Pause.
‘Speaking.’
Another pause, longer.
‘Both of them? Who was that?’
Pause.
‘Yeah, yeah. Our arse from our elbow. Thanks.’
He hung up again, still staring down at the cutting.
‘No luck?’ I said.
‘They’re here,’ he said, looking up at the box. ‘Or at least they should be. Can I keep this?’ he asked, holding up the cutting.
‘Yeah, if you want.’
‘Thanks,’ he nodded and upended the box, files spilling over the desk.
I said, ‘You want me to go?’
‘No, be my guest,’ he said, adding, ‘Eventually all this’ll be on the National Police Computer, you know?’
‘Think it’ll make a difference?’
‘Bloody hope so,’ he laughed, taking off his jacket as we started the search until, ten quiet minutes later, everything was back inside the box and the desk was bare.
‘Fuck,’ and then, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I said.
‘I’ll call you if anything comes of it,’ he said and stood up.
‘It was just a bit of background, that was all.’
We walked back downstairs and at the bottom he said again, ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
At the door we shook hands and he smiled and suddenly I said, ‘You knew Eddie didn’t you?’
And he dropped my hand and shook his head, ‘No, not really.’
Back across the haunted city, ghosts on every corner, drinking in working-class packs, the morning gone, the day sliding away.
I stood before the Griffin and looked up at her scaffold face, at the dark windows in the grey floors above, wondering which black hole was his.
I went inside, into the lounge with its empty high-backed chairs and dim light, and I went up to the front desk and rang the bell and waited, heart beating heavy and fast.
In the mirror above the desk I watched a little boy lead an old woman with a walking stick across the lounge.
I’d seen them before.
They sat down in the same two chairs that Laws and I had seven days before.
I went over and pulled up a third chair.
They said nothing but rose as one to sit at the next table.
I sat alone in my silence and then stood up and went back to the desk and rang the bell for a second time.
In the mirror I watched the child whisper to the old woman, the pair of them staring at me.
‘Can I help you?’
I turned back to the desk, to the man in the dark suit.
‘Yes, I was wondering if Mr Laws, Martin Laws is in?’
The man glanced at the wooden boxes behind him, at the dangling keys, and said, ‘I’m afraid Reverend Laws is out at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?’
‘No, I’ll come back later.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I’d met him before.’
‘When was that?’ asked Hadden.
‘He was the one who was here over Barry.’
‘Right,’ sighed Hadden, right back there. ‘What a terrible time.’
‘Not like now,’ I said, and we both said nothing until he handed me a piece of paper.
‘I think you’ll find I spared the knife,’ he smiled.
I sat down across the desk from him and read:
AN OPEN LETTER TO THE RIPPER
Dear Ripper
You have killed five times now. In less than two years you have butchered four women in Leeds and one in Preston. Your motive, it is believed, is a dreadful hatred of prostitutes, a hate that drives you to slash and bludgeon your victims. But, inevitably, that twisted passion went terribly wrong on Tuesday night. An innocent sixteen-year-old lass, a happy, respectable, working-class girl from a decent Leeds family, crossed your path. How did you feel when you learned that your bloodstained crusade had gone so horribly wrong? That your vengeful knife had found so innocent a target? Sick in mind though you undoubtedly are, there must have been some spark of remorse as you tried to rid yourself of Rachel’s bloodstains.
Don’t make the same mistake again, don’t put another innocent family through this hell.
End it now.
Give yourself up now, safe in the knowledge that only care and treatment awaits you, no rope or electric chair.
Please, for Rachel’s sake, turn yourself in and stop these terrible, terrible murders.
From the People of Leeds.
‘What do you think?’
‘George seen it?’
‘We spoke on the phone.’
‘And?’
‘Worth a shot he said.’
‘He’s not had a change of heart about publishing the other half of the correspondence?’
Hadden shrugged, ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ve thought about it a lot actually, and I think he’s making a mistake. One that’ll come to haunt him. And us.’
‘In what way?’
‘The last one, it contained a warning right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, when he kills again and it comes out that we had a letter, a fucking warning letter, I don’t think the Great British Public’ll be too impressed that we didn’t see fit to share that warning with them.’
‘He’s got his reasons.’
‘Who? George? Well I hope they’re bloody good ones.’
Bill Hadden was staring at me, pulling at his beard. ‘What is it Jack?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is it?’
‘Just his fucking arrogance.’
‘No, it’s not. I know you too well. There’s something else.’
‘Just this whole business. Just the Ripper. The letters…’
‘Seeing Sergeant Fraser can’t have helped?’
‘No, it was good actually.’
‘Brings it all back though?’
‘It never goes away, Bill. Never goes away.’
It was night when I left the office and went for the car, a black wet summer’s night.
I drove over the Tingley Roundabout and down through Shawcross and Hanging Heaton, down to the Batley Variety Club.
It was Saturday night and the best they could come up with were the New Zombies, unable to compete with the shows on the piers.
I parked, wished I was drunk, and walked across the car park to the canopy that covered the entrance.
I paid and went inside.
It was half-empty and I stood at the bar with a double Scotch, watching the long dresses and cheap tuxs and checking the time.
Down the front a skinny woman in a low-cut pink dress that swept the floor was already drunk and arguing with a fat man and his moustache, leaning in to shout and show a bit of tit.
The man slapped her arse and she threw a drink and tipped a plate down him.
It was ten-thirty.
‘Enjoying the wildlife, Mr Whitehead?’
A young man in a black suit and skinhead was at my elbow, a carrier bag in his left hand.
‘You’re one up on me,’ I said.
I’d seen him before, but I was fucked if I knew where.
‘Sorry. No names.’
‘But we’ve met before, I think?’
‘No, we haven’t. You’d remember.’
‘OK, whatever you say. Do you want to sit down?’
‘Why not?’
I ordered a round and we went over to a booth near the back.
He lit a cigarette and tilted his head back, sending smoke up to the low ceiling tiles.
I sat there, watching the crowd until I asked him: ‘Why here?’
‘Police eyes can’t see me.’
‘They looking?’
‘Always.’
I took a big bite out of my Scotch and waited, watching him twisting his jewellery, making smoke rings, the carrier bag on his lap.
He leant forward, a smile wet on his thin lips, and hissed, ‘We can sit here all night. I’m in no hurry.’
‘So why are the police looking?’
‘What I got in here,’ he said, patting the plastic bag. ‘What I got here is big fucking news.’
‘Well, let’s have a look…’
He pressed the palm of his hand into his forehead, ‘No. And don’t fucking rush me.’