Angus’s face has changed, benign and kindly Uncle Ron gone: ‘Obviously. And I appreciate that but, Mr Hunter, for your part you must also appreciate that I can’t have these files just wandering off here and there.’
‘Obviously’
‘And the copying alone’ll be a huge undertaking.’
‘Then just grant us the access we need.’
Noble’s staring at Angus, Angus at me, me at him -
Eventually Angus says: ‘We’ll put you another desk in here, a couple more chairs. I’ll provide you with a guide, a liaison officer. Your people ask him to get them the files they need; he’ll provide, log and replace them as required.’
‘Thank you.’
He looks at his watch: ‘One o’clock?’
Noble and I nod.
‘One o’clock,’ repeats Angus and opens the door for me.
It’s eleven by the time I get back to the Griffin.
They’re sat there, waiting.
I lay it out.
They mutter, roll their eyes, and take an early lunch.
Upstairs, I dial Whitby:
Philip Evans is away for the rest of the day.
I lie down on the bed, my thoughts scrambled messages, a migraine headache sparring with the pains in my back, jarring with the radio:
Old science fiction and future histories, the news from nowhere, the screams from somewhere -
Hoping for something more, I close my eyes.
When I open my eyes it’s 12:30, the pain still here -
In my back, behind my eyes.
I get up, wash my face, and take the lift downstairs.
Outside it’s stopped snowing but the sky is almost black with heavy cloud and premature night.
I walk through the sludge and the mud to the Kirkgate Market and Millgarth, freezing.
The rest of them are waiting for me by the desk.
I lead the way upstairs.
Noble is waiting outside the Ripper Room, waiting to introduce us.
‘I believe you’ve actually met?’
Bob Craven has his hand out, half the Ripper Room crowding out into the corridor.
‘What were you back then, Bob?’ laughs Noble.
‘Just a plain old Sergeant,’ Craven smiles.
‘Well, times change; Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter meet Detective Superintendent Robert Craven.’
We shake hands, the grip cold and tight:
The Strafford Shootings -
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong.
Four dead, two wounded policemen -
Sergeant Robert Craven, wounded hero cop battles for life etc, etc, etc.
‘You look a little better than the last time we met,’ I say.
He laughs: ‘You don’t.’
‘Bob’s going to be the liaison,’ says Noble.
I say nothing.
‘Your guide.’
Nothing, waiting for Noble to keep on justifying it:
‘Bob’s been involved from day one. He’s worked a lot of the cases, worked Vice, probably forgotten more than most of us’ll ever know.’
‘That would be a shame,’ I say.
Noble stops: ‘You know what I mean, Mr Hunter.’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘The keys?’ I ask. ‘Did you get the keys?’
‘Bob’s got them,’ Noble says, walking off, leaving Craven dangling them from the end of his finger.
I ignore him and go to open the door -
It’s locked.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ smiles Craven. ‘Allow me.’
By three the tables are covered in piles of files, Craven going back and forth to the Ripper Room next door, my team scratching and scribbling away for dear life under the low blue clouds of cigarette smoke hanging by the bare bulb.
‘Telephone,’ says Craven, coming back with another stack of manila folders.
‘For me?’ I say.
‘Yeah, next door. Line 4.’
I get up.
‘It’s the wife,’ he winks as I get to the door.
I walk next door -
Next door into the Ripper Room -
Into the photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -
The charts and the boards, the chalk and the pen on every surface -
The mugs on the desks, the cigarettes in the ashtrays -
Everywhere:
Repetition, tedium -
Indexes, cross-index -
Files, cross-file -
References, cross-reference -
Everywhere:
Process -
Repetitious, tedious process -
Second after second -
Minute after minute -
Hour after hour -
Fifteen, sixteen hours a day -
Day in, day out -
Six, seven days a week -
Week in, week out -
Four weeks a month -
Month in, month out -
Twelve months a year -
Year in, year out -
Year after year, month after month, week after week, day after day, hour in, hour out, minute in, minute out, second in, second out, for -
Five years.
A fat man in a sports coat’s holding out the receiver -
‘Joan?’ I say, taking the phone.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ she says. ‘But the Chief Constable’s office just called.’
‘The Chief Constable’s office?’
‘About tonight? They wanted me to tell you that they’ve arranged for the tux to be sent round in about an hour.’
‘The tux? Tonight?’
‘Yes. I said I didn’t know when you’d be back so they wanted me to let you know.’
The Christmas Ball -
‘I’d forgotten.’
‘I thought you might have,’ she laughs. ‘Shall we cancel?’
‘No, we can’t. You’re sorted out?’
‘Yes. I’d completely forgotten too but…’
‘Well, it’ll be good. I’ll be back in a bit, stay the night, and come back first thing tomorrow.’
‘OK.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I put back the phone, conscious the whole of the room is watching me -
The photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -
The Ripper Room -
Him.
I drive back fast, over the Moors -
Fast over their cold, lost bones, the radio on loud:
Hunger Strikes & Dirty Protests -
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.
Fast, over the Moors -
Over their cold, lost bones, the radio on:
Earthquakes & Hostages -
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.
Over the Moors, radio gone -
Cold, lost bones:
The Strafford Shootings -
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong.
Four dead, two wounded policemen -
Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas.
Driving, hating -
I hate Bob Craven and I don’t know why -
Don’t like the maybe why:
Hated him then, hate him now -
Hated him since the day I met him, stuffed full of tubes and drugs on a Pinderfields bed.
Hated him like it was only yesterday:
Friday 10 January 1975 -
In we came:
Me and Clarkie -
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark.
Two weeks on and they’d still got roadblocks across the county, the stink of an English Civil War, me and Clarkie walking down that long, long corridor, armed guards on the bloody hospital doors, Craven and Douglas on their backs in their beds, the only survivors.
Me and Clarkie, we shook hands with Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend -