Nineteen Seventy-Four (27 page)

“You want to make a confession, do you?” said Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on then.”

Silence.

I sat on the chair, listening to the humming of the lights.

“You fancied her, didn’t you?” said Detective Superintendent Noble, passing a photograph to his boss.

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“I fancied her.”

Sandy began writing.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman was looking at the photograph and smiling.

“Go on,” he said.

“She wouldn’t give me any.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman looked up at me.

“So?” said Detective Superintendent Noble.

“I took some anyway.”

“What did you do?” asked Oldman.

“I took her in the cunt.”

“And?” said Noble, passing another photograph to Oldman.

“I took her in the mouth.”

“And?”

“I took her up the arse.”

“Then what happened?”

“She wouldn’t shut up.”

“What was she saying?”

“Said she was going to tell the police.”

“So what did you do?”

Noble passed another photograph to Oldman.

“I strangled her.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I cut off her hair.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman looked up from the last photograph and said, “Why’d you do that?”

“She wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

“Same as the other one?” said Detective Superintendent Noble, opening the second cardboard folder and passing more photographs to Oldman.

“Just like the other one,” I said.

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman flicked through the photographs and then handed them back to Noble.

Oldman sat back in his chair, arms folded, and nodded at Sandy.

Sandy looked down at the pad and began to read:

“I fancied her but she wouldn’t give me any, so I took some anyway. I took her in the cunt and in the mouth and up the arse. Then she wouldn’t shut up. She said she was going to tell the police, so I strangled her. Then I cut off her hair because she wouldn’t stop looking at me. Just like the other one.”

Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman stood up and said, “Edward Leslie Dunford, you are charged first that on or about Tuesday 17 December 1974, you did rape and then murder Mrs Mandy Denizili of Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, Wakefield. Second, you are charged that on or about Saturday 21 December 1974, you did rape and then murder Mrs Paula Garland of 11 Brunt Street, Castleford.”

Silence.

Detective Superintendent Noble and Sandy stood up.

The three men left the room and I think I began to cry.

Sometime later a policeman opened the door and took me down the yellow corridor.

Through the open door to another room I saw Scotch Clare from two doors down.

She looked up at me, her mouth open.

The policeman took me down another yellow corridor to a stone cell.

Above the door was a noose.

“Inside.”

I did as I was told.

On the floor of the cell was a paper cup filled with tea and a paper plate with a quarter of a pork pie on it.

He shut the door.

Everything was black.

I sat down on the floor, kicking over the tea.

I found the pork pie and began to nibble at it.

I closed my eyes.

Sometime later two policemen opened the door and threw a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes into the cell.

“Put these on.”

I did as I was told.

They were my own clothes and shoes, smelling of piss and covered in mud.

“Hands behind your back.”

I did as I was told.

One of the policemen came into the cell and put a pair of handcuffs on me.

“Hood him.”

The policeman put a blanket over my head.

“Move.”

The policeman pushed me in the back.

I began to walk.

I was suddenly gripped under each arm and led along. Through the blanket I could see only yellow.

“Let me at him. I haven’t fucking touched him yet.”

“Get him out of here.”

Then I hit some doors with my head and I was outside.

I fell over.

They picked me up.

I thought I was inside a van.

I heard doors slam and an engine start.

I was still under the blanket but in the back of a van with maybe two or three other men.

“Fucking bastard.”

“Don’t be going to sleep under there.”

I was punched in the head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make bloody sure of that.”

“Fucking bastard.”

Another punch.

“Keep your fucking head up.”

“Fucking bastard.”

I could smell cigarette smoke.

“He fucking coughed, I don’t believe it.”

“I know, fucking bastard.”

I was kicked on the shin.

“We should stretch his rucking balls.”

“Fucking rapist bastard.”

I froze.

“Do what we did to that other one.”

“Aye, fucking bastards the pair of them.”

The back of my head hit the side of the van.

“Fucking bastard!”

“What about here?”

I heard banging inside the van.

“Take the fucking bastard’s hood off.”

“Here?”

The van suddenly seemed colder.

They took off the blanket.

I was alone with Moustache, Grey, and Brown.

The doors to the back of the van were open.

It looked like dawn outside.

“Uncuff the fucking bastard.”

Moustache pulled me forward by the hair and took the hand cuffs off.

I could see flat brown fields flying past.

