1. The man was born before 1924 or after 1959.
2. The man is an obvious coloured person.
3. The man is a size nine shoe or above.
4. The man has a blood group other than type B.
5. The man does not have a Geordie or North Eastern accent.
“It should be remembered that it may be that the man responsible has come to police attention in the past for assaults on prostitutes and women which did not result in serious injury, and suggestions regarding the identity of the person responsible, or any other information about similar assaults, not necessarily fatal, would be appreciated.”’
I stop.
Silence.
I say: ‘And that brings us to here and Laureen Bell.’
I close the folder and look at my watch:
Noon -
Fuck -
I need another car, need to get back over to Batley, to Marshall -
Murphy, McDonald, and Hillman looking at me -
Craven’s fucking asleep in the corner -
‘OK,’ I say. ‘We need to now start compiling the crosschecks, completing various lists, speaking to the officers involved. We’ll start now and then meet tomorrow morning, first thing, see how far we’ve got.’
‘Wake him, shall I?’ grins Hillman, nodding at Craven -
I put my finger to my lips: ‘Better let him sleep.’
I’m at the desk downstairs, trying to get a car, when there’s a word in my ear:
Tress are here, sir.’
I turn round -
It’s one of the Yorkshire Press Office, Evans I think -
‘Sunday Times?’ he says.
‘Shit,’ I say, looking at my watch again.
‘Problem, sir?’
‘No. Where are they?’
‘The Assistant Chief Constable’s office. Mr Noble said we could use that.’
‘Fine,’ I say and follow him back upstairs.
There are two journalists waiting for us:
‘Anthony McNeil,’ says a tall man in glasses.
I shake his hand.
‘Andy Driscoll,’ says the other man as I take his hand.
‘I’ve never been interviewed by two people at the same time,’ I say, smiling at Evans as he sits down at the back of the room.
‘Well,’ says McNeil. ‘Andy’s just along for the ride.’
I sit down at Noble’s desk: ‘Is that right?’
‘No, he’s only joking sir.’
‘Well, OK. Shall we make a start?’ I ask.
‘Do you mind?’ asks Driscoll, putting a small pocket cassette recorder on Noble’s desk.
‘Should get one myself,’ I smile, switching on the one in my pocket.
‘OK,’ says McNeil. ‘You were brought in here as part of the Brains Trust and -’
‘Your words not mine,’ I interrupt.
McNeil smiles: ‘Right, fair enough. So I wonder if you could tell us what progress you and the other members of this Super Squad have made so far?’
I smile: ‘Super Squad is it now?’
‘Well, it is supposed to be the top detectives from across the country’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘But,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is it deserved?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Progress; that’s what people want to hear about,’ he says. ‘What progress you have or haven’t made.’
I say: ‘Is that a question?’
He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them and says: ‘Yes, that’s a question.’
‘Mr McNeil,’ I say as quietly and calmly as I can. ‘Our job is to look at the operation and to advise and to make appropriate recommendations.’
McNeil smiles and gives me a bloody wink: ‘Is that an answer?’
‘That’s putting it a touch mildly, is it not?’ interrupts Driscoll.
I try and smile: ‘I thought you were along for the ride?’
‘I’m not – but can the same be said of you and this so-called Super Squad?’ laughs Driscoll.
Before I can respond, McNeil’s already telling me: ‘What I mean to say is, this team were brought in for what was described as, and I quote: “a complete and thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper.” Was that or was that not the brief?’
‘That is the brief and that’s what we are in the process of doing.’
‘Thank you,’ snorts McNeil. ‘So would you mind telling us then how much progress you’ve made in the course of this review.’
‘It’s on-going, Mr McNeil.’
Obviously.’
‘Well, obviously, if it’s on-going it is therefore not complete and so I can’t comment,’ I say, my voice rising, looking at my watch, thinking about Helen Marshall. ‘What more do you want me to say?’
But then he pounces: ‘Something to give hope to the thousands of students fleeing the cities of the North tonight; something to give hope to the millions of women who aren’t lucky enough to be able to flee from the cities of the North, who must spend another Christmas, their sixth, trapped inside their homes, dependent on lifts from fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, any one of whom might be the Yorkshire Ripper himself; something to say to these mothers and sisters, these wives and daughters, not to mention something for Mrs Bell and the twelve other mothers who have no daughters and the nineteen children who have no mothers, all thanks to him; him and your inaction.’
Silence; silence but for the noises of the station around us -
The station where somewhere men’s voices can be heard singing an obscene version of Jingle Bells -
The man at the back from the Press Office or Community Affairs or whatever they call it, he gets up and leaves the room -
I look up at McNeil who’s shaking his head, his eyes on me -
Outside the singing stops, leaving just the silence until Evans returns and takes his seat at the back again.
McNeil sighs and says: ‘If you’ve nothing to say in response to that, then I wonder if I might ask you for comment on a number of fundamental criticisms that have been levelled in the direction of West Yorkshire and the inquiry in general?’
I’ve got my hands up, but to no avail -
‘Firstly,’ he presses on. ‘There’s the issue of Miss Bell’s missing bag and it turning up covered in blood and marked as lost property a good twenty-four hours after her body was discovered, despite being handed in to police officers prior to the discovery of her body, not to mention the statements given by her flatmates insisting that officers look for Miss Bell when she failed to return home on time.’
‘The Chief Constable has already publicly addressed those criticisms, as you are fully aware.’
‘So you’ve nothing to add?’
‘Nothing.’
‘OK then, how about the fact that Candy Simon and Tracey Livingston were also both reported missing to police officers prior to the discovery of their bodies and, in Candy’s case, her bloodstained underwear was also found.’
‘I’ve nothing to say about that either.’
‘OK, something closer to home then. Have you managed to get any explanation for the fact that it took Manchester police a whole week to locate Elizabeth McQueen’s handbag, despite the fact that it was less than 100 yards from where her body had been discovered.’
‘Mr McNeil,’ I say, fists up. ‘All these issues that you raise are obviously matters of concern to us and are part and parcel of the review that we’ve undertaken but, honestly and I hope for the last time, let me say that it would be unprofessional of me to pass comment on these matters at this time.’
‘Unprofessional?’
‘Yes.’
Driscoll hands McNeil a piece of paper from his briefcase and McNeil says: ‘May I read you something?’
‘Feel free,’ I sigh.
McNeil reads: ‘So much about the Ripper is ifs and buts – one cannot be 100% certain, for instance, that all the murders are linked. What we are saying is that they are all similar and are the ones we are most interested in. For reasons obvious to all officers there is a certain amount of information that has to be kept back for the vital confrontation with the man responsible for the killings.