by David Peace
‘You finished already?’ said Bill Hadden over my shoulder.
I nodded and handed him the sheet, like it was something I’d found. ‘What do you think?’
Out of the window there were clouds coming, turning the afternoon grey, spreading a sudden sort of quiet over the city and the office, and I sat there, waiting for Bill to finish reading, feeling as lonely as I’d ever felt.
‘Excellent,’ grinned Bill, his wager paying out.
‘Thanks,’ I said, expecting the orchestra to start up, the credits and the tears to roll.
But then the moment was gone, lost. ‘What are you going to do now?’
I leant back in my chair and smiled. ‘I quite fancy a drink. And yourself?’
This big man, with his red face and grey beard, sighed and shook his head. ‘Bit early for me,’ he said.
‘It’s never too early, only too late.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then?’ he said, hopefully.
I got up from my chair, giving him a tired wink and grin. ‘Undoubtedly.’
‘OK.’
‘George,’ I shouted.
George Greaves looked up from his desk. ‘Jack?’ he said, pinching himself.
‘Coming down the Press Club?’
‘Go on then, just a quick one,’ he replied, smiling sheepishly at Bill.
At the lift George gave the office a wave and I bowed, thinking, there are many ways a man can serve his time.
The Press Club, as dark as home.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in, but George was helping me.
‘Fuck, that was funny that was.’
I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.
Behind the bar, Bet gave me a look that was too, too knowing. ‘Been a while, Jack?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How are you, love?’
‘OK. Yourself?’
‘My legs aren’t getting any younger.’
‘You don’t need them,’ laughed George. ‘Just get legless with us, eh Jack?’
And we all laughed and I remembered Bet and her legs and a couple of times back when I thought I could live forever, back when I wanted to, back before I knew what a curse it really was.
Bet said, ‘Scotch?’
‘And keep them coming,’ I smiled.
‘I always try.’
And we all laughed again, me with an erection and a Scotch.
Outside, I was pissed outside, leaning against a wall which said HATE in running white paint. No subject, no object, just HATE.
And it blurred and whirled and I was lost between the lines, between the things I should’ve written and the things I had.
Stories, I’d been telling stories in the bar again:
Yorkshire Gangsters and Yorkshire Coppers and, later, Cannock Chase and the Black Panther.
Stories, just stories. Stopping short of the real stories, of the true stories, the ones that put me here, up against this wall that said HATE.
Clare Kemplay and Michael Myshkin, the Strafford Shootings and The Exorcist killing.
Every dog had his day, every cat her cream, but every camel had his straw, every Napoleon his Waterloo.
True stories.
Black and white against a wall that spelt HATE.
I ran my fingers over the raised paint.
And there I was, wondering just where have all the Bootboys gone?
And then there they were, all around me:
Shaved heads and beer breath.
‘Aye-up Grandad,’ said one.
‘Piss off, puff,’ I said.
He stepped back among his mates. ‘What you fucking have to say that for, you silly old git?’ he said. ‘Cos you know I’m going have to fucking have you now, don’t you?’
‘You can try,’ I said, just before he hit me and stopped me remembering, stopped the memories for a bit.
Just for a bit.
I’m holding her there in the street in my arms, blood on my hands, blood on her face, blood on my lips, blood in her mouth, blood in my eyes, blood in her hair, blood in my tears, blood in hers.
But even the old magic can’t save us now, and I turn away and try and stand and Carol says, ‘Stay!’ But it’s been twenty-five years or more, and I have to get away, have to leave her here alone in this street, in this river of blood.
And I look up and there’s just Laws, just the Reverend Laws, the moon, and him.
Carol gone.
I was standing in my room, the windows open, black and blue as the night.
