David Peace - 1980

I am walking down the stairs, heading for a paper and some air, when there’s a hand at my elbow -

Bob Craven: ‘Mr Hunter?’

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to ask you something?’

‘Go on.’

‘That business about noting down the married blokes, you’re saying you think he’s married?’

I look at Detective Superintendent Craven, the black beard and tick, the eyes to match -

I say: ‘You got time for a coffee, Bob?’

‘Have you?’

‘A quick one,’ I nod and we walk back upstairs to the canteen.

I bring over the coffees and sit down across the plastic table from him -

‘You take all this very seriously,’ I say.

‘Is there any other way?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that; what I mean is, you’re in deep.’

‘That a crime?’

‘No.’

He stops stirring his coffee and looks up: ‘I’ll be honest with you, it eats me up; same for a lot of the lads.’

‘Been a long time?’

‘Too long.’

‘You got any theories?’

He smiles: ‘Oh aye.’

‘Going to share them?’

‘With you?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s not why you’re here, is it Mr Hunter? Not really?’

‘What do you mean?’

The beard and eyes shining under the canteen lights: ‘It’s not just about Ripper, is it? It’s about seeing how many of us you can take down with him.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘It’s in your nature.’

I push the cup away and stand up: ‘I am here for one purpose, and one purpose only: to catch the Yorkshire Ripper.’

He’s staring up at me, almost smiling, smirking.

I should walk away, should leave him to it, but I don’t, I stay and I say: ‘There is a paranoia in this force, a paranoia that makes it dumb as well as blind.’

He’s smiling, laughing now, a white slash of teeth in the black beard.

I can’t walk away, can’t stop myself: “Unless that is, you have all got something to bloody hide.’

‘Like what?’ he’s staring up at me: ‘Like what?’

‘Fuck knows. Your stupidity?’ I say and regret it and know I always will.

‘Mr Hunter, I’ll tell you this: we’re going to catch our Ripper, not you.’

‘Then you’d better get a fucking move on,’ I say and turn and walk away.

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide -

‘Janice Ryan,’ says Murphy, and then stops, dead -

We all look up, the room cold and dark -

No way to kill this pain inside -

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he says, eyes fixed on Bob Craven coming in late, sitting down next to me.

No escape from your heart -

‘Bradford prostitute, moved to Leeds, but wound up dead under a sofa on waste ground off White Abbey, back in Bradford. Time of death has never been conclusively proven, but must have occurred sometime in the seven days preceding the discovery of the body on Sunday 12 June, 1977.’

No escape from your lips -

‘Furthermore, following the initial discovery, Ryan was not immediately connected to the Ripper. Reasons for this would appear to have been two-fold: scene of crime being Bradford not Leeds, despite the inclusion of Clare Strachan in Preston only the week previously’

No escape from you baby, from your fingertips -

‘The second reason was the type of injuries; so while Ryan suffered head injuries, she had actually died from internal abdominal injuries caused by someone jumping up and down on her, which again linked her only to Strachan.’

No escape from you darling, all night and day -

‘Ryan got herself included thanks to the letter that arrived at the Telegraph & Argus on Monday 13 June, a letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and stating that there was a surprise in Bradford.’

No escape from you baby, no place to stay -

John Murphy looks up: ‘So, to my mind, that means one of two things: either it was the Ripper or it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t, then neither was Clare Strachan. And that would mean one thing and one thing only: we’d have got ourselves two Jacks, not one.’

No escape, no escape at all .

At ten-thirty we’re sitting in their over-lit canteen, spread over two tables and six plates of uneaten food, the brightness boring into tired eyes.

There is little talk, DCI McDonald and DS Marshall still poring over their notebooks, the rest of us ordering, indexing and referencing; rationalising the things we’ve read.

‘We should call it a night,’ I say.

There are nods and yawns, Hillman stretching, some talk of a nightcap.

I walk downstairs with Murphy, neither of us saying much.

At the desk, I say: ‘I’m going to walk.’

‘Not fancy a quick one?’

‘Not tonight, John. Thanks.’

‘See you at breakfast then?’ he smiles.

‘If I don’t get a better offer,’ I laugh and say goodnight.

Outside it’s raining and black, the streets empty.

And as I wait to cross at the traffic lights, I watch the cars, the white faces behind the wheels, wondering, making deals, idle threats -

Beneath the Christmas lights on Boar Lane, I walk without direction, suddenly overwhelmed by immense regret and pain, the terrible and familiar sensation of more to come and the impotence that goes with it.

At the door to the Griffin, I have tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, terrible, cold tears.

I take my key from the desk and am walking across the lobby when he rises from his seat -

‘Mr Hunter?’ asks a tall emaciated man with long thin grey hair and features.

I nod.

‘My name is Martin Laws and I’d like to talk with you if you could spare me five minutes?’

The man is wearing black, carrying a hat and a bag -

‘Are you a priest, Mr Laws?’ I ask him.

‘Yes,’ he nods.

‘OK,’ I say, glancing at my watch and pointing at the nearest pair of high-backed lobby seats.

‘Thank you,’ he says.

We sit down opposite each other, him with his hat between his fingers.

‘What can I do for you, Father?’

‘I’m actually here on behalf of Elizabeth Hall.’

‘Yes?’ I say, looking at the black bag at his feet.

‘Eric Hall’s wife? Libby Hall?’

I nod.

‘Mrs Hall saw you on the news, at the press conference. She’s very anxious to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘The murder of her husband.’

I sit back in the chair: ‘Father, with all due respect, I think that falls somewhat outside the perimeters of this present investigation. If Mrs Hall has information about her husband’s death, I’m sure the -’

Mr Laws has his hand raised -

I stop talking.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he says softly, handing me an envelope from his pocket. ‘From what Libby has confided to me, the murder of her husband falls very much inside the perimeters of your investigation.’

I look at the envelope in my hands, reluctant.

‘Please?’ says Laws. ‘I…’

‘Mr Hunter -’

I open the envelope, take out the letter, and read:

Dear Mr Hunter ,

I was heartened to learn that you have been asked to assist in the Ripper Inquiry. I have information that you will find very useful, information concerning the murder of my husband Detective Inspector Eric Hall and his involvement with the so-called Yorkshire Ripper. It is my belief that he was killed because of his acquaintance with Janice Ryan, the sixth victim, and his knowledge of a police cover-up.

I can prove this.

Yours Sincerely,

Elizabeth Hall

I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope -

No escape, no escape at all -

‘How is she?’ I ask Laws.