‘Bit of a balls up, all in all,’ I smile -
He’s red-faced is Alderman -
Red-faced and ready to fucking pop -
‘Lucky he fucking wrote that letter,’ I say. ‘Else you’d never have put it together. She’d have just been another one of those many unsolved…’
And he’s across the table again, shouting: ‘Because it wasn’t the fucking Ripper, was it. It was fucking Fraser, everyone knows that. Tell him Jim.’
Bull’s eye -
‘Shut up, Dick. Shut up,’ Prentice is saying, the last of the Smart Men -
Dick Alderman out of his tree and controclass="underline" ‘No, you fuck off. I’m not having this fucking piece of shit stroll into here and tell me I can’t…’
Murphy: ‘Jim? Jim? What’s he talking about?’
Prentice: ‘He’s talking bollocks, course it was Ripper.’
Alderman: ‘Fuck off!’
‘No, you fuck off Dick!’
I stand up and say: ‘I think we’d better leave you gentlemen to it.’
They stop arguing, staring up at me -
‘We’ll come back another time,’ I say. ‘When you’ve got your stories straight.’
I’m sat in our room, the one next to the Ripper Room -
Hillman and Marshall are cross-checking cars from the Joanne Thornton inquiry.
The door opens, no knock -
It’s Peter Noble, a face of bloody black thunder.
‘Pete?’ I say.
‘Can I see you in my office?’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute, will you?’
He nods and slams the door -
Hillman and Marshall are looking at me.
‘What’s all that about?’ asks Hillman.
‘Can’t imagine,’ I smile and stand up.
I knock on Noble’s door -
‘Come,’ he says and I do.
‘Pete,’ I say. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You spoke with Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What happened?’
‘What do you mean, what happened?’
‘What I say I mean, what happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I shrug.
‘Nothing?’
‘Look, no offence, but I’m not obliged to report to you on interviews conducted for a Home Office review.’
Bad move -
He’s furious, absolutely seething, fucking livid: ‘No, but you are obliged to disclose information you might have that would assist in an on-going investigation.’
‘And who told you that?’
‘The Chief Constable, just after he’d got off the phone with Philip Evans, the man who drew up the parameters of your review.’
‘Well firstly, I’d have to check that myself with Mr Evans and, secondly, it’s an academic argument anyway seeing as we don’t have any information that is not already available to your inquiry.’
‘Bollocks,’ he shouts.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I say.
‘No need for that,’ he laughs. ‘What about this?’
And he tosses a copy of Spunk across the table, Issue 13.
I ask him: ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Manchester, who tell me you’ve had it at least two bloody days.’
‘So what? You’ve had it best part of three bloody years.’
‘What?’
‘Ask George and Maurice.’
‘Ask George and Maurice what?’
‘Copies were given to them by Eric Hall’s widow.’
He’s shaking his head: ‘You should have said something.’
‘I thought you knew.’
He lights a cigarette: ‘This still doesn’t mean you can come in here and intimidate my officers.’
‘Intimidate your officers?’ I say. ‘Like who?’
‘Prentice and Alderman.’
‘Intimidate Dick Alderman? Now that is bollocks, Pete.’
‘No it’s bloody not,’ says Noble, gathering steam again. ‘I’ve had Dick in here threatening to resign, saying you insulted him, insulted his reputation.’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘Dick lost his temper. He said things I’m sure he regrets and we will need to speak to him again. But that’s as far as it went.’
‘Not according to Dick and Jim.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Said you made insinuations about their handling of the Janice Ryan inquiry.’
‘Yep, I did. And Dick Alderman refuted those insinuations, saying he didn’t believe Janice Ryan was in fact killed by the same man responsible for the other Ripper murders.’
‘Come on Peter, that’s rubbish.’
‘Is it?’
‘In my opinion, absolute rubbish.’
I shrug: ‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, furious again.
‘OK,’ I nod.
‘Nothing until we speak to the Chief Constable tomorrow.’
‘Fine,’ I say and leave him to it.
The Griffin, the bar downstairs -
It’s late and everyone else has gone to bed, everyone but me and Helen Marshall and the bloke behind the bar who wishes we would:
‘I’d have liked to have seen the look on his face,’ she’s laughing -
‘Priceless,’ I’m saying, miles away – no idea who or what we’re talking about.
She’s drunk I think, saying: ‘They don’t like us, do they?’
‘Listen,’ I say. ‘It’s late. You should go up.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ve got some things to do.’
‘What?’ she laughs, looking at her watch.
‘Just going for a drive, that’s all.’
‘Can I come?’ she says, not looking so drunk anymore.
‘If you want,’ I say and stand up, my hand out.
It’s gone midnight -
We walk through the deserted city centre, freezing.
‘Horrible place,’ she says, looking up at the ugly black buildings, then down at the dirty pavement.
I nod and lead the way through the Kirkgate Market, grateful for the cold and the night.
Minutes later, we pull out of the Millgarth car park and are away.
‘Where are we going?’ she asks as I switch on Radio 2.
‘Batley,’ I say.
‘Batley?’
‘Yeah,’ I say and then I tell her about Janice Ryan and Eric Hall, about Eric Hall and Jack Whitehead, about Jack Whitehead and Bob Douglas, about Bob Douglas and Richard Dawson, about Richard Dawson and MJM Limited, about MJM Limited and Richard Dawson and Bob Douglas and Jack Whitehead and Eric Hall and Janice Ryan -
About murder and lies, lies and murder -
War.
And after all that she just sits and stares out of the window until she says again: ‘Horrible place.’
Parked on the Bradford Road, the light on in the car, I show her the magazine -
I say -
And she flicks through the pages until she comes to Janice Ryan.
Helen Marshall, ex-Vice Squad, glances at the photo and nods and hands it back.
‘You heard of it?’ I ask -
‘No,’ she says.
‘Wait here,’ I say and get out of the car, hard.
I’ve not put on the torch yet as I stumble around in the alley behind RD News -
There are cardboard boxes and piles of rubbish heaped up in front of the back-gate to the shop -
And it’s locked, the gate -
I jump up and hoist myself far enough over to slip the bolt at the top of the gate -
And I jump back down, but the gate still won’t open -
So I jump back up and hoist myself over and down the other side and into the tiny yard -
I go to the back door and knock -
There’s a dog barking somewhere down the alley, but no lights go on.
I’m frozen, but I’ve got my gloves on now -
I take out my key-kit and break the lock and more laws than I can think of, but fuck ‘em all – locks and laws.
I turn the handle and open the door -
The hallway is cluttered, full of boxes and gas canisters, stairs going up on the right -
And I’ve got the torch on now, heading up the stairs -
At the top, there’s a wooden door, solid -
I knock, wait, and then I take out the kit again -