1980

and pain and never happiness to go outside and find no one there but a man who would not frighten anybody sat in a white corsair with a five pound note in his hand and a ball pein hammer under the seat of his car asking are you doing business transmission eight found on Saturday the twenty seventh of may nineteen seventy eight sitting on wasteland in a slumped position against the fence of a car park at the rear of manchester royal infirmary identified as doreen pickles and when her reversible coat was removed it could be seen that her stomach had been so badly mutilated that her intestines had spilled out onto the ground where they wallowed like pigs in the mud below a sign around her neck that in cruel words read e am the way into the doleful city e am the way into eternal grief e am the way to a forsaken race before me nothing but eternal things were made and e shall last eternally abandon every hope all ye who enter and she opens her lids to show the white blank eyes of the dead and says who is this one approaching who without death dares walk into the kingdom of the dead by a chain link fence on a rubbish pile in the corner of the car park looking like a doll lying on her right side face down her arms folded beneath her legs straight and her shoes placed neatly on her body and rested against the fence after three operations and with just one lung death came with three hammer blows twelve feet away hit on the head three times help help help and dragged across the gravel to the fence where e raised her dress and underskirt and stabbed her in the stomach repeatedly through the same wound also in the back just below the lower left ribs her right eyelid was also punctured the eye bruised but after this there will be silence and people will think e have gone away that e have found a woman and settled down a woman who is the opposite of a tart who is religious or even the devout member of a religious sect someone e can pamper at whose feet e can worship someone who is in my eyes a paragon of virtue wearing a reversible coat blue and brown town chequered on one side and all blue on the other a short length floral dress blue canvas shoes a pink cardigan white knickers white underslip and a blue and white bra and e opened my lids to show the white blank eyes of the dead and said dear officer sorry e have not written about a year to be exact but e have not been up north for quite a while e was not kidding last time e wrote saying the whore would be older this time and maybe e would strike in manchester for a change and you should have took heed that bit about her being in hospital funny the lady mentioned something about being in hospital before e stopped her whoring ways the lady will not worry about hospitals now will she e bet you have been wondering how come e have not been to work for ages well e would have been if it had not been for your cursed coppers e had the lady just where e wanted her and was about to strike when one of your cursing police cars stopped right outside the lane he must have been a dumb copper cause he did not say anything he did not know how close he was to catching me tell you the truth e thought e was collared the lady said do not worry about the coppers little did she know that bloody copper saved her neck that was last month so e do not know when e will get back on the job but e know it will not be bloody chapeltown too bloody hot there maybe bradford manningham might write again if up north jack the ripper he who thought to walk so boldly through this realm let him retrace his foolish way alone and you who led him here through this dark land you will stay and they slam the heavy gates in

Chapter 15

It was the night before Christmas. There was a house in the middle of the Moor, lights shining in the windows. I was walking across the Moor, light snow underfoot, heading home. On the front doorstep I stamped my boots loose of snow and opened the door. A fire was glowing with artificial coals and the house was filled with the smell of good cooking. Under a lit Christmas tree, there were boxes of beautifully wrapped presents. I took a big box, gift-wrapped in newspaper from under the tree and pulled the red ribbon loose. Carefully I opened the newspaper so I might read it later. I stared at the wooden box on my knee. I closed my eyes and opened the box, the dull thud of my heart filling the house.

‘What is it?’ said Joan, coming into the room and switching on the TV.

I tried to cover the box with my hands but she took the box from me and looked inside.

The box fell to the floor, the house full of good cooking, the thud of my heart, and her bloody screams.

I watched as the fetus slid out of the box and across the floor, writing spidery messages and swastikas with its bloody cord as it went.

‘Get rid of it,’ she screamed. ‘Get rid of it now!’

But I was staring at the TV, the people on the TV singing hymns, the people on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features -machines, the gulls circling overhead screaming, the wings in my own back, out of the skin, torn, huge and rotting things, and I stared down at the baby on the floor and it sat up, hands across its heart, and smiled a faint and dreadful smile and I looked at the tag on the box, the tag on the box that said:

Love Helen – the night before Christmas.

I open my eyes -

The radio’s on:

Christmas messages: Carter telling the world that all fifty-two hostages are alive and well; the Pope’s message for Poland; Thatcher’s for Northern Ireland; nominations for people of the year: Ayatollah Khomeini; the eight US soldiers who died trying to rescue the hostages; the boat people; JR Ewing; Voyager 1; or John Lennon?

The Yorkshire Ripper?

Radio off -

I close my eyes.

‘Merry Christmas,’ says Joan -

I open my eyes.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.

‘How do you feel?’

‘Not so good.’

‘What happened to you?’

‘A few too many Christmas drinks.’

‘Where?’

‘Leeds.’

‘How did you get back?’

‘I drove.’

She sits up in bed: ‘Peter!’

‘Sorry.’

She gets out of bed and puts on her dressing gown.

‘Sorry,’ I say again.

She goes downstairs.

My head is killing me, my stomach churning, on the verge of throwing up -

I close my eyes.

Downstairs, she’s put on the Christmas tree lights and started making breakfast.

I go into the kitchen.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

‘Please,’ I say.

I go back into the lounge and look out of the window at a wet and grey Christmas Day.

‘Here you go,’ she says and hands me a cup of tea -

‘Thanks.’

‘You think I should take them something?’ she asks, looking at the police car parked at the bottom of the drive.

‘They might as well get off,’ I say. ‘Now I’m here.’

‘Doesn’t it make you feel secure?’ laughs Joan.

‘Watched more like.’

I walk down the drive in the drizzle and my dressing gown -

‘Merry Christmas,’ says Sergeant Corrigan, winding down the car window.

‘And to you Bill,’ I say, bending down and nodding at another man I don’t recognise.

‘Thought you were bringing us a bit of turkey, sir?’

‘Bit early for that,’ I say.

‘Aye, hear you had a late one,’ he laughs -

‘Don’t,’ I say.

‘Not feeling too good, are you?’

I shake my head: ‘Listen, you can get off if you want.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘We’ll be doing the rounds of the relatives most of the day anyway’

‘You sure?’

I nod: ‘Go on.’

‘Right then,’ says Corrigan, starting the car. ‘You know where we are if you need us.’

‘Thanks, Bill.’

‘Have a Merry Christmas, sir.’

‘Same to you.’

We eat bacon and scrambled eggs on toast at the kitchen table, the TV on in the other room – a church service.

I ask: ‘What time they expecting us?’

‘Twelve, mum said. Same as always.’

I nod.

‘You going to be OK?’ she asks.

‘I’m fine.’

I get dressed upstairs and come back down, the presents in two big bags by the door.

She comes out of the kitchen, her coat on.

I say: ‘Shall we go?’

She smiles and hands me a small and beautifully wrapped box in green Christmas paper with a red ribbon: ‘Merry Christmas, love.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have time.’

She nods: ‘I know. Don’t worry.’

I say: ‘Can I open it?’

Of course.’

I pull the red ribbon loose and carefully open the paper -

‘Can you guess what it is?’ she says.

I shake my head and open the box -

‘Happy?’ she asks, squeezing my arm -

I nod, taking out the digital watch.

‘It’s a calculator as well,’ she says.

I take off my father’s old watch and put it on.

‘Happy?’

I smile: ‘Thank you.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ she says, kissing me on the cheek.

I say again: ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got you anything yet.’

‘Don’t worry. You can take me to the sales.’

I put my father’s watch on the windowsill and look at my new one.

‘What time is it?’ she laughs.

‘Just gone eleven-oh-one and seventeen seconds.’

‘Shall we go?’

I nod and open the door.

She points at the tree: ‘Going to leave the lights on?’

‘Better had,’ I say and lock the door behind us.

We drive slowly into Warrington, listening to the local radio as we go, pop songs and carols, not saying very much, and we’re early when we get to her parents but they’re already back from church, waiting -

We park on the road just as her brother and his family arrive.

Their three kids are out of the car, carrying brand new toys up the drive and stretching to reach the doorbell, but her dad’s already there at the door, wearing a paper hat and waving a cracker, wishing us a merry Christmas.

I reach over and take the two bags of presents off the back seat.

‘What’s in there?’ asks Joan, looking at another bag on the back seat.

‘Just work,’ I say, but taking the bag full of back issues of Spunk and locking it in the boot – sure I’d left them in the shed last night.

I say hello and merry Christmas to Joan’s brother John and Maureen, his wife, and we all walk up the drive talking about the miserable weather we’re having and how there are never any white Christmases any more.

Her father is carving the bird, mother in the kitchen, Joan and Maureen bringing in the vegetables, John and I holding sherries, moaning about City and the terrible season they’re having, his son and two daughters, the twins, itching to get eating so they can open the presents from their Nanna and Grandad Roberts and their Uncle Peter and Aunty Joan and then watch Top of the Pops in peace.

The food smells great and my mouth is wet.

We all sit down and I uncork a bottle of Asti Spumante and pour as Joan’s father serves the turkey and sausage and we all help ourselves to vegetables, bread sauce and gravy, the children wanting some of this and none of that, their parents laughing and frowning, telling stories about Carl, Carol and Clare, how they’re growing so fast and there’s really no denying they do seem to grow up quicker these days.

The pudding gone, we’re slumped in various chairs watching Top of the Pops, various new pens and socks, diaries and chocolates to our name, Joan’s parents telling us how they really liked the Beatles all along, Joan and John disputing the fact, the kids wanting us all to pipe down as after Kelly Marie it’s The Police, Carol insisting we play Monopoly later, although Carl’s got a new game about Napoleon he wants to play and his dad had promised him that Uncle Peter would want to play, which his dad denies and says Uncle Peter’s here for a rest and not to play with him, but Clare prefers Cluedo anyway, although her mum thinks Uncle Peter’s probably also had enough Cluedo to last him a lifetime, but I shake my head and tell her would that it were so, would that it were so.

There’s a round of ham sandwiches and jelly at half-five, just after it turns out to have been the Reverend Green in the study with the candlestick, just after Live and Let Die and just before Eric & Ernie’s Christmas Special, just before we say we really must get going as we’ve still to pop in at Hale on the way home.

With the kisses and the thank yous and all the merry Christmases and happy new years done, we pull away, Joan waving at the seven figures stood in the doorway, the kids racing off back into the house before we’re even at the end of the road, and I put the radio on and Joan asks:

‘What time is it?’

And I press the button that illuminates my new digital watch and say: ‘Six-thirty one and eight seconds.’

‘Thought Carl was going to have it off your wrist,’ she laughs.

‘Took a shine to it, didn’t he?’

She’s nodding: ‘They’re lovely, aren’t they?’

And I’m thinking the same too, nodding.

We pull in to her Aunty Edith’s drive and get out, Joan with another present.

I ring the doorbell and listen to the sound of laughter from the TV as Edith comes to the door of her bungalow -

‘Peter!’ she says. ‘Joan!’

And we hug and we kiss on her doorstep, wishing each other a merry Christmas and then she ushers us in.

And we get another cup of tea and some After Eight’s and Turkish Delight as Edith opens her present and gives us ours.

Then we sit and admire the tea-towels, the handkerchiefs, and the red and black striped tie, as a war film starts on the TV.

Joan’s asleep as we head down the Altrincham Road and on into Alderley Edge and we’re about to turn on to the Macclesfield Road when the first fire engine overtakes us and it’s then I know, know instantly what’s happened -

‘Joan,’ I’m saying. ‘Wake up, love!’

‘Are we back?’

‘It’s the house, love! Look!’

And I pull in to the side of the road and we stare up at the house, another fire engine and another and another -

The house in flames -

Lit match -

Gone.

my face and e shake my fists at the black sky that rains morning noon and night and cry who are these faceless people who forbid my entrance to the halls of grief has no one before descended to this sad hollows depths from that place where pain is host and all hope cut off transmission nine murdered in bradford in november nineteen seventy eight but not received until nineteen eighty noorjahan davit who was initially reported missing in September nineteen seventy eight after leaving an acquaintance looking after her two children and failing to get back in touch which was out of character on leaving home she had stated that she was going to visit her mother at her leeds address and would return later that day however she never arrived at her mothers house person in question is a convicted prostitute who left home in possession of only train fare and stated that she expected her mother to provide her with money for the children extensive inquiries in the manningham area have failed to trace subject this woman is on bail and due to appear at bradford magistrates court to answer charges of soliciting for prostitution at bradford conditions of bail are a curfew between nineteen hundred hours and seven hundred hours daily it is believed that miss davit intended to attend court and had made tentative enquiries to arrange for the custody of her children in the event of her losing her liberty which indicates that she had no intention of absconding also she thereafter failed to keep an appointment with her defending solicitor she is described as being Pakistani born february second nineteen fifty six five feet five inches tall of slim build wearing black polo necked jumper yellow trousers green and black wavy striped woollen jacket with wide sleeves black shoes and carrying a small handbag of the kind that is carried under the arm without strap or handles missing until her body found secreted under an old wardrobe on waste ground off arthington street bradford a post-mortem was carried out and death was due to massive head injuries possibly caused by a heavy blunt instrument it is thought that death occurred some weeks ago and the body is partially decomposed davit was living with a friend off lumb lane when she left home saying she was going away for a few days and was reported as missing from home one week later and in view of the recent spate of prostitute murders a large scale search was carried out and enquiries made regarding her whereabouts all of which proved negative and there had been no positive sightings of her from her being reported missing until the discovery of her body but it is thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders from the pattern of the injuries this death is connected with the other prostitute murders publicly referred to as the ripper murders connected with the other prostitute murders the ripper murders other prostitute murders the ripper in the red room the numbers upside down the tape playing singing along you are a pal and a confidant and it always will stay this way my hat is off see the biggest gift would be from me the card attached would say thank you for being a friend and when we both get older with walking canes and hair of grey have the fear for it is hard to hear so e stand real close as we walk on across this marsh of shades beaten down by the heavy rain our feet pressing on their emptiness that looks like human form we make our way through the filthy mess of muddy shades and slush moving slowly talking a little he says when we die and float away into the night the milky way you will hear me call as we ascend e will say my name then

Chapter 16

Dawn -

Boxing Day:

Friday 26 December 1980 -

I stand in front of a burnt-out shell, thinking this is the second time in a week I’ve seen these marks and smelt this smell, tasted this taste, but this time -

This time I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my own house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, this time -

This time the marks on my house, the smell of my house, the taste of my house, this time -

Getting tears in my eyes -

Unable to stop the tears, getting the fear -

Unable to stop the fear -

The stench of that fear and all it’s claimed stinging the inside of my nose and throat, but I can’t move away -

Unable to stop the fear -

And I can only walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, can only keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room -

The War Room -

Where the smell is worse still, another door gone, more walls black, the photographs and the map gone, the cassette recorder and the reel to reel, the television and the typewriter, the computer parts melted, Anabasis gone – all of it gone, the metal filing cabinets stained black, the boxes of paper, the stacks of magazines and newspapers, charred and gone -

Everything gone -

Everything but the fear -

Thinking they did this to me because of who I am, because of what I am -

Because of who I know, of what I know -

Because of the fear -

To give me the fear -

And I bend down and take a handful of hot black ash -

The Fear here.

‘They burnt my house down! My fucking house down!’

‘I know, I know,’ says Roger Hook, his hands up.

‘So where is he? Where the fuck is Smith?’

‘He’s not here.’

‘I can bloody see that.’

‘Pete, please?’

‘Burnt my house down! Burnt my house down and threatened to kill my wife!’

He’s nodding, asking: ‘Where is Joan?’

‘I’m not fucking telling you. I’m not telling anyone.’

‘You want a car? Two cars? They’re yours.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘I want to see the Chief fucking Constable because I want to ask him what the fuck he’s going to do about all this.’

‘Let me go and make some calls; see what I can do.’

I nod, then say: ‘Thanks, Roger. Thank you very much.’

He stands up and leaves me sat there, sat there in one of the eleventh floor offices of one of the Assistant Chief Constables of the Greater Manchester Police force -

My office.

And I stare at the Christmas cards and all the unopened post in my tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, sitting there in my eleventh floor office -

But it doesn’t feel like my office.

I look at my watch, my new digital watch:

10:09:36 -

And I remember leaving my old watch, my father’s watch on the windowsill yesterday morning, remember it like it’s someone else’s memory, yesterday someone else’s yesterday -

And sitting here, here in my office that doesn’t feel like my office, I’m unable to stop the tears, getting the fear again -

Unable to stop the fear.

The telephone on the desk is ringing -

The telephone on my desk, my telephone -

I pick it up: ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Hunter? Mr Lees is on line two.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, pressing the flashing button, thinking:

Donald Lees, the Clerk to the Greater Manchester Police Authority.

I say: ‘This is Peter Hunter speaking.’

‘Mr Hunter, allegations have been made against you that indicate a disciplinary offence on your part and these allegations are to be investigated by Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.’

‘What?’

‘Mr Hunter, you are to be in your office at two this afternoon.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s all I can tell you, Mr Hunter.’

‘Mr Lees, what’s going on? What allegations?’

‘Mr Angus will give you the necessary details this afternoon. Goodbye.’

‘Mr Lees -’

The line dead, the room spinning -

The Christmas cards and the unopened post in the tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, spinning -

My whole office -

But it doesn’t feel like my office -

It feels like I’m choking in someone else’s office -

And I try to stand -

But I stumble -

I walk to the door -

I open it -

Roger Hook is in the corridor, Roger Hook talking to John Murphy -

I look at them -

They look away.

I’m outside, outside in the car park -

Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:

10:27:09 -

Struggling with the car door -

Slumped behind the wheel:

Fucked.

Struggling, slumped and fucked -

In the reserved space that says:

Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable.

Back upstairs, the corridors dead -

I dial his home number:

He picks up: ‘Clement Smith speaking.’

‘It’s Peter Hunter.’

‘Good morning, Mr Hunter.’

‘You know we lost the house?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I know.’

‘And I suppose you know I’ve also had a call from Donald Lees?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want to know what the bloody hell is going on?’

‘It would be inappropriate of me to say anything to you at this point.’

‘So you do know what these allegations are then?’

‘I can’t say anything. It would not be appropriate.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Mr Angus will give you all the information you’re entitled to later on today, I believe.’

‘But what about the Ripper Inquiry? It’s to do with that, isn’t it?’

‘Peter,’ he says, quietly. ‘You must, from now on, worry only about yourself.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Duty dictates I can say no more.’

‘What?’

‘Goodbye to you Mr Hunter.’

Speechless, I slam down the phone.

The office of one of the Assistant Chief Constables of the Greater Manchester Police force -

My office:

Friday 26 December 1980 -

Boxing day:

13:54:45.

