Four black and white photographs on the seat beside me -
Four black and white photographs and one piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -
One piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -
One piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -
Spunk, Issue 3, January 1975.
‘Clare Morrison,’ I say aloud. ‘Clare fucking Morrison.’
In the multi-storey car park, I sit in the car and dry my tears.
I get out and open the boot and when I’ve got the bag of Spunks and got the Exegesis, when I’ve got them from under the sea of socks and diaries, the handkerchiefs and the tie, I get back inside and start looking for Issue 3, but it’s not there -
One of the missing issues.
I stuff the Spunks back, thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head -
And I look back down at the piece of paper on the seat beside me -
The piece of black and white Xeroxed paper -
The piece of black and white Xeroxed pornography -
Fat and blonde, legs and cunt -
Thinking back, playing back the tapes in my head:
‘Why Clare Strachau?’ I asked. ‘Because of the magazine? Because of Spunk?’
‘Strachau?’ he was saying, shaking his head. ‘No.’
‘Not the porn? Strachau’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
Stop -
Rewind:
‘Not the porn? Strachan’s murder had nothing to do with MJM?’
Stop:
Lying piece of shit -
I start the car, thinking:
‘It’s you who should be running; you they haven’t finished with.’
Richard Dawson lives in West Didsbury in a large, white and detached bungalow which had been designed by the architect John Dawson as a wedding present for his younger brother and his bride Linda -
I park on the road at the bottom of their drive and walk up the gravel to the front door.
Little Cygnet says the sign on the gatepost.
I press the chimes and look out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, trying to remember the last time I was here.
I turn back to press the bell again and there’s Linda -
Linda in a blouse and skirt, looking like she hasn’t slept in a week.
‘Hello, love,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
But she’s already crying and I put my arms round her and lead her back inside, closing the door, back into the cold, quiet house -
We sit down on the cream leather sofa in the gloom of their all-white lounge, Kelly Monteith on the TV without the sound.
And when she’s stopped shaking in my arms, I stand up and walk over to the mirrored drinks cabinet and I pour two large Scotch and sodas -
I hand her one and she looks up from the sofa, her eyes red raw, and she says: ‘What’s going on Peter?’
And I shake my head and say: ‘I’ve no idea, love.’
‘How’s Joan?’
‘You heard about the house?’
She nods: ‘You staying with her parents?’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘What about you? Where are the kids?’
‘With my parents.’
‘What have you told them?’
‘That their Daddy’s gone away’
‘Linda,’ I say. ‘You got any idea where he’s gone?’
She shakes her head, the tears coming again: ‘Something’s happened to him, I just know it has.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say.
‘He would have called me, I know he would have.’
‘What about the house in France?’
‘That’s what everyone says, but he wouldn’t – not without saying anything.’
‘Has anyone been in touch with the local police in France?’
‘That Roger Hook, he said they would.’
I sit down and take her hand: ‘When did you last see Richard?’
‘It’s been a week now.’
‘Last Sunday?’
She nods.
I squeeze her hand: ‘He tell you where he was going?’
‘He said he was going to sort things out.’
‘Sort things out?’
She nods again: ‘I thought he might mean he was going to see you.’
I shake my head: ‘He did call me.’
‘When?’
‘Would have been Saturday night.’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Said he was worried about Monday, about going back to see Roger Hook.’
She looks up: ‘You think he was worried enough to run off?’
‘I don’t know, love. Do you?’
She looks back down at the drink in her hand and says quietly: ‘I don’t know anymore.’
‘Linda, love,’ I say, squeezing her hand. ‘How much did he talk to you about work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did he usually talk to you about his day at the office?’
She nods: ‘A bit.’
‘Did he mention people’s names? Sound off if he was upset?’
‘He was upset about Bob Douglas and their little girl Karen.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Who wasn’t. But usually?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says and lets go of my hand. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘For example, you knew Bob Douglas and his wife?’
‘But that was different, I introduced them.’
‘Right, right,’ I’m nodding. ‘Through the school?’
‘Yes,’ she says, standing up and beginning to pace.
‘I’m sorry, Linda,’ I say. ‘But can I ask you some names, see if they ring any bells?’
She stops by the window, the big cold front window.
I say: ‘Bob Craven?’
She has her back to me and the room, looking out of the window, silent -
‘Linda?’
Looking out of the window over the garden, across the rain on the pond.
I ask her again: ‘Bob Craven?’
Out of the window, over the garden, across the rain on the pond.
‘Linda?’
‘No,’ she says, standing slightly on tiptoes.
‘Eric Hall?’
The window, the garden, the rain, the pond, silent -
I say again: ‘Eric Hall?’
Silent, then -
‘Peter!’
‘What?’
‘No,’ she says, her hands on the glass, turning to me – turning back: ‘No!’
I get up, over to the window -
Linda saying over and over: ‘No! God, no!’
Roger Hook and Ronnie Allen are walking up the gravel to the front door.
‘No!’
I swallow and walk towards the door.
‘Oh no, please no!’
And I open the door and see the looks on their faces -
‘No, no, no,’ she’s screaming, tearing into the back of the house: ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.’
The doorbell rings again -
‘Where is she?’ says Joan.
‘In the bedroom.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘They’re not here. With her parents.’
‘Do they know?’
I shake my head.
‘What happened?’ she asks, her face twitching, lip trembling.
‘Come in here,’ I say and lead her into the lounge -
‘You know Roger?’ I say. ‘And this is Ronnie Allen.’
Roger Hook smiles and Ronnie Allen shakes my wife’s hand: ‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Hunter.’
We sit down on the cream leather sofa and I say: ‘His body was discovered following a fire at a newsagents in Batley, West Yorkshire.’
‘Batley? A fire?’
I shake my head: ‘He’d been murdered, love.’
‘How? I mean what -’
I’ve got my hand up: ‘Listen love, I’m going to tell you the details because Linda will want to know and right now you’re the only person she’s going to let into that bedroom.’
Joan’s twitching, trembling.
‘The fire was on the Bradford Road, Batley, at a newsagents called RD News in the early hours of Tuesday morning, 23 December. His body wasn’t discovered until about lunchtime on Tuesday in the flat above the shop. It looks like the fire started in the flat.’