Authors: David Peace
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural
I nod and close the door behind me.
Small bloody world, isnt it, says Roger Hook, shaking his head
Were sitting in his office, drinking coffee with lumps of artificial milk swimming on the surface.
I say: You see thats just it; I dont think it is.
What?
A small world.
So let me get this straight: youre telling me that your mate Tricky Dicky rents out a building to some pornographers who use Janice Ryan as a model, the same Janice Ryan whos knocking off Robert Fraser and Eric Hall, the same woman who gets done in by the Ripper, so then Jack Whitehead tries to blackmail Eric Hall, and three years later his prints turn up on a cassette tape that also has your name on it, turns up in the mouth of an ex-Yorkshire copper, a dead ex-Yorkshire copper who was working for, wait for it, wait for it working for Richard Dawson, Tricky Dicky himself. Your mate. But its not a small world, eh Pete?
No.
So what is it then?
Its a big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells, and when those hells collide its time for us to sit up and take fucking notice.
Silence
Roger Hook uncomfortable, he takes a mouthful of cold coffee before he says: So what now?
Ill go round to Asquith and Dawson, see what happened to MJM Publishing Limited.
You dont have to do that. Send Ronnie.
I roll my eyes and stand up.
Not Ronnie then. Anyone, its just bloody legwork.
I like legwork.
Please yourself, he says. Usually do anyway.
I stop at the door, turn around and say: Reminds me. Did anyone talk to that orderly at Stanley Royd, Leonard Marsh?
Shit, sorry.
Dont worry, I say. Ill do it when Im back over there.
Lucky you like legwork, Hook smiles.
Isnt it.
Asquith and Dawson, big fat offices on the corner of Mosley Street and Princess Street.
At reception, I ask the young girl in the roll-neck sweater: Is Mr Dawson in?
No, she says. Its Saturday.
Im from the police, love, I say. And I know its Saturday
But hes not in, she says, her eyes filling with tears.
OK, then I need you to help me get some information.
I dont think I can do that.
Why not?
Im new.
Is there anyone old here?
No, its Saturday. Sorry, I mean no.
I sigh: Youre on your own then?
Everyone else is out, she nods.
When will they be back?
I dont know.
OK, I say, taking out my ID. Id like you to find the records on one of your properties on Oldham Street. Number 270.
But I dont know how.
Im just after a forwarding address.
A forwarding address?
Yes, the people have moved and we need to get in touch with them. Its very important police business.
But I dont know where they keep that kind of information.
Well, where are the records?
Upstairs, on top floor I think.
Can you show me?
Mr Asquith says Im not to leave the desk.
OK, I dont want to get you into trouble. Ill just nip up and have a look and be back in a sec
Im not sure thats OK.
Is it open?
Yes, its open but
OK, then. You can hang on to this, I say, handing her my ID. Any questions you have you call the Manchester Police Headquarters. Ill be back in five minutes.
I leave her holding the wallet and start up the stairs
Top floor? I call back.
She nods, staring at the ID.
I take the stairs two at a time, past the empty offices with their big yellow computers and their potted black plants, their posters of foreign lands and pastel wallpapers
At the top of the stairs, theres a set of double doors
I open them and
Fuck:
I stare at rows and rows of filing cabinets
I walk down the rows and rows, peering in drawers as I go, properties listed by obscure references
I turn and walk down another row, again opening drawers as I go
Bingo:
Client records.
Down the row I go, heading for the
Ms
I pull open the drawer marked
Mi Mo
I flick through, I flick through, I flick through
Yes:
MJM Publishing & Printing Limited
.
Its a thick file, bound in manila card.
I want copies, but Ive no chance.
I flick through, I flick through. I flick through
Flicking through for a forwarding address
Yes:
MJM Publishing Ltd, c/o 230 Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks
.
I take it and am away
Down the stairs
The young girl at the desk is still holding my wallet, staring at it.
Thank you, I say.
She hands me my ID.
Whats your name? I ask her.
Helen.
