by David Peace
He sniffs up: ‘Before that would have been the Strafford then?’
‘Yep.’
‘Fuck,’ whistles Murphy. ‘Bloody Yorkshire.’
‘Yep,’ I say –
The Moors, Murphy, and me –
The memories neither cold nor lost:
The Strafford Shootings –
Christmas Eve 1974:
A pub robbery that went wrong –
Three dead at the scene, three wounded, one of them fatally –
Two of the wounded, coppers –
Suspects escaped, armed police and roadblocks on the streets of Yorkshire, possible links to Republican terrorists given the proximity to Wakefield Prison.
Twenty-four hours later and it was four dead, two wounded policemen –
Nothing adding up –
Inquiry ordered –
January 1975 and in we came –
A10:
Me and Clarkie –
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark, a friend.
Four weeks in –
A frantic phone call, a two-hour drive across these damned Moors again, home to bloody sheets and another miscarriage.
Clarkie took over, Murphy stepping in as his deputy
Two weeks on –
Clarkie collapses: pains in the chest, brought on by exhaustion.
Murphy in charge, Hillman as deputy.
Two more weeks –
Clarkie dead: pains in the chest –
Everybody home –
Case closed.
The Moors, Murphy, and me –
Memories neither cold nor lost.
‘Been a while since you seen George then?’ says Murphy, back.
‘Can’t bloody wait,’ I spit.
‘Brought your phrasebook?’
‘Phrasebook? No bastard speaks over there.’
‘Bloody heathens,’ nods Murphy.
I stare out at the lanes of lorries, the Moors beyond, the black poles and the telephone wires –
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.
Murder and lies, war –
My War:
Murder and lies, lies and murder.
‘What kind of reception you think we’re going to get?’
‘Cold,’ I say.
‘Bloody Yorkshire.’
His.
Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:
Friday 12 December 1980 –
Nothing but the ill-feelings and bad memories of thwarted investigations, of the walls of silence, the black secrets and the paranoia –
Professional hells.
January 1975 –
Nothing but the ill-feelings and terrible memories of the thwarted, of the walls of silence, the black blame and the guilt –
Personal hells.
January 1975 –
Impotent prayers and broken promises, reneged and returned –
December 1980:
Wakefield, barren Wakefield.
West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Laburnum Road, Wakefield.
We park our black Rovers amongst the other black Rovers and go inside out of the rain to be directed back out, across the road to the gymnasium of the Training College.
We are early.
But I can hear the press waiting on the other side of the building, waiting –
Early.
Another uniform sends us down another corridor to a small room beside a kitchen.
And here, in amongst the catering, we find the Yorkshire Brass:
Angus, Oldman, and Noble –
Hiding and already beaten, standing between their sandwiches and their better days, their Black Panthers and their M62 Coach Bombings, their Al Shootings and their Michael Myshkins, those better days a long time gone.
‘Chief Constable Angus?’
He turns around.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he sighs.
The room is silent, dead.
I say: ‘This is John Murphy’
‘Yes,’ he says, not taking Murphy’s hand. ‘We’ve met before.’
Some other men step forward from the back of the room, familiar faces from conferences and old Gazettes, Oldman and Noble dropping back out into the corridor.
Angus introduces Murphy and myself to Bill Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads, to Donald Lincoln, Sir John Reed’s Number Two at the Inspectorate, and to Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Services, a man I’ve met a number of times before.
Leonard Curtis, the Thames Valley DCC, has been unable to make the trip and Sir John himself left for the Caribbean early this morning.
‘Crisis, what crisis?’ smiles Murphy as we’re ushered out the door, towards the gymnasium, towards the waiting pack.
The Pack –
Yesterday’s shock has turned to anger, outright anger.
They are baying for us, smelling wet blood and wanting it fresh.
Lots of it.
A suit from Community Affairs shepherds us through the double doors and into the fray, a sea of hate.
We wade down to the long plastic tables at the front, eight of us, Murphy waiting by the exit.
We take our seats; the pack sitting before us, photographers and TV crews standing over us, everyone jostling for an angle.
Outside the large gymnasium windows it’s almost dark, a black ocean, the sheets of glass reflecting back the bodies of the press, their lights, their cameras, their actions.
Angus taps his microphone.
I am staring up at the ropes dangling from the ceiling.
‘Gentlemen,’ begins Angus. ‘As you are aware, last night I attended an emergency meeting of the West Yorkshire Police Committee which was called in light of the confirmation of Laureen Bell as the thirteenth victim of the Yorkshire Ripper.
‘I proposed a number of changes to the Investigation and the Police Committee have accepted them.’
‘Your resignation?’ shouts someone from the back.
Angus feigns deafness: ‘We have invited a number of senior detectives from across Britain and a leading Home Office scientist to assist us in our hunt for this maniac.
‘These men are Mr Leonard Curtis, the Deputy Chief Constable of Thames Valley, who unfortunately could not be with us today…’
‘Bit like the fucking Ripper, eh Ron?’
