Compassionate leave:
Another miscarriage, the last -
Joan at her parents’ house.
Thursday 7 July 1977 -
Burying him today, almost three weeks on:
Sunday 19 June 1977 -
Detective Inspector Eric Hall, Bradford Vice, murdered -
Wife beaten and raped -
Murdered and raped at their Denholme house by a gang of four men -
Black men -
Described by police as being of West Indian origin.
Parked on the road, staring up the hill, taking down number plates, putting white faces to white names -
Police faces to police names:
Chief Constable Ronald Angus, Assistant Chief Constable George Oldman, Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Noble, Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman, Detective Superintendent James Prentice, Detective Inspector Robert Craven, all Leeds -
No family, only coppers -
Not Bradford -
All Leeds.
There’s a tap on the window and I jump -
Back:
It’s Murphy, jacket over his head.
‘Christ,’ I say, winding down the window.
‘You going up?’
I nod and wind back the window and get out.
‘What you doing here?’ I ask him. ‘Didn’t know her did you?’
‘Feel like I bloody did,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘But I knew you’d be here.’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean what?’ he laughs, the rain pouring over us. ‘We’re worried about you?’
‘Well, don’t be.’
‘Come on,’ he says, looking up at the black sky above. ‘Let’s make a rim for it.’
And we run up the hill towards the dark building with the chimney, black in the weather, past small stones with small names, the dead flowers, cigarette ends and crisp packets, the dead leaves, our boots in the rain the only sound.
Murphy is there first, panting and holding open the door -
I step inside -
The service, the ritual about to begin.
Mrs Hall is already here, along with a handful of spectators -
Raw and blank -
Her son Richard and a girl in black, some old women, a couple who look like they might live across the road, the odd person at the back, a man who’s here to take notes for his paper, the police -
Pete Noble and Jim Prentice, John Murphy and me.
The professionals -
One down the front, kit on -
And the Reverend Laws -
The Reverend Martin Laws shaking Richard’s hand, smiling at the girl in black.
I look round at all the folk I don’t know and I want their names, wanting to tell Noble to make sure he puts names to faces -
But that’s not going to happen -
Not today -
Not ever.
She’s gone -
They’re just here to make sure.
So we stand there in the pew, behind Noble and Prentice, making double sure.
When she’s gone and when they’re sure, Noble turns round -
‘Pete? How are you?’
‘All right,’ I say.
‘Heard about the fire. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah,’ Jim Prentice says. ‘Bad news.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, dropping my eyes to the floor as Richard Hall and the girl in black walk past us to the door.
‘Sorry to hear about all this other stuff as well,’ he says, glancing at Murphy. ‘This stuff with Angus and Maurice?’
I say: ‘It’ll get sorted out.’
‘Be a mountain out of a molehill,’ he smiles.
‘There’s not even a bloody molehill to make a mountain of,’ hisses Murphy.
‘What I heard,’ says Noble, embarrassed.
I put up my hand, stopping us here: ‘Thanks, Pete.’
Silence, embarrassed silence -
Just nods and sniffs, the rain on the roof, until -
Until I ask: ‘Any news from your end?’
‘Nabbed the bloke who called the Mirror.’
‘So I heard.’
‘What’d he do it for?’ asks Murphy.
Prentice, shaking his head: ‘Got a telephone put in but didn’t know anyone to call, so he rings Ripper Line and listens to tape a couple of times, gets bored of that and thinks he’ll have a laugh, calls Mirror.’
‘Daft cunt,’ laughs Murphy.
‘One down.’ I say. ‘Two to go.’
‘Two?’ says Prentice. ‘What do you mean two?’
Noble smiles – thinks about saying something, something else, something more – but turns to Prentice and says: ‘Head up to the house, shall we?’
‘Right,’ shrugs Prentice.
They look at us, but we’re both shaking our heads.
‘See you, then,’ says Noble, hand out -
I take it and say: ‘By the way, when’s the inquest?’
He looks back down the aisle at the place where he last saw Mrs Hall and then at Jim Prentice: ‘Week on Friday?’
‘Yeah,’ says Prentice. ‘Couldn’t get it in any earlier because of New Year and the weekend.’
‘Right,’ I say.
‘See you later, Pete,’ says Noble again, nodding to Murphy -
A handshake here and they’re gone too.
‘He’s all right,’ says Murphy, once they’re out the door. ‘For a Yorkie.’
‘A Yorkie?’ I say, then: ‘Listen, can I meet you outside? I just want to have a word with that man down there.’
‘The priest?’
‘Yes,’ I say and walk down the aisle towards the front.
The Reverend Martin Laws is knelt down, hands on the rail of one of the front pews.
‘Mr Laws?’
Hands still together, he turns to look up at me: ‘Mr Hunter.’
‘Nice service.’
‘In the circumstances,’ he nods.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says, sitting back up on the pew – moving his hat to make room for me.
I sit down beside him.
He turns and looks at me, his clothes stinking and smelling of damp: ‘You’ve got a lot of questions Mr Hunter?’
‘Hasn’t everyone?’
‘Not everyone,’ he says. ‘Not everyone.’
‘Well, do you mind if I ask you some of mine?’
‘Be my guest,’ he says again.
I ask him: ‘Are you really a priest, Mr Laws?’
‘Yes.’
‘Still a priest?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I nod. ‘You told me that Mrs Hall rang you because she’d heard of your work?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’d heard of it from Jack Whitehead, hadn’t she?’
‘Yes.’
‘You met Mr Whitehead through his ex-wife Carol?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you were both there the night Carol’s second husband murdered her?’
‘Yes.’
‘His name was Michael Williams?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was found to be insane and is now in Broadmoor?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, at his trial, you were singled out for criticism by the judge, Mr Justice Caulfield, were you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And by Dr Eric Treacy, the Bishop of Wakefield?’
‘Yes.’
‘And didn’t Jack Whitehead, didn’t he hold you responsible for Carol’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘And do you think that Jack’s grief, the grief over the death of his wife, a death he blames on you, that this grief led to his suicide attempt in 1977?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say? Yes, yes, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ I say. ‘You still visit Jack? In Stanley Royd?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Laws,’ I say. ‘On these visits, has Jack ever given you anything?’
Laws pauses and then says: ‘No.’
‘Never given you any books, letters, or cassettes?’