David Peace: 1980

‘Yep.’

‘Fuck,’ whistles Murphy. ‘Bloody Yorkshire.’

‘Yep,’ I say -

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

The memories neither cold nor lost:

The Strafford Shootings -

Christmas Eve 1974:

A pub robbery that went wrong -

Three dead at the scene, three wounded, one of them fatally -

Two of the wounded, coppers -

Suspects escaped, armed police and roadblocks on the streets of Yorkshire, possible links to Republican terrorists given the proximity to Wakefield Prison .

Twenty-four hours later and it was four dead, two wounded policemen -

Nothing adding up -

Inquiry ordered -

January 1975 and in we came -

A10:

Me and Clarkie -

Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark, a friend.

Four weeks in -

A frantic phone call, a two-hour drive across these damned Moors again, home to bloody sheets and another miscarriage.

Clarkie took over, Murphy stepping in as his deputy

Two weeks on -

Clarkie collapses: pains in the chest, brought on by exhaustion .

Murphy in charge, Hillman as deputy .

Two more weeks -

Clarkie dead: pains in the chest -

Everybody home -

Case closed .

The Moors, Murphy, and me -

Memories neither cold nor lost.

‘Been a while since you seen George then?’ says Murphy, back.

‘Can’t bloody wait,’ I spit.

‘Brought your phrasebook?’

‘Phrasebook? No bastard speaks over there.’

‘Bloody heathens,’ nods Murphy.

I stare out at the lanes of lorries, the Moors beyond, the black poles and the telephone wires -

The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors .

Murder and lies, war -

My War:

Murder and lies, lies and murder.

‘What kind of reception you think we’re going to get?’

‘Cold,’ I say.

‘Bloody Yorkshire.’

His .

Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:

Friday 12 December 1980 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and bad memories of thwarted investigations, of the walls of silence, the black secrets and the paranoia -

Professional hells.

January 1975 -

Nothing but the ill-feelings and terrible memories of the thwarted, of the walls of silence, the black blame and the guilt -

Personal hells.

January 1975 -

Impotent prayers and broken promises, reneged and returned -

December 1980:

Wakefield, barren Wakefield.

West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Laburnum Road, Wakefield.

We park our black Rovers amongst the other black Rovers and go inside out of the rain to be directed back out, across the road to the gymnasium of the Training College.

We are early.

But I can hear the press waiting on the other side of the building, waiting -

Early.

Another uniform sends us down another corridor to a small room beside a kitchen.

And here, in amongst the catering, we find the Yorkshire Brass:

Angus, Oldman, and Noble -

Hiding and already beaten, standing between their sandwiches and their better days, their Black Panthers and their M62 Coach Bombings, their Al Shootings and their Michael Myshkins, those better days a long time gone.

‘Chief Constable Angus?’

He turns around.

‘Mr Hunter,’ he sighs.

The room is silent, dead.

I say: ‘This is John Murphy’

‘Yes,’ he says, not taking Murphy’s hand. ‘We’ve met before.’

Some other men step forward from the back of the room, familiar faces from conferences and old Gazettes, Oldman and Noble dropping back out into the corridor.

Angus introduces Murphy and myself to Bill Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads, to Donald Lincoln, Sir John Reed’s Number Two at the Inspectorate, and to Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Services, a man I’ve met a number of times before.

Leonard Curtis, the Thames Valley DCC, has been unable to make the trip and Sir John himself left for the Caribbean early this morning.

‘Crisis, what crisis?’ smiles Murphy as we’re ushered out the door, towards the gymnasium, towards the waiting pack.

The Pack -

Yesterday’s shock has turned to anger, outright anger.

They are baying for us, smelling wet blood and wanting it fresh.

Lots of it.

A suit from Community Affairs shepherds us through the double doors and into the fray, a sea of hate.

We wade down to the long plastic tables at the front, eight of us, Murphy waiting by the exit.

We take our seats; the pack sitting before us, photographers and TV crews standing over us, everyone jostling for an angle.

Outside the large gymnasium windows it’s almost dark, a black ocean, the sheets of glass reflecting back the bodies of the press, their lights, their cameras, their actions.

Angus taps his microphone.

I am staring up at the ropes dangling from the ceiling.

‘Gentlemen,’ begins Angus. ‘As you are aware, last night I attended an emergency meeting of the West Yorkshire Police Committee which was called in light of the confirmation of Laureen Bell as the thirteenth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.

‘I proposed a number of changes to the Investigation and the Police Committee have accepted them.’

‘Your resignation?’ shouts someone from the back.

Angus feigns deafness: ‘We have invited a number of senior detectives from across Britain and a leading Home Office scientist to assist us in our hunt for this maniac.

‘These men are Mr Leonard Curtis, the Deputy Chief Constable of Thames Valley, who unfortunately could not be with us today…’

‘Bit like the fucking Ripper, eh Ron?’

‘Mr William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads. Commander Donald Lincoln, the Deputy Chief Inspector of Constabulary. Mr Peter Hunter, an Assistant Chief Constable with Greater Manchester, and Dr Stephen Tippet from the Home Office Forensic Science Services.

‘These gentlemen represent the most experienced group of officers who could be mustered to assist our investigations. They will conduct a thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper. They will look critically at police action and advise their West Yorkshire colleagues as to appropriate strategies.

‘Furthermore I would like to announce some internal operational changes which the Police Committee have also approved.

‘As of today Peter Noble has been appointed Temporary Assistant Chief Constable and been taken off all other duties and given sole responsibility for the hunt for this man.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Oldman will remain as head of West Yorkshire CID with responsibility for every incident except the inquiry into these murders and attacks.

‘It is my sincere hope that, with the continued assistance and support of the public, these changes will bring about a speedy and successful end to these horrific crimes.

‘Thank you.’

The sea of hate swells -

A deafening, roaring wave:

‘Would the Chief Constable care to comment on allegations that valuable time was lost…’

‘Was Laureen not reported missing as early as ten-thirty?’

‘And comments from her flatmate that she called the police repeatedly to insist that a search be conducted…’

‘… comment on rumours that she bled to death while officers failed to respond to the repeated worries of her friends and flatmate?’

‘And that Miss Bell’s bloodstained handbag was discovered some time…’

‘That her bag was handed in and simply logged as lost property despite the bloodstains?’