David Peace - 1980

A uniform is stood in the back door, smoking a cigarette.

I stand there, under the clothes rack, in front of the washing machine.

She comes up behind me and puts a hand on my arm: ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What a mess,’ I say. ‘What a fucking mess.’

She drives me back through the night, through the dark towns and villages, the snow then sleet then rain, down the deserted streets and roads, the empty hills and fields, the rain then sleet then snow, everywhere dead, everyone dead, everything dead, and I’m wondering how long it’s been like this:

Night -

Dark, deserted, and empty night -

Everywhere dead .

Thinking about October 1965 and Brady and Hindley and all that came after, me a Detective Sergeant back then, twenty-five and freshly wed, that dark, deserted, and empty night David Smith called Hyde Police Station -

Everyone dead .

Digging ever since -

Everything dead .

Thinking, how much longer?

‘Joan?’ I say into the phone, sat on the edge of the hotel bed, the bed all covered with pages from the Exegesis , photographs from Spunk .

‘Peter? What’s happening?’

‘Nothing. Someone’s there with you?’

‘There’s a car outside, yes.’

‘Anyone call?’

‘Clement Smith.’

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, just to see everything was all right. Asked if you were there.’

‘Good of him to call.’

‘You know Roger Hook stopped by as well?’

‘I didn’t, no.’

‘Just after the first car came.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Yes, just to check everything was OK.’ I say: ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Wish you were here though.’

‘I’ll be back soon,’ I tell her, looking at my watch:

Fuck , almost noon:

Wednesday 24 December 1980.

There’s a knock at the door -

‘I’d better go,’ I say. ‘There’s someone at the door.’

‘Drive carefully,’ she says.

‘I will,’ I say. ‘See you later.’

‘Bye-bye.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and go to the door -

It’s John Murphy.

‘You all right?’ he asks.

‘All things considered,’ I smile.

‘What a night, eh?’ he sighs.

‘Yeah.’

‘You coming down, going over to Millgarth, what you doing?’

‘I don’t know. Got a million things to get sorted before tonight. What about you lot?’

‘We’ve gone about as far as we can, for now.’

‘Right,’ I say.

‘When we going to be back over here?’

‘Monday’

‘They’ll be happy about that,’ he nods.

‘Tell you what,’ I say. ‘Let’s all meet at Millgarth at two. Tell you lot what’s been going on, then we can all head home.’

‘That’d be nice,’ says Murphy.

‘I’m sorry, John,’ I say. ‘I did try and get hold of you.’

‘I know,’ he shrugs. ‘Just kept missing each other.’

‘Didn’t mean to keep you out of the loop or anything like that.’

‘I know.’

‘See you over there at two then?’

‘Two it is.’

I sit back down on the edge of the hotel bed and pick up the phone and dial directory inquiries and get the number of the Sunday Times:

‘The Editor, please?’

‘I’m afraid he’s not in today,’ a woman’s voice says.

‘OK. My name is Peter Hunter and I’m the Assistant Chief Constable for Greater Manchester.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. How can I help you?’ she asks.

‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you could put me through to Anthony McNeil or Andrew Driscoll?’

There’s a pause, then the woman says: ‘I’m sorry, sir. Can you just hold on a minute?’

‘Sure,’ I say and hold on -

Moments later, the woman says: ‘I thought so, we don’t have an Anthony McNeil working for us and we did have a Mr Driscoll, but he retired quite a while ago.’

‘Retired? How old was he?’

‘Sixty something. He’d be seventy now – if he’s still alive.’

‘I see.’

‘Was there anything else?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Bye then.’

‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and then dial Wakefield:

‘Community Affairs. Inspector Evans please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter.’

‘One moment, sir.’

Then: ‘Community Affairs. Detective Inspector Evans speaking.’

‘Inspector? This is Peter Hunter.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. What can I do you for?’

‘McNeil and Driscoll? Sunday Times?’

‘Right.’

‘Wrong. I just called the Sunday Times and they’ve never heard of any Anthony McNeil and the only Driscoll they know is retired and seventy years old if he’s not already dead.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yep.’

‘They had press cards.’

‘That’s nice. You didn’t call and check though?’

‘No.’

‘Well done, Inspector.’

‘Shit,’ he says again. ‘So who were they?’

‘Who were they? You’re asking me who they were? You’re bloody Community Affairs, Inspector. I suggest you start bloody finding out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I hang up.

Millgarth, Leeds:

Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, and Helen Marshall -

Craven in the corner.

I sit down at the table, the table full of piles, piles full of files, files full of lists, lists full of names, names full of death and paranoia.

I tell them what they already know: ‘Eric Hall’s wife killed herself last night.’

John Murphy’s nodding, writing in one of the files: ‘Better off.’

‘Shut up,’ says Helen Marshall.

‘Things they did to her, I’d have topped myself years ago.’

‘Leave it, John,’ I hiss.

Murphy, palms up: ‘Sorry.’

‘I’d been going through Eric Hall’s files,’ I say. ‘And it turns out Janice Ryan had done some work for a porn mag called Spunk . This was published by a company called MJM, but it turns out they’ve gone under.’

‘Bust,’ winks Craven. ‘Get it?’

‘Yeah thanks,’ I say. ‘Their forwarding address was a flat above a paper shop owned by Bob here’s partner, the late Bob Douglas.’

‘Ex-partner,’ says Craven, no more jokes.

‘Ex-shop as well,’ I say. ‘It was burnt down night before last. One fatality.’

Marshall’s about to say something, but stops.

‘Any news on the body, Bob?’ I ask Craven -

He sniffs up and says: ‘Looks like murder and arson.’

I count to five, then say: ‘You’re joking?’

‘Unless the bloke had no hands or teeth when he moved in, no.’

‘What?’

‘Whoever it is, they’d cut off his hands and smashed in his teeth.’

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus , I’m thinking, counting to five.

‘What a fucking place,’ says Hillman for all of us.

Me: ‘So they can’t get a name?’

Craven’s shaking his head.

‘You any ideas?’ I ask him.

‘Me? Why would I know who it is?’

‘You were his bloody partner, Bob?’

‘For all of six months.’

‘Who’s handling it?’ I ask.

‘Alderman.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck , I’m thinking, counting to ten.

Then I look back across the room at Craven and I say: ‘Six years today, Bob?’

Craven: ‘Who’s counting?’

I am, I think -

I fucking am .

Hillman: ‘Can I ask something?’

I nod.

‘This letter you got? Any word on that?’

‘Pete Noble sent it over to Wetherby. Still waiting for word from them.’

Murphy: ‘Everything all right?’

‘How do you mean, John?’

‘On the home front?’

Joan, Joan, Joan , I’m thinking, counting to fifteen.