cash all this and heaven too missing the news from nowhere what e was once alive e still am dead a complete wreck of a human being wearing a light green three quarter length coat with an imitation fur collar a turquoise blue jumper with a bright yellow tank top over it dark brown trousers and brown suede calf length boots found friday the twenty first of november nineteen seventy five one laceration to the back of her head caused by a hammer and extensive injuries to her head face body and legs caused by violent kicking and stamping on her left breast were bite marks which indicated a gap in the upper front teeth of the attacker there were no stab wounds in a deserted garage in preston in a row of six narrow garages each splattered with white graffiti the doors showing remnants of green paint they lie off church street the garages forming a passage to the multi storey car park at the other end number six has become a home of sorts for the homeless destitute alcoholics drug addicted prostitutes of the area small about twelve feet square and entered through either of the double doors at the front there are packing cases for tables piles of wood and other rubbish a fierce fire has been burning in a makeshift grate and the ashes disclose the remains of clothing on the wall opposite the door is written the fishermans widow in wet red paint in every other space are bottles sherry bottles bottles of spirits beer bottles bottles of chemicals all empty a mans pilot coat doubles as a curtain over the window the only one looking out on nothing and e saw the floor was wet with anguished tears the damned silent and weeping and walking at a litany pace the way processions push along in our world and without a word he handed her a five pound note and she unclipped her shiny black plastic handbag placed it on the floor of the garage and bending down she removed one of her boots lowered her trousers and stepped out of the legs and repeated the process with her panties she braced her back against the garage wall and she was ready a moment later he had entered her lifting her brassiere to play with her breasts he discovered a second brassiere he lifted it up and began to kiss and suck the left breast moving his mouth a few inches above the breast he bit deeply and climaxed turning her around he attempted to bugger her and again he had an orgasm he was still inside her body half leaning away from him when he smashed her on the back of the head and she fell forward onto the floor he zipped up his trousers and began to kick her on the face on the head on the breasts on the body on the legs he kicked her and went on kicking her he dragged her body a few yards further away from the door put her legs back into her trousers and pulled them up leaving the second brassiere above the breasts he pulled down the first one stuffed one boot tightly between her thighs he removed her overcoat and placed it over her body and over her face he picked up the shiny black plastic handbag left the garage and hid the handbag in a refuse tip four hundred yards from the garage the purse he tucked under a bush in avenham park he kept her three rings and lighter swabs from the vagina and anus indicated semen had been deposited by a secretor of the rare blood group B the blood group of the man at the hostel who had had sexual intercourse with the dead woman the previous day was discovered to be group A her shiny black plastic handbag and purse missing a diary thought to be in her bag could hold the clue to the womans killer and e am anxious about anyone who has been missing from preston since last thursday up to four now they say three but remember preston nineteen seventy five come my load up that one
Chapter 4
In the War Room I switch on the cassette recorder:
And when we die
And float away
Into the night
The Milky Way
You’ll hear me call
As we ascend
I’ll say your name
Then once again
Thank you for being a friend.
I put the thirteenth photograph on the wall, the smell of earth and damp in the twelve photos, in the map, in the files, the smell of earth and damp in the floor and in the walls, and I sit back down in the earth and damp, eyes closed.
No more sleep, no more dreams, no more blood on the sheets -
Just on the floor and on the walls -
On the walls, all over the walls.
I lock the shed door behind me and go back inside.
I wash, dress, and don’t wake her.
I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the radio playing:
Afghanistan, Poland, Iran, Northern Ireland, the world -
This whole empty forgotten world at war.
And the lies -
The murder and the lies, the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, of the voices and the numbers:
13% pay demand, 10,000 hunger strike march, 150 of 701 words, 20,000 steel jobs to go, Leeds 1, Forest 0, Kipper 13, Police 0, 13-nil, 13-nil, 13-nil, 13-nil…
In the car park at Manchester Police Headquarters there’s a car in my space, the reserved space that says:
Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable
There are a lot of empty spaces but I still park next to the other car.
There are two men sat in the car.
I don’t recognise either of the men, though the driver’s staring at me -
He smiles.
I get out of my car, lock it, and go inside.
I sign in and ask the Sergeant on the desk to go and have a word with the two men in the car outside.
I go upstairs to my office -
It’s locked.
I take out my keys and open it.
It’s just as I’d left it.
I sit down behind my desk and begin to make the necessary calls:
But no-one’s answering at Richard Dawson’s house -
Roger Hook is unavailable -
And the Chief Constable’s at chapel until twelve, half past at the latest.
I look at my watch:
It’s nine o’clock -
Sunday 14 December 1980.
The phone rings: ‘Yes?’
‘Sir. It’s the desk downstairs. That car, sir? It wasn’t there. But your space is free so would you like me to arrange to have your car moved?’
‘It’s OK. Thank you.’
I hang up.
The phone rings again:
‘Sir. It’s your wife.’
I press the button, the flashing orange button: ‘Joan?’
‘Peter?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Dawsons, love. Linda’s been on the phone, hysterical. Their house was raided first thing…’
‘Raided?’
‘Police. Manchester Police. Turned the place upside down.’
‘When?’
‘This morning, five o’clock. Taken away all their papers, photos.’
Shit
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some calls.’
‘I’m sorry, after what you said last night, but Linda’s in pieces…’
‘It’s OK. Where’s Richard?’
‘He was at Linda’s parents I think, but…’
‘OK,’ I say again. ‘I’ll make some calls, try and find out what’s going on.’
‘What shall I tell her?’
‘Tell her not to worry, that I’m dealing with it.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’d better go.’
‘Bye,’ she says.
‘Bye.’
I hang up and reach straight for the phone book -
I find Bob Douglas’s home number -
I dial -
It rings -
He answers -
I say: ‘Is Deirdre there?’
‘What?’
‘It’s Mike. Can I speak to Deirdre?’
‘You got the wrong number, mate,’ says Bob Douglas and hangs up.
I dial two numbers again:
No answer at the Dawsons -