A knock -

Chief Constable Ronald Angus and Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson are shown in -

Nods and handshakes:

Angus: ‘Mr Hunter.’

‘Peter,’ says Maurice Jobson, the Owl.

Angus is looking at my chair behind my desk but I gesture at the two chairs in front of the desk -

We all sit down.

I look across my desk at Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, and I wait -

He says: ‘Maurice is here because unfortunately George Oldman, as you know, has not been well and Pete Noble is a bit busy.’

He’s smiling, the tables turned.

I say: ‘That explains why Maurice is here. But what about you?’

He’s not smiling now, not smiling as he tells me: ‘I have been invited here today by your own Police Committee to investigate certain matters affecting yourself. This is not a formal interview and I will be taking no notes.’

I hold up my pen: ‘I will be.’

‘As you wish.’

I say: ‘My wish Mr Angus is that I wasn’t here at all, that I was with my wife. As you may or may not know, may or may not even care, our house was destroyed in a fire last night, a fire that followed a threatening letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper, a letter that you are aware of. So I would be very grateful if you could tell me what these certain matters are that you’ve been asked to investigate, so that I can clear this whole thing up as quickly as possible.’

‘I cannot at this moment tell you what these matters are. They amount only to rumour, innuendo, and gossip about your associations with various people in Manchester.’

‘Who?’

‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘I am not able to tell you. We have a number of inquiries to make.’

‘I have done nothing wrong and I would like you to note that here and now.’

He doesn’t -

He says: ‘No evidence or written statements have been provided to me, but I’m sure this investigation…’

‘Investigation?’

‘No, that’s too strong a word – this inquiry - I’m sure it shouldn’t take too long.’

‘How long?’

‘About a month, I should think.’

‘I have to be back in Leeds on Monday’

He coughs and sits forward slightly in his chair and says: ‘I have been authorised by your Police Committee to invite you to take extra leave. You will not be going back to Leeds and you can consider yourself off the Ripper Investigation.’

‘For now or forever?’

‘Forever.’

‘You’ve spoken to Philip Evans, Sir John Reed?’

‘Yes. It’s been agreed that Chief Superintendent Murphy will take over the investigation, using your team.’

I say: ‘What am I supposed to have done?’

‘I cannot say.’

I look at Maurice Jobson -

He’s looking at the floor.

Angus says: ‘I can tell you that it has absolutely nothing to do with Leeds or the Ripper Investigation.’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Well, I’m telling you.’

‘Well, let me tell you something: I have no intention of accepting any free leave. If you have the grounds for a suspension, then suspend me. Otherwise, I will continue with my duties as an Assistant Chief Constable.’

Ronald Angus stands up: ‘Mr Hunter, it is now my intention to ask you to leave your office and these headquarters right away’

‘What?’

Maurice Jobson stands up next to him.

Me: ‘You’re joking?’

Angus shakes his head.

Jobson is looking past me, out of the window behind me.

Slowly I stand, looking around the office -

The Christmas cards and the unopened post in the tray, the photographs and certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations, my whole office -

But it doesn’t feel like my office -

Because it isn’t my office -

I’m choking -

Trying not to sway as I stand there -

Trying to think -

Think, think, think.

I reach for my briefcase and I open it, sweeping the cards and the unopened post into it -

And I stare at the photographs and the certificates on the wall, the awards and commendations; their awards, their commendations, thinking:

Fuck ‘em – fuck ‘em all.

And I walk to the door -

Trying not to stumble, briefcase under my arm -

And I open the door.

Angus says: Two o’clock tomorrow.’

‘What?’

‘Meet us here at two o’clock tomorrow please.’

And I just nod and walk out into the corridor -

And I stand there, in the corridor, until Jobson comes up behind me.

This way,’ he says and leads me over to the lift.

He presses the button and we wait.

The lift arrives and the door opens -

He says: ‘Sorry about your house.’

I look at him -

He looks away.

Outside, outside in the car park -

Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:

14:36:04 -

Struggling with the car door and my briefcase -

Slumped behind the wheel:

Fudged.

Struggling, slumped and fucked -

In the reserved space that still says:

Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable.

Someone’s tapping on the glass -

I open my eyes:

Dark, night.

The policeman is saying:

‘I’m sorry, you can’t park here.’

Fuck.

‘It’s reserved.’

And I switch on the engine and the headlights in the reserved space that says:

Assistant Chief Constable.

No name -

Only:

Assistant Chief Constable.

I drive out of Manchester, through Wilmslow, and on to Alderley Edge.

I turn on to the Macclesfield Road.

There are no fire engines tonight.

And I pull up on the road and park there, the drive covered in the debris -

The house, what’s left of our house in silence -

Our home -

Gone -

Lit match, gone.

I get out of the car and pick my way up the drive through the debris until I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, again -

Tears in my eyes -

Unable to stop the tears, the fear -

Unable to stop the fear -

And I walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, and I keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room -

The War Room -

Everything gone -

Everything but the fear -

Knowing -

Knowing they’re doing this to me because of who I am, because of what I am -

Because of who I know, of what I know -

Because of the fear -

To give me the fear -

And I bend down and take a handful of warm black ash and I spit in that black ash and rub it between my fingers and my palms and then I take the ash and draw a cross upon my face -

A cross to keep the fear away -

A cross to keep the fear -

A cross to keep -

A cross to -

A cross.

once again thank you for being a friend for you have seen my face in the stamp on the envelope of the letter e sent and e will leave this place to meet a friend in the winter that never leaves and says in a yorkshire way e say the weather is letting us down again winter still in the middle of may transmission ten sent may eighteenth nineteen seventy nine in morley Joanne clare thornton found dead in lewisham park the following morning struck twice on the head dead instantly clothes repositioned body stabbed twenty five times with a kitchen knife with a four inch blade extensive damage to abdominal area and to vagina one shoe placed between thighs coat thrown over her e parked and ran to catch up with her and e said excuse me and e asked her the time and she squinted at the clock across the way and said it was half past eleven and e said my what good eyes you have and she said thank you and e said where have you been and she said to see her grandmother and e said have you got far to go and she said it was quite a walk and e said have you not thought about learning to drive and she said she preferred to ride horses and e said well you should be careful out here alone in this park at this time of night you cannot trust anybody these days and e stooped to pretend to tie my shoelace and then e took the hammer from my pocket and e hit her twice on the top of the head and dragged her from the path and e sorted out her clothes then e took out the ten inch philips screwdriver which e had sharpened to a point and e took out the kitchen knife and e stabbed her twenty five times and three times e inserted the screwdriver into her vagina and e punctured her uterus winter still the following received june twentieth nineteen seventy nine e am jack e see you are still having no luck catching me e have the greatest respect for you george but lord you are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when e started e reckon your boys are letting you down george they cannot be much good can they the only time they came near catching me was a few months back in chapeltown when e was disturbed even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective e warned you in march that e would strike again sorry it was not bradford e did promise you that but e could not get there e am not quite sure when e will strike again but it will be definitely some time this year maybe September October even sooner if e get the chance e am not sure where maybe manchester e like it there there is plenty of them knocking about they never do learn do they george e bet you have warned them but they never listen take her in preston and e did did e not george dirty cow come my load up that at the rate e am going e should be in the book of records e think it is up to eleven now is it not well e will keep on going for quite a while yet e cannot see myself being nicked just yet even if you do get near e will probably top myself first well it has been nice chatting to you george yours jack the ripper no good looking for fingerprints you should know by now it is as clean as a whistle see you soon bye hope you like the catchy tune at the end ha ha thank you for being a friend traveled down road and back again your heart is true you are a pal and a confidant e am not ashamed to say e hope it always will stay this way my hat is off will you not stand up and take a bow if you threw a party invited everyone you knew you would see biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say thank you for being a friend if it is a car you lack e would surely buy you a white corsair whatever you need anytime day or night it always will stay this way when we both get older with walking canes and hair of grey have no fear even though it

Chapter 17

Joan’s parents’ house, sitting in their front room among the Christmas cards, their front room and Christmas cards like the front room that was our front room with its Christmas cards, the front room that was our front room until Thursday night, in front of their tree, their tree like the tree that was our tree until Thursday night, sitting in their front room, Mr and Mrs Roberts trying to leave us alone, give us some time, give us some space, some time and some space like the time and the space that was our time and our space until Thursday night, but they’re in and out all the same, me and Joan sitting in their front room on their sofa, the sofa like the sofa that was our sofa until Thursday night, sitting in their front room on their sofa like the teenage couple we never were, me wanting to hold her hand -

Holding her hand -

Holding her hand, holding back my tears, trying to catch hers, trying to stop them, – but all the things we’ve lost, there’s so much, we’ve lost so very much, too much, the things we’ve lost, there are so many, we’ve lost so very many things, too many.

‘The application forms,’ she’s sobbing.

‘We can easily get more, that won’t be a problem.’

‘But we haven’t got a house, Peter. They’ll never let us…’

‘We’ll get a new one, rebuild the old one. The insurance…’

‘Not if it was those lights.’

‘It wasn’t the lights,’ I snap. ‘And it doesn’t make any difference even if it was.’

‘But it’ll be years.’

‘No, it won’t.’

‘They’ll never let us, not now.’

‘Of course they bloody will.’

Holding her hand, holding back my tears, trying to catch hers, trying to stop them, – but all the things we’ve lost, there’s so much, we’ve lost so very much, too much, the things we’ve lost, there are so many, we’ve lost so very many things, too many.

Her mother puts her head round the door again: ‘Another cup of tea anyone?’

I glance at my new watch, shaking my head and lie: ‘I’ve got to be in the office.’

‘At least you’ve still got a job,’ Joan sniffs. ‘Least you’ve still got that.’

I get into the car.

I sit behind the wheel.

I look at my watch again:

10:08:00 -

I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of their drive.

I head into Manchester -

Head into Manchester because I’ve got nowhere else to go:

Nowhere but here.

Saturday 27 December 1980 -

Two o’clock:

Manchester Police Headquarters -

The eleventh floor:

I knock on the door of the room that was my office, that was my office up until yesterday afternoon.

‘Come.’

I open the door.

Ronald Angus is sitting in the chair that was my chair, the chair behind the desk that was my desk, the desk in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon at 14:35:00.

‘Sit down,’ says Angus, nodding at the empty chair next to Chief Superintendent Jobson -

I sit down.

Angus leans across the desk, the desk that was my desk, and he hands me a piece of paper -

I take it from him and I read:

Information has been received which indicates that during the past six years you have associated with persons in circumstances that are considered undesirable, and by such associations you may have placed yourself under an obligation as a police officer to those persons.

‘That’s it?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘No names, no times, no dates, no places?’

‘It’s not an allegation, nor a complaint.’

‘So what is it?’

‘It is information received that needs to be investigated.’

‘So let me help; tell me the names of these people with whom I’m supposed to have associated?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Well then, tell me what kind of obligations I’m supposed to have placed myself under?’

‘I cannot.’

I’m smiling -

Despite myself I am smiling -

Smiling at Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, the West Yorkshire force that forty-eight hours before I was investigating, smiling at him sat there in the chair that was my chair, the chair behind the desk that was my desk, the desk in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘I know how this looks, so I know what you’re thinking. But I can assure you my own reputation for fairness and integrity is as much on the line here as your own.’

I can’t help myself: ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse, sir?’

Angus has had enough: ‘Mr Hunter, to be blunt: I don’t care how you feel.’

Silence -

In the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon, silence -

Silence until Maurice Jobson says: ‘Peter, we’re going to have to ask you to provide us with full details of your bank account and any credit cards and savings accounts you might have had in the last six years.’

‘Why?’

Jobson shakes his head: ‘I can’t tell you, you know that.’

‘No, I don’t know that.’

‘OK, well I’m telling you now.’

‘OK, Maurice,’ I smile. ‘I’ll tell you something shall I? I am under no legal obligation whatsoever to provide you with that information.’

‘No, you’re not,’ interrupts Angus. ‘But if you don’t oblige us, I’ll just get a judge to make you.’

‘Then you’d be wasting even more of your time than you already are.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘I can’t give you it.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’ smiles Angus.

‘Can’t.’

‘Why not?’ asks Jobson.

‘The fire.’

Angus sits back in his chair and sighs: ‘Convenient.’

‘What?’ I say, voice raised: ‘You what?’

Jobson’s holding onto my arm, pulling me back down into the chair in front of the desk, the chair in front of the desk that was my desk, the desk in the room that was my room, the room that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon, Jobson telling me: ‘Take it easy, now. Take it easy.’

‘What about your passport?’ asks Angus.

‘What about it?’

‘Lose that as well?’

I tell him: ‘We lost everything.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Going to take that as well were you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fucking hell,’ I say, shaking my head.

Again silence -

Again silence in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon -

Again silence until Angus says: ‘Two o’clock. Monday.’

‘That’s it?’ I say.

‘Wakefield,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Two o’clock. Monday. Wakefield.’

‘You’re joking? You’re supposed to come here. It’s procedure.’

‘Mr Hunter,’ sighs Mr Angus. ‘We want this thing over and done with as much as you do. But you also know more than most the pressure we’re under over there, so if you want us to get a move on with this we’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mind coming over to Wakefield on Monday.’

I nod and stand up.

‘Good day Mr Hunter,’ he says.

‘One thing,’ I say -

He looks up.

‘Disciplinary Regulations demand that information be given to an accused officer in sufficient detail for him to be able to defend himself, and that the full name and address of the person making the complaint must also be provided to him.’

Angus nods and says: ‘I know.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Then I look forward to receiving that information from you at two o’clock on Monday in Wakefield.’

Angus is looking at me, staring at me, staring at me stood there.

More silence -

More silence in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon -

More silence until the phone starts ringing -

Angus picks it up: ‘Chief Constable Angus speaking.’

He’s listening, still looking at me.

‘Yes he is,’ he says into the phone, eyes never leaving mine -

Mine never leaving his.

‘Just a moment,’ he says and puts his hand over the mouthpiece -

‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘Won’t give his name, but says it’s an emergency.’

Never leaving his.

Ronald Angus leans forward and hands me the phone, the phone that was my phone until yesterday afternoon -

I take the phone from him and lean across the desk, the desk that was my desk, and I press the flashing red button: ‘This is Peter Hunter.’

‘Are you alone?’ a man’s voice asks – young.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Well then, I’ll make this brief.’

‘I’m listening.’

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

‘I’m still listening,’ I say, thinking -

ASSUME THIS PHONE IS TAPPED.

Him: ‘Be in Preston tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘Where?’

‘St Mary’s? It’s a pub on Church Street.’

‘What time?’

‘One?’

‘Fine.’

The line goes dead.

I hand the phone, the phone that was my phone until yesterday afternoon, I hand it back to Ronald Angus -

He takes it from me, his eyes black and burning to know who that was, Jobson the same.

I say nothing and turn and walk to the door, the door that was my door, the door to the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.

‘Mr Hunter?’ says Angus as I open the door. ‘One thing for you.’

I turn around -

‘We will be asking you for authorisation to go directly to your bank and we will also be asking you to turn over official diaries and expenses, not forgetting all files pertaining to the Ripper.’

I nod and turn back to the door -

‘Is that a yes, Mr Hunter?’

I nod again, my back to him, and I step out into the corridor and shut the door, shut the door to the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.

I pull into the drive of Joan’s parents’ house at almost six o’clock and I can see Joan watching for me in their front room.

She comes out into the drive as I’m locking the car -

‘Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me?’

I can see her parents standing in the hall, her father with his arms around her mother -

‘What?’

‘It’s all over the papers, the news. It’s everywhere.’

‘What is?’

‘Your suspension,’ she says, holding out the evening paper -

‘What?’

‘You didn’t know?’

I take the paper from her and stand in the dark and the rain of her parents’ drive straining to read the front page of the Manchester Evening News under a headline that’s as large as it is a lie:

Suspended.

In big, black, bold type -

With my photograph underneath, one taken of me wrestling a student to the ground during a recent demonstration when Keith Joseph came North on a visit to Manchester Polytechnic.

Manchester Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter was today suspended from duty due to what police sources are describing as serious allegations.

In a carefully worded statement, Mr Donald Lees of the Greater Manchester Police Authority told reporters that, Information has been received in relation to the conduct of a Senior Police Officer which disclosed the possibility of a disciplinary offence. To maintain public confidence, the Chairman of the Police Committee, Councillor Clive Birkenshaw, has requested the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, Mr Ronald Angus, to investigate this matter under the appropriate statutory provisions. The Assistant Chief Constable involved is on temporary leave of absence whilst the matter is being investigated.’

Mr Lees repeatedly refused to confirm or deny that the officer was Peter Hunter, but police sources confirmed that Mr Hunter had been suspended from duty. Attempts were made to contact Mr Hunter for comment, but he was unavailable at the time of going to press.

Councillor Birkenshaw meanwhile was quoted as describing the complaint as ‘very trivial’ and had ‘blown up over the last two days’.

However Mr Clement Smith, the Chief Constable of Greater Manchester, told the Evening News that the allegations were, ‘very regrettable indeed and it is my hope that they will be cleared up as quickly as possible.’

Mr Lees was unable to give details of the allegations involving Mr Hunter but he did deny conflicting newspaper reports that the suspension was a result of a fire two days ago at Mr Hunter’s Alderley Edge home or his handling of the inquiry into the Yorkshire Ripper or rumoured links to the recent horrific murder of former Yorkshire policeman Robert Douglas and his young daughter in the Ashburys area of the city.

I stop reading and look up at Joan standing there, standing there in the drive of her parents’ house, her own arms around herself.

‘You didn’t know?’ she’s asking me -

I shake my head and say: ‘Bastards, the fucking bastards.’

