David Peace - 1983

‘I heard.’

‘Who’s been blabbing?’

‘Sod them,’ he snaps. ‘We’ll have other things to celebrate tonight.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like fifty fucking grand and a new business partner, that’s what.’

‘He agreed then?’

‘Not quite,’ he laughs. ‘But with a bit of friendly persuasion, he will.’

‘When and where?’

‘Ten o’clock tonight, back of Redbeck.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘You about today?’

‘Doubt it, got to go over bloody Rochdale with George.’

‘Rochdale? What the hell for?’

He pauses. He says: ‘You know George, be something and nothing.’

‘What -’

‘Forget it,’ he laughs. ‘See you tonight.’

I start to speak but the line’s already dead.

I switch the radio back on and it says:

‘ … In his summing up, the Judge said he believed undoubtedly that the time these two detectives had spent trudging through the slime and the sludge of the underworld, dredging for the truth, had taken its toll and led these highly decorated officers to conspire and corruptly accept money…’

I switch it off again.

The wife comes in. She starts to dust. She says: ‘Who was that?’

‘Who was what?’

‘On the telephone?’

‘Bill.’

‘That’s nice,’ she smiles. ‘About work?’

I stand up. I say: ‘The wedding.’

She stops dusting. She says: ‘Thought it might have been about that little girl.’

‘What little girl?’

‘The one in Rochdale.’

‘What one in Rochdale?’

She nods, the Valium not quite biting: ‘Been missing since yesterday tea-time.’

Into Leeds, one hand on the steering wheel -

The other on the radio dial, searching:

‘ … While local police remain optimistic about finding Susan safe and well, senior detectives from both Leeds City and the West Yorkshire Constabulary are expected in Rochdale later today, although police sources refused to confirm or comment on these reports… ’

Park off Westgate, up the steps and into Brotherton House -

Everyone talking Northern bloody Ireland.

Up the stairs to top floor and the Boss -

Julie looks up from her typing. She shakes her head.

‘Five minutes,’ I say. ‘That’s all I ask.’

She steps inside. She’s out again within a minute. She’s all smiles: ‘Come back in half an hour.’

I look at my watch. I say: ‘Eleven?’

She nods. She goes back to her typing.

Downstairs in my own office with a cold cup of tea and an unlit cig. I reach down to unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. I take out a file -

A thick file, bound with string and marked with one word.

I know what Bill’s going to say and I don’t give a shit -

Behind his back or not.

I light the cig. I cut the knot. I open the file -

The thick file, marked with one word -

One name -

Her name:

Jeanette .

‘Just go straight in,’ smiles Julie.

I knock once. I open the door. I step inside.

Walter Heywood, Chief Constable of the Leeds City Police, is sat behind his desk with his back to the window and the Law Courts. The desk is strewn with papers and files, cigarettes and cups, photographs and trophies.

‘Maurice,’ he smiles. ‘Sit yourself down.’

I sit down across from the Chief Constable -

The short, deaf, blind man for whom it took three cracks and a World War to get in; the short, deaf, blind man who hears and sees everything -

The short, deaf, blind man who asks me: ‘What’s on your mind, Maurice?’

‘Susan Ridyard.’

Walter Heywood puts his hands together under his chin. He says: ‘Go on.’

‘Chief Superintendent Molloy has gone over to Rochdale and…’

‘You’d have liked to have gone with him?’

I nod.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘I did a lot of work on the Jeanette Garland case,’ I tell him.

‘I know that.’

‘A lot of my own work, on my own time.’

‘I know that too,’ he says.

I want to ask him how he knows. But I don’t. I wait.

He puts his hands down flat on his desk. He looks across at me. He says: ‘It was never our case in the first place, Maurice.’

‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But once we were asked, I…’

‘Let it get under your skin, eh?’

I nod again.

‘Now you think there could be some connection between this business in Rochdale and little Jeanette and you’re annoyed Bill’s over there with George Oldman while you’re stuck back here twiddling your thumbs talking to me?’

I shake my head. I open my mouth. I start to speak. I stop.

Walter Heywood smiles. He pushes himself up from behind his desk. He walks round the papers and the files, the cigarettes and the cups, the photographs and the trophies. He stands in front of me. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

I look up at him.

He looks down at me.

I say: ‘I’d just like to be involved, that’s all.’

He pats my shoulder. He says: ‘I know you would, Maurice. But it’s not for you, not this one.’

‘But -’

He grips my shoulder tight. He bends down into my ear. He says: ‘Listen to me, Maurice. You’ve made a name for yourself, you and Bill: the A1 Shootings, John Whitey; getting headlines, cracking cases. But you and I both know it were Bill that got them headlines, that cracked them cases. Not you. Stick with him, learn from him, and you’ll get your chance. But this isn’t it. Not yet. Listen to me and listen to Bill.’

I close my eyes. I nod. I open my eyes.

Walter Heywood walks back round to the other side of his desk. He sits back down. He puts his hands together under his chin again. He looks across at me. He says: ‘You’re in a good position, Maurice. Very good. Sit tight, wait, and let’s see what the future brings.’

I nod again.

‘Good man,’ says Walter Heywood, Chief Constable of the Leeds City Police, sat behind his desk with his back to the window and the Law Courts. ‘Good man.’

Back downstairs in my own office with a cold cup of tea and an unlit cig. I lock the door. I go to my desk. I unlock the bottom drawer. I take out the file -

The thick file, marked with one word.

I sit down. I light the cig. I open the file -

The thick file, marked with one word -

One name -

Her name:

Jeanette .

I take out a new notebook. I begin again -

Begin again to go through the carbons and the statements -

And then I stop -

Stop and pick up the phone -

Pick up the phone and dial -

Dial Netherton 3657 and listen to it ring -

Listen to it ring until it stops -

Until it stops and a woman’s voice says: ‘Netherton 3657, who’s speaking please?’

‘Is George there?’

‘He’s at work,’ she says. ‘Who is this?’

‘And where’s work these days? Rochdale way?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Jeanette.’

A black day in a black month in a black year in a black life with time to kill:

Black time -

Sat in the car in the dark with the radio on:

‘ … Commander Kenneth Drury of the Flying Squad, the officer named in the investigation ordered by the Commissioner last week, has been suspended. The inquiry, which is being conducted by a deputy assistant chief constable of the Metropolitan Police, will look into allegations that the Flying Squad Chief spent a holiday in Cyprus with a strip-club owner and pornographer… ’

Sat in the car in the dark on Brunt Street, Castleford -

Tuesday 21 March 1972:

A black day in a black month in a black year in a black life -

Of black times.

Almost ten -

The Redbeck car park, the Doncaster Road.