‘I know.’
‘See you over there at two then?’
‘Two it is.’
I sit back down on the edge of the hotel bed and pick up the phone and dial directory inquiries and get the number of the Sunday Times:
‘The Editor, please?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not in today,’ a woman’s voice says.
‘OK. My name is Peter Hunter and I’m the Assistant Chief Constable for Greater Manchester.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. How can I help you?’ she asks.
‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you could put me through to Anthony McNeil or Andrew Driscoll?’
There’s a pause, then the woman says: ‘I’m sorry, sir. Can you just hold on a minute?’
‘Sure,’ I say and hold on -
Moments later, the woman says: ‘I thought so, we don’t have an Anthony McNeil working for us and we did have a Mr Driscoll, but he retired quite a while ago.’
‘Retired? How old was he?’
‘Sixty something. He’d be seventy now – if he’s still alive.’
‘I see.’
‘Was there anything else?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye,’ I say and hang up and then dial Wakefield:
‘Community Affairs. Inspector Evans please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter.’
‘One moment, sir.’
Then: ‘Community Affairs. Detective Inspector Evans speaking.’
‘Inspector? This is Peter Hunter.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter. What can I do you for?’
‘McNeil and Driscoll? Sunday Times?’
‘Right.’
‘Wrong. I just called the Sunday Times and they’ve never heard of any Anthony McNeil and the only Driscoll they know is retired and seventy years old if he’s not already dead.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yep.’
‘They had press cards.’
‘That’s nice. You didn’t call and check though?’
‘No.’
‘Well done, Inspector.’
‘Shit,’ he says again. ‘So who were they?’
‘Who were they? You’re asking me who they were? You’re bloody Community Affairs, Inspector. I suggest you start bloody finding out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I hang up.
Millgarth, Leeds:
Murphy, McDonald, Hillman, and Helen Marshall -
Craven in the corner.
I sit down at the table, the table full of piles, piles full of files, files full of lists, lists full of names, names full of death and paranoia.
I tell them what they already know: ‘Eric Hall’s wife killed herself last night.’
John Murphy’s nodding, writing in one of the files: ‘Better off.’
‘Shut up,’ says Helen Marshall.
‘Things they did to her, I’d have topped myself years ago.’
‘Leave it, John,’ I hiss.
Murphy, palms up: ‘Sorry.’
‘I’d been going through Eric Hall’s files,’ I say. ‘And it turns out Janice Ryan had done some work for a porn mag called Spunk. This was published by a company called MJM, but it turns out they’ve gone under.’
‘Bust,’ winks Craven. ‘Get it?’
‘Yeah thanks,’ I say. ‘Their forwarding address was a flat above a paper shop owned by Bob here’s partner, the late Bob Douglas.’
‘Ex-partner,’ says Craven, no more jokes.
‘Ex-shop as well,’ I say. ‘It was burnt down night before last. One fatality.’
Marshall’s about to say something, but stops.
‘Any news on the body, Bob?’ I ask Craven -
He sniffs up and says: ‘Looks like murder and arson.’
I count to five, then say: ‘You’re joking?’
‘Unless the bloke had no hands or teeth when he moved in, no.’
‘What?’
‘Whoever it is, they’d cut off his hands and smashed in his teeth.’
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, I’m thinking, counting to five.
‘What a fucking place,’ says Hillman for all of us.
Me: ‘So they can’t get a name?’
Craven’s shaking his head.
‘You any ideas?’ I ask him.
‘Me? Why would I know who it is?’
‘You were his bloody partner, Bob?’
‘For all of six months.’
‘Who’s handling it?’ I ask.
‘Alderman.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m thinking, counting to ten.
Then I look back across the room at Craven and I say: ‘Six years today, Bob?’
Craven: ‘Who’s counting?’
I am, I think -
I fucking am.
Hillman: ‘Can I ask something?’
I nod.
‘This letter you got? Any word on that?’
‘Pete Noble sent it over to Wetherby. Still waiting for word from them.’
Murphy: ‘Everything all right?’
‘How do you mean, John?’
‘On the home front?’
Joan, Joan, Joan, I’m thinking, counting to fifteen.
‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’
Murphy: ‘How about Bob Douglas? Any word from Roger and the lads on that?’
‘No, John,’ I say, shaking my head and thinking:
Never fucking ending -
Death and paranoia -
Murder and lies, lies and murder -
A total war.
We’re all downstairs at the Griffin, bags packed -
John Murphy getting us all a round in -
A Christmas drink.
He brings over the beers and the shorts, Mac singing along to the piped electronic versions of Christmas carols, but I’ve had a belly full of Christmas music:
Ray Conniff and We Wish You a Happy Christmas -
The Little Drummer Boy.
And I’m already on my third drink, the room suddenly hot, Hillman asking me if I ever met Mr Ray and I’m saying I can’t say I ever did but Mac is saying I must have done – big bearded man who kept pigeons.
‘Pigeon fancier, was he?’ laughs Murphy. ‘Knew a bloke got five years for that.’
‘Another?’ shouts Mac, getting up.
‘A quick one for the road,’ I say, looking across the table at Helen Marshall and smiling -
She smiles back and raises her glass and says: ‘Make mine a double, Mac.’
There are blue lights in the rearview mirror, sirens -
And I’m thinking, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck -
I pull over somewhere on the Moors and wait for them.
The tap comes on the glass -
I wind down the window.
‘Would you mind stepping out of the car please, sir?’ I nod and open the door -
Get out and stand there, against the car.
‘May I see your driver’s licence please, sir?’ asks the young policeman, about twenty-five -
About the same age I was when they brought me up here -
Up here to dig.
He’s looking at the licence with his torch, then he shines it up at me and glances back at the police car.
‘Mr Hunter?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Just a minute, sir,’ he says and goes back to the police car, its blue lights spinning silently in the night.
And I stand there, against the car, and I stare up at the sky – quiet for once with just the stars twinkling, and then I look back down at the ground, at the Moors all around me, stained with snow -
Digging ever since.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbles, coming back. ‘We didn’t realise it was you.’
I nod.
‘Here you are, sir,’ he says and hands me my driver’s licence.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Sir?’ he says -
I try and focus.
‘Would you like us to call you a taxi or something?’
I shake my head.
‘You’re sure? It’s no trouble.’
I raise my hand, swallowing sick, and shake my head.
He looks back at the police car and says: ‘You don’t look very well, sir?’