David Peace - 1974

I was on my knees, shaking her. “What?”

“They’ve got him.”

“Who? Paul?”

“Some kid from Fitzwilliam.”

“What?”

“They’re saying he did it.”

“Did what?”

“They’re saying he killed Clare Kemplay and…”

“What?”

“He says he’s done others.”

Everything seemed suddenly red, blood-blind.

She was saying, “He says he killed Jeanette.”

“Jeanette?”

Her mouth and eyes were open, no sound, no tears.

I ran up the stairs, my hand on fire.

Back down the stairs, my shoes in one hand.

“Where are you going?”

“The office.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I must.”

“I can’t be alone.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“Come back.”

“Of course.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

10 PM Wednesday 18 December 1974.

The motorway, slick, black, and wet.

One arm on the wheel, heavy on the pedal, ice-wind screaming through the Viva, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ They thought he’d done it, you know .”

I checked my rearview mirror, the motorway empty but for lorries and lovers and Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ Mum shut up! ”

Exiting at the gypsy camp, black on black hiding the damage, shaking the blood warm in my right hand, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ Why did they think you did it, Jimmy? ”

Through the Christmas lights of Leeds City Centre, writing copy in my head, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ Ask them .”

The Yorkshire Post building, yellow lights on ten floors. I parked underneath, grinning and thinking, Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ You’re a smart lad, Jimmy .”

A large Christmas tree in the foyer, double glass doors sprayed white with Season’s Greetings. I pressed the lift button, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ Keeping it shut .”

The lift doors opened. I stepped inside and pressed the 10 button, my heart beating, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ He’s a good boy, Mr Dunford. He didn’t do nothing .”

The lift doors opened on the tenth floor, the office alive, the hum everywhere. The look on every face, shouting out, WE GOT HIM!

I clutched the Philips Pocket Memo in my left hand, thinking Jimmy James Ashworth, thanking Jimmy James Ashworth.

“ What are you going to write about him? ”

Thinking Scoop.

No knock, into Hadden’s office.

The room, eye-of-the-hurricane still.

Jack Whitehead looking up, two days beard and eyes as big as dinner plates.

“Edward…” Hadden, glasses halfway down his nose.

“I interviewed him this afternoon. I fucking interviewed him!”

Hadden winced. “Who?”

“No you didn’t,” grinned back Jack, the stink of drink in the air.

“I sat in his front room and he practically told me everything.”

“Really?” Jack, mock-quizzical.

“Yeah, really.”

“Who are we talking about, Scoop?”

“James Ashworth.”

Jack Whitehead looked at Bill Hadden, smiling.

“Sit down,” said Hadden, pointing at the seat next to Jack.

“What is it?”

“Edward, they didn’t arrest any James Ashworth,” he said as kindly as he could.

Jack Whitehead pretended to look at some notes, arching an eyebrow even higher, unable to resist saying , “Not unless he also goes by the name of Michael John Myshkin.”

“Who?”

“Michael John Myshkin,” repeated Hadden.

“Parents are Polacks. Can’t speak a word of English,” laughed Jack, like it was funny.

“That’s lucky,” I said.

“Here Scoop. Have a read.” Jack Whitehead tossed the morning first edition at me. It bounced off me and on to the floor. I leant forward to pick it up.

“What on earth happened to your hand?” said Hadden.

“I got it trapped in a door.”

“ Trust it’s not going to hamper your style, eh Scoop?”

I flapped around with the paper in my left hand.

“Need a hand?” laughed Jack.

“No.”

“Front Page,” he smiled.

CAUGHT screamed the headline.

Clare: Murder Squad Arrest Local Man , teased the subheading.

BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR, boasted the byline. I read on:

Early yesterday morning police arrested a Fitzwilliam man in connection with the murder of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay.

According to a police source, exclusive to this newspaper, the man has confessed to the murder and has been formally charged. He will be remanded in custody at Wakefield Magistrates Court later this morning.

The police source further revealed that the man has also confessed to a number of other murders and formal charges are expected shortly.

Senior Detectives from around the country are due to arrive in Wakefield throughout the day to question the man about other similar unsolved cases.

I let the paper fall to the floor.

“I was right.”

Jack said, “You think so?”

I turned to Hadden. “You know I was. I said they were connected.”

“Which ones are they talking about Jack?” asked Hadden.

“Jeanette Garland and Susan Ridyard,” I said, tears in my eyes.

“For starters,” said Jack.

“I rucking told you.”

“Language, Edward,” muttered Hadden.

I said, “I sat in this office, I sat in Oldman’s office, and I told you both.”

But I knew it was over.

I sat there at the end of it all with Hadden and Jack White-head, my hand frozen with pain. I looked from one to the other, Jack grinning, Hadden fiddling with his glasses. The room, the outer office, the streets beyond, all suddenly silent. For one moment I wondered if it was snowing outside.

For just one moment, and then it started again:

“Have you got an address?” I asked Hadden.

“Jack?”

“54 Newstead View.”

“Newstead View! That’s the same fucking street.”

“What?” Hadden, drained of patience.

“James Ashworth, the lad who found her body, he lives on the same bloody street as this bloke.”

“So?” smiled Jack.

“Fuck off, Jack!”

“Please watch your language in my office.”

Jack Whitehead had his arms up in mock surrender.

I saw red, red, and only red, my head alive with pain. “They live on the same bloody street, in the same town, ten miles from where the body was found.”

“Coincidence,” said Jack.

“You reckon?”

“I reckon.”

I sat back, my right hand heavy with still blood, feeling the same heaviness creep over everything, like it was snowing here in this room, here in my brain.

Jack Whitehead said, “He coughed for them. What more do you want?”

“The fucking truth.”

Jack was laughing, really laughing, big fat belly laughs.

We were pushing Hadden too far.

Quietly, I said, “What did they get him on?”

Hadden sighed, “Faulty brakelights.”

“You’re joking?”

Jack had stopped laughing. “Wouldn’t pull over. Panda car gives chase. They haul him in, out of the blue he coughs for all this.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“Transit van,” said Jack, avoiding my eyes.

“What colour?”

“White,” smiled Jack, offering me a cigarette.

I took the cigarette, thinking of Mrs Ridyard and her posters, sitting in her neat front room with its spoiled view.

“How old is he?”

Jack lit his cigarette and said, “Twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two? That’d make him only sixteen or seventeen in ‘69.”

“So?”

“Come on, Jack?”

“What’s he do?” Hadden asked Jack, but looking at me.