David Peace - 1974

“No,” I said. “That’s true.”

“What was it then?” Hadden said, folding his arms against the cold.

“I thought I’d go and see the two men who found the body, tie it in with this psychic and a bit about the history of Devil’s Ditch.” I said it much too quickly, like a man who’d had thirty minutes to think about it.

Hadden began stroking his beard, which was always bad news. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“You think so?”

“Mmm. Except the tone worries me a little.”

“The tone?”

“Mmm. This medium, this psychic, it’s more of a background feature. Supplement stuff. But the men who found the body, I don’t know…”

Right back in his face: “But you said she knows the name of the killer. That’s not background, that’s Front Page.”

Hadden, not rising to the bait, said, “You’re going to talk to them today?”

“I thought I’d go over there now, seeing as I’ve got to go over to Wakefield anyhow.”

“All right,” said Hadden, walking off towards his Rover. “Bring it all back to me by five and we’ll go over it for tomorrow.”

“You got it,” I shouted, checking my father’s watch.

A Leeds and Bradford A to Z open on my lap, my notes on the passenger seat beside me, I nosed through the back and side streets of Morley.

I turned on to Victoria Road and drove slowly along, pulling up just before the junction with Rooms Lane and Church Street.

Barry must have been coming the other way, heading towards the Wakefield Road or the M62. The lorry would have been here, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.

I flicked back through my notebook, faster and faster, back to the very first page.

Bingo.

I started the car, pulling out to wait at the traffic lights.

To my left, on the other side of the crossroads, a black church and, next to it, Morley Grange Junior and Infants.

The lights changed, I was still reading.

“ At the junction of Rooms Lane and Victoria Road, Clare said goodbye to her friends and was last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home… ”

Clare Kemplay.

Last seen.

Goodbye.

I drove across the junction, a Co-op lorry waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.

Barry’s lorry would have been here too, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.

Barry Cannon.

Last seen.

Goodbye.

I crawled slowly along Victoria Road, car horns at my rear, Clare skipping along on the pavement beside me in her orange kagool and her red Wellington boots.

“ Last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home .”

The Sports Ground, Sandmead Close, Winterbourne Avenue.

Clare was standing at the corner of Winterbourne Avenue, waving.

I indicated left and turned on to Winterbourne Avenue.

It was a cul-de-sac of six older semi-detached and three new detached.

A policeman’ was standing in the rain outside number 3.

I reversed up the drive of one of the new detached houses to turn around.

I stared across the road at 3 Winterbourne Avenue.

Curtains drawn.

The Viva stalled.

A curtain twitched.

Mrs Kemplay, arms folded, in the window. The policeman checked his watch. I pulled away.

Foster’s Construction.

The building site was behind Wakefield Prison, yards from Devil’s Ditch.

Lunchtime on a wet Tuesday in December and the place was as quiet as the grave.

A low tune on the damp air, Dreams Are Ten A Penny .

I followed my ears.

“All right?” I said, pulling back the tarpaulin door of an unfinished house.

Four men chewing sandwiches, slurping tea from flasks.

“Help you?” said one.

“Lost are you?” said another.

I said, “I’m actually looking for…”

“Never heard of them,” said one.

“Journalist are you?” said another.

“Shows does it?”

“Yeah,” they all said.

“Well, do you know where I can find Terry Jones and James Ashworth?”

A big man in a donkey jacket stood up, swallowing half a loaf of bread. “I’m Terry Jones.”

I stuck out my hand. “Eddie Dunford. Yorkshire Post . Can I have a word?”

He ignored my hand. “Going to pay me are you?”

Everybody laughed into their tea.

“Well, we can certainly discuss it.”

“Well, you can certainly piss off if you don’t,” said Terry Jones to more laughter.

“Seriously,” I protested.

Terry Jones sighed and shook his head.

“Got a right bloody nerve, some folk,” said one of the men.

“Least he’s fucking local,” said another.

“Come on then,” yawned Terry Jones, before swilling out his mouth with the last of his tea.

“Make sure he bloody coughs up,” shouted another man as we went outside.

“Have you had a lot of papers here?” I asked, offering Terry Jones a cigarette.

“Lads said there was a photographer from Sun , but we were up Wood Street Nick.”

There was a thick drizzle in the air and I pointed to another half-built house. Terry Jones nodded and led the way.

“Police keep you long?”

“No, not really. Thing like this though, they’re not going to take any bloody chances are they?”

“What about James Ashworth?” We were standing in the doorway, the rain just missing us.

“What about him?”

“They keep him a long time?”

“Same.”

“Is he about?”

“He’s sick.”

“Yeah?”

“Something going around.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Terry Jones dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his boot and added, “Gaffer’s been off since Thursday, Jimmy yesterday and today, couple of other lads last week.”

I said, “Who found her, you or Jimmy?”

“Jimmy.”

“Where was she?” I said, looking out across the mud and the piss.

Terry Jones hawked up a massive piece of phlegm and said, “I’ll show you.”

We walked in silence over the building site to the trough of wasteland that runs parallel to the Wakefield-Dewsbury Road. A ribbon of blue and white police tape was strung along the ridge of the ditch. Across the ditch, on the road side, two coppers were sat in a Panda car. One of them looked across at us and nodded at Terry Jones.

He waved back. “How long do they keep this up?”

“No idea.”

“They had tents all over this until last night.”

I was staring down into Devil’s Ditch, at the rusted prams and the bicycles, at the cookers and the fridges. Foliage and litter snaked through everything, pulling it down into its mouth, making it impossible to see the bottom.

“Did you see her?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Fuck.”

“She was lying on top of a pram, about halfway down.”

“A pram?”

He was staring off at something far, far away. “Police took it. She had, aw fuck…”

“I know.” I had my eyes closed.

“Police said we hadn’t to tell anyone.”

“I know, I know.”

“But, fuck…” He was fighting with a lump in his throat, tears in his eyes.

I handed him another cigarette. “I know. I saw the photo graphs from the post-mortem.”

He pointed with the unlit cigarette at a separately marked piece of ground. “One of the wings was over there, near the top.”

“Fuck.”

“I wish to Christ I’d never seen her.”

I stared into Devil’s Ditch, the photos on the wall at the Redbeck swimming through my mind.

“If only it hadn’t been her,” he whispered.

“Where does Jimmy Ashworth live?”

Terry Jones looked at me. “I don’t think that’s a right good idea.”

“Please?”

“He’s taken it badly. He’s only a lad.”