Nineteen Eighty
Page 32
Leave this sofa, this room, this house of the dead –
Leave it for another –
Yorkshire, bloody Yorkshire –
Primitive Yorkshire, Medieval Yorkshire, Industrial Yorkshire –
Three Ages, three Dark Ages –
Local Dark Ages –
Local decay, industrial decay –
Local murder, industrial murder –
Local hell, industrial hell –
Dead hells, dead ages –
Dead moors, dead mills –
Dead cities –
Crows, the rain, and their Ripper –
The Yorkshire Ripper –
Yorkshire bloody Ripper.
Thornton Crematorium is halfway between Denholme and Allerton, on the way back into Bradford.
I know the way, know the place –
On the dark stair, we miss our step.
Raining heavily, it’s nearly ten-thirty:
10:25:01 –
Monday 29 December 1980.
I park on the road and stare up the hill towards the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, tyres in the rain the only sound.
Know the place well –
I’ve been here before:
Sunshine hurting, it’s gone ten:
The leather strap of my father’s watch, itching in the heat –
Thursday 7 July 1977 –
Parked on the road, staring up the hill towards the pale building with the chimney, white in the bright light, the small stones with the small names, flowers, the white clouds in the blue sky, trees, the birds singing –
I’m taking down number plates, putting faces to names, on my own time and of my own leave –
Compassionate leave:
Another miscarriage, the last –
Joan at her parents’ house.
Thursday 7 July 1977 –
Burying him today, almost three weeks on:
Sunday 19 June 1977 –
Detective Inspector Eric Hall, Bradford Vice, murdered –
Wife beaten and raped –
Murdered and raped at their Denholme house by a gang of four men –
Black men –
Described by police as being of West Indian origin.
Parked on the road, staring up the hill, taking down number plates, putting white faces to white names –
Police faces to police names:
Chief Constable Ronald Angus, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman, Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman, Detective Superintendent James Prentice, Detective Inspector Robert Craven, all Leeds –
No family, only coppers –
Not Bradford –
All Leeds.
There’s a tap on the window and I jump –
Back:
It’s Murphy, jacket over his head.
‘Christ,’ I say, winding down the window.
‘You going up?’
I nod and wind back the window and get out.
‘What you doing here?’ I ask him. ‘Didn’t know her did you?’
‘Feel like I bloody did,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But I knew you’d be here.’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean what?’ he laughs, the rain pouring over us. ‘We’re worried about you?’
‘Well, don’t be.’
‘Come on,’ he says, looking up at the black sky above. ‘Let’s make a rim for it.’
And we run up the hill towards the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, our boots in the rain the only sound.
Murphy is there first, panting and holding open the door –
I step inside –
The service, the ritual about to begin.
Mrs Hall is already here, along with a handful of spectators –
Raw and blank –
Her son Richard and a girl in black, some old women, a couple who look like they might live across the road, the odd person at the back, a man who’s here to take notes for his paper, the police –
Pete Noble and Jim Prentice, John Murphy and me.
The professionals –
One down the front, kit on –
And the Reverend Laws –
The Reverend Martin Laws shaking Richard’s hand, smiling at the girl in black.
I look round at all the folk I don’t know and I want their names, wanting to tell Noble to make sure he puts names to faces –
But that’s not going to happen –
Not today –
Not ever.
She’s gone –
They’re just here to make sure.
So we stand there in the pew, behind Noble and Prentice, making double sure.
When she’s gone and when they’re sure, Noble turns round –
‘Pete? How are you?’
‘All right,’ I say.
‘Heard about the fire. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ Jim Prentice says. ‘Bad news.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, dropping my eyes to the floor as Richard Hall and the girl in black walk past us to the door.
‘Sorry to hear about all this other stuff as well,’ he says, glancing at Murphy. ‘This stuff with Angus and Maurice?’
I say: ‘It’ll get sorted out.’
‘Be a mountain out of a molehill,’ he smiles.
‘There’s not even a bloody molehill to make a mountain of,’ hisses Murphy.
‘What I heard,’ says Noble, embarrassed.
I put up my hand, stopping us here: ‘Thanks, Pete.’
Silence, embarrassed silence –
Just nods and sniffs, the rain on the roof, until –
Until I ask: ‘Any news from your end?’
‘Nabbed the bloke who called the Mirror.’
‘So I heard.’
‘What’d he do it for?’ asks Murphy.
