David Peace - 1983

Susan Ridyard was ten years old when she went missing in March 1972. Her disappearance was at one time linked to the 1974 abduction and murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay for which Michael Myshkin was later convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment in 1975 .

Although Myshkin initially confessed to taking Susan and also Jeanette Garland from Castleford in 1969, Myshkin subsequently denied any involvement and was never formally charged in connection with either disappearance. Michael Myshkin has recently begun an appeal against his conviction and life sentence for the Kemplay murder .

However, this lunchtime, Mr Maurice Jobson, the man leading the search for Hazel, described the continued presence of West Yorkshire detectives in Rochdale as ‘merely routine’ and denied any connection between the two disappearances, branding recent press reports as ‘ultimately harmful to police inquiries’ .

James Ashworth, a Fitzwilliam man who had been helping police with their inquiries, was found hanged in his cell at Millgarth police station last week .

You put the paper on the passenger seat. You start the car. You head up the road and on to Blenheim. You park in the drive. You get out. You lock the doors. You go into the building. You go up the stairs. You take your key out. You stop -

The door ajar.

You look at it. You have your key in your hand. You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You push the door -

It swings open.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You say: ‘Hello?’

There’s no answer.

You stand there. You shit yourself. You step forward. You say: ‘Hello?’

No answer.

You step forward. You go inside. You walk slowly down the hall. You say: ‘Hello?’

No-one.

You look in the bedroom. The bathroom. The living room. The kitchen -

You shit, shit, shit, shit, shit yourself:

The whole place has been ransacked -

Everything smashed. Everything broken -

Every single thing -

Every single thing except the bathroom mirror:

You put your fingers to the glass -

To the lipstick:

D-10 .

Hate & War:

Banging on Joe’s door -

Man hasn’t left his room in a week -

Two sevens:

1977 -

Thursday 9 June 1977 -

Hope I get to heaven:

‘Open fucking door!’

‘Who is it?’

I’m not who I want to be:

‘It’s BJ. Open fucking door!’

Locks slide, keys turn/new locks, new keys -

I laugh at your locks:

Wide white eyes at crack -

Paranoid looks to left/paranoid looks to right -

Perilous times:

BJ push open door into this private little Chapeltown hellhole; only window boarded up with a shattered door, a battered mattress on floor covered in loose tobacco and Rizlas, broken bottles and pipes, whole room under heavy smoke and songs, every wall and every surface, whole fucking room painted with red, gold and green sevens -

‘You do it?’

‘No,’ BJ say. ‘Tonight.’

‘You got the keys?’

BJ jangle them in his stoned black face: ‘What these look like?’

‘Keys to my heart,’ he nods and rolls another one.

BJ ask him, BJ check: ‘You up for this?’

Still nodding, he smiles as he lights up: ‘Show me mine enemy.’

BJ take it when he passes it -

Take it because BJ need it and BJ lie back on mattress, staring at sevens on walls and sevens on door, sevens on ceiling and sevens on floor -

All them pretty little sevens, all dressed up in red, dressed up in gold and green:

Two sevens -

Joe stagger-dancing around hell, his voice of thunder chanting: ‘War in the East, war in the West; War in the North, war in the South; Crazy Joe get them out -’

Two sevens beginning to bob and beginning to weave, swaying and dancing around each other until:

They two sevens clash -

Two sevens clash and weak hearts rock -

Weak hearts drop .

It’s dark:

Ten o’clock -

Sitting in a stolen Austin Allegro on Bradford Road, Batley -

Sitting in a stolen car watching a flat above a newsagent’s.

BJ get out and go to phonebox and dial flat -

It just rings and rings and rings:

No answer .

BJ go back to car and tell Joe: ‘All clear.’

Joe nods and gets out and follows BJ across road and round back of shops and walk down alley to a red gate to yard behind newsagent’s.

‘Wait here,’ BJ tell Joe and open gate and go through yard to back door.

BJ unlock back door and take stairs on right.

BJ stand at top of stairs, ear to black glass of door:

Nothing .

BJ unlock white door at top of stairs and step inside -

No lights.

BJ go down passage to front of flat and look out window -

Just Allegro across road.

Phone starts ringing -

Fuck -

Ringing and ringing and ringing.

BJ let it and walk down passage to door on left.

Phone stops as BJ step inside bedroom.

BJ open wardrobe and move lights and camera bags to one side and strain in dark to find magazines piled up at back.

BJ find them:

SPUNK .

BJ go through stack until BJ find ones BJ looking for -

Ones they don’t want no-one to see:

Issue 3 – January 1975 .

BJ turn pages in gloom until BJ come to page BJ want -

Page they don’t want no-one to see:

A bleached blonde with her legs spread, mouth open and eyes closed, fingers up her cunt and arse -

Clare.

BJ take three copies and put lights and cameras back and close wardrobe and bedroom doors.

BJ walk down passage and phone starts ringing again, ringing and ringing and ringing, making BJ jump again, but BJ lock white door and go down stairs and lock back door, phone still ringing and ringing and ringing.

Joe is stood waiting by gate: ‘You get them?’

BJ nod and Joe nods back.

In another telephone box on Bradford Road, BJ dial number on slip of paper and let it ring and ring and ring until:

‘Hello.’

‘Jack Whitehead?’

‘Speaking.’

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

‘Go on.’

‘Not on phone.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not important, but I can meet Saturday night.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘On Saturday,’ BJ say and look across road at Joe sat in Allegro and big sign above him. ‘Variety Club.’

‘Batley?’

‘Yeah,’ BJ say. ‘Between ten and eleven.’

‘OK,’ Whitehead says. ‘But I need a name?’

‘No names.’

‘You want money, I suppose?’

‘No money.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘You just be there.’

Tuesday 21 March 1972 -

I’m listening to the radio and this is what it’s saying:

‘ The two policemen were standing next to a yellow saloon car in Donegall Street when a 100lb gelignite bomb hidden inside exploded, killing them and four civilians instantly and driving broken glass into the faces and legs of dozens of office workers as every window in the street caved in. Limbs were flung into an estate agent’s premises and on to the road while nearly 100 people, most of them young girls, lay in the street covered in the shattered glass and screaming with pain and shock…’

The telephone is ringing.

I switch off the radio. I pick up the receiver: ‘Jobson speaking.’

‘You on fucking strike and all?’ says the voice on the other end -

Badger Bill Molloy -

Chief Superintendent Bill Molloy.

I say: ‘Had a bit of a late one last night.’