Thats a nice name, I say. My favourite.
Thanks, she smiles.
Bye, I say.
Bye.
Back in the office, I call Philip Evans:
Hello, this is Peter Hunter. Could I speak to Mr Evans please?
Im afraid Mr Evans is not at work today.
OK. Ill call back on Monday then.
Im sorry, but were not expecting Mr Evans back until after Christmas.
Really? OK. Thank you.
Goodbye.
Bye.
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back. I flick through my address book, looking for Evans home number
Its not there.
I pick up the phone and call his office again but the lines engaged.
After a few minutes I try again but its still engaged, so I go back to the cards and the letters in my tray.
*
At about three, I call Leeds:
Can you put me through to Chief Superintendent Murphy, please?
Whos calling?
Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.
Hang on.
I hang on
Chief Superintendent Murphys not here.
Thank you.
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back.
I pick up the phone and call Philip Evans office again:
No-ones answering.
I go back to the cards and letters in my tray.
At about half-four, I call Wakefield:
Can you put me through to the Chief Constable, please?
Whos calling, please?
Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.
Just a moment, sir.
Thank you.
I wait
This is Chief Constable Angus speaking.
Sorry to bother you, sir. This is Peter Hunter.
What can I do for you Mr Hunter?
Id like to arrange to have some time with a couple of your senior detectives, ones whove been involved in the inquiry.
I see.
Is that going to be a problem?
I shouldnt think so, provided we can spare them.
Of course.
Who are we talking about?
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.
OK. When?
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow? Tomorrows Sunday.
I know, but were going to be into Christmas soon. It wont take long.
Ill give Pete Noble a call and see what we can do.
Thank you, sir.
Til have him call you. You at Millgarth?
No, sir. Im in Manchester.
Manchester? Any progress with Bob Douglas?
No, sir.
A pause, then: I see, so when will you next be deigning us with your presence over here?
Tomorrow morning.
OK, then Ill either have the lads waiting for you or a message.
I can call back later?
No, you get off home Mr Hunter.
Thank you, Im saying, but the lines already dead.
I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, listening to the radio:
The football scores coming in:
Thirteen-nil
.
After a few minutes I get up, take my coat from the back of the door, switch out the light and leave, locking the door behind me
Back a minute later to check, then gone again.
The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys
The scene of the crime:
Its dark as I park on the empty wasteland, just a police car sitting in the gloom, here to watch:
DEATH
All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund
Trains pass, a dog barks, a man screams words I cant catch.
I stumble across craters still filled with dead water, torch in hand, nodding at the officers in the car
Before me, the building looms dark and towering, eyes dead, here to stare:
DEATH
A figure walks, dreadful
Trains pass, a dog screams, a man barks words I cant catch
I turn, but theres no-one.
In the doorway I switch off the tapes in my head, here to listen:
DEATH
This is the place, the swans loose
I step inside
The workbenches, the chains and the tools; the machines silent.
I step forward, listening: DEATH
Wings nailed to the ash, pornography
I run my hand across the heavy bench, across the dark stains, across the etchings and the carvings, the messages, the signs and the symbols
The cry of the wind through the pane
The torchlight across the chains, a searchlight:
DEATH
All this and heathen too
The beam falls upon the door, ajar
I walk across the floor to the door and push it open, a third time
The muddy bath, the dirty water, the light from up above, from:
DEATH
On the dark stair, we miss our step
I bend down and nm my hand over the dark sides, over the heavy water, across the scratchings and the markings, the messages, the signs and the symbols
In my hand, black and bloody water
I turn the torch upon my own hands, looking:
DEATH
Never let her slip
I turn and walk back out towards the door, following the light from the torch, ceiling to floor, wall to wall, and back to the floor
Above the door, in the beams above the door
Swastikas, huge white swastikas and two words: HTAED
Yrotcaf htaed
.
Im sat in the car in the drive outside my house.
The Christmas tree lights are on inside.
I switch off the radio and go in
Joans watching the TV.
Hello, I say.
