Nineteen Seventy-seven
Page 26
‘He was pimping her, wasn’t he?’
‘Thought that were you?’
‘A long time ago.’
‘That magazine, those pictures? What do you know about them?’
‘Nothing. Straight up. She never mentioned them.’
I sat at the wheel, lost.
After a while, Eric Hall said, ‘Anything else you want to know?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Who the fuck killed her?’
Eric Hall sniffed up and said, ‘I got my fucking theory.’
I turned to look at him, at that fat fucking slug of a man, a man happy to save himself two fucking grand though his soul was racked with lies, though hellfire and only hellfire awaited him.
‘Do tell, Sherlock?’
He shrugged like it was no big deal, like it was on the front of every fucking newspaper, like the fat slug lived to fight another day, and smiled, ‘Fraser.’
‘Not Ripper?’
He laughed, ‘The Ripper? Fuck’s that?’
I stared up at the cross above us and said, ‘One last thing.’
‘Shoot,’ he said, still smiling.
The cunt.
‘Ka Su Peng?’
‘Who?’ he said, too quickly, not smiling.
‘Chinese girl? Sue Penn?’
He shook his head.
‘Eric, you’re Bradford Vice right?’
‘Was.’
‘Sorry, was. But I’m sure you can still remember all your girls. Specially ones Ripper had a fucking pop at right in the middle of your bloody patch. No?’
He said nothing.
I said again, ‘It was Ripper, yeah?’
‘That’s what they say’
‘What about you? What do you say?’
‘I say let sleeping dogs lie.’
I started the car and turned back the way we’d come, driving in a fast silence.
I pulled up outside the George.
He opened the door and got out.
‘Kill yourself,’ I whispered.
‘What?’ he said, looking back into the car.
‘Shut the door, Eric,’ I said and put my foot down.
I dialled her flat.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again. No answer.
I hung up.
Back into Bradford, out of Bradford, back into Leeds, foot down all the way: Killinghall Road, Leeds Road, the Stanningley bypass, Armley.
Under the dark arches, tempted by a last afternoon drink, succumbing in the Scarborough, a quick whisky into the top of a pint, down in one in the shadow of the Griffin.
Into the end of the afternoon, a breeze blowing through the centre, plastic bags and old papers round my shins, looking for a telephone that worked, just one.
‘Samuel?’
‘Jack.’
‘Any news?’
‘They let Fraser go.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t suppose you know where he is?’
‘What?’
‘He was supposed to check in at Wood Street Nick this morning, but he never.’
‘He never?’
‘He never.’
‘Anything else?’
‘One dead darkie.’
‘Ripper?’
‘Not unless he’s started on blokes and all.’
‘No, anything about Ripper?’
‘No.’
‘Bob Craven in?’
‘You sure?’
‘Put us through, Samuel.’
Two clicks and a ring.
‘Vice.’
‘Detective Inspector Craven please,’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Jack Whitehead.’
‘Hang on.’
Two fingers over the mouthpiece and a shout across the room.
‘Jack?’
‘Been a while, Bob.’
‘It has that. How are you?’
‘Well, and yourself?’
‘Keeping busy.’
‘Got time for a pint?’
‘Always got time for a pint, Jack. You know me.’
‘When’s best for you?’
‘About eightish?’
‘Yeah, fine. Where do you fancy?’
‘Duck and Drake?’
‘Eight o’clock it is.’
‘Bye.’
Through the dirty afternoon streets, the breeze wind, the plastic bags birds, the newspapers snakes.
I turned into a cobbled alley out of the gale, searching for the walls, the words.
But the words were gone, the alley wrong, the only words lies.
I walked up Park Row and on to Cookridge Street, up to St Anne’s.
Inside the Cathedral was deserted, the wind gone, and I walked down the side and knelt before the Pieta, and I prayed, a thousand eyes on me.
I looked up, my throat dry, my breathing slow.
An old woman was leading a child by the hand down the aisle towards me, and when they reached me, the child held out an open Bible and I took it from him and watched them walk away.
I looked down and I read the words I found:
During that time these men will seek death, but they will not find it; They will long to die, but death will elude them.
And I walked through the Cathedral, through the double doors, through the afternoon, through the plastic bags and the snakes, I walked through it all.
Everything gone, everything wrong, only lies.
The office was dead.
I went down the hall and into records.
Into 1974.
I spun the microfilm through the reels, over the lights. Into Friday 20 December 1974. Front Page:
WE SALUTE YOU.
A photograph –
Three big smiles:
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 pressed print and watched those three big smiles, those outstanding police officers come out.