And she’s crying and so am I, unable to hold back my tears, unable to catch hers, unable to stop them, and all the things we’ve lost, there’s so much, we’ve lost so very much, too much, the things we’ve lost, there are so many, we’ve lost so very many things, too many, and I put my arm around her and lead her back up the drive and into her parents’ house, her parents’ house like the house that was our house, the house that was our house until Thursday night, her mother and father stood in the hall, his arm round her, her hands to her face, my arms round Joan, her hands to my face, my black ash face, and I look at the three of them and I say -

‘I’m sorry.’

is hard to hear e will stand real close and say thank you for being a friend and when we die and float away into the night the milky way you will hear me call as we ascend hear me cry but surely we were meant to win this fight not howl like dogs in the rain transmission eleven received on ash lane bradford on Sunday the ninth of September nineteen seventy nine identified as dawn Williams a large laceration on the back of her head and seven stab wounds in her trunk three of them round her umbilicus the knife reintroduced into the chest wound on a number of occasions she had numerous bruises and abrasions and had been struck on the head with a hammer and stabbed with a giant three sided screwdriver new suffering in the round of rain eternal a piteous sight confusing me to tears cursed cold and falling heavy unchanging thick hail and dirty water mixed with snow coming down in torrents through the murky air the earth stinking from this soaking rain wherein a ruthless and fantastic beast with all three of his throats howls out doglike above the drowning sinners of this place his eyes red his beard slobbered black his belly swollen he has claws for hands and he rips the spirits flays and mangles her in the shadows of the yard behind number thirteen pulling at her blouse lifting her brassiere pulling down her jeans and panties putting away the hammer taking out the screwdriver the knife stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing stabbing replacing the blouse under a piece of carpet some leaves the rain welcome back to bradford said the sign above the door round the back in an old carpet a dead girl in a distorted jackknife posture in a cheesecloth shirt bra pushed up to expose her breasts and her jeans undone and partly pulled down stabbed seven times in the stomach and the shoulder blade with a four inch blade he is thirty two dark five feet eight inches tall calls himself ronnie or Johnnie related to the detective no he is an electrician from durham no he is a former sailor now electrician who loves dancing no e have seen his face in the stamp on the envelope of the letter he sent and e will not leave this place until he is caught no he is a father of two who works at a pumping station and has a dog no he is a lorry driver called peter who drives a cab with a name beginning with the letter C on the side and he lives in bradford in a big grey house elevated above the street behind wrought iron gates with steps leading up to the front door number six in its street peter will have committed crimes before and is connected to the containerbase at stourton and he will kill for the last time in leeds on Wednesday the tenth of december nineteen eighty a piteous sight confusing me to tears the onedin line finished this is the bradford police dawn has been reported missing since yesterday evening and we wondered if she had gone home no she has not and this is most unusual right we will keep checking and we will let you know as soon as we have any news this is just not like her perhaps it is a hoax a sick joke there are so many e thought e would ring you and have a chat we have no news yet e have got daughters too and e know what it is like then the doorbell and she is gone and we would like you to come up and identify her we will send a car around the colour of the coward on my face his body one mass of twitching muscle grabbing up fistfuls of mud quiet only with mouthfuls of food then barking thunder on dead souls who wished they were deaf and e say it is not usual for one of us to make the journey e am making now but it happens e was down here once before soon after e had left my flesh in death she sent me through these walls and down as far as the pit of judas

Chapter 18

The breakfast is greasy, the conversation cold, the weather both and the radio on:

‘Accusation and counter-accusation fill many of the Sunday papers this morning concerning the suspension of Peter Hunter, an Assistant Chief Constable with the Greater Manchester Police.

‘Under the headline, Hunter: Conspiracy or Coincidence? an editorial in the Observer asks whether Mr Hunter’s suspension is in any way linked to an apparently hostile report he was preparing into the management and practices of the West Yorkshire Police in regard to their handling of the on-going Ripper Inquiry. A report that has now been shelved.

‘However the Mail on Sunday carries quotes from unnamed police sources claiming that the suspension is due to Mr Hunter’s own associations with a prominent local criminal from whom Mr Hunter had accepted lavish hospitality, photographs of which are ‘doing the rounds’ in some of the less salubrious Manchester pubs and clubs.

‘Meanwhile other papers continue to lead with either the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper or the prospects for the release of the fifty-two hostages being held…’

I swallow my food and get up from the table.

‘Where are you going?’ her mother asks.

‘Preston.’

‘Preston?’ repeats her father.

‘Preston,’ I nod.

Joan doesn’t even look up from the plate before her, greasy and cold.

Preston -

Sunday 28 December 1980:

11:05:02 -

I’m too early -

Much too early.

I don’t need to find St Mary’s, so I park in a multi-storey car park near the station and listen to the radio for a bit longer before I decide to sort out the car, stuffed full of half the office – the unopened post and cards; plus the Christmas presents – the various pens and socks, the diaries and chocolates, the handkerchiefs and tie; then the stuff from the Griffin – the Exegesis and the tapes, Hall’s notes and mine, the boot full of Spunks.

I open the doors and the boot and start shifting stuff about and when I’ve got the porn and the important stuff lying in the boot under a sea of socks and diaries, handkerchiefs and the tie, then I close the boot and get back inside, the unopened post and cards in a pile on the passenger seat, and with a mouth full of chocolate liquors I start going through the envelopes, one by one, the cards and the post, one by one, the official and the personal, one by -

One:

Flat and manila, in slanting black felt-tip pen:

Peter Hunter,

Police Chief,

Manchester.

Flat and manila, in slanting black felt-tip pen:

Photos Do Not Bend.

Flat and manila -

I rip it open and take them out -

Photographs, four of them -

Four photographs of two people in a park:

Piatt Fields Park, in wintertime.

Photographs, black and white -

Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:

A cold grey pond, a dog.

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them me.

St Mary’s, Church Street, Preston -

12:54:05 .

I’m sitting at a sticky-topped table by the door, the rain outside, the cold inside.

I’ve got a half of bitter in front of me, salt and vinegar crisps spilling here and there, sideways glances from the regulars.

I keep looking at my watch, my new digital watch -

12:56:05 .

Sitting at the sticky-topped table by the door, wondering if he’s here or if he’ll show, wondering if I would if I were him, wondering just who the fuck he is – the fuck I am.

An empty glass in front of me, salt and vinegar stinging my fingers, front-on stares from two men by the dartboard.

I look at my watch -

12:58:03 .

Sat there, damp and cold -

Evil eyes -

I look at -

‘Peter Hunter?’ shouts out the woman behind the bar, waving a telephone about -

And I’ve got my hand up, crossing the room.

She hands the phone across the bar -

‘This is Peter Hunter,’ I say into the receiver.

Him, that voice: ‘You alone?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘How do you know?’

I pause, replaying the route, scanning the room – the eyes and the stares – and then I say: ‘I am. Are you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Near enough.’

‘Where?’

‘Step outside, walk up the hill, turn left onto Frenchwood Street.’

‘And?’

But the phone is dead.

I walk up Church Street, the top of the multi-storey car park looming over the hill, the rain cold upon my face.

I turn left onto Frenchwood Street, a row of garages on the left side of the road, wasteland to the right, and I walk towards the last garage, the door banging in the wind, in the rain.

I pull back the door and there he is, standing among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, leaning against a bench made from crates and boxes.

‘Afternoon,’ says a young man in a dirty black suit -

Face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised, a plaster across a broken nose, one hand bandaged, the other pulling lank and greasy hair out of blue and black eyes.

‘Who are you? You got a name?’

‘No names.’

I shrug, touching my own cuts: ‘What happened to you?’

He’s sniffing and touching his nose: ‘Occupational hazard. Goes with the places I go.’

I look away, looking around the garage, the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls -

The swastikas.

Staring at him in the dark room, I ask him: ‘Is that what you wanted to talk about? The places you go? This place?’

‘You been here before, have you Mr Hunter?’

I nod: ‘Have you?’

‘Oh yes,’ he says. ‘Many times.’

‘Were you here the night of Thursday 20 November 1975?’

He pushes his hair back out of his beaten eyes, smiling: ‘You should see your fucking face?’

‘Yours isn’t that good.’

‘How’s that song go: if looks could kill they probably will?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I do,’ he says and hands me a folded piece of paper.

I open it and look at it, then back at him -

He’s smiling, smiling that faint and dreadful smile.

I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Clare Strachan.

Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:

Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.

Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:

A target, a dartboard.

I look back up at him, standing there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, leaning against a bench made from crates and boxes, face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised, a plaster across his broken nose, one hand bandaged, the other picking at his scabs, his sores -

Itching and scratching at his scabs and his sores, running -

Running scared.

He smiles and says: ‘Here comes a copper to chop off your head.’

‘You do this?’ I ask.

‘What?’

‘Any of it?’

He shakes his head: ‘No, Mr Hunter. I did not.’

‘But you know who did?’

He shrugs.

‘Tell me.’

He shakes his head.

‘I’ll fucking arrest you.’

Shaking his head: ‘No, you won’t.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘For what?’

‘Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Obstruction. Murder?’

He smiles: ‘That’s what they want.’

‘Who?’

Shaking his head: ‘You know who.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well then, you’ve obviously been overestimated.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning a lot of people seem to have gone to a lot of bother to make sure you’re not in Yorkshire and not involved with the Ripper.’

‘So why do they want you arrested?’

‘Mr Hunter, they want me dead. Arresting me’s just a way to get their hands on me.’

‘Who?’

He shakes his head, smiling: ‘No names.’

‘Stop wasting my time,’ I hiss and open the door -

He lunges over, slamming the door shut: ‘Here, you’re not going anywhere.’

We’re chest to chest, eye to eye in the dark room, among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers.

‘Start fucking talking then,’ I say, the Xerox up between us and in his face -

He pushes the paper away, a hand up: ‘Fuck off.’

‘You called me? Why?’

‘I didn’t bloody want to, believe me,’ he says, moving back over to the bench of crates and boxes. ‘I had serious doubts.’

‘So why?’

‘I was going to just post the picture, but then I heard about the suspension and I didn’t know how long you’d be about.’

‘Just this,’ I say, holding up the Xerox. ‘That was all?’

He nods.

‘Why?’

‘I just want it to stop. Want them to stop.’

‘Who?’

‘No fucking names! How many more times?’

In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look at him -

Look at him and then Clare, and I say: ‘So why here? Is this where it all started? With her?’

‘Started?’ he laughs. ‘Fuck no.’

‘Where it ended?’

‘The beginning of the end, shall we say’

‘For who?’

‘You name them?’ he whispers. ‘Me, you, her – half the fucking coppers you’ve ever met.’

I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

‘Why Strachan?’ I ask. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’

‘Why they murdered Clare?’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

‘No.’

‘I want names -’

‘I’ll give you one name,’ he whispers. ‘And one name only’

‘Go on?’

‘Her name was Morrison.’

‘Who?’

‘Clare – her maiden name was Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

He’s nodding: ‘Know any other Morrisons, do you Mr Hunter?’

In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say -

‘Grace Morrison.’

Nodding: ‘And?’

The dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I say -

‘The Strafford. She was the barmaid at the Strafford.’

Nodding, smiling: ‘And?’

Dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, in this dark room I whisper -

‘They were sisters.’

Nodding, smiling, laughing: ‘And?’

In the dark, dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look down -

I look back down at the piece of paper in my hands -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

In the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I look up and say again -

‘The Strafford.’

He smiles: ‘Bullseye.’

In this dark room, I ask: ‘How do you know this?’

Not nodding, not smiling, not laughing, he says: ‘I was there.’

‘Where? You were where?’

‘The Strafford,’ he says and opens the door -

I lunge over, slamming the door shut: ‘You’re not going anywhere, pal. Not yet.’

We’re chest to chest again, eye to eye in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers -

He sniffs up: ‘That’s your lot, Mr Hunter.’

‘Fuck off,’ I yell. ‘You tell me what happened that night?’

He pulls away: ‘Ask someone else.’

‘You mean Bob Craven? There isn’t anybody else, they’re all dead.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say, reaching over and grabbing at his jacket, but -

He pushes me back and leaves me reaching out again in the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, me reaching out, grabbing him, dancing in the dark room, here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, dancing in the dark room, dancing until -

I’m down, his fist in my face, fingers at my throat -

And I reach up from the floor, from the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, but -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he’s shouting, trying to get away.

‘Time to stop running,’ I’m shouting, but -

He’s kicking me, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, kicking -

‘Get fucking off me.’

‘What happened?’

Kicking me, the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers -

‘I’m saying no more.’

‘Tell me!’

But he’s free and at the door -

Telling me: ‘They haven’t finished with you.’

Here among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, inside my coat I can feel the photographs -

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them me.

And from among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, I hiss: ‘You’re dead.’

‘Not me,’ he laughs. ‘I got my insurance. How about you?’

‘They’ll find you and they’ll kill you if you don’t come with me.’

‘Not me,’ he says.

‘Go on, rim then,’ I spit -

‘Fuck off,’ he says, stepping outside. ‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with – you.’

Face puffed and beaten, punctured and bruised in the dark room, there among the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, I shout -

‘You’re dead.’

In the dark room, there across the bottles and the cans, the rags and the newspapers, the chipboard walls, the rusting cans and the broken bottles, the rotting rags and the soiled papers, the splattered chipboard walls, the garage door banging in the wind, in the rain -

‘Dead.’

In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and weep -

Fucking weep -

Four black and white photographs -

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them me.

Four black and white photographs on the seat beside me -

Four black and white photographs and one piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

One piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

One piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

‘Clare Morrison,’ I say aloud. ‘Clare fucking Morrison.’

In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and dry my tears.

I get out and open the boot and when I’ve got the bag of Spunks and got the Exegesis, when I’ve got them from under the sea of socks and diaries, the handkerchiefs and the tie, I get back inside and start looking for Issue 3, but it’s not there -

One of the missing issues.

I stuff the Spunks back, thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head -

And I look back down at the piece of paper on the seat beside me -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head:

‘Why Clare Strachau?’ I asked. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’

‘Strachau?’ he was saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’

‘Not the porn? Strachau’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

Stop -

Rewind:

‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’

Stop:

Lying piece of shit -

I start the car, thinking:

‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with.’

Richard Dawson lives in West Didsbury in a large, white and detached bungalow which had been designed by the architect John Dawson as a wedding present for his younger brother and his bride Linda -

I park on the road at the bottom of their drive and walk up the gravel to the front door.

Little Cygnet says the sign on the gatepost.

I press the chimes and look out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, trying to remember the last time I was here.

I turn back to press the bell again and there’s Linda -

Linda in a blouse and skirt, looking like she hasn’t slept in a week.

‘Hello, love,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

But she’s already crying and I put my arms round her and lead her back inside, closing the door, back into the cold, quiet house -

We sit down on the cream leather sofa in the gloom of their all-white lounge, Kelly Monteith on the TV without the sound.

And when she’s stopped shaking in my arms, I stand up and walk over to the mirrored drinks cabinet and I pour two large Scotch and sodas -

I hand her one and she looks up from the sofa, her eyes red raw, and she says: ‘What’s going on Peter?’

And I shake my head and say: ‘I’ve no idea, love.’

‘How’s Joan?’

‘You heard about the house?’

She nods: ‘You staying with her parents?’

‘Yep,’ I say. ‘What about you? Where are the kids?’

‘With my parents.’

‘What have you told them?’

‘That their Daddy’s gone away’

‘Linda,’ I say. ‘You got any idea where he’s gone?’

She shakes her head, the tears coming again: ‘Something’s happened to him, I just know it has.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I say.

‘He would have called me, I know he would have.’

‘What about the house in France?’

‘That’s what everyone says, but he wouldn’t – not without saying anything.’

‘Has anyone been in touch with the local police in France?’

‘That Roger Hook, he said they would.’

I sit down and take her hand: ‘When did you last see Richard?’

‘It’s been a week now.’

‘Last Sunday?’

She nods.

I squeeze her hand: ‘He tell you where he was going?’

‘He said he was going to sort things out.’

‘Sort things out?’

She nods again: ‘I thought he might mean he was going to see you.’

I shake my head: ‘He did call me.’

‘When?’

‘Would have been Saturday night.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘Said he was worried about Monday, about going back to see Roger Hook.’

She looks up: ‘You think he was worried enough to run off?’

‘I don’t know, love. Do you?’

She looks back down at the drink in her hand and says quietly: ‘I don’t know anymore.’

‘Linda, love,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘How much did he talk to you about work?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did he usually talk to you about his day at the office?’

She nods: ‘A bit.’

‘Did he mention people’s names? Sound off if he was upset?’

‘He was upset about Bob Douglas and their little girl Karen.’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Who wasn’t. But usually?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says and lets go of my hand. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘For example, you knew Bob Douglas and his wife?’

‘But that was different, I introduced them.’

‘Right, right,’ I’m nodding. ‘Through the school?’

‘Yes,’ she says, standing up and beginning to pace.

‘I’m sorry, Linda,’ I say. ‘But can I ask you some names, see if they ring any bells?’

She stops by the window, the big cold front window.

I say: ‘Bob Craven?’

She has her back to me and the room, looking out of the window, silent -

‘Linda?’

Looking out of the window over the garden, across the rain on the pond.

I ask her again: ‘Bob Craven?’

Out of the window, over the garden, across the rain on the pond.

‘Linda?’

‘No,’ she says, standing slightly on tiptoes.

‘Eric Hall?’

The window, the garden, the rain, the pond, silent -

I say again: ‘Eric Hall?’

Silent, then -

‘Peter!’

‘What?’

‘No,’ she says, her hands on the glass, turning to me – turning back: ‘No!’

I get up, over to the window -

Linda saying over and over: ‘No! God, no!’

Roger Hook and Ronnie Allen are walking up the gravel to the front door.

‘No!’

I swallow and walk towards the door.

‘Oh no, please no!’

And I open the door and see the looks on their faces -

‘No, no, no,’ she’s screaming, tearing into the back of the house: ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.’

The doorbell rings again -

‘Where is she?’ says Joan.

‘In the bedroom.’

‘What about the kids?’

‘They’re not here. With her parents.’

‘Do they know?’

I shake my head.

‘What happened?’ she asks, her face twitching, lip trembling.

‘Come in here,’ I say and lead her into the lounge -

‘You know Roger?’ I say. ‘And this is Ronnie Allen.’

Roger Hook smiles and Ronnie Allen shakes my wife’s hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Hunter.’

We sit down on the cream leather sofa and I say: ‘His body was discovered following a fire at a newsagents in Batley, West Yorkshire.’

‘Batley? A fire?’

I shake my head: ‘He’d been murdered, love.’

‘How? I mean what -’

I’ve got my hand up: ‘Listen love, I’m going to tell you the details because Linda will want to know and right now you’re the only person she’s going to let into that bedroom.’

Joan’s twitching, trembling.

‘The fire was on the Bradford Road, Batley, at a newsagents called RD News in the early hours of Tuesday morning, 23 December. His body wasn’t discovered until about lunchtime on Tuesday in the flat above the shop. It looks like the fire started in the flat.’

Roger Hook is listening, nodding along.

‘He had been stripped, stabbed, and strangled – his hands cut off, his teeth smashed in with a hammer. His body had then been doused in petrol and set alight.’

Joan’s trembling.

‘They were only able to identify the body because of his feet.’

‘His feet?’ she says.

‘He’d been born without a heel on his left foot,’ I’m telling her, when I hear -

‘No.’

