by David Peace
‘How was that?’
‘I don’t know, you’d have to ask them that were here, but like there was some that’d get jealous.’
‘And she wasn’t right choosey, yeah?’
‘No. Not very.’
‘She was fucking the staff and all,’ says Rudkin.
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do,’ he says. ‘Afternoon she was murdered she’d had a session with your man Kennedy, Roger Kennedy’
Colin doesn’t say anything.
Rudkin leans forward and smiles, ‘Still go on, that kind of thing?’
‘No,’ says Colin.
‘You’ve gone red,’ laughs Rudkin, standing up.
I say, ‘Which was her room?’
‘I don’t know. But I can show you upstairs.’
‘Please.’
Just me and Colin go upstairs.
At the top I say, ‘None of the same residents still here?’
‘No,’ he says but then, ‘Actually, hang on.’
He goes to the end of the long narrow corridor and bangs on a door, then opens it. He talks to someone inside and then beckons me over.
The room is bare and bright, sunlight across an empty chair and table, across a man lying on a little bed, his face to the wall, his back to me and the door.
Colin gestures at the seat, saying, ‘This is Walter. Walter Kendall. He knew Clare Strachan.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Fraser, Mr Kendall. I’m with Leeds CID and we’re looking into a possible link between the murder of Clare Strachan and a recent crime in Leeds.’
Colin Minton is nodding, staring at Walter Kendall’s back.
‘Colin here, he says you knew Clare Strachan,’ I continue. ‘I’d be very grateful for anything you can tell me about Miss Strachan or the time of her murder.’
Walter Kendall doesn’t move.
I look at Colin Minton and say, ‘Mr Kendall?’
Slowly and clearly, his face still to the wall, Walter says, ‘I remember the Wednesday night, Thursday morning, I woke to terrible screams coming from Clare’s room. Real bellowing cries. I got out of bed and ran down the corridor. She was in the room at the top of the stairs. The door was locked and I banged on it for a good five minutes before it opened. She was alone in the room, drenched in sweat and tears. I asked her what had happened, was she all right. She said it was just a dream. A dream, I said. What kind of dream? She said she’d dreamt there was a tremendous weight upon her chest, forcing the air from her lungs, pushing the very life from her, and all she could think was she’d never see her daughters again. I said it must have been something she’d eaten, nonsense I didn’t even mean, but what can you say? Clare just smiled and said she’d had the same dream every night for almost a year.’
Outside a train rattles past, shaking the room.
‘She asked me to stay the night with her and I lay on top of the covers, stroking her hair and asking her to marry me like I often had before, but she just laughed and said she’d only bring me trouble. I said, what did I care about trouble, but she didn’t want me. Not like that.’
My mouth’s dry, the room baking.
‘She knew she was going to die, Sergeant Fraser. Knew they’d find her one day. Find her and kill her.’
‘Who? What do you mean, kill her?’
‘First day I met her, she was drunk and I didn’t think much of it. I mean, you hear so many tall stories in a place like this. But she was persistent, insistent: They’re going to find me and when they do, they’ll kill me. And she was right.’
‘I’m sorry Mr Kendall, but I’m not clear. She say who exactly was going to kill her or why?’
‘The police.’
‘The police? She said the police were going to kill her?’
‘The Special Police. That’s what she said.’
‘The Special Police? Why?’
‘Because of something she’d seen, something she knew, or something they thought she’d seen or knew.’
‘Did she elaborate?’
‘No. Wouldn’t. Said it just meant others would be in the same boat as her.’
‘Don’t suppose you told this to the investigating officers at the time, did you?’
‘As if they’d listen. They didn’t take any notice of me anyway, especially after what happened to me.’
I say, ‘Why? What happened to you Mr Kendall?’
Walter Kendall rolls over in his bed and smiles: his eyes white, the colour gone, the man blind.
‘How did it happen?’ I ask.
‘Friday 21 November 1975. I woke up and I was blind.’
I look over at Colin Minton, who shrugs his shoulders.
‘I could see, but now I’m blind,’ laughs Kendall.
I stand up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Kendall. If you think of anything else, please …’
Kendall suddenly reaches out, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket. ‘Anything else? I think of nothing else.’
I pull away. ‘Call us.’
‘Be careful, Sergeant. It can strike anyone, anytime.’
I walk away, down the narrow corridor, pausing by the door to the room at the top of the stairs.
It’s cold here, out of the sun.
Colin Minton raises his eyes and starts to say how sorry he is.
‘Special Police? What fucking bollocks next?’ laughs Detective Inspector Rudkin.
We’re walking up Church Street, towards the garages.
‘These fucking people. They just never accept that the fucking mess they’re in is because they’re junkies and alcoholics. Has to be someone else or something else.’
Frankie’s laughing along. ‘Cunt went blind because he drank industrial-strength paint-stripper.’
‘See?’ says Rudkin.
‘Yeah,’ laughs Ellis. ‘Unlike Bob’s mate.’
‘If wit were shit,’ says Rudkin, shaking his head.
We turn the corner into Frenchwood Street.
On the left are the lock-ups, the garages.
Preston seems suddenly quiet.