‘Mr William Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads. Commander Donald Lincoln, the Deputy Chief Inspector of Constabulary. Mr Peter Hunter, an Assistant Chief Constable with Greater Manchester, and Dr Stephen Tippet from the Home Office Forensic Science Services.
‘These gentlemen represent the most experienced group of officers who could be mustered to assist our investigations. They will conduct a thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper. They will look critically at police action and advise their West Yorkshire colleagues as to appropriate strategies.
‘Furthermore I would like to announce some internal operational changes which the Police Committee have also approved.
‘As of today Peter Noble has been appointed Temporary Assistant Chief Constable and been taken off all other duties and given sole responsibility for the hunt for this man.
‘Assistant Chief Constable Oldman will remain as head of West Yorkshire CID with responsibility for every incident except the inquiry into these murders and attacks.
‘It is my sincere hope that, with the continued assistance and support of the public, these changes will bring about a speedy and successful end to these horrific crimes.
‘Thank you.’
The sea of hate swells –
A deafening, roaring wave:
‘Would the Chief Constable care to comment on allegations that valuable time was lost…’
‘Was Laureen not reported missing as early as ten-thirty?’
‘And comments from her flatmate that she called the police repeatedly to insist that a search be conducted …’
‘… comment on rumours that she
bled to death while officers failed to respond to the repeated worries of her friends and flatmate?’
‘And that Miss Bell’s bloodstained handbag was discovered some time …’
‘That her bag was handed in and simply logged as lost property despite the bloodstains?’
‘… and would it not have been possible for roadblocks to have been set up?’
‘Have any suspects been arrested, any witnesses …’
Drowned, beached –
Oldman, a redhead resting in his left hand, glasses off, tears in his eyes.
Noble straining to pick questions from the torrent.
Angus, lips pursed, fingers in the dam.
The man from Community Affairs trying to keep afloat, sinking.
The rest of us, at sea –
Lost.
I look up at the ropes again, dangling –
Looking for a way out –
An exit –
An exit from:
‘… suggestions in some reports that the so-called Wearside Jack Tape, the Ripper Tape, that it is in fact a hoax?’
Silence.
Oldman eyes closed, Noble mouth open, Ronald Angus on his feet and shouting: ‘I would urge members of the public, all members of the public and the press to ignore suggestions that the recording is a hoax. I am 99% sure that the man on the tape, that the voice on the tape is genuine, 99% certain that this is the man we are looking for, that this is the Yorkshire Ripper.’
Looking up at the ropes, dangling –
On the dark stair, we miss our step.
A way out –
An exit.
‘Fuck.’
Doors slamming, jackets off, sandwiches flying, cans cracking.
‘Fucking cunts, the lot of them.’
In the back room, the Brass whipped.
‘A bloody shambles.’
The recriminations and the blame, looking for lambs, a scapegoat –
Community Affairs to the slaughter, Angus wielding the knife:
His turn for blood.
Oldman off to one side, staring into space:
The Scapegoat.
I leave Murphy by the silver foil and the sandwiches and walk over.
‘George,’ I say.
He looks up, taking off his glasses, thinner than I’ve ever seen him.
‘Can I sit down?’
He’s staring straight up at me, his eyes black and tiny holes.
‘George?’
‘Fuck off Hunter.’
There’s a hand at my elbow, Noble whisking me away.
‘We’ll meet in Millgarth at six,’ he’s telling me.
I’m nodding, staring back at Oldman, him back into space, black and tiny.
‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s had a shock that’s all,’ Noble is saying.
Nodding, staring into my own space –
White and huge –
Lost.
‘What was all that about?’ Murphy is shaking his head, reversing out of the car park.
Radio on:
‘Big changes were ordered today in the hunt for the Yorkshire Ripper
‘He didn’t know,’ I say.
‘You’re fucking joking?’
‘Mr Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, announced that a brains trust of senior detectives from around the country and a leading forensic scientist are being drafted in to the hunt for the man who has now claimed
‘They don’t waste any bloody time, do they?’
‘No.’
‘Mr Angus also confirmed that Mr George Oldman, Assistant Chief Constable and Head of West Yorkshire CID, has been relieved of his command of the inquiry.’
We drive up the motorway, the Ml, listening in silence as the stories eventually change, as they move on to two and a half million unemployed, a job lost every two minutes, on to the H Blocks and the Eastern Bloc, to a local woman who cut her own throat with a pair of electric hedge clippers.
‘Jesus,’ mutters Murphy as we approach Leeds. ‘What a fucking place.’
Leeds –
Wakefield deserted and barren, Leeds twice that hell and more –
A collision of the worst of times, the worst of hells –
The Medieval, the Victorian, and the Concrete: The dark arches, black mists and broken windows of industrial decay, industrial murder, industrial hell –
Dead city abandoned to the crows, the rain, and the Ripper.