Prentice, shaking his head: ‘Got a telephone put in but didn’t know anyone to call, so he rings Ripper Line and listens to tape a couple of times, gets bored of that and thinks he’ll have a laugh, calls Mirror.’
‘Daft cunt,’ laughs Murphy.
‘One down.’ I say. ‘Two to go.’
‘Two?’ says Prentice. ‘What do you mean two?’
Noble smiles – thinks about saying something, something else, something more – but turns to Prentice and says: ‘Head up to the house, shall we?’
‘Right,’ shrugs Prentice.
They look at us, but we’re both shaking our heads.
‘See you, then,’ says Noble, hand out –
I take it and say: ‘By the way, when’s the inquest?’
He looks back down the aisle at the place where he last saw Mrs Hall and then at Jim Prentice: ‘Week on Friday?’
‘Yeah,’ says Prentice. ‘Couldn’t get it in any earlier because of New Year and the weekend.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘See you later, Pete,’ says Noble again, nodding to Murphy –
A handshake here and they’re gone too.
‘He’s all right,’ says Murphy, once they’re out the door. ‘For a Yorkie.’
‘A Yorkie?’ I say, then: ‘Listen, can I meet you outside? I just want to have a word with that man down there.’
‘The priest?’
‘Yes,’ I say and walk down the aisle towards the front.
The Reverend Martin Laws is knelt down, hands on the rail of one of the front pews.
‘Mr Laws?’
Hands still together, he turns to look up at me: ‘Mr Hunter.’
‘Nice service.’
‘In the circumstances,’ he nods.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says, sitting back up on the pew – moving his hat to make room fo
r me.
I sit down beside him.
He turns and looks at me, his clothes stinking and smelling of damp: ‘You’ve got a lot of questions Mr Hunter?’
‘Hasn’t everyone?’
‘Not everyone,’ he says. ‘Not everyone.’
‘Well, do you mind if I ask you some of mine?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says again.
I ask him: ‘Are you really a priest, Mr Laws?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still a priest?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I nod. ‘You told me that Mrs Hall rang you because she’d heard of your work?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’d heard of it from Jack Whitehead, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘You met Mr Whitehead through his ex-wife Carol?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were both there the night Carol’s second husband murdered her?’
‘Yes.’
‘His name was Michael Williams?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was found to be insane and is now in Broadmoor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, at his trial, you were singled out for criticism by the judge, Mr Justice Caulfield, were you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And by Dr Eric Treacy, the Bishop of Wakefield?’
‘Yes.’
‘And didn’t Jack Whitehead, didn’t he hold you responsible for Carol’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think that Jack’s grief, the grief over the death of his wife, a death he blames on you, that this grief led to his suicide attempt in 1977?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Yes, yes, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘You still visit Jack? In Stanley Royd?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Laws,’ I say. ‘On these visits, has Jack ever given you anything?’
Laws pauses and then says: ‘No.’
‘Never given you any books, letters, or cassettes?’
‘No.’
‘Have you ever given anything to him?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a bunch of grapes?’
‘It’s against the regulations.’
‘But people break regulations; that’s what they’re there for.’
‘The people or the regulations, Mr Hunter?’
‘Both.’
‘You’re a policeman. Not everyone else thinks like that.’
‘Know a lot about the police, do you Mr Laws?’
‘No.’
‘Know a lot about Helen Marshall though, don’t you?’
‘Is that what this is about? Helen?’
‘Helen? Detective Sergeant Marshall to you.’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you? Privately?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Hunter, I can’t tell you that.’
‘She wants your help though?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
I grab the sleeve of his raincoat, cold and wet, grab it and turn him to face me: ‘Tell me!’
He’s shaking his head, asking me: ‘Why?’
‘Because you’re going to try and fucking exorcise her or whatever it is you fucking do.’
‘Sticks and stones, Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘But this is my Father’s house, so please…’
‘Fuck off!’ I shout, standing up: ‘She’s not going to end up here like Libby Hall, not going to end up like Carol fucking Whitehead.’
‘Please…’
‘Leave her alone or I’ll kill you,’ I say, pulling him up by his coat.
‘You don’t believe in demons, Mr Hunter?’ Laws is laughing. ‘Don’t believe in them, do you?’
‘No!’
‘After all you’ve seen, all they’ve done to you?’
‘No!’
‘You still don’t believe in them?’
‘No!’
