David Peace - 1974

I double-locked the door and drew the damp curtains. I stripped the bed and tacked the heaviest sheet over the curtains and then propped the mattress up against the sheet. I picked up a used johnny and stuffed it inside a half-eaten packet of crisps.

I went back out to the car, stopping for a piss in those toilets where I’d bought my ticket to this death trip.

I stood there pissing, not sure if it was Tuesday or Wed nesday, knowing this was as close as I could get. I shook it off and kicked open the cubicle door, knowing there’d be nothing but a melting yellow turd and puffter graffiti.

I went round the front to the cafe and bought two large black coffees with loads of sugar in dirty styrofoam cups. I opened the boot of the Viva and took the black bin-sack and the black coffees back to Room 27.

I double-locked the door again, drank down one of the coffees, emptied the bin-sack over the wooden base of the bed and went to work.

Barry Cannon’s files and envelopes were by name. I laid them out alphabetically on one half of the bed and then went through Hadden’s thick manila envelope, stuffing the sheets of paper into Barry’s relevant files.

Some names had titles, some ranks, most just plain mister. Some names I knew, some rang bells, most meant nothing.

On the other half of the bed, I spread out my files in three thin piles and one big one: Jeanette, Susan, Clare and, to the right, Graham Goldthorpe, Ratcatcher.

In the back of the wardrobe I found a roll of wallpaper. Taking a handful of my father’s pins, I turned over the wallpaper and tacked it to the wall above the desk. With a big red felt-tip pen I divided the back of the paper into five big columns. At the top of each column, in red block capitals, I wrote five names:

JEANETTE, SUSAN, CLARE, GRAHAM, and BARRY.

Next to the wallpaper chart I pinned a map of West Yorkshire from the Viva. With my red pen, I marked four red crosses and a red arrow straight out Rochdale way.

Drinking down the second cup of coffee, I steeled myself.

With trembling hands, I took an envelope from the top of Clare’s pile. Asking for forgiveness, I ripped open the envelope and took out three large black and white photographs. My stomach hollow, my mouth full of pins, I walked back over to my wallpaper chart and carefully pinned the three photographs above three of the names.

I stood back, tears on my cheeks, and gazed upon my new wallpaper, upon skin so pale, hair so fair, and wings so white.

An angel in black and white.

Three hours later, my eyes red with tears from the things I’d read, I got up from the floor of Room 27.

Barry’s story: 3 rich men: John Dawson, Donald Foster, and a third who Barry couldn’t or wouldn’t name.

My story: 3 dead girls: Jeanette, Susan, and Clare.

My story, his story-two stories: Same times, same places, different names, different faces.

Mystery, History:

One Link?

I had a small stack of coins on top of the payphone inside the lobby of the Redbeck.

“Sergeant Fraser please?”

The lobby was all yellows and browns and stank of smoke. Through the double glass doors I watched some kids playing pool and smoking.

“This is Sergeant Eraser.”

“It’s Edward Dunford speaking. I’ve received some infor mation about Sunday night, about Barry…”

“What kind of information?”

I cradled the phone between my chin and my neck and struck a match. “It was an anonymous call to the effect that Mr Cannon had gone to Morley in connection with Clare Kemplay,” I said with a cigarette between my teeth.

“Anything else?”

“Not over the phone.” To the side of the phone, etched in biro, were the words Young Cock and six telephone numbers.

“We better meet before the inquest,” said Sergeant Eraser.

Outside it had started to rain again and the lorry drivers were all pulling coats over their heads as they ran for the cafe and the bogs.

I said, “Where?”

“Angelo’s Cafe in an hour? It’s opposite Morley Town Hall.”

“OK. But I need a favour?” I looked for an ashtray but had to use the wall.

Eraser whispered down the line, “What?”

The pips went and I put in another coin. “I need the names and addresses of the workmen who found the body.”

“What body?”

“Clare Kemplay’s.” I began to count the love-hearts scribbled here and there around the phone.

“I don’t know…”

“Please,” I said.

Someone had written 4eva Igeva inside one of the hearts in red.

Eraser said, “Why me?”

“Because I think you’re a decent bloke and I need a favour and don’t know anybody else to ask.”

Silence, then, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“One hour then,” I said, hanging up.

I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.

Des Shags Convicts Wives .

“Yeah?”

“Tell BJ, Eddie called and give him this number, 276578. Tell him to ask for Ronald Cannon, Room 27.”

Fuck You Wakey Ken .

I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.

True Love Never Dies .

“Peter Taylor speaking?”

“Hello. Is Kathryn there please?”

“She’s still asleep.”

I looked at my father’s watch.

I said, “When she wakes up, can you tell her Edward called.”

“All right,” said her father, like it was some fucking enormous favour.

“Bye.” I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in my last coin, and dialled.

An old woman came into the lobby from the cafe smelling of bacon.

“Ossett 256199.”

“It’s me, Mum.”

“Are you all right, love? Where are you?”

One of the kids was chasing another around the pool table, brandishing a pool cue.

I said, “I’m fine. I’m at work.”

The old woman had sat down in one of the brown lobby chairs opposite the payphone and was staring out at the lorries and the rain.

“I might have to go away for a couple of days.”

“Where?”

The kid with the pool cue had the other one pinned down on the baize.

“Down South,” I said.

“You’ll phone, won’t you?”

The old woman farted loudly and the kids in the pool room stopped fighting and came running out into the lobby.

“Of course…”

“I love you, Edward.”

The kids rolled up their sleeves, put their lips to their arms, and began blowing raspberries.

“Me too.”

The old woman was staring out at the lorries and the rain, the kids dancing round her.

I replaced the receiver.

4 LUV .

Angelo’s Cafe, opposite Morley Town Hall, breakfast busy.

I was on my second cup of coffee, way past tired.

“Can I get you anything?” Sergeant Fraser was at the counter.

“Cup of coffee, please. Black, two sugars.”

I stared around the cafe at the wall of headlines guarding every breakfast:

534 Million Trade Deficit, Gas Up 12%, IRA Xmas Truce, a picture of the new Dr Who, and Clare.

“Morning,” said Fraser, setting down a cup of coffee in front of me.

“Thanks.” I drained my cold cup and took a sip from the hot one.

“I spoke with the coroner first thing. He says they’re going to have to adjourn.”

“They were pushing it a bit anyway.”

A waitress brought over a full breakfast and set it down in front of the Sergeant.

“Yeah, but what with Christmas and the family, it would’ve been nice.”

“Shit, yeah. The family.”

Fraser heaped half the plate on to his fork. “Do you know them?”

“No.”

“Lovely people,” sighed Fraser, mopping up the juice of the eggs and the tomatoes with a piece of toast.