My body weak.
‘Come on,’ shouts Rudkin. ‘Where the fuck were you?’
I was battering down doors, battering down people, kicking in doors, kicking in people.
‘Working,’ he screams.
Ellis, fists into the wall, ‘Liar!’
I was raping whores, fucking them up the arse.
‘I was.’
‘You murdering bastard. You tell me now!’
I was breaking into houses, stealing cars, beating up cunts like Eric Hall.
‘I was working.’
‘The fucking truth!’
I was searching for a whore.
‘Working, I was fucking working.’
Rudkin picks him up off the floor, rights the chair and sits him in it, nodding at the door.
‘You fucking sit here and you think about where the fuck you were at two o’clock this morning and what you were bloody doing?’
I was on the floor of the Redbeck, in tears.
We’re standing outside the Belly, Noble staring through the peephole into the cell.
‘What’s the cunt doing?’ asks Ellis.
‘Not much,’ says Noble.
Rudkin looks up from the end of his cigarette, asks, ‘What next?’
Noble comes away from the hole, the four of us in a prayer circle. He looks up at the low ceiling, eyes wide like he’s trying not to cry, and says:
‘Fairclough’s the best we got for now. Bob Craven’s out pulling in witnesses, Alderman’s door-to-door, Prentice is down the cab firm. Just keep at him.’
Rudkin nods and stamps out his cigarette, ‘Right then. Back to work.’
Rudkin and I sit down across the table from Donny Fairclough, Ellis leaning against the door.
I sit forward, elbows on the table: ‘OK, Don. We all want to go home, right?’
Nothing, head down.
‘You do want to go home, don’t you?’
A nod.
‘That makes four of us. So help us out, will you?’
Head still down.
‘What time did you clock on yesterday?’
He looks up, sniffs, and says: ‘Just after lunch. One-ish.’
‘And what time did you finish?’
‘Like I said, about one in morning.’
‘And what did you do then?’
‘I went to a party.’
‘Where? Whose?’
‘Chapeltown, one of them kind. I don’t know whose it was.’
‘You remember where?’
‘Off Leopold Street.’
‘And this was?’
‘About half-one.’
‘Till?’
‘Two-thirty, three o’clock.’
‘See anyone you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know their names.’
Rudkin looks up, ‘That’s unfortunate that is, Donald.’
I say, ‘Would you know them again, if you saw them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Men or women?’
‘A couple of the black lads, couple of the girls.’
‘The girls?’
‘You know?’
‘No, I don’t. Be more specific’
‘Prostitutes.’
‘Whores, you mean?’ says Rudkin.
He nods.
I ask, ‘You go with whores, do you Donny?’
‘No.’
‘So how come you know they’re prostitutes?’
‘I pick them up, don’t I? Get talking.’
‘They offer you discounts, do they? For cheap lifts?’
‘No.’
‘Right, so you’re at the party. What did you?’
‘Had a drink.’
‘You always go to a party after work?’
‘No, but it’s Jubilee, isn’t it?’
Rudkin smiles, ‘Bit of a patriot are you, Don?’
‘Yeah I am, as a matter of fact.’
‘Fuck you drink with wogs and whores for then?’
‘I told you, I just wanted a drink.’
I say, ‘So you just sat there in the corner, sipping a half you?’
‘Yeah, that was about it.’
‘Didn’t have a dance or a bit of a cuddle?’
‘No.’
‘Smoke a bit of the old wog weed, did you?’
‘No.’
‘So then you just went home?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And what time was that then?’
‘Must have been about three-ish.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘Pudsey.’
‘Nice place, Pudsey’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Live alone do you Donny?’
‘No, with my mum.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Light sleeper is she, your mum?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, did she hear you come in?’
‘Doubt it.’
Rudkin, big fat fucking grin: ‘So you don’t sleep in the same fucking bed or anything daft like that?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Here,’ spits Rudkin, the hard stare in Fairclough’s face. ‘The shit you’re in, you’ll wish you had been fucking your mum. Understand?’
Fairclough’s eyes drop, nails up to his mouth.
‘So,’ I say, ‘what we got is this: you knocked off work about one, went down to a party on Leopold Street, had a couple of drinks, drove home to Pudsey for about three. Right?’
‘Right,’ he’s nodding. ‘Right.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
‘And?’
‘And anyone who was at that party.’
‘Whose names you don’t know?’
‘Just ask anyone who was there. They’ll pick me out, I swear.’
‘Let’s hope so. For your fucking sake.’
Upstairs, out of the Belly.
No sleep.
Just coffee.
No dreams.
Just this:
Shirtsleeves and smoke, grey skins with big black rings crayoned across our faces:
Oldman, Noble, Prentice, Alderman, Rudkin, and me.
On every wall, names:
Jobson.
Bird.
Campbell.
Strachan.
Richards.
Peng.
Watts.
Clark.
Johnson.
On every wall, words:
Screwdriver.
Abdomen.
Boots.
Chest.
Hammer.
Skull.
Bottle.
Rectum.
Knife.
On every wall, numbers:
1.3?
1974 .
32 .
1975 .
239 + 584 .
1976 .
X3
1977 .
3.5 .
And Noble is saying:
‘We got a witness, this Mark Lancaster, who says he saw a white Ford Cortina, black roof, on Reginald Street about two this morning. Fairclough’s motor. No question.’
We’re listening, waiting.
‘Right, Farley is saying that this is definitely the same man. No question. And Bob Craven’s lads have turned up another witness who saw this guy, this Dave, the night Joan Richards was murdered. Description’s a ringer for Fairclough. No question.’
Listening, waiting.
‘I say we stick the cunt in a line-up, see if this witness’ll pick him out.’
Waiting.
‘No alibi, motor spotted at the time of death, witness has him for Joan Richards, same blood group, what you reckon?’
Oldman:
‘Cunt’s going down.’
The magnificent seven.
We’re standing there, in the line-up, in the room we use for press conferences, the chairs all folded up at the back, Ellis and me either side of Fairclough, two guys from Vice and a couple of civilians making up the numbers and a fiver each.
The coppers, we all look alike.
The civilians are both over forty.
No-one looks like Donny.
And there we stand, in the line-up, numbers three, four, and five. Number four shaking, stinking, smelling like FEAR, HATE, and DIRTY THOUGHTS.
‘This isn’t right,’ he’s moaning. ‘I should have a lawyer.’
‘But you haven’t done anything, Donny,’ says Ellis. ‘Or so you keep saying.’