Watched that by-line:
BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR
I knocked on Hadden’s door and went in.
Still sat behind the desk, his back still to Leeds.
I sat down.
‘Jack,’ he said.
‘Bill,’ I smiled.
‘Well?’
‘Fraser’s done a runner.’
‘You know where he is?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘I have to check.’
He sniffed up and tidied up some pens on his desk.
I asked, ‘You got anything new?’
‘Jack,’ he said, not looking up. ‘You said something about Paula Garland, the last time you were in.’
‘Yeah.’
He looked up, ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘You said something about a connection, a link?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Bloody hell, Jack. What have you found out?’
‘Like I said, Clare Strachan …’
‘The Preston Ripper job?’
‘Yeah. She went by the name Morrison and under that name she’d made a statement as a witness in the Paula Garland murder.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yeah. Fraser said Rudkin and maybe some other officers knew this, but it’s never been officially recorded in the Preston inquiry. Or anywhere else.’
‘And there’s nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing you’re not telling me?’
‘No. Course not.’
‘And you found this out from Sergeant Fraser?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Just getting it straight in my mind, Jack. Just getting it straight.’
‘You got it straight then?’
‘Yeah
,’ he said, eyes on mine.
I stood up.
‘Sit down a minute, Jack,’ he said.
I sat down.
Hadden opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a large manila envelope.
‘This came this morning,’ he said, tossing it across his desk. ‘Take a look.’
I pulled out a magazine.
A nack mag, pornography.
Cheap pornography.
Amateurs:
Spunk.
The corner of one page folded down.
‘Page 7,’ said Bill Hadden.
I turned to the marked page and there she was:
Bleached white hair and flaccid pink flesh, wet red holes and dry blue eyes, legs spread, flicking her clit:
Clare Strachan.
I was hard again.
‘This morning?’ I asked, throat hoarse.
‘Yeah, postmarked Preston.’
I turned the envelope over, nodding.
‘Anything else?’
‘No, just that.’
‘Just the one issue?’
‘Yeah, just that.’
I looked up, the mag in my hands.
Hadden said, ‘You didn’t know she was doing this kind of stuff?’
‘No.’
‘You any idea who might have sent it?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t think your Sergeant Fraser’s gone west do you?’
‘No.’
‘I see,’ said Hadden, nodding to himself. I said, ‘What we going to do with it?’
‘I want you to make some calls, find out what the fuck’s going on out there.’
I stood up.
He was picking up a phone as he said, ‘And Jack?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, one hand on the doorknob.
‘Be careful, yeah?’
‘I always am,’ I said. ‘I always am.’
I dialled her flat.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up.
I looked at my watch:
Just gone six.
Slight change of plan.
Down the hall and back into records.
Back into 1974.
I spun the microfilm again, through the reels and over the lights.
Into Tuesday 24 December 1974.
Evening Post, Front Page:
3 DEAD IN WAKEFIELD XMAS SHOOT-OUT
Sub-headed:
Hero Cops Foil Pub Robbery
A photograph –
The Strafford, the Bullring, Wakefield.
A horrific shoot-out late last night in the centre of Wakefield left three people dead and three seriously injured in what police are describing as ‘a robbery that went wrong.’
According to a police spokesman, police were called after shots were reported at the Strafford Public House in the Bullring, Wakefield, at around midnight last night. The first officers on the scene were Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas, the two officers who last week were commended for their part in the arrest of the man suspected of the murder of Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay.
When the two officers entered the Strafford they discovered a robbery in progress and were shot and beaten by unidentified gunmen, who then escaped.
Members of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police’s Special Patrol Group arrived minutes later to find the two hero cops and another man suffering from gunshot wounds and three people dead.
Roadblocks were immediately set up on the Ml and M62 in all directions and checks ordered at all ports and airports but, as yet, no arrests have been made.
Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas were described as being in ‘a serious but stable condition’ in Wakefield’s Pinderfield Hospital.
Police are refusing to release the names of the dead until the next-of-kin have been contacted.
An Incident Room has been set up at Wood Street Police Station, Wakefield, and Detective Superintendent Maurice Jobson appealed for any member of the public with information to contact him in confidence as a matter of urgency. The number is Wakefield 3838.
I pressed print and watched those big lies, those outstanding lies come out.
Watched that by-line:
BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR
The Duck and Drake, in the gutters of the Kirkgate Market.
A gypsy pub, in the shadows of the Millgarth Nick.
Eight o’clock.
I took my pint and my whisky to the table by the door and waited, a plastic bag on the other seat.
I tipped the whisky into the pint and drank it down.
It had been a long time, maybe too long, maybe not long enough.
