Eight eyes on me -
‘I’ve asked you here this morning as I would like each one of you to be a part of this investigation. However, it is going to mean that you will be seconded from your present duties, that you will be over in Yorkshire a hell of a lot, that you will be away from your families, working twenty-four-hour days, seven-day weeks, limited time off.’
No nods, no smiles, just stares -
‘You know the demands and I would not wish to presume upon any of you. But I have worked with each of you and I believe you are the best people for this job.’
Hard stares -
‘So, if you cannot commit, say so now.’
Silence, then -
John Murphy: ‘I’m in.’
‘Thank you, John.’
Alec McDonald: ‘In.’
‘Thank you.’
Mike Hillman: ‘I hate bloody Yorkshire, but go on then.’
‘Thanks, Mike.’
Helen Marshalclass="underline" ‘I’ll have to get someone to feed the dog, I suppose.’
‘Thank you.’
I sit back down in my chair: ‘Thank you, all of you. I knew I could count on you.’
Smiles again, the stares gone.
‘In a bit, John and myself will get over to Wakefield for their afternoon press conference. Everyone else should take the opportunity to hand over their present duties. Chief Constable Smith’s office will issue all the necessary authorisation later this morning.
‘After the press conference, I have got a meeting scheduled with Chief Constable Angus and Assistant Chief Constable Oldman. John’ll secure the offices and arrange hotels for us. But let’s provisionally agree to meet in Leeds tomorrow morning at nine, location to be confirmed later today?’
Nods.
‘Questions?’
Mike Hillman: ‘They know we’re coming?’
‘Brass, yes; but not their lads or the press and we should keep it that way.’
Nods again.
Alec McDonald: ‘You want us to start boxing up our files on McQueen and Pickles?’
‘Not straight off. Let’s see what they’ve got over there first.’
A nod.
Silence, then -
I say: ‘OK? Until tomorrow.’
We all stand up.
‘And thanks again,’ I say, eight bright eyes shining back.
The best -
Mine.
Over the Moors again, between the articulated lorries, stark and empty, snow across their cold, lost bones -
John Murphy and myself, the memories neither cold nor lost -
Ours.
The football exhausted, my hands tight on the wheel, eyes on the road, silent.
After a few minutes I put the radio on, listeners phoning Jimmy Young about the death of John Lennon, about the hostages in Iran and the Third World War, about a factory in Germany that needs no people, just machines, and about the Yorkshire Ripper, mainly about the Yorkshire Ripper:
‘We’ll paper every surface with a thousand posters saying: The Ripper is a Coward…’
Murder and lies, war:
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.
Murder and lies, lies and murder.
Murphy says: ‘When were you last over this way?’
‘Yesterday’
‘No, I mean with A10?’
‘Should have been Bradford Vice, 1977. Remember all that?’
He nods: ‘All set to come right? Interviews, the lot, then -’
‘Case closed.’
‘Muddy waters, eh Pete?’
‘You could stand your truncheon in it, John.’
He sniffs up: ‘Before that would have been the Strafford then?’
‘Yep.’
‘Fuck,’ whistles Murphy. ‘Bloody Yorkshire.’
‘Yep,’ I say -
The Moors, Murphy, and me -
The memories neither cold nor lost:
The Strafford Shootings -
Christmas Eve 1974:
A pub robbery that went wrong -
Three dead at the scene, three wounded, one of them fatally -
Two of the wounded, coppers -
Suspects escaped, armed police and roadblocks on the streets of Yorkshire, possible links to Republican terrorists given the proximity to Wakefield Prison.
Twenty-four hours later and it was four dead, two wounded policemen -
Nothing adding up -
Inquiry ordered -
January 1975 and in we came -
A10:
Me and Clarkie -
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark, a friend.
Four weeks in -
A frantic phone call, a two-hour drive across these damned Moors again, home to bloody sheets and another miscarriage.
Clarkie took over, Murphy stepping in as his deputy
Two weeks on -
Clarkie collapses: pains in the chest, brought on by exhaustion.
Murphy in charge, Hillman as deputy.
Two more weeks -
Clarkie dead: pains in the chest -
Everybody home -
Case closed.
The Moors, Murphy, and me -
Memories neither cold nor lost.
‘Been a while since you seen George then?’ says Murphy, back.
‘Can’t bloody wait,’ I spit.
‘Brought your phrasebook?’
‘Phrasebook? No bastard speaks over there.’
‘Bloody heathens,’ nods Murphy.
I stare out at the lanes of lorries, the Moors beyond, the black poles and the telephone wires -
The North after the bomb, machines the only survivors.
Murder and lies, war -
My War:
Murder and lies, lies and murder.
‘What kind of reception you think we’re going to get?’
‘Cold,’ I say.
‘Bloody Yorkshire.’
His.
Wakefield, deserted Wakefield:
Friday 12 December 1980 -
Nothing but the ill-feelings and bad memories of thwarted investigations, of the walls of silence, the black secrets and the paranoia -
Professional hells.
January 1975 -
Nothing but the ill-feelings and terrible memories of the thwarted, of the walls of silence, the black blame and the guilt -
Personal hells.
January 1975 -
Impotent prayers and broken promises, reneged and returned -
December 1980:
Wakefield, barren Wakefield.
West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police Headquarters, Laburnum Road, Wakefield.
We park our black Rovers amongst the other black Rovers and go inside out of the rain to be directed back out, across the road to the gymnasium of the Training College.
We are early.
But I can hear the press waiting on the other side of the building, waiting -
Early.
Another uniform sends us down another corridor to a small room beside a kitchen.
And here, in amongst the catering, we find the Yorkshire Brass:
Angus, Oldman, and Noble -
Hiding and already beaten, standing between their sandwiches and their better days, their Black Panthers and their M62 Coach Bombings, their Al Shootings and their Michael Myshkins, those better days a long time gone.
‘Chief Constable Angus?’
He turns around.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he sighs.
The room is silent, dead.
I say: ‘This is John Murphy’
‘Yes,’ he says, not taking Murphy’s hand. ‘We’ve met before.’
Some other men step forward from the back of the room, familiar faces from conferences and old Gazettes, Oldman and Noble dropping back out into the corridor.
Angus introduces Murphy and myself to Bill Meyers, the National Coordinator of the Regional Crime Squads, to Donald Lincoln, Sir John Reed’s Number Two at the Inspectorate, and to Dr Stephen Tippet from the Forensic Services, a man I’ve met a number of times before.