Nineteen Seventy-seven

by David Peace

  The major difference between Rachel, who only left school at Easter, and the previous victims was that the others were known prostitutes operating in the Chapeltown area.

  But Rachel may have made the same fatal mistake as the others – accepting a lift in a stranger’s car after an evening out – something the police say they have repeatedly warned against since the first of the murders in June 1975.

  The first prostitute victim of a man the police believe is a psychopath with a burning hatred of women was a 26-year-old mother of three, Mrs Theresa Campbell, of Scott Hall Avenue, Chapeltown.

  A milkman on his early morning rounds found Mrs Campbell’s partly-clothed bloodstained body on the Prince Philip Playing Fields, only 150 yards from her home where her three young children were anxiously waiting for their mummy to return from ‘work.’

  She had been savagely stabbed to death.

  Five months later on the other side of the Pennines, Clare Strachan, a 26-year-old mother of two, was brutally beaten to death in Preston, a crime police now consider to be the work of the same psychopath.

  Just three months later, in February 1976, Mrs Joan Richards, a 45-year-old mother of four, also met a brutally violent death, this time in a little-used Chapeltown alley.

  Mrs Richards, who lived at New Farnley, had been beaten brutally about the head and repeatedly stabbed.

  Then, less than two weeks ago, 32-year-old Marie Watts of Francis Street, Chapeltown, was found dead on Soldier’s Field, Roundhay Park, with her throat cut and several stab wounds to her stomach. She had been depressed and was running away from her boyfriend.

  Mrs Campbell was last seen trying to thumb a lift in Meanwood Road, Leeds, just after 1 a.m. on the morning of her death. She is known to have visited earlier the Room at the Top club in Sheepscar Street.

  On the night Mrs Richards was murdered she had visited the Gaiety Public House, Roundhay Road, with her husband. She left him in the early evening and he never saw her again.

  The Gaiety was also one of the last places Marie Watts was seen alive.

  Yesterday, police again renewed their appeal for any member of the public with information to come forward.

  The telephone numbers of the Murder HQ at Millgarth Police Station are Leeds 461212 and 461213.

  ‘Happy?’

  I turned round, Bill Hadden in his Saturday sports jacket was looking over my shoulder.

  ‘Butchered. And I never used savagely and brutally so many times, did I?’

  ‘More.’

  I handed him a folded piece of paper from my pocket. ‘You going to do the same to this?’

  Millgarth, about ten-thirty.

  Sergeant Wilson on the desk:

  ‘Here comes trouble.’

  ‘Samuel,’ I nodded.

  ‘And what can I do you for this fine and miserable June morning?’

  ‘Pete Noble in, is he?’

  He looked down at the log on the counter.

  ‘No. Just missed him.’

  ‘Tuck. Maurice?’

  ‘Not these days. What was it about?’

  ‘I’d arranged with George Oldman to see some files. Clare Strachan?’

  Wilson looked down at the book again. ‘Could try John Rudkin or DS Fraser?’

  ‘They about, are they?’

  ‘Hang on,’ he said and picked up the phone.

  He came down the stairs to meet me, young, blond and from before.

  He paused.

  ‘Jack Whitehead,’ I said.

  He shook my hand. ‘Bob Fraser. We’ve met before.’

  ‘Barry Gannon,’ I said.

  ‘You remember?’

  ‘Hard to forget.’

  ‘Right,’ he nodded.

  Detective Sergeant Fraser looked short of sleep, lost for words, old before his time, but mainly just plain lost.

  ‘You’ve done well for yourself,’ I said.

  He looked surprised, frowning, ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘CID. Murder Squad.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ he said and glanced at his watch.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Clare Strachan, if you have time?’

  Fraser looked at his watch again and repeated, ‘Clare Strachan?’

  ‘See, I spoke with George Oldman a couple of days ago and we arranged for Chief Superintendent Noble to show me the files, but …’

  ‘They’re all in Bradford.’

  ‘Right. So they said if John Rudkin or yourself wouldn’t mind …’

  ‘Yeah, OK. You better come up.’ I followed him up the stairs.

  ‘It’s all a bit chaotic,’ he was saying, holding open the door to a room of metallic filing cabinets.

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘If you want to wait here for a minute,’ he pointed at two chairs under a desk, ‘I’ll just go and get the files,’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I sat down facing the cabinets, the letters and the numbers, and I wondered how many of the enclosed I’d written about, how many I’d filed away in my own drawer, how many I’d dreamt about.

  Fraser came back kicking open the door with his foot, a large cardboard box in his arms.

  He put it down on the table:

  Preston, November 1975.

  ‘This is everything?’ I said.

  ‘From our end. Lancashire have the rest.’

  ‘I spoke with Alf Hill. He seems sceptical?’

  ‘About a link? Yeah, I think we all were.’

  ‘Were?’

  ‘Yeah, were,’ he said, knowing we both knew about the letters.

  ‘You’re convinced?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  He nodded at the box, ‘You don’t want me to talk you through all this, do you?’

