There are nods.
‘Good team,’ I say, watching Craven -
His face blank but for a slight light in those dark eyes, a slight smile -
And then he suddenly says: ‘Best men we’ve got.’
‘Anyway,’ continues Hillman. ‘Those were the big guns and the same team used for Joan Richards and everything up to Marie Watts. After that Oldman and Noble take the reins and Jobson’s given the early bath.’
‘What about Alderman and Prentice? What happened to them?’ asks McDonald.
‘Still here. A complete list of every copper involved is in the copies I’ve given you, alphabetically by rank.’
I’m still watching Craven, knowing he was there -
Knowing his name is in there, here -
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mike. We’ll be going over the cases in more detail later as we see how they relate. OK?’
Silence -
‘Next?’
‘Richards or Strachan?’ asks Marshall.
‘Do it chronologically.’
‘Right,’ says Mike Hillman, nodding at Helen Marshall. ‘Me again:
‘OK. Whether you accept Strachan as a Ripper job or not,’ says Hillman. ‘She died like this:
‘A convicted prostitute and registered alcoholic, Clare Strachan was taken to some disused garages on Frenchwood Street, a well-known Preston red-light area. She had sex and was then hit on the head by a blunt instrument, kicked in the face, head, breasts, legs and body. Then the attacker jumped up and down on her chest, causing a rib to puncture a lung and kill her. She had bite marks on her breasts and had been penetrated by a variety of objects and twice sodomised, once post-mortem. She was found the next morning by a woman walking her dog.’
Silence, dark silence -
Mike coughs and then goes on: ‘Alf Hill was in charge, Frank Fields his number two, again top men on it. Initially, no link was established with Theresa Campbell. Following the murder of Joan Richards, two detectives went over to Preston and again no evidence was found to connect the killings. Right, Bob?’
Bob Craven nods, saying nothing.
‘You went over, right?’
‘Yeah.’
Mike Hillman shakes his head and smiles: ‘Thanks a lot, Bob. OK, the link with the Ripper was made following the letters received after the murder of Marie Watts in 1977. As you know, the letters made reference to the murder of Clare Strachan and tests conducted revealed that the killer of Strachan and Watts and the letter writer were all blood type…’
‘B,’ says Craven.
‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Mike. ‘Again all the names and dates have been listed on the sheet before you.’
‘Bob?’ John Murphy says turning to Craven.
‘Yeah?’
‘They send anyone over from Preston?’
‘What?’
‘You went over after you got Joan Richards, how about them? Had they sent anyone over after Clare Strachan?’
‘Frank Fields.’
Murphy nods: ‘And Frank didn’t make any link?’
‘No.’
I say: ‘Right, as Mike’s just said, this is the one that the letters and the tape specifically refer to, the letters and tape that have largely been included on the strength of this murder.’
‘And the blood group,’ adds Craven.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But let’s get this straight, initially, didn’t you and…’
‘John Rudkin.’
‘Right, didn’t you and Rudkin report that this murder shouldn’t be considered the work of the same man who killed Campbell and Richards?’
‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘That was until we got the sample off Watts and the tests on the envelope.’
‘So, initially, why did you think otherwise?’
Craven smiles: ‘Feel like I’m in bloody court.’
‘Relax, Bob. You’re among friends,’ I say.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah,’ says Murphy.
He’s still smiling: ‘Look, initially, the only real link between Campbell and Strachan, Richards and Strachan was that they were all slags. Strachan had been raped, had a milk bottle up her, had it up the arse, then been kicked to death. Indoors. Completely different.’
‘Until the letters and the tape?’
‘Until the letters and the tape.’
‘And then she was in,’ I say.
‘You better believe it.’
I ask him: ‘Do you want to add anything else?’
‘Two kids in Glasgow.’
‘Husband?’
‘Drowned at sea.’
‘Anything else?’
Craven smiling to himself: ‘Not about her, no.’
‘You want to talk us through Joan Richards?’
‘No.’
‘Go on. You were in on this one right from the get go, yeah?’
‘Just about.’
‘Please, it’d help us out a lot.’
‘Not treading on anyone’s toes, am I?’ he asks, looking at Helen Marshall -
There are tears in her eyes -
Fuck -
‘No,’ I say, trying to catch her eye -
The tears in her eyes.
Craven sighs, shrugs his shoulders and says almost automatically: ‘Joan Richards was found on February 6 1976 in an alleyway on the Manor Street Industrial Estate, off Roundhay Road, Leeds. She had severe head injuries caused by a hammer and a total of fifty-two stab wounds to the neck, chest, stomach, and back. Her bra had been pulled up over her tits and a piece of wood placed over her fanny. There were boot prints on her legs. Wellies. Farley, the pathologist, immediately linked it with Theresa Campbell. The Owl, Maurice – he was still in charge, Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice with him. Me and Rudkin were brought in after Farley linked it with Campbell. Sent us over to Preston, the rest you know.’
Marshall is staring at him -
Tears in her eyes.
I say: ‘Background?’
‘She was new to it. Husband knew what she was up to. Pimped her. Sometimes used his van, but not this time. There was a load of bollocks in papers that didn’t help. Stuff about the killer taking her van and shit like that.’
‘This when the Ripper stuff started?’ asks Hillman.
‘No, that was after Marie Watts,’
I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, wasn’t it?’
‘Probably.’
Silence, the room getting smaller, darker -
The cabinets taller.
A knock on the door -
‘Mr Hunter?’
‘Yes?’
‘Telephone. Emergency.’
I stand up.
Craven says: ‘Take it next door. It’s dead.’
I nod and push past them and out -
The Ripper Room, dead -
Just their photos staring down from their walls, dead.
‘Peter Hunter speaking?’
‘It’s Richard.’
‘What is it?’
‘What is it? What do you mean, what is it? You know what happened this morning? Five o’bloody clock this morning?’
‘Joan told me.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And fucking what? They…’
‘Richard, I can’t do anything. My hands are tied.’
‘Your hands are tied? Fucking hell, Peter. Talk about…’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say and hang up.
I go back to the small room next door, heart pounding, angry -
No one speaking -
Going up to seven -
‘Sod it. Let’s call it a night,’ I say, the ghosts scattering, scuttling back -
They all stand up at once.
‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘Have a word?’
He nods and follows me back next door.
We sit down at a desk in the Ripper Room -
Their Ripper Room.
‘Something’s going down back home. Pick your brains?’
‘Course. Fire away’
‘Bob Douglas? Remember him?’
‘Craven’s mate from the Strafford, oh aye,’ laughs Murphy. ‘Moved over our way, didn’t he?’
‘Yep, Levenshulme. Heard anything of him recently?’