David Peace - 1980

‘Before that?’

‘When he quit he -’

‘When was that?’

‘75 sometime. He didn’t want to, mind – they made him.’

I nod: ‘So what did he do?’

‘Got a ton of brass, didn’t he? Bought a shop.’

‘A shop?’

‘Yeah, but he was never anything to do with any of this,’ he says, waving back over at the Ripper Room. ‘Before his time.’

‘I know.’

‘So why the sudden interest?’

‘He’s dead, Inspector.’

‘What?’

‘They found his body and that of his daughter in Manchester yesterday’

‘His body? What are you talking about?’ says Craven, pulling at his beard.

‘The bodies of Bob Douglas and his daughter.’

‘How? How did they die?’

‘They were murdered.’

Detective Inspector Robert Craven is swaying back and forth on his heels, shaking his head, eyes back and forth across my face, then over my shoulder -

I turn around and there’s John Murphy -

He looks from me to Craven and back again and says: ‘You heard then?’

‘Yep,’ I say, glancing back at Craven. ‘I was there.’

‘Christ,’ says Murphy.

‘Yep.’

‘His little lass and all?’

I nod.

Craven looks at us both and says: ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’

‘Forget it, Bob,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a shock, go home.’

He shakes his head: ‘Ten minutes.’

In the upstairs room again, our room -

The one next to his -

With the dead again, always the dead -

Alec McDonald says: ‘Tracey Livingston, Preston, Saturday 7 January 1978.’

Eyes upon the table top, upon the notebooks and the files.

Tracey left the Carlisle Hotel in the centre of town after last orders Saturday night. Her body was discovered in her flat the next day. She was thirty-three years old and had three kids. She was also a convicted prostitute.

‘Death was due to four blows to the head with an instrument that has yet to be recovered. There were also stab wounds to the abdomen and back, though these would not have proved fatal.

‘Alf Hill was in charge.’

In the upstairs room, silence -

Then Alec says: ‘You want me to go on?’

I nod -

And so he says: ‘On the Sunday evening, her friend Bob Jenkins came round for her. They had arranged to go out for a drink. When there was no answer, he was concerned enough to break down the door. He saw blood on the hall floor and followed the trail into the bedroom. Tracey was in bed, apparently sleeping. Jenkins pulled back the blankets to find her dead, covered in blood. His words not mine. The caretaker called the police.

‘Alf quickly contacted George Oldman, and Yorkshire sent their boys over. Like with us and Doreen Pickles, it was a combined investigation.’

Alec looks up from his notes: ‘You were there yeah, Bob?’

Craven nods, eyes red bloody raw.

Alec: ‘Anything you want to say?’

Craven: ‘It was full-on.’

‘Full-on? How do you mean?’

‘Well, it was Alf Hill’s show. Had the works; reconstructions, TV, radio, even a bloody sйance.’ Murphy: ‘A sйance?’

‘Had us all up there in her flat, this spiritualist trying to make bloody contact.’

‘Get anywhere?’

‘What do you bloody think?’

‘How about this?’ asks Alec McDonald and reads:

‘It is desired to trace the following man who was involved in an incident with a prostitute in Preston city-centre in November 1975 and a similar described man who was seen to pick up Joan Richards, a prostitute who was murdered in Leeds in 1976. White male 30/40 years, five feet eight inches. Stocky build. Ginger-coloured hair which was untidy and a gingerish-coloured beard which was bushy round the cheeks but trimmed under the chin. Pointed nose and ruddy complexion.

‘This man was wearing a well-worn jacket and blue bib and brace type overalls with a pair of trousers underneath. It is thought he had two rings on fingers of left and possibly one on finger of his right hand. The back of his left hand is scarred. This is described as similar to a burn scar and stretches from the knuckles to the wrist. The back of his right hand is also possibly tattooed. This man has the appearance of a workman and probably spends his time in areas where prostitutes are known to loiter.

‘He has the use of a vehicle and it is thought that he had the use of a Land Rover or similar type vehicle from March 1975 to January 1976. It should be borne in mind that the Land Rover could have been in the possession of this man because of his employment and that he might not now have access to this vehicle. Also it could well be that the beard has been shaved off.

‘Suggestions to the identity of this man should be passed to the incident room in Preston or the Murder Room in Millgarth.

‘Message ends.’

Silence -

Then McDonald says: ‘Remind you of anyone we know, Bob?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ spits Craven.

‘What do you think it’s supposed to mean? Does that description remind you of anyone you know?’

‘Fuck off,’ he shouts and gets up and leaves the room -

More silence, minutes of it.

Then Hillman: ‘What was all that about?’

‘He’s had a bit of a shock has Bob,’ I say, catching Helen Marshall’s eye -

The tears in her eyes .

‘Roger?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed -

It’s almost eleven.

‘Pete,’ says Roger Hook, Detective Chief Inspector Roger Hook.

‘Pleasant journey back, was it?’

‘Delightful.’

‘Any news?’

‘We’ve let Dicky Dawson go.’

‘Good.’

‘He’ll be back in on Monday.’

‘What time?’

‘Ten.’

‘Who’s his solicitor?’

‘Michael Craig.’

‘OK,’ I sigh. ‘You haven’t called Pinderfields, have you?’

‘Wakefield? No. Did you?’

‘No, but I suppose I better.’

‘The Chief wasn’t right impressed.’

‘Didn’t think he would be. What did he say?’

‘What didn’t he say. Apparently that Papps bloke’s been raising bloody hell.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What could I say? We questioned the bloke and he lost consciousness.’

‘Sod them,’ I say.

‘Not like you, Pete,’ says Roger.

‘Bad day.’

‘Bad week?’

‘Month.’

‘Year?’

‘One of the worst,’ I laugh.

‘You said it.’

‘Don’t suppose SOCO got anything else from Ashburys?’

‘No.’

‘The tape?’

‘Sent a copy to the University.’

‘All right, I’ll let you get back to it.’

‘Cheers, Pete.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Thirty minutes later the phone goes again -

I pick it up: ‘Hello?’

Silence -

‘Hello?’

Silence -

‘Who is this?’

Silence -

I say nothing -

They hang up.

Thirty minutes later the knock on the door -

I open it -

There’s no-one there -

Just an empty corridor, silent -

I walk to the end -

But there’s no-one there -

Nothing.

Back in the room, the phone’s ringing -

I pick it up: ‘Hello?’

‘Can’t sleep?’ asks Joan.

‘I’ve given it up.’

‘What? Sleep?’

‘Yep,’ I nod.

‘I just called to say goodnight.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I love you.’

‘Me too,’ I say.

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up.

Lit match, gone -

Dark Jack. Lit match, gone -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through my eyes:

Winter, collapse -

Dark Jack.

Winter, collapse -

Like dark Jack, out -

Seeing through my eyes:

1980 -