  ‘No, but I was hoping you might know what these mean?’ and I handed him the two file references from Preston:

  23/08/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/CTNSOL1A

  22/12/74 – WKFD/MORRISON-C/MGRD-P/WSMT27C

  He stared down at the letters and the numbers, pale, and said, ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘From the Clare Strachan file in Preston.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really.’

  ‘I’ve never seen them before.’

  ‘But you know what they refer to?’

  ‘No, not specifically. Just that they’re file references from Wakefield, to a C. Morrison.’

  ‘You don’t know any C. Morrison then?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head, no. Should I?’

  ‘Just that Clare Strachan sometimes went by the name Morrison.’

  He stood there, staring down at me, cold blue eyes drowning in hurt pride.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, watching the walls come up, keys turn in the locks. ‘I didn’t mean to …’

  ‘Forget it,’ he muttered, like he never would.

  ‘I know I’m pushing it, but would it be possible for you to check on these?’

  He pulled the other chair out from under the table, sat down and picked up the black phone.

  ‘Sam, it’s Bob Fraser. Can you put us through to Wood Street?’

  He put the phone down and we sat in silence, waiting.

  The phone rang and Fraser picked it up.

  ‘Thanks. This is Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth, I’d like a check on two files please.’

  A pause.

  ‘Yes, Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth. Name’s Morrison, initial C. First one is 23-8-74, Caution for Soliciting 1A.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Yep. And the next one is Morrison, C again. 22-12-74, Murder of a GRD-P, Witness Statement 27C.’

  Pause.

  ‘Thanks,’ and he hung up.

  I looked up, the blue eyes staring back.

  He said, ‘They’ll call me back in ten minutes.’

  ‘Thanks for doing this.’

  Fiddling with the paper, he asked, ‘You got these from Preston?’

  ‘Yeah, Alf Hill showed m
e a file. He said she was a prostitute, so I asked him if she’d had any convictions and he showed me a typed sheet. Just this written on it. You been over there?’

  ‘Last week. And he told you she went by the name Morrison?’

  ‘No, only time I ever saw it was in the Manchester Evening News, said she was originally from Scotland and also went by the name Morrison.’

  ‘Manchester Evening News?’

  ‘Yeah,’ and I handed him the cutting from my pocket.

  The phone rang and we both jumped.

  Fraser put the cutting on the desk and read as he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Pause.

  ‘Speaking.’

  Another pause, longer.

  ‘Both of them? Who was that?’

  Pause.

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Our arse from our elbow. Thanks.’

  He hung up again, still staring down at the cutting.

  ‘No luck?’ I said.

  ‘They’re here,’ he said, looking up at the box. ‘Or at least they should be. Can I keep this?’ he asked, holding up the cutting.

  ‘Yeah, if you want.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he nodded and upended the box, files spilling over the desk.

  I said, ‘You want me to go?’

  ‘No, be my guest,’ he said, adding, ‘Eventually all this’ll be on the National Police Computer, you know?’

  ‘Think it’ll make a difference?’

  ‘Bloody hope so,’ he laughed, taking off his jacket as we started the search until, ten quiet minutes later, everything was back inside the box and the desk was bare.

  ‘Fuck,’ and then, ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll call you if anything comes of it,’ he said and stood up.

  ‘It was just a bit of background, that was all.’

  We walked back downstairs and at the bottom he said again, ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

  At the door we shook hands and he smiled and suddenly I said, ‘You knew Eddie didn’t you?’

  And he dropped my hand and shook his head, ‘No, not really.’

  Back across the haunted city, ghosts on every corner, drinking in working-class packs, the morning gone, the day sliding away.

  I stood before the Griffin and looked up at her scaffold face, at the dark windows in the grey floors above, wondering which black hole was his.

  I went inside, into the lounge with its empty high-backed chairs and dim light, and I went up to the front desk and rang the bell and waited, heart beating heavy and fast.

  In the mirror above the desk I watched a little boy lead an old woman with a walking stick across the lounge.

  I’d seen them before.

  They sat down in the same two chairs that Laws and I had seven days before.

  I went over and pulled up a third chair.

  They said nothing but rose as one to sit at the next table.

  I sat alone in my silence and then stood up and went back to the desk and rang the bell for a second time.

  In the mirror I watched the child whisper to the old woman, the pair of them staring at me.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  I turned back to the desk, to the man in the dark suit.

  ‘Yes, I was wondering if Mr Laws, Martin Laws is in?’

  The man glanced at the wooden boxes behind him, at the dangling keys, and said, ‘I’m afraid Reverend Laws is out at the moment. Would you care to leave a message?’

  ‘No, I’ll come back later.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I’d met him before.’

  ‘When was that?’ asked Hadden.

  ‘He was the one who was here over Barry.’

  ‘Right,’ sighed Hadden, right back there. ‘What a terrible time.’

  ‘Not like now,’ I said, and we both said nothing until he handed me a piece of paper.

  ‘I think you’ll find I spared the knife,’ he smiled.

