Screaming in the wind -
A bloody castle rising out of the bleeding rain, a tear in the landscape -
Leeds, the grim and concrete medievaclass="underline"
Dead city -
The crows, the rain, and the Ripper -
The Ripper, King -
The King of Leeds.
In a cold and rotting cafй, in the shadow of an industrial estate, we drink cold and rotting tea to kill the time, lorry drivers eating the fish special, kids playing the slot machine.
It’s pitch black as we pull into the underground car park beneath Millgarth Police Station, Kirkgate Market closing up. Moments later and we’re running back up the ramp and into the rain, the lift not working, the market gutters overflowing with rotten vegetables and foul water, Murphy cursing Leeds and Yorkshire, their coppers and their killer.
‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please.’
The fat sergeant on the desk, his face and hands covered in boils, he sniffs up: ‘And you are?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Hunter and Chief Superintendent Murphy from Manchester.’
He wipes his nose in his fingers: ‘Wait over there.’
‘We have an appointment,’ hisses John Murphy.
‘Fat lot of bloody good that’ll do you if he’s not in.’
I lead Murphy over to plastic chairs under bright strip lights, the smell of wet police dogs rank and strong.
‘Fuck him,’ mutters Murphy.
‘He’s not worth it, John.’
And we sit in silence, staring at the boot marks on the linoleum floor, picking off the dog hairs, waiting -
Waiting for it to start.
And sitting here, staring into the black marks, the dog hairs, I realise how long I’ve been waiting -
Waiting for it all to stop:
Five years -
Five years to come back and right the wrongs, to make it right, make it all worthwhile -
The five years of marriage and miscarriage, of wet pillows and bloody sheets, of doctors and priests, of the drugs and the tests, the broken promises and plates -
Five years of -
‘Manchester? You can go up.’
‘About fucking time,’ says Murphy.
The Sergeant looks back up from his desk: ‘Just Mr Hunter that is.’
I’ve got my palms up between Murphy and the desk: ‘You try and get hold of someone, see if you can sort out the hotel. I’ll talk to Noble about the offices. Yeah?’
He’s got his eyes on the Sergeant, the eyes and boils back on his desk.
‘John?’
‘Right, right, right.’
I say: ‘Then I’ll meet you back here in an hour or so. OK?’
He’s still got his eyes on the Sergeant, but he’s nodding: ‘More good old-fashioned Yorkshire bloody hospitality.’
The Sergeant doesn’t look up.
‘I’m sorry about before,’ says Temporary Assistant Chief Constable Peter Noble, sitting back down behind his desk.
‘No harm done,’ I say as I take a seat across from him.
‘Well that’s OK then,’ he smiles.
He’s older than me, but not by much -
Forty-five at the most; thick hair starting to turn grey, a moustache that gives him the look of a man still hard, still in the chase; and on a morning as he shaves he’s thinking of Burt Reynolds, fancying his chances, still in the hunt.
‘It’s not going to be much of a picnic for you,’ he’s saying. ‘Though I suppose you must be used to it by now.’
‘Sorry? Used to what?’ I say, staring at the photograph of two children on the windowsill behind the desk.
‘Not getting the red carpet.’
‘Don’t expect it.’
‘That’s lucky then,’ he laughs.
The door opens and Chief Constable Angus comes in: ‘Gentlemen.’
‘We were just getting started,’ says Noble, standing up.
‘Well I say we call it a night,’ laughs Angus. ‘After bloody day we’ve had, I say we extend some hospitality to Mr Hunter here and get him some dinner…’
‘I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet John Murphy in…’
‘Don’t worry about John,’ winks Angus. ‘Dickie Alderman and a couple of the lads are taking care of him. They’ve sorted you out rooms at the Griffin and they’ve gone for a pint or two. Or three.’
‘The Griffin?’
‘City centre. Be ideal.’
I pause, then say: ‘I had wanted to make a start right away.’
‘Course you had,’ smiles the Chief Constable. ‘And you will. But we can get just as much done over a steak and a couple of drinks as we can up here.’
They are both at the door, waiting.
‘I need to make a call to Manchester.’
Noble points at the phone on his desk: ‘Be my guest.’
The Draganora Hotel is a modern skyscraper near Leeds City Station, its third-floor restaurant dark and empty.
We take our seats in the window, the rain on the wired glass, city lights running in the wind and the night.
‘It’s one of them carvery deals,’ smiles Angus. ‘Help yourself to as much as you want and keep going back up until they have to carry you out.’
We order drinks and then head over to the long table at the back of the room, the food lying waiting for us under dim orange lights.
Noble and myself follow Angus along the line, piling on under-cooked meat and over-cooked vegetables until there’s no space left on our plates.
And as we eat we make small talk about the poor seasons Leeds and Man U. are having, the jailing of Lord Kagan, the murder of John Lennon; the three of us careful to avoid the obvious, careful to avoid the fact that we are the only diners in the restaurant of a four-star Leeds hotel a week before Christmas, careful to avoid the reason we are here and no-one else.
Noble goes back up for more.
‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ Angus is saying.
‘You weren’t a fan then?’ I ask.
‘To be honest with you Mr Hunter, I reckon they weren’t that popular over this way. Be different for you mind, coming from over there I suppose. But on this side, we pride ourselves on not following trends.’
‘Still talking about bloody Beatles, are you?’ says Noble, back with a plate for himself and another for his Boss.
‘I was just telling Mr Hunter here, how Yorkshire is always the last bastion of common sense. Like the bloody resistance, we are,’ laughs Angus.
‘Not much bloody loss if you ask me,’ nods Noble, ploughing through his second-helpings.
I sip at my gin and watch the rain, wondering if Joan has gone to bed yet.
Angus is still piling it on his fork, still laughing: ‘You’re not on bloody hunger strike are you?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Why?’
‘Thought you might be off your grub in sympathy.’
‘What?’ I say, smiling but not following.
Angus looks up from his cold pink meat: ‘The Maze. You’re a Roman, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, no offence. Heard you were.’
‘No.’
‘Well anyway,’ he says, putting down his knife and fork and taking out an envelope from inside his jacket. ‘If you’re not eating you might as well have a butchers at this.’
I take the envelope and open it.
Inside is a memorandum from Angus to Sir John Reed, Philip Evans, and myself -
A memorandum outlining the terms of reference for my investigation into their investigation.
I look up.
Angus and Noble have stopped eating and are watching me.
‘Another drink?’ asks Noble.
I nod and go back to the memorandum -
The memorandum that in two sentences states that I have been invited by the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police to review inquiries made into the murders and attacks attributed to the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, that I am to recommend any necessary changes to operational procedures, and that I am to make those recommendations directly to Chief Constable Angus. During the course of my review, should any evidence arise to suggest that any persons involved in the Ripper inquiry are themselves guilty or suspected to be guilty of any offences or negligence, then that evidence is to be immediately forwarded to the Chief Constable and no further or independent action is to be taken on the part of the review.