David Peace - 1980

‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it when I’m back over there.’

‘Lucky you like legwork,’ Hook smiles.

‘Isn’t it.’

Asquith and Dawson, big fat offices on the corner of Mosley Street and Princess Street.

At reception, I ask the young girl in the roll-neck sweater: ‘Is Mr Dawson in?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘It’s Saturday.’

‘I’m from the police, love,’ I say. ‘And I know it’s Saturday’

‘But he’s not in,’ she says, her eyes filling with tears.

‘OK, then I need you to help me get some information.’

‘I don’t think I can do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m new.’

‘Is there anyone old here?’

‘No, it’s Saturday. Sorry, I mean no.’

I sigh: ‘You’re on your own then?’

‘Everyone else is out,’ she nods.

‘When will they be back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘OK,’ I say, taking out my ID. ‘I’d like you to find the records on one of your properties on Oldham Street. Number 270.’

‘But I don’t know how.’

‘I’m just after a forwarding address.’

‘A forwarding address?’

‘Yes, the people have moved and we need to get in touch with them. It’s very important police business.’

‘But I don’t know where they keep that kind of information.’

‘Well, where are the records?’

‘Upstairs, on top floor I think.’

‘Can you show me?’

‘Mr Asquith says I’m not to leave the desk.’

‘OK, I don’t want to get you into trouble. I’ll just nip up and have a look and be back in a sec’

‘I’m not sure that’s OK.’

‘Is it open?’

‘Yes, it’s open but…’

‘OK, then. You can hang on to this,’ I say, handing her my ID. ‘Any questions you have you call the Manchester Police Headquarters. I’ll be back in five minutes.’

I leave her holding the wallet and start up the stairs -

‘Top floor?’ I call back.

She nods, staring at the ID.

I take the stairs two at a time, past the empty offices with their big yellow computers and their potted black plants, their posters of foreign lands and pastel wallpapers -

At the top of the stairs, there’s a set of double doors -

I open them and -

Fuck:

I stare at rows and rows of filing cabinets -

I walk down the rows and rows, peering in drawers as I go, properties listed by obscure references -

I turn and walk down another row, again opening drawers as I go -

Bingo:

Client records.

Down the row I go, heading for the Ms -

I pull open the drawer marked Mi – Mo -

I flick through, I flick through, I flick through -

Yes:

MJM Publishing & Printing Limited .

It’s a thick file, bound in manila card.

I want copies, but I’ve no chance.

I flick through, I flick through. I flick through -

Flicking through for a forwarding address -

Yes:

MJM Publishing Ltd, c/o 230 Bradford Road, Batley, West Yorks .

I take it and am away -

Down the stairs -

The young girl at the desk is still holding my wallet, staring at it.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

She hands me my ID.

‘What’s your name?’ I ask her.

‘Helen.’

‘That’s a nice name,’ I say. ‘My favourite.’

‘Thanks,’ she smiles.

‘Bye,’ I say.

‘Bye.’

Back in the office, I call Philip Evans:

‘Hello, this is Peter Hunter. Could I speak to Mr Evans please?’

‘I’m afraid Mr Evans is not at work today.’

‘OK. I’ll call back on Monday then.’

‘I’m sorry, but we’re not expecting Mr Evans back until after Christmas.’

‘Really? OK. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Bye.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back. I flick through my address book, looking for Evans’ home number -

It’s not there.

I pick up the phone and call his office again but the line’s engaged.

After a few minutes I try again but it’s still engaged, so I go back to the cards and the letters in my tray.

At about three, I call Leeds:

‘Can you put me through to Chief Superintendent Murphy, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Hang on.’

I hang on -

‘Chief Superintendent Murphy’s not here.’

‘Thank you.’

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, thinking back.

I pick up the phone and call Philip Evans’ office again:

No-one’s answering.

I go back to the cards and letters in my tray.

At about half-four, I call Wakefield:

‘Can you put me through to the Chief Constable, please?’

‘Who’s calling, please?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, from Manchester.’

‘Just a moment, sir.’

‘Thank you.’

I wait -

‘This is Chief Constable Angus speaking.’

‘Sorry to bother you, sir. This is Peter Hunter.’

‘What can I do for you Mr Hunter?’

‘I’d like to arrange to have some time with a couple of your senior detectives, ones who’ve been involved in the inquiry.’

‘I see.’

‘Is that going to be a problem?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, provided we can spare them.’

‘Of course.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.’

‘OK. When?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow? Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

‘I know, but we’re going to be into Christmas soon. It won’t take long.’

‘I’ll give Pete Noble a call and see what we can do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Til have him call you. You at Millgarth?’

‘No, sir. I’m in Manchester.’

‘Manchester? Any progress with Bob Douglas?’

‘No, sir.’

A pause, then: ‘I see, so when will you next be deigning us with your presence over here?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘OK, then I’ll either have the lads waiting for you or a message.’

‘I can call back later?’

‘No, you get off home Mr Hunter.’

‘Thank you,’ I’m saying, but the line’s already dead.

I put the phone back and stare at the back of the door, listening to the radio:

The football scores coming in:

Thirteen-nil .

After a few minutes I get up, take my coat from the back of the door, switch out the light and leave, locking the door behind me -

Back a minute later to check, then gone again.

The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys -

The scene of the crime:

It’s dark as I park on the empty wasteland, just a police car sitting in the gloom, here to watch:

DEATH -

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

Trains pass, a dog barks, a man screams words I can’t catch.

I stumble across craters still filled with dead water, torch in hand, nodding at the officers in the car -

Before me, the building looms – dark and towering, eyes dead, here to stare:

DEATH -

A figure walks, dreadful -

Trains pass, a dog screams, a man barks words I can’t catch -

I turn, but there’s no-one.

In the doorway I switch off the tapes in my head, here to listen:

DEATH -

This is the place, the swans loose -

I step inside -

The workbenches, the chains and the tools; the machines silent.

I step forward, listening: DEATH -

Wings nailed to the ash, pornography -

I run my hand across the heavy bench, across the dark stains, across the etchings and the carvings, the messages, the signs and the symbols -