Authors: David Peace
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural
OK. Wed like to request access to copy all the case files pertaining to the Ripper Investigation.
Look
Everything.
Look
As soon as possible.
Look, thats not going to happen.
What do you mean?
Another silence, longer
You better come over. Ill call the Chief Constable.
Fine.
Ten oclock?
Ten it is.
I hang up.
Murphys looking at the dirty snow, watching a train pull out of the station
Thatd be the Manchester train, he says. Train home.
Step inside
Noble and I are sat in silence, waiting for Angus.
Im facing the window and the snow, my back to the door, massaging my temple.
Hes just sat there, waiting, watching the door.
Angus is on his way from Wakefield and again Im wondering why the Chief Constables office is over there and not here in Leeds, not here in his biggest city, not closer to his second largest, Bradford.
Then the door opens and here he is
No knock
Noble standing to change places, Angus sitting down in his seat, me in the same chair
Angus: Gentlemen?
Nobles gushing: Theres a couple of things we need to get straight
Angus isnt listening, just looking at me.
an office next to the Murder Room, Nobles saying.
Angus stands up: Lets have a look then.
We follow him out of the door and up the corridor, up towards the Murder Room, the
Ripper Room
, the telephones ringing and the typewriters clattering, up to a small windowless room next door.
A couple of uniforms are carrying boxes and bin-bags out.
Those are for you to use, says Noble, pointing at two grey metal filing cabinets on the other side of a brown table.
Do you have the keys?
Noble sighs: Ill be sure to get them for you.
And for the office itself?
He nods once.
So this is OK? asks Angus.
Phone lines?
How many do you need?
Two. Minimum.
OK. Tomorrow.
Thank you. Now what about the files themselves?
What about them?
The procedure? How do we get access to them?
Just ask me, says the Chief Constable.
Nobles closed the door, the three of us standing around the table, the bare bulb almost at eye-level.
OK, I say. Wed like access to copy each of the files that pertain to the Ripper Inquiry.
Angus smiles: You know how much bloody stuff that is?
No, but I imagine itd be a lot.
It is.
But I still need access to it all.
This is an ongoing active investigation. These files are constantly being updated and reviewed.
I would hope so. But the fact remains that I need access to them.
To a large extent, without a guide, theyll be meaningless.
Then if you can supply a
guide
that would be a great help. But obviously, without ready access to the files I cant do the job I have been asked to do by Sir John and the Home Office.
Anguss face has changed, benign and kindly Uncle Ron gone: Obviously. And I appreciate that but, Mr Hunter, for your part you must also appreciate that I cant have these files just wandering off here and there.
Obviously
And the copying alonell be a huge undertaking.
Then just grant us the access we need.
Nobles staring at Angus, Angus at me, me at him
Eventually Angus says: Well put you another desk in here, a couple more chairs. Ill provide you with a
guide
, a liaison officer. Your people ask him to get them the files they need; hell provide, log and replace them as required.
Thank you.
He looks at his watch: One oclock?
Noble and I nod.
One oclock, repeats Angus and opens the door for me.
Its eleven by the time I get back to the Griffin.
Theyre sat there, waiting.
I lay it out.
They mutter, roll their eyes, and take an early lunch.
Upstairs, I dial Whitby:
Philip Evans is away for the rest of the day.
I lie down on the bed, my thoughts scrambled messages, a migraine headache sparring with the pains in my back, jarring with the radio:
Old science fiction and future histories, the news from nowhere, the screams from somewhere
Hoping for something more, I close my eyes.
When I open my eyes its 12:30, the pain still here
In my back, behind my eyes.
I get up, wash my face, and take the lift downstairs.
Outside its stopped snowing but the sky is almost black with heavy cloud and premature night.
I walk through the sludge and the mud to the Kirkgate Market and Millgarth, freezing.
The rest of them are waiting for me by the desk.
I lead the way upstairs.
Noble is waiting outside the Ripper Room, waiting to introduce us.
I believe youve actually met?
Bob Craven has his hand out, half the Ripper Room crowding out into the corridor.
What were you back then, Bob? laughs Noble.
Just a plain old Sergeant, Craven smiles.
Well, times change; Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter meet Detective Superintendent Robert Craven.
We shake hands, the grip cold and tight:
The Strafford Shootings
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong.
Four dead, two wounded policemen
Sergeant Robert Craven, wounded hero cop battles for life etc, etc
,
etc
.
You look a little better than the last time we met, I say.
