Nineteen Eighty (32 page)

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.’