A faint and dreadful sound from the doorway, and we all look up and there she is -

Her blouse gone, just a bra and skirt, blood dripping from her wrists onto the cream carpet -

‘No!’ screams Joan. ‘No, Peter please -’

And Ronnie’s got Linda in his arms, his hands across her wrists, the blood everywhere -

Me holding Joan back -

The blood everywhere -

Roger shouting into the telephone -

The blood -

The blood everywhere.

to bring a spirit out and that place is the lowest and the darkest the farthest from the sphere that circles all and e saw him down there a lorry driver called peter who drives a cab with a name beginning with the letter C on the side and he lives in bradford transmission interrupted on the twentieth of november nineteen seventy nine in batley tessa smith attacked on a path on grassland on the council estate where she lived with her boyfriend and her baby cutting across the grassland from a late opening estate grocery shop she was struck on the head from behind so hard that the hammer went through her skull and as she fell remembers the man with the beard and a moustache and he hit her again on the forehead but she was screaming and he ran away will not somebody help me will not somebody help me will not somebody help me her boyfriend watching from the window is chasing him down the street shouting ripper ripper hunt hunt ripper ripper cunt cunt but e am too fast for them e am away like a thief in the night to leave them standing upon the brink of griefs abysmal valley that collects the thunderings of endless cries so dark and deep and nebulous it is that try as you might you cannot see the shape of anything faces painted with pity there are no wails just the anguished sound of sighs rising and trembling through the timeless air the sounds of sighs of untormented grief cut off from hope to live on in death in a place where no light is her personality changed drastically since the attack she was always quick with a smile but now she seems to flare up at the slightest thing she only seems happy to be in the company of the baby she argues about every little thing in fact e am sad to say she has become a bit of a tyrant it will never be the same for any of us again even now we tell each other when we go out and where we are going we are all very nervous cut off from hope e have a great mistrust of men jimmy and e had planned to get married in the near future and when e came out of the hospital we got back together for a while but it just did not work out e am on edge all of the time and frightened at being alone with him all that mattered was that he was a fellow and e did not feel safe e preferred to be at home with my mother and my sisters e am obsessed with having my back to the wall all the time even when e am surrounded by friends e have tried to stop myself but e simply cannot stand anyone at my back cut off from hope in a place where no light is where the damned keep crowding up in front of me where the notes of anguish play upon my ears where sounds on sounds of weeping pound and pound at me a place where no light shines at all the laments the anguished cries of grief cut off from hope where we live behind wires and alarms alone with five cats and the three inch dents in my head the hair e cut myself in my own world crying in the chapel the curtains pulled in a housecoat with my cats to walk in the middle of the road scared of the shadows and the men behind me that in a yorkshire way they say weather is letting us down again but he is not here is a lorry driver called peter who drives a cab with a name beginning with the letter C on the side and lives in bradford in a big grey house elevated above the street behind wrought iron gates with steps leading up to the front door number six in its street peter will have committed crimes before and is connected to the containerbase at stourton and he will kill for the last time in leeds on Wednesday the tenth of december nineteen eighty standing upon the brink of griefs abysmal valley faces painted with pity e beg of you in the name of the god e never knew save me from this evil place and worse and lead me there

Chapter 19

I wake in a dead man’s house on his cream sofa in his blood-splattered white front room, his wife in the hospital, my own at her side.

I drink his tea and use his razor, his soap and his towels, listening to his radio play songs about videos, songs about Einstein, songs about spacemen, songs about toys, songs about games – waiting for the news:

‘Refusing to comment on various reports in yesterday’s papers, Mr Clement Smith, the Chief Constable of Greater Manchester issued the following statement:

‘‘Unless there are exceptional circumstances in a particular case, and it is thought necessary in the public interest, it is not ordinarily the Chief Constable’s policy to comment on any police inquiry or investigation which may be in progress, or to confirm or deny the existence of any such investigation, should it or should it not exist.”

‘Meanwhile an unemployed man will appear before Rochdale magistrates later this morning in connection with the hoax call made to the Daily Mirror in Manchester last week from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper. Police managed to trace a second call placed to the Mirror offices on Friday night and arrested Raymond Jones at his parents’ home in Rochdale…’

I switch off his radio, wash his cup, straighten his kitchen, and check I’ve left nothing on.

Then I lock his door and leave his cream sofa, his blood-splattered white front room, his house, this dead man’s house -

Leave this sofa, this room, this house of the dead -

Leave it for another -

Yorkshire, bloody Yorkshire -

Primitive Yorkshire, Medieval Yorkshire, Industrial Yorkshire -

Three Ages, three Dark Ages -

Local Dark Ages -

Local decay, industrial decay -

Local murder, industrial murder -

Local hell, industrial hell -

Dead hells, dead ages -

Dead moors, dead mills -

Dead cities -

Crows, the rain, and their Ripper -

The Yorkshire Ripper -

Yorkshire bloody Ripper.

Thornton Crematorium is halfway between Denholme and Allerton, on the way back into Bradford.

I know the way, know the place -

On the dark stair, we miss our step.

Raining heavily, it’s nearly ten-thirty:

10:25:01 -

Monday 29 December 1980.

I park on the road and stare up the hill towards the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, tyres in the rain the only sound.

Know the place well -

I’ve been here before:

Sunshine hurting, it’s gone ten:

The leather strap of my father’s watch, itching in the heat -

Thursday 7 July 1977 -

Parked on the road, staring up the hill towards the pale building with the chimney, white in the bright light, the small stones with the small names, flowers, the white clouds in the blue sky, trees, the birds singing -

I’m taking down number plates, putting faces to names, on my own time and of my own leave -

Compassionate leave:

Another miscarriage, the last -

Joan at her parents’ house.

Thursday 7 July 1977 -

Burying him today, almost three weeks on:

Sunday 19 June 1977 -

Detective Inspector Eric Hall, Bradford Vice, murdered -

Wife beaten and raped -

Murdered and raped at their Denholme house by a gang of four men -

Black men -

Described by police as being of West Indian origin.

Parked on the road, staring up the hill, taking down number plates, putting white faces to white names -

Police faces to police names:

Chief Constable Ronald Angus, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman, Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman, Detective Superintendent James Prentice, Detective Inspector Robert Craven, all Leeds -

No family, only coppers -

Not Bradford -

All Leeds.

There’s a tap on the window and I jump -

Back:

It’s Murphy, jacket over his head.

‘Christ,’ I say, winding down the window.

‘You going up?’

I nod and wind back the window and get out.

‘What you doing here?’ I ask him. ‘Didn’t know her did you?’

‘Feel like I bloody did,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But I knew you’d be here.’

‘What?’

‘What do you mean what?’ he laughs, the rain pouring over us. ‘We’re worried about you?’

‘Well, don’t be.’

‘Come on,’ he says, looking up at the black sky above. ‘Let’s make a rim for it.’

And we run up the hill towards the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, our boots in the rain the only sound.

Murphy is there first, panting and holding open the door -

I step inside -

The service, the ritual about to begin.

Mrs Hall is already here, along with a handful of spectators -

Raw and blank -

Her son Richard and a girl in black, some old women, a couple who look like they might live across the road, the odd person at the back, a man who’s here to take notes for his paper, the police -

Pete Noble and Jim Prentice, John Murphy and me.

The professionals -

One down the front, kit on -

And the Reverend Laws -

The Reverend Martin Laws shaking Richard’s hand, smiling at the girl in black.

I look round at all the folk I don’t know and I want their names, wanting to tell Noble to make sure he puts names to faces -

But that’s not going to happen -

Not today -

Not ever.

She’s gone -

They’re just here to make sure.

So we stand there in the pew, behind Noble and Prentice, making double sure.

When she’s gone and when they’re sure, Noble turns round -

‘Pete? How are you?’

‘All right,’ I say.

‘Heard about the fire. I’m sorry.’

‘Yeah,’ Jim Prentice says. ‘Bad news.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, dropping my eyes to the floor as Richard Hall and the girl in black walk past us to the door.

‘Sorry to hear about all this other stuff as well,’ he says, glancing at Murphy. ‘This stuff with Angus and Maurice?’

I say: ‘It’ll get sorted out.’

‘Be a mountain out of a molehill,’ he smiles.

‘There’s not even a bloody molehill to make a mountain of,’ hisses Murphy.

‘What I heard,’ says Noble, embarrassed.

I put up my hand, stopping us here: ‘Thanks, Pete.’

Silence, embarrassed silence -

Just nods and sniffs, the rain on the roof, until -

Until I ask: ‘Any news from your end?’

‘Nabbed the bloke who called the Mirror.’

‘So I heard.’

‘What’d he do it for?’ asks Murphy.

Prentice, shaking his head: ‘Got a telephone put in but didn’t know anyone to call, so he rings Ripper Line and listens to tape a couple of times, gets bored of that and thinks he’ll have a laugh, calls Mirror.’

‘Daft cunt,’ laughs Murphy.

‘One down.’ I say. ‘Two to go.’

‘Two?’ says Prentice. ‘What do you mean two?’

Noble smiles – thinks about saying something, something else, something more – but turns to Prentice and says: ‘Head up to the house, shall we?’

‘Right,’ shrugs Prentice.

They look at us, but we’re both shaking our heads.

‘See you, then,’ says Noble, hand out -

I take it and say: ‘By the way, when’s the inquest?’

He looks back down the aisle at the place where he last saw Mrs Hall and then at Jim Prentice: ‘Week on Friday?’

‘Yeah,’ says Prentice. ‘Couldn’t get it in any earlier because of New Year and the weekend.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘See you later, Pete,’ says Noble again, nodding to Murphy -

A handshake here and they’re gone too.

‘He’s all right,’ says Murphy, once they’re out the door. ‘For a Yorkie.’

‘A Yorkie?’ I say, then: ‘Listen, can I meet you outside? I just want to have a word with that man down there.’

‘The priest?’

‘Yes,’ I say and walk down the aisle towards the front.

The Reverend Martin Laws is knelt down, hands on the rail of one of the front pews.

‘Mr Laws?’

Hands still together, he turns to look up at me: ‘Mr Hunter.’

‘Nice service.’

‘In the circumstances,’ he nods.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘Be my guest,’ he says, sitting back up on the pew – moving his hat to make room for me.

I sit down beside him.

He turns and looks at me, his clothes stinking and smelling of damp: ‘You’ve got a lot of questions Mr Hunter?’

‘Hasn’t everyone?’

‘Not everyone,’ he says. ‘Not everyone.’

‘Well, do you mind if I ask you some of mine?’

‘Be my guest,’ he says again.

I ask him: ‘Are you really a priest, Mr Laws?’

‘Yes.’

‘Still a priest?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ I nod. ‘You told me that Mrs Hall rang you because she’d heard of your work?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’d heard of it from Jack Whitehead, hadn’t she?’

‘Yes.’

‘You met Mr Whitehead through his ex-wife Carol?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were both there the night Carol’s second husband murdered her?’

‘Yes.’

‘His name was Michael Williams?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he was found to be insane and is now in Broadmoor?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, at his trial, you were singled out for criticism by the judge, Mr Justice Caulfield, were you not?’

‘Yes.’

‘And by Dr Eric Treacy, the Bishop of Wakefield?’

‘Yes.’

‘And didn’t Jack Whitehead, didn’t he hold you responsible for Carol’s death?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you think that Jack’s grief, the grief over the death of his wife, a death he blames on you, that this grief led to his suicide attempt in 1977?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Yes, yes, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see,’ I say. ‘You still visit Jack? In Stanley Royd?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Laws,’ I say. ‘On these visits, has Jack ever given you anything?’

Laws pauses and then says: ‘No.’

‘Never given you any books, letters, or cassettes?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever given anything to him?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a bunch of grapes?’

‘It’s against the regulations.’

‘But people break regulations; that’s what they’re there for.’

‘The people or the regulations, Mr Hunter?’

‘Both.’

‘You’re a policeman. Not everyone else thinks like that.’

‘Know a lot about the police, do you Mr Laws?’

‘No.’

‘Know a lot about Helen Marshall though, don’t you?’

‘Is that what this is about? Helen?’

‘Helen? Detective Sergeant Marshall to you.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you? Privately?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Mr Hunter, I can’t tell you that.’

‘She wants your help though?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

I grab the sleeve of his raincoat, cold and wet, grab it and turn him to face me: ‘Tell me!’

He’s shaking his head, asking me: ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re going to try and fucking exorcise her or whatever it is you fucking do.’

‘Sticks and stones, Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘But this is my Father’s house, so please…’

‘Fuck off!’ I shout, standing up: ‘She’s not going to end up here like Libby Hall, not going to end up like Carol fucking Whitehead.’

‘Please…’

‘Leave her alone or I’ll kill you,’ I say, pulling him up by his coat.

‘You don’t believe in demons, Mr Hunter?’ Laws is laughing. ‘Don’t believe in them, do you?’

‘No!’

‘After all you’ve seen, all they’ve done to you?’

‘No!’

‘You still don’t believe in them?’

‘No!’

‘All those miscarriages, those…’

And I punch him once, hard -

Breaking his nose, dark blood across his pale skin -

My arm back and coming in again when -

When Murphy gets a hold of me, a hold of my arm, pulling me back, pulling me away, pulling me off, dragging me back, dragging me away, dragging me off -

Blood on my knuckles -

Tears on my face -

Tears and rage -

Raw.

Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound John Murphy asking me:

‘What the fuck was that all about?’

‘He’s an evil man and he’s got inside Marshall’s head, I know he has.’

‘Long as it’s only her head he’s inside.’

‘Fuck off,’ I say.

‘Pete, he’s just a dirty old priest. Probably a puff.’

‘No, he’s…’ I’m shaking my head, saying: ‘I don’t know what he is.’

‘I’ll tell you what he could be,’ says Murphy. ‘He’s a priest who could bloody well press charges, and then you’d be fucked – boat you’re in.’

I’m nodding: ‘I know, I know.’

‘Go home,’ says Murphy. ‘Please -’

‘Home?’

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Joan’s folks or wherever, anywhere but bloody Yorkshire.’

‘Got an interview with Angus at two,’ I say, looking at my watch:

11:22:12 .

‘Where?’

‘Wakefield.’

Murphy furious: ‘You’re fucking joking?’

I shake my head.

‘Why there?’

‘They’re too busy to keep coming over to Manchester.’

‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it. The whole bloody thing.’

‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you all be back at work?’

‘Monday week,’ he says. ‘If they let us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know, there’s talk of another force coming in,’ he sighs. ‘And to be honest with you Pete, I don’t bloody care.’

I stare up at the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until -

Until I ask him: ‘You heard about Dawson then?’

He nods: ‘Alderman’s tearing his hair out looking for some fucking rent boy.’

‘Rent boy?’

‘Yeah, apparently some little puff was renting the flat above the shop.’

‘What?’

‘The flat above the newsagents. Where they found Dawson.’

‘No?’

He nods: ‘Alderman reckons your mate Dicky was definitely tricky.’

‘Fuck off, John,’ I say.

‘Just telling you what I heard,’ he says, palms up. ‘Just telling you what I heard.’

‘You hear a name?’

‘For who?’

‘The rent boy?’

‘BJ something. Get it?’

‘BJ what?’

He shakes his head, smiling: ‘Sorry, can’t remember that part.’

I say: ‘I think I saw him yesterday.’

‘Shit, no?’

I nod.

‘Where?’

‘Preston.’

‘Fucking hell, Pete.’

I nod.

‘What did he say? Say anything about Dawson?’

I shake my head: ‘But he gave me this.’

Murphy takes the piece of paper from me -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

Clare Strachan.

Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:

Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.

Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:

A target, a dartboard.

Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound the piece of paper in his hand:

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

‘A bullseye,’ says Murphy, quietly.

I nod.

‘He give you names?’

I say: ‘Just one.’

‘One?’

I nod: ‘Morrison.’

‘Morrison?’

‘Clare Morrison.’

‘Clare Morrison? Who’s that?’

I tap the piece of paper -

The piece of paper in his hands -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -

‘Thought her name was Strachan?’

‘Morrison was Clare Strachan’s maiden name.’

‘So?’

‘You know any other Morrisons?’

John Murphy sits there in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until -

Until John Murphy whispers: ‘Grace Morrison?’

I nod.

Whispers: ‘The Strafford.’

I nod.

‘Fuck.’

I nod.

‘What you going to do?’ says Murphy.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You going to tell anyone?’

‘Like who?’

‘Alderman? Smith?’

‘Why? What will they do?’

He shakes his head: ‘What will you do?’

‘You wait and see.’

‘What?’

‘Wait and see, John.’

‘You’re going to rip this thing open, aren’t you? The whole fucking place?’

‘Wait and see,’ I smile. ‘Wait and see.’

‘Fuck, Pete.’

I nod.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

I nod, thinking -

I know the time, I know the way -

I know the place, know the place well.

Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:

Monday 29 December 1980 -

The same ill-feelings and same memories, the same thwarted investigations and same walls of silence, the same black secrets and paranoia, the same hell:

January 1975 -

The same ill-feelings and same memories, the same thwarted investigations and same walls of silence, the same black secrets and paranoia, the same hell:

December 1980 -

The same impotent prayers and the same broken promises, the same blame and the same guilt, reneged and returned:

Monday 29 December 1980 -

Wakefield, barren Wakefield.

Wakefield -

Laburnum Road -

West Yorkshire Police Headquarters -

The Chief Constable’s office.

I look at my watch -

13:54:45 .

I knock on the door -

‘Come.’

I open the door -

Ronald Angus is sat behind a big desk, his own big desk, Maurice Jobson and Dick Alderman sitting before him.

‘Gentlemen,’ I say -

‘Mr Hunter,’ says Angus, looking at his watch. ‘You’re early’

‘Call it a curse,’ I smile.

Angus looks at Alderman and says: ‘It’s OK. Richard was just leaving.’

Dick Alderman stands up, a hand on Maurice’s shoulder: ‘I’ll speak to you both later.’

They both nod.

Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman pushes past me and out -

Not a word.

‘Sit down,’ says Angus, gesturing to the empty chair next to Jobson.

‘You wanted these,’ I say before I sit down – tipping every official diary I’ve ever had, copies of every expense I’ve ever submitted, every other official form I’ve ever received – tipping them all over his desk.

‘Thank you,’ says Maurice Jobson.

‘And this,’ I say, handing Angus authorisations to examine my bank account, my credit card and my Post Office savings accounts -

Angus looks at it and says: ‘Thank you.’

I sit down and I wait -

Mr Angus sifts and shuffles through the mess and the mire on his desk, eventually pulling out a number of pieces of paper from under my stuff, and then he looks up at me and says: Td like to put some names to you and I’d be grateful if you could tell me if you have either heard of these people, know them, or are friends with them at all?’