And today, this day:
Friday 12 December 1980 –
It looks no different than we remember, than we feared –
Dread spectre from a woken nightmare –
A past trapped in a future, here and now: Friday 12 December 1980 –
Screaming in the wind –
A bloody castle rising out of the bleeding rain, a tear in the landscape –
Leeds, the grim and concrete medieval:
Dead city –
The crows, the rain, and the Ripper –
The Ripper, King –
The King of Leeds.
In a cold and rotting café, in the shadow of an industrial estate, we drink cold and rotting tea to kill the time, lorry drivers eating the fish special, kids playing the slot machine.
It’s pitch black as we pull into the underground car park beneath Millgarth Police Station, Kirkgate Market closing up. Moments later and we’re running back up the ramp and into the rain, the lift not working, the market gutters overflowing with rotten vegetables and foul water, Murphy cursing Leeds and Yorkshire, their coppers and their killer.
‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please.’
The fat sergeant on the desk, his face and hands covered in boils, he sniffs up: ‘And you are?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter and Chief Superintendent Murphy from Manchester.’
He wipes his nose in his fingers: ‘Wait over there.’
‘We have an appointment,’ hisses John Murphy.
‘Fat lot of bloody good that’ll do you if he’s not in.’
I lead Murphy over to plastic chairs under bright strip lights, the smell of wet police dogs rank and strong.
‘Fuck him,’ mutters Murphy.
‘He’s not worth it, John.’
And we sit in silence, staring at the boot marks on the linoleum floor, picking off the dog hairs, waiting –
Waiting for it to start.
And sitting here, staring into the black marks, the dog hairs, I realise how long I’ve been waiting –
Waiting for it all to stop:
Five years –
Five years to come back and right the wrongs, to make it right, make it all worthwhile –
The five years of marriage and miscarriage, of wet pillows and bloody sheets, of doctors and priests, of the drugs and the tests, the broken promises and plates –
Five years of –
‘Manchester? You can go up.’
‘About fucking time,’ says Murphy.
The Sergeant looks back up from his desk: ‘Just Mr Hunter that is.’
I’ve got my palms up between Murphy and the desk: ‘You try and get hold of someone, see if you can sort out the hotel. I’ll talk to Noble about the offices. Yeah?’
He’s got his eyes on the Sergeant, the eyes and boils back on his desk.
‘John?’
‘Right, right, right.’
I say: ‘Then I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so. OK?’
He’s still got his eyes on the Sergeant, but he’s nodding: ‘More good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality.’
The Sergeant doesn’t look up.
*
‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble, sitting back down behind his desk.
‘No harm done,’ I say as I take a seat across from him.
‘Well that’s OK then,’ he smiles.
He’s older than me, but not by much –
Forty-five at the most; thick hair starting to turn grey, a moustache that
gives him the look of a man still hard, still in the chase; and on a morning as he shaves he’s thinking of Burt Reynolds, fancying his chances, still in the hunt.
‘It’s not going to be much of a picnic for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Though I suppose you must be used to it by now.’
‘Sorry? Used to what?’ I say, staring at the photograph of two children on the windowsill behind the desk.
‘Not getting the red carpet.’
‘Don’t expect it.’
‘That’s lucky then,’ he laughs.
The door opens and Chief Constable Angus comes in: ‘Gentlemen.’
‘We were just getting started,’ says Noble, standing up.
‘Well I say we call it a night,’ laughs Angus. ‘After bloody day we’ve had, I say we extend some hospitality to Mr Hunter here and get him some dinner …’
‘I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet John Murphy in …’
‘Don’t worry about John,’ winks Angus. ‘Dickie Alderman and a couple of the lads are taking care of him. They’ve sorted you out rooms at the Griffin and they’ve gone for a pint or two. Or three.’
‘The Griffin?’
‘City centre. Be ideal.’
I pause, then say: ‘I had wanted to make a start right away.’
‘Course you had,’ smiles the Chief Constable. ‘And you will. But we can get just as much done over a steak and a couple of drinks as we can up here.’
They are both at the door, waiting.
‘I need to make a call to Manchester.’
Noble points at the phone on his desk: ‘Be my guest.’
The Draganora Hotel is a modern skyscraper near Leeds City Station, its third-floor restaurant dark and empty.
We take our seats in the window, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.
‘It’s one of them carvery deals,’ smiles Angus. ‘Help yourself to as much as you want and keep going back up until they have to carry you out.’
We order drinks and then head over to the long table at the back of the room, the food lying waiting for us under dim orange lights.
Noble and myself follow Angus along the line, piling on under-cooked meat and over-cooked vegetables until there’s no space left on our plates.
And as we eat we make small talk about the poor seasons Leeds and Man U. are having, the jailing of Lord Kagan, the murder of John Lennon; the three of us careful to avoid the obvious, careful to avoid the fact that we are the only diners in the restaurant of a four-star Leeds hotel a week before Christmas, careful to avoid the reason we are here and no-one else.