“Kneel him over here,” said Brown.

Moustache and Grey pulled me to the doors of the van, kneeling me down with my back to the open brown fields.

Brown crouched down in front of me.

“This is it.”

He took out a revolver.

“Open your mouth.”

I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

“Open your mouth!”

I opened my mouth.

He shoved the muzzle into my mouth.

“I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”

I closed my eyes.

There was a click.

I opened my eyes.

He took the gun out of my mouth.

“There’s something fucking up with this one,” he laughed.

“Lucky fucking bastard,” said Moustache.

“Get it done,” said Grey.

“I’ll try again.”

I could feel the air, the cold, the fields behind me.

“Open your mouth.”

I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

I opened my mouth.

Brown shoved the muzzle back into my mouth.

I closed my eyes.

There was a click.

“Fucking bastard must have a charmed life.”

I opened my eyes.

He took the gun out of my mouth.

“Third time lucky, eh?”

“Fuck that,” said Moustache, grabbing the revolver and pushing Brown away.

He had the gun by the muzzle, raising it over his head. I saw Paula lying naked face down on her bed, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

He brought the gun down upon my head:

“THIS IS THE NORTH. WE DO WHAT WE WANT!”

I fell backwards seeing Paula lying naked on the road, her cunt and arse bleeding, her hair all gone.

Chapter 11

W
e were jumping into a river holding hands. The water was cold. I let go of her hand. I opened my eyes. It felt like a morning. I was lying at the side of a road in the rain and Paula was dead.

I sat up, my head splitting, my body numb.

A man was getting out of a car further up the road.

I looked out across empty brown fields and tried to stand.

The man came running towards me.

“I almost bloody killed you!”

“Where am I?”

“What the hell happened to you?”

A woman was standing by the passenger door of the car, looking down the road at us.

“I was in an accident. Where am I?”

“Doncaster Road. Do you want us to call an ambulance or something?”

“No.”

“The police?”

“No.”

“You don’t look so good.”

“Could you give me a lift?”

The man looked back at the woman standing by the car. “Where to?”

“Do you know the Redbeck Cafe, on the way into Wakefield?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking from me to the car and back again. “OK.”

“Thanks.”

We walked slowly back down the road to the car.

I got in the back.

The woman was sitting in the front, looking straight ahead. She had blonde hair the same shade as Paula’s, only longer.

“He’s been in an accident. We’re going to drop him down the road,” said the man to the woman, starting the engine.

The clock in the front said six.

“Excuse me,” I said. “What day is it?”

“Monday,” said the woman, not turning round.

I stared out at the empty brown fields.

Monday 23 December 1974.

“So tomorrow’s Christmas Eve then?”

“Yes,” she said.

The man was looking at me in his rearview mirror.

I turned back to the empty brown fields.

“This OK?” asked the man, pulling over by the Redbeck.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You sure you don’t want a doctor or anything?”

“I’m sure, thanks,” I said, getting out.

“Bye then,” said the man.

“Bye and thanks very much,” I said, shutting the door.

The woman was still looking straight ahead as they drove away.

I walked across the car park, through the holes filled with muddy rain water and lorry oil, round the back to the motel rooms.

The door to Room 27 was open a crack.

I stood before the door listening.

Silence.

I pushed open the door.

Sergeant Fraser, in uniform, was asleep on a blanket of papers and folders, tapes and photographs.

I closed the door.

He opened his eyes, looked up, then stood up.

“Fuck,” he said, looking at his watch.

“Yeah.”

He stared at me.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

He went over to the sink and began to run some water.

“You’d better sit down,” he said, leaving the sink to tip over the base of the bed.

I
walked across the papers and the files, the photos and the maps, and sat down on the bare base of the bed.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to be suspended.”

“What the fuck did you do?”

“Know you.”

“So?”

“So I don’t want to be suspended.”

I could hear the rain coming down hard outside, lorries reversing and parking, their drivers running for cover.

“How did you find this place?”

“I’m a policeman.”

“Really?” I said, holding my head.

“Yeah, really,” said Sergeant Fraser, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

“Have you been here before?”

“No. Why?”

“No reason,” I said.

Fraser soaked the only towel in the sink, wrung it out, and tossed it across to me.

I put it to my face, ran it through my hair.

It came away the colour of rust.