He laughs: You dont.
Bobs going to be the liaison, says Noble.
I say nothing.
Your guide.
Nothing, waiting for Noble to keep on justifying it:
Bobs been involved from day one. Hes worked a lot of the cases, worked Vice, probably forgotten more than most of usll ever know.
That would be a shame, I say.
Noble stops: You know what I mean, Mr Hunter.
Yep, I say. I know what you mean.
Well then, Ill leave you to it.
The keys? I ask. Did you get the keys?
Bobs got them, Noble says, walking off, leaving Craven dangling them from the end of his finger.
I ignore him and go to open the door
Its locked.
Cant be too careful, smiles Craven. Allow me.
By three the tables are covered in piles of files, Craven going back and forth to the Ripper Room next door, my team scratching and scribbling away for dear life under the low blue clouds of cigarette smoke hanging by the bare bulb.
Telephone, says Craven, coming back with another stack of manila folders.
For me? I say.
Yeah, next door. Line 4.
I get up.
Its the wife, he winks as I get to the door.
I walk next door
Next door into the Ripper Room
Into the photos on the walls, the maps and the faces
The charts and the boards, the chalk and the pen on every surface
The mugs on the desks, the cigarettes in the ashtrays
Everywhere:
Repetition, tedium
Indexes, cross-index
Files, cross-file
References, cross-reference
Everywhere:
Process
Repetitious, tedious process
Second after second
Minute after minute
Hour after hour
Fifteen, sixteen hours a day
Day in, day out
Six, seven days a week
Week in, week out
Four weeks a month
Month in, month out
Twelve months a year
Year in, year out
Year after year, month after month, week after week, day after day, hour in, hour out, minute in, minute out, second in, second out, for
Five years.
A fat man in a sports coats holding out the receiver
Joan? I say, taking the phone.
Im sorry, love, she says. But the Chief Constables office just called.
The Chief Constables office?
About tonight? They wanted me to tell you that theyve arranged for the tux to be sent round in about an hour.
The tux? Tonight?
Yes. I said I didnt know when youd be back so they wanted me to let you know.
The Christmas Ball
Id forgotten.
I thought you might have, she laughs. Shall we cancel?
No, we cant. Youre sorted out?
Yes. Id completely forgotten too but
Well, itll be good. Ill be back in a bit, stay the night, and come back first thing tomorrow.
OK.
How are you?
Im fine.
Ive got to go.
I know.
Ill see you soon.
Yes.
Bye.
Bye.
I put back the phone, conscious the whole of the room is watching me
The photos on the walls, the maps and the faces
The Ripper Room
Him
.
I drive back fast, over the Moors
Fast over their cold, lost bones, the radio on loud:
Hunger Strikes & Dirty Protests
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper
.
Fast, over the Moors
Over their cold, lost bones, the radio on:
Earthquakes & Hostages
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper
.
Over the Moors, radio gone
Cold, lost bones:
The Strafford Shootings
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong
.
Four dead, two wounded policemen
Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas
.
Driving, hating
I hate Bob Craven and I dont know why
Dont like the maybe why:
Hated him then, hate him now
Hated him since the day I met him, stuffed full of tubes and drugs on a Pinderfields bed.
Hated him like it was only yesterday:
Friday 10 January 1975
In we came:
Me and Clarkie
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark
.
Two weeks on and theyd still got roadblocks across the county, the stink of an English Civil War, me and Clarkie walking down that long, long corridor, armed guards on the bloody hospital doors, Craven and Douglas on their backs in their beds, the only survivors
.
Me and Clarkie, we shook hands with Maurice Jobson
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend
The Owl.
There were a lot of other faces about, that rat-faced journalist Whitehead from the
Post
for one
.
They didnt know me then, but they would
.
Douglas was sedated and Craven ought to have been
Lying there, head back, calling out from the depths, eyes twinkling up from those same depths, screaming:
Kill the cunt! Kill em all!
But that was as close as we ever got
Jobson wouldnt let us near him: Mans in no state. Took a butt to the head.
And for all the promises wed got coming, all the cups of tea up the Wood Street Nick, we never did get a good go at him
.
Over the Moors, snow across their cold, lost bones
Clarkie turned to me and said: It stinks. Fuck knows why, but it does.
And I stared out at the lanes of lorries, the black poles and the telephone wires, thinking
Murder and lies, lies and murder
War:
My War
Bloody Yorkshire, hissed Clarkie
. Over the Moors
Cold, lost bones:
It stank then and it stinks now, that same old smell
Bloody Yorkshire
.
