David Peace
1983
The fourth book in the Red Riding Quartet series, 2003
For William Miller, John Williams, and Pete Ayrton -
thank you.
‘Oh, this is the way to the fairy wood,
Where the wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood;
But this is the riddle that you must tell -
How is it, if it so befell,
That he ate her up in that horrid way,
In these pretty pages she lives today?’
– Traditional
The last beg
Yorkshire -
The Summer of Love:
Jimmy’s dog is barking and the boys are crying, Michael screaming; Martin slaps him across his face and says:
‘Do you want to be next?’
The boys close their eyes.
He is going to teach me a lesson.
They tie my hands behind my back and kick me to my knees, forcing my face into the sod; Leonard’s dad pulls down my pants and asks:
‘Do you love me Barry?’
I close my eyes.
He is going to make me learn.
Part 1. Miss the girl
‘History does not repeat itself, only man.’
– Voltaire
Chapter 1
‘No more dead dogs and slashed swans for us,’ whispered Dick Alderman, like this was good news -
It wasn’t. It was Day 2:
9.30 a.m. -
Friday 13 May 1983:
Millgarth Police Station, Leeds -
Yorkshire:
Waiting in the wings -
I pushed open the side door, the Conference Room silent as I led this damned parade out:
Detective Superintendent Alderman and the father, a policewoman and the mother, Evans from Community Affairs and me -
The Owclass="underline"
Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson.
We sat down behind the Formica tables, behind the microphones and the cups of water.
I took off my glasses. I rubbed my eyes -
No bed, no sleep, only this:
The Press Conference -
This same, familiar place again:
Hell.
I put my glasses back on, thick lenses and black frames. I sat and stared out at my audience -
This same, familiar audience:
These hundred hungry hounds, sweating under their TV lights and deadlines, under the cigarette smoke and last night’s ale, their muscles taut and arses clean, tongues out and mouths watering, wanting bones -
Fresh bones.
I switched on the microphone. I reeled back from the inevitable wail.
I coughed once to clear my throat then said: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, at approximately 4 p.m. yesterday evening, Hazel Atkins disappeared on her way home from Morley Grange Junior and Infants. Hazel was last seen walking up Rooms Lane towards her home in Bradstock Gardens.’
I took a sip from the warm, still water.
‘When Hazel did not return from school, Mr and Mrs Atkins contacted Morley Police and a search was launched early yesterday evening. As some of you are aware, the police were joined in this search by more than one hundred local people. Unfortunately last night’s freak weather hampered the search, although it did resume at six o’clock this morning. Given the inclement and unseasonable weather and the fact that Hazel has never gone missing before, we are obviously concerned for her safety and whereabouts.’
Another sip from the warm, still water.
‘Hazel is ten years old. She has medium-length dark brown hair and brown eyes. Last night she was wearing light blue corduroy trousers, a dark blue sweater embroidered with the letter H, and a red quilted sleeveless jacket. She was carrying a black drawstring gym bag, also embroidered with the letter H.’
I held up an enlarged colour print of a smiling brown-haired girl. I said: ‘Copies of this recent school photograph are being distributed as I speak.’
Again a sip from the warm, still water.
I glanced down the table at Dick Alderman. He touched the father’s arm. The father looked up then turned to me.
I nodded.
The father blinked.
I said: ‘Mr Atkins would now like to read a short statement in the hope that any member of the public who may have seen Hazel after four o’clock yesterday evening, or who may have any information whatsoever regarding Hazel’s whereabouts or her disappearance, will come forward and share this information with Mr and Mrs Atkins and ourselves.’
I slid the microphone down the table to Mr Atkins as the hounds edged in closer, panting and slavering, smelling bones -
His daughter’s bones -
The scent strong here, near.
Mr Atkins looked at his wife, his four eyes red from tears and lack of sleep, a night’s guilty stubble in clothes damp and crushed, and from out of this mess he stared at the hounds that waited and watched, waited and watched -
His bones.
Mr Atkins said, said with strength: ‘I would like to appeal to anybody who knows where our Hazel is or who saw her after four o’clock yesterday to please telephone the police. Please, if you know anything, anything at all, please telephone the police. Please -’
Stop -
‘Let her come home.’
Stop.
Silence.
Mrs Atkins in tears, shoulders shaking, WPC Martin holding her -
Her husband, Hazel’s father, his fingers in his mouth -
He said: ‘We miss her. I -’
Stop.
Silence -
Long, long silence.
I nodded at Dick. He passed the microphone back along the table.
I said: ‘That is all the information we have at the moment but, if you would excuse Mr and Mrs Atkins, I will then try and answer any questions you might have.’
I stood up as WPC Martin and Dick took the mother and the father out through the side door, the dogs watching them go, still hungry -
Hungry for bones -
Mine.
Alone with Evans at the front, I said: ‘Gentlemen?’
The stark forest of hands, from their whispers a two-word scream:
‘Clare Kemplay…’
More bones -
‘Coincidence,’ I was saying, seeing -
Old bones.
‘Coincidence,’ I said again, knowing -
There is salvation in no-one else.
Upstairs, a cup of cold tea in one hand: ‘Where are the parents?’
Dick Alderman: ‘Jim’s taken them back to Morley.’
‘We should get back over there.’
Dick: ‘Take my car?’
I nodded.
Dick put out his cigarette. He reached for his coat.
‘Dick?’
He turned back round: ‘Yeah?’
‘Where is all the Kemplay stuff?’
‘What?’
‘The Clare Kemplay files.’
‘It’s a coincidence,’ he sighed. ‘You said it yourself. What else could it be?’
‘Where’s the fucking stuff, Dick?’
He shrugged: ‘Wood Street, probably.’
‘Thank you.’
The Dewsbury Road through Beeston and along the Elland Road until it became Victoria Road and Morley -