‘Sorry, should have brought something.’
‘I can last,’ she says.
I say: ‘You get off now.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll stay’
‘What time shall I come back?’
‘You’ve done enough.’
‘No, I want to.’
‘You sure?’
‘I wouldn’t say if I wasn’t.’
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’
‘No, you better get something to eat, get some sleep.’
‘Think I’ve gone past sleep.’
‘Actually there is one thing,’ I say, taking out my notebook.
She’s smiling: ‘Thought there might be.’
‘Could you just ring Mrs Hall? Seemed to get on, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘Just see how she is.’
‘That it?’ she laughs. ‘See how she is?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I had this interview with a right pair from the Sunday Times. They said they’d been talking to her. You could just ask her about them?’
‘Ask her what about them?’
‘What they’d asked her, what she said.’
‘OK. The subtle approach?’
I tear out the page with Mrs Hall’s number on it -
‘It’s the top one,’ I say.
‘Who’s the other one?’
‘The Reverend Laws.’
‘I was just thinking about him,’ she says.
‘How awful for you.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘Fair enough,’ she says.
I open the passenger door -
‘What time do you want me back?’ she asks.
I look at my watch and say: ‘Eleven, eleven thirty?’
She nods and starts the car: ‘See you then.’
‘Take care.’
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,’ she laughs as I close the door.
‘No,’ I say, and she pulls away, – gone.
Back in the Saab, I drive up the road for a bit until I’m opposite the park where I reverse into the drive of a house with an unlit Christmas tree in the window and then head back down past RDNews, parking near enough to be able to watch the upstairs window in the rearview mirror and the back of the alley in the wing, winding down the window a crack to stop the car steaming up and then I sit there, radio on, – listening, watching, waiting.
same half worn india autoway cross ply tyres that were on front wheels at the scene of my mate marie watts so e truly am luckiest woman in yorkshire a lady well known in the preston area short black leather jacket blue jeans blue shirt carrying a blue denim handbag slim dark haired and attractive with a full sensual mouth stare into her you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to transmission six tracey livingston thirty one found in her flat on ash lane preston Saturday the seventh of January nineteen seventy eight death due to four blows to the head with an instrument which has not been recovered stab wounds to the abdomen and possibly to the back which would not have proved fatal the wounds were such that the assailants clothing will be heavily bloodstained stare into her misery and she looks at you and with both hands she opens her chest and says see how you tear me see the monstrous punishment you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to a lumpy bundle covered in blankets she had initially been attacked as she stepped through her door and had received four massive blows to the head her killer had then removed her coat before lifting her onto the bed her faded denim jeans and pants had been dragged down together but her jeans had been partially pulled back up her bra had been hoisted above her breasts which were exposed she had been stabbed six times in the stomach and there were further signs of stabbing attempts to her back although her skin was not broken and some slash marks along the left side of her body caused by a knife or chisel approximately half an inch wide a blood sample showed that tracey had consumed twenty measures of spirits and had died at midnight a vaginal swab revealed the presence of semen but this was thought to be as a result of sexual activity some time before a size seven boot print from a dunlop Warwick Wellington boot the same as that found on joan richards thigh found on the bottom bed sheet in the silence of a flat after death just the clock and the drip of the tap the blood in pools in the hall the lumpy bundle covered in blankets on the bed just the clock and the drip of the tap the thick dark hair matted with the thick dark blood the repeated knocking on the door the silence of a flat after death on her thigh a bloody hand print on her bed sheet a bloody boot print she was banging on the roof of a car obviously the worse for drink and using the sort of foul language no decent woman would have been using and when e stopped she jumped in beside me without any coaxing and we drove to her flat and e took my claw hammer from under the seat and stuffed it inside my coat and hung my coat up inside her flat and then e waited until she was sitting on the bed with her back to me before e struck with four blows that knocked her to the floor and then e hoisted her up and back onto the bed and exposed her breasts and the lower part of her body and then e hit her with one end of the hammer and clawed at her with the other watching the marks appear in her flesh and e stuck a knife into her stomach and because we were inside the blood looked red for the first time and not the black colour it always looked in the dark and e threw the sheets over her and left her alone in her bedroom making horrible gurgling sounds though e knew she would not be in any state to tell anyone what had happened for e knew it would be a long time before they would come and e knew they would look away e knew they could not stare into her misery her looking at them with both hands opening her
Chapter 13
A shot -
Awake, sweating and afraid in the car in the night – the car dirty, the night black.
I look at the clock:
Midnight -
Shit.
I switch on the overhead light and check my own watch.
I switch off the light again:
Sat in the dark, thinking -
Where is she?
I get out of the car -
I walk up the road in the sleeting rain to the phonebox -
I open the door and -
BANG!
I’m flat on my back on the pavement, glass raining down -
There are bells ringing and there are screams, feet running -
People tearing out of the Chop Suey -
And I’m trying to stand up when -
BANG!
More glass raining down, more bells ringing, more screams, more feet running and I’m up -
Up and across the road, a car braking and swerving to avoid me -
There is smoke billowing out of RD News, the whole front gaping open -
‘Gas!’ someone’s shouting. ‘Gas!’
I sprint past the chemist, its glass all gone, alarm deafening -
Chinese waiters running here and there, the restaurant emptying -
Women customers tripping in long dresses and high heels, men with blood in their hair, on their faces, their hands -
Round the back and into the alley, people in their dressing gowns and coats coming out, dogs barking -
And I get to the back gate and it’s open and I go into the yard and there are sirens now -
And I reach for the back door and I open it and -
BAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!
I’m flat on my arse again -
Face burnt back by the intense heat, the smoke and the flames -
And there are people in the yard pulling me away, talking in different tongues -
Back out in the alleyway, an old woman saying: ‘You all right, love? Told them about all them gas canisters, I have.’
I push her away and go back down the alley but the fire engines are already here, an ambulance pulling up -