David Peace - 1980

‘His daughter?’

‘Yes.’

There was a girl in a bath -

‘How old was she?’

‘Six.’

You could cut it with a knife, the silence -

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘I don’t know.’

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

‘I love you, Peter,’ she says. ‘I love you so much.’

‘Me too,’ Then: ‘Thanks, love. I’ll see you later.’

There was a girl in a bath .

Outside the interview suite I say: ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’

Smith hisses: ‘I think we’re past good and bad ideas, don’t you?’

Roger Hook comes out of the room: ‘He’s happy to talk to us without a lawyer if Pete’s there.’

‘Well that’s his decision,’ says Smith. ‘If it was me, I’d want all the bloody lawyers present I could afford.’

‘Do you want me to advise him to get his lawyer here?’

‘No. Let’s just do it.’

Smith opens the door and we follow him in -

Richard Dawson stands up behind the table, worried.

‘Mr Dawson,’ says Smith, cutting him off. ‘I think you know everyone?’

Dawson is looking at me, nodding his head up and down.

A young uniform closes the door and sits down behind us.

We pull up chairs around the table, facing Dawson.

Hook puts a cassette into the tape recorder on the table and presses record:

‘Wednesday 17 December 1980. Three-fifteen p.m. Preliminary interview with Mr Richard Dawson in room one at the interview suite at Manchester Police Headquarters. Present Chief Constable Smith, Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, myself, Chief Inspector Hook, and Detective Constable Stainthorpe.’

Clement Smith lowers his head towards the tape recorder and says: ‘Mr Dawson, you’ve been advised that you may have your lawyer present, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘But at this stage you have chosen to proceed without legal representation?’

‘Yes. I am not being charged, am I?’

‘No, and you are aware that you can request a lawyer at anytime during the course of this interview?’

‘That’s fine. Thank you.’

‘OK. You’ve been asked here to discuss matters pertaining to allegations of financial irregularities in your company accounts. Specifically regarding tax and insurance payments, expenses.’

Richard Dawson is still looking at me, nodding his head up and down.

‘However,’ says Smith. ‘I’d like to begin by asking you some questions about a Robert Douglas, who I believe you recently hired as a security advisor?’

‘Yes,’ says Dawson, puzzled, still looking at me.

‘Would you mind telling us how you came to meet Mr Douglas and in what capacity he is employed by you?’

‘I was introduced to Bob Douglas at a local charity event organised for my son’s school. Mr Douglas’s daughter attends the same school and my wife and his wife are both on the PTA.’

‘And which school would this be?’

‘St Bernard’s in Burnage.’

‘Catholic?’

‘My wife is.’

‘OK. So…’

‘So I’ve known of Bob Douglas for a while and spoken to him on a number of occasions at school functions. My wife said he was a former police officer and I remember being vaguely aware that he had been involved in catching that Michael Myshkin and then he’d had to retire after being shot during some kind of robbery in Wakefield. Anyway, couple of months back there was a spate of burglaries in the Didsbury area and I decided it was as good a time as any to tighten up the security at home. I called Bob Douglas and he came out and did a very thorough but reasonably priced job for us. During the course of this we got on very well and since then he’s done other bits of work for me.’

‘Like?’

Still nodding, Richard Dawson says: ‘Security at the office, insurance estimates.’

‘Do you pay him a wage, Mr Dawson?’

‘A retainer, plus a fee for specific work.’

‘When did you last see or speak to him?’

To be honest, I can’t remember when I last saw him without looking at my diary. I have spoken to him though. Last Friday night he called to tell me he’d heard I was under investigation,’ he says, waving a hand at the assembled company.

‘And you’ve had no contact with Mr Douglas since then?’

‘None.’

A knock at the door.

Ronnie Allen comes in and hands a slip of paper to Roger Hook -

Hook glances at it and hands it to Smith -

Smith pulls his chair back from the table and reads the note -

He turns to Ronnie Allen: ‘Get everyone together. Eleventh floor, thirty minutes.’

Allen nods and leaves, careful to avoid my gaze.

Smith reads the paper again, then folds it up and puts it in his pocket -

He looks at Richard Dawson -

‘Mr Dawson,’ says Clement Smith, sitting forward in his chair. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that a security guard found Bob Douglas and his daughter murdered in a warehouse in Ashburys early this morning.’

Richard Dawson pales, swallows, shaking his head from side to side -

Looking into my face, searching -

Desperately lost, pleading -

Mouth opening and closing, choking -

‘Mr Dawson?’ says Smith.

Richard Dawson, blank -

Smith: ‘Do you have anything to say?’

Silence, a long dark silence -

Then Dawson whispers: ‘Nothing, but I’d like to see my lawyer now.’

‘Fine,’ says Smith and stands up. ‘Chief Inspector Hook will make the necessary arrangements and set up a time.’

Hook nods and says into the tape recorder: ‘Interview suspended at three thirty-five p.m. December 17 1980.’

He presses stop, eject, and takes out the tape and writes on the cassette:

Dawson int/1/171280 .

Richard Dawson is still looking at me -

We all stand up, all except Dawson.

I’m following Smith and Hook out when -

‘Pete,’ says Richard Dawson.

I turn around -

‘Thanks for being a friend,’ he spits.

‘What?’

‘You heard.’

Catch-up:

Hook looking at me, Smith holding out the piece of paper -

I take it, read:

Prints on cassette, Jack Whitehead .

Hook staring, Smith waiting -

I say: ‘Jesus.’

Hook nodding, Smith waiting -

I say: ‘Someone called Stanley Royd?’

Hook nodding: ‘Never left his bed.’

Me: ‘Fuck.’

Smith: ‘First thing tomorrow. The pair of you.’

The room upstairs -

Twelve black suits and twelve blank faces.

‘What are we going to tell the press?’ asks someone.

‘Nothing,’ says Smith.

I stand up -

‘Where are you going?’ says someone.

‘Ashburys.’

‘Now?’

‘We’ve missed something. I know we have.’

Twelve dark suits and twelve darker faces -

Their patience gone, my time up:

Exit.

On the way back to Ashburys, a prayer:

O Blessed Lord, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comforts;

I beseech thee, look down in pity and compassion upon this thy afflicted servant .

Thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess my former iniquities;

Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and my soul is full of trouble:

But, o merciful God, who hast written thy holy Word for our learning, that we, through patience and comfort of thy holy Scriptures, might have hope;

Give me a right understanding of myself, and of thy threats and promises;

That I may neither cast away my confidence in thee, nor place it anywhere but in thee .

Give me strength against all my temptations and heal all my distempers .

Break not the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax .