David Peace - 1980

‘I swear.’

‘He never said who told him?’

‘No.’

‘Never said who tipped them?’

‘No.’

‘Not the Ronnie Allen I know.’

Douglas shrugs again.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, according to Ronnie fucking Allen, how is it that I’m supposed to be dirty?’

He’s back looking down at the carpet. ‘Mr Douglas?’

‘No specifics,’ he says. ‘Just business.’

‘Just business?’

He doesn’t look up.

‘And this is just me and Dawson?’

He nods.

‘To put me in my place?’

‘That’s what Ronnie said.’

‘Why? Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who hates me that much, Bob?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’

‘You?’

He looks up: ‘Me? I don’t know you.’

‘Right. So don’t be talking about people you don’t know.’

He looks right at me, but says nothing.

I stand up. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Douglas.’

He’s still sitting in his chair.

I walk over to the lounge door and then I stop and I say: ‘And if I was you Mr Douglas, I’d be careful.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘You don’t want to be going about giving folk the impression you know more than you do.’

He stands up: ‘Is that a threat, Mr Hunter?’

‘Just a bit of advice, that’s all,’ I say and open the door.

His wife and daughter are in the hall, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her holding the tiny little lass tight around her waist.

No-one says anything.

I open the front door and step outside, turning to say goodbye -

But Douglas strides out into the hall and slams the front door.

I stand in their drive, the rain and their door in my face, everything bad, everything sad, everything dead -

Raised voices inside.

I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the place empty and deserted on a wet and bloody Sunday before Christmas, the lights out.

I turn into the car park at Headquarters and that car’s back, there in my space -

Two men inside.

I pull in next to it, get out and tap on the glass.

The driver winds down his window -

I tell him: ‘This space is reserved.’

‘Sorry,’ he says and winds the window back up -

I start to knock on the glass again, saying: ‘Can I ask you…’

But the car reverses and pulls away -

I take down the license plate:

PHD 666K .

Upstairs, I dial the Chief Constable -

He’s back home:

‘What the bloody hell happened to you last night,’ he’s saying. ‘One minute you were there, next minute…’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.’

‘Is this bloody work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’

‘I won’t be here, I have to go back to Leeds.’

‘You’re at the office now?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Talk.’

‘Not on the phone, sir.’

A pause, then: ‘What’s this about?’

‘I think you know.’

He’s angry: ‘No I don’t or I wouldn’t ask you.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s about Roger Hook’s investigation into Richard Dawson.’

Silence, then: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I hang up and look at my watch:

It’s gone noon, but already night outside.

At one-thirty Chief Constable Clement Smith telephones and asks me to step across the hall to his office.

I knock once and am told to come.

Clement Smith is behind his desk in a sports jacket, writing; Roger Hook across from him with his back to the door, waiting.

‘Afternoon,’ I say.

Roger turns and smiles: ‘Afternoon, Pete.’

I sit down in the chair next to him, facing Smith -

Smith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, continuing to write -

Roger Hook sat there, just waiting -

Until, after two minutes of this, Smith looks up and says: ‘Go on then.’

I swallow, angry: ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation that would seem to be involving me on a personal level,’

‘So go on.’

I glance at Detective Chief Inspector Hook and back to Smith: ‘Now?’

‘That’s why you dragged us all the way in, wasn’t it?’

I say: ‘I would prefer to have the conversation in private.’

‘Stuff what you’d prefer Pete; it’s Sunday bloody afternoon.’

Hook stands up.

‘Sit down,’ says Smith.

‘Sir, I don’t mind…’ says Hook.

Smith has his hand raised: ‘I mind.’

Hook stops and sits back down.

Smith is staring at me, eyes black and waiting -

‘OK,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Dawson, who I believe we all know?’

Smith and Hook nod.

‘Well last night, at the Midland Hotel, he tells me that yesterday morning police officers visited his bank and took away records relating to him. He said that a former Yorkshire police officer, Bob Douglas?’

Smith and Hook nod again.

‘He said that Douglas had told him that the reason for this investigation was because of his friendship with me. To put me in my place. Richard Dawson then asked me for help and I declined to assist him, as he was under investigation. This morning, however, I learnt that his house had been raided and, following a meeting I’ve just had with Bob Douglas, I would very much appreciate being told to what extent this investigation is concerned in any way with my friendship with Richard Dawson, or with me personally.’

I pause, then add: ‘I realise this is irregular and against procedure and I would like to stress that I’m not asking for, nor do I expect, any information about the investigation into Richard Dawson, other than whether or not it relates to me.’

Then I stop, waiting -

Smith sighs and turns his gaze to Hook, nodding -

Hook shrugs and says: ‘It doesn’t.’

Smith turns back to me, eyes black and twinkling.

‘That’s it?’ I say.

‘Dawson is under investigation,’ continues Hook. ‘But, for the moment, it doesn’t have anything to do with you or any other police officer.’

‘So why the secrecy?’

‘Well, that said, Richard Dawson is known socially by a number of senior police officers, as well as a number of other prominent local persons. So we’re treading carefully.’

‘As should you,’ says Clement Smith, those black eyes on me -

I sigh, sitting back in my chair.

Smith continues: ‘There could be a lot of fallout – especially if the press start jumping to the same bloody conclusions as one of my own Assistant Chief Constables.’

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thought of being stuck over in Yorkshire, hearing all these stories…’

‘Two days and cursed bloody place is making you paranoid.’

‘No more than usual,’ I smile.

‘Now you know how you make other folks feel then,’ laughs Hook.

‘Was that the point?’ I say, not smiling.

‘No,’ says Detective Chief Inspector Hook.

‘Then you better tell Ronnie to keep it shut – he’s the one been telling Douglas bollocks about secret squads and putting me in my place.’

‘Sorry,’ he says, fucked off. ‘He’s got a big mouth and talks bollocks.’

Smith’s staring at Hook now, the black eyes on him -

‘I’ll take care of it,’ says Hook.

Smith stands up and says: ‘Can I go home now?’

Back down in the car park and there’s a man standing by my car.

Familiar, he looks familiar -

Me: ‘Can I help you?’

He raises a hand and shakes his head, walking over to another car -

A white one.

‘Wrong motor,’ he says, smiling.

I get in my car -

The black one.

And then somewhere over the Moors, I remember it’s a Sunday and almost Christmas and I suddenly hate myself, wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing, what the fuck I thought I was going to do, the bad dreams not leaving, just staying bad, like the headaches and the backache, the murder and the lies, like the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers: