David Peace - 1980

‘Well I say we call it a night,’ laughs Angus. ‘After bloody day we’ve had, I say we extend some hospitality to Mr Hunter here and get him some dinner…’

‘I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet John Murphy in…’

‘Don’t worry about John,’ winks Angus. ‘Dickie Alderman and a couple of the lads are taking care of him. They’ve sorted you out rooms at the Griffin and they’ve gone for a pint or two. Or three.’

‘The Griffin?’

‘City centre. Be ideal.’

I pause, then say: ‘I had wanted to make a start right away.’

‘Course you had,’ smiles the Chief Constable. ‘And you will. But we can get just as much done over a steak and a couple of drinks as we can up here.’

They are both at the door, waiting.

‘I need to make a call to Manchester.’

Noble points at the phone on his desk: ‘Be my guest.’

The Draganora Hotel is a modern skyscraper near Leeds City Station, its third-floor restaurant dark and empty.

We take our seats in the window, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.

‘It’s one of them carvery deals,’ smiles Angus. ‘Help yourself to as much as you want and keep going back up until they have to carry you out.’

We order drinks and then head over to the long table at the back of the room, the food lying waiting for us under dim orange lights.

Noble and myself follow Angus along the line, piling on under-cooked meat and over-cooked vegetables until there’s no space left on our plates.

And as we eat we make small talk about the poor seasons Leeds and Man U. are having, the jailing of Lord Kagan, the murder of John Lennon; the three of us careful to avoid the obvious, careful to avoid the fact that we are the only diners in the restaurant of a four-star Leeds hotel a week before Christmas, careful to avoid the reason we are here and no-one else.

Noble goes back up for more.

‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ Angus is saying.

‘You weren’t a fan then?’ I ask.

‘To be honest with you Mr Hunter, I reckon they weren’t that popular over this way. Be different for you mind, coming from over there I suppose. But on this side, we pride ourselves on not following trends.’

‘Still talking about bloody Beatles, are you?’ says Noble, back with a plate for himself and another for his Boss.

‘I was just telling Mr Hunter here, how Yorkshire is always the last bastion of common sense. Like the bloody resistance, we are,’ laughs Angus.

‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ nods Noble, ploughing through his second-helpings.

I sip at my gin and watch the rain, wondering if Joan has gone to bed yet.

Angus is still piling it on his fork, still laughing: ‘You’re not on bloody hunger strike are you?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’

‘Thought you might be off your grub in sympathy.’

‘What?’ I say, smiling but not following.

Angus looks up from his cold pink meat: ‘The Maze. You’re a Roman, aren’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, no offence. Heard you were.’

‘No.’

‘Well anyway,’ he says, putting down his knife and fork and taking out an envelope from inside his jacket. ‘If you’re not eating you might as well have a butchers at this.’

I take the envelope and open it.

Inside is a memorandum from Angus to Sir John Reed, Philip Evans, and myself -

A memorandum outlining the terms of reference for my investigation into their investigation.

I look up.

Angus and Noble have stopped eating and are watching me.

‘Another drink?’ asks Noble.

I nod and go back to the memorandum -

The memorandum that in two sentences states that I have been invited by the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police to review inquiries made into the murders and attacks attributed to the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, that I am to recommend any necessary changes to operational procedures, and that I am to make those recommendations directly to Chief Constable Angus. During the course of my review, should any evidence arise to suggest that any persons involved in the Ripper inquiry are themselves guilty or suspected to be guilty of any offences or negligence, then that evidence is to be immediately forwarded to the Chief Constable and no further or independent action is to be taken on the part of the review.

‘I hope you don’t feel that there’s any attempt here to circumscribe or in any way limit the scope of your investigation,’ smiles Chief Constable Angus. ‘However, and Sir John and I are in complete agreement on this one, an open-ended investigation such as this, any open-ended investigation for that matter, well they can so easily develop into some kind of amorphous bloody mess that, in fact, serves only to obscure and hinder the initial investigation. Am I right?’

‘Absolutely,’ nods Noble.

I take a sip from my fresh gin, counting backwards from a hundred, and then say: ‘You do know why I was brought in?’

‘Yes,’ says Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire.

‘That’s OK then.’ I smile.

Ronald Angus and Peter Noble both take big swallows from their glasses, then Angus glances at his watch and Noble before turning back to me and saying: ‘We’ve arranged for you to have an office right next door to the Ripper Room. That’ll give you easy access to the people and the papers you need.’

‘Thank you.’

Angus nods and then suddenly asks: ‘How’s your wife these days?’

‘Well, thank you,’ I say, lost again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to pry but I heard she hadn’t been so well, that’s all.’

‘She’s fine, thank you.’

Silence -

Just the restaurant dark and empty, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.

Silence, until -

Until Noble suggests: ‘Shall we go to the bar?’

‘The Casino?’ adds Angus.

‘To be honest with you both,’ I smile. ‘It’s been a long day and I’d rather just get to the hotel if that’s all right?’

‘You’re the guest,’ says Angus.

‘I’ll drop you off,’ offers Noble, standing and signalling for the bill.

We take our coats and go down the escalator and wait for the cars to be brought round, the night cold and damp, the conversation dead.

‘Thank you for the meal,’ I say, shaking Angus by the hand.

‘Good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality,’ winks Angus. ‘You sleep tight now Mr Hunter. Make sure them Yorkshire bugs don’t bite.’

The Griffin is an old hotel on Boar Lane.

I say goodnight to Peter Noble and dash for the door and the lobby.

Inside there seems to be some kind of renovation work underway, white sheets hanging from the walls, draped across the furniture.

It’s almost nine o’clock.

I’m the only person here.

I ring the bell and wait.

‘Can I help you?’ asks a receptionist, coming out of a back room.

‘Yes, I should have a reservation. My name is Hunter, Peter Hunter.’

He opens a book on the counter and goes down a list with his finger.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have anyone here by that name.’

‘Murphy? John Murphy?’

‘Ah, yes. Are you sharing with Mr Murphy?’

‘I hope not. I think maybe the reservation was made through a Superintendent Alderman from the Millgarth Police Station?’

He’s nodding: ‘Yes, yes.’

‘Has Mr Murphy checked in yet?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Would it be possible to book me into a separate room?’

‘If that’s what you want.’

‘Please.’

‘Can you give me half an hour? We’re a bit short and some of the rooms are being redecorated.’

‘That’s fine. Can you lend me an umbrella?’