by David Peace
Here always their cries, always their whispers –
Always murder and always lies –
Always the Moors –
Always night and always black.
Down through Prestwich, through Cheetham Hill and Collyhurst, to Ardwick and the wrong side of bloody tracks:
The Vaughan Industrial Estate, Ashburys –
Low dark buildings in the cold rain and the blue lights, police the black wraiths against the white light, their cloaks wings about a factory:
DEATH –
All the gods of the North are dead now, moribund –
I park between the vans and the cars, in a crater filled with dead water and a bird, a sparrow.
I turn up the collar of my coat against the rain and stumble –
The young policeman at the gate lifts his hood to check my card and point me towards an open mouth:
DEATH –
A figure walks behind me, dreadful –
In the doorway stand Clement Smith and Roger Hook, white faces staring at the floor, silent eyes raised my way, stung red with the cold and the rain, the tears –
Tongues moving but without words, a cigarette, hands shaking but not shaken –
I walk through them, into:
DEATH –
This is the place, the swans loose –
Heavy workbenches, oil and chains, tools; the stink of machines, oil and chains, tools; the sound of dirty water, oil and chains, tools; dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, tools.
High skylights, rain against the pane –
Strapped down upon a workbench, trapped in chains, wrapped in:
DEATH –
Wings nailed to the ash, pornography –
I step towards the bench, closer –
Skinned naked and blistered, closer –
Blooded blackened and beaten, closer –
Skinned and naked, blistered and blooded, blackened and beaten, closer –
Face and hair burnt, twisted towards his left –
In his mouth, a cassette –
Bob Douglas: DEAD –
All this and heathen too –
To his left, a door ajar, its upper half glazed.
I walk across the wet and bloody concrete floor, walk to the door and with my boot I push it open –
Push and see a muddy bath affixed to the wall, its head towards the light from a skylight, push and see:
DEATH –
On the dark stair, we miss our step –
I step towards the bath, closer –
Into the light from the pane, closer –
Towards her laying there in the bath, closer –
Into the pain from the dark, closer –
A thin and pathetic smile on her face, a black hole in a still heart –
In her hand, a teddy bear –
Karen Douglas:
DEAD –
Never let her slip –
I step backwards, back towards the child’s father –
Back towards Smith and Hook in the doorway, towards the hands and the tongues, the cigarettes, the cold and the rain, the tears –
Stepping back from, turning back from, running from:
DEATH –
Always the way.
Two hours later, damp skin and bones sat around the eleventh floor of Manchester Police Headquarters, phones ringing and boots running, this way and that –
Always this way and that.
I count twelve men –
Waiting:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 –
Nine o’clock.
Ten minutes later, another knock at the door –
The cassette in a plastic bag, the science done.
Roger Hook plugs in a tape recorder and Clement Smith takes the cassette from the bag:
‘Prints?’
A scientist nods.
‘Who?’
The scientist shakes his head: ‘They’re checking.’
Smith holds it up, turning it in his fingers, the black felt-tip pen scrawled across the clear plastic:
‘All this and Heathen too,’ he reads, looking at me –
‘Ripper Tape,’ I say. ‘That was done over a copy of a cassette called All this and Heaven too by a singer called Andrew Gold.’
Twelve open mouths and twelve curses: ‘Fucking hell fire.’
‘This him?’ says someone –
‘Doesn’t make any sense, why …’
‘A bloke and his kid …’
‘An ex-copper …’
‘Poor bastard …’
‘Unless Douglas fucking knew …’
Clement Smith stands up, signalling to Roger Hook: ‘Gentlemen, shall we listen to the tape first?’
Twelve men nodding, silent.
Hook presses play:
HISS –
Piano –
Drums –
Bass –
‘How can this he love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Whispers –
Hell:
‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Whispers –
More hell:
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Cries –
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP.
Silence –
Nothing:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 –
Nine thirty.
Nothing but –
Twelve pale faces, some flabby and some gaunt, twelve faces and twenty-four eyes staring at me –
I stand up –
‘Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?’ I ask Clement Smith. ‘In private.’
He stands and says to Roger Hook: ‘My office.’
Hook and I walk towards the door, twenty-four eyes on me.
‘And bring that,’ says Smith, pointing at the tape recorder.
We follow him down the corridor.
In his office, Hook plugs in the recorder –
‘Can we hear it again?’ says Hook.
Smith nods –
Hook presses play:
HISS –
Piano –
Drums –
Bass –
‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Whispers –
Hell:
‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Whispers –
More hell:
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP.
HISS –
Cries –
Cries –
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP.
Silence, again silence –
Just the rain black upon the window, running –
The city grey below, swimming –
Drowning.
