? How old was he?’

‘Sixty something. He’d be seventy now – if he’s still alive.’

‘I see.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Bye then.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and then dial Wakefield:

‘Community Affairs. Inspector Evans please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter.’

‘One moment, sir.’

Then: ‘Community Affairs. Detective Inspector Evans speaking.’

‘Inspector? This is Peter Hunter.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. What can I do you for?’

‘McNeil and Driscoll? Sunday Times?’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong. I just called the Sunday Times and they’ve never heard of any Anthony McNeil and the only Driscoll they know is retired and seventy years old if he’s not already dead.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yep.’

‘They had press cards.’

‘That’s nice. You didn’t call and check though?’

‘No.’

‘Well done, Inspector.’

‘Shit,’ he says again. ‘So who were they?’

‘Who were they? You’re asking me who they were? You’re bloody Community Affairs, Inspector. I suggest you start bloody finding out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I hang up.

Millgarth, Leeds:

Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, and Helen Marshall -

Craven in the corner.

I sit down at the table, the table full of piles, piles full of files, files full of lists, lists full of names, names full of death and paranoia.

I tell them what they already know: ‘Eric Hall’s wife killed herself last night.’

John Murphy’s nodding, writing in one of the files: ‘Better off.’

‘Shut up,’ says Helen Marshall.

‘Things they did to her, I’d have topped myself years ago.’

‘Leave it, John,’ I hiss.

Murphy, palms up: ‘Sorry.’

‘I’d been going through Eric Hall’s files,’ I say. ‘And it turns out Janice Ryan had done some work for a porn mag called Spunk. This was published by a company called MJM, but it turns out they’ve gone under.’

‘Bust,’ winks Craven. ‘Get it?’

‘Yeah thanks,’ I say. ‘Their forwarding address was a flat above a paper shop owned by Bob here’s partner, the late Bob Douglas.’

‘Ex-partner,’ says Craven, no more jokes.

‘Ex-shop as well,’ I say. ‘It was burnt down night before last. One fatality.’

Marshall’s about to say something, but stops.

‘Any news on the body, Bob?’ I ask Craven -

He sniffs up and says: ‘Looks like murder and arson.’

I count to five, then say: ‘You’re joking?’

‘Unless the bloke had no hands or teeth when he moved in, no.’

‘What?’

‘Whoever it is, they’d cut off his hands and smashed in his teeth.’

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I’m thinking, counting to five.

‘What a fucking place,’ says Hillman for all of us.

Me: ‘So they can’t get a name?’

Craven’s shaking his head.

‘You any ideas?’ I ask him.

‘Me? Why would I know who it is?’

‘You were his bloody partner, Bob?’

‘For all of six months.’

‘Who’s handling it?’ I ask.

‘Alderman.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m thinking, counting to ten.

Then I look back across the room at Craven and I say: ‘Six years today, Bob?’

Craven: ‘Who’s counting?’

I am, I think -

I fucking am.

Hillman: ‘Can I ask something?’

I nod.

‘This letter you got? Any word on that?’

‘Pete Noble sent it over to Wetherby. Still waiting for word from them.’

Murphy: ‘Everything all right?’

‘How do you mean, John?’

‘On the home front?’

Joan, Joan, Joan, I’m thinking, counting to fifteen.

‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’

Murphy: ‘How about Bob Douglas? Any word from Roger and the lads on that?’

‘No, John,’ I say, shaking my head and thinking:

Never fucking ending -

Death and paranoia -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

A total war.

We’re all downstairs at the Griffin, bags packed -

John Murphy getting us all a round in -

A Christmas drink.

He brings over the beers and the shorts, Mac singing along to the piped electronic versions of Christmas carols, but I’ve had a belly full of Christmas music:

Ray Conniff and We Wish You a Happy Christmas -

The Little Drummer Boy.

And I’m already on my third drink, the room suddenly hot, Hillman asking me if I ever met Mr Ray and I’m saying I can’t say I ever did but Mac is saying I must have done – big bearded man who kept pigeons.

‘Pigeon fancier, was he?’ laughs Murphy. ‘Knew a bloke got five years for that.’

‘Another?’ shouts Mac, getting up.

‘A quick one for the road,’ I say, looking across the table at Helen Marshall and smiling -

She smiles back and raises her glass and says: ‘Make mine a double, Mac.’

There are blue lights in the rearview mirror, sirens -

And I’m thinking, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -

I pull over somewhere on the Moors and wait for them.

The tap comes on the glass -

I wind down the window.

‘Would you mind stepping out of the car please, sir?’ I nod and open the door -

Get out and stand there, against the car.

‘May I see your driver’s licence please, sir?’ asks the young policeman, about twenty-five -

About the same age I was when they brought me up here -

Up here to dig.

He’s looking at the licence with his torch, then he shines it up at me and glances back at the police car.

‘Mr Hunter?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Just a minute, sir,’ he says and goes back to the police car, its blue lights spinning silently in the night.

And I stand there, against the car, and I stare up at the sky – quiet for once with just the stars twinkling, and then I look back down at the ground, at the Moors all around me, stained with snow -

Digging ever since.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbles, coming back. ‘We didn’t realise it was you.’

I nod.

‘Here you are, sir,’ he says and hands me my driver’s licence.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Sir?’ he says -

I try and focus.

‘Would you like us to call you a taxi or something?’

I shake my head.

‘You’re sure? It’s no trouble.’

I raise my hand, swallowing sick, and shake my head.

He looks back at the police car and says: ‘You don’t look very well, sir?’

I say: ‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Williams,’ he says. ‘Mark Williams.’

‘How old are you Mark Wilhams?’

‘Twenty-four, sir.’

‘And do you like being a policeman, Mark Williams?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well Mark Williams,’ I say loudly, taking his hand and shaking it and shaking it. ‘You have a merry Christmas.’

‘Thank you. And you sir.’

‘I will,’ I say, getting back in the car. ‘I will.’

‘Drive carefully,’ he says, closing the door for me.

‘Merry Christmas Mark Williams,’ I say. ‘Merry bloody Christmas.’

There’s another police car outside the house when I get there.

I nod at the two officers as I pull in and park in the drive.

I wave at them as I get out and struggle to lock the car door.

I nod again as I walk round the house to the back door.

It’s locked and I fumble with my keys and then turn and walk down the path to the shed.

I unlock that door and open it, staring in at the maps and the photographs on the wall in the dark, the thirteen faces staring back at me, and I turn to the garden, to the washing hanging on the line in the dark in the snow, a bag of pornography in one hand, sick down my shirt, my fly undone, the carols deafening, thinking:

How much longer?