I nod, waiting -

Jobson picks up a pen and opens a notebook, waiting -

Then Angus says: ‘Colin Asquith?’

I nod: ‘Local businessman. Partner of Richard Dawson.’

‘Former partner,’ says Angus.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Former.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Not personally, no.’

‘But you have met him?’

I nod.

Angus: ‘Socially?’

I nod: ‘Through mutual acquaintances.’

Angus is staring at me -

I stare back.

He says: ‘Cyril Barratt?’

I shake my head.

Angus: ‘Barry Cameron?’

I nod.

Angus waits -

Me: ‘Never met him. Know the name.’

‘How?’

‘Newspapers. Station talk.’

Angus: ‘But you’ve never met Barry Cameron?’

I shake my head.

‘Michael Craig?’

I nod: ‘Local solicitor.’

‘You know him?’

‘Only through work.’

‘Richard Dawson?’

I stare at Angus -

Angus stares back.

I say: ‘You know I know Richard Dawson.’

‘I know you knew him,’ he says. ‘But how would you describe that relationship?’

‘We were friends.’

‘Were?’

‘Well, as you emphasised, he’s dead.’

‘But you were friends right up until his death?’

I swallow and I say: ‘Yes, we were friends right up until his death.’

‘OK,’ nods Angus. ‘We’ll come back to your relationship with Mr Dawson, the employer of Bob Douglas, the business partner of Colin Asquith, the client of Michael Craig. Come back to him, shall we?’

‘So that’s what this is about? Richard Dawson? Bob Douglas?’

He shakes his head: ‘Not only Mr Dawson and Bob Douglas, no.’

I shrug my shoulders and let it go -

But Angus won’t: ‘How about Bob Douglas?’

‘How about him what?’

Angus: ‘You knew him?’

‘You bloody know I knew him. I was over here for the Strafford, wasn’t I?’

‘The Strafford aside?’

‘The Strafford aside,’ I smile. ‘Met him once.’

‘When?’

Not smiling, I say: ‘The Sunday before he was murdered.’

Angus looks across his desk at Jobson -

Maurice Jobson shakes his head ever so slightly -

Angus looks back down at the notes sitting on the mess and mire of his desk -

Then he looks up and asks: ‘Sean Doherty?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Could you tell me if you have either heard of, know of, or are friends with a Sean Doherty?’

I shake my head.

‘David Gallagher?’

I shake my head.

‘Marcus Hamilton?’

I nod: ‘Local MP for Salford.’

‘Former local MP,’ says Angus. ‘But you know him?’

‘Not well, no.’

‘But you have met him?’

I nod.

‘In what capacity?’

‘How do you mean in what capacity? In the capacity of watching a football match at Old Trafford, that was the usual capacity.’

‘So you would say you know him socially?’

I nod: ‘To say hello to, yes.’

‘Has he ever been to your house?’

I shake my head.

‘Have you been to his?’

I shake my head again.

‘Did you ever suspect he was a homosexual?’

I look at him, head down in his notes, and I say to the top of his grey head: ‘I had my hopes.’

Angus looks up from his notes: ‘Pardon?’

Smiling, I say: ‘A man can dream can’t he?’

Jobson is smiling behind his pen, watching the face of his boss.

‘Mr Hunter, these are serious questions.’

I shake my head: ‘Whether or not Mr Hamilton is a puff is not what I’d describe as a serious question.’

‘No-one is asking you to describe the questions, Mr Hunter. Just to answer them.’

I look down at my right knee, crossed and over the left, and I say: ‘Go on.’

‘Peter McCardell?’

I nod: ‘Arrested by Manchester Vice, got ten years for various things under Obscene Publications etc. I think he was also involved with prostitutes and some dubious clubs.’

‘You knew him then?’

‘Interviewed him once or twice down the years.’

‘When was he banged up?’

I shake my head: ‘I can’t remember off the top of my head; five, maybe six years ago?’

But I do remember, remember now:

‘I said we have a mutual friend.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Helen.’

‘Helen who?’

‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’

Jobson is watching me, waiting for something -

I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’

‘I asked if he was still inside?’

‘Who?’

‘McCardell.’

‘You tell me.’

‘OK,’ says Angus. ‘How about Roger Muir?’

I nod: ‘Journalist. Don’t know him socially.’

Angus: ‘Donald Ryder?’

I shake my head.

‘Martin Sharpe?’

I nod: ‘Local solicitor. Never met him outside of work.’

‘Michael Taylor?’

I shake my head.

‘Alan Wright?’

I nod: ‘Local businessman. Not socially’

‘What exactly does not socially mean to you, Mr Hunter?’

Voice raised, I say: ‘It means I didn’t know him socially’

Angus looks across the desk at Jobson and then opens a folder on the desk and takes out four photographs -

And I’m thinking of four other photographs, praying they’re not the same -

Four photographs of two people in a park:

Piatt Fields Park, in wintertime.

Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:

A cold grey pond, a dog.

Two people in a park -

One of them me.

Jobson is watching me again, waiting for something -

I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’

‘Will you take a look at these?’ he asks and hands me the four photographs -

I sit back in my chair and look at them.

They’re not the same -

They’re colour, full colour.

‘Look pretty social to me,’ says Angus.

‘Pardon?’

‘Every name I’ve read to you today is present in these photographs. Every name except McCardell, who was in Strangeways.’

‘So? What’s your point?’

‘Look at the photographs, Mr Hunter,’ he sighs. ‘Every person I’ve asked you about is sitting round that table with you, glasses raised.’

‘It was Richard Dawson’s fortieth birthday party,’ I say. ‘It was held at the Midland Hotel and half of bloody Manchester was there.’

‘That’s obvious from the photos, Mr Hunter,’ he smiles. ‘The question is which half? By the looks of these photographs it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, pornographers, and you.’

I start counting, letting him smile – letting that smile get bigger and bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger and bigger – bigger and bigger and bigger until I lean forward and spread the photos across his desk, fingers to the faces, and tell him -

‘Actually sir, I don’t think it was strictly convicted criminals, homosexuals, and pornographers; not unless you’re implying that Chief Constable Smith or Chief Inspector Hook fall into any of those categories.’

Silence -

Silence while Chief Constable Ronald Angus decides whether or not to reach forward and take a magnifying glass to the photos, to the faces under my fingers, silence until -

Until he coughs and looks at Jobson and says: ‘Well we’ve obviously been given erroneous information, Mr Hunter.’

I nod, careful not to gloat, waiting.

‘And I am grateful to you for shedding light on the nature of these photographs,’ says Angus.

‘My pleasure,’ I tell him, unable to resist.

‘However,’ continues the Chief Constable. ‘I’m afraid we’re still going to have to ask you to make yourself available tomorrow afternoon in the hope that you’ll be able to shed similar light on your relationship with Richard Dawson and some of his associates.’

Fuck -

‘Where?’

Fuck, fuck -

‘Here.’

Thinking, fuck, fuck, fuck -

Asking: ‘Same time?’

He nods.

Silence again, silence until -

Until I stand up -

‘Good afternoon,’ I say.

They mumble as I see myself out.

I close the door behind me, stop for a moment outside -expecting to hear raised voices inside.

Disappointed, I turn and walk straight into Dick Alderman -

‘Letting you go, are they?’ he winks.

I smile back: ‘Good behaviour.’

‘I find that very hard to believe,’ he grins, knocking on the Chief Constable’s door. ‘From what I’ve heard.’

I smile, thinking -

I know the time, I know the way -

I know the place, know the place well.

Leeds, fucking Leeds:

Medieval Leeds, Victorian Leeds, Concrete Leeds -

Concrete decay, concrete murder, concrete hell -

A concrete city -

Dead city:

Just the crows, the rain, and the Ripper -

The Leeds Ripper -

King Ripper.

Monday Night in the City of the Dead -

I park under the dark arches, dripping and damp, walls running with water and rats -

The driest place in the whole bloody city.

I gather up the Exegesis and the various pieces of pornography and blackmail that litter the car and heap them into a Tesco’s bag, then I walk up through the arches, past the Scarborough, into the Griffin.

I ring the bell and wait, listening -

Electronic Beethoven.

The receptionist comes out of the back, a faint smile as he recognises me -

‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Good evening,’ I say.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Hunter?’

‘I’d like a room, please.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘A couple of nights perhaps?’

‘Fine,’ he says and pushes the paperwork across the desk.

I put down my Tesco bag and pick up a pen from the desk.

The receptionist goes over to the keys hanging behind the desk, takes one from its hook and places it next to the forms I’m filling in.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not looking up. ‘I was hoping to have my old room again? 77?’

‘That’s what I’ve given you, sir,’ he says.

I look at the key lying on the desk next to my hand -

‘Thank you,’ I say, but he’s already gone.

In the room, the dark room -

No 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 -

Solemn and grave.

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 stop me standing -

Solemn and grave from birth.

No sleep, just -

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

Et sequentes.

Notes everywhere, across the floor, the bed, the 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 and dial, hoping her parents don’t answer again:

‘Joan?’

‘Peter? Where are you?’

‘Leeds.’

‘Why?’

‘They haven’t finished with me,’ I whisper. ‘I have to be back there at two tomorrow.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Oh how I wish you weren’t there,’ she says, voice splintered. ‘I hate that place, those people. Every time you’re ever there we’ve had nothing but bad luck and news.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘Couldn’t get any worse.’

‘Don’t tempt fate, Peter. Please…’

‘I won’t,’ I say, then ask: ‘How’s Linda?’

‘Sedated.’

‘What time did you get back?’

‘Tenish. But I went over to see her mum and dad, the kids.’

‘How are they?’

‘How do you think they are?’

‘Do the kids realise what’s happened?’

‘I think the army of reporters outside the house should help.’

‘Fuck,’ I say. ‘I’ll call Smith, tell him to get his act together.’

‘I already did,’ she says.

‘You called Clement Smith?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re joking? What did you say?’

‘Told him what I thought of his treatment of the Dawsons and us.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He told me he was only acting as duty dictated.’ ‘What did you say?’

‘Told him he would rot in hell for what he’d done.’

‘You didn’t? What did he say?’

‘I don’t know, I hung up.’

‘Joan!’

‘He’s a pompous fool, Peter.’

‘But he is only doing his job.’

‘So was Herod.’

‘Joan, please…’

‘If that’s the job, I honestly hope you won’t be doing it for much longer. I really do, Peter.’

Silence, silence as I wonder if anyone else is listening – silence as I wonder if I even am, silence until -

Until I say: ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this.’

‘Stop saying you’re sorry,’ she sighs.

‘But I am.’

‘Don’t be sorry,’ she says. ‘Just be careful.’

‘I will.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Night-night.’

‘Night, love,’ I say and hang up.

No sleep, just -

Tearing through the bedside drawers -

Flapping about through the sheets and the blankets -

Windows open -

Tipping over the bed -

Stripping every sheet and curtain -

Windows closed -

Tearing and flapping and tipping and stripping the whole fucking room until -

Until there it is -

There behind the radiator -

Behind the radiator -

The Holy Bible -

Lying on the sheets and the blankets -

Flapping through the pages -

Job open -

Skipping this page and that -

Skimming that one and this -

Psalms -

Lying and flapping and skipping and slamming the whole bloody book until -

Until I’m sure -

Sure it’s gone -

Ripped and torn, stripped and shorn -

Revelation, gone -

No Revelation -

Not tonight -

Not tonight the foot upon the dark stair, the knock upon the door, the key in the lock -

Turning once and only once -

Not tonight -

No Revelation tonight -

Revelation gone -

The missing pages -

The missing -

Missing -

Missing her.

to the place you spoke about that e might see the gate that another peter guards but they say it is a local incident and we are convinced a local man is involved and all talk that tessa may have been attacked by ripper is only making it more difficult for me to catch her assailant transmission twelve sent from harrogate in august nineteen eighty received new years eve nineteen eighty and identified as prudence banks strangled and severely bludgeoned in the densely wooded grounds of a local magistrates house but again no one is receiving do not feel this is the work of the yorkshire ripper and he may very well have retired or topped himself as it has been more than a year he may even have met a nice girl and settled down got married like a normal bloke or he may have moved abroad or have been nicked over something else but this is not him he has gone away but prudence banks still avoided the short cut that would have taken ten minutes off her journey preferred the brightly lit main roads and she walked quickly along the road with the big empty houses and their long drives but we do not feel this is the work of the yorkshire ripper this is not him he has gone away e do not like the method of strangulation it takes them even longer to die but e did it because the press and the media had attached a stigma to me e had been known for some time as the yorkshire ripper e did not like it was not me did not ring true e had been on my way to leeds to kill a prostitute when e saw prudence banks it was just unfortunate for her that she happened to be walking by stepping out from the shadows hitting her on the head she staggers along the pavement blood gushing screaming again he hits her and again she does not fall so he puts his hands to her throat strangles her dragging her into the driveway of one of the big empty houses into the shrubbery the bushes down the side of a garage prudence dead he tears off her clothes her black gabardine coat her cardigan her purple skirt her brassiere her panties her shoes her tights and handbag the body naked in the shrubbery the bushes down the side of the garage the hammer out again he rains down blows upon her flesh then he takes a pile of leaves and covers the body but e am sleeping less and less every night e wake and watch moon after moon go by before e dream the evil dream which ripped away the veil that was my future and awoke to hear the children sobbing in their sleep missing mummy and if you are not weeping now do you ever weep for from below e heard him driving nails into the dreadful tower door and e stared in silence at my flesh and blood but did not weep but turned to stone inside e held back my tears and bit my hands in anguish and my daughters who thought hunger made me bite my hands were quick to say father you would make us suffer less if you would feed on us for you were the one who gave us this sad flesh you take it from us but we sat in silence behind the wires and the alarms until on the fourth day my first daughter fell prostrate before my feet crying why do you not help us father and she then died and just as you see me here e saw the other twelve fall one by one as the days passed became weeks months years and e who had gone blind groped over their bodies though some were dead five years e called their names until hunger proved more powerful than grief and e attacked again their wretched skulls with teeth as sharp as a dogs and as fit for grinding bones before e then moved to by where the frozen waters wrap in harsh wrinkles across another sinful set their faces not turned down but looking up where here the weeping puts an end to weeping and the grief that finds no outlet from the eyes turns inward

Chapter 20

It was New Year’s Eve:

I was walking across a car park, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot, heading for a door -

A door to an upstairs room -

A door banging in the wind, in the rain -

I climbed the dark stairs one at a time and stopped before the door -

The door to the upstairs room -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain.

I pulled open the door and stepped inside -

Inside:

Inside there was a man sat upon a low table, a man with a beard and a shotgun in his hands, staring at a TV with the sound turned low, the walls tattooed with shadow and pain -

The pain of the photographs -

Joyce Jobson, Anita Bird, Grace Morrison, Carol Williams, Theresa Campbell, Clare Strachan, Joan Richards, Ka Su Peng, Marie Watts, Linda Clark, Rachel Johnson, Janice Ryan, Elizabeth McQueen, Kathy Kelly, Tracey Livingston, Candy Simon, Doreen Pickles, Joanne Thornton, Dawn Williams, Laureen Bell, Karen Douglas, Libby Hall -

The pain of twenty-two photographs, plus the one on the low table next to him -

The one on the table next to him -

I picked up the photograph -

The one on the table -

It was Helen Marshall.

The man turned from the TV -

Prom the people on the TV singing hymns, the people on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features, machines -

The people on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features, machines -

People on the TV singing hymns of hate:

‘You are a beast with no feelings, a coward, not a man. All people hate you. I think you are the Devil himself.’

On the TV singing hymns of hate:

‘You are a very inadequate person, certainly physically and mentally. You can’t make a relationship with a live woman. Possibly your only relationships are with dead women.’

The TV singing hymns of hate:

‘Doesn’t it bother you to think people hate you for doing this? It is nothing to be proud of, the things you do.’

TV singing hymns of hate:

‘You are the worst coward the world has ever known and that should go down in the Guinness Book of Records.’

Singing hymns of hate:

‘You are an obscenity on the face of the earth. When they catch you and put you away, they will throw away the key.’

Hymns of hate:

‘Look over your shoulder, Ripper. Many people are looking for you. They hate you.’

Of hate -

The man with the beard turned from the TV -

Turned from the TV, from the hate -

Turned and said:

‘You don’t see them, you don’t – but I see them; they are hunting me down - I must move on.’

And he put the gun to his mouth, fingers on the trigger, and -

– a shot.

I’m awake -

Awake in my car on Alma Road, Headingley -

Sweating, afraid -

Birds overhead, screaming.

I look at my watch:

06:03:00 -

Tuesday 30 December 1980:

Alma Road -

The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb, not one hundred yards from a main road.

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

The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where the Yorkshire Ripper took his hammer and his knife to Laureen Bell and shattered her skull and stabbed her fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye -

In this ordinary street in this ordinary suburb, this ordinary girl -

This ordinary girl, now dead.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ the woman in white is saying, trying to take hold of the sleeve of my raincoat. ‘I really think you should speak to Mr Papps.’

But I’m away -

Away through the second-hand furniture, the large wardrobes, the dressers and the chairs, the heavy carpets and the curtains -

Away through the skin and the bones, their striped pyjamas and their spotted nightgowns, their slippers and their vespers, their scratchings and their mumblings -

Away up their stairs, down their corridors -

Half green, half cream -

Fresh green, fresh cream -

Wet paint -

Away -

My wings, away -

The woman in white at my heels, still saying: ‘I’m not sure about this.’

My warrant card in her face: ‘Open the doors.’

And she starts turning keys, unlocking doors, until -

Until we come to the last door at the end of the last corridor -

Jack’s door.

We stand there, panting -

Panting until -

Until I say: ‘Open it, please.’

And she turns the key, unlocks the door.

‘Thank you,’ I say and open the door.

I step inside, closing the door behind me -

Behind me, so it’s just me and Jack -

Jack’s lying on his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, his hands loose at his sides, eyes open and face blank, his whole head and face shaven.

‘Mr Whitehead,’ I say.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he replies.

‘Sounds like someone fixed the toilet?’

He nods: ‘And I miss it.’

‘The dripping?’

‘Yes, the dripping.’

And there is silence -

Just silence -

Just silence until -

Until I ask: ‘How was Pinderfields?’

‘Blood on the floor.’

‘Pardon?’

‘There’s always blood on the floor over there.’

‘Pinderfields?’

And Jack sighs, eyes watering -

Tears slipping down his face -

Down his cheek -

His neck -

Onto his pillow -

The mattress -

Onto the floor in puddles -

Puddles of tears upon the stone floor -

The tips of my wings wet.

‘Carol?’ I say.

