“I was only wondering what you thought…”
Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman slapped his thighs and sat back. “So what have we got, according to you?” he smiled. “Three missing girls. Same age, or near enough. No bodies. Castleford and…”
“Rochdale,” I whispered.
“Rochdale, and now Morley. About three years between each disappearance?” he said, raising a thin eyebrow my way.
I nodded.
Oldman picked up a typed sheet of paper from his desk. “Well, how about these?” he said and tossed the paper over the desk on to the floor by my feet, reciting by heart: “Helen Shore, Samantha Davis, Jackie Morris, Lisa Langley, Nichola Hale, Louise Walker, Karen Anderson.”
I picked up the list.
“Missing, the bloody lot of them. And that’s just since the start of ‘73,” said Oldman. “A little bit older, I’ll grant you. But they were all under fifteen when they went missing.”
“I’m sorry.” I mumbled, holding out the paper across the desk.
“Keep it. Write a bloody story about them.”
A telephone buzzed on the desk, a light flashed. Oldman sighed and pushed one of the white cups across the desk towards me. “Drink up ‘fore it gets cold.”
I did as I was told and picked up the cup, drinking it down in one cold mouthful.
“To be blunt son, I don’t like inexactitudes and I don’t like newspapers. You’ve got your job to do…”
Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, off the ropes with a second wind. “I don’t think you’re going to find a body.”
Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman smiled. I looked down into my empty teacup.
Oldman stood up, laughing, “See that in your bleeding tea-leaves do you?”
I put the cup and saucer on the desk, folded up the typed list of names.
The telephone buzzed again.
Oldman walked over to the door and opened it. “You do your digging and I’ll do mine.”
I was standing up, legs and stomach weak. “Thank you for your time.”
He gripped my shoulder hard at the door. “You know, Bismarck said a journalist was a man who’d missed his calling. Maybe you should have been a copper, Dunston.”
“Thank you,” I said with all the courage I could muster, thinking, at least then one of us would be.
Oldman suddenly tightened his grip, reading my thoughts. “Have we met before son?”
“A long time ago,” I said, loose with a struggle.
The telephone on the desk buzzed and flashed again, long and hard.
“Not a word,” said Oldman, ushering me through the door. “Not a bloody word.”
“They’d hacked the wings off. Fucking swan was still alive an’ all,” smiled Gilman from the Manchester Evening News as I took my seat downstairs.
“You’re fucking joking?” said Tom from Bradford, leaning over from the row behind.
“No. Took the wings clean off and left the poor bastard just lying there.”
“Fuck,” whistled Tom from Bradford.
I glanced round the Conference Room, boxing thoughts hitting me all over again, but this time no TV, no radio. The hot lights were off, allcomers welcome.
Only the Paper Lads here.
I felt a nudge to the ribs. It was Gilman again.
“How was yesterday?”
“Oh, you know…”
“Fuck, yeah.”
I looked at my father’s watch/thinking about Henry Cooper and my Aunty Anne’s husband Dave, who looked like Henry, and how Uncle Dave hadn’t been there yesterday, thinking about the great smell of Brut.
“You see that piece Barry did on that kid from Dewsbury?” It was Tom from Bradford, Scotch breath in my ear, hoping my own wasn’t as bad.
Me, all ears, “What kid?”
“Thalidomide Kid?” laughed Gilman.
“The one that got into bloody Oxford. Eight years old or something.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed.
“Sounded a right little cow.”
“Barry said her father was worse.” Still laughing, everyone laughing with me.
“Father’s going down with her an’ all, isn’t he?” said Gilman.
A New Face behind us, next to Tom, laughing along, “Lucky bastard. All them student birds.”
“Don’t reckon so,” I whispered. “Barry said father had only got eyes for one little lady. His Ruthie.”
“If it’s young enough to bleed,” said two of us at once.
Everybody laughed.
“You’re bloody joking?” Tom from Bradford, not laughing very much. “He’s a dirty git, Barry.”
“Dirty Barry,” I laughed.
New Face said, “Barry who?”
“Backdoor Barry. Fucking puff,” spat Gilman.
“Barry Gannon. He’s at the Post with Eddie here,” said Tom from Bradford to New Face. “He’s the bloke I was telling you about.”
“The John Dawson thing?” said New Face, looking at his watch.
“Yep. Here, talking of dirty bastards, hear about Kelly?” It was Tom’s turn to whisper. “Saw Gaz last night and he was saying he didn’t turn up for training yesterday and he wouldn’t be laking tomorrow.”
“Kelly?” New Face again. National, not local. Lucky bastard. My nerves kicking in, the story going national, my story.
“Rugby,” said Tom from Bradford.
“Union or League?” said New Face, fucking Fleet Street for sure.
“Fuck off,” said Tom. “We’re talking about the Great White Hope of Wakefield Trinity.”
I said, “Saw his Paul last night. Didn’t say owt.”
“Cunt just ups and does a runner, what Gaz said.”
“Be some bird again,” said Gilman from the Manchester Evening News, not interested.
“Here we go,” whispered New Face.
Round Two:
The side door opens, everything quiet and slow again.
Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, some plain-clothes, and a uniform.
No relatives.
The Pack smelling Clare dead.
The Pack thinking no body.
The Pack thinking no news.
The Pack smelling a story dead.
Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman straight into my eyes with hate, daring me.
Me smelling the great smell of Brut, thinking, SPLASH IT ALL OVER.
The first spits of a hard rain.
Crawling west out of Leeds, Rochdale way, my notes on my knees, my eyes on the walls of dark factories and silent mills:
Election posters, mush and glue.
A circus here, a circus there; here today, gone tomorrow.
Big Brother watching you.
Fear eats the soul.
I switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, playing back the press conference as I drove, searching for details.
It had been a waste of everybody’s time but mine, no news being good news for Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent, playing hunches.
“Concern is obviously mounting…”
Oldman had stuck to his story: bugger all despite all the best efforts of all his best men.
The Public had come forward with information and possible sightings but, as yet, all the best men had nothing substantial to go on.
“We’d like to stress that any member of the public who may have any information, no matter how trivial, should contact their nearest Police Station as a matter of some urgency, or telephone…”
Then there had been a spot of fruitless Q &A.
I kept it shut, not a bloody word.
Oldman, each of his answers straight back to me, eyes locked, never blinking.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That’ll be all for now…”
And, as he stood up, Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman winked the Big Wink my way.
Oilman’s voice at the end of the tape: “What the fuck’s with you two?”
Foot down with Leeds behind me, I switched off the tape, turned on the heater and the radio, and listened in as fears continued to grow on the local stations and a story grew on the nationals.