Roger Hook says: ‘What’s that last line?’
‘That’s my name,’ I say, looking at the Chief.
Smith swallows, says nothing.
‘Those words,’ I say. ‘Whatever they are, I’ve heard them before.’
Smith: ‘Where?’
‘Yesterday I went to see a man called Jack Whitehead. He was a journalist on the Yorkshire Post, – until he had some sort of breakdown and hammered a nail into his skull.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook.
‘He’s in Stanley Royd Hospital in Wakefield,’ I continue. ‘Anyway I went to see him because he was involved with Eric Hall. Eric Hall was Bradford Vice and was supposed to be pimping Janice Ryan who, as you know, was Ripper victim number six.’
Smith and Hook are staring at me, blank.
/>
‘Ryan was also the girlfriend of a Sergeant Robert Fraser, who was Ripper Squad.’
‘He was the one who gassed himself?’ asks Hook.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Anyway, there seems to be a school of thought in the West Yorkshire force that some of these murders aren’t actually Ripper jobs at all. Ryan being one of them.’
‘Really?’ sneers Hook. ‘They can actually think?’
‘Go on,’ hisses Smith, impatient.
‘I went to see Whitehead in connection with Eric Hall and Janice Ryan. He’s under sedation in their secure wing at Stanley Royd, but he was lucid for most of the interview up until the very end when I swear he said words, or words very like the words on the end of this tape.’
‘Do you want to listen to it again?’ asks Hook.
‘No,’ says Smith.
The telephone rings –
Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’
He listens, face unchanging, eyes on me, and then he hangs up.
Hook is saying: ‘It must be a foreign language or something?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, looking at Smith.
‘Should send it up to the University?’ suggests Hook, no one listening.
Clement Smith leans forward and presses the eject, taking out the cassette –
‘This writing,’ he says. ‘All this and Heathen too, you said it’s a reference to the Ripper Tape?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And the music at the start, that’s from a song on the same cassette as the song on the Ripper Tape – same album: All this and Heaven too.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook. ‘It’s got Ripper all over it, this.’
Or that’s what someone wants us to think,’ I say.
‘Or you?’ says Clement Smith.
Me: ‘Pardon?’
‘You’re all over this too.’
‘I know,’ I say…’
‘You’d been to see Douglas; Douglas was working for Richard Dawson; Richard Dawson is a friend of yours.’
‘I know.’
‘And he’s under arrest.’
‘I know.’
Eyes on me, fixed, locked –
The telephone rings again –
Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’
He listens, says: ‘Bring it up.’
He hangs up, eyes on me.
‘What is it?’ asks Hook.
‘Another bloody message.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve pulled a piece of paper, a note – from the little girl’s throat.’
‘Fucking hell.’
Me: ‘What does it say?’
‘Find out, shall we?’
Back with the rest of them, the lost twelve.
Another scientist: ‘Preliminary post-mortem on the girl Karen Douglas revealed she died of a single stab wound to the heart.’
Did her Daddy see her die, hear her, – or did she see her Daddy die, hear him?
The pathologist holds up a clear plastic bag containing a grey piece of notepaper:
‘We also extracted this from the back of her mouth.’
Twelve-plus large men lean forward, straining, half-standing, shouting –
The pathologist raises a hand to the noise:
‘It says: 5 LUV.’
Twelve open mouths, twelve fresh curses: Tucking hell fire.’
The pathologist sits back down, nothing more to say.
Twenty-four eyes on Clement Smith, Chief Constable.
Out of the corner of your eye, a dark figure forms –
‘Enough of this fucking bollocks,’ spits Clement Smith, clawing at the table. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook will break down the teams with SOCO: door to door, known associates, witnesses, etc. Bring them in, write it down, the usual.’
The usual –
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, come with me.’
The Chief Constable’s office, the two of us alone –
‘Pete,’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got to be completely honest with me here …’
‘Of course. I always am.’
‘Please, let me finish,’ he says, looking up from his desk. ‘You can see how this looks, can’t you? It’s not good: ex-copper and his daughter murdered, horribly murdered, sadistically, links to prominent businessmen, top policemen, the Yorkshire bloody Ripper. A right fucking mess.’
Silence, the two of us looking at each other until –
Until I tell him: ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be blaming me?’
‘That’s paranoia, Pete. But I wish to Christ you’d kept out of this whole Richard Dawson thing.’
‘Here, here,’ I say. ‘But nobody told me there was a Dawson thing to keep out of, did they?’
‘But common sense would have told you not to talk to Douglas.’
‘Common sense? So you’re saying that was a mistake on my part?’
‘Of course I bloody am. And it’s bound to come out.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says, pulling through his beard with his fingers. ‘I don’t bloody know.’
