by David Peace
Chapter 6
Leeds -
Millgarth:
The canteen -
Under the hum of the lights, the machines and their numbers: two, one, four, six, eight -
Tuesday 16 December 1980:
Almost eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight, eight:
I wait until Murphy’s finished eating his breakfast and then say: ‘Something else came up last night.’
He looks up from his dirty plate, a mouthful of toast.
I say: ‘Go for walk?’
Murphy raises his eyebrows slightly, shrugs, and then follows me down the stairs and out into the Market -
It’s gloomy but dry, no sun, only thick grey sheets of cloud.
We walk up George Street until we find a small cafй.
A couple of sweet teas in front of us, Murphy sits waiting -
I say: ‘You remember we were talking about Eric Hall?’
He nods.
‘His widow came to the hotel last night.’
‘You’re joking?’
I shake my head: ‘With a priest.’
‘What did she want?’
‘Reckons Eric was up to his neck in the Ripper.’
‘Yeah so? Bradford Vice wasn’t he? Bound to be.’
‘Yeah, but above and beyond the call of duty.’
‘Ah, fuck.’
‘He was involved somehow with Janice Ryan.’
‘Fucking never-ending this shit,’ he sighs: ‘Go on.’
‘Says her Eric was even a suspect at one point.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘So was another copper, one from Millgarth; the one that killed himself?’
‘Bob Fraser?’
‘Yep.’
Murphy lights a cigarette: ‘Load of old bollocks though, yeah?’
I nod: ‘Perhaps.’
‘And that was it? That was all she said?’
‘She spelt it out; says that Eric Hall was killed because he knew it wasn’t the Ripper who did Ryan.’
Murphy’s smiling: ‘I might agree with her that there’s a fair chance the Ripper didn’t do Ryan, but she can piss right off about Eric. He was as bent as a two-bob fucking note. We were bleeding going to nick him.’
‘Yep,’ I say, nodding.
Murphy leans forward: ‘I thought he was supposed to be into something with a gang of blacks who were knocking off post offices. Remember that?’
I keep nodding.
‘It went belly up, so they took it out on Eric. And his wife. That’s what we heard, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I feel sorry for her, the poor cow. But I still reckon Eric brought it all on himself.’
‘And her.’
‘And her.’
‘Maurice Jobson was in charge; is in charge of it.’
‘They never got anyone then?’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
‘What? That Yorkshire never got anyone? Get away, these blokes haven’t nicked anyone since Michael bloody Myshkin.’
‘No, no – odd Maurice heading up the investigation?’
‘Why?’
‘Well he’s what? Wakefield?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And where was Eric Hall done?’
‘His house?’
‘Yeah, which is Denholme. Bradford.’
‘But Eric was out of Jacob’s Well. They’re hardly going to hand it over to his own mob are they?’
I shrug: ‘Suppose not. But why Maurice?’
‘Fuck knows and, to be honest, who the fuck cares.’
‘Something does bother me, John – but I can’t put my finger on it.’
‘I can: the same old Yorkshire horse-shit we get every time we come over here,’ he yawns. ‘But if you want me to add this to the list, after your mate Tricky Dicky Dawson, then I’ll ask around.’
I can’t tell if he’s pissed off with me, or trying to piss me off -
I push away the cold tea: ‘She said Eric had notes, copies of stuff, some tapes. She gave them to Maurice Jobson, but never heard anything back. She reckons they prove that the Ripper didn’t kill Ryan, and back up a lot of other stuff too.’
Murphy upright, interested: ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. I was thinking, you’re doing Janice Ryan right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Eric Hall’s name is bound to be in there somewhere, bound to come up. And Bob Fraser.’
He’s nodding.
‘So why don’t you ask Craven to let you see the file on Eric and the one on Fraser? See if Eric’s tapes and stuff is in there.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Eric’s notes. Anything?’
‘Right. And if it’s not?’
‘She’s got copies.’
