‘I went over to Bradford to see him.’
‘And when was this?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it was Monday’
‘And that was when you assaulted DI Hall?’
‘That’s when we had the fucking fight, if that’s what you mean?’
‘About Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I took his car…’
‘DI Hall’s car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘I just drove around, I don’t remember where exactly.’
‘But eventually you ended up back in Chapeltown, just as the body of Rachel Johnson was discovered?’
‘Yeah, I think I went back to Janice’s flat, and when I woke up there was all the shit going on because of the Johnson girl.’
‘OK. One last thing; until today you’re saying you had no idea that Ryan was pregnant and that you were the father?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And that the reason forensics have got you all over her, it’s because of the last time you had sexual relations with her, with Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would have been when?’
‘Possibly Thursday 2nd June.’
‘But you have no alibi for anytime between 5 p.m. on Saturday 4th June and the morning of Wednesday 8th?’
‘Except for when I saw Joseph Rose and later Eric Hall, no.’
‘But you’re unsure exactly when it was you saw them?’
‘Yes.’
Silence.
Noble is staring at me.
‘You do realise the fucking shit you’re in?’
I look up, the veins in my eyes shards.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He doesn’t blink.
‘The shit we’re all in?’
I nod.
‘All right then,’ he sighs. ‘It’s your call.’
I weigh it up, the arms of my body dead.
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
‘I’d like to see my solicitor, please.’
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Monday 13th June 1977
Chapter 17
‘There’s something strange going on,’ said Hadden.
‘Like what?’
‘They reckon there’s been another and that they’ve only bloody got someone for it. Holding them.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Ripper?’
‘What it looks like.’
‘Bollocks. Who told you this?’
‘A little bird.’
‘How little?’
‘Stephanie.’
‘And she got it from?’
‘Desk at Bradford.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That’s almost what I said.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Make some calls.’
Fuck.
Back at the desk, I picked up the telephone and dialled Millgarth. ‘Samuel?’
‘Jack?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know what you could mean.’
‘Oh yes you do.’
‘Oh no I don’t.’
‘OK. What time you going to stop playing silly buggers and start earning yourself a bit of what makes you happy?’
‘In about half an hour?’
I looked at my watch.
Shit.
‘Where?’
‘The Scarborough?’
‘It’s a date,’ and I hung up.
I looked at my watch again, checked my briefcase, and left.
I was the first in the Scarborough.
I put my pint on top of the telephone and dialled.
‘It’s me.’
‘Just can’t keep away, can you?’ she laughed.
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘It’s only been a couple of hours.’
‘And I miss you.’
‘Me too. Thought you were going to Manchester?’
‘I am, maybe. Just thought I’d give you a ring.’
‘That’d be nice.’
I laughed and said, ‘Thanks for the weekend.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ll call you when I get back.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye, Jack.’
She hung up first and then I put down the telephone, picked up my pint and went to a copper-topped table over in the corner.
I had a hard-on.
I looked at my watch, wanting to make the twelve-thirty train at the latest.
If they hadn’t caught the cunt, that was.
I could hear the rain lashing the windows.
‘Call this bloody summer,’ said the barman across the room.
I nodded, drained my pint and went back to the bar and ordered two bitters and a packet of salt and vinegar.
Back at the table I looked at my watch again.
‘Best not be flat,’ said Sergeant Samuel Wilson, sitting down.
‘Fuck off,’ I said.
‘And a merry bloody Christmas to you too,’ he laughed, then said, ‘What fuck happened to your hand?’
‘Cut myself.’
‘Fuck were you doing?’
‘Cooking.’
‘Fuck off.’
I offered him a crisp. ‘So?’
‘What?’
‘Samuel?’
‘Jack?’
‘Fuck off, it’s not Come bloody Dancing is it?’
He sighed. ‘Go on, what you heard?’
‘You got a body in Bradford and a bloke for it over here.’
‘And?’
‘It’s Ripper.’
Wilson killed his pint and grinned, cream on his lips.
‘Samuel?’
‘How about another, Jack?’
I finished mine and went back to the bar.
When I sat back down, he’d taken off his raincoat.
I glanced at my watch.
‘Not keeping you am I, Jack?’
‘No, got be over in Manchester this afternoon though.’ Then I added, ‘Depending on what you tell me. If you’re going to tell me anything that is?’
He sniffed up, ‘So how much is a busy man like you prepared to give a poor working man like myself?’
‘Depends what you got, you know how it works.’
He took out a piece of folded paper and waved it in front of me. ‘Internal memo from Oldman?’
‘Twenty?’
‘Fifty.’
‘Fuck off. I’m just confirming what I’ve already heard. If you’d come straight to your old mate Jack yesterday, then that’d be a different story wouldn’t it?’
‘Forty.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty-five?’
‘Show us.’
He handed me the paper and I read:
At twelve noon Sunday 12 June, the body of Janice Ryan, twenty-two years old, a convicted prostitute, was found secreted under an old settee on wasteground off White Abbey Road, Bradford.
A post-mortem has been carried out and death was due to massive head injuries caused by a heavy blunt instrument. It is thought that death occurred some seven days before due to the partial decomposition of the body.
It is also thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected, repeat not connected, with the other murders publicly referred to as the Ripper Murders.
At the present time no information is to be given to the press in regard to this crime.
I stood up.
‘Where you going?’
‘It’s him,’ I said and walked over to the telephone. ‘What about my thirty-five quid?’
‘In a minute.’
I picked up the telephone and dialled.
Her telephone rang, and rang, and rang:
Warn whores to keep off streets cause I feel it coming on again.
I hung up and then dialled again.
Her telephone rang, and rang, and -
‘Hello?’
‘Where were you?’
‘In the bath, why?’
‘There’s been another.’
‘Another?’
‘Him. In Bradford. Same place.’
‘No.’
‘Please, don’t go out. I’ll be over later.’
‘When?’
‘As soon as I can. Don’t go out,’
‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Bye.’
And she hung up.