‘Edward Dunford, North of England Crime Correspondent.’
‘Thought that were you?’
Jack rolls his red eyes. ‘Crime Reporter of the Year, if you don’t mind.’
‘And I can see why,’ I say. I look at my watch:
Nine.
Down the front the side door opens:
Everyone quiet as Dick Alderman, Jim Prentice, and Oldman troop out.
‘Here,’ whispers Jack. ‘Your Mandy got any messages for us, has she?’
‘Fuck off,’ I hiss and leave him to it -
The whole bloody lot of them.
I go up the stairs and along the corridor -
Lots of nods and handshakes and pats on the back as I go.
In the Leeds half of the Incident Room, a familiar face:
John Rudkin in a bright orange tie -
‘Boss,’ he says. ‘They let you out then?’
‘Day release.’
‘How are you?’ he asks.
‘Who can say?’
He nods -
Both staring across at the enlarged photograph of another missing schoolgirl -
Trapped in the claws of Time -
Tacked up on the far wall between a map of Morley dotted with pins and flags and a blackboard covered in chalk letters and numbers, her physical measurements and a description of her clothing -
Orange waterproof kagool; dark blue turtleneck sweater; pale blue denim trousers with eagle motif on back left pocket; red Wellington boots -
A telephone is ringing:
Somewhere on the other side of the room someone picks it up. They shout something to Rudkin. John picks up the one on his desk. He listens. He looks up at me -
His face full of shadow -
He hands me the phone.
I swallow. I say: ‘This is Maurice Jobson speaking.’
Mandy says: ‘Maurice -’
The telephones all ringing at once, every single fucking one -
‘Bloody wings -’
People picking them up -
‘I’ve seen her -’
People shouting to Rudkin -
‘Down by the prison -’
Rudkin picking them up one after another -
‘In a ditch -’
Rudkin listening -
‘She’s dead -’
Rudkin looking at me -
‘Maurice,’ she’s crying. ‘Maurice -’
I drop the receiver -
‘She had wings, bloody wings -’
The room, the building, the whole fucking place full of shadow:
The shadow of the Horns.
100 miles an hour back down the motorway -
I see her -
Lights and sirens -
Down by the prison -
Into Wakefield -
In a ditch -
My new patch -
She’s dead -
Patch of sheer fucking, bloody hell.
Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield -
In the shadow of the prison:
The wasteland beside the Dewsbury Road -
Across from St Michael’s.
Drive straight on to the rough ground, two police cars already here -
More on their way;
Door open before the car’s stopped -
Boots in the mud;
George barking at the uniforms -
My uniforms.
I’m out the car, my hand on his shoulder -
‘You don’t work round here any more,’ I tell him. ‘I do.’
‘Fuck off, Maurice!’ he shouts -
But I’m past him, waving at the gallery, telling my lads: ‘Get them out of here.’
Barking my orders to my boys -
360° as I cross the ground;
Oldman, Alderman, Prentice, Rudkin -
Everyone else in my wake;
Rain in our faces -
Cold and black.
180° I see it -
Big bold letters flapping in the piss:
Foster’s Construction -
Cold and fucking black.
Another 180° and I’m there -
The edge of the ditch;
I stop -
Stop dead:
The air that I breathe, choking me -
The rain;
I look away -
Look up at the bloody grey sky;
I’m crying -
Tears, cold and fucking black;
The air that I breathe, killing me -
I drop to my knees, my hands together:
I see her -
I SEE HER NOW;
On my knees, hands together -
Praying:
In the shadow of his Horns -
Sleep, silent angel, go to sleep.
Dark times -
No darker day -
This Third Day:
Eleven in the morning -
Saturday 14 December 1974:
Yorkshire -
Wakefield:
Wood Street Police Station -
Down the long, long corridor -
Room 1:
Terry Jones, thirty-one, in his black wet donkey jacket at our table -
Terry Jones of Foster’s Construction -
Terry Jones who was working on Brunt Street, Castleford, in July 1969 -
Terry Jones, working where we just found Clare Kemplay in December 1974.
I ask Terry Jones: ‘So tell us again, Terry, what happened?’
And Terry Jones tells me again: ‘Ask Jimmy.’
Back upstairs they’re shitting fucking bricks, already talk of bringing in outside Brass, the fucking Yard even, like we’re some gang of monkeys can’t find our arses without a bloody map, and I’m wishing to Christ there’d been no amalgamation, no West Yorkshire fucking Metropolitan Police and -
‘Maurice?’
Ronald Angus is looking at me -
Chief Constable Ronald Angus -
My Chief Constable.
I say: ‘Pardon?’
‘I said, George will do the Press Conference if you’ve no objections.’
I stand up. I say: ‘None.’
‘Where you going?’ asks Angus.
‘Well, if you’ve no objections,’ I smile. ‘I thought someone ought to try and catch the fucking cunt. If that is, you’ve no objections.’
Long dark times -
Endless dark day -
The Third Day:
Three-thirty in the afternoon -
Saturday 14 December 1974:
Yorkshire -
Wakefield:
Wood Street Police Station -
Down the long, long corridor -
Room 2:
We open the door. We step inside:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice -
One with a long moustache, the other one with 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, fifteen, in 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 of Foster’s Construction -
Jimmy Ashworth, the boy who found Clare Kemplay.
‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.
Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.
Prentice sits down at an angle to Ashworth. He takes a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his sports jacket. He passes them to Dick Alderman.
Dick Alderman walks around the room. He plays with the handcuffs.
I close the door to Room 2.
Dick Alderman puts the handcuffs over the knuckles of his fist. He leans against one of the walls.
I sit down next to Jim Prentice, opposite Ashworth, watching his face -
In the silence:
Room 2 quiet -
Jimmy Ashworth looks up. He sniffs. He says: ‘You talk to Terry, did you?’
I nod.
‘He tell you same, did he?’
I shake my head. I say: ‘One more time, Jimmy.’
He slouches back in his chair. He sighs. He picks at his dirty black nails.
‘Sit up straight and put your palms flat upon the desk,’ says Jim Prentice.
Ashworth sits up straight and puts his palms flat upon the desk.
I push an open pack of fags his way. I say again: ‘One last time, Jimmy.’