David Peace - 1980

‘Really?’ sneers Hook. ‘They can actually think?’

‘Go on,’ hisses Smith, impatient.

‘I went to see Whitehead in connection with Eric Hall and Janice Ryan. He’s under sedation in their secure wing at Stanley Royd, but he was lucid for most of the interview up until the very end when I swear he said words, or words very like the words on the end of this tape.’

‘Do you want to listen to it again?’ asks Hook.

‘No,’ says Smith.

The telephone rings -

Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’

He listens, face unchanging, eyes on me, and then he hangs up.

Hook is saying: ‘It must be a foreign language or something?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, looking at Smith.

‘Should send it up to the University?’ suggests Hook, no one listening.

Clement Smith leans forward and presses the eject, taking out the cassette -

‘This writing,’ he says. ‘All this and Heathen too , you said it’s a reference to the Ripper Tape?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And the music at the start, that’s from a song on the same cassette as the song on the Ripper Tape - same album: All this and Heaven too.’

‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook. ‘It’s got Ripper all over it, this.’

Or that’s what someone wants us to think,’ I say.

‘Or you?’ says Clement Smith.

Me: ‘Pardon?’

‘You’re all over this too.’

‘I know,’ I say…’

‘You’d been to see Douglas; Douglas was working for Richard Dawson; Richard Dawson is a friend of yours.’

‘I know.’

‘And he’s under arrest.’

‘I know.’

Eyes on me, fixed, locked -

The telephone rings again -

Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’

He listens, says: ‘Bring it up.’

He hangs up, eyes on me.

‘What is it?’ asks Hook.

‘Another bloody message.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve pulled a piece of paper, a note – from the little girl’s throat.’

‘Fucking hell.’

Me: ‘What does it say?’

‘Find out, shall we?’

Back with the rest of them, the lost twelve.

Another scientist: ‘Preliminary post-mortem on the girl Karen Douglas revealed she died of a single stab wound to the heart.’

Did her Daddy see her die, hear her, – or did she see her Daddy die, hear him?

The pathologist holds up a clear plastic bag containing a grey piece of notepaper:

‘We also extracted this from the back of her mouth.’

Twelve-plus large men lean forward, straining, half-standing, shouting -

The pathologist raises a hand to the noise:

‘It says: 5 LUV.’

Twelve open mouths, twelve fresh curses: Tucking hell fire.’

The pathologist sits back down, nothing more to say.

Twenty-four eyes on Clement Smith, Chief Constable.

Out of the corner of your eye, a dark figure forms -

‘Enough of this fucking bollocks,’ spits Clement Smith, clawing at the table. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook will break down the teams with SOCO: door to door, known associates, witnesses, etc. Bring them in, write it down, the usual.’

The usual -

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, come with me.’

The Chief Constable’s office, the two of us alone -

‘Pete,’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got to be completely honest with me here…’

‘Of course. I always am.’

‘Please, let me finish,’ he says, looking up from his desk. ‘You can see how this looks, can’t you? It’s not good: ex-copper and his daughter murdered, horribly murdered, sadistically, links to prominent businessmen, top policemen, the Yorkshire bloody Ripper. A right fucking mess.’

Silence, the two of us looking at each other until -

Until I tell him: ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be blaming me?’

‘That’s paranoia, Pete. But I wish to Christ you’d kept out of this whole Richard Dawson thing.’

‘Here, here,’ I say. ‘But nobody told me there was a Dawson thing to keep out of, did they?’

‘But common sense would have told you not to talk to Douglas.’

‘Common sense? So you’re saying that was a mistake on my part?’

‘Of course I bloody am. And it’s bound to come out.’

‘So what do I do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, pulling through his beard with his fingers. ‘I don’t bloody know.’

Silence, the two of us not looking at each other until -

Until the telephone rings -

Smith picks it up: ‘Yes?’

He listens, closes his eyes and says: ‘I’ll be down.’

He hangs up, eyes still shut.

I say: ‘His wife?’

He nods.

‘She was there on Sunday, when I went round.’

He doesn’t move.

‘I’ve met her. Do you want me there?’

He opens his eyes and picks up the phone: ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook please.’

He waits, eyes still avoiding mine -

‘Roger,’ he says. ‘Mrs Douglas is here. Meet us downstairs will you?’

He listens to Hook on the other end, then looks up at me as he tells him: ‘Let him stew. We’ll get to Richard bloody Dawson in due course.’

Then, just before he hangs up, he says: ‘And Roger? Don’t tell Dawson about Douglas. And make bloody sure he doesn’t find out.’

He slams the phone down -

It rings again -

‘What is it?’

He looks across at me and says: ‘Tell him Mr Hunter is unavailable.’

He hangs up again.

I say: ‘Who was it?’

‘Chief Constable Angus,’ he says, standing up.

The telephone starts to ring again -

‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Smith, sending the phone flying off the hook and across the desk, storming out of the room.

We knock once, softly, Smith, Hook, and I -

The policewoman opens the door -

Mrs Douglas, puffed and bloated with tea and sympathy, looks up: ‘He said he was just going into town, do some Christmas shopping. She said she wanted to come. I could tell he didn’t want her with him, because of the crowds I thought. But she cried and he gave in. Like he always does. Too bloody soft with her, he is.’

Silence -

Mrs Douglas, about to be gutted by questions and grief, looking at me.

Silence until -

Until Clement Smith begins, extending our official condolences and the like.

‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Douglas says.

‘We’re all very, very sorry,’ says the Chief Constable.

Mrs Douglas looks across at me: ‘Can I see them?’

I shake my head: ‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘They’re not here.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Somewhere else,’ I say.

‘They’re not at home?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re not at home.’

‘Yes, I thought it was strange they weren’t at home,’ she says, blinking, – looking from me to Smith, from Smith to Hook, from Hook to me, to the policewoman and back to me.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says again, sucking in her lips, -squeezing her hands together, whispering to herself, – pinching herself, wide awake and dying -

‘I just don’t understand.’

I push away the sandwich and stand up.

‘I’m going to ring Joan,’ I say.

Clement Smith nods.

‘What time do you want to do Dawson?’ Hook asks him.

Smith looks at his watch and then up at me: ‘Three?’

‘Fine,’ I say and leave them under the bright, bright lights.

‘Where are you?’ she says.

‘Here. Manchester.’

You could cut it with a knife, the silence -

‘What’s going on?’

‘A man who worked for Richard, he’s been murdered. And his daughter.’

I’d been to sleep and I had this nightmare -