Silence, the two of us not looking at each other until –
Until the telephone rings –
Smith picks it up: ‘Yes?’
He listens, closes his eyes and says: ‘I’ll be down.’
He hangs up, eyes still shut.
I say: ‘His wife?’
He nods.
‘She was there on Sunday, when I went round.’
He doesn’t move.
‘I’ve met her. Do you want me there?’
He opens his eyes and picks up the phone: ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook please.’
He waits, eyes still avoiding mine –
‘Roger,’ he says. ‘Mrs Douglas is here. Meet us downstairs will you?’
He listens to Hook on the other end, then looks up at me as he tells him: ‘Let him stew. We’ll get to Richard bloody Dawson in due course.’
Then, just before he hangs up, he says: ‘And Roger? Don’t tell Dawson about Douglas. And make bloody sure he doesn’t find out.’
He slams the phone down –
It rings again –
‘What is it?’
He looks across at me and says: ‘Tell him Mr Hunter is unavailable.’
He hangs up again.
I say: ‘Who was it?’
‘Chief Constable Angus,’ he says, standing up.
The telephone starts to ring again –
‘Fucking hell,’ shouts Smith, sending the phone flying off the hook and across the desk, storming out of the room.
We knock once, softly, Smith, Hook, and I –
The policewoman opens the door –
Mrs Douglas, puffed and bloated with tea and sympathy, looks up: ‘He said he was just going into town, do some Christmas shopping. She said she wanted to come. I could tell he didn’t want her with him, because of the crowds I thought. But she cried and he gave in. Like he always does. Too bloody soft with her, he is.’
Silence –
Mrs Douglas, about to be gutted by questions and grief, looking at me.
Silence until –
Until Clement Smith begins, extending our official condolences and the like.
‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Douglas says.
‘We’re all very, very sorry,’ says the Chief Constable.
Mrs Douglas looks across at me: ‘Can I see them?’
I shake my head: ‘No.’
‘Please?’
‘They’re not here.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Somewhere else,’ I say.
‘They’re not at home?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘They’re not at home.’
‘Yes, I thought it was strange they weren’t at home,’ she says, blinking, – looking from me to Smith, from Smith to Hook, from Hook to me, to the policewoman and back to me.
‘I don’t understand,’ she says again, sucking in her lips, –squeezing he
r hands together, whispering to herself, – pinching herself, wide awake and dying –
‘I just don’t understand.’
I push away the sandwich and stand up.
‘I’m going to ring Joan,’ I say.
Clement Smith nods.
‘What time do you want to do Dawson?’ Hook asks him.
Smith looks at his watch and then up at me: ‘Three?’
‘Fine,’ I say and leave them under the bright, bright lights.
‘Where are you?’ she says.
‘Here. Manchester.’
You could cut it with a knife, the silence –
‘What’s going on?’
‘A man who worked for Richard, he’s been murdered. And his daughter.’
I’d been to sleep and I had this nightmare –
‘His daughter?’
‘Yes.’
There was a girl in a bath –
‘How old was she?’
‘Six.’
You could cut it with a knife, the silence –
‘What’s going to happen?’
‘I don’t know.’
I’d been to sleep and I had this nightmare –
‘I love you, Peter,’ she says. ‘I love you so much.’
‘Me too,’ Then: ‘Thanks, love. I’ll see you later.’
There was a girl in a bath.
Outside the interview suite I say: ‘Do you think this is a good idea?’
Smith hisses: ‘I think we’re past good and bad ideas, don’t you?’
Roger Hook comes out of the room: ‘He’s happy to talk to us without a lawyer if Pete’s there.’
‘Well that’s his decision,’ says Smith. ‘If it was me, I’d want all the bloody lawyers present I could afford.’
‘Do you want me to advise him to get his lawyer here?’
‘No. Let’s just do it.’
Smith opens the door and we follow him in –
Richard Dawson stands up behind the table, worried.
‘Mr Dawson,’ says Smith, cutting him off. ‘I think you know everyone?’
Dawson is looking at me, nodding his head up and down.
A young uniform closes the door and sits down behind us.
We pull up chairs around the table, facing Dawson.
Hook puts a cassette into the tape recorder on the table and presses record:
‘Wednesday 17 December 1980. Three-fifteen p.m. Preliminary interview with Mr Richard Dawson in room one at the interview suite at Manchester Police Headquarters. Present Chief Constable Smith, Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, myself, Chief Inspector Hook, and Detective Constable Stainthorpe.’
Clement Smith lowers his head towards the tape recorder and says: ‘Mr Dawson, you’ve been advised that you may have your lawyer present, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘But at this stage you have chosen to proceed without legal representation?’