That silence again.
‘It was that one,’ whispers Frankie, pointing to the one furthest from us, the one closest to the multi-storey car park at the end of the road.
‘Locked?’ asks Ellis.
‘Doubt it.’
We keep walking towards it.
My chest starts to constrict, ache.
Rudkin’s saying nowt.
Three Pakistani women in black cross in front of us.
The sun goes behind a cloud and I can feel the night, the endless fucking night I’ve always felt.
‘Take notes,’ I tell Ellis.
‘Like what?’
‘Feelings, man. Impressions.’
‘Bollocks. It’s been two years,’ he whines.
‘Do it,’ says Rudkin.
I can’t stop it:
I’m coming up the hill, swaying, bags in my hand. Plastic bags, carrier bags, Tesco bags.
We get to the garage and Frankie tries the door.
It opens.
I’m freezing.
Frankie lights a cig and stands out in the road.
I step inside.
Black, bloody, bleak.
Full of flies, fat fucking flies.
Ellis and Rudkin follow.
The room has the air of the sea bed, the weight of an evil ocean hanging over our heads.
Rudkin is swallowing hard.
I struggle.
Used to stare out the window and bark at the trains.
I’ve felt this before, but not often: Wakefield, December ’74.
Theresa Campbell, Joan Richards, and Marie Watts.
Today on the Moors.
Too often.
The sweet smell of perfumed soap, of cider, of Durex.
The headache is intense, blinding.
There’s a bench, table, wooden crates, bottles, thousands of bottles, newspapers, scraps of this and that, blankets, odd bits of clothing.
‘The
y did go through this, yeah?’ says Ellis.
‘Mmm,’ mumbles Rudkin.
Trains pass, dogs bark.
I can taste blood.
I’ve slipped on to my knees and he’s come out of me. Now he’s angry. I try to turn but he’s got me by my hair, punching me casually, once, twice, and I’m telling him there’s no need for that, scrambling to give him his money back, and then he’s got it up my arse, but I’m thinking at least it’ll be over then, and he’s back kissing my shoulders, pulling my black bra off, smiling at this fat cow’s flabby arms, and taking a big, big bite out of the underside of my left tit, and I can’t not scream and I know I shouldn’t have because now he’s going to have to shut me up and I’m crying because I know it’s over, that they’ve found me, that this is how it ends, that I’ll never see my daughters again, not now, not ever.
I look up. Ellis is staring at me.
This is how it ends.
Rudkin has a pair of plastic gloves on, pulling a dirt-caked carrier bag out from under the bench.
Tesco’s.
He looks at me.
I squat down beside him.
He opens it up.
Porn mags, old and used.
He closes the bag and slings it back under the bench.
‘Enough?’ he says.
Not now, not ever.
I nod and we go back out into the light.
Frankie lights another cig and says, ‘Lunch?’
Staring into dark pints, thinking worse thoughts, fucked if there’s anything I can do about it.
Frankie brings over the Ploughmans, all withered and bleached.
‘Fuck’s that?’ says Rudkin, getting up off his stool and going back to the bar.
Ellis raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’
Rudkin comes back and tips a whisky into the top of his pint and sits back down. He smiles at Ellis, ‘Impressions?’
Ellis grins back, reading Rudkin wrong, ‘Do I look like Dick fucking Emery?’
‘Yeah, and you’re about as much fucking use.’ Detective Inspector Rudkin’s stopped smiling. He turns to me. ‘Teach him something, Bob?’
‘I’m with you. Different bloke.’
‘Why?’
‘She was attacked indoors. Raped. Sodomised. She did receive substantial head injuries from a blunt instrument, however none were fatal or immobilising.’
Frankie’s got his head to one side. ‘Meaning?’
‘The killer or killers of Theresa Campbell and Joan Richards attacked them out in the open with one blow to the back of their heads. They were either dead or comatose before they hit the ground. Early indications are that the same is true of the latest one, Marie Watts.’
‘And it couldn’t be the same bloke over here using a different m.o.?’
‘It doesn’t really add up. If anything, the resistance, the struggle, was what kept him going.’
‘Turned him on?’ asks Ellis.
‘Yeah. He’ll have raped before, probably since.’
‘So why kill her?’
I’ve only one answer:
‘Because he could.’
Rudkin wipes ale from his face. ‘What about the placing of the boot and the coat?’
‘Similar.’
‘Similar how?’ repeats Frankie.
Ellis is about to chime up, but Rudkin cuts him off dead, ‘Similar.’
Frankie smiles and looks at his watch, ‘Best be getting back.’
‘No offence, mate,’ says Rudkin, patting Frank’s back.
‘None taken.’
We sup up and pile into the car.
It’s almost three and I’m fucking tired, half-pissed.
We’re going to drop Frankie back at the station, say our goodbyes, and head home.
I’m thinking of Janice, half dozing.
Ellis is telling Frankie about Kenny D.
‘Dumb fucking monkey,’ he laughs.
I can see Kenny’s splayed legs, his cheap underpants and shrivelled dick, the pleas in his eyes.
Rudkin’s going on about how we’ll hold him until they bring Barton in.
