David Peace - 1980

Thirteen .

5:00 p.m.

Sunday 14 December 1980:

Millgarth, Leeds.

Dark outside, darker in:

A ritual -

A sйance:

Round the table, hands and knees touching, between the cardboard boxes and the gorged files -

Mike Hillman is calling up the dead, passing out photographs, saying:

‘Theresa Campbell, murdered 26 June 1975. 26-year-old mother of three and convicted prostitute. Partially clothed, bloodstained body was discovered on Prince Philip Playing Fields, Scott Hall, by Eric Davies, a milkman.’

Peel -

‘Post-mortem revealed multiple stab wounds to abdomen, chest, and throat inflicted by a blade 4 inches in length, ѕ of an inch in width, one edge sharper than the other; severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown, possibly inflicted by an axe. A white purse with Mummy on the front, containing approximately Ј5 in cash, was also noted to be missing from the deceased’s handbag. Neither murder weapons or purse have ever been found.’

He stops to let the pictures speak -

They all look up from the six by fours, all but DS Marshall -

Are there tears in her eyes?

‘Those are the facts,’ he says, repeating: ‘The facts. The rest is hearsay; but here goes -

‘Campbell had spent the evening at the Room at the Top nightclub in Sheepscar. She was last seen attempting to stop motorists at the junction of Sheepscar Street South and Roundhay Road, Leeds at 1:00 a.m.

‘According to the witnesses you have listed before you, it is believed that an articulated lorry with a dark-coloured cab and a tarpaulin-sheeted load stopped at the junction of Roundhay Road and Sheepscar Street South alongside Campbell and it is believed she had a conversation with the driver.

‘This location is the main route from the Al Wetherby Roundabout to the Leeds Inner Ring Road which services HGVs travelling on the M62, either east or west.’

Hillman pauses; we all glance up, all but Marshall -

A tune in my head, a song from somewhere:

I only have eyes for you -

The dream still here, here in my mouth, hanging in the room, the taste in my mouth -

The taste of blood, the smell:

‘They call it the Box,’ says Hillman.

There’s a soft knock at the door and a young constable hands Bob Craven a note -

He glances at it, looks up at me, and passes it forward -

I open it:

Call Richard Dawson .

I put it in my pocket.

‘And that’s the last anyone saw of her till the milkman,’ Hillman’s saying.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘If there are no questions, let’s move onto the structure of the investigation. Mike?’

‘Fish and chip job as it was seen then, they still put Chief Superintendent Jobson on it, plus a couple of other names that’ll keep coming up: Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice, DIs as they were back in 75.’

There are nods.

‘Good team,’ I say, watching Craven -

His face blank but for a slight light in those dark eyes, a slight smile -

And then he suddenly says: ‘Best men we’ve got.’

‘Anyway,’ continues Hillman. ‘Those were the big guns and the same team used for Joan Richards and everything up to Marie Watts. After that Oldman and Noble take the reins and Jobson’s given the early bath.’

‘What about Alderman and Prentice? What happened to them?’ asks McDonald.

‘Still here. A complete list of every copper involved is in the copies I’ve given you, alphabetically by rank.’

I’m still watching Craven, knowing he was there -

Knowing his name is in there, here -

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mike. We’ll be going over the cases in more detail later as we see how they relate. OK?’

Silence -

‘Next?’

‘Richards or Strachan?’ asks Marshall.

‘Do it chronologically.’

‘Right,’ says Mike Hillman, nodding at Helen Marshall. ‘Me again:

‘OK. Whether you accept Strachan as a Ripper job or not,’ says Hillman. ‘She died like this:

‘A convicted prostitute and registered alcoholic, Clare Strachan was taken to some disused garages on Frenchwood Street, a well-known Preston red-light area. She had sex and was then hit on the head by a blunt instrument, kicked in the face, head, breasts, legs and body. Then the attacker jumped up and down on her chest, causing a rib to puncture a lung and kill her. She had bite marks on her breasts and had been penetrated by a variety of objects and twice sodomised, once post-mortem. She was found the next morning by a woman walking her dog.’

Silence, dark silence -

Mike coughs and then goes on: ‘Alf Hill was in charge, Frank Fields his number two, again top men on it. Initially, no link was established with Theresa Campbell. Following the murder of Joan Richards, two detectives went over to Preston and again no evidence was found to connect the killings. Right, Bob?’

Bob Craven nods, saying nothing.

‘You went over, right?’

‘Yeah.’

Mike Hillman shakes his head and smiles: ‘Thanks a lot, Bob. OK, the link with the Ripper was made following the letters received after the murder of Marie Watts in 1977. As you know, the letters made reference to the murder of Clare Strachan and tests conducted revealed that the killer of Strachan and Watts and the letter writer were all blood type…’

‘B,’ says Craven.

‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Mike. ‘Again all the names and dates have been listed on the sheet before you.’

‘Bob?’ John Murphy says turning to Craven.

‘Yeah?’

‘They send anyone over from Preston?’

‘What?’

‘You went over after you got Joan Richards, how about them? Had they sent anyone over after Clare Strachan?’

‘Frank Fields.’

Murphy nods: ‘And Frank didn’t make any link?’

‘No.’

I say: ‘Right, as Mike’s just said, this is the one that the letters and the tape specifically refer to, the letters and tape that have largely been included on the strength of this murder.’

‘And the blood group,’ adds Craven.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But let’s get this straight, initially, didn’t you and…’

‘John Rudkin.’

‘Right, didn’t you and Rudkin report that this murder shouldn’t be considered the work of the same man who killed Campbell and Richards?’

‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘That was until we got the sample off Watts and the tests on the envelope.’

‘So, initially, why did you think otherwise?’

Craven smiles: ‘Feel like I’m in bloody court.’

‘Relax, Bob. You’re among friends,’ I say.

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah,’ says Murphy.

He’s still smiling: ‘Look, initially, the only real link between Campbell and Strachan, Richards and Strachan was that they were all slags. Strachan had been raped, had a milk bottle up her, had it up the arse, then been kicked to death. Indoors. Completely different.’

‘Until the letters and the tape?’

‘Until the letters and the tape.’

‘And then she was in,’ I say.

‘You better believe it.’

I ask him: ‘Do you want to add anything else?’

‘Two kids in Glasgow.’

‘Husband?’

‘Drowned at sea.’

‘Anything else?’

Craven smiling to himself: ‘Not about her, no.’

‘You want to talk us through Joan Richards?’

‘No.’

‘Go on. You were in on this one right from the get go, yeah?’

‘Just about.’

‘Please, it’d help us out a lot.’

‘Not treading on anyone’s toes, am I?’ he asks, looking at Helen Marshall -

There are tears in her eyes -

Fuck -

‘No,’ I say, trying to catch her eye -

The tears in her eyes .