“I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Fraser picked up a grey bedsheet and began tearing off strips.

“Why’d they let me go?”

“I don’t know.”

The room was going black, Fraser’s shirt grey.

I stood up.

“Sit down.”

“It was Foster, wasn’t it?”

“Sit down.”

“It was Don Foster, I fucking know it.”

“Eddie…”

“They fucking know it, don’t they?”

“Why Foster?”

I picked up a fistful of foolscap. “Because he’s the link in all this shit.”

“You think Foster killed Clare Kemplay?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Bollocks. And Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard?”

“Yeah.”

“And Mandy Wymer and Paula Garland?”

“Yeah.”

“So why stop there? What about Sandra Rivett? Maybe it wasn’t Lucan after all, maybe it was Don Foster. And what about the bomb in Birmingham?”

“Fuck off. She’s dead. They’re all dead.”

“No but why? Why Don Foster? You haven’t given me a single fucking reason.”

I sat back down on the bed with my head in my hands, the room black, nothing making sense.

Fraser handed me two strips of grey bedsheet.

I wrapped the strips around my right hand and pulled tight.

“They were lovers.”

“So?”

“I have to see him,” I said.

“You’re going to accuse him?”

“There are things I need to ask him. Things only he knows.”

Fraser picked up his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

“You’ll be suspended.”

“I told you, I’m going to be suspended anyway.”

“Just give me the keys.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re all I’ve got.”

“Then you’re fucked.”

“Yeah. So let’s leave it at me.”

He looked like he was going to puke, but tossed me his keys.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I went over to the sink and rinsed the old blood off my face.

“Did you see BJ?” I asked.

“No.”

“You didn’t go to the flat?”

“I went to the flat.”

“And?”

“And he’s either done a runner or been nicked. Fuck knows which.”

I heard dogs barking and men screaming.

“I should phone my mother,” I said.

Sergeant Eraser looked up. “What?”

I was standing at the door, his keys in my hand. “Which one is it?”

“The yellow Maxi,” he said.

I opened the door. “Bye then.”

“Bye.”

“Thanks,” I said, like I’d never see him ever again.

I closed the door to Room 27 and walked across the car park to his dirty yellow Maxi, parked between two Findus lorries.

I pulled out of the Redbeck and switched on the radio: the IRA had blown up Harrods, Mr Heath had missed a bomb by minutes, Aston Martin was going bust, Lucan had been spotted in Rhodesia, and there was a new Mastermind.

It was going up to eight as I parked beside the high walls of Trinity View.

I got out of the car and walked up to the gates.

They were open, the white lights on the tree still on.

I looked up the drive, across the lawn.

“Fuck!” I shouted aloud, running up the drive.

Halfway up, a Rover had hit the back of a Jaguar.

I cut across the grass, slipping in the cold dew.

Mrs Foster, in a fur coat, was bent over something on the lawn by the front door.

She was screaming.

I made a grab for her, my arms around her.

She lashed out in every direction with every available limb as I tried to push her back, back towards the house, back from whatever was on the lawn.

And then I got a look at him, a good look:

Fat and white, trussed with a length of black flex that ran round his neck and bound his hands behind him, in a pair of soiled white underpants, his hair all gone, his scalp red raw.

“No, no, no,” Mrs Foster was screaming.

Her husband’s eyes were wide open.

Mrs Foster, the fur coat streaked black with rain, made another rush for the body.

I blocked her hard, still staring down at Donald Foster, at the white flabby legs running in mud, at the knees smeared in blood, at the triangular burns on his back, at the tender head.

“Get inside,” I shouted, holding her tight, pushing her back through the front door.

“No, cover him.”

“Mrs Foster, please…”

“Please cover him!” she cried, thrashing out of her coat.

We were inside the house at the foot of the staircase.

I pushed her down on to the bottom stair.

“Wait here.”

I took the fur coat and walked back outside.

I draped the damp coat over Donald Foster.

I went back inside.

Mrs Foster was still sat on the bottom step.

I poured two glasses of Scotch from a crystal decanter in the living room.

“Where were you?” I handed her a large glass.

“With Johnny.”

“Where’s Johnny now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who did this?”

She looked up. “I don’t know.”

“Johnny?”

“God no.”

“So who did?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“Who did you hit that night on the Dewsbury Road?”

“What?”