I picture Kenny in his cell, sweating and shitting it.
They’re all laughing as we swing into the car park.
Detective Chief Superintendent Hill is waiting for us as we come through the front door.
‘Got a minute?’ he says to DI Rudkin.
‘What is it?’
‘Not here.’
Me and Ellis stand around at the desk as Alf Hill takes Rudkin upstairs.
We wait, Frankie hanging around, talking up Lancs/Yorks rivalry.
‘Fraser, up here now,’ yells Rudkin from the top of the stairs.
I start up the stairs, stomach hollow.
Ellis starts to follow.
‘Wait there,’ I snap.
Rudkin and Hill up in the Lancashire Murder Room.
No-one else.
Hill’s putting down the phone.
‘Get that fucking file,’ shouts Rudkin.
I pull it out from the cabinet.
‘The Inquest in there?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘What was the blood group they got off her?’
‘B,’ I say from memory, flicking through for the report.
‘Check it.’
I do and nod.
‘Read it to me.’
I read: ‘Blood grouping from the semen taken from victim’s vagina and rectum, blood group B.’
‘Pass it here.’
I do it.
Rudkin stares at it, flat on his palms:
‘Fuck.’
Hill too:
‘Shit.’
Rudkin holds it up to the light, turns it over, and hands it to Detective Chief Superintendent Hill.
Rudkin picks up the phone and dials.
Hill has sucked his lower lip in, waiting.
‘B,’ says Rudkin into the phone.
There’s a long silence.
Eventually Rudkin repeats, ’9 per cent of the population.’
Another silence.
‘Right,’ says Rudkin and passes the phone to Alf Hill.
Hill listens, says, ‘Will do,’ and puts down the phone.
I stand there.
They sit there.
No-one speaks for about two whole minutes.
Rudkin looks up at me and shakes his head like, this can’t be fucking happening.
I say, ‘What is it?’
‘Farley pulled some semen stains off the back of Marie Watts’s coat.’
‘And?’
‘Blood group B.’
9 per cent of the population.
It’s somewhere around eight or nine in the evening, the light still with us.
My eyes, my shoulders, my fingers ache from the writing.
The phone from here to Leeds hasn’t stopped:
Panic Stations.
Rudkin keeps looking up at me like, this is fucked, and I swear sometimes there’s bloody blame there.
We keep at it:
Transcribing, copying, checking, re-checking, like a gang of fucking monks hunched over some holy books.
Me, I keep thinking, didn’t Rudkin fucking know this? What the fuck were him and Craven doing over here?
Ellis is just sat there scribbling away, totally blown away, head spinning like the fucking Exorcist.
I sketch the scene, the boot and the coat, and I look up and say, ‘I’m going to go back up there.’
‘Now?’ says Ellis.
‘We’re missing something.’
‘We going to stay night?’ asks Rudkin.
We all look at our watches and shrug.
Rudkin picks up the phone.
‘I’ll sort you out,’ says Frankie.
‘Somewhere nice, yeah?’ calls Rudkin, a hand over the receiver.
Up Church Street, the light almost gone, a train snaking out the station.
Yellow lights, dead faces at the glass.
Searching, looking for the lost, trying to fi
nd a Thursday night two years ago:
Thursday 20 November 1975.
It had rained during the day, helping keep Clare in the pub, the one at the bottom of the hill, St Mary’s, same name as the hostel.
To the left the multi-storey and Frenchwood Street.
I cross the road.
A car slows behind me, then passes.
A tramp on the corner, asleep on a bed of cans and newspapers.
He reeks.
I light up and stand over him, looking down.
He opens his eyes and jumps:
‘Don’t eat my fingers please, just my teeth. Take them, they’re no use to me now. But I need salt, have you got any salt, any at all?’
I walk past him, down Frenchwood Street.
‘SALT!’ he screams after me. ‘To preserve the meat.’
Shit
The street is dark now.
Estimates put the time of death between eleven and one. About the time she was thrown out of the pub.
The street would have been darker, after the rain, before the wind got going.
The bricks beside the garage have practically given up, wet even now with damp in May.
And then I feel it again, waiting.
I pull open the door.
It’s there, laughing:
You just can’t keep away, can you?
I’ve got a torch in my hand and I switch it on.
She’s pulling up her skirt, taking down her tan tights, letting the flab of her thighs fall loose.
I sweep the room, the weight pressing down.
I’m not going to be able do this.
There’s music, loud, fast, dense, from a car outside.
She’s smiling, trying to make it hard.
The music stops.
I’ll make it hard.
Silence.
I turn her round, pull down the black shiny briefs with their white streaks, and I’m getting bigger now, better, and she’s backing on to me.
There’s rats in here.
But I don’t want that, I want this: her arse, but she reaches round and moves me towards her huge fucking cunt.
Big fucking rats at my feet.
And I’m in her and then I’m out again and she’s slipped on to her knees …
Outside, I puke, fingers in the wall, bleeding.
I look up the street, no-one.
I wipe away the spit and shit, sucking the blood from my fingers.
‘SALT!’ comes the scream.
I jump.
Fuck.
‘To preserve the meat.’
The tramp’s standing there, laughing.
