David Peace - 1980

Oldham Street, Manchester -

Saturday 20 December 1980.

In the car, the radio on:

Provisionals to end Dirty Protest as forty men take food .

More London policemen suspended as a result of Operation Countryman .

Hunt to find sadistic gangland killers of ex-policeman and daughter .

Funeral of Ripper victim Laureen Bell .

I switch the radio off and get out of the car and cross the road.

It’s raining, a cold and dirty Manchester rain -

A funeral rain.

270 Oldham Street, black and from before the war, six or seven storeys high without a light.

Just inside the doors are the nameplates, various textile and clothing firms.

No MJM Publishing or Printing Ltd -

Fuck .

I look around, the ground floor offices silent.

There are stone stairs to the left, a lift to the right -

I take the stairs.

On the first floor, lights and the slight hum of machinery.

I tap on the old glass door that says Manchester Divan and open it -

It’s a big room, desks and cabinets by the door, machines and other equipment at the back. There are a lot of brightly dressed Indian or Pakistani women working the machinery. The windows are grey and give no light and the room smells of sweat.

An old Indian or Pakistani man with a beard and a hat looks up from his desk and says: ‘Yes?’

‘My name is Peter Hunter and I’m a police officer,’ I say and show him my identification.

‘Yes?’ he says again, nervously.

‘I’m looking for a company called MJM Publishing or MJM Printing Limited? I believe they had offices in this building?’

The man is nodding: ‘Yes, they were on the third floor.’

‘Can you remember when they left?’

‘About two or three years ago.’

‘You don’t know what happened, do you? They move, go under?’

He’s shaking his head: ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Who owns the building?’

‘Asquith and Dawson are the agents.’

‘Dawson?’

Richard Dawson, businessman, Chairman of one of the local Conservative Parties -

A friend .

‘Yes, Asquith and Dawson by the library.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, an echo -

‘I can’t do time, Richard. I can’t.’

On the third floor landing the window is broken and there is dust and rubbish in the corners, in front of a door that still says MJM Publishing & Printing Ltd .

Across the landing is a second office: Linton & Sons .

There are no lights on and no-one’s answering the door.

I squat down and pick through the rubbish outside MJM’s door -

Nothing, just rubbish.

I try the door and it rattles but I think better of it.

Nearly 10:30 -

Manchester Police Headquarters -

The eleventh floor -

The Assistant Chief Constable’s office -

My office -

Just as I’d left it, but for the mountains of post in the tray.

I walk across the corridor and knock on the Chief Constable’s door.

‘Come.’

I open the door -

Chief Constable Smith behind his desk, Christmas carols playing.

‘Good morning,’ I say.

‘Thought you were in Leeds,’ he says, not looking up.

‘Yeah, I should be but something’s come up I thought you’d want to know about.’

He looks up: ‘What now?’

‘MJM Publishing and Printing?’

He’s shaking his head: ‘Never heard of them.’

‘They used to have premises on Oldham Street. Publish pornography’

‘Really? Pornographers?’ he asks, eyes lighting -

Pet hates .

‘Yeah, under-the-counter type stuff,’ I say, reeling him in.

‘Is that right? Oldham Street?’ he says. ‘You’d better sit down then, hadn’t you.’

I nod.

‘Go on,’ he says.

‘Janice Ryan was in one of MJM’s magazines.’

‘And?’

‘I found the magazine among Eric Hall’s papers. This morning I went to check out the address and found out that MJM have either gone under or moved. But guess who owns the lease on the building?’

On Oldham Street? Who?’

‘Asquith and Dawson.’

‘Richard Dawson’s firm?’

‘Yep.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he shrugs. ‘Asquith and Dawson must own half the bloody buildings in Piccadilly. They own lease on the Arndale, don’t they?’

‘But there’s a clear link here, yeah? With the Ripper?’

‘On Wednesday you were saying chances were Ryan wasn’t a Ripper job?’

‘I don’t know, but I’m sure this is the link between Dawson, Douglas, and Whitehead and the words on that tape; the link we were looking for.’

‘We? You, more like.’

‘OK, the link I think we should be looking into: Dawson, Douglas, Whitehead, Hall, Ryan, and now back to Dawson.’

‘And you Pete, don’t forget yourself.’

On the dark stair -

‘Right,’ I say. ‘And me.’

Chief Constable Clement Smith sniffs up: ‘Roger says you didn’t get right far with Mr Whitehead.’

‘No.’

He sighs, sits back in his chair, then says: ‘We’ve got Dawson coming back in on Monday morning. Are you going to be here?’

‘Don’t think so, no. Not in the morning.’

‘Well, have a word with Roger and see if he can follow up this MJM stuff and put a question in on Monday.’

‘OK,’ I say and stand up.

‘Pete?’

I stop at the door: ‘Yes sir?’

‘You look shattered,’ he says, looking back down at the work on his desk. ‘You want to cut out all this back and forthing between here and there.’

‘I know,’ I nod.

‘Too much for you, you just say the word.’

‘No, it’s OK.’

He looks up again: ‘You spoken to Philip Evans recently?’

‘No.’

‘You ought to. You should tell him about all this.’

‘Yes, I will.’

‘Best he hears it from you first.’

I nod and close the door behind me.

‘Small bloody world, isn’t it,’ says Roger Hook, shaking his head -

We’re sitting in his office, drinking coffee with lumps of artificial milk swimming on the surface.

I say: ‘You see that’s just it; I don’t think it is.’

‘What?’

‘A small world.’

‘So let me get this straight: you’re telling me that your mate Tricky Dicky rents out a building to some pornographers who use Janice Ryan as a model, the same Janice Ryan who’s knocking off Robert Fraser and Eric Hall, the same woman who gets done in by the Ripper, so then Jack Whitehead tries to blackmail Eric Hall, and three years later his prints turn up on a cassette tape that also has your name on it, turns up in the mouth of an ex-Yorkshire copper, a dead ex-Yorkshire copper who was working for, wait for it, wait for it – working for Richard Dawson, Tricky Dicky himself. Your mate. But it’s not a small world, eh Pete?’

‘No.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘It’s a big black bloody world full of a million black and bloody hells, and when those hells collide it’s time for us to sit up and take fucking notice.’

Silence -

Roger Hook uncomfortable, he takes a mouthful of cold coffee before he says: ‘So what now?’

‘I’ll go round to Asquith and Dawson, see what happened to MJM Publishing Limited.’

‘You don’t have to do that. Send Ronnie.’

I roll my eyes and stand up.

‘Not Ronnie then. Anyone, it’s just bloody legwork.’

‘I like legwork.’

‘Please yourself,’ he says. ‘Usually do anyway.’

I stop at the door, turn around and say: ‘Reminds me. Did anyone talk to that orderly at Stanley Royd, Leonard Marsh?’

‘Shit, sorry.’