I’d got a glass of Scotland in my hand, to rinse the blood from my teeth, a Philips Pocket Memo to my lips:
‘It’s 30th May 1977, Year Zero, Leeds, and I’m back at work …’
And I wanted to say more, not much more, but the words wouldn’t obey me so I pressed stop and went over to the chest of drawers, opened my bottom drawer and stared at all the little tapes in all their little cases with all their neat little dates and places, like all those books of my youth, all my Jack the Rippers and Dr Crippens, the Seddons and Buck Ruxton, and I took one out at random (or so I told myself), and I lay back, feet up on the dirty sheets, staring at the old, old ceiling as her screams filled the room.
I woke up once, dark heart of the night, thinking, what if he’s not dead?
Caller: During the past two or three decades criminologists in the US have been making systematic attempts to measure and analyse the dark figures of crime …
John Shark: The dark figures of crime?
Caller: Yeah, the dark figures of crime, the proportions of people who have locked away in their past offences quite unknown to the authorities or, if known, passed over. In a systematic study of sexual offences, Dr Raazinowicz doubted whether more than 5 in 100 ever came to light.
John Shark: That’s outrageous.
Caller: In 1964, he suggested that crimes fully brought into the open and punished represented no more than fifteen per cent of the great mass actually committed.
John Shark: Fifteen per cent!
Caller: And that was in 1964.
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Tuesday 31st May 1977
Chapter 3
The Murder Room, Millgarth.
Rudkin, Ellis, and me.
Just gone six, the morning of Tuesday 31 May 1977.
Sat around the big table, the phones dead, tapping the top.
In through the double doors, Assistant Chief Constable Oldman and Detective Chief Superintendent Noble, dumping two big manila folders on the table.
Detective Inspector Rudkin squints at the cover of the top one and gives it a, ‘Ah for fuck’s sake, not again.’
I read Preston, November 1975.
Fuck.
I know what this means:
Two steps forward, six steps back–
November 1975: The Strafford Shootings still in everyone’s face, internal inquiries coming out our ears, Peter Hunter and his dogs still sniffing round our arses. The West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police with our backs to the wall and our mouths shut, if you knew what was good for you, which side your bread was buttered on etc, Michael Myshkin going down, the judge throwing away the key.
‘Clare Strachan,’ I murmur.
November 1975: COMING DOWN AGAIN.
Ellis puzzled.
Rudkin about to fill him in, but George shuts him up: ‘As you know, Clare Strachan, a convicted prostitute, was found raped and battered to death in Preston almost two years ago now, in November 1975. The Lancashire lads immediately came over to review the Theresa Campbell file, and John here and Bob Craven went over there last year after we got Joan Richards.’
Me thinking, they’re cutting Rudkin out, why?
I glance across at him, he’s nodding, eager to butt in.
But Oldman’s keeping him out: ‘Now whatever you think, whether you count Clare Strachan in or not, we’re going to go back over to Preston and review that bloody file again.’
‘Waste of fucking ti
me,’ spits Rudkin, at last.
Oldman’s going red, Noble’s face thunder.
‘I’m sorry sir, but me and Bob spent two days – was it? – over there last time and, I’m telling you, it’s not the same bloke. Wish it was, but it’s not.’
Ellis chiming in, ‘What do you mean you wish it was?’
‘Because he left so much fucking stuff behind him, it’s a wonder they haven’t nabbed the daft cunt already’
Noble snorts, like, that’s Lancashire for you.
‘What makes you so sure it isn’t?’ asks Ellis.
‘Well, he’d raped her for a start and then he stuck it up her arse. Come both times, though I don’t know how he fucking did it. State of her.’
‘Ugly?’
‘Doesn’t begin to describe it.’
Ellis half-smiling, telling everyone what they already know: ‘Not like our boy. Not like him at all.’
Rudkin nods: ‘Just lets it fly in the grass.’
‘Anything else?’ I say.
‘Yeah then, when he’d had his fun, he jumped up and down on her until her fucking chest give in. Size ten wellies.’
I look at Oldman.
Oldman smiles and says, ‘Everyone finished?’
‘Yeah,’ shrugs Rudkin.
‘Good, because you don’t want to be late, do you?’
