‘Only that long?’
‘Aye. Seems like a lifetime,’ I said.
‘A lot of water under the bridge. A bloody lot.’
‘Last time must’ve been before Strafford then?’
‘Must have been. Straight after that’d have been Exorcist business you had, yeah?’
I nodded.
He sighed: ‘Fucking hell, eh? Things we’ve seen.’
‘How’s the other Bob?’ I asked.
‘Dougie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well out of it, isn’t he?’
‘You weren’t tempted then?’
‘Pack it in?’
I nodded.
‘What the fuck else would I do? And you?’
I nodded again. ‘But what about Bob, what’s he do?’
‘He’s all right. Put his comp into a paper shop. Does all right. See him and I’m not saying there aren’t times when I wish it had been me who took the bullet. You know what I mean?’
I nodded and picked up my pint.
‘Little shop, little wife. You know?’
‘No,’ I shrugged. ‘But tell him I was asking after him, won’t you?’
‘Oh, aye. He’s still got your piece up on wall. We Salute You, that one.’
I sighed, ‘Only three years, eh?’
‘Another time, eh?’ he said and then picked up his pint. ‘Here’s to them; other times.’
We touched glasses and drained them.
‘My shout,’ I said and went back to the bar.
At the bar, I turned and watched him, watched him sitting there, watched him rubbing his beard and flicking at the dust on his trousers, picking up the empty pint glass and putting it down again, watched him.
I brought the drinks over and sat back down.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough Memory bloody Lane. What they got you on these days?’
‘Ripper,’ I said.
He paused, then said, ‘Yeah, course.’
We sat there, silent, listening to the noise of the pub: the glasses, the chairs, the music, the chat, the till. Then I said, ‘That’s why I called you actually’
‘Yeah?’
‘Ripper, yeah.’
‘What about the cunt?’
I handed him the plastic bag. ‘Bill Hadden got this in morning post.’
He took the bag and peeked inside.
I said nothing.
He looked up.
I looked at him.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.
I followed him into the black Market, into the shadows of the stalls, the evening wind blowing the rubbish and the stink in with us.
Deep in the dark heart, Craven stopped by a stall and took out the magazine.
‘Page is marked,’ I said.
He turned the pages.
I waited -
Heart cracking, ribs breaking.
‘Who knows about this?’ he asked, his back to me.
‘Just me and Bill Hadden.’
‘You know who this is, don’t you?’
I nodded.
He turned round, the page open and dangling from his hand, his face black and lost in the shadows and the beard.
‘It’s Clare Strachan,’ I said.
‘You know who sent it?’
‘No.’
‘There was no note?’
‘No. Just what you got there.’
‘They’d marked the page though?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You still got the envelope?’
‘Hadden has.’
‘You remember when and where it was posted?’
I swallowed and said, ‘Two days ago in Preston.’
‘Preston?’
I nodded and said, ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
His eyes flew across my face: ‘Who?’
‘Ripper.’
There was a smile deep in there, just for a moment, deep behind that beard.
Then he said quietly, ‘Why you call me, Jack? Why not straight to George?’
‘You’re Vice, yeah? Your neck of the woods.’
He stepped forward, out of the shadow of the stall, and he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘You did the right thing, Jack. Bringing this to me.’
‘I thought so.’
‘You going to print anything?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t want you to.’
‘Well then, I won’t.’
‘Not yet.’
‘OK.’
‘Thanks, Jack.’
I moved out of his grip and said, ‘What now?’
‘Another pint?’
I looked at my watch and said, ‘Better not.’
‘Another time, then.’
‘Another time,’ I said.
At the edge of the Market, out of the heart, the shit and the stink still strong, Detective Inspector Bob Craven said, ‘Give us a call, Jack.’
I nodded.
‘I owe you,’ he said.
And I nodded again – unending, this whole fucking hell unending.
The footnotes and the margins, the tangents and the detours, the dirty tabula, the broken record.
Jack Whitehead, Yorkshire, 1977.
The bodies and the corpses, the alleys and the wasteland, the dirty men, the broken women.
Jack the Ripper, Yorkshire, 1977.
The lies and the half-truths, the truths and the half-lies, the dirty hands, the broken backs.
Two Jacks, one Yorkshire, 1977.
Down the hall and back into records.
Into 1975.
I spun the microfilm one last time, through the reels and over the lies.
Into Monday 27 January 1975.
Evening Post, Front Page:
MAN KILLS WIFE IN EXORCISM
Sub-headed:
Local Priest arrested
But I couldn’t read, couldn’t read another -
I dialled her flat.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up and dialled again.
No answer.
I hung up.
I pulled into the Redbeck car park and parked between the dark lorries, the empty cars, and switched off the radio with the engine.
I sat in the night, waiting, wondering, worrying.
I got out and walked across the car park, through the potholes and the craters, a black moon rising.
Outside Room 27, I paused, listened, knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked, listened, waited.
Nothing.
I opened the door.
Sergeant Fraser was lying on the floor in a ball, the chair and table splintered, the walls bare, lying on the floor in a ball under all the shit that had been up on the walls, lying on the floor in a ball of splintered wood, in a ball of splintered hell.
I stood in the doorway, the black moon over my shoulder, the night across us both.
He opened his eyes.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Jack.’
He raised his head to the door.
‘Can I come in?’
He opened his mouth slowly and then closed it again. I walked across the room to him and bent down. He was clutching a photograph -
A woman and child.
The woman in sunglasses, the boy in blue pyjamas.
His eyes were open and looking up at me.
‘Sit up,’ I said.
He gripped my forearm.
‘Come on,’ I said.
‘I can’t find them,’ he whispered.
‘It’s OK,’ I nodded.
‘But I can’t find them anywhere.’
‘They’re OK.’
He tightened his grip, pulling himself up on my arm. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘They’re dead, I know they are,’
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Dead, like everyone else.’
‘No, they’re fine.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’ve seen them,’
‘Where?’
‘With John Rudkin.’
‘Rudkin?’
‘Yeah, I think they’re with him.’
He stood up, looking down at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘They’re dead,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘All dead,’ he said and picked up a table leg.
I tried to stand upright, but I wasn’t quick enough.
I was too slow.
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Friday 17th June 1977