David Peace - 1980

I’ve a headache.

It gets worse:

I open the Yorkshire Post , read their reports of the Ripper, of yesterday’s press conference -

I read my name.

The porridge comes and goes and I’m staring at a cold mixed grill, the terrible colours running together, wishing I was back home with Joan.

‘Just what the doctor ordered, that,’ says John Murphy, sitting down.

‘Big night?’

‘Ah, you know; building bridges, that kind of thing. And yourself?’

‘Dinner with Angus and Noble.’

‘No George?’

‘No George.’

‘And?’

‘Not much; just defined the terms of our investigation for us.’

‘What?’

I hand him the letter: ‘Did you call the others?’

He nods, eyes on the piece of paper before him: ‘Meeting us here at half eight.’

‘Good.’

‘What is this bollocks?’ he says, finished reading.

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to make some calls.’

Murphy’s breakfast arrives and he sets about it.

I order a fresh pot of tea.

‘How was Dickie Alderman?’

‘Friendly enough. You know him?’

‘Not really; just the face. Learn anything?’

‘Morale’s shocking. George going’s about the last straw for most of them. We’re not going to help.’

‘That why they put us here?’ I say, watching the workmen arrive.

Murphy smiles: ‘Yorkshire hospitality.’

‘Bastards, eh?’

I sit on the edge of the hotel bed and dial Whitby:

‘Philip Evans speaking.’

‘This is Peter Hunter.’

‘Pete? How are you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘Settled in?’

‘We’ve got an office and the hotel’s sorted.’

‘Saw the press conference. Looked rough?’

‘It was.’

‘How are they treating you?’

‘Not bad, but I am calling about Chief Constable Angus.’

‘I see.’

‘I was wondering if you’re aware of a letter he’s given me in which he’s basically outlined the terms of reference for our investigation?’

‘I see.’

‘Have you seen it?’

There’s a pause, then Evans says something I can’t catch -

I say: ‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

‘Can you forward the letter to me? And I think it’d be wise if you did the same with any future correspondence pertinent to the Inquiry.’

‘No problem. Is Sir John aware of the letter?’

‘I couldn’t say. He’s on holiday until the New Year.’

‘Yes, someone said. Should I contact Donald Lincoln?’

‘No, I’ll do that.’

‘So I should just ignore the letter?’

‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort everything out.’

‘I’m a bit concerned that…’

‘Don’t be. Leave the politics to me and just concentrate on the investigation. Any hint of obstruction on Yorkshire’s part, pick up the phone and I’ll put a stop to it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Keep in touch, Pete.’

‘I will.’

‘And remember, it was never going to be a picnic’

‘Goodbye.’

I hang up and dial Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble, please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Peter Hunter.’

Hold.

‘I’m afraid the Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’

‘But I’m -’

The dial tone.

In the lobby of the Griffin, in between the white sheets and the splattered ladders, they’re waiting:

Detective Chief Inspector Alec McDonald.

Detective Inspector Mike Hillman.

Detective Sergeant Helen Marshall.

‘Good morning.’

Nods and greetings, twitching and blinking.

I sit down next to John Murphy, the five of us round a low marble-topped table, a plastic bag keeping the paint off.

‘Sorry about this,’ I begin. ‘We have been promised an office in Millgarth, but it’s yet to be set up. I thought we might as well make a start here.’

‘Better than bloody Millgarth,’ laughs Mike Hillman, an eye to the dйcor.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘This is what we’re going to do.’

They’re all leaning forward, notebooks out.

‘I’m going to give you each a year or two of the investigation and twenty-four hours to get to grips with the files. First thing tomorrow morning we’ll meet and start going over the files together. This way you’ll have detailed and specific knowledge of certain cases and a good overview of the investigation as a whole.

‘Each of the cases you’re assigned, you’re going to need to know inside out, to the finest detail, but -’

A pause, a beat:

‘You need to pay special attention to the following and list:

‘The names of all persons mentioned, be they witnesses, suspects, whatever, listed alphabetically.’

A low whistle from Alec McDonald.

‘It’ll be a long list, aye Alec,’ I say. ‘And I’m not finished; plus I want descriptions of all suspects, descriptions of all cars sighted or investigated, alphabetically by make, year, and colour. Finally the names of all policemen involved in the case, alphabetically.’

‘Policemen?’ repeats Hillman.

‘Yes. No matter how minor their role.’

Silence -

‘OK?’

Silence -

‘Mike 1974 and 75, including Clare Strachan.’

A nod.

‘Helen, 76.’ Another nod.

‘John, you got the short straw: 77.’

‘Liz McQueen?’

‘Amongst others.’

Alec McDonald sighs: ‘78 and 79?’

‘No, that’d give you five,’ I say. ‘Just 78. I’ll take 79 and this last one.’

Notebooks open, already writing.

Me: ‘OK, listen -’

Another pause, another beat, before I say: ‘His name, the Ripper’s name, it’s in those files. They’ve met him.’

Helen Marshall says quietly: ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked for the names of any person who has been arrested in connection with any crime involving prostitutes, again no matter how minor or insignificant. Because he’s known.’

‘George Oldman did say if he met the Ripper he’d know him instantly,’ says Mike Hillman.

I close my eyes, hands together -

‘Let me add that you’re to list everyone irrespective of blood type or accent. Especially accent.’

‘So we’re not looking for a Geordie then?’ grins Alec McDonald.

‘No.’

A last pause, then -

‘We’re looking for the Yorkshire Ripper.’

One final beat -

‘And we’re going to find him.’

Back upstairs, on the edge of the hotel bed, dialing Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter.’

Hold.

Murphy’s leaning against a cheap chipped dressing table, snow falling on the roof of Leeds City Station, the windows rattling with the trains and the traffic, the wind and the draughts.

‘You realise how many bloody names we’re going to get?’

I start to speak, but put my hand up, listening -

‘The Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’

I say: ‘You tell him it’s urgent.’

‘I’ve been told to hold all calls.’

It’s an emergency.’

‘But -’

‘I am Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter of the Greater Manchester Police Force and I’m ordering you to put me through.’

Hold.

‘Fucking hell,’ mutters Murphy.

I take a deep breath.

‘Peter Noble speaking.’

‘Peter? Peter Hunter here. Sorry to disturb your meeting.’

‘Yes?’

‘The office? Is it available? What’s happening?’

‘What?’

‘The Chief Constable said last night that an office on the same floor as the Murder Room would be made available for the use of me and my team, yeah?’