‘Aw, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Alf doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Alfred Hill Head of Lancashire CID.
‘Me again?’ Rudkin asks, looking round the room.
Noble points at Rudkin, Ellis, and me. ‘You three.’
‘What about Steve Barton and the Irish?’
‘Later, John. Later,’ says Oldman, standing up.
In the car park, Rudkin tosses the keys to Ellis. ‘You drive.’
Ellis looks like he’s going to come in his pants. ‘Sure,’ he says.
‘I’m going to get some kip,’ says Rudkin, getting into the back of the Rover.
The sun is shining and I switch on the radio:
Two hundred dead in a Kentucky Nightclub fire, five charged in the Captain Nairac murder, twenty-one coloured youths arrested in connection with a spate of street robberies in South-East London, twenty-three million watch the Royal Windsor Show.
‘Daft cunts,’ laughs Ellis.
I wind down the window and lean my head into the breeze as we pick up speed and head out on to the M62.
‘You know the fucking way?’ shouts Detective Inspector Rudkin from the back.
I close my eyes; 10CC and ELO all the way.
Somewhere over the Moors, I wake with a start.
The radio’s off.
Silence.
I stare at the cars and lorries on either side of us, the Moors beyond, and it’s difficult to think of anything else.
‘You should’ve seen it last February when I drove over with Bob Craven.’ Rudkin’s stuck his head between the front seats. ‘Got caught in a fucking blizzard. Couldn’t see owt but two foot in front. Fucking frightening it was. I swear you could hear them. We were shitting bloody bricks.’
Ellis glances from the road to Rudkin.
I say, ‘Alf Hill was one of the top men, wasn’t he?’
‘Aye. He was first to interview her. It was his men found the tapes and all.’
‘Fuck,’ whistles Ellis.
‘Hates her more than Brady.’
We’re all staring out across the Moors, at the sunshine shining silver, the dark patches of sudden cloud, the unmarked graves.
‘Never ends,’ says Rudkin, sitting back. ‘Never fucking ends.’
Half-nine and we’re pulling into the car park of the Lancashire HQ in Preston.
Detective Inspector Rudkin sighs and puts on his jacket. Trepare to be bored shitless.’
Inside, Rudkin does the talking at the desk as we shake hands, mention mutual friends, and walk up the stairs to Alf Hill’s office.
The uniformed Sergeant knocks on the door and we enter.
Detective Chief Superintendent Hill is a small man who looks like Old Man Steptoe after a rough night. He’s coughing into a dirty handkerchief.
‘Sit down,’ he spits into the cloth.
No-one shakes hands.
‘Back again,’ he grins at Rudkin.
‘Like a bad bloody penny, aren’t I?’
‘Wouldn’t say that John, wouldn’t say that. Always a pleasure, never a chore.’
Rudkin edges forward in his chair. ‘Anything new?’
‘On Clare Strachan? Not that springs to mind, no.’
He starts coughing again, pulls out the handkerchief, and eventually says, ‘You’re busy men I know, busy men. So let’s get on with it.’
We all stand up and head down the corridor to what I presume is their Murder Room, doors closing on either side of us as we go.
It’s a big room with big windows and a view of the hills above them and I’m pretty sure they had some of the Birmingham Pub Bombers here.
Alfred Hill pulls open a cabinet drawer. ‘Just where you left her,’ he smiles.
Rudkin is nodding.
There are other detectives in the room, sitting in their shirtsleeves smoking, the pictures of their dead watching, turning yellow.
Their lot, they eye us like we’d eye them.
Hill turns to one fat man with a moustache and tells him, ‘These lads are over from Leeds, reviewing Clare Strachan. If they need anything, give it to them. Anything at all.’
The man nods and goes back to the end of his cigarette.
‘Be sure to look in yeah, look in before you go,’ says Alf Hill as he heads off back down the corridor.
‘Thanks,’ we all say.
