David Peace - 1980

In the night, the call -

Clement Smith, Chief Constable: ‘I need you back here. Vaughan Industrial Estate, off Pottery Lane.’

‘What is it?’

‘A bad one.’

‘You going to tell me anything more?’

‘Roger Hook asked for you. That’s all I know.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘I’ll see you there then.’

‘See you there.’

Another black drive through another black night -

Over the Moors -

The murder and the lies -

The cries and the whispers -

Of children.

Here always their cries, always their whispers -

Always murder and always lies -

Always the Moors -

Always night and always black.

Down through Prestwich, through Cheetham Hill and Collyhurst, to Ardwick and the wrong side of bloody tracks:

The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -

Low dark buildings in the cold rain and the blue lights, police the black wraiths against the white light, their cloaks wings about a factory:

DEATH -

All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund -

I park between the vans and the cars, in a crater filled with dead water and a bird, a sparrow.

I turn up the collar of my coat against the rain and stumble -

The young policeman at the gate lifts his hood to check my card and point me towards an open mouth:

DEATH -

A figure walks behind me, dreadful -

In the doorway stand Clement Smith and Roger Hook, white faces staring at the floor, silent eyes raised my way, stung red with the cold and the rain, the tears -

Tongues moving but without words, a cigarette, hands shaking but not shaken -

I walk through them, into:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools.

High skylights, rain against the pane -

Strapped down upon a workbench, trapped in chains, wrapped in:

DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -

I step towards the bench, closer -

Skinned naked and blistered, closer -

Blooded blackened and beaten, closer -

Skinned and naked, blistered and blooded, blackened and beaten, closer -

Face and hair burnt, twisted towards his left -

In his mouth, a cassette -

Bob Douglas: DEAD -

All this and heathen too -

To his left, a door ajar, its upper half glazed.

I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open -

Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the light from a skylight, push and see:

DEATH -

On the dark stair, we miss our step -

I step towards the bath, closer -

Into the light from the pane, closer -

Towards her laying there in the bath, closer -

Into the pain from the dark, closer -

A thin and pathetic smile on her face, a black hole in a still heart -

In her hand, a teddy bear -

Karen Douglas:

DEAD -

Never let her slip -

I step backwards, back towards the child’s father -

Back towards Smith and Hook in the doorway, towards the hands and the tongues, the cigarettes, the cold and the rain, the tears -

Stepping back from, turning back from, running from:

DEATH -

Always the way .

Two hours later, damp skin and bones sat around the eleventh floor of Manchester Police Headquarters, phones ringing and boots running, this way and that -

Always this way and that.

I count twelve men -

Waiting:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Nine o’clock.

Ten minutes later, another knock at the door -

The cassette in a plastic bag, the science done.

Roger Hook plugs in a tape recorder and Clement Smith takes the cassette from the bag:

‘Prints?’

A scientist nods.

‘Who?’

The scientist shakes his head: ‘They’re checking.’

Smith holds it up, turning it in his fingers, the black felt-tip pen scrawled across the clear plastic:

‘All this and Heathen too,’ he reads, looking at me -

‘Ripper Tape,’ I say. ‘That was done over a copy of a cassette called All this and Heaven too by a singer called Andrew Gold.’

Twelve open mouths and twelve curses: ‘Fucking hell fire.’

‘This him?’ says someone -

‘Doesn’t make any sense, why…’

‘A bloke and his kid…’

‘An ex-copper…’

‘Poor bastard…’

‘Unless Douglas fucking knew…’

Clement Smith stands up, signalling to Roger Hook: ‘Gentlemen, shall we listen to the tape first?’

Twelve men nodding, silent.

Hook presses play:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this he love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

Hell:

‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

More hell:

‘How much do you love me?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Cries -

Cries:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

STOP .

Silence -

Nothing:

Wednesday 17 December 1980 -

Nine thirty.

Nothing but -

Twelve pale faces, some flabby and some gaunt, twelve faces and twenty-four eyes staring at me -

I stand up -

‘Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?’ I ask Clement Smith. ‘In private.’

He stands and says to Roger Hook: ‘My office.’

Hook and I walk towards the door, twenty-four eyes on me.

‘And bring that,’ says Smith, pointing at the tape recorder.

We follow him down the corridor.

In his office, Hook plugs in the recorder -

‘Can we hear it again?’ says Hook.

Smith nods -

Hook presses play:

HISS -

Piano -

Drums -

Bass -

‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

Hell:

‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Whispers -

More hell:

‘How much do you love me?’

STOP .

HISS -

Cries -

Cries -

Cries:

‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’

STOP .

Silence, again silence -

Just the rain black upon the window, running -

The city grey below, swimming -

Drowning.

Roger Hook says: ‘What’s that last line?’

‘That’s my name,’ I say, looking at the Chief.

Smith swallows, says nothing.

‘Those words,’ I say. ‘Whatever they are, I’ve heard them before.’

Smith: ‘Where?’

‘Yesterday I went to see a man called Jack Whitehead. He was a journalist on the Yorkshire Post, - until he had some sort of breakdown and hammered a nail into his skull.’

‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook.

‘He’s in Stanley Royd Hospital in Wakefield,’ I continue. ‘Anyway I went to see him because he was involved with Eric Hall. Eric Hall was Bradford Vice and was supposed to be pimping Janice Ryan who, as you know, was Ripper victim number six.’

Smith and Hook are staring at me, blank.

‘Ryan was also the girlfriend of a Sergeant Robert Fraser, who was Ripper Squad.’

‘He was the one who gassed himself?’ asks Hook.

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Anyway, there seems to be a school of thought in the West Yorkshire force that some of these murders aren’t actually Ripper jobs at all. Ryan being one of them.’