And he looks up at me, the tears streaming, and he nods: ‘Two pieces of a broken heart.’

‘But do they fit?’ I ask.

‘That’s the question,’ he weeps. ‘That’s the question.’

I look down at the tips of my wings -

The puddles of tears -

The blood on the floor and -

And I lean towards him and I ask him: ‘The things you’ve seen…’

He nods, the tears streaming -

‘All the things you’ve seen,’ I say. ‘Who did those things?’

The tears streaming -

I lean close, wings across us both -

‘Who?’

Tears streaming -

Closer, wings across us -

‘Who?’

His tongue against my face -

‘Who?’

His lips to my ears -

‘Who?’

His words in whispers -

‘Who?’

Whispers -

Whispers in the dark -

And I listen:

‘What looks like morning -’

Listen to the whispers in the dark:

‘It is the beginning of the endless night -’

To the whispers and the tears:

‘Hab rachmones.’

Foot down -

Empty streets, rain -

Straight onto Laburnum Road -

West Yorkshire Police Headquarters -

Voices singing -

Christmas songs and football songs -

Rugby songs and Ripper songs -

At the desk: ‘Angus? Chief Constable Angus?’

A uniform shaking his head, the smell of alcohol upon his breath: ‘He’s not here, sir.’

‘Pete Noble?’

‘Not here, sir.’

‘Bob Craven?’

‘No-one’s here.’

Me: ‘Where are they?’

‘Dewsbury.’

‘Dewsbury?’

‘They’ve got him, haven’t they’

Me: ‘Who?’

‘Ripper!’

‘What?’

‘The fucking Ripper!’

Me: ‘What about him?’

‘Caught the fucking Ripper, haven’t they,’ he laughs, bringing up a can of bitter from behind the desk and draining it -

‘The Yorkshire bloody Ripper!’

Dewsbury:

12:03:03 -

Tuesday 30 December 1980 -

The End of the World:

In a car park up the road from the police station, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -

Birds overhead, screaming -

Rain pouring -

The hills black above us, the clouds darker still.

Locking the door, coat up over my head, running -

Running for Dewsbury Police Station -

Dewsbury Police Station -

Modern bricks amongst the black -

Crowds gathering, word spreading -

Off-duty coppers coming in, shifts not going home -

I push on through, card out amongst the many:

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter to see Chief Constable Angus.’

‘Downstairs,’ shouts one of the men behind the desk, struggling to keep the pack at bay.

And downstairs I go -

Through the double doors and down the stairs -

Downstairs -

Underground -

Until I come upon them -

A dark room full of dark men:

Ronald Angus, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Alec McDonald, John Murphy -

Plus two faces -

Familiar faces -

Familiar faces, dark faces -

Dark faces in a dark room -

A dark room with one wall half glass -

The glass, a two-way mirror -

Light from behind the glass -

Behind the glass, the stage set -

Three chairs and a table -

The players -

Alderman and Prentice -

Today’s special guest:

Peter David Williams of Heaton, Bradford -

34-year-old, married, lorry driver -

Black beard and curly hair, a blue jumper with a white v-neck band -

Behind the glass -

Prentice saying: ‘What about Wednesday 10 December?’

Williams: ‘I was at home with the wife.’ Alderman: ‘Every time you’ve been seen, you always have same story – at home with the wife.’

‘But it’s right.’

‘I think it’s strange.’

‘Why?’

‘How can you be so sure that’s where you were?’

‘I’m always at home every night when I’m not on an overnight stay’

Prentice: ‘So how come you were in Sheffield on Sunday?’

‘I picked up a couple hitchhikers and they paid us a tenner to take them to Sheffield.’

‘Where’d you pick them up, Peter?’

‘Bradford.’

‘So they paid you a tenner to take them to Sheffield?’

He nods: ‘Yes.’

Alderman: ‘Bollocks.’

‘It’s right.’

‘Is it fuck; you went to Sheffield to pick up a prostitute.’

‘That’s not true.’

Prentice: ‘So how come your car’s been clocked in all these daft bloody places?’

‘Daft places?’

‘Manchester, for one. Moss Side.’

‘Manchester?’

Alderman: ‘Been there, have you Pete? Moss Side?’

‘No, never.’

‘Never?’

‘Never.’

‘But I got it here: FHY 400K, Moss Side, Manchester.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘I don’t know how either; but I tell you this – it’s bad bloody news, I know that.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, car’s there but you’re not. No-one’s going to swallow that in a month of bloody Sundays, are they?’

‘But I remember now. I left it outside Bradford Central Library one night after it broke down and then I went back and picked it up next day. Someone must have taken it for a ride over that way and then put it back.’

Alderman, laughing: ‘Fuck off.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Someone nicks your motor and – hang on, first someone fixes your motor and then they nick it and drive round red-light areas and then put it right back on same spot where you left it night before?’

‘Yes.’

Alderman: ‘Fuck off, Pete.’

Silence -

Silence until -

Until Prentice says softly: ‘You put the false plates on because you knew you were going to Sheffield, knew you were going to red-light district, and you knew we’d be watching.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘I think it is. I think you know it is.’

‘To be honest with you, I’ve been so depressed that I put plates on because I was thinking of committing a crime with the car.’

Silence -

Silence until -

Until Prentice says: ‘When you were arrested Pete, why did you leave your car and go down the side of that house?’

‘To urinate.’

Alderman: ‘To what?’

‘To piss.’

Prentice: ‘I think you went for another purpose. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Williams nods.

Alderman picks up a brown sports bag from under the table and he opens it and takes out four plastic bags and he places them on the table:

Two hammers, a screwdriver, and a knife.

Prentice: ‘I think you’re in serious trouble.’

Peter Williams: ‘I think you’ve been leading up to it.’

‘Leading up to what?’

Silence -

Silence until -

Until Peter D. Williams says: ‘The Yorkshire Ripper.’

Silence -

More silence until -

Until Prentice leans forward and says: ‘What about the Yorkshire Ripper?’

Silence -

One last silence until -

Until Peter David Williams says: ‘Well, it’s me.’

And Prentice stands up and then sits down again, Alderman in his chair with a glance back at the glass -

Back at the glass -

The other side of the glass -

Nine hearts pounding -

Pounding, pumping -

Pumping, the adrenaline pumping -

Pumping and turning and smiling and nodding and then there -

There behind me -

Oldman -

George Oldman -

Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman -

And he’s smiling and nodding, leaving us -

Going next door -

Noble: ‘George, no!’

Leaving us with our hands to the glass, the two-way mirror -

Hands to the glass, the two-way mirror -

‘George!’

The glass, the mirror -

On the other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

Where Prentice is asking: ‘You feel better now Peter, do you?’

And the Yorkshire Ripper -

The Yorkshire Ripper looks up as the door opens -

The door opens and in steps George -

And he walks up to him -

To the Yorkshire Ripper and he says -

Says to the Yorkshire Ripper: ‘I’m the one you almost bloody killed as well.’

And the Yorkshire Ripper -

The Yorkshire Ripper, he looks at George and he says: ‘They are all in my brain, reminding me of the beast I am.’

Prentice saying: ‘You’ll feel better now.’

‘Just thinking about them all reminds me of what a monster I am.’

And Alderman stands up and takes George by the arm, leading him away, Jim Prentice asking the Yorkshire Ripper -

Asking him: ‘You want anything, Peter?’

‘I want to tell Monica,’ says the Yorkshire Ripper -

Says the Yorkshire Ripper with a glance into the glass -

A glance into the glass -

The glass -

The glass, the mirror -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where Angus -

Chief Constable Angus is saying -

Shouting -

‘Get the whiskey out!’

Noble giving the orders: ‘Put him in a cell – someone inside and someone outside the door, round the clock.’

Maurice Jobson in his ear, whispering -

Noble nodding along: ‘Yeah, and get out a couple of shotguns.’

Maurice, whispering -

Noble, another nod, calling the shots: ‘We’re taking no chances tonight, so I want the paperwork and the guns out.’

Angus shouting -

‘And the bloody whiskey!’

Up the stairs -

Beaming coppers at every turn -

At every turn only too glad to point the way -

To point the way, to shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -

Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -

Cans, backs, and hands until -

Until we’re all in an upstairs office:

Ronald Angus, George Oldman, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, Alec McDonald, John Murphy -

No Craven, no Bob -

And twenty faces I don’t know -

Twenty faces I don’t want to know -

Plus the two faces I do -

The two familiar faces I want to know -

Murphy introducing me: ‘This is Sergeant John Chain, he’s the one who nicked him.’

‘Me and John Skinner,’ nods Chain.

‘And this is DS Ellis, here at Dewsbury.’

‘Call me Mike,’ says Mike, hand out.

I take Murphy to one side: ‘What the fuck’s going on? What happened?’

‘Pulled him in Sheffield, didn’t they?’

‘Sheffield?’

‘Yeah,’ nods Murphy, a big whiskey in his fist.

‘Who?’

‘That Sergeant Chain and some PC Skinner.’

‘Which station?’

‘Hammerton Road, I think.’

‘When?’

‘Sunday night.’

‘How?’

But then there’s boots up the stairs, telephones ringing -

Head around the door: ‘She’s here, sir!’

And everyone’s heading out the door -

Back down the stairs -

Me saying: ‘Who? The wife?’

This Sergeant Ellis, Mike, he’s shaking his head: ‘Slag he was with.’

‘Luckiest bitch alive,’ laughs someone else and then -

Then we’re all heading back downstairs -

Beaming coppers at every turn -

At every turn only too glad to point the way -

To point the way, to shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -

Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -

Cans, backs, and hands until -

Until we’re downstairs -

Underground -

Back underground -

In the dark room with the one wall half glass -

Behind the glass, the two-way mirror -

Light from behind the glass -

The stage set -

Act II:

Three chairs and a table -

The players -

Alderman and Prentice and -

Today’s special guest:

Sharon Yardley, a 24-year-old convicted black prostitute and mother of two from some Sheffield shit-hole.

‘What’s going on?’ she’s asking.

Prentice, ever the gent: ‘Have a seat Miss Yardley.’

‘It’s a fucking jungle out there,’ she’s saying -

Alderman smiling, best behaviour: ‘Cigarette?’

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

He leans forward, his back to us, lighter out: ‘There you go.’

‘Ta very much.’

Alderman: ‘We’ve taken a bit of shine – no offence – taken a bit of a shine to one of your punters.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that?’

‘Bit of a naughty boy this one.’

‘Aren’t they all.’

‘Yeah,’ nods Prentice. ‘Aren’t they all.’

Alderman: ‘Tell us about him, this one from Sunday night?’

‘What about him?’

‘Just tell us what happened?’

She rolls her eyes, stubs out her cig and says: ‘About nine I’m sitting with Karen on Wharncliffe Road, junction with Broomhall…’

Alderman: ‘Karen?’

‘Yeah, Karen.’

‘Last name?’

‘Not a clue, officer,’ she smiles. ‘Never met her before.’

Prentice: ‘Go on.’

‘About nine, a brown Rover pulls up, window down, are we doing business? Karen goes across, gives him once over, says no ta.’

‘Why she say no?’

‘Bit creepy.’

‘How?’

‘Didn’t say.’

‘Go on.’

‘Ten minutes later, some Paki pulls up and she’s off with him.’

Alderman: ‘Not that choosy then, this Karen?’

‘Listen lover,’ she laughs. ‘There’s nowt wrong with Pakis; shoot their muck and they’re gone. All over in ten seconds.’

Prentice: ‘Go on, love.’

‘So anyway, Rover comes back and I go over and he seems all right.’

‘All right?’

‘Looked like a good-looking Bee Gee.’

Alderman: ‘A good-looking bloody Bee Gee? What the fuck’s one of them?’

Prentice: ‘Ignore him. Go on, love.’

‘So I tell him it’s a tenner and he nods and I get in and he asks if I know anywhere and I tell him to head straight up the road and turn left by Trades House.’

Prentice: ‘How long that take? Up to the Trades House?’

‘Five, ten minutes.’

‘He talk?’

‘Never bloody shut up, did he?’

Alderman: ‘He tell you his name?’

‘Dave.’

Prentice: ‘What else did he say?’

‘About how he didn’t usually do this kind of thing, the usual. About his wife and how she nagged him morning, noon, and night and how they’d wanted to have kids and all the miscarriages they’d had and I said he should adopt and he reckoned they were thinking about one of them Vietnamese Boat People, that kind of thing. Usual bloody excuses.’

‘Then you came to Trades House?’

She nods: ‘Reversed in, didn’t he.’

‘Odd?’

‘Never seen it before.’

‘And?’

‘And he keeps yapping and after a bit I tell him I want the tenner and he gives it me and I give him rubber.’

‘And?’

‘And I take my knickers off but he says he wants to do it in back seat but I say it’ll be all right here, nothing to worry about, and he unzips it and lies on top of me but he’s too nervous, cold as ice he is, and after a couple of minutes of this I tell him we’re not going to be able to do it.’

‘What did he say? Angry was he?’

‘No,’ she shrugs. ‘Just nodded and said that’s what it looked like.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Then what happened was you lot bloody turned up, didn’t you?’

‘What did he do?’

‘Froze, then said he’d do all talking and I’m his girlfriend, aren’t I? Didn’t have heart to tell him, I’d shagged every copper this side of Hallam.’

Alderman, laughing: ‘That include Sergeant Chain and PC Skinner?’

‘You’re a bad man you are, aren’t you lover?’ she tuts, winking at the glass.

Prentice: ‘So what happened then?’

‘One of you lot comes over.’

‘And?’

‘And he taps on glass, and Dave, he winds down window and asks if there’s a problem and this young copper…’

‘PC Skinner.’

‘Yeah, he asks who we are and what we’re doing and Dave, now he says he’s Peter Logan and I’m his girlfriend but Skinny, he shines his torch on me and says, hello Sharon, thought you were inside and he asks Pete or Dave or whoever he is, he asks him if it’s his car and whatever-his-bloody-name-is tells him it is and then PC Plod says something witty like, don’t go anywhere lovebirds, and he walks off back to the Panda.’

‘And so you two are alone again?’

‘Yeah, dead romantic it was.’

‘What was he saying now?’

‘Dave? Asks me if we should make a run for it.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Said there wasn’t much point, seeing as how they knew me anyway’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Nothing. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are back aren’t they – taking his keys, tax disk off window, asking who he really is and now he’s saying he’s Peter Williams and how he doesn’t want his wife to know and how he’s been done for drunk driving or something and how he’s going to lose his job. Usual bloody nonsense.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well then they get us out of the car and they see that the plates are only held on with bleeding tape and for a split second I honestly thought daft bugger was going to make a run for it, but he’s just off for a piss he says and then when he comes back, they take us down to Hammerton Road.’

‘He say anything on way down?’

‘No,’ she laughs. ‘Too busy trying not to shit himself, wasn’t he?’

Prentice: ‘Probably had a lot on his mind.’

And then she stops laughing at her own joke and says: ‘Why?’

Prentice: ‘Why what?’

‘Why all questions? Who is he?’

And Alderman, he picks up the bag off the floor and he tips the two hammers, the screwdriver, and the knife onto the table and says -

Says: ‘The Yorkshire Ripper.’

And in her eyes she sees -

In her eyes -

Her own death -

Her own death with these tools -

With these tools -

These two hammers -

This screwdriver -

This knife -

Her own death with these tools -

Her own death -

In her eyes -

In her eyes she sees -

The Yorkshire Ripper -

And she pukes -

Pukes down the side of herself -

Her left leg -

The table leg -

In a puddle on the floor, the yellow bile.

Up the stairs -

Beaming coppers at every turn -

At every turn to shake your hand -

To shake your hand, to pat your back and crack another can -

Shaking hands, patting backs, cracking cans -

Cans, backs, and hands until -

Until we’re all back in the upstairs office:

Ronald Angus, George Oldman, Maurice Jobson, Peter Noble, Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, Alec McDonald, John Murphy, Mike Ellis and me -

No Bob Craven -

And the twenty faces I don’t know -

The twenty faces I don’t want to know -

Plus Sergeant John Chain -

Holding court -

The King is dead, long live the King:

The King of all Detectives -

The King of all Detectives telling us how it was:

‘I mean, you see a car up the side of the Trades House and you know what they’re up to inside that.’

Me: ‘What time?’

‘Eleven,’ he shrugs. ‘No later. Anyway I send Skinny over with his torch and he’s like a ferret down a hole is that one, thinks he’s going to cop some quim and sure enough if it isn’t Sharon Yardley with some punter. So Skinny, he comes trotting back and we put the plates through…’

Thirty people nodding -

Not me, me asking him: ‘What were they? The plates?’

‘Can’t remember can I, but they weren’t right ones, tell you that. So we get the word from Hammerton that whatever they were, these plates they should’ve been sitting on a bloody Skoda not a big brown fucking Rover 3500 and Skinny’s seen plates are only taped on anyway. So we go back over to them and take keys off him and have a look at his disk and he tells us his real name is Peter Williams from Bradford and he says he doesn’t want his missus to find out, does he. I tell him he’ll have to come down station because we reckon plates are nicked and he just nods and we ask them to get in our car and, right, this is when he dashes off behind water-tank and I’m like, hold your horses, where you off to? But he’s bursting for a pee, he says and he’s back in a couple of minutes. Did cross me mind he was going do a runner, but he comes back and we go down Hammerton Road and all way down he’s quiet, not a word.’

Thirty people, all nodding along -

Not me, me: ‘What about his car? Did you have a look inside?’

‘Yeah, yeah – messy, it was. Tools, rope, bits and pieces, you know – windscreen wipers, a Speedo, carpet, wood.’

‘Go on, John,’ says someone. ‘What happened then?’

‘Well then we interview them and we let her go but he tells us he’d taken plates off a car in a scrap yard in some place called Cooper’s Bridge near Mirfield. So we’re right, where the fuck is Cooper’s Bridge? And we call Leeds and Wakey and then find out it’s Dewsbury, so we call here and by now it’s like gone 5 in morning and they tell us they’ll send some lads down when Early Boys get on and so we call his missus in Bradford and tell her that her husband’s been nicked for dodgy plates.’

Me: ‘What she say?’

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs again. ‘Not much, I heard. Anyway, that was me. I knocked off and it wasn’t until yesterday night when I come back on for another bloody graveyard and gaffer tells us that they’re still holding punter from Sunday night and Ripper Squad are giving him once over. So that gets me old brain ticking and that’s when I go off back up to Trades House…’

Thirty people, nodding, in awe -

The King of the Detectives.

Not me, me: ‘You call here first?’

‘No.’

‘You tell anyone what you were up to?’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I didn’t really think there’d be anything there, did I. But I just wanted to make double sure.’

