by David Peace
Warrant cards out, Hook says: ‘We’re here to see Jack Whitehead.’
She nods.
I add: ‘Is Leonard about?’
She shakes her head: ‘He’s gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Quit.’
‘Bit sudden, wasn’t it? He was here on Tuesday’
‘Called up yesterday, said he’d had enough.’
‘We’ll need an address,’ says Hook. ‘And a surname,’ I say.
She looks from Hook to me and back again –
‘Marsh,’ she frowns. ‘Lived up Netherton way, I’ll have to look out the address.’
‘If you would,’ smiles Hook.
There’s a pause –
‘Can you take us up?’ I ask.
She shakes her head: ‘I’ll have to call Mr Papps, he’s in charge. He can take you up.’
She picks up the phone and asks for Mr Papps.
‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white.
We wait, standing amongst the furniture, watching the skin and bones shuffling past, watch them coming to a stop, standing, watching us watch them, waiting.
‘He’ll be with you in five minutes,’ says the woman in white again.
I turn away from their stares, reading the etched tracts in the lower green half of the wall:
Here house hex’d.
‘What do you think?’ asks Hook.
‘About?’
‘This Leonard Marsh bloke?’
‘I don’t know,’ I shrug. ‘He was hardly a bloke. Twenty at most. I thought he was a trustee or something. Didn’t realise he was staff.’
‘He had access to Whitehead?’
‘Yep,’ I nod.
‘Gentlemen?’
We turn back from the green and cream wall –
‘Mr Papps?’ says Hook.
The small chubby man in the blue blazer with the gold buttons nods: ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’
‘No problem,’ says Hook. ‘This is Peter Hunter, Assistant Chief Constable of Greater Manchester and I’m Chief Inspector Roger Hook, also of Manchester.’
Mr Papps keeps on nodding, shaking our hands: ‘Yes, the call was a bit vague. I’m not sure really how I can …’
I tell him: ‘Unfortunately, at this stage, it’s difficult to be anything other than vague. So I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with us, if you don’t mind.’
He’s still nodding: ‘You were on the telly the other day, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I came here on Tuesday. I believe I spoke to you on the phone?’
‘My assistant,’ says Mr Papps. ‘Is this about the Yorkshire Ripper then?’
‘No,’ says Roger Hook. ‘It’s not.’
I say: ‘I spoke to one of your patients, Jack Whitehead.’
Mr Papps, still nodding, thinking too much: putting two and two together and getting four.
‘We’d just like to clarify a few things Mr Whitehead said and also get a bit more background on him,’ I half-lie.
‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’ asks Hook.
‘This way,’ says Mr Papps and he leads us into a big cold room with big cold windows, all big black shadows thanks to the big black trees outside –
We sit shivering in more second-hand furniture.
‘What do you want to know?’ asks Papps.
‘Everything,’ says Hook. ‘Starters, when was Mr Whitehead admitted?’
‘Here?’
We nod.
‘Well, he’s been here since the September of 77.’
Me: ‘He was in Pinderfields before that though?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘I think it was the June that he was admitted.’
Hook: ‘With a nail in his head?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps, lowering his voice.
‘And he did that himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
In this cold and black room Mr Papps is sweating, fiddling with the gold buttons on the blue blazer: ‘You don’t know about his wife, his ex-wife?’
‘No,’ says Hook.
Nothing, I say nothing –
Mr Papps, he wipes his brow and he tells Hook: ‘In January 1975, a man called Michael Williams believed he was possessed by an evil spirit. A local priest tried to perform an exorcism, however something went wrong and Williams ended up killing his wife and running naked through the streets of Ossett covered in her blood. The woman’s name was Carol Williams. She was Jack Whitehead’s ex-wife. Williams killed her by hammering a nail into the top of her skull. Worse, Whitehead was there. Saw it all.’
‘He was there?’
‘Yes, Mr Hook. He was there.’
‘Why?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And Williams?’
‘I believe he’s in Broadmoor, but I’m not certain.’
‘So in 1977 Whitehead tried to do it to himself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘The top of his skull.’
‘No, the place?’
‘The Griffin Hotel, Leeds.’
Hook turns to me: ‘That’s where you lot are staying, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I nod.
‘Bloody hell. Did you know?’
‘No,’ I lie.
He turns back to Papps: ‘And so he was brought to Pinderfields, and then here?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wouldn’t think you could survive, would you?’
I’m thinking of hollows and heads, craters and craniums, the pictures on the wall.
‘Actually, quite the contrary,’ says Mr Papps. ‘In the ancient world, a hole in the head was often used as a cure of other trauma or depression. Hippocrates wrote of its merits.’
Me: Trepanation?’
Papps is nodding: ‘Yes, trepanation. Apparently John Lennon was interested in it. And, as I say, it was quite common in the ancient world.’
