David Peace: 1980

‘… and would it not have been possible for roadblocks to have been set up?’

‘Have any suspects been arrested, any witnesses…’

Drowned, beached -

Oldman, a redhead resting in his left hand, glasses off, tears in his eyes.

Noble straining to pick questions from the torrent.

Angus, lips pursed, fingers in the dam.

The man from Community Affairs trying to keep afloat, sinking.

The rest of us, at sea -

Lost.

I look up at the ropes again, dangling -

Looking for a way out -

An exit -

An exit from:

‘… suggestions in some reports that the so-called Wearside Jack Tape , the Ripper Tape , that it is in fact a hoax?’

Silence.

Oldman eyes closed, Noble mouth open, Ronald Angus on his feet and shouting: ‘I would urge members of the public, all members of the public and the press to ignore suggestions that the recording is a hoax. I am 99% sure that the man on the tape, that the voice on the tape is genuine, 99% certain that this is the man we are looking for, that this is the Yorkshire Ripper.’

Looking up at the ropes, dangling -

On the dark stair, we miss our step .

A way out -

An exit.

‘Fuck.’

Doors slamming, jackets off, sandwiches flying, cans cracking.

‘Fucking cunts, the lot of them.’

In the back room, the Brass whipped.

‘A bloody shambles.’

The recriminations and the blame, looking for lambs, a scapegoat -

Community Affairs to the slaughter, Angus wielding the knife:

His turn for blood.

Oldman off to one side, staring into space:

The Scapegoat.

I leave Murphy by the silver foil and the sandwiches and walk over.

‘George,’ I say.

He looks up, taking off his glasses, thinner than I’ve ever seen him.

‘Can I sit down?’

He’s staring straight up at me, his eyes black and tiny holes.

‘George?’

‘Fuck off Hunter.’

There’s a hand at my elbow, Noble whisking me away.

‘We’ll meet in Millgarth at six,’ he’s telling me.

I’m nodding, staring back at Oldman, him back into space, black and tiny.

‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s had a shock that’s all,’ Noble is saying.

Nodding, staring into my own space -

White and huge -

Lost.

‘What was all that about?’ Murphy is shaking his head, reversing out of the car park.

Radio on:

‘Big changes were ordered today in the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper

‘He didn’t know,’ I say.

‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, announced that a brains trust of senior detectives from around the country and a leading forensic scientist are being drafted in to the hunt for the man who has now claimed

‘They don’t waste any bloody time, do they?’

‘No.’

‘ Mr Angus also confirmed that Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable and Head of West Yorkshire CID, has been relieved of his command of the inquiry.’

We drive up the motorway, the Ml, listening in silence as the stories eventually change, as they move on to two and a half million unemployed, a job lost every two minutes, on to the H Blocks and the Eastern Bloc, to a local woman who cut her own throat with a pair of electric hedge clippers.

‘Jesus,’ mutters Murphy as we approach Leeds. ‘What a fucking place.’

Leeds -

Wakefield deserted and barren, Leeds twice that hell and more -

A collision of the worst of times, the worst of hells -

The Medieval, the Victorian, and the Concrete: The dark arches, black mists and broken windows of industrial decay, industrial murder, industrial hell -

Dead city abandoned to the crows, the rain, and the Ripper.

And today, this day:

Friday 12 December 1980 -

It looks no different than we remember, than we feared -

Dread spectre from a woken nightmare -

A past trapped in a future, here and now: Friday 12 December 1980 -

Screaming in the wind -

A bloody castle rising out of the bleeding rain, a tear in the landscape -

Leeds, the grim and concrete medieval:

Dead city -

The crows, the rain, and the Ripper -

The Ripper, King -

The King of Leeds.

In a cold and rotting cafй, in the shadow of an industrial estate, we drink cold and rotting tea to kill the time, lorry drivers eating the fish special, kids playing the slot machine.

It’s pitch black as we pull into the underground car park beneath Millgarth Police Station, Kirkgate Market closing up. Moments later and we’re running back up the ramp and into the rain, the lift not working, the market gutters overflowing with rotten vegetables and foul water, Murphy cursing Leeds and Yorkshire, their coppers and their killer.

‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please.’

The fat sergeant on the desk, his face and hands covered in boils, he sniffs up: ‘And you are?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter and Chief Superintendent Murphy from Manchester.’

He wipes his nose in his fingers: ‘Wait over there.’

‘We have an appointment,’ hisses John Murphy.

‘Fat lot of bloody good that’ll do you if he’s not in.’

I lead Murphy over to plastic chairs under bright strip lights, the smell of wet police dogs rank and strong.

‘Fuck him,’ mutters Murphy.

‘He’s not worth it, John.’

And we sit in silence, staring at the boot marks on the linoleum floor, picking off the dog hairs, waiting -

Waiting for it to start.

And sitting here, staring into the black marks, the dog hairs, I realise how long I’ve been waiting -

Waiting for it all to stop:

Five years -

Five years to come back and right the wrongs, to make it right, make it all worthwhile -

The five years of marriage and miscarriage, of wet pillows and bloody sheets, of doctors and priests, of the drugs and the tests, the broken promises and plates -

Five years of -

‘Manchester? You can go up.’

‘About fucking time,’ says Murphy.

The Sergeant looks back up from his desk: ‘Just Mr Hunter that is.’

I’ve got my palms up between Murphy and the desk: ‘You try and get hold of someone, see if you can sort out the hotel. I’ll talk to Noble about the offices. Yeah?’

He’s got his eyes on the Sergeant, the eyes and boils back on his desk.

‘John?’

‘Right, right, right.’

I say: ‘Then I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so. OK?’

He’s still got his eyes on the Sergeant, but he’s nodding: ‘More good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality.’

The Sergeant doesn’t look up.

‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble, sitting back down behind his desk.

‘No harm done,’ I say as I take a seat across from him.

‘Well that’s OK then,’ he smiles.

He’s older than me, but not by much -

Forty-five at the most; thick hair starting to turn grey, a moustache that gives him the look of a man still hard, still in the chase; and on a morning as he shaves he’s thinking of Burt Reynolds, fancying his chances, still in the hunt.

‘It’s not going to be much of a picnic for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Though I suppose you must be used to it by now.’

‘Sorry? Used to what?’ I say, staring at the photograph of two children on the windowsill behind the desk.

‘Not getting the red carpet.’

‘Don’t expect it.’

‘That’s lucky then,’ he laughs.

The door opens and Chief Constable Angus comes in: ‘Gentlemen.’

‘We were just getting started,’ says Noble, standing up.