David Peace - 1980

Another voice from behind another door: ‘Hello?’

‘Mrs Hall? It’s Peter Hunter.’

I listen to a chain being dropped and two locks sliding back -

The door opens:

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter,’ smiles Libby Hall -

‘Is it?’ I say, looking round at the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me.

‘Come in,’ she says. ‘I seem to be quite the flavour of the month.’

‘Thank you,’ I say and walk through into the front room.

‘Do sit down,’ she says.

‘Thank you,’ I say again and sit down on the big golden sofa.

‘What happened to your face?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Really,’ she smiles. ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve just had one.’

‘If you’re sure I can’t tempt you?’ she laughs, sitting down beside me on the sofa.

‘You said you’d been having a lot of visitors?’

‘It seems so,’ she smiles. ‘First you and DS Marshall, then the Reverend called by again, not that that was such a surprise, then Helen Marshall came back last night, and now you again, not to mention my son; he’s forever popping in and out, checking up on me no doubt.’

‘You saw DS Marshall yesterday then, did you?’

‘Yes, she rang and asked if it would be OK. Because it was a bit late.’

‘What time was it when she got here?’

‘About nine thirty, I think,’ she says, puzzled.

‘Did she stay long?’

‘No, why? Is anything the matter?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’

‘No, why should it have done?’

She’s tugging at her necklace, at the skin beneath: ‘Well, you know? The Ripper promising to kill again?’

‘Mrs Hall, I assure you there’s nothing wrong. I was up this way and I thought seeing as I’m in the area, I’d pop in and say hello. But I know DS Marshall was planning to have a chat with you, just our paths haven’t crossed today. That’s all.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunter. But it’s just she didn’t look so well either.’

‘I think she’s just tired, what with the Ripper Inquiry and all.’

‘That’s what she said. I thought you were going to say she’d been in some kind of accident or something.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘That’s all right then,’ she smiles.

‘She didn’t ask you about these two fellers from the Sunday Times , did she?’

‘Yes, yes. That’s a queer business, that is.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Well I never spoke to anyone from the Sunday Times , did I?’

‘You speak to any journalists recently?’

‘Mr Hunter, would that I had,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve tried, but no-one wants to know.’

‘Talk to anyone recently? Other policemen? Anyone?’

She’s shaking her head: ‘That’s what Helen Marshall asked and I’ll tell you the same as I told her: No – unfortunately’

‘Did DS Marshall ask you anything else?’

‘Bit about the Reverend, bit about Mr Whitehead.’

‘Right,’ I nod.

‘Hear Mr Whitehead isn’t so well?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘Had some kind of seizure?’

‘Yes, I believe that’s what it was.’

‘But he’s out of the woods apparently?’

‘Is that what DS Marshall said?’

‘Helen? No, it was the Reverend Laws told me.’

‘So what time did she leave?’

‘Oh, about ten, ten thirty maybe? She didn’t stay more than an hour, if that.’

I glance at my watch.

‘You’re sure nothing’s happened? Not trying to spare me something, are you Mr Hunter?’

I say: ‘She’s fine. But do you mind if I just ask you a couple more questions?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’ve been going through Eric’s things, the stuff you gave me, and I came across a magazine; a pornographic magazine.’

‘Yes,’ she says, not missing a beat, a blink: ‘Spunk.’

I nod and say: ‘You know anything about it?’

‘Only that Janice Ryan was in it.’

‘You never heard Eric mention it?’

‘No.’

‘How about a company called MJM Limited?’

‘Does sound familiar actually.’

I sit forward: ‘Yes?’

‘They make films, don’t they?’

‘Maybe. What do you know about them?’

‘They have that lion at the start? Them yeah?’

I sit back in my chair and smile: ‘That’d be MGM, Mrs Hall.’

‘Sorry, who did you say?’

‘M J M.’

‘No, I don’t think so then.’

‘What about a man called Richard Dawson?’

She’s shaking her head: ‘No.’

‘Your husband know anyone at all called Richard?’

She pauses, then says slowly: ‘No; not that I can think of.’

‘No-one? Not one single person?’

‘Well, there’s our son Richard of course.’

I say: ‘How about a Bob Douglas? Did he ever mention a policeman called Bob Douglas?’

‘Yes,’ she says, sitting up. ‘Dougie? Yes. His wife Sharon and the little girl -’

‘Karen,’ I say.

‘Yes, Karen.’

‘You friends with them, were you?’

‘Friends? Suppose we are – were anyway.’

‘Been over to their house, have you?’

‘Me, no. Manchester?’

‘Levenshulme.’

‘That’s right. I know Eric went there a couple of times and Dougie used to come over here and play a round or two with Eric every now and again.’

‘Golf?’

‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘Though Dougie, Bob that is – he apparently thought he was a lot better than he actually was. They did come to dinner once as well.’

‘Bob Douglas and his wife?’

‘Yes, just the once. She’s a lot younger than I am, so I suppose you couldn’t expect them to, you know, be coming down all the time.’

‘When did you last see them?’

‘Not since…’

‘Right,’ I say, quickly.

‘Same with a lot of folk.’

Moving fast now: ‘How did they meet?’

‘Bradford, when Dougie first started.’

‘Of course,’ I nod.

‘Wasn’t there long before he was transferred,’ she’s saying, staring off into the heavy gold curtains. ‘But then when he got shot and there was all that business and then they got the house over there, well I think they just had less chance to see each other.’

‘But they got on well?’

She frowns: ‘He wasn’t right was Dougie – not after the shooting.’

‘So I hear.’

‘But would you listen to me?’ she says, suddenly. ‘I’m as bad as them that talk about me, aren’t I?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No you’re not.’

‘Better off dead, kicking him out like that – that’s what they say about him; what Eric said. Better off dead – just like they say about me.’

‘It’s not the same.’

‘Better off dead, that’s what they say.’

I say: ‘Mrs Hall, I’m afraid Bob is dead.’

She tugs at the skin of her neck and says: ‘When?’

‘Last week. I thought you would have heard.’

She shakes her head: ‘No.’

‘He was murdered.’

Tugging at the skin of her neck, shaking her head: ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking out at the road and the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me -

‘It was Eric’s worst nightmare that, you know?’ says Mrs Hall suddenly.

‘What was?’

‘Being kicked out like Dougie was. That and having to do time.’

‘Bob Douglas was hardly kicked out. Got a load of brass.’

‘Eric always said he’d kill himself rather than lose his job or go inside.’