‘But this is the modern world,’ says Hook. ‘And John Lennon’s dead.’
‘Yes,’ says Papps. ‘The modern world.’
I ask: ‘So what progress has he made?’
‘You’ve met him? Not much.’
Hook: ‘Is he likely to?’
Papps is shaking his head: ‘Hard to say.’
‘He’s on medication?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you write out his prescriptions for us, the names of the drugs?’
Papps nods.
Me: ‘Visitors?’
‘Not many. I’d have to check.’
‘Would you?’
Papps nods again.
I say: ‘The lady on the desk, she tells us that Leonard Marsh has left you?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps.
‘Was he in charge of Mr Whitehead?’
‘Not in charge, no. But he certainly had helped look after him for quite a time. Since he got here.’
‘Whitehead?’
‘Yes,’ says Papps.
‘Why did he leave?’
‘Leonard? I’m not sure, just had had enough he said.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s difficult work, Mr Hunter.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
Silence –
Then I say: ‘Who is his doctor?’
‘Jack Whitehead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me.’
It’s Dr Papps?’
‘Yes,’ he smiles. ‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No,’ I say, standing up, frozen –
Papps sighs: ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
Up the stairs, down the half-green half-cream corridors and across the landing, out of the main building, over the cold walkway and into the extension, locking and unlocking doors, back to Jack –
The last corridor; long and locked –
In the green paint, another etched tract:
Hex’d, I die.
Down the last corridor, long, to the last door, locked –
Dr Papps, keys out –
/>
Hook, a free hand on the doctor’s sleeve: ‘Has Whitehead left the hospital in the last twenty-four hours?’
Papps: ‘Of course not.’
‘In the last week, the last month.’
‘Inspector, Mr Whitehead hasn’t left his bed, let alone his room, since he got here.’
‘He’s loose,’ I shouted.
‘Jesus,’ said Leonard. ‘Not again.’
Me: ‘How can you be certain?’
Papps gives the dangling keys a shake: ‘How could he?’
‘But…’ starts Hook, but I give him the wink and he stops –
Papps looks from Hook to me and back again –
I nod at the door –
Papps shrugs, turns the keys, and then the handle –
He pulls back the door –
Silence –
‘After you,’ gestures Papps and we enter the room.
It’s cold this time and lighter, the toilet in the corner still dripping, the chair gone.
I follow Hook’s gaze to the bed, to Jack Whitehead –
On his back in a pair of grey striped pyjamas, hands chained to the sides of the cot, eyes open.
Hook is clutching the black bag, searching through the grey light, searching through the shadows, searching Whitehead’s scalp, searching for the hole he’d made.
‘Mr Whitehead,’ I say. ‘It’s Peter Hunter. I was here the day before last?’
Silence, just the dripping, dripping of the toilet in the corner –
‘Mr Whitehead?’ I say again. ‘I’m here with Inspector Hook.’
More silence –
‘Jack?’ says Papps.
Dripping, dripping, dripping –
I turn to Dr Papps and tell him: ‘We have to ask Mr Whitehead a number of questions. Would you mind waiting down the corridor, sir?’
‘He’s probably not going to talk.’
‘Even so, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Fine,’ shrugs Papps, like it’s not, and he leaves the room.
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
I say: ‘Mr Whitehead? Jack?’
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
Hook coughs and steps forward –
Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping –
‘Mr Whitehead,’ says Hook. ‘Your fingerprints were found on a cassette tape in Manchester yesterday. We’ve travelled here today to ask you how your fingerprints could have ended up on this cassette tape.’
Silence, complete silence until –
Until Jack sighs, eyes watering, tears slipping down his face, his cheeks, his neck, and onto the pillow –
Dripping –
We both step forward, closer to the bed –
‘Mr Whitehead?’ asks Hook.
But the tears are streaming now –
Dripping, dripping –
Hook opens the black doctor’s bag and takes out a portable cassette recorder.
‘Roger,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good …’
He 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 –
Just tears –
Jack’s tears –
Dripping –
Until –
‘That’s you,’ Hook is shouting, over at the bed, shaking Whitehead. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You knew Bob Douglas, didn’t you?’
Then suddenly a shot, a bolt –
Whitehead’s chest rises, his body twitches, his teeth gritted and bleeding –
And Hook’s turning to me: ‘What is it? What’s wrong with him?’
Again another shot, another bolt –
Chest risen, body twitching, teeth gritted and bleeding –
‘What is it?’ Hook is screaming. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Get Papps!’
A last shot, a final bolt –
Chest risen then fallen, a body twitching then still, teeth gritted then mouth open, blood bleeding –
A bloody stream down his face, his cheeks, his neck, and onto the pillow –
Dripping –
Hook is down the corridor shouting for the doctor –
Whitehead still, frozen –
I lean in close to the bed, feeling for the heart –
His mouth opens, bloody bubbles bursting on his lips and gums –
I lean in closer to the mouth, listening –
‘What?’ I say. ‘What is it?’