‘Go on, John. Go on.’

‘So I get up there and I remember him saying he needed a slash like, going behind tank. So that’s where I go and fuck me if there isn’t a hammer and a bloody knife on ground by back wall.’

Me: ‘You touch them?’

Him: ‘No.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Ran straight back to car and called station and they’re straight on to here and Ripper Room and then word comes back to leave them, in situ like, and photographer’s on his way and someone, Bob Craven, he’s on his way from Leeds.’

Applause -

Thirty beaming coppers -

Shaking his hand all over again -

Shaking his hand, patting his back and cracking him cans -

Cans, backs, and hands until -

Until Noble says -

‘It’s time.’

Underground -

Back underground -

In the dark room with the one wall half glass -

Behind the glass, the two-way mirror -

Light from behind the glass -

The stage set -

Act III, the Final Act:

Four chairs and a table -

The players -

Noble and Alderman and Prentice -

Today’s special guest -

Back by popular demand:

Peter David Williams of Heaton, Bradford -

34-year-old, married, lorry driver -

Black beard and curly hair, a blue jumper with a white v-neck band -

The Yorkshire Ripper -

Behind the glass -

Noble: ‘This is going to take some time, Peter?’

The Yorkshire Ripper nods.

Noble: ‘Let’s just get straight who it is we’re talking about, OK?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘OK.’

Noble: ‘So first would be Joyce Jobson?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Then Anita Bird?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Theresa Campbell?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Clare Strachan?’

The Yorkshire Ripper shakes his head: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘You sure about that?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Joan Richards?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Ka Su Peng?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Marie Watts?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Linda Clark?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘Rachel Johnson?’

The Yorkshire Ripper pauses, then says: ‘I…’

Noble repeats himself: ‘Rachel Johnson, Peter? Yes or no?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Janice Ryan?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Kathy Kelly?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Tracey Livingston?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Candy Simon?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Doreen Pickles?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Joanne Thornton?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Dawn Williams?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘No relation?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘Laureen Bell?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Missed anyone have we, Peter?’

The Yorkshire Ripper looks directly into the mirror -

The mirror, the glass -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where we’re all sitting -

Angus, Oldman, Murphy, McDonald, Ellis, and me -

Looks through the mirror, the Yorkshire Ripper -

And he nods at us -

Noble: ‘Who, Peter? Who?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Noorjahan Davit.’

On the other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where Ellis is on his feet -

Where I’m thinking -

Noorjahan Davit, murdered Bradford, November 1978.

Back up on stage Noble says: ‘That was you, was it?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Go on.’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Tessa Smith.’

On the other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

Where I’m thinking -

Tessa Smith, Batley, November 1979.

On stage Noble shaking his head: ‘Afraid I don’t know that one, Pete?’

Alderman: ‘Attacked Batley, November 1979?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Anyone else?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Prudence Banks.’

On the other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

Where I’m thinking -

Prudence Banks, murdered Harrogate, August 1980.

Noble: ‘Harrogate? This August?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Strangled, wasn’t she?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Anyone else?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘That’s all.’

Noble: ‘That’s all? That’s a bloody lot of women, Peter?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘This is going to take a fair while, Peter.’

And the Yorkshire Ripper -

The Yorkshire Ripper, he nods directly into the mirror -

The mirror, the glass -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where Ellis is going out the door -

Going out the door, shouting -

Shouting at everyone and anyone:

‘Davit, Smith, and Banks – get us them files.’

And back behind the mirror -

The mirror, the glass -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side -

On the stage -

On the stage where Noble says: ‘All right, Peter. I just want to clear these up, these ones you’re saying aren’t you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘OK.’

Noble: ‘Clare Strachan? This was in Preston in November 1975?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘I know.’

Noble: ‘But it wasn’t you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No, it was him.’

Noble: ‘Who?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Other one.’

Noble: ‘Who we talking about Peter?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘That headbanger, the one that wrote the letters, that sent that tape.’

Noble: ‘So that wasn’t you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘You don’t know who it was, do you?’

Silence -

Silence until -

Until the Yorkshire Ripper with a glance into the glass -

A glance into the glass -

The glass -

The glass, the mirror -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where I am standing with my hands and face up to the glass -

Up at the glass, the mirror -

Until -

Until the Yorkshire Ripper says: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘And Linda Clark?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘It wasn’t you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘You sure you know who we’re talking about? When it happened?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘June 77. Bradford?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘I know.’

Noble: ‘Was it you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘You think that it was this other bloke, this head-banger?’

The Yorkshire Ripper shrugs and says: ‘I don’t know.’

Noble: ‘Janice Ryan?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

Noble: ‘Also June 77. Also Bradford.’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘I know.’

Noble: ‘Was it you?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘No.’

‘You sure?’

Silence -

Silence until -

Until the Yorkshire Ripper with a glance into the glass -

A glance into the glass -

The glass -

The glass, the mirror -

The other side of the glass, the other side of the mirror -

On the other side of the mirror where I’m still standing with my hands and face up to the glass -

Up at the glass, the mirror -

Until -

Until the Yorkshire Ripper says: ‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Yes?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘Sure it wasn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Noble: ‘Let’s move on then?’

The Yorkshire Ripper: ‘OK.’

Noble: ‘To the ones you did?’

The Yorkshire Ripper nods.

Sixteen hours later, in the dark room -

The dark room on our side of the glass -

Our side of the mirror -

Drowning, we’re drowning here -

Drowning in here in his bloody sea -

The bloody tide in -

His bloody tide high -

The bloody things he’s said -

The bloody things he’s done -

Noble: ‘Joyce Jobson?’

‘I saw her in the Oak. She annoyed me, probably in some minor way. I took her to be a prostitute and I hit her on the head and scratched her buttocks with a piece of hacksaw blade or maybe it was a knife. I’m sorry, I can’t remember. But it was my intention to kill her but I was disturbed by a car coming down the road.’

Noble: ‘Anita Bird?’

‘I asked her if she fancied it. She said not on your life and went to try to get into her house. When she came back out, I tapped her up again and she elbowed me. I followed her and hit her with a hammer. I intended to kill her but I was disturbed again.’

Noble: ‘Theresa Campbell?’

‘She was drunk and laughing at me and said, come on get it over with. I said, don’t worry I will and I hit her with the hammer. She made a lot of noise and kept on making a lot of noise so I hit her again. I took a knife out of my pocket and stabbed her about four times.’

Alderman: ‘It was more than that.’

‘It might have been.’

Alderman: ‘It was fifteen to be exact.’

‘I know.’

Alderman: ‘Why’d you stab some of them in the heart?’

‘The ones that wouldn’t die, I stabbed them in the heart. You can kill them quicker that way.’

Noble: ‘Joan Richards?’

‘She was wearing very strong and cheap perfume and I pushed a piece of wood against her vagina to show how disgusting she was.’

Noble: ‘What did you stab her with?’

‘A screwdriver.’

Noble: ‘How many times?’

‘Quite a few.’

Alderman: ‘Fifty-two times.’

‘That many?’

Alderman: ‘That many.’

Noble: ‘Ka Su Peng?’

‘She went behind some trees to urinate and then said we should start the ball rolling on the grass. I hit her once on the head with the hammer, but I just couldn’t bring myself to hit her again. For some reason I just let her walk away and I went back to the car and drove home.’

Noble: ‘Marie Watts?’

‘I used the hammer and a Stanley knife on her. As she was crouching down urinating on the grass I hit her on the head at least two or three times. I lifted up her clothes and slashed her abdomen and throat.’

Noble: ‘Rachel Johnson?’

‘She took a long time to die, that’s all I can remember.’

Alderman: ‘You remember how many times you stabbed her, Peter?’

‘No.’

‘Twenty-three times.’

Noble: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’

‘I went back to cut off her head, make that one more mysterious.’

Noble: ‘Kathy Kelly?’

‘She was dirty and just talked about sex and so I hit her but she still wouldn’t shut up so I stuffed some filling from a sofa in her mouth. But then a dog started barking and I had to leave her.’

Noble: ‘Tracey Livingston?’

‘She was another one I heard using foul language. It was obvious why I picked her up. No decent woman would have been using language like that at the top of her voice in the street. When I had killed her, I picked her up under the arms and hoisted her up on to the bed.’

Noble: ‘Candy Simon?’

‘She undid my trousers and seemed prepared to start sexual intercourse straight away in the front of the car. It was very awkward for me to find a way to get her out of the car. For about five minutes I was trying to decide which method to use to kill her. She was beginning to arouse me sexually. I got out of the car with the excuse that I needed to urinate and managed to persuade her to get out of the car so that we could have sex in the back. As she was getting in I realised that this was my chance but the hammer caught on the edge of the car door frame and only gave her a light tap. She said, there’s no need for that, you don’t even have to pay. I expected her to immediately shout for help. She was obviously scared but just said, what was it? I said, just a small sample of one of these and I hit her on the head hard. She just crumpled making a loud moaning noise and then I realised what I had done was in full view of two taxi drivers who had appeared and were talking nearby. So I dragged her by the hair to the end of the woodyard. She stopped moaning but was not dead. Her eyes were open and she held up her hands to ward off blows. I jumped on top of her and covered her mouth with my hand. It seemed like an eternity and she was still struggling. I told her that if she kept quiet she would be all right. As she had got me aroused a moment previous, I had no alternative but to go ahead with the act of sex as the only means of keeping her quiet. It didn’t take long. She kept staring at me. She didn’t put much into it. Then the taxi drivers left and I went back for the hammer but she got to her feet and ran for the road. This was when I hit her heavy blows to the back of the head. I dragged her to the front of the car and threw her belongings over the wall. But she was still obviously alive so I took a knife from the car and stabbed her several times through the heart and lungs. I think it was the kitchen knife. It’s in the cutlery drawer at home.’

Noble: ‘Doreen Pickles?’

‘I had the urge to kill any woman. The urge inside me to kill girls was practically uncontrollable and it still dominates my actions. Following Pickles the urge inside me remained dormant, but then the feeling came welling up. I had the urge to kill any woman. It sounds a bit evil now. There I was walking along with a big hammer and a big Philips screwdriver in my pocket ready for the inevitable but I have been taken over completely by this urge to kill and I cannot fight it.’

Noble: ‘Noorjahan Davit?’

‘She was walking slowly like a prostitute and wearing tight jeans and I hit her on the head with a hammer. I dragged her down the road and her shoes were making a scraping noise. I apologised to her and took her shoes off and put them over the wall with her handbag. Then I stabbed her.’

Noble: ‘Joanne Thornton?’

‘It had been a long time since the last one. I realised she was not a prostitute. I had to try and convince her she was safe with me and I said, you can’t trust anyone these days. I used the Philips screwdriver, the big one.’

Alderman: ‘You put it up her, didn’t you? In her vagina?’

‘I think I waggled it about two or three times, yes.’

Alderman: ‘This one, this one here with the sharpened point?’

‘Yes. I used it on Joanne Thornton and on Dawn Williams.’

Noble: ‘Tell us about Dawn Williams?’

‘I took her to the back of the house before I stabbed her, that’s all. Before doing it, with any of them I had to go through a terrible stage each time. I was in absolute turmoil. I was doing everything I could to fight it off, and I kept asking why it should be me, until I eventually reached the stage where it was as if I was primed to do it.’

Alderman: ‘Twenty-eight times?’

‘I honestly can’t remember.’

‘I’m telling you, you stabbed her twenty-eight times.’

‘I believe you.’

Noble: ‘Tessa Smith?’

‘I attacked her because she was the first person I saw. I think something clicked because she had on a straight skirt with a slit in it.’

Noble: ‘Prudence Banks?’

‘I changed my methods here because the press and the media had attached a stigma to me. I had been known for some time as the Yorkshire Ripper and I didn’t like it. It isn’t me. It didn’t ring true. I had been on my way to Leeds to kill a prostitute when I saw Prudence Banks. It was just unfortunate for her that she happened to be walking by. I don’t like the method of strangulation. It takes them even longer to die.’

Noble: ‘Laureen Bell?’

‘The last one I did. I sat in the car eating some Kentucky Fried Chicken, then I saw Miss Bell. I decided she was a likely victim. I drove just past her and parked up and waited for her to pass. I got out of the car and followed about three yards behind her. As she drew level with an opening I took the hammer out of my pocket and struck her on the head. By this time I was in a world of my own, out of touch with reality. I dragged her on to some waste ground. A car appeared and I threw myself to the ground, but the car passed by. I can’t imagine why I was not seen. She was moving about, so I hit her again. Then I dragged her further on to the waste ground as a girl was passing by. I pulled most of her clothes off. I had the screwdriver with the yellow handle and I stabbed her in the lungs. Her eyes were open and she seemed to be looking at me with an accusing stare. This shook me up a bit so I stabbed her in the eye. I just put it to her lid and with the handle in my palm I just jerked it in.’

Sixteen hours of this in the dark room -

The dark room on our side of the glass -

Our side of the mirror -

Drowning, we’re drowning here -

Drowning in here in his bloody sea -

The bloody tide in -

His bloody tide high -

The things he’s said, the things he’s done -

Sixteen hours in the dark room -

Sixteen hours and six years -

In dark rooms -

In silence -

Silence and tears.

Up the stairs -

Sleeping coppers on every desk -

On every desk, face down -

Faces down in ash and cans -

Snoring, farting, belching -

The cans, the dog ends, the wretched smell -

We’re all back in the upstairs office -

Sergeant Ellis in full flight, swing whatever -

Me all ears -

Only me -

‘Took one bloody look at him, didn’t I. And I said to lads, he’s an odd one this one, I did.’

Me: ‘Time? What time?’

‘Minute they bloody brought him in; nine o’clock.’

Me: ‘So what’d you do?’

‘Called Ripper Room, didn’t I? Bloke nicked with false plates and prossie in a red-light area - I’m straight on him. Dialled Millgarth before his arse even touched a seat.’

Me: ‘Who’d you get at Millgarth?’

‘Bob Craven,’ he says -

‘Where is Bob?’ I ask.

‘Fuck knows,’ says Ellis. ‘Anyway, I says to Bob, you want to clock this one and Bob’s like, keep him sweet and Jim Prentice’ll be down for a butchers.’

Me: ‘Kept him sweet did you?’

‘As bloody sugar – talking ten to dozen, he was: telling us how he’s always up Sunderland, over Preston way, how he takes a size eight Welly, all the different passion wagons he’s had - Corsairs and Rovers and Escorts and you-bloody-name-it he’s had it.’

Me: ‘Mention Ripper did you?’

‘Just what Bob said to tell him, routine when a bloke gets pulled with a slag.’

Me: ‘What did he say?’

‘Fine. No sweat. Said he’d been seen half a dozen times already.’

Me: ‘What’d you say to that?’

‘I’m rubbing my bleeding hands, aren’t I? But I say, is that right? You’ve got nowt to bloody worry about then, have you? And he says, only bloody missus. But I tell him she’s already phoned and she thinks it’s just about some dodgy plates and you’ll be right.’

Me: ‘What time she phone?’

‘About ten minutes after he got here.’

Me: ‘Then what?’

‘Jim Prentice gets here after lunch, been up Bradford way for some funeral or something. Takes one look at our man and he’s like: know him, seen by John Murphy about that fiver, clocked in Bradford, Leeds, and Manchester, and last time they did all local engineering firms. So Jim goes in and has a bit of a chat and he’s in there twenty, thirty minutes, and he comes back out and he says, Mike I’m not happy. And I’m like, fuck we’ve screwed up and I say, why – what’s up? But Jim’s like, not happy about Peter David Williams and he goes gets Millgarth on blower.’

Me: ‘What time’s this?’

‘Be about three o’clock.’

Me: ‘And what did Dick Alderman say?’

‘Test him.’

Me: ‘And what did Williams say when you went down to test him?’

‘Wasn’t me, it was Jim Prentice, – but apparently he goes, what if it’s same one you’re wanting? And Jim says, calm as can be like, you Ripper are you? And feller he just says, no. Then you’re all right then, aren’t you laughs Jim.’

Me: ‘So he’s in the frame by now?’

‘Oh aye. And then when test comes back and it’s B – well then it was pints all round, wasn’t it?’

Me: ‘What time was that?’

‘Test results? Actually I can’t remember which was first: Chainey finding hammer and knife back in Sheffield or blood type. Any road, must have been gone twelve.’

Me: ‘Midnight?’

‘Yeah, cos then Dick Alderman turns up, Pete Noble – and I mean no-one’s going home, we’re all just hanging around.’

Me: ‘All night?’

Ellis nodding: ‘Once in a lifetime thing, this. I mean, all night they’re having top-level meetings, planning it all out.’

Me: ‘Who?’

‘Brass: Noble, Alderman, Prentice – and phone never bloody stopped.’

Me: ‘And what they doing with the suspect?’

‘Suspect? He’s bloody sleeping like a baby, isn’t he? First thing though when he woke – he must have noticed something was up.’

Me: ‘Why’s that?’

‘Well minute he’s had his breakfast – there’s Alderman and Prentice and me sat there.’

Me: ‘You?’

‘Oh aye, first interview today I was taking it all down.’

Me: ‘What’d he say?’

‘Nowt much, they were just trying to get him relaxed, you know.’

Me: ‘How?’

‘Talking about cars, sex.’

Me: ‘Sex?’

‘Aye, Alderman was asking him all about him and his missus – how often they have a bit, because he’d been on to them saying like she was always nagging him and stuff like that. But he reckoned they were at it regular – nowt kinky mind. Said they forgot about rows and all that minute they went to bed.’

Me: ‘Getting a bit personal then?’

‘Oh aye, but he didn’t seem to mind. Dead relaxed, he was. Best bit was when, this was lunchtime, – just before you and George Oldman got here. Jim Prentice says why don’t we send out for some fish and chips and Ripper, he’s a cocky bastard, he grins at him and says, I’ll go if you want – but I reckon they might be a bit cold by time I get back.’

Downstairs I go -

Through the double doors and down the stairs -

Downstairs -

Underground -

Until I come to a corridor -

Bright lights overhead -

Walls half green, half cream -

Floors, black and polished -

Come to the cells -

Eight cells -

Four in a row on the right -

Four in a row on the left -

Doors open -

No-one -

No guards, no coppers -

No-one.