‘Yeah, suppose so,’ he says, staring away over my shoulder and out the window.
‘You OK?’
‘Ah, you know,’ he says, standing up. ‘It’s fucking Liz McQueen next, isn’t it?’
The room upstairs -
Smaller and darker than ever -
Another call for the dead, reverse charges:
I say: ‘Elizabeth McQueen?’
The Spaghetti Lady -
‘This is me,’ says Murphy. ‘And I’ll keep it brief.’
The room is hushed, Craven a notepad out for the first time, waiting for John to begin:
‘On Monday 28 November 1977, the naked body of a woman was found in Southern Cemetery, Manchester. She was later identified as Elizabeth McQueen, born on October 31 1946 in Edinburgh. McQueen was married with two children and had two cautions for soliciting. Death had resulted from brain damage caused by several blows to the head from either a hammer or an axe. The lower body had a number of lacerations, which had been inflicted after death by a sharp instrument. An attempt had also been made to sever her head. No weapons have ever been recovered.
‘McQueen had been last seen on Saturday 19 November 1977 when she’d left her home in Kippax Street, Rusholme. It has always been the belief that she met her death shortly afterwards.
‘When she left her home she was carrying a handbag which was initially not recovered. A workman found the bag on December 5. Hidden in the lining of the bag was a brand new five-pound note.
‘I was in charge of this Inquiry.’
Murphy pauses, stops dead, then says: ‘And I fucked it up.’
Silence -
It’s always the way -
‘As I say, our initial search of the crime scene failed to recover the missing handbag. We lost time and we never got it back.’
Another pause, another stop, another silence -
‘Before the bag turned up, I’d come over to Wakefield and met with George Oldman. We’d decided that while there were similarities, there were also several dissimilarities.’
On the dark stair, we miss our step -
I’m staring down at George’s press release before me:
‘We have no reason to believe at this stage that there is any connection between the murder in Manchester and the ones I am investigating.’
‘Then we found the bag and the fiver, and the rest you know.’
Another release, John’s:
‘We have a line of enquiry which is directly connected with the murder of a woman in Manchester and we are following that line of enquiry in the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police area. There is a team of detectives from Greater Manchester who are working with detectives from West Yorkshire. We will be visiting factories in the Bingley, Shipley and Bradford areas and are interviewing all male employees. As to any links with the unsolved murders in West Yorkshire, it is far too early to draw any conclusion and Mr Oldman and myself are keeping an open mind.’
Murphy staring at the tabletop, silent -
An open mind -
I say: ‘Any questions?’
Silence -
‘Break then.’
On the bright stair, John Murphy his head in his hands -
I put a hand on
his shoulder -
He looks up, eyes red.
I say: ‘I’m going to head over to Wakefield for the press conference; try and get a word with Maurice as well.’
He nods.
‘You OK to hold the fort here?’
He nods again.
‘I reckon this is a good place to pause, take stock. Also we could do with a recap on the ones that got away: Jobson, Bird, Peng, Clark, and Kelly, yeah?’
‘Right.’
I look at my watch:
Eleven -
I say: ‘I’ll meet you back at the Griffin about sixish?’
‘Fine.’
I stand up.
He looks back down at the stair again.
‘John?’ I say.
He looks up.
‘You’re too hard on yourself.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he says. ‘That’s just it.’
The Road to Wakey Fear -
Rain, rain, and a bucket load of pain:
The Four Horsemen riding on the radio waves, the Ripper laughing at their heels, whip in hand:
2,133,000 record jobless, Helen Smith, the Yorkshire Ripper; all hostages alive and well.
Abba and the football, winter:
The wet lanes, the dark tires, the wet trees, the dark skies, and here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, here she comes again, banging on my head with a piece of rock -
The Wakey turning, braking hard:
Never let her slip away -
And then it was Nineteen Seventy Five again, war across the UK:
Wood Street -
Wakefield, January 1975:
Me and Clarkie sat across from Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:
The Owl.
