January 1975 -
The same ill-feelings and same memories, the same thwarted investigations and same walls of silence, the same black secrets and paranoia, the same helclass="underline"
December 1980 -
The same impotent prayers and the same broken promises, the same blame and the same guilt, reneged and returned:
Monday 29 December 1980 -
Wakefield, barren Wakefield.
Wakefield -
Laburnum Road -
West Yorkshire Police Headquarters -
The Chief Constable’s office.
I look at my watch -
13:54:45 .
I knock on the door -
‘Come.’
I open the door -
Ronald Angus is sat behind a big desk, his own big desk, Maurice Jobson and Dick Alderman sitting before him.
‘Gentlemen,’ I say -
‘Mr Hunter,’ says Angus, looking at his watch. ‘You’re early’
‘Call it a curse,’ I smile.
Angus looks at Alderman and says: ‘It’s OK. Richard was just leaving.’
Dick Alderman stands up, a hand on Maurice’s shoulder: ‘I’ll speak to you both later.’
They both nod.
Detective Superintendent Richard Alderman pushes past me and out -
Not a word.
‘Sit down,’ says Angus, gesturing to the empty chair next to Jobson.
‘You wanted these,’ I say before I sit down – tipping every official diary I’ve ever had, copies of every expense I’ve ever submitted, every other official form I’ve ever received – tipping them all over his desk.
‘Thank you,’ says Maurice Jobson.
‘And this,’ I say, handing Angus authorisations to examine my bank account, my credit card and my Post Office savings accounts -
Angus looks at it and says: ‘Thank you.’
I sit down and I wait -
Mr Angus sifts and shuffles through the mess and the mire on his desk, eventually pulling out a number of pieces of paper from under my stuff, and then he looks up at me and says: Td like to put some names to you and I’d be grateful if you could tell me if you have either heard of these people, know them, or are friends with them at all?’
I nod, waiting -
Jobson picks up a pen and opens a notebook, waiting -
Then Angus says: ‘Colin Asquith?’
I nod: ‘Local businessman. Partner of Richard Dawson.’
‘Former partner,’ says Angus.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Former.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Not personally, no.’
‘But you have met him?’
I nod.
Angus: ‘Socially?’
I nod: ‘Through mutual acquaintances.’
Angus is staring at me -
I stare back.
He says: ‘Cyril Barratt?’
I shake my head.
Angus: ‘Barry Cameron?’
I nod.
Angus waits -
Me: ‘Never met him. Know the name.’
‘How?’
‘Newspapers. Station talk.’
Angus: ‘But you’ve never met Barry Cameron?’
I shake my head.
‘Michael Craig?’
I nod: ‘Local solicitor.’
‘You know him?’
‘Only through work.’
‘Richard Dawson?’
I stare at Angus -
Angus stares back.
I say: ‘You know I know Richard Dawson.’
‘I know you knew him,’ he says. ‘But how would you describe that relationship?’
‘We were friends.’
‘Were?’
‘Well, as you emphasised, he’s dead.’
‘But you were friends right up until his death?’
I swallow and I say: ‘Yes, we were friends right up until his death.’
‘OK,’ nods Angus. ‘We’ll come back to your relationship with Mr Dawson, the employer of Bob Douglas, the business partner of Colin Asquith, the client of Michael Craig. Come back to him, shall we?’
‘So that’s what this is about? Richard Dawson? Bob Douglas?’
He shakes his head: ‘Not only Mr Dawson and Bob Douglas, no.’
I shrug my shoulders and let it go -
But Angus won’t: ‘How about Bob Douglas?’
‘How about him what?’
Angus: ‘You knew him?’
‘You bloody know I knew him. I was over here for the Strafford, wasn’t I?’
‘The Strafford aside?’
‘The Strafford aside,’ I smile. ‘Met him once.’
‘When?’
Not smiling, I say: ‘The Sunday before he was murdered.’
Angus looks across his desk at Jobson -
Maurice Jobson shakes his head ever so slightly -
Angus looks back down at the notes sitting on the mess and mire of his desk -
Then he looks up and asks: ‘Sean Doherty?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Could you tell me if you have either heard of, know of, or are friends with a Sean Doherty?’
I shake my head.
‘David Gallagher?’
I shake my head.
‘Marcus Hamilton?’
I nod: ‘Local MP for Salford.’
‘Former local MP,’ says Angus. ‘But you know him?’
‘Not well, no.’
‘But you have met him?’
I nod.
‘In what capacity?’
‘How do you mean in what capacity? In the capacity of watching a football match at Old Trafford, that was the usual capacity.’
‘So you would say you know him socially?’
I nod: ‘To say hello to, yes.’
‘Has he ever been to your house?’
I shake my head.
‘Have you been to his?’
I shake my head again.
‘Did you ever suspect he was a homosexual?’
I look at him, head down in his notes, and I say to the top of his grey head: ‘I had my hopes.’
Angus looks up from his notes: ‘Pardon?’
Smiling, I say: ‘A man can dream can’t he?’
Jobson is smiling behind his pen, watching the face of his boss.
‘Mr Hunter, these are serious questions.’
I shake my head: ‘Whether or not Mr Hamilton is a puff is not what I’d describe as a serious question.’
‘No-one is asking you to describe the questions, Mr Hunter. Just to answer them.’
I look down at my right knee, crossed and over the left, and I say: ‘Go on.’
‘Peter McCardell?’
I nod: ‘Arrested by Manchester Vice, got ten years for various things under Obscene Publications etc. I think he was also involved with prostitutes and some dubious clubs.’
‘You knew him then?’
‘Interviewed him once or twice down the years.’
‘When was he banged up?’
I shake my head: ‘I can’t remember off the top of my head; five, maybe six years ago?’
But I do remember, remember now:
‘I said we have a mutual friend.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Helen.’
‘Helen who?’
‘From her Vice days. Tell her I said hello.’
Jobson is watching me, waiting for something -
I look at Angus and say: ‘Pardon?’
‘I asked if he was still inside?’
‘Who?’
‘McCardell.’
‘You tell me.’
‘OK,’ says Angus. ‘How about Roger Muir?’
I nod: ‘Journalist. Don’t know him socially.’
Angus: ‘Donald Ryder?’
I shake my head.
‘Martin Sharpe?’
I nod: ‘Local solicitor. Never met him outside of work.’
‘Michael Taylor?’
I shake my head.
‘Alan Wright?’
I nod: ‘Local businessman. Not socially’
‘What exactly does not socially mean to you, Mr Hunter?’
Voice raised, I say: ‘It means I didn’t know him socially’
Angus looks across the desk at Jobson and then opens a folder on the desk and takes out four photographs -
And I’m thinking of four other photographs, praying they’re not the same -
Four photographs of two people in a park:
Piatt Fields Park, in wintertime.