“Who did you hit on the Dewsbury Road?”

“Why?”

“Tell me.”

“You tell me why, why does it matter now?”

Falling, grasping, clutching. Like the dead were living and the living dead, saying: “Because I think whoever it was you hit, I think they killed Clare Kemplay, and whoever killed Clare, they killed Susan Ridyard, and whoever that was, they killed Jeanette Garland.”

“Jeanette Garland?”

“Yeah.”

Her eagle eyes had suddenly flown and I was staring into big black panda eyes, full of tears and secrets, secrets she couldn’t keep.

I pointed outside. “Was it him?”

“No, god no.”

“So who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Her mouth and hands were trembling.

“You know.”

The glass was loose in her hands, tipping whisky over her dress and the stairs. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” I hissed and looked back at the body, framed in the doorway with that huge fucking Christmas tree.

I clenched my fist as best I could and turned back round, bringing up my arm.

“Tell me!”

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

Johnny Kelly was standing at the top of the stairs, covered in blood and mud, a hammer in his good hand.

Patricia Foster, miles from home, didn’t even glance round.

I edged back into the doorway. “You killed him?”

“He killed our Paula and Jeanie.”

Wishing he was right, knowing he was wrong, telling him, “No he didn’t.”

“The fuck you know about it?” Kelly stepped down on to the stairs.

“Did you kill him?”

He was coming down the stairs, staring straight at me, tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, a hammer in his hand.

I took another step back, seeing way too fucking much in those tears.

“I know you didn’t do it.”

He kept coming, the tears too.

“Johnny, I know you’ve done some bad things, some terrible things, but I know you didn’t do this.”

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, the hammer an inch from Mrs Foster’s hair.

I walked towards him.

He dropped the hammer.

I went over and picked it up, wiping it with a dirty grey handkerchief like all the bad guys and dirty cops on
Kojak
.

Kelly was staring down at her hair.

I dropped the hammer.

He started stroking her hair, pulling it rougher and rougher, someone else’s blood tangling and knotting the curls.

She didn’t flinch.

I pulled him away.

I didn’t want to know any more; I wanted to buy some drugs, buy some drink, and get the fuck out of there.

He looked me in the eye and said, “You should get out of here.”

But I couldn’t. “You too,” I said.

“They’ll kill you.”

“Johnny,” I said, taking him by the shoulder. “Who was it you hit on the Dewsbury Road?”

“They’ll kill you. You’ll be next.”

“Who was it?” I pushed him back against the wall.

He said nothing.

“You know who did it don’t you, you know who killed Jeanette and the other two?”

He pointed outside. “Him.”

I hit Kelly hard, a shot of sheer pain shooting stars to my eyes.

The star of Rugby League fell back on to the shagpile. “Fuck.”

“No. You fuck off.” I was bending over him, champing to crack open his skull and scoop out all his dirty little fucking secrets.

He lay on the floor at her feet, looking up like he was ten bloody years old, Mrs Foster rocking back and forth like it was all on someone else’s TV.

“Tell me!”

“It was him,” he whimpered.

“You’re a fucking liar.” I reached behind me, grabbing the hammer.

Kelly slid out from between my legs, crawling through a patch of whisky towards the front door.

“You fucking wish it was him.”

“No.”

I grabbed him by his collar, twisting his face back round into mine. “You want it to be him. Want it to be that easy.”

“It was him, it was him.”

“It wasn’t, you know it wasn’t.” . “No.”

“You want your bloody vengeance, then tell me who the fuck it was that night.”

“No, no, no.”

“You’re not going to do anything about it, so fucking tell me or I’ll smash your fucking skull in.”

He was pushing my face away with his hands. “It’s over.”

“You want it to
be
him so it’s over. But you know it’s not over,” I screamed, smashing the hammer into the side of the stairs.

She was sobbing.

He was sobbing.

I was sobbing.

“It’ll never be over until you tell me who you fucking hit.”

“No!”

“It’s not over.”

“No!”

“It’s not over.”

“No!”

“It’s not over, Johnny.”

He was coughing tears and bile. “It is.”

“Tell me, you piece of shit.”

“I can’t.”

I saw the moon in the day, the sun in the night, me fucking her, her fucking him, Jeanette’s face on every body.

I had him by the throat and hair, the hammer in my bandaged hand. “You fucked your sister.”