‘All those miscarriages, those …’
And I punch him once, hard –
Breaking his nose, dark blood across his pale skin –
My arm back and coming in again when –
When Murphy gets a hold of me, a hold of my arm, pulling me back, pulling me away, pulling me off, dragging me back, dragging me away, dragging me off –
Blood on my knuckles –
Tears on my face –
Tears and rage –
Raw.
Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound John Murphy asking me:
‘What the fuck was that all about?’
‘He’s an evil man and he’s got inside Marshall’s head, I know he has.’
‘Long as it’s only her head he’s inside.’
‘Fuck off,’ I say.
‘Pete, he’s just a dirty old priest. Probably a puff.’
‘No, he’s…’ I’m shaking my head, saying: ‘I don’t know what he is.’
‘I’ll tell you what he could be,’ says Murphy. ‘He’s a priest who could bloody well press charges, and then you’d be fucked – boat you’re in.’
I’m nodding: ‘I know, I know.’
‘Go home,’ says Murphy. ‘Please –’
‘Home?’
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Joan’s folks or wherever, anywhere but bloody Yorkshire.’
‘Got an interview with Angus at two,’ I say, looking at my watch:
11:22:12.
‘Where?’
‘Wakefield.’
Murphy furious: ‘You’re fucking joking?’
I shake my head.
‘Why there?’
‘They’re too busy to keep coming over to Manchester.’
‘It’s bollocks, isn’t it. The whole bloody thing.’
‘What about you?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t you all be back at work?’
‘Monday week,’ he says. ‘If they let us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, there’s talk of another force coming in,’ he sighs. ‘And to be honest with you Pete, I don’t bloody care.’
I stare up at the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until –
Until I ask him: ‘You heard about Dawson then?’
He nods: ‘Alderman’s tearing his hair out looking for some fucking rent boy.’
‘Rent boy?’
‘Yeah, apparently some little puff was renting the flat above the shop.’
‘What?’
‘The flat above the newsagents. Where they found Dawson.’
‘No?’
He nods: ‘Alderman reckons your mate Dicky was definitely tricky.’
‘Fuck off, John,’ I say.
‘Just telling you what I heard,’ he says, palms up. ‘Just telling you what I heard.’
‘You hear a name?’
‘For who?’
‘The rent boy?’
‘BJ something. Get it?’
‘BJ what?’
He shakes his head, smiling: ‘Sorry, can’t remember that part.’
I say: ‘I think I saw him yesterday.’
‘Shit, no?’
I nod.
‘Where?’
‘Preston.’
‘Fucking hell, Pete.’
I nod.
‘What did he say? Say anything about Dawson?’
I shake my head: ‘But he gave me this.’
Murphy takes the piece of paper from me –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde,
legs and cunt –
Clare Strachan.
Across the top of the page, in black felt-tip pen:
Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.
Across the bottom, in black felt-tip pen:
Murdered by the West Yorkshire Police, November 1975.
Across her face, in black felt-tip pen:
A target, a dartboard.
Sat in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under the small stones with the small names, dead flowers, the cigarette ends and the crisp packets, dead leaves, the only sound the piece of paper in his hand:
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
‘A bullseye,’ says Murphy, quietly.
I nod.
‘He give you names?’
I say: ‘Just one.’
‘One?’
I nod: ‘Morrison.’
‘Morrison?’
‘Clare Morrison.’
‘Clare Morrison? Who’s that?’
I tap the piece of paper –
The piece of paper in his hands –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper –
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography –
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt –
‘Thought her name was Strachan?’
‘Morrison was Clare Strachan’s maiden name.’
‘So?’
‘You know any other Morrisons?’
John Murphy sits there in my car, under the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, under small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, only sound the clock in the car, the only sound until –
Until John Murphy whispers: ‘Grace Morrison?’
I nod.
Whispers: ‘The Strafford.’
I nod.
‘Fuck.’
I nod.
‘What you going to do?’ says Murphy.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You going to tell anyone?’
‘Like who?’
‘Alderman? Smith?’
‘Why? What will they do?’
He shakes his head: ‘What will you do?’
‘You wait and see.’
‘What?’
‘Wait and see, John.’
‘You’re going to rip this thing open, aren’t you? The whole fucking place?’
‘Wait and see,’ I smile. ‘Wait and see.’
‘Fuck, Pete.’
I nod.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
I nod, thinking –
I know the time, I know the way –
I know the place, know the place well.
Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:
Monday 29 December 1980 –