  I sat down across the desk from him and read:

  AN OPEN LETTER TO THE RIPPER

  Dear Ripper

  You have killed five times now. In less than two years you have butchered four women in Leeds and one in Preston. Your motive, it is believed, is a dreadful hatred of prostitutes, a hate that drives you to slash and bludgeon your victims. But, inevitably, that twisted passion went terribly wrong on Tuesday night. An innocent sixteen-year-old lass, a happy, respectable, working-class girl from a decent Leeds family, crossed your path. How did you feel when you learned that your bloodstained crusade had gone so horribly wrong? That your vengeful knife had found so innocent a target? Sick in mind though you undoubtedly are, there must have been some spark of remorse as you tried to rid yourself of Rachel’s bloodstains.

  Don’t make the same mistake again, don’t put another innocent family through this hell.

  End it now.

  Give yourself up now, safe in the knowledge that only care and treatment awaits you, no rope or electric chair.

  Please, for Rachel’s sake, turn yourself in and stop these terrible, terrible murders.

  From the People of Leeds.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘George seen it?’

  ‘We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Worth a shot he said.’

  ‘He’s not had a change of heart about publishing the other half of the correspondence?’

  Hadden shrugged, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve thought about it a lot actually, and I think he’s making a mistake. One that’ll come to haunt him. And us.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The last one, it contained a warning right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, when he kills again and it comes out that we had a letter, a fucking warning letter, I don’t think the Great British Public’ll be too impressed that we didn’t see fit to share that warning with them.’

  ‘He’s got his reasons.’

  ‘Who? George? Well I hope they’re bloody good ones.’

  Bill Hadden was staring at me, pulling at his beard. ‘What is it Jack?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just his fucking arrogance.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I know you too well. There’s something else.’

  ‘Just this whole business. Just the Ripper. The letters …’

  ‘Seeing Sergeant Fraser can’t have helped?’

  ‘No, it was good actually.’

  ‘Brings it all back though?’

  ‘It never goes away, Bill. Never goes away.’

  It was night when I left the office and went for the car, a black wet summer’s night.

  I drove over the Tingley Roundabout and down through Shawcross and Hanging Heaton, down to the Batley Variety Club.

  It was Saturday night and the best they could come up with were the New Zombies, unable to compete with the shows on the piers.

  I parked, wished I was drunk, and walked across the car park to the canopy that covered the entrance.

  I paid and went inside.

  It was half-empty and I stood at the bar with a double Scotch, watching the long dresses and cheap tuxs and checking the time.

  Down the front a skinny woman in a low-cut pink dress that swept the floor was already drunk and arguing with a fat man and his moustache, leaning in to shout and show a bit of tit.

  The man slapped her arse and she threw a drink and tipped a plate down him.

  It was ten-thirty.

  ‘Enjoying the wildlife, Mr Whitehead?’

  A young man in a black suit and skinhead was at my elbow, a carrier bag in his left hand.

  ‘You’re one up on me,’ I said.

  I’d seen him before, but I was fucked if I knew where.

  ‘Sorry. No names.’

  ‘But we’ve met before, I think?’

  ‘No, we haven’t. You’d remember.’

  ‘OK, whatever you say. Do you want to sit do
wn?’

  ‘Why not?’

  I ordered a round and we went over to a booth near the back.

  He lit a cigarette and tilted his head back, sending smoke up to the low ceiling tiles.

  I sat there, watching the crowd until I asked him: ‘Why here?’

  ‘Police eyes can’t see me.’

  ‘They looking?’

  ‘Always.’

  I took a big bite out of my Scotch and waited, watching him twisting his jewellery, making smoke rings, the carrier bag on his lap.

  He leant forward, a smile wet on his thin lips, and hissed, ‘We can sit here all night. I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘So why are the police looking?’

  ‘What I got in here,’ he said, patting the plastic bag. ‘What I got here is big fucking news.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a look …’

  He pressed the palm of his hand into his forehead, ‘No. And don’t fucking rush me.’

  I sat back in my seat. ‘OK. I’m listening.’

  ‘I hope so, because when this thing breaks it’s going to rip the fucking lid off this whole place.’

  ‘You mind if I take some notes then?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I do fucking mind. Just listen.’

  ‘OK.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette, shaking his head to himself. ‘I’ve had dealings with you people before and, believe me, I had some serious doubts about meeting you, about giving you this stuff. I still do.’

  ‘You want to talk money first?’

  ‘I don’t want any fucking money. That’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, sure he was lying, thinking money, attention, revenge. ‘You want to tell me why you are here then?’

  His eyes were moving through the people as they came in, saying, ‘When you listen to what I’m going to say, when you see what’s in here, then you’ll understand.’

  Attention.

  I pointed to the empty glasses. ‘You want another?’

  ‘Why not?’ he nodded and I signalled to the barmaid.

  We sat there, saying nothing, waiting.

  The barmaid brought over the drinks.

  The house lights dimmed.

  He leant forward, glancing at his watch.

  I leant in to meet him, like we were going to kiss.

  He spoke quickly but clearly:

  ‘Clare Strachan, the woman they say the Ripper did in Preston, well I knew her. Used to live round here, called herself Morrison. She was mixed up with some people, not very nice people, people I am very fucking afraid of, people I never ever want to meet again. Understand?’