‘Same again?’
I looked up and there was Bob Craven.
Detective Inspector Bob Craven.
‘Bob,’ I said, standing up, shaking hands. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Bloody Zulus got a bit restless up Chapeltown couple of weeks ago.’
‘You all right?’
‘Will be when I get a pint,’ he grinned and went off to the bar.
I moved the plastic bag on to my lap and watched him at the bar.
He brought two pints over and then went back for the whiskies.
‘Been a while,’ he said, sitting down.
‘Three years?’
‘Only that long?’
‘Aye. Seems like a lifetime,’ I said.
‘A lot of water under the bridge. A bloody lot.’
‘Last time must’ve been before Strafford then?’
‘Must have been. Straight after that’d have been Exorcist business you had, yeah?’
I nodded.
He sighed: ‘Fucking hell, eh? Things we’ve seen.’
‘How’s the other Bob?’ I asked.
‘Dougie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well out of it, isn’t he?’
‘You weren’t tempted then?’
‘Pack it in?’
I nodded.
‘What the fuck else would I do? And you?’
I nodded again. ‘But what about Bob, what’s he do?’
‘He’s all right. Put his comp into a paper shop. Does all right. See him and I’m not saying there aren’t times when I wish it had been me who took the bullet. You know what I mean?’
I nodded and picked up my pint.
‘Little shop, little wife. You know?’
‘No,’ I shrugged. ‘But tell him I was asking after him, won’t you?’
‘Oh, aye. He’s still got your piece up on wall. We Salute You, that one.’
I sighed, ‘Only three years, eh?’
‘Another time, eh?’ he said and then picked up his pint. ‘Here’s to them; other times.’
We touched glasses and drained them.
‘My shout,’ I said and went back to the bar.
At the bar, I turned and watched him, watched him sitting there, watched him rubbing his beard and flicking at the dust on his trousers, picking up the empty pint glass and putting it down again, watched him.
I brought the drinks over and sat back down.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough Memory bloody Lane. What they got you on these days?’
‘Ripper,’ I said.
He paused, then said, ‘Yeah, course.’
We sat there, silent, listening to the noise of the pub: the glasses, the chairs, the music, the chat, the till. Then I said, ‘That’s why I called you actually’
‘Yeah?’
‘Ripper, yeah.’
‘What about the cunt?’
I handed him the plastic bag. ‘Bill Hadden got this in morning post.’
He took the bag and peeked inside.
I said nothing.
He looked up.
I looked at him.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.
I foll
owed him into the black Market, into the shadows of the stalls, the evening wind blowing the rubbish and the stink in with us.
Deep in the dark heart, Craven stopped by a stall and took out the magazine.
‘Page is marked,’ I said.
He turned the pages.
I waited –
Heart cracking, ribs breaking.
‘Who knows about this?’ he asked, his back to me.
‘Just me and Bill Hadden.’
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
I nodded.
He turned round, the page open and dangling from his hand, his face black and lost in the shadows and the beard.
‘It’s Clare Strachan,’ I said.
‘You know who sent it?’
‘No.’
‘There was no note?’
‘No. Just what you got there.’
‘They’d marked the page though?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You still got the envelope?’
‘Hadden has.’
‘You remember when and where it was posted?’
I swallowed and said, ‘Two days ago in Preston.’
‘Preston?’
I nodded and said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
His eyes flew across my face: ‘Who?’
‘Ripper.’
There was a smile deep in there, just for a moment, deep behind that beard.
Then he said quietly, ‘Why you call me, Jack? Why not straight to George?’
‘You’re Vice, yeah? Your neck of the woods.’
He stepped forward, out of the shadow of the stall, and he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing, Jack. Bringing this to me.’
‘I thought so.’
‘You going to print anything?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘Well then, I won’t.’
‘Not yet.’
‘OK.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
I moved out of his grip and said, ‘What now?’
‘Another pint?’
I looked at my watch and said, ‘Better not.’
‘Another time, then.’
‘Another time,’ I said.
At the edge of the Market, out of the heart, the shit and the stink still strong, Detective Inspector Bob Craven said, ‘Give us a call, Jack.’
I nodded.
‘I owe you,’ he said.
And I nodded again – unending, this whole fucking hell unending.
The footnotes and the margins, the tangents and the detours, the dirty tabula, the broken record.
Jack Whitehead, Yorkshire, 1977.
The bodies and the corpses, the alleys and the wasteland, the dirty men, the broken women.
Jack the Ripper, Yorkshire, 1977.
The lies and the half-truths, the truths and the half-lies, the dirty hands, the broken backs.