I don’t like Derek Poole, his infidelities and his arrogance, so I say, ‘Mr Poole, there’s nothing routine about a young woman having her stomach slashed open and her skull smashed in.’
Derek Poole looks at the floor of the car. He’s got sick on his trainers and I’m worried he’ll puke again and we’ll have the stink for a week.
‘Let’s just get this over with,’ I mutter, knowing I’ve gone too far.
DC Ellis opens the door for Mr Poole and we’re all back out in the sun.
There are so many fucking coppers now, and I’m looking at them thinking, too many chiefs:
There’s my gaffer Detective Inspector Rudkin, Detective Superintendent Prentice, DS Alderman, the old head of Leeds CID Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, the new head Noble and, in the centre of the scrum, the man himself: Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman.
Over by the body Professor Farley, the Head of the Department of Forensic Medicine at Leeds University, and his assistants are preparing to take her away from all this.
Detective Superintendent Alderman has a handbag in his hands, he’s taking a WPC and a uniform off with him.
They’ve got a name, an address.
Prentice is marshalling the uniforms, going door to door, corralling the gawpers.
The cabal turns our way.
Detective Inspector Rudkin, as hungover as fuck, shouts, ‘Murder Room, thirty minutes.’
The Murder Room.
Millgarth Street, Leeds.
One hundred men stuffed into the second-floor room. No windows, only smoke, white lights, and the faces of the dead.
In comes George and the rest of his boys, back from the park. There are pats on the back, handshakes here, winks there, like some fucking reunion.
I stare across the desks and the phones, the sweating shirt backs and the stains, at the walls behind the Assistant Chief Constable, at the two faces I’ve seen so many, many times, every day, every night, when I wake, when I dream, when I fuck my wife, when I kiss my son:
Theresa Campbell.
Joan Richards.
Familiarity breeds contempt.
Noble speaks:
‘Gentlemen, he’s back.’
The dramatic pause, the knowing smiles.
‘The following memorandum has been sent to all Divisions and surrounding areas:
‘At 0650 this morning, the body of Mrs Marie Watts born 7.2.45, of 3 Francis Street, Leeds 7, was found on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay, near West Avenue, Leeds 8. The body was found to have extensive head injuries, a cut throat, and stab wounds to the abdomen.
‘This woman had been living in the Leeds area since October 1976, when she came up from London. It is believed she worked in hotels in London. She was reported missing by her husband from Blackpool in November 1975.
‘Enquiries are requested of all persons coming into police custody for bloodstains on their clothing and also enquiries at dry cleaners for any clothing with blood on it. Any replies to Murder Room, Millgarth Street Police Station.
‘Message ends.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Noble stands there with his piece of paper, waiting.
‘Add to that,’ he continues. ‘Boyfriend, one Stephen Barton, 28, black, also of 3 Francis Street. Some form for burglary, GBH. Probably pimped the late Mrs Watts. Works the door at the International over in Bradford, sometimes Cosmos. Didn’t show up at either place yesterday and hasn’t been seen since about six o’clock last night when he left the Corals on Skinner Lane, where he’d just chucked away best part of fifty quid.’
The room’s impressed. We’ve got a name, a history, and it’s not yet two hours.
A chance at last.
Noble lowers his eyes, his tongue on the edge of his lips. Quietly he says, ‘You lot, find him.’
The blood of one hundred men pumping hard and fast, hounds the lot of us, the stink of the hunt like bloody marks upon our brows.
Oldman stands up:
‘It’s going to break down like this:
‘As you all know, this is number 3 at best. Then there’s the other possible attacks. You’ve all worked one or more of them so, as of today, you’re all now officially Prostitute Murder Squad, out of this Station, under Detective Chief Superintendent Noble here.’
PROSTITUTE MURDER SQUAD.
The room is humming, buzzing, singing: everyone getting what they wanted. Me too-
Off post office robberies and Help the fucking Aged:
Sub-postmasters at gun-point, six-barrels in their faces, wives tied up with a smack and a punch in their nighties, only Scrooge won’t give it up, so it’s a cosh from the butt of the shotgun and welcome to heart attack city.
One dead.
‘Murder Squad’ll break down into four teams, headed up by Detective Superintendents Prentice and Alderman and Detective Inspectors Rudkin and Craven. DI Craven will also co-ordinate Admin, from here at Millgarth. Communications will be DS White, the Divisional Officer will be Detective Inspector Gaskins, and Community Affairs and Press will be DI Evans, all based in Wakefield.’
Oldman pauses. I scan the room for Craven, but he’s nowhere.
‘Myself and Detective Chief Superintendent Jobson will also be making ourselves available to the investigation.’
I swear there are sighs.
Oldman turns round and says, ‘Pete?’
Detective Chief Superintendent Noble steps forward again:
‘I want every wog under thirty who’s not married leant on. I want names. Some smartarse said our man hates women – hold the fucking front page.’
Laughter.
‘All right, so let’s have every fucking puff in your book in here too. Same goes for the usuals – slags and their lads. I want names and I want them names in here by five. SPG’ll round them up. Ladies can go to Queens, rest here.’
Silence.
‘And I want Stephen Barton. Tonight.’
I’m biting my nails. I want out of here.
‘So phone home, tell them you’ll be out all night. BECAUSE THIS ENDS HERE TONIGHT.’
One thought – JANICE.
Through the melee and out the door and down the corridor, Ellis trapped back down the hall, calling my name.
Outside the canteen there’s no answer and I slam down the phone just as Ellis catches up.
‘Fuck you going off to?’
‘Come on, we got to get started,’ and I’m off again, down the stairs and out the door.
‘I want to drive,’ he whines behind.
‘Fuck off.’
I’ve got my foot down, flying through the centre back to Chapeltown, police radio still crackling with the New Fire.
Ellis is rubbing his hands together, saying, ‘See he has his good points; big-time overtime.’
‘Unless they vote to continue ban,’ I mutter, thinking I’ve got to lose him.
‘More for them that wants it.’
I say, ‘When we get there, we should split up.’
‘Get where?’
‘Spencer Place,’ I say, like he’s as dumb as he looks.
‘Why?’
I want to throw on the fucking brakes and punch him but, instead, I smile and say, ‘Try and nip some of the usual bullshit in the bud. Stop them all yapping.’
I turn right, back on to Roundhay Road.
‘You’re boss,’ he says, like it’s only a matter of fucking time.
‘Yeah,’ I say and keep my foot down.
‘You take the right-hand side. Start with Yvonne and Jean in 5.’
We’ve parked up round the corner on Leopold Street.
‘Fuck. I have to?’
‘You heard Noble. Names, he wants fucking names.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll do Janice and Denise in 2.’
‘Bet you will.’ He’s looking at me sideways.
I let it go with a wink.
He reaches for the door. ‘Then what?’
‘Keep going. Meet you back here when you’re done.’