I walk down the corridor -

Looking left, then right -

Left, then right -

Left then right -

Until I come -

Come to the last two cells -

And I look to the left -

No-one -

And I look to the right -

And -

And there he is -

The Yorkshire Ripper -

The Yorkshire Ripper asleep on the bed in the cell -

His back to the door, curved -

Curved in a blue sweater, grey trousers -

Alone -

No-one inside the cell -

No-one outside -

And I stare at the back of the Yorkshire Ripper -

The back of the Yorkshire Ripper moving up and down, in and out, ever so slightly -

Ever so slightly under that blue sweater -

And then I hear footsteps -

Footsteps on the black polished floor -

And I turn -

Turn and there they are -

Alderman and Murphy, John Murphy -

A shotgun each -

A small woman between them -

A small woman with black hair.

And the three of them -

Alderman, Murphy and the woman, they stare -

Stare until Murphy says: ‘What you doing here, Pete?’

‘After your hundred quid, are you?’ snorts Alderman.

I say: ‘There was no-one on. There should have been someone.’

Murphy: ‘They’re short. We just went to get Mrs Wilhams here.’

But Mrs Williams here -

Mrs Williams isn’t looking at me -

She’s looking past me into the cell -

And I turn back -

Turn back to look into the cell -

And there he is -

Upright on the edge of the bed in the cell -

The Yorkshire Ripper, upright.

And she goes past me -

Past me and into the cell -

And she says: ‘Have you had anything to eat?’

And Alderman shouts after her: ‘Oi, we’re not bloody inhuman you know?’

And she’s holding his hand, asking him about his clothes -

And I’m walking backwards away from them -

Walking backwards away from them, when he says -

The Yorkshire Ripper says: ‘It’s me.’

And she says: ‘Is it Peter? Is it really?’

And he nods and she lets go of his hand.

She turns back to Alderman and Murphy and me, standing in the corridor with the guns, and she says -

The wife of the Yorkshire Ripper says: ‘My priority is to let my parents know. Not on the telephone, face to face.’

Alderman: ‘I wouldn’t advise you to do that.’

‘Why?’

Alderman: ‘The press will get you.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Alderman: ‘We’ve had a press conference. They’re all waiting outside.’

And I’m saying -

Saying for her: ‘What? You’ve done what?’

Looking at Murphy, turning, walking -

I’m walking away -

Walking away, then running -

Up the stairs -

Running.

to intensify the anguish for the tears they first wept knotted in a cluster and like a visor made for them in crystal filled all the hollow part around their eyes o lord break off these hard veils and give relief from the pain that swells my heart and rains down blows upon my flesh where then new tears freeze again his body in the world above for whenever a soul betrays the way he did a demon takes possession of his body controlling its maneuvers from then on for all the years it has to live and e who am dead must lead thee through this hell these scenes of blood and wounds for memory and vocabulary are not enough to comprehend the pain the bodies ripped from chin to arse between their legs their guts spilled out with the heart and other vital parts the dirty sacks from inside hear another with her throat slit her nose cut off as far as where the eyebrows start she steps out from the group and opens her throat which runs red from all sides of her wound and says bring back to those on earth this message of the things you have seen take back this from those who stained your world with blood your world now containing approximately five pounds in cash all this and heaven too missing a lorry driver called peter who drives a cab with a name beginning with the letter C on the side he lives in bradford in a big grey house elevated above the street behind wrought iron gates with steps leading up to the front door number six in its street peter committed crimes before and is connected to the containerbase at stourton he will kill for the last time in leeds on Wednesday the tenth of december nineteen eighty the thirteenth and last transmission one final picture from the atrocity exhibition from the shadows of the sun out of the arc of the searchlight laureen bell in headingley leeds eating kentucky fried chicken e saw her and followed her and e took hammer from my pocket and e hit her and then e dragged her to some waste land and she was moving about and e pulled most of her clothes off and e had the screwdriver with the yellow handle and e stabbed her in the lungs her eyes still open she seemed to be looking at me with an accusing stare which shook me up a bit so e stabbed her in the eye the taste of the chicken in my mouth the taste of salt everything salt in my mouth clueless e scream the weather is letting me down again for e am not ripper e am the streetcleaner locked in the red room poor old oldman looking for the wrong man noble but no choice misled by a voice release of drury arouses fury preston was not me but just you wait and see Sheffield will not be missed next on the list my nails already dead of colour this exegesis complete and illuminated e stand upon souls fixed under ice some bent head to foot shaped like bows the distorted jackknife postures their bras pushed up now the time has come this the place where no light is e cannot write e cannot tell memory and vocabulary not enough here neither dead nor alive before the king of the vast kingdom of grief once as fair as he is now foul all grief springs from him one head wearing three faces one red one white one blue beneath which two mighty wings stretch out not feathered wings but like the ones you would expect a bat to have and he flaps them constantly keeping three winds continuously in motion saying over and over and over again and again and again this is the world now containing approximately five pounds in cash all this and heaven too missing from the deceaseds handbag one edge sharper than the other this is the world now the weather letting us down again and again and again in a yorkshire way he says this is the world now this is the world now this is the world now this is the world we be

Chapter 21

New Year’s Eve, 1980:

Dawn or dusk, it’s all fucked up -

The End of the World -

Fucked up and running -

Running from Dewsbury Police Station -

Dewsbury Police Station -

Modern lies amongst the black -

Crowds gathering -

Posters out:

The Ripper is a Coward -

Defaced:

Hang him!

The homemade nooses, the studded wristbands -

The skinheads and their mums, the mohicans and their nans.

Running to the car park up the road from the police station, puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -

The car park already full -

Journalists, TV crews, the word spread -

Birds overhead, screaming -

Rain pouring -

The clouds black above us, the hills darker still -

Hills of hard houses, bleak times -

Warehouse eyes, mill stares -

Unlocking the door, running -

Engine running, running scared -

The North after the bomb -

Murder and lies, lies and murder -

War.

Ml into Leeds -

Radio on:

‘A Bradford man will appear before Dewsbury magistrates later this afternoon in connection with the murder of Laureen Bell in Leeds on December 10. The man was arrested by officers in Sheffield on Sunday night in connection with the theft of some car number plates. A jubilant Chief Constable Ronald Angus told reporters:

‘“This man is now being detained in West Yorkshire, and he is being questioned in relation to the Yorkshire Ripper murders. He will appear before Dewsbury magistrates later today. We are all absolutely delighted, totally delighted with the developments at this stage. The officers who detained the man in Sheffield were outstanding police officers; these lads are real heroes, who have my heartfelt thanks. They did a wonderful job. We know the girl the man was with when he was arrested and she’s very lucky indeed. She could easily have been his next victim.”

‘When asked if the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper was now over, Chief Constable Angus said:

‘“You are right. The hunt for the Ripper is being scaled down.”

‘Meanwhile a crowd of almost 4000 people has already gathered outside Dewsbury Town Hall in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man whose five-year reign has brought terror to the streets of every Northern city. A reign that would now appear to be at an end.’

Radio off, thinking -

What looks like morning, it is the beginning of the endless night.

Leeds, fucking Leeds:

Medieval, Victorian, Concrete fucking Leeds -

Decay, murder, hell -

Dead city:

Just the crows and the rain -

The Ripper gone -

The crows and the rain, his meat-picked bones -

Leeds, fucking Leeds -

The King is dead, long live the King.

I park under the dark arches with the water and the rats -

Out of the car, coat up -

Running up through the arches, past the Scarborough -

Into the Griffin -

Ringing the bell, waiting -

Fuck it -

Snatching the key from behind the desk -

Into the lift -

Pressing 7 -

1,2,3,4,5,6 -

Out of the lift -

Down the corridor -

Tripping -

On the dark stair, we miss our step:

Room 77 -

Key in the door -

Into the room -

Checking my watch, radio on, picking up the phone, getting a dialling tone, pulling the numbers round -

Ringing, ringing -

‘Joan?’

‘Peter? Where are you?’

‘Leeds.’

‘Is it true? They’ve caught him?’

‘Yes.’

‘You coming home?’

‘Home?’

‘Here.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘I had that nightmare again – the girl…’

‘I’m coming now, love.’

‘Oh be careful, Peter.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please -’

Phone down -

Sweeping the Exegesis, the loose notes, Spunk, the photographs -

Sweeping everything into the carrier bags -

The pages from the Holy Bible, the Exegesis, Spunk -

Everything in bags, everything ready -

One last look around -

Opening the door -

Opening the door and there she is:

‘Helen?’

Hair tied back, raincoat still dripping, she asks: ‘Can I come in?’

On the dark stair -

‘Yes,’ I say and hold open the door.

She steps inside and I close the door behind us.

She undoes her raincoat and takes out an envelope -

Flat and manila -

She holds it up -

In slanting black felt-tip pen:

Photos Do Not Bend.

I’m nodding, asking her: ‘When?’

‘Boxing Day.’

‘Boxing Day?’

‘By hand.’

‘Who?’

She looks up to the ceiling of the room, sucking in her lips, trying not to let the tears in her eyes -

Trying not to let the tears -

The tears in her eyes -

She says: ‘Bob Craven.’

‘What?’

She nods, the tears in her eyes.

Me: ‘How?’

She pulls open the envelope, taking out the photographs -

And she throws them down onto the bed:

Photographs, four of them -

Four photographs of two people in a park:

Platt Fields Park, in wintertime.

Photographs, black and white -

Black and white photographs of two people in a park by a pond:

A cold grey pond, a dog.

Four black and white photographs of two people in a park -

Two people in a park:

One of them her.

‘How?’ I ask.

But she looks up at the ceiling again, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -

The tears in her eyes -

The tears -

And she reaches into the envelope again, taking out a piece of paper -

A piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -

And she holds it up -

Holds it up in my face:

A piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -

Skinny and ginger, legs and cunt -

Cunt shaved -

Her cunt shaved -

Her -

Helen Marshall.

Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:

Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.

Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:

Manchester Vice?

Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:

A line, a line across her eyes.

She throws the paper onto the bed -

Onto the bed, next to the photographs -

And I’m reeling -

Reeling:

‘Helen who?’

‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’

Reeling until -

Reeling until I say: ‘You should have said something.’

But she looks up at the ceiling again, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -

The tears in her eyes -

The tears -

Tears -

Tears, tears, tears, until -

Until she says: ‘Why?’

‘Because -’

‘Because what? Because you fucked me?’

‘Helen -’

‘Fat lot of good that did me.’

‘Helen, please -’

‘Fat lot of bloody good screwing the boss did me, eh? Pregnant and wide open to this shit.’

‘Pregnant?’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I got rid of it.’

On my knees: ‘What?’

‘All bloody water under the bridge now.’

‘When?’

‘When what?’

‘When did you -’

‘Sunday.

‘Where?’

‘Manchester. Why? Why do you want to know?’

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

I look up at the ceiling, the tears in my eyes -

The tears in my eyes -

The tears -

Tears -

Tears, tears, tears, until -

Until I see her -

See the tears in her eyes -

The tears -

Tears -

Tears, tears, tears, until -

Until I say: ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘Craven.’

‘Why?’

‘This has got to end.’

‘You can’t -’

But I have her by her coat, my wings outstretched, shouting: ‘Where?’

And she’s shaking -

Shaking and looking up at the ceiling, sucking her lips, the tears in her eyes -

The tears in her eyes -

The tears -

Tears -

Tears, tears, tears, until -

Until she whispers: ‘The Strafford.’

And I’m gone -

Wings outstretched -

Wings outstretched and running, praying – One last deal:

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

My last deal -

Last prayer.

Down the stairs -

Into the rain -

Under the arches -

Into the car -

Hit the radio:

‘… asked him, “Are you Peter David Williams of 6 Park Lane, Heaton, Bradford?” to which Williams replied, “Yes, I am.”

‘The Court Clerk then told Williams, “You are accused that between 10 December and 11 December 1980 you did murder Laureen Bell against the peace of our Sovereign Lady the Queen. Further, you are charged that at Mirfield between 6 December and 27 December, you stole two motor vehicle registration-plates to the total value of 50p, the property of Cyril Miller.”

‘Williams was then asked if he had any objection to the remand in custody and whether he wanted reporting restrictions lifted. Williams replied, “No” on both counts…’

Punch the radio -

Out the city -

Onto the motorway -

To the end, thinking -

Know the way, know the time -

Know the place, know it well.

The End of the World:

Wednesday 31 December 1980 -

Dawn or dusk, the whole thing fucked:

River brown, sky grey -

Seven shades of shit -

Wings, my wings on fire -

Into Wakefield city centre -

Sky blood, city dead -

The Bullring -

The End of my World:

The Strafford.

Everyone gets everything they want -

The Strafford -

The first floor, boarded up:

Closed.

I drive past and turn left -

Drive slowly round the back of the buildings -

Round and into a car park, dark under a row of first floor rooms -

Empty upstairs rooms, back rooms -

Blind eyes out onto a rotten, uneven car park -

A car park deserted but for puddles of rain water and motor oil -

Deserted but for one dark green Rover.

I park, waiting -

Watching -

Watching the row of rooms up above -

Their boarded glass, their blind eyes -

Knowing he’s near, here.

I get out of the car and open the boot -

I take out a hammer -

Take out a hammer and put it in the pocket of my raincoat -

Then I take out a can of petrol -

A half empty can of petrol -

And I close the boot of the car -

I walk across the car park -

The rotten, uneven car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot, heading for the stairs and a door -

A door to an upstairs room -

A door banging in the wind, in the rain -

I climb the dark stone stairs one at a time and stop before the door -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain -

I pull open the door -

The backdoor to the Strafford -

The backdoor to a passage -

The passage is dark and I can smell the stink of a shotgun -

The stink of bad things, the stink of death -

The stink of the Strafford.

I step inside -

A rotting, eaten mattress against a window -

I walk down the passage to the front -

To the bar -

I pull open another door -

The door to the bar -

The walls of the bar tattooed with shadows, tattooed with pain -

Maps, charts, photographs of pain -

The pain of the photographs -

Joyce Jobson, Anita Bird, Theresa Campbell, Clare Strachan, Joan Richards, Ka Su Peng, Marie Watts, Linda Clark, Rachel Johnson, Janice Ryan, Elizabeth McQueen, Kathy Kelly, Tracey Livingston, Candy Simon, Doreen Pickles, Joanne Thornton, Dawn Williams, and Laureen Bell -

Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -

Across them all -

Swastikas and sixes -

Shadows, swastikas and sixes -

Across every surface -

Six six sixes -

(Out of the shadows).

I put down the can of petrol and try the light switch -

Nothing, only darkness -

Darkness, shadow, pain.

I step further inside -

Underfoot smashed furniture and splintered wood, stained carpets and shattered glass -

Behind the bar, the broken mirrors and the optics -

The jukebox in the corner, the silent bloodstained pieces -

Beneath the boarded windows, the long sofa full of holes -

A low table pulled out into the centre of the room -

On the table, pornography -

Spunk -

Pornography and a portable tape recorder -

A cassette case:

All this and Heaven too.

I walk towards the table -

Walk towards the table and see him -

See his boots -

On the floor, between the table and the bar -

His boots, him -

Him -

Lying on his face between the table and the bar -

Bob Craven -

His head blown off, a shotgun across one leg -

I look away -

Look up -

Two holes in the ceiling, above the bar -

Look down -

The head blown off -

Kneeling, I reach down between the table and the bar, reach down and turn him over -

Head off, face gone, beard gone -

Blood across the wall -

Across the shadows -

Across the swastikas and across the sixes -

Six six sixes -

(If the shadows could talk).

I pick up the shotgun from off his legs and I step back -

Step back beside the table and the portable tape recorder -

Machines the only survivors -

I press play:

Pause, hiss -

‘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 where I’ll strike again but it will be definitely some time this year, maybe September, October, even sooner if I get the chance. I am not sure where, maybe Manchester, I like it there, there’s plenty of them knocking about. They never learn do they George? I bet you’ve warned them, but they never listen.’

Thirteen seconds of hiss, 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 use looking for fingerprints. You should know by now it’s as clean as a whistle. See you soon. Bye.

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

Then -

‘I’ll say your name -

‘Then once again -

‘Thank you for being a friend.’

Silence -

The tape still turning -

Still turning in the portable tape recorder -

The portable tape recorder on the table -

The table -

Between the table and the bar -

Bob Craven -

His head blown off -

Head off, face gone, beard gone -

Blood across the wall -

Across the shadows -

Across the swastikas and across the sixes -

Six six sixes -

(The shadows talking).

Beside the portable tape recorder, the tape still turning:

Pause, hiss -

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:

‘Spirits will kill Hunter!’

STOP

Silence -

Tape over.

Silence -

Between these walls, silence -

Walls tattooed with shadows silent, silent pain -

Maps, charts, photographs of pain -

The silent pain of the photographs -

Grace Morrison, Billy Bell, Paul Booker, and Derek Box -

Across the maps, the charts, and the photographs -

Swastikas and sixes -

Shadows, swastikas and sixes -

Six six sixes -

(Silent shadows, silent sixes).

Sat among the silence, sat upon the table -

The smashed and splintered, stained and shattered table -

Sat upon the low table in the centre of the room -

Wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black things that weigh me down, heavy -

Stop me standing -

Sitting on the table, his shotgun on my knees -

Staring at the sixes -

Silent sixes, waiting -

Six six sixes.

Across the sixes -

Across the swastikas, across the shadows -

Across them all -

The blood across the wall -

Head off, face gone, beard gone -

His head blown off -

Bob Craven -

Between the table and the bar -

Bob Craven, silent -

Tape off.

Silence -

Silence until -

Until outside I hear car tires on the car park -

The rotten, uneven car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil under wheels -

Car lights illuminating a door -

A door to an upstairs room -

A door banging in the wind, in the rain -

The car lights stop before the door -

The door to an upstairs room -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain -

More doors banging, slamming -

Car doors slamming -

Boots across the car park -

The rotten, uneven car park -

Puddles of rain water and motor oil underfoot -

Boots upon the dark stone stairs;

I look down at the shotgun across my knees -

Sat among the silent sixes, on the table -

On the table -

Wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that weigh me down, heavy -

Stop me standing -

Sitting on the table, the shotgun on my knees -

Staring at the sixes -

Silent sixes, waiting -

The door banging in the wind, in the rain -

They open the door -

Two figures in the doorway at the end of the passage -

Two shotguns -

The passage is dark and they can smell the stink of another shotgun -

The stink of bad things, the stink of death -

The stink of the Strafford.

They step inside -

A rotting, eaten mattress against a window -

They walk down the passage to the front -

To the bar -

They pull open another door -

The door to the bar -

The last door -

Two figures in the doorway -

Two shotguns -

Two figures and two shotguns:

Alderman and Murphy -

Richard Alderman and John Murphy -

The shotgun across my knees -

The silent sixes, the shadows -

Wings, huge and rotting things -

Big black raven things that -

That weigh me down, heavy and burnt -

That stop me standing -

That stop me -

Stop me -

– a shot.