David Peace - 1980

‘Do you have any comment to make about that?’ asks McNeil.

‘It’s good advice.’

‘What about him saying that all the murders might not be linked, that the tape might be a hoax?’

‘He didn’t actually say that. But what he did say was good advice.’

‘What about the murders not all being linked, what about that?’

‘He’s right, you can’t be 100% certain.’

‘Janice Ryan? What about her? Always been a big question mark over her.’

‘Like I just said, you can’t be 100%.’

‘So you’re not at present investigating any connection between the murders of Janice Ryan and a Bradford Vice detective called Eric Hall?’

Evans is on his feet, trying to interrupt -

I’m shaking my head: ‘No we aren’t.’

‘That’s not what his widow is saying.’

Me: ‘You’ve spoken to Mrs Hall?’

McNeil and Driscoll both nod -

‘She’s mistaken then,’ I say.

‘And so there’s no truth in reports that the murders of Hall and Ryan are being linked in any way to raids earlier today on premises in Greater Manchester, which are in turn being connected to the murders there of Robert Douglas and his six-year-old daughter Karen last week?’

‘I don’t know anything about any raids.’

Driscoll: ‘Well we’ve received information that the offices of Asquith and Dawson and various city centre premises belonging to them were raided at dawn today’

I’m looking at Evans, who’s still stood up and looking at me, our eyes and hands all over the place -

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ I say, eventually.

McNeil: ‘Are you aware that there are rumours circulating to the effect that you are to be removed from this so-called Brains Trust , this Super Squad , due to your personal connections to Richard Dawson, the man targeted in today’s raids?’

‘That’s it,’ says Evans. ‘I’ve heard enough of this.’

They both stand up, McNeil and Driscoll, their hands raised in apology -

Mouthing and whispering this and that about getting off on the wrong foot -

Foot in their mouths, no offence intended -

But I’m just sat there, reeling -

When Anthony McNeil leans across the desk, hand out: ‘Thank you for your time.’

I put my own hand out automatically, unable to speak -

And then he tightens his grip on my hand and whispers: ‘You think the tape’s a hoax, don’t you?’

Evans: ‘Mr McNeil -’

‘Yes or no?’

Evans: ‘He’s not going to be drawn into -’

‘Yes or no?’

Silence again, fucking silence -

McNeil, Driscoll, and Evans, all staring at me -

Staring at me sat there behind Noble’s desk -

In Noble’s chair -

‘Yes or no Mr Hunter?’

‘No.’

Searching for a phone and a car, upstairs and down, Millgarth giving me the bloody run around, the finger -

At last, long bloody last, into a phone in a corner of the Ripper Room: ‘Roger?’

‘Pete? Thank Christ for that.’

Me: ‘What the fucking hell’s going on?’

‘Smith’s only had Vice raid Dawson’s office and that place you went on Oldham Street.’

‘Shit.’

‘And he’s told the press of possible links to the Douglas murders.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Gets worse, mate.’

‘What?’

‘Dawson never showed up this morning.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Fuck knows. His solicitor knows nothing, sat there waiting like us, couldn’t get in touch with him.’

‘You called his wife?’

‘Not a clue. Hysterical.’

‘Shit, she’ll have been onto Joan.’

‘He called you has he?’

‘No.’

‘You heard about the raids?’

‘From the Sunday bloody Times.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Yeah, told me I was going to be removed from the Ripper because of it.’

‘Because of Dawson?’

‘Yep.’

‘Bollocks. You coming back over?’

‘Can’t,’ I say, looking at my watch again -

Fuck:

Gone two.

‘Pete?’

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘Said, keep in touch mate.’

‘OK.’

I hang up and sprint downstairs, then shit -

Back up to our room again for the bag of Spunks -

Nods at Murphy and McDonald, weird looks from the pair of them -

Then back downstairs again, underground.

Snow -

At least they’ve given me a Saab -

I push out of Leeds, radio on:

‘Some shops are closing early today to allow staff to go home in daylight, this following a telephone threat to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper, saying he would kill again today or tomorrow.’

Black snow -

The car freezing -

So this is Christmas?

Roads dead, coming down through Morley, thinking of Joanne Thornton, heading down into Batley, thinking of Helen Marshall -

And what have we done?

On to the Bradford Road, out of Batley itself and I can see the car up ahead, parked in the same spot -

I pull up a little way behind and lock the car and jog down the road, the snow now just a dirty cold grey rain, the long night coming down.

I tap on the driver’s door and look in -

No-one.

Fuck .

I try the door -

Locked.

I look up the road, down the road, across at RD News -

Deserted, the whole place, but for a steady stream of lorries in the rain.

Fuck, fuck .

And then I see her, coming out of the phonebox further up, her jacket over her head, running back towards the car in the lorry lights and sleet -

She sees me, jumps -

‘I was just calling you,’ she says, opening the car door, glancing back over at the newsagents.

‘Why? Something happened?’

‘No, no,’ she says, getting in and opening the other side for me -

We close the doors and sit there, the car cold and stale, her looking old and rough.

‘I just wanted to know when you’d be coming back,’ she says, embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been a bloody rotten day’

‘Laugh a minute here,’ she smiles.

‘Quiet?’

‘As the grave.’

‘You eaten anything?’

‘A pair of driving gloves and a map book.’

‘Sorry, should have brought something.’

‘I can last,’ she says.

I say: ‘You get off now.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll stay’

‘What time shall I come back?’

‘You’ve done enough.’

‘No, I want to.’

‘You sure?’

‘I wouldn’t say if I wasn’t.’

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

‘No, you better get something to eat, get some sleep.’

‘Think I’ve gone past sleep.’

‘Actually there is one thing,’ I say, taking out my notebook.

She’s smiling: ‘Thought there might be.’

‘Could you just ring Mrs Hall? Seemed to get on, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Just see how she is.’

‘That it?’ she laughs. ‘See how she is?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I had this interview with a right pair from the Sunday Times . They said they’d been talking to her. You could just ask her about them?’

‘Ask her what about them?’

‘What they’d asked her, what she said.’

‘OK. The subtle approach?’

I tear out the page with Mrs Hall’s number on it -

‘It’s the top one,’ I say.

‘Who’s the other one?’

‘The Reverend Laws.’

‘I was just thinking about him,’ she says.

‘How awful for you.’

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asks.

‘No.’