David Peace - 1977

‘And?’

‘The jury’s still out.’

‘I need a friend, John.’

‘Bob, Bob, you got me.’

‘I need all the bloody ones I can get.’

‘Well, watch him. That’s all.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Just watch him.’

There’s a knock.

Piggott tenses.

I go to the door, say: ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Jack Whitehead.’

I open the door and there he is, standing in the rain and the lorry lights, a dirty mac and a carrier bag.

‘You going to let me in?’

I open the door wider.

Jack Whitehead steps into Room 27, clocking Piggott and then the walls:

‘Fuck,’ he whistles.

John Piggott sticks out his hand and says, ‘John Piggott. I’m Bob’s solicitor. You’re Jack Whitehead, from the Yorkshire Post?’

‘Right,’ says Whitehead.

‘Have a seat,’ I say, pointing at the mattress.

‘Thanks,’ says Jack Whitehead and we all squat down like a gang of bloody Red Indians.

‘I didn’t do it,’ I say, but Jack’s having trouble keeping his eyes off the wall.

‘Right,’ he nods, then adds: ‘Didn’t think you did.’

‘What have you heard?’ asks Piggott.

Jack Whitehead nods my way, ‘About him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Not much.’

‘Like?’

‘First we heard was there’d been another murder, in Bradford, everyone over there saying it was a Ripper job, his lot saying nothing, next news they’d suspended three officers. That was it.’

‘Then?’

‘Then this?’ says Whitehead, taking a folded newspaper out of his coat and spreading it over the floor.

I stare down at the headline:

RIPPER LETTER TO OLDMAN?

At the letter.

‘We’ve seen it,’ says Piggott.

‘Bet you have,’ smiles Whitehead.

‘A surprise in Bradford,’ I whisper.

‘Kind of puts you in the clear.’

‘You’d think so, yeah,’ nods Piggott.

Whitehead says, ‘You think it was the Ripper?’

‘Who killed her?’ asks Piggott.

Whitehead nods and they both look at me.

I can’t think of anything, except she was pregnant and now she’s dead.

Both of them.

Dead.

Eventually I say, ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Well, I’ve got something else. Another hat for the ring,’ says Whitehead and tips a pile of magazines out of his plastic carrier bag.

‘Fuck’s all this?’ says Piggott, picking up a porno mag.

‘Spunk . You heard of it?’ Whitehead asks me.

‘Yeah,’ I say.

‘How?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘Well, you need to,’ he says and hands me a magazine open at a bleached blonde with her legs spread, mouth open, eyes closed, and fat fingers up her cunt and arse.

I look up.

‘Look familiar?’

I nod.

‘Who is it?’ asks Piggott, straining at the upside-down magazine.

I say, ‘Clare Strachan.’

‘Also known as Morrison,’ adds Jack Whitehead.

Me: ‘Murdered Preston, 1975.’

‘What about her? You know her?’ he asks and hands me another woman, Oriental, black hair with her legs spread, mouth open, eyes closed, and thin fingers up her cunt and arse.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Sue Penn, Ka Su Peng?’

Me: ‘Assaulted Bradford, October 1976,’

‘Give the boy a prize,’ says Whitehead quietly and hands me another magazine.

I open it.

‘Page 7,’ he says.

I turn to page 7, to the dark-haired girl with her legs spread, her mouth open, her eyes closed, a dick in her face and come on her lips.

‘Who is it?’ Piggott’s asking.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Jack Whitehead.

Piggott still asking: ‘Who is it?’

But the rain outside, it’s loud, deafening, like the lorry doors as they slam shut, one after another, in the car park, endlessly.

No food, no sleep, just circles:

Her cunt.

Her mouth.

Her eyes.

Her belly.

No food, no sleep, just secrets:

In her cunt.

In her mouth.

In her eyes.

In her belly.

Circles and secrets, secrets and circles.

I ask: ‘MJM Publishing? You checked it out?’

‘I was over there yesterday,’ says Whitehead.

‘And?’

‘Your run-of-the-mill porn publisher. Slipped a disgruntled employee twenty quid for the names and addresses.’

John Piggott asks, ‘How did you find out about it?’

‘Spunk? ’

‘Yeah.’

‘An anonymous tip.’

‘How anonymous?’

‘Young lad. Skinhead. Said he’d known Clare Strachan when she was calling herself Morrison and living over here.’

I say, ‘You got a name?’

‘For him?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Barry James Anderson, and I’d seen him before. Local. He’ll be in the files.’

I swallow; BJ .

‘What files?’ asks Piggott, playing catch-up, years behind.

‘Can’t you have a word with Maurice Jobson,’ presses Whitehead, ignoring Piggott. ‘The Owl’s taken you under his wing, hasn’t he?’

I shake my head. ‘Doubt it now.’

‘You told him anything about any of this?’

‘After that last time we spoke, I went to him to get the files.’

‘And?’

‘Gone.’

‘Fuck.’

‘A Detective Inspector John Rudkin, my bloody boss, he checked them out in April 1975.’

‘April ’75? Strachan wasn’t even dead then.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And he never brought them back?’

‘No.’

‘Not even after she did die?’

‘Never even fucking mentioned them.’

‘And you told Maurice Jobson all this?’

‘He worked it out for himself when he tried to pull the files.’

‘Which files?’ asks Piggott again.

Whitehead, foot down, ignoring him again: ‘What did Maurice do?’

‘Told me he’d deal with it. Next time I saw Rudkin it was when they came and picked me up.’

‘He say anything?’

‘Rudkin? No, just took a fucking swing.’

‘And he’s suspended?’

‘Yes,’ says Piggott, a question he can answer.

‘You spoken to him?’

‘He can’t,’ says Piggott. ‘It was one of the stipulations of his release. No contact with DI Rudkin or DC Ellis.’

‘What about Maurice?’

‘That’s OK.’

‘You should show him these,’ says Whitehead, pointing at the carpet of pornography before us.

‘I can’t,’ I say.

‘Why not?’

‘Louise,’ I say.

‘Your wife?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The Badger’s daughter,’ smiles Whitehead.

Piggott: ‘You going to tell me which fucking files you’re talking about. I think I should know

Mechanically I say, ‘Clare Strachan was arrested in Wakefield under the name Morrison in 1974 for soliciting, and was a witness in a murder inquiry.’

‘Which murder inquiry?’

Jack Whitehead looks up at the walls of Room 27, at the pictures of the dead, at the pictures of the dead little girls and says: ‘Paula Garland.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Yeah,’ we both say.

Jack Whitehead comes back with three teas.

‘I’m going to go see Rudkin,’ he says.

‘There’s someone else,’ I say.

‘Who?’

‘Eric Hall.’

‘Bradford Vice?’

I nod, ‘You know him?’

‘Heard of him. Suspended, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about him?’

‘Turns out he was pimping Janice.’

‘And that’s why he’s suspended?’

‘No. Peter Hunter’s mob.’

‘And you think I should pay him a visit?’

‘He must know something about these,’ I say, pointing at the magazines again.

‘You got home addresses for them?’

‘Rudkin and Hall?’

He nods and I write them out on a piece of paper.

‘You should talk to Chief Superintendent Jobson,’ Piggott is telling me.