Closer to the mouth –
‘What?’
Listening –
‘Futures and pasts,’ he whispers. ‘Futures past.’
Hook and Papps are tearing back up the corridor –
‘What?’ I say, but he’s gone –
Silence, just their feet down the long, long corridor, then through the door, Papps pushing me to one side, panting, just questions, questions, questions, Papps pushing Hook back down the long, long corridor, for help, help, help, panting, Papps pushing down on Whitehead’s chest, breathe, breathe, breathe, panting, pushing open his mouth, kissing him, kiss, kiss, kiss, panting, then pushing me back into the wall, more questions, questions, questions, pushing down on his chest again, thump, thump, thump, panting, more feet down the long, long corridor, doctor, doctor, doctor, panting, Hook to me to Hook to Papps to Hook to me to Papps, questions, questions, questions, panting –
Just questions –
Questions and no answers.
Standing on the gravel in the cold drizzle, the bare trees and empty nests, watching the blue lights take him away, the woman in white from behind the desk handing Papps his blue blazer as he gets in the back of the ambulance with Jack for the short ride next door.
We walk to our cars.
‘Inspector!’ shouts the woman in white –
We both turn and she comes across the gravel to hand me two pieces of paper:
‘Leonard’s address,’ she says. ‘And Dr Papps said you wanted a list of Jack Whitehead’s visitors.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome,’ she smiles, but she doesn’t mean it, she can’t, why would she.
Lit match, gone –
Dark Jack.
Lit match, gone –
Like dark Jack, out –
Seeing through her eyes: Winter, collapse –
Dark Jack.
Winter, collapse –
Like dark Jack, out –
Seeing through her eyes:
1980 –
Out, out, out.
Millgarth, Leeds –
Outside the Ripper Room:
‘Inspector Craven? Can I have a word?’
‘Certainly Assistant Chief Constable Hunter,’ he says, saluting.
I walk over to the top of the stairs, Craven limping behind.
‘See much of Bob Douglas, do you?’ I ask him.
‘Every now and again, why?’
‘And how’s he doing?’
‘Fine. Last I heard.’
‘You’re not in touch much then?’
‘On and off, like I say. Less so now he’s over your way’
‘What’s he up to?’
‘Think it’s security work these days.’
‘Before that?’
‘When he quit he –’
‘When was that?’
‘75 sometime. He didn’t want to, mind – they made him.’
I nod: ‘So what did he do?’
‘Got a ton of brass, didn’t he? Bought a shop.’
‘A shop?’
‘Yeah, but he was never anything to do with any of this,’ he says, waving back over at the Ripper Room. ‘Before his time.’
‘I know.’
‘So why the sudden interest?’
‘He’s dead, Inspector.’
‘What?’
‘They found his body and that of his daughter in Manchester yesterday’
‘His body? What are you talking about?’ says Craven, pulling at his beard.
‘The bodies of Bob Douglas and his daughter.’
‘How? How did they die?’
‘They were murdered.’
Detective Inspector Robert Craven is swaying back and forth on his heels, shaking his head, eyes back and forth across my face, then over my shoulder –
I turn around and there’s John Murphy –
He looks from me to Craven and back again and says: ‘You heard then?’
‘Yep,’ I say, glancing back at Craven. ‘I was there.’
‘Christ,’ says Murphy.
‘Yep.’
‘His little lass and all?’
I nod.
Craven looks at us both and says: ‘Can you give me ten minutes?’
‘Forget it, Bob,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a shock, go home.’
He shakes his head: ‘Ten minutes.’
In the upstairs room again, our room –
The one next to his –
With the dead again, always the dead –
Alec McDonald says: ‘Tracey Livingston, Preston, Saturday 7 January 1978.’
Eyes upon the table top, upon the notebooks and the files.
Tracey left the Carlisle Hotel in the centre of town after last orders Saturday night. Her body was discovered in her flat the next day. She was thirty-three years old and had three kids. She was also a convicted prostitute.
‘Death was due to four blows to the head with an instrument that has yet to be recovered. There were also stab wounds to the abdomen and back, though these would not have proved fatal.
‘Alf Hill was in charge.’
In the upstairs room, silence –
Then Alec says: ‘You want me to go on?’
I nod –
And so he says: ‘On the Sunday evening, her friend Bob Jenkins came round for her. They had arranged to go out for a drink. When there was no answer, he was concerned enough to break down the door. He saw blood on the hall floor and followed the trail into the bedroom. Tracey was in bed, apparently sleeping. Jenkins pulled back the blankets to find her dead, covered in blood. His words not mine. The caretaker called the police.
‘Alf quickly contacted George Oldman, and Yorkshire sent their boys over. Like with us and Doreen Pickles, it was a combined investigation.’