*
The house, my affluent detached house and two-car garage is quiet, dark, one light on in an upstairs room, the curtains open.
I push open the bedroom door and there she is, in front of the mirror in her dressing gown, eyes red.
You OK?
You startled me.
Sorry. You been crying, love?
No, she smiles. Just soap.
I walk over to her and kiss the top of her hair.
Didnt expect you so soon, she says.
Were looking at each other framed in the mirror, something missing.
I thought Id put the tree up.
Weve left it a bit late, havent we? All the stuffs up in the attic.
Ill get the steps from the garage. Have it up in no time.
Youll get filthy.
Got time, dont worry.
Up to you.
Got to make the effort.
Shes nodding, staring back into the mirror, back into her own eyes
Those lights are so old, she says.
The Christmas Ball, the Midland Hotel
Saturday 13 December 1980.
Through the black city streets, the broken lights and the Christmas ones, down Palatine, Wilmslow, and the Oxford Roads, the official black car and driver taking us in towards the red and the gold, the money and the honey, the home of the loot, holding hands in our rented clothes on the back seat of a car that is not our own, through dominions of disease and depopulation, the black streets that would have you dead within the hour, taking us in towards a thousand hale and hearty Manchester folk, drunk in the seclusion of the Midland Hotel, the castle of loot, an abbey to the anointed and self-appointed City Fathers, with their city mothers, wives and daughters, their secret lovers, whores and sons.
Without no one
Through the black city streets to the place where the red carpet meets the street at the doors to the Midland, these gates of iron in these strong and lofty walls with no hint of ingress or egress, where all that is outside can never be in and to hell with it, damn it, for here inside are the bright lights, the purples and the gold, the servants and the servings, the musicians and the music, the dancers and the dance, the Masked Christmas Ball.
Without nothing
Through the beauty and the beautiful, the security and the secure, the fat and the fat, we are led to our seats, Joans arm tightening inside my own, our masks in place, through the high double doors into the dim velvet sea and the palatial splendour of the Dining Room, her Gothic windows of stained glass, the thrown shadows of her lamps and candles, her ornaments and tapestries ceiling to floor, all heavy with the weight of wealth, the stains of class and brass and the deep blood colour of Christmas reds, of Herod and his kids.
Within dreams
Something wicked this way comes, smiles Clement Smith, the Chief Constable raising his mask with a wink as our wives fall into the comfort of compliments.
I sit down next to him, shaking hands with an MP, a councillor, a millionaire and all their present wives, local Masons and Rotarians the table of them
How goes the war? laughs Clive Birkenshaw, the councillor drunk on a punch as crimson as his face.
The hunt more like, says Donald Lees of the Greater Manchester Police Authority.
What? I say.
Youve been over in Yorkshire after their Ripper?
I nod, the laughter and the music too much.
Most apt, Lees carries on, leaning across the corpse of his wife.
Hunter in Ripper Hunt
, said the
Manchester Evening News.
Apt, comes the echo around the tablecloth.
Any luck?
I look down at my hand, shaking my head, and I bring the whiskey up to my lips and let it fall down my throat.
Joan and Clement Smith have changed seats so the wives can chat.
I take another mouthful.
Clement Smith orders more.
Im exhausted
The cigars already out, the dance-floor filling, time flying
And then suddenly across the room I think I see Ronald Angus and Peter Noble on another table by the door but, when I look again, it isnt
Cant have been and Leeds is just a dream
A terrible dream
Like the Ripper, their Ripper
.
I sit back in my chair, letting the Velvet Sea wash over me, playing her tricks with the horizon; the wail of violins, the hoarse voice of Clement Smith deep in debate, his wife and mine making their way through the waves, off to powder their noses.
Then I feel a hand on mine
I look down at a man crouched beside my chair: Pardon?
I said we have a mutual friend.
Whos that?
Helen, he grins, a short thin man with brown stained teeth.
Helen who?
But he just winks: From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.
What?
But hes wading away, back into the velvet sea, waving, back into her dance.
I interrupt Clement Smith: Who was that?
Who?
That man, the one who was just at the table? Talking to me?
Smiths laughing: Wearing his mask was he?
No, but I cant place him.
He sits up slightly in his seat: I didnt see him. Sorry. Where is he?
Doesnt matter, just wondered who he was. I pick up a glass and drink some more, lost
Peter?
I look up from the drink: Richard. Merry Christmas.