I wasnt expecting you back tonight, she says, getting up, kissing me on the cheek. Youre cold, freezing.
Had some stuff to take care of at the office.
Should have said, she says, going into the kitchen. Are you hungry?
No, I say.
Sandwich?
No, Im fine.
She comes back in with a cup of tea: There you go.
What are you watching? I ask.
Christmas at Robins Nest,
she laughs, sitting down beside me on the settee.
Funny?
Mm, suppose, she shrugs.
I lean forward and pick up the pamphlet on adoption from the coffee table
A Vietnamese baby? I ask.
She nods: What do you think?
I told you, I think its a good idea.
Really?
Yes, really, I say. What do we have to do?
She hands me an application form and says: We both have to complete one of these, send it off, and then theyll call us for an interview.
Sounds straightforward enough, I say. Better pass me a pen then hadnt you.
Youre sure then? she asks.
Positive, love.
Thank you, she smiles. Thank you.
I catch him, stop him murdering mothers, orphaning children, then you give us one, just one
.
In the middle of the film, the telephone:
Peter Hunter speaking?
Peter? This is Richard.
Fuck
What can I do for you, Richard?
You were at the office today?
Yes.
What the bloody hell were you doing there?
Looking for you.
Me? Why? What now?
Look, calm down.
Fuck off, this has got completely out of hand.
Richard, look: I just wanted to ask you about some property you rented to a company. That was all.
Company? Which company?
Not on the phone, Richard. Well talk about it on Monday.
No we bloody wont. Well talk about it now.
Thats not a good idea.
Well neither was gaining entry to my office without a warrant.
Fuck, fuck
Richard
Which company?
Fuck, fuck, fuck
MJM Publishing.
A pause, silence, then: What about them?
Look Richard, well go into it on Monday.
Fuck off, Peter. What about them?
Look, its probably nothing to do with you.
Probably nothing to do with me? What then?
OK, look: their name came up in connection with something to do with the Ripper Inquiry.
The Ripper? The Leeds Ripper?
Yes.
So?
So when we did a check it turned out the building theyd been renting was one of yours.
Another pause, silence, then: And thats it?
You tell me?
A longer pause, silence, finally: Theres nothing to tell; Colin dealt with them anyway.
Fine. Dont worry about it then.
I wont.
Goodbye Richard.
See you on Monday, he says and hangs up
Fuck
.
In the War Room, in the night
The photographs and maps
The computer and cassettes
The papers and pornography
The words and the notes, the
Exegesis
The bodies and the faces,
Spunk
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come on her lips
In the War Room, in the night, on my knees
Before the photos and the maps
The computer and the cassettes
The papers and pornography
The words and the body, the notes and her face
Exegesis
and
Spunk
A dark-haired girl with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, a cock in her face and come.
Early June, 1977
We were sitting in the A10 suite at Manchester Police HQ
On the blackboard I had written two words:
Bradford Vice.
Any idea on where the tip came from? asked Mike Hillman.
I shook my head: Obviously someone inside, but the deal was no names.
Its bound to come out, Murphy shrugged
.
I nodded: Not much we can do about that.
Be nice for whoever it is when it does, smiled Murphy
.
So who we got? asked Hillman
.
The statement implies a number of senior officers
Fuck, tutted Murphy
.
But, I continued. Only one officer is actually named, this Detective Inspector.
I stood up and wrote two more words on the board:
Eric Hall.
I wake in the War Room, in the night, on my knees
I put the stuff away and switch off the computer, the cassette recorder, the heater and the light.
I go back inside and upstairs
Joan is asleep.
I switch on the radio and undress and get into bed next to her
I stare up at the ceiling, listening to the country music, trying to stay awake, but
Yrotcaf Htaed,
in blood and above the door
.
The moon was shining through the skylight, and I was gazing at the little girl lying in the bath. Thin and pathetic, in a shroud-like garment, lips crooked into a faint and dreadful smile, her hands pressed tightly over her heart. And all around us, people were singing hymns, people with no face, no features, machines
Yrotcaf Htaed,
in blood and swastikas above the door
.