The Strafford, always the bloody Strafford.
Four dead:
Derek Box.
Paul Booker.
William ‘Billy’ Bell.
And the barmaid, Grace Morrison.
Box, Bell, and Morrison: D.O.A. Christmas Eve 1974.
Booker never going to make it, dead on Christmas Day.
Craven and Douglas: ‘hero cops on the mend’ with a visit and a handshake from the Home Secretary.
January 1975 -
Maurice Jobson, legend, said: ‘Some bloody Christmas that was, eh?’
‘Anything new?’
‘No.’
‘What about Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas?’
‘Doing OK, like the papers say.’
‘Anything more from them?’
‘No. Dougie still can’t remember a thing. Bob, nothing new.’
‘But he’s…’
‘The ranting’s stopped, aye.’
I opened up my notebook and said: ‘So there’s not a lot more than shots fired at the Strafford, they respond, up the stairs, bodies, smoke, four blokes in hoods with shotguns, more shots, beaten, left for dead. That’s it?’
‘That’s your lot,’ nodded Maurice.
‘I’d still like to speak to them.’
Maurice all smiles: ‘And you will, Pete. You will’
But I didn’t.
Two hours later the call from home -
On the dark stair, we miss our step -
There are corridors and passages, some lit and some not, there were doors and there were locks, some will open, some would not.
And that was that, until now -
1980 -
On the dark stair:
I knock twice.
‘Pete,’ he says, on his feet, hand out.
‘This a bad time?’
‘Not at all. Good to see you, Pete.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and sit down across from Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend:
The Owl.
‘You’re looking well,’ he says.
‘Really? Thank you,’ I smile. ‘You know why I’m here?’
‘The short straw?’
I laugh: ‘You could say that.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘Slowly,’ I say.
Maurice nods, a sympathetic smile: ‘That’s war for you.’
I say: ‘Anyway, I’d like to go over the initial investigations with you; the ones you were in charge of?’
‘Right.’
‘And I’ve also got a couple of questions about Clare Strachan and Janice Ryan as well.’
A nod.
‘Is that OK?’
‘Fire away, Pete. Fire away’
‘All right, you headed up Theresa Campbell and Joan Richards; so I was wondering, aside from the stuff that’s in the files, all the documented stuff, if there was anything you wanted to add, anything that you felt needed emphasising, points that need raising, anything at all basically’
Maurice Jobson leans forward in his chair and smiles: ‘What you want to know is why they took me off them, yeah?’
‘Crossed my mind, yep.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you shall I? The minute I clapped eyes on the body of Theresa Campbell, I knew that the man who killed her would kill again and continue to kill until we stopped him. He’s got the urge Pete, and that kind of urge doesn’t go away. Nine months later, less than two miles from where I’d stood and looked down at Theresa Campbell, I stood in the dirty snow of a dismal alley and looked down at what he’d left of Joan Richards. He’d stabbed her fifty-two times, Pete. Fifty-two bloody times. I told the Brass, told George, the lads, the press – anyone who’d bloody listen, told them all that he’d kill and kill again and keep on killing. But Theresa and Joan, they were slags Pete. Whores, as they say over here. And no-one mourns a whore, except her kids, her husband, her mates, and the bloody coppers that have to look at her dead fucking body in the snow. So no-one was right bothered, except me and my lads, but then we got a stroke of luck. A little stroke Pete, and that’s all it takes right?’
I nod.
‘Another whore comes forward and says she saw Joan’s last customer, saw his face and saw his motor.’