If only, he says.
The man is tall and gaunt, pale as a ghost, the black mask in his hand and a blood-red shirt only accentuating his grim pallor, mumbling.
What?
He asks: We talk?
I stand up, nodding, leaving my cigar in the ashtray, and follow Richard Dawson through the tables and out into the Lobby
Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties, a friend
.
Hes shaking, sweating.
What is it? Whats wrong?
He says: Do you know Bob Douglas?
Ghosts
Again the ghosts of Christmases past:
Again the Strafford Shootings
Again the wounded coppers:
Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas
.
I nod: Used to. Why?
Well, Ive been using him as a security advisor. Anyway, late last night he calls to tell me that hes heard that Im the subject of a bloody police investigation; then at lunchtime today my bank in Didsbury calls and says that a couple of detectives have taken away all their financial records pertaining to my accounts with them.
What?
Im in bloody shock.
You shouldve called straight away
I didnt want to. Id seen you were over in Leeds and I dont like to take advantage of the fact that were friends or anything.
Richard! What are friends for?
He smiles wanly.
Lets sit down, I say, walking us over to a pair of crimson and gold lobby chairs.
Spoiling your evening, he mumbles again.
Rubbish. Start from the beginning.
Thats a good question in itself. I didnt know there was a beginning, didnt know anything had started until last night.
What about Bob Douglas? When did he come on the scene?
End of October, start of November. I was worried about the house. He came out and had a look, tightened things up. I got to know him, like him.
You know about
Yeah, yeah. Told me all about it. Why? What do you know about him?
I went over there after the shootings, but he was sedated so I never actually spoke to him. By all accounts he was a good bloke. Good copper. When he left, he went kicking and screaming.
Thats what he said. Ten years in the police, then out on his arse.
I nod: So after the house, what kind of stuff was he doing for you?
Consulting. Insurance work. Nothing heavy.
Until last night?
Yes. Called about midnight. Said hed been out and about, you know. And hed heard from a so-called reliable source that Id been targeted for investigation.
A
reliable source?
A policeman. One of your lot.
He say who?
Said he couldnt.
He say why you were being investigated?
He looks down at his hands, the carpet: Financial irregularities. Supposedly
What kind of financial irregularities?
We dont know. Thats all he heard.
Did he get a name? Of the man in charge?
Roger Hook.
Fuck
.
What about the bank? They give you anything more?
No, hes shaking his head. Bloody humiliating though, I can tell you. Your bank manager, your golf partner and friend, calling you at home to tell you that the police have been in asking about you, taking away their records on you.
Im sorry, Richard.
You know this Roger Hook?
Yes.
And?
It doesnt make any difference. Youve nothing to hide.
He looks up from the carpet, his hands: Who knows what theyll find.
What? I say. Theres nothing to find, is there?
His eyes still arent meeting mine.
Richard, I say. Tell me theres nothing to find.
Who knows?
You do, for Chrissakes man.
Look
Jesus, Richard.
I need your help.
I look him in the eye, hold him there, tell him: Theres nothing I can do for you.
Pete
I stand up, ready to walk.
Theres something else, he says.
I stop.
About you, he says.
Me? What about me?
You asked me why, why I was being targeted?
I nod.
Douglas said its down to you.
What is? What are you talking about?
This. Ive been singled out because Im friends with you.
Rubbish. Utter rubbish.
He has hold of my arm: Peter
Douglas is wrong. Youre wrong.
To put you in your place, thats what they told him.
I turn away, freeing myself from his grip.
Him: What are you going to do?
I turn back: Nothing.
Youre just going to leave me up to my neck in all this?
Theres nothing I can do, Richard. Youre under investigation.
Because of you, I am.
Im walking away again, deaf to him
But he has the last word, across the lobby and through the Dining Room doors, spinning me round, hissing into my face: What are friends for, eh Pete?
Walking away, walking away through the velvet sea, Joan talking to Linda Dawson, his wife
The pair of them turning, smiling.
Him: What are friends for, eh?
Me taking her by the arm, through the darkness and the decay, pulling her away, away from the music and the blood
What are friends for?
Within nightmares
.
The house is black.
I put the car in the garage and go inside.
Joans sitting on the settee in the dark, her coat still on.
I switch on the Christmas tree lights and sit down beside her.
What is it? What happened with Richard? she says. Hes under investigation. To do with his business.
Youre joking?
No. But he thinks its something to do with his friendship with me, with us.
What?
