Emotional fucking pleas.
“By Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent. Well I say,” read Aunty Margaret over my Aunt Edie’s shoulder.
All around the room everyone began assuring me how proud my father would have been and how it was just such a pity he wasn’t here now to witness this great day, my great day.
“I read all stuff you did on that Ratcatcher bloke,” Uncle Eric was saying. “Strange one that one.”
The Ratcatcher, inside pages, crumbs from Jack fucking Whitehead’s table.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling and nodding my head this way and that, picturing my father sat in this empty chair by the cupboard reading the back page first.
There were pats on the back and then, for one brief moment, the paper was there in my hands and I looked down:
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.
I didn’t read another line.
Off the paper went again round the room, I saw my sister across the room sat on the windowsill, her eyes dosed, her hands to her mouth.
She opened her eyes and stared back at me. I tried to stand, to go over to her, but she stood up and left the room.
I wanted to follow her, to say:
I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I’m sorry that it had to happen today of all days.
“We’ll be asking him for his autograph soon, won’t we,” laughed Aunty Madge, passing me a fresh cup.
“He’ll always be Little Eddie to me,” said Aunt Edie from Altrincham.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Doesn’t look so good though does it?” said Aunty Madge.
“No,” I lied.
“There’s been a couple now, haven’t there?” said Aunt Edie, a cup of tea in one hand, my hand in the other.
“Aye, going back a few years now. That little lass over in Castleford,” said my Aunty Madge.
“That is going back a bit, aye. There was that one not so long ago mind, over our way,” said Aunt Edie, taking a mouthful of tea.
“Aye, in Rochdale. I remember that one,” said Aunty Madge, lightening her grip on her saucer.
“Never found her,” sighed Aunt Edie.
“Really?” I said.
“Never caught no-one either.”
“Never do though, do they,” said Aunty Madge to the whole room.
“I can remember a time when these sorts of things never happened.”
“Thems in Manchester were the first.”
“Aye,” muttered Aunt Edie, letting go of my hand.
“Evil they were, just plain bloody evil,” whispered Aunty Madge.
“And to think there’s them that’d have her walking about like nowt was wrong.”
“Some folk are just plain daft.”
“Short memories an’ all,” said Aunt Edie, looking out at the garden and the rain.
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, out the door.
Cats and bloody dogs.
Motorway One back to Leeds, lorry-thick and the going slow. Pushing the Viva a hard sixty-five in the rain, as good as it got.
Local radio:
“The search continues for missing Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay, as fears grow…”
A glance at the clock told me what I already knew: 4 PM meant time was against me, meant time was against her, meant no time to do background checks on missing kids, meant no questions at the five o’clock press conference.
Shit, shit, shit.
Coming off the motorway fast, I weighed up the pros and cons of asking my questions blind, right there and then at the five o’clock, with nothing but two old ladies behind me.
Two kids missing, Castleford and Rochdale, no dates, only maybes.
Long shots in the dark.
Punch a button, national radio; sixty-seven dismissed from the Kentish Times and the Slough Evening Mail, NUJ Provincial Journalists set to strike from 1 January.
Edward Dunford, Provincial Journalist.
Long shots kick de bucket.
I saw Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman’s face, I saw my editor’s face, and I saw a Chelsea flat with a beautiful Southern girl called Sophie or Anna closing the door.
You might be balding but it’s not fucking Kojak.
I parked behind Millgarth Police Station as they were packing up the market, gutters full of cabbage leaves and rotten fruit, thinking play it safe or play it scoop?
I squeezed the steering wheel, offering up a prayer:
LET NO OTHER FUCKER ASK THE QUESTION.
I knew it for what it was, a prayer.
The engine dead, another prayer from the steering wheeclass="underline"
DON’T FUCK UP.
Up the steps and through the double doors, back into Millgarth Police Station.
Muddy floors and yellow lights, drunken songs and short fuses.
I flashed my Press Card at the desk, the Sergeant flashed back a mustard smile:
“Cancelled. Press Office rang round.”
“You’re joking? Why?”
“No news. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” I grinned, thinking no questions asked.
The Sergeant winced.
I glanced around, opened my wallet. “What’s the SP?”
He took the wallet out of my hand, plucked out a fiver, and handed it back. “That’ll do nicely, sir.”
“So?”
“Nowt.”
“That was a fucking fiver.”
“So a fiver says she’s dead.”
“Hold the fucking Front Page,” I said, walking back out. “Give my best to Jack.”
“Fuck off.”
“Who loves you baby?”
Back in the office.
Barry Gannon behind his boxes, George Greaves face down on his desk, Gaz from Sport talking shit.
No sign of Jack fucking Whitehead.
Thank Christ.
Shit, so where the fuck was he?
Paranoid:
I’m Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Corres pondent and it says so on every fucking Evening Post.
“How did it go?” Kathryn Taylor, fresh curls to her fringe and an ugly cream sweater, standing up behind her desk and then sitting straight back down.
“Like a dream.”
“Like a dream?”
“Yeah. Perfect.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
She was frowning. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” She looked utterly lost.
“It was cancelled. They’re still searching. Got nothing,” I said, emptying my pockets on to her desk.
“I meant the funeral.”
“Oh.” I picked up my cigarettes.
Telephones were ringing, typewriters clattering.
Kathryn was looking at my notebook on her desk. “So what do they think?”
I took off my jacket and picked up her coffee and lit a cigarette, all in one move. “She’s dead. Listen, is the boss in a meeting?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“I want him to get me an interview with George Oldman. Tomorrow morning, before the press conference.”
Kathryn picked up my notebook and began spinning it between her fingers. “You’ll be lucky.”
“Will you speak to Hadden. He likes you,” I said, taking the notebook from her.
“You’re joking?”
I needed facts, hard fucking facts.
“Barry!” I shouted over the telephones, the typewriters, and Kathryn’s head. “When you’ve got a minute, can I have a quick word?”
Barry Cannon from behind his fortress of files, “If I must.”
“Cheers.” I was suddenly aware of Kathryn’s eyes on me.
She looked angry. “She’s dead?”
“If it bleeds, it leads,” I said, walking over to Barry’s desk and hating myself.
I turned back. “Please, Kath?”
She stood up and left the room.
Fuck.
Tip to tip, I lit another cigarette.
Barry Cannon, skinny, single, and obsessed, papers every where, covered in figures.
I crouched down beside his desk.
Barry Cannon was chewing his pen. “So?”