David Peace - 1974

Barry and Clare.

Little dead Clare Kemplay, kissed this boy and made him cry .

Clare and Barry.

Dirty Barry, when he’d been good he’d been very, very good, when he’d been bad he’d been very, very bad .

A policeman stood in a doorway, keeping out of the rain. Me, the urge to fall to my knees at his feet, praying he was a good man, and tell him the whole fucking sad story, to come in out of the rain.

But tell him what?

Tell him I was in over my head, covered in mud and drunk as fuck.

Mud Man, straight into Leeds, dirt cracking as I drove.

Mud Man, straight into the office bogs, caked in shit.

A clean face and one clean hand, a dirty suit and a black bandage, sitting down behind my desk at 3 PM on Friday 20 December 1974.

“Nice suit, Eddie lad.”

“Fuck off, George.”

“Merry Christmas to you too.”

Messages and cards littered the desk; Sergeant Fraser calling twice that morning, Bill Hadden requesting my presence at my earliest convenience.

I slumped back in my chair, George Greaves farting to the applause of the few back from lunch.

I smiled and picked up the cards; three ‘from Down South, plus one with my name and office punched into plastic Dymo tape and stuck to the envelope.

On the other side of the office, Gaz was taking bets on the Newcastle-Leeds game.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the card with my teeth and my left hand.

“Do you want in, Eddie?” shouted Gaz.

On the front of the card was a cabin made of logs in the middle of a snow-covered forest.

“Ten bob on Lorimer,” I said, opening the card.

“Jack’s got him.”

Inside the card, over the Christmas message, were stuck two more strips of Dymo tape.

Quietly I said, “I’ll have Yorath then.”

Punched into the top plastic strip was: KNOCK ON THE DOOR OF …

“You what?”

Punched into the bottom plastic strip was: FLAT 405, CITY

HEIGHTS .

“Yorath,” I said, staring at the card. “Anyone I know?” I looked up.

Jack Whitehead said, “I just hope it’s from a woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you were hanging around with young boys,” smiled Jack.

I put the card inside my jacket pocket. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. With orange hair.”

“Who’d you hear that from then, Jack?”

“A little bird.”

“You stink of drink.”

“So do you.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Not for much longer,” grinned Jack. “Boss wants to see you.”

“I know,” I said, not moving.

“He asked me to come and find you, make sure you didn’t get lost again.”

“Going to hold my hand?”

“You’re not my type.”

“Bollocks.”

“Fuck off, Jack. Listen.”

I pressed play again:

“ I couldn’t believe it was her. She looked so different, so white .”

“Bollocks,” said Jack again. “He’s talking about the photo graphs in the papers, on TV.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Her face was everywhere.”

“Ashworth knows more than that.”

“Myshkin fucking confessed.”

“That means fuck all and you know it.”

Bill Hadden sat behind his desk, his glasses halfway down his nose, stroking his beard and saying nowt.

“You should see all the shit they took from the little pervert’s room.”

“Like what?”

“Photos of little girls, boxes of them.”

I looked at Hadden and said, “Myshkin didn’t do it.”

He said slowly, “But why make a scapegoat of him?”

“Why do you think? Tradition.”

“Thirty years,” said Jack. “Thirty years and I know firemen never lie and coppers often do. But not this time.”

“They know he didn’t do it and you know he didn’t.”

“He did it. He coughed.”

“So fucking what?”

“You ever heard the word forensic?”

“That’s bullshit. They’ve got nothing.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Hadden, leaning forward in his chair. “It seems like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“Exactly,” muttered Jack.

“No, before I believed Myshkin did it, but…”

Hadden raised his hands. “Edward, please.”

“Sorry,” I said, staring at the cards on his desk.

He said, “When are they going to remand him again?”

“First thing Monday,” said Jack.

“More charges?”

“He’s already coughed to Jeanette Garland and that Rochdale lass…”

“Susan Ridyard,” I said.

“But I’ve heard there’s more in offing.”

I said, “He said owt about where the bodies are?”

“Your back garden, Scoop.”

“Right then,” said Hadden, being Dad. “Edward, you have that background piece on Myshkin ready for Monday. Jack, you do the remand.”

“Will do, Chief,” said Jack, getting up.

“Nice piece on those two coppers,” nodded Hadden, ever the proud father.

“Thanks. Nice blokes, I’ve known them a while,” said Jack at the door.

Hadden said, “See you tomorrow night, Jack.”

“Yep. See you Scoop,” laughed Jack as he left.

“Bye.” I was on my feet, still looking at the cards on Hadden’s desk.

“Sit down for a moment, will you,” said Hadden, standing up.

I sat back down.

“Edward, I want you to take the rest of the month off.”

“What?”

Hadden had his back to me, staring out at the dark sky.

“I don’t understand,” I said, understanding him exactly, focusing on one small card tucked in amongst the rest.

“I don’t want you coming into the office like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” he said, turning and pointing at me.

“I was on a building site this morning, getting the story.”

“What story?”

“Clare Kemplay.”

“It’s over.”

I stared at the desk, at that one card, at another cabin made of logs in the middle of another snow-covered forest.

“Take the rest of the month off. Get that hand seen to,” said Hadden, sitting back down.

I stood up. “You still want that Myshkin piece?”

“Yeah, of course. Type it up and give it to Jack.”

I opened the door, last ditch, thinking fuck ‘em all:

“Do you know the Fosters?”

Hadden didn’t look up from his desk.

“Councillor William Shaw?”

He looked up. “I’m sorry, Edward. Really I am.”

“Don’t be. You’re right,” I said. “I need help.”

At my desk for the last time, thinking take it fucking national, sweeping the whole bloody table-top into a dirty old Co-op carrier bag, not giving a fuck who knew I was gone.

Jack fucking Whitehead slapped an Evening News on to the empty desk, beaming, “Something to remember us by.”

I looked up at Jack, counting backwards.

The office silent, all eyes on me.

Jack Whitehead right back in my face, not blinking.

I looked down at the folded paper, the banner headline:

WE SALUTE YOU.

“Turn it over.”

A telephone was ringing on the other side of the office, no-one answering it.

I turned over the bottom half of the paper to a photograph of two uniformed coppers shaking hands with Chief Constable Angus.

Two uniformed coppers, naked:

A tall one with a beard, a short one without.

I stared down at the paper, at the photograph, at the words beneath the photograph:

Chief Constable Angus congratulates Sergeant Bob Craven and PC Bob Douglas on a job well done.

“They are outstanding police officers who have our heartfelt thanks.”

I picked up the paper and folded it in two, stuffing it into the carrier bag, winking, “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack Whitehead said nothing.