Kate Atkinson: Started Early, Took My Dog

All around him the great and the good began to protest, but in a muted way as no one likes to openly challenge someone who is clearly deranged. Out of the corner of his eye, Barry saw Harry Reynolds slink out of the chapel. No sign of Len Lomax anywhere. Barry was surprised he hadn’t been rugby-tackled by now but he carried on up the aisle, unimpeded. The grieving widow flinched as he approached and the – ridiculously young – vicar twitched as if he was considering confronting him. Barry grunted, ‘Don’t even think about it, lad.’

He reached the lectern and Ray, all conciliatory, hail fellow, well met, said, ‘Come on, Barry, be sensible. Take a pew and show some respect.’ Barry cocked his head to one side as if he might be weighing this up as an option but then he turned and looked out over the sea of the great and good and cleared his throat as if he was the toastmaster about to tell the assembled company to raise their glasses. He said, ‘Raymond James Strickland, I am arresting you for the murder of Carol Anne Braithwaite, the reckless endangerment of the life of Michael Braithwaite and the abduction of Nicola Jane Braithwaite. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Ray didn’t even move, just stood there. Barry had half expected him to concertina down to the floor in shock, but he stayed where he was, eyes wide. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said.

Barry laughed. ‘They all say that. You should know that, Ray.’

Barry hadn’t thought much beyond this point. He had his handcuffs with him though – never without – and he slapped one cuff on Ray and the other on the brass rail that bordered the front of the lectern. Then he took his phone from his pocket and rang the station and asked for a couple of uniforms.

Everyone in the crematorium seemed to have lost their appetite for death. Barry watched as a couple of women in designer black picked their way from the chapel like gazelle that had suddenly found they had strayed into the lions’ enclosure. Then they all began to melt away. All the great and the good.

The vicar hovered like a nervous waiter and asked Barry if he could get him anything. ‘No, lad,’ Barry said, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘Last men standing,’ Barry said to Ray.

‘Thirty-five years ago, Barry,’ Ray said. ‘It’s history, water under the bridge.’

‘I don’t understand,’ a soft voice said. Margaret, Ray’s wife. If he’d been in a kind mood Barry would have said, ‘Get your husband to explain,’ but he wasn’t in a kind mood, and so he said, ‘Your husband fathered a child on a prostitute called Carol Braithwaite and after he had murdered Carol Braithwaite he took that child – his daughter – and gave her away to your bosom friend, Kitty Winfield.’ The truth was going to come out anyway, might as well be Barry who told it. Speaking truth to power . That was what the Quakers said, he’d had to arrest a few in the eighties, peaceniks, yakking on about ‘direct action’ and Cruise missiles. For people who worshipped in silence they seemed to talk a lot.

‘Ray?’ Margaret said.

‘It wasn’t me,’ Ray said again, this time to Margaret. ‘It really wasn’t.’ He turned back to Barry and said, ‘You only saw half the story, Barry.’

‘Tell it to the judge, Ray.’

A lone uniformed constable arrived, could have been Barry thirty-five years ago. You’d do anything a superior officer told you to. Turn a blind eye? Yes, boss. Keep your mouth shut. Yes, boss. Three bags full, boss. A dogsbody.

‘Boss?’

‘Take this gentleman into custody, officer. He’s been charged with murder. I’m not coming. When you get to the station, go to my office. There’s a letter on my desk. I want you to give it to DI Gemma Holroyd and she’ll take it from there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good lad.’

He drove to the moors above Ilkley, all the way to Upper Barden Reservoir. There wasn’t a soul around. The sky marbled with clouds, all tinged with opal. Like a painting, lovely. Barry imagined Carol Braithwaite rising. The Assumption. Carol Braithwaite hand in hand with Amy. Carol and Amy, one to the head, one to the heart.

Pair of buzzards circled overhead, waiting for him.

1975: October

Wilma McCann’s body was found on the eve of Halloween on a typical foggy Leeds morning on the Prince Philip Playing Fields in Chapeltown. Two head wounds, fifteen stab wounds. Convictions for drunkenness, disorderly conduct and theft. Her four children left alone in a filthy house. Another good-time girl.

Wilma McCann’s was just one of several sordid deaths, nothing to write home about, yet three months later 137 police officers had clocked up 53,000 hours, taken 538 statements and accumulated 3,300 index card references. All leading to nothing. Everyone still gloriously innocent of the fact that it was Sutcliffe’s first official kill. There wouldn’t be another one until January of the following year. Carol Braithwaite, on the other hand, seemed to clock up hardly any police hours at all.

Tracy took no part in the investigation into Wilma McCann’s murder. She was still in uniform, another working girl, walking the streets.

‘It’s different anyway,’ Barry said. ‘Your woman-’

‘My woman?’

‘The Braithwaite woman was killed in her own home. Strangled, not hit on the head and stabbed.’

‘You’re talking like you’re in CID already, Barry. All that brownnosing paying off, is it?’

‘Piss off.’

Leeds, Manchester, Huddersfield, Bradford. Emily Jackson in January of the following year. The roll-call went on and on. Not just prostitutes any more, any woman would do. The last two in 1980. In the wrong place at the right time. Marilyn Moore’s photofit early on was one of the best they had. The Jason King beard, the mean little eyes. Over five million vehicles logged. He was the devil and he couldn’t be caught.

The past was a dark place, a man’s world. There was a time when the male officers escorted the WPCs and the female office staff across to the car park. She heard one of the blokes say, ‘I wouldn’t worry about Tracy Waterhouse. Pity t’Ripper if he tackles her.’

No chance of Carol Braithwaite being remembered once Sutcliffe’s reign of terror was in full swing. Carol Braithwaite pretty much fitted the victim profile. But they didn’t really do victim profiles in those days. Tracy would wonder for years to come if Carol Braithwaite hadn’t been one of Sutcliffe’s first.

Tracy ended 1975 in style by buying a five-year-old Datsun Sunny. At the end of the year Kirkgate Market burned down and she used her warrant card to get past the safety barriers and have a better look at the conflagration. It seemed a good way to say goodbye to the year, everything going up in flames.

1977 was a busy year for the Ripper. Barry moved on and up, made plainclothes in 1980. Tracy had a new boyfriend. A twenty-eight-year-old sharp-suited, degree-toting medical instruments salesman. Not a great degree that he toted, just a third in ‘business management’ from a new concrete university, but a degree more than Tracy was in possession of.

He had taken her as far afield as Durham and Flamborough Head in the lime-green Ford Capri that he drove like a maniacal test pilot. Tracy never squashed herself awkwardly into the passenger seat without thinking that she might die before journey’s end. That was part of the attraction of it, probably.

They drank in beer gardens throughout the north-east, Timothy Taylor’s Landlord, with Wood’s Old Navy rum chasers, for him, pints of snakebite for Tracy. Then they would go back to his flat and eat Indian takeaways and he would light up a big spliff and say, ‘Are you going to handcuff me, officer?’ Same ‘joke’ every time. Tracy never partook, preferred her mind to be altered by alcohol, not drugs. The sex was quite good, although she only had Dennis the driving instructor as a comparison, but that must have been what kept her because the bloke was, let’s face it, a complete wanker. When he dumped her for a more streamlined model, she phoned him in anonymously to the Drug Squad. Never heard if anything came of it. He died in a car smash in 1985, wrapped his TVR coupé round a disobliging tree.