Someone told him thats why hes under investigation.
Who told him that?
An ex-copper. You dont know him.
And is it right? Is that why hes under investigation?
No. Of course not.
What am I going to say to Linda?
I dont know but, until all this is cleared up, were going to have to be careful.
She is nodding.
Im sorry, love.
She keeps nodding.
I cant think of anything else to say, anything to make any of it any better.
I lean forward and pick the
Evening News
off the coffee table.
It doesnt help:
Laureens Mum in Ripper Plea
.
Dirty Protests
.
Under the newspaper are some forms and a pamphlet
Application forms to adopt.
What are these? I ask, picking them up.
Joan tries to take them from me: Not now, love, she says. Talk about it another time.
A Vietnamese baby? I say, looking down at the cover of the pamphlet.
Not now, Peter, she says again, taking the papers from me as she goes upstairs.
Later in bed, I hug her and we try to have sex but I cant
And after, I say: I think its a good idea.
She doesnt say anything
And after that we lie in the double bed, staring up at the ceiling, apart
On the dark stair
She turns away on her side and I get up and put the radio on.
I get back into bed and lie there
Awake, sweating and afraid
Eyes wide
On the dark stair
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors
There were people on the TV singing hymns
People on the TV singing hymns with no face
People on the TV singing hymns with no face, no features
And at my feet, they had her down on the floor at my feet, her hands behind her back, stripped and beaten, three of them raping her, sodomising her, taking their turns with a bottle and a chair, cutting her hair, pissing and shitting on her, making her suck them, making her suck me, ugly gulls circling overhead, screaming
Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!
What is it? Whats wrong?
Joans holding me, my heart beating, breaking.
What on earth were you dreaming about?
I can feel come in my pyjamas.
Nothing, I say, thinking
No more sleep, no more sleep, no more sleep
.
cash all this and heaven too missing the news from nowhere what e was once alive e still am dead a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it dark brown trousers and brown suede calf length boots found friday the twenty first of november nineteen seventy five one laceration to the back of her head caused by a hammer and extensive injuries to her head face body and legs caused by violent kicking and stamping on her left breast were bite marks which indicated a gap in the upper front teeth of the attacker there were no stab wounds in a deserted garage in preston in a row of six narrow garages each splattered with white graffiti the doors showing remnants of green paint they lie off church street the garages forming a passage to the multi storey car park at the other end number six has become a home of sorts for the homeless destitute alcoholics drug addicted prostitutes of the area small about twelve feet square and entered through either of the double doors at the front there are packing cases for tables piles of wood and other rubbish a fierce fire has been burning in a makeshift grate and the ashes disclose the remains of clothing on the wall opposite the door is written the fishermans widow in wet red paint in every other space are bottles sherry bottles bottles of spirits beer bottles bottles of chemicals all empty a mans pilot coat doubles as a curtain over the window the only one looking out on nothing and e saw the floor was wet with anguished tears the damned silent and weeping and walking at a litany pace the way processions push along in our world and without a word he handed her a five pound note and she unclipped her shiny black plastic handbag placed it on the floor of the garage and bending down she removed one of her boots lowered her trousers and stepped out of the legs and repeated the process with her panties she braced her back against the garage wall and she was ready a moment later he had entered her lifting her brassiere to play with her breasts he discovered a second brassiere he lifted it up and began to kiss and suck the left breast moving his mouth a few inches above the breast he bit deeply and climaxed turning her around he attempted to bugger her and again he had an orgasm he was still inside her body half leaning away from him when he smashed her on the back of the head and she fell forward onto the floor he zipped up his trousers and began to kick her on the face on the head on the breasts on the body on the legs he kicked her and went on kicking her he dragged her body a few yards further away from the door put her legs back into her trousers and pulled them up leaving the second brassiere above the breasts he pulled down the first one stuffed one boot tightly between her thighs he removed her overcoat and placed it over her body and over her face he picked up the shiny black plastic handbag left the garage and hid the handbag in a refuse tip four hundred yards from the garage the purse he tucked under a bush in avenham park he kept her three rings and lighter swabs from the vagina and anus indicated semen had been deposited by a secretor of the rare blood group B the blood group of the man at the hostel who had had sexual intercourse with the dead woman the previous day was discovered to be group A her shiny black plastic handbag and purse missing a diary thought to be in her bag could hold the clue to the womans killer and e am anxious about anyone who has been missing from preston since last thursday up to four now they say three but remember preston nineteen seventy five come my load up that one