And I turned and walked away and everything outside was white and also without feature, without feature except for the parked police car, except for the police car and the white gulls and the black ravens, the white gulls and black ravens circling overhead screaming, circling overhead screaming
Helen Marshall and the girl screaming:
Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!
and then there was a shot
.
denly and e said just good timing you can put it down to fate and off we set transmission five from the office of the dead found on monday the twenty eighth of november nineteen seventy seven in southern cemetery manchester elizabeth mcqueen dead a week or more from brain damage caused by blows to the head from a hammer or an axe with a number of postmortem lacerations being in total eighteen stab wounds to the breasts and chest the stomach and vagina stomach ripped open intestines pulled out knife wounds from her left shoulder to her right knee and there were six further wounds to her right side some of the gashes were eight inches deep an unsuccessful attempt had been made to sever her head body was then attacked by the vermin of the field alas a handbag was not recovered vinyl leather look believed to be dark brown nine inches long seven inches high three inches wide with two carrying handles and one shoulder made of the same material zip fastener and wrap over strap which fastens with a clasp on the side of the bag on which there are two external pockets it contained approximately fifteen pounds in bank of england notes items of cosmetics and a few pieces of yellow tissue paper alas the children in bed missing mummy the children wake missing mummy the children eat cornflakes for breakfast missing mummy the children get dressed missing mummy the children go to school missing mummy the children play with their friends in the cold missing mummy the children eat spam for lunch missing mummy the children listen to the teacher read a story about a spider missing mummy the children buy a texan on their way home from school missing mummy the children eat beans for tea missing mummy the children have a bath missing mummy the children watch starsky and hutch missing mummy the children fight missing mummy the children cry missing mummy the children sleep missing mummy the children dream missing mummy the children dream terrible dreams of missing mummy with no head moving along no differently from all the rest mummy holds her severed head up by its hair swinging it in one hand just like a lantern and it looks at them and says alas from the office of the dead out of the terrible depths have e cried unto thee lord hear my voice o lord let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications if thou lord should mark iniquities o lord who should stand but there is forgiveness with thee and e have stood by thee according to thy law my soul has waited on thy word my soul has hoped in thee o lord from the morning watch unto the evening there is hope in the lord for with the lord there is mercy and with him is redemption and he shall redeem me from all my iniquities give me eternal rest o lord and let perpetual light shine upon me lord our father have mercy Christ have mercy on e who was known in the reno and the nile as mad lizzie but am now known only as the spaghetti lady two kerbies waiting but e had to go and choose him did e not with his nice smile and clean clothes that would not frighten anybody we drove up to the southern cemetery because it is dead quiet here e laughed and he smiled and said e bet it is and e lead him into the darkness where he hit me with the hammer and e fell to the ground and e was moaning and he hit me again and again eleven times then he left me alone until one week later he comes again drags me out of the bushes strips me of everything e am wearing even my boots stabs me in my breasts and chest and with a knife he cuts me open from my knee to shoulder with a piece of broken pane
Chapter 11
Half past seven
Sunday 21 December 1980:
Bradford Road, Batley, halfway between Leeds and Bradford.
I park by a woollen factory that has 229 as an address and cross the road
I walk past an estate agents, cross another smaller road leading up to the Batley Grammar School, and there it is, between the
Chop Suey
and a chemist
Number 230, Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks:
RD News
.
I walk past the newsagents, cross the road by the red bus shelter with no glass left, and stand on the other side of the road, taking a good look:
One door, big window full of Christmas adverts and gas heaters downstairs
One window, curtains drawn upstairs.
I cross back over and go inside the shop
Theres a tall Indian or Pakistani putting the papers out in front of the counter.
He turns and he nods when he hears me come in
I look at the piles of Sunday papers, the shelves of sweets and boxes of chocolates, the gas canisters and heaters, the cans of pet food and processed meat, the birthday and the Christmas cards, the beer and the spirits, the cigarettes behind the counter covered with more sweets.