Maurice leans back in his chair, eyes closed, a mantra:
‘Thirty years old, short and fat, mouse-coloured hair, full beard with sideburns, round nose and hooded eyes. His left hand was deformed, with a scar as if it had been burned and which extended from the knuckles on the back of the hand up the wrist. He was also wearing a plain gold, square-topped ring on the third finger of his left hand and also a plain gold ring on the second finger of the same hand. He was wearing a dark blue working jacket over dark blue overall-type trousers and black boots or Wellingtons with a thick sole pattern. His clothing was covered in dust. He was driving a dark green Land Rover with a hard top, which was darker than the rest of the body. The passenger door was patched up with silver or grey paint. There was a small aerial on the front nearside wing near the windscreen.’
Maurice pauses, opens his eyes and leans forward, keen:
‘When we released this information, other girls came to us and said they also recognised this bloke as a regular punter, thought he was Irish, maybe called Sean. We also got tire marks to match the Land Rover near where we found Joan. A little stroke Pete, and this was the way we went.’
Maurice pauses again for a moment, staring at me.
‘Do you think we were wrong, Pete?’
I shrug, unsure what to tell him.
‘Anyway, that was the way we went,’ he sighs. ‘Mind, not that anyone really gave a toss. Still, didn’t stop us and we just kept on going, wading through the cars and the tires, knowing we’d come to him, knowing we’d find him. But then it gets to end of 76 and he’s not killed again has he, so they start to wind us down, send me back over here and that was that. Six months later Marie Watts comes along, George takes it himself, a couple of weeks later the letters start and we get the Johnson lassie and so then, by time you get to the bloody tape, that really was fucking that.’
‘And you think that was a mistake? The tape?’
‘Pete,�
� he says. ‘I’m saying nowt, except you wouldn’t catch me panting along behind that banner.’
I ask him: ‘What about Clare Strachan? You think…’
‘Same. All tied up with them bloody letters and that fucking tape.’
‘75, you sent Bob Craven and John Rudkin over, yeah?’
‘Yeah. Be about first thing Bob did when he got back.’
‘And, back then, neither them nor you made a link with Theresa Campbell?’
‘There was none to make.’
‘And now?’
Palms out, open, he says: ‘Who can say, Pete? Who can say?’
I say nothing, the pair of us just sat there, just sat there in the silence -
After a bit I say: ‘Whatever happened to John Rudkin?’
Maurice Jobson rolls his eyes: ‘Not a happy chapter for us, any of us.’
I sit there, more silence, waiting -
He says: ‘You were going to ask me about Janice Ryan, weren’t you?’
I nod.
‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll save you some bother. Ryan was involved with two coppers; Eric Hall, who I believe you were all set to come and have a pop at?’
‘Yep.’
‘Well you probably know then that he was, apparently, pimping Janice Ryan. Janice Ryan who, it turns out, was also fucking one of our lads, Bob Fraser. Heard of him?’
‘Yep.’
‘Thought you might have. Well, when Ryan turned up dead under a sofa in Bradford, it turned out she was pregnant and Bob Fraser was the father.’
I keep it shut now, letting him go on -
‘This is the same Bob Fraser who was married to Louise Molloy. Heard that name?’
‘No.’
‘Bill Molloy?’
I sit forward: ‘Badger Bill?’
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, one half of that same legend, nods -
The Badger and the Owl, boyhood heroes from an Eagle world, a Dan Dare world, a different world -
I say: ‘He was your partner wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. And Bob Fraser was married to his daughter, Louise.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I say.
‘It gets worse, Pete. Much worse.’
I’m nodding, just nodding, my mind turning, spinning.
He says: ‘When we found out the Ryan slag had been pregnant, we had Hall and Fraser straight in, Hall saying Fraser had done her, Fraser saying it was Hall, a right bloody mess - George doing all he could to keep it out of papers. Middle of all this, Bill dies; been on the cards, cancer. Next news, a letter turns up from bloody Ripper saying it was him, Ripper who did Ryan, so that was that again. We let Fraser go, but then Fraser only goes and finds out that his Louise has also been having an affair with John fucking Rudkin, his senior officer, and that Rudkin is father of his lad. Tips Fraser over edge this does, gasses himself up on Moors, as you know.’
