‘Mr Jobson further confirmed that the two policemen injured in the attack were Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Robert Douglas, the two policemen who recently made headlines following their arrest of Michael Myshkin, the Fitzwilliam man charged with the murder of Morley schoolgirl Clare Kemplay. Mr Jobson described the condition of the officers as “serious but stable,” but he refused to release the names of the dead as police were still trying to contact a number of relatives.
‘Mr Jobson also added that he believed that some relatives may even have gone into hiding for fear of reprisals and he appealed for them to…’
Two steaming teas, two empty seats.
Chapter 10
Gotcha -
Dark night -
Day 11:
One in the morning -
Sunday 22 May 1983:
Yorkshire -
Leeds -
Millgarth Police Station:
The Belly -
Room 4:
James Ashworth, twenty-two, in police issue grey shirt and trousers, long, lank hair everywhere, slouched akimbo in his chair at our table, a cigarette burning down to a stub between the dirty black nails of his dirty yellow fingers -
Jimmy James Ashworth, former friend and neighbour of Michael Myshkin, child killer -
Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.
I asked him: ‘For the thousandth fucking time Jimmy, what were you doing in Morley on Thursday?’
And for the thousandth fucking time he told me: ‘Nothing.’
We’d had him here since five on Thursday night, got him riding his motorbike into Morley, head to toe in denim and leather, the words Saxon and Angelwitch stitched into his back between a pair of swan’s wings, had him here since Thursday night but hadn’t technically started the questioning until Friday morning at seven which gave us another six hours with the little twat, but he’d given us nothing, nothing except the clothes off his back, his boots and his motorbike, the dirt from under his nails, the blood from his arms and the come from his cock, so we’d been over to Fitzwilliam and we’d ripped up their house, their garage and their garden, had the washing from their basket and from in off their line, the dust and hairs from their floors, the sheets and stains off their beds, the rubbish out their bins, sent it all up to forensics, then taken his mam and his dad, his whole gyppo family in, the garage where he worked and the blokes he called mates, the lass he was shagging, had them all in but had got fuck all out of them, nothing – Yet.
Gotcha -
Long dark night -
Day 11:
Three in the morning -
Sunday 22 May 1983:
Yorkshire -
Leeds -
Millgarth Police Station:
The Belly -
Room 4:
We opened the door. We stepped inside:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice -
One with a greying moustache, the other one bald but for tufts of fine sandy hair:
Moustache and Sandy.
And me:
Maurice Jobson; Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson -
Thick lenses and black frames -
The Owl.
And him:
James Ashworth, twenty-two, police issue grey shirt and trousers, long, lank hair everywhere, slouched in his chair at our table, dirty black nails, dirty yellow fingers -
Jimmy James Ashworth, former friend and neighbour of Michael Myshkin, child killer -
Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.
‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ said Jim Prentice.
Ashworth sat up straight and put his palms flat upon the desk.
Jim Prentice sat down at an angle to Ashworth. He took a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passed them to Dick Alderman.
Dick walked around the room. Dick played with the handcuffs. Dick sat down opposite Ashworth.
I closed the door to Room 4.
Dick put the handcuffs over the knuckles of his right fist.
I leant against the door arms folded, watching Ashworth’s face -
In the silence:
Room 4 quiet, the Belly quiet -
The Station silent, the Market silent -
Leeds sleeping, Yorkshire sleeping.
Dick jumped up. Dick brought his handcuffed fist down on to the top of Ashworth’s right hand -
Ashworth screamed -
Screamed -
Through the room, through the Belly -
Up through the Station, up through the Market -
Across Leeds, across Yorkshire -
He screamed.
‘Put your hands back,’ said Jim.
Ashworth put them back on the table.
‘Flat,’ said Jim.
He tried to lie them down flat.
‘Nasty,’ said Dick.
‘You should get that seen to,’ said Jim.
They were both smiling at him.
Jim stood up. He walked over to me.
I opened the door. I stepped out into the corridor.
I came back in. I gave Jim a blanket.
Jim placed the blanket over Ashworth’s shoulders: ‘There you go, lad.’
Jim sat back down. He took out a packet of JPS from the pocket of his sports jacket. He offered one to Dick.
Dick took out a lighter. He lit both their cigarettes.
They blew smoke across Ashworth.
Ashworth’s hands were flat upon the desk, shaking.
Dick leant forward. Dick dangled the cigarette over Ashworth’s right hand. Dick rolled it between two fingers, back and forth, back and forth.
Ashworth’s right hand was twitching -
Twitching in the silence:
Room 4 quiet, the Belly quiet -
The Station silent, the Market silent.
Dick reached forward. Dick grabbed Ashworth’s right wrist. Dick held down Ashworth’s right hand. Dick stubbed his cigarette out into the bruise on the back of Ashworth’s hand.
Ashworth screamed -
Screamed -
Through the room, through the Belly -
Up through the Station, up through the Market -
He screamed.
Dick let go of his wrist. Dick sat back.
‘Put your hands flat,’ said Jim Prentice.
Ashworth put them flat on the table.
The room stank of burnt skin:
His burnt skin.
‘Another?’ said Jim.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Dick. He took a JPS from the packet. He lit the cigarette. He stared at Ashworth. He leant forward. He began to dangle the cigarette over Ashworth’s hand.
Ashworth stood up, clutching his right hand in his left: ‘What do you want?’
‘Sit down,’ said Jim.
‘Tell me what you want!’
‘Sit down.’
Ashworth sat back down.
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice stood up.
‘Stand up,’ said Jim.
Ashworth stood up.
‘Eyes front.’
Ashworth stared straight ahead.
‘Don’t move.’
Dick and Jim lifted the three chairs and the table to one side. I opened the door. We stepped out into the corridor. I closed the door. I looked through the spy-hole at Ashworth. He was stood in the centre of the room, eyes front and not moving.
‘Pity the Badger and Rudkin can’t be with us,’ said Jim. ‘Be like old times.’
Old times.
I ignored him. I asked Dick: ‘Where’s Ellis?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘He got it?’
Dick nodded.
‘Best get him then, hadn’t you?’
Dick walked off down the corridor.
‘Shame they can’t be here,’ said Jim again.
‘Shame a lot of people can’t be,’ I said.
Jim shut up.
Dick came back down the corridor with Mike Ellis. Ellis was carrying a box under a blanket.
‘Morning,’ he slurred. His breath reeked of whiskey.
I said: ‘You up for this Michael, are you?’