Whispers -
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‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
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‘How much do you love me?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Cries -
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP .
Silence -
Nothing:
Wednesday 17 December 1980 -
Nine thirty.
Nothing but -
Twelve pale faces, some flabby and some gaunt, twelve faces and twenty-four eyes staring at me -
I stand up -
‘Can I speak to you for a moment, sir?’ I ask Clement Smith. ‘In private.’
He stands and says to Roger Hook: ‘My office.’
Hook and I walk towards the door, twenty-four eyes on me.
‘And bring that,’ says Smith, pointing at the tape recorder.
We follow him down the corridor.
In his office, Hook plugs in the recorder -
‘Can we hear it again?’ says Hook.
Smith nods -
Hook presses play:
HISS -
Piano -
Drums -
Bass -
‘How can this be love, if it makes us cry?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
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‘How can the world be as sad as it seems?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Whispers -
More helclass="underline"
‘How much do you love me?’
STOP .
HISS -
Cries -
Cries -
Cries:
‘Sti rip sll iwl lik Hunter!’
STOP .
Silence, again silence -
Just the rain black upon the window, running -
The city grey below, swimming -
Drowning.
Roger Hook says: ‘What’s that last line?’
‘That’s my name,’ I say, looking at the Chief.
Smith swallows, says nothing.
‘Those words,’ I say. ‘Whatever they are, I’ve heard them before.’
Smith: ‘Where?’
‘Yesterday I went to see a man called Jack Whitehead. He was a journalist on the Yorkshire Post, - until he had some sort of breakdown and hammered a nail into his skull.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook.
‘He’s in Stanley Royd Hospital in Wakefield,’ I continue. ‘Anyway I went to see him because he was involved with Eric Hall. Eric Hall was Bradford Vice and was supposed to be pimping Janice Ryan who, as you know, was Ripper victim number six.’
Smith and Hook are staring at me, blank.
‘Ryan was also the girlfriend of a Sergeant Robert Fraser, who was Ripper Squad.’
‘He was the one who gassed himself?’ asks Hook.
‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘Anyway, there seems to be a school of thought in the West Yorkshire force that some of these murders aren’t actually Ripper jobs at all. Ryan being one of them.’
‘Really?’ sneers Hook. ‘They can actually think?’
‘Go on,’ hisses Smith, impatient.
‘I went to see Whitehead in connection with Eric Hall and Janice Ryan. He’s under sedation in their secure wing at Stanley Royd, but he was lucid for most of the interview up until the very end when I swear he said words, or words very like the words on the end of this tape.’
‘Do you want to listen to it again?’ asks Hook.
‘No,’ says Smith.
The telephone rings -
Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’
He listens, face unchanging, eyes on me, and then he hangs up.
Hook is saying: ‘It must be a foreign language or something?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, looking at Smith.
‘Should send it up to the University?’ suggests Hook, no one listening.
Clement Smith leans forward and presses the eject, taking out the cassette -
‘This writing,’ he says. ‘All this and Heathen too, you said it’s a reference to the Ripper Tape?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And the music at the start, that’s from a song on the same cassette as the song on the Ripper Tape - same album: All this and Heaven too.’
‘Fucking hell,’ says Hook. ‘It’s got Ripper all over it, this.’
Or that’s what someone wants us to think,’ I say.
‘Or you?’ says Clement Smith.
Me: ‘Pardon?’
‘You’re all over this too.’
‘I know,’ I say…’
‘You’d been to see Douglas; Douglas was working for Richard Dawson; Richard Dawson is a friend of yours.’
‘I know.’
‘And he’s under arrest.’
‘I know.’
Eyes on me, fixed, locked -
The telephone rings again -
Smith picks it up: ‘What is it?’
He listens, says: ‘Bring it up.’
He hangs up, eyes on me.
‘What is it?’ asks Hook.
‘Another bloody message.’
‘What?’
‘They’ve pulled a piece of paper, a note – from the little girl’s throat.’
‘Fucking hell.’
Me: ‘What does it say?’
‘Find out, shall we?’
Back with the rest of them, the lost twelve.
Another scientist: ‘Preliminary post-mortem on the girl Karen Douglas revealed she died of a single stab wound to the heart.’
Did her Daddy see her die, hear her, – or did she see her Daddy die, hear him?
The pathologist holds up a clear plastic bag containing a grey piece of notepaper:
‘We also extracted this from the back of her mouth.’
Twelve-plus large men lean forward, straining, half-standing, shouting -
The pathologist raises a hand to the noise:
‘It says: 5 LUV.’
Twelve open mouths, twelve fresh curses: Tucking hell fire.’
The pathologist sits back down, nothing more to say.
Twenty-four eyes on Clement Smith, Chief Constable.
Out of the corner of your eye, a dark figure forms -
‘Enough of this fucking bollocks,’ spits Clement Smith, clawing at the table. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Hook will break down the teams with SOCO: door to door, known associates, witnesses, etc. Bring them in, write it down, the usual.’
The usual -
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter, come with me.’
The Chief Constable’s office, the two of us alone -
‘Pete,’ he’s saying, shaking his head. ‘You’ve got to be completely honest with me here…’
‘Of course. I always am.’
‘Please, let me finish,’ he says, looking up from his desk. ‘You can see how this looks, can’t you? It’s not good: ex-copper and his daughter murdered, horribly murdered, sadistically, links to prominent businessmen, top policemen, the Yorkshire bloody Ripper. A right fucking mess.’
Silence, the two of us looking at each other until -
Until I tell him: ‘I don’t know what you want me to say. You seem to be blaming me?’
‘That’s paranoia, Pete. But I wish to Christ you’d kept out of this whole Richard Dawson thing.’
‘Here, here,’ I say. ‘But nobody told me there was a Dawson thing to keep out of, did they?’
‘But common sense would have told you not to talk to Douglas.’