When he’s gone, Rudkin turns to the fat man and says, ‘You heard him Frankie, so go get us some pop or something cold. And leave your fags behind.’
‘Fuck off, Rudkin,’ laughs Frankie, tossing his JPS over to him.
Rudkin sits down, turns to me and Ellis and says, ‘Best get to work, lads.’
Clare Strachan: twenty-six going on sixty-two.
Bloated and fucked before he even got to her.
Married twice, two kids up in Glasgow.
Previous convictions for soliciting:
A complete wreck of a human being, said the judge.
Wound up in St Mary’s hostel, Preston, living with fellow prostitutes, drug addicts, and alcoholics.
On Thursday 20 November 1975, Clare had had sex with three different men, only one of whom had ever been traced.
And eliminated.
The morning of Friday 21 November 1975, Clare was dead. Eliminated.
A boot up her cunt, a coat over her head.
I look up at Rudkin and say, ‘I want to go to the hostel, then the garages.’
Ellis has stopped writing.
‘What for?’ sighs Rudkin.
‘Can’t picture it.’
‘You don’t want to,’ he says, putting out his cig.
We tell the Sergeant on the desk where we’re going and walk back out into the car park.
Frankie comes tearing out after us. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he pants.
‘You’re all right,’ says Rudkin.
‘Boss says I better. Show some hospitality.’
‘Going to spring for lunch are you?’
‘Think we could manage something, aye.’
‘Magic,’ grins Rudkin.
Ellis is nodding along like, this is the fucking fast lane.
Me, I feel sick.
St Mary’s hostel is one hundred years old or more, up the road from Preston Station.
Blood and Fire, tattooed into the wall above the door.
‘Any of the same staff still working here?’ I ask Frankie.
‘Doubt it.’
‘What about residents?’
‘You’re joking? Couldn’t find anyone a week later.’
We walk through a dim stinking corridor and peer into the reception cubicle
.
A man with lank greasy hair to his shoulders is writing with a radio on.
He looks up, pushes his black NHS frames back up his nose, and sniffs. ‘Help you?’
‘Police,’ says Frankie.
‘Yeah,’ he nods, like, what the fuck they done now?
‘Ask you a few questions?’
‘Yeah, sure. What about?’
‘Clare Strachan. Where can we talk?’
He stands up. ‘Lounge through there,’ he points.
Rudkin leads the way into another shitty room, draughty windows and rotting sofas covered in cig burns and dried food.
Frankie keeps going, ‘And you are?’
‘Colin Minton.’
‘You the warden?’
‘Deputy. Tony Hollis is the senior warden.’
‘Is Tony about?’
‘He’s on holiday’
Softly-softly: ‘Anywhere nice?’
‘Blackpool.’
‘Close.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Sit down,’ says Frankie.
‘I wasn’t here when that happened,’ says Colin suddenly, like he’s had enough of this already.
Rudkin takes over: ‘Who was here?’
‘Dave Roberts and Roger Kennedy, and Gillian someone or other I think.’
‘They still about?’
‘Not here, no.’
‘They still work for Council?’
‘No idea, sorry.’
‘Did you ever work with them?’
‘Just Dave.’
‘He talk about Clare Strachan and what happened?’
‘A bit, yeah.’
‘Can you remember anything he said?’
‘Like what?’
It’s Frankie’s town so we don’t say anything when he starts up again, saying, ‘Anything. About Clare Strachan, the murder, anything at all?’
‘Well, said she was mad like.’
‘What way?’
‘Crazy. Should have been in hospital, what Dave said.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Used to stare out the window and bark at the trains.’
Ellis says, ‘Bark?’
‘Aye, bark like a dog.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’
Rudkin catches my eye and I take over with, ‘Dave say anything about boyfriends, stuff like that?’
‘Well I mean, she was on game like.’
‘Right,’ I nod.
‘And he said she was always pissed and she’d let all the blokes here have it off with her and there’d sometimes be fighting and stuff because of her.’