David Peace - 1977

‘Mrs Watts was the victim of a particularly brutal attack, the details of which we are unable to reveal at this stage of our inquiry. However, a preliminary post-mortem by Professor Farley of the Department of Forensic Medicine at Leeds University, has determined that Mrs Watts was killed by a substantial blow to the head from a heavy blunt object.’

A substantial blow and I knew I shouldn’t be here, letting him take me there:

Soldier’s Field: under a cheap raincoat, another rollneck sweater and pink bra pushed up over flat white tits, snakes pouring from her stomach wounds .

Oldman was saying, ‘Mrs Watts had been living in the city since October last year, after moving up from the London area where it is believed she worked in a number of hotels. We are particularly interested in talking to anyone who can give us more information about Mrs Watts and her life in London.

‘We would also appeal to any member of the public who was in the vicinity of Soldier’s Field on Saturday night, Sunday morning, to come forward for purposes of elimination only. We are particularly interested in speaking to the drivers of the following cars:

‘A white Ford Capri, a red or maroon Ford Corsair, and a dark-coloured Landrover.

‘Again, I would stress that we are trying to trace these vehicles and their drivers for elimination purposes only and that any information received will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

Oldman took a sip of water, before continuing:

‘Furthermore, we would like to appeal for a Mr Stephen Barton of Francis Street, Leeds, to come forward. It is believed that Mr Barton was a friend of the deceased and could have valuable information about the last few hours of Mrs Watts’ life.’

Oldman paused, then smiled: ‘Again, this is for elimination purposes only and we would like to emphasise that Mr Barton is not a suspect.’

There was another pause as Oldman went into a whispered huddle with the two men next to him. I tried to put names to the faces: Noble and Jobson I knew, the other four were familiar.

Oldman said, ‘As some of you are no doubt aware, there are some similarities between this murder and those of Theresa Campbell in June 1975 and Joan Richards in February 1976, both of whom were prostitutes working in the Chapeltown area of the city.’

The room erupted and I sat there shocked that Oldman had said this so openly, given all his previous form.

George moved his hands up and down, trying to calm everyone: ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll let me finish.’

But he couldn’t stop it, and neither could I:

It was worse than I thought it would be, more than I thought it would be: white panties off one leg, sandals placed on the flab of her thighs .

Oldman had paused, his best Headmaster stare on show until the room went quiet. ‘As I say,’ he continued, ‘there are some similarities that cannot be ignored. At the same time, we cannot categorically say that all three murders are the work of the same individual. However, a possible link is one avenue of inquiry we are pursuing.

‘And, to that end, I’m announcing the formation of a task force under Detective Chief Superintendent Noble, here.’

That was it, chaos; the room couldn’t contain these men and their questions. All around me, men were on their feet, shouting and screaming at Oldman and his boys.

George Oldman was smiling, staring straight back at the pack. He pointed at one reporter, cupping his ear to the question, then feigning indignation and exasperation that he couldn’t hear the man. He put up his hands, as if to say, no more .

The noise subsided, people sat back down on the edge of their seats, poised to pounce.

Oldman pointed at the man still standing.

‘Yes, Roger?’ he said.

‘Was this latest victim, Marie Watts, was she a prostitute then?’

Oldman turned to Noble, and Noble leant into Oldman’s microphone and said, ‘At this point in our investigation, we can neither confirm nor deny such reports. However, we have received information that Mrs Watts was known in the city as something of what we would describe as a good-time girl.’

Good-time girl .

The whole room thinking, slag .

Oldman pointed to another man.

The man stood and asked, ‘What specific similarities have led you to investigate a possible connection?’

Oldman smiled, ‘As I say, there are some details of these crimes that we are unable to make public. However, there are some obvious similarities in the location of the murders, the age and lifestyles of the victims, and the way in which they were killed.’

I was drowning:

Blood, thick, black, sticky blood, matting her hair with pieces of bone and lumps of grey brain, slowly dripping into the grass on Soldier’s Field, slowly dripping over me .

At the back, I raised a hand above the water.

Oldman looked over the heads at me, frowned for a moment, and then smiled. ‘Jack?’ he said.

I nodded.

A couple of people down the front turned round.

‘Yes, Jack?’ he said again.

I stood up slowly and asked, ‘Are these the only three murders under consideration at the moment?’

‘At the moment, yes.’

Oldman nodded and pointed at another man.

I sat back in my chair, drained, relieved, the questions and answers still flying around me.

I closed my eyes, just for a bit, and let myself go under.

The dream is strong, black and blinding at first, then slowly settling, hovering quietly behind my lids .

Open my eyes and she’ll still be there :

A white Marks & Spencer’s nightie, soaked black with blood from the holes he’s left .

It’s January 1975, just a month after Eddie .

The fires behind my eyes, I can feel the fires behind my eyes and I know she’s back there, playing with matches behind my eyes, lighting her own beacons .

Full of holes, for all these heads so full of holes. Full of holes, all these people so full of holes. Full of holes, Carol so full of holes .

‘Jack?’

There was a hand on my shoulder and I was back.

1977.

It was George, a copper holding the door for him, the room now empty.

‘Lost you for a minute back there?’

I stood up, my mouth dirty with old air and spit.

‘George,’ I said, reaching for his hand.

‘Good to see you again,’ he smiled. ‘How’ve you been keeping?’

‘You know.’

‘Aye,’ he nodded, because he knew exactly how I’d been keeping. ‘Hope you’re taking it easy?’

‘You know me, George.’

‘Well, you tell Bill from me that he better be taking good care of you.’

‘I will.’

‘Good to see you again,’ he said again, walking over to the door.

‘Thanks.’

‘Give us a call if you need anything,’ he shouted over from the door, saying to the younger officer, ‘Finest journalist I ever met, that man.’

I sat back down, the finest journalist Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman ever met , alone in the empty room.

I walked back through the heart of Leeds, a tour of a baked, bone-dry hell.

My watch had stopped again and I strained to hear the Cathedral bells beneath the noise; the deafening music from each shop I passed, the car horns punched in anger, hot angry words on every corner.

I looked for the spire in the sky, but there was only fire up there; the midday sun high and black across my brow.

I put my hand to my eyes just as someone walked straight into me, banging right through me, hard; I turned and watched a black shadow disappear down an alley.