by David Peace
‘Why’s that then?’
‘Cuts, I suppose.’
I turn back to Mrs Hurst. ‘You get a look at them?’
‘Not really, they were wearing masks.’
‘How many were there?’
She shakes her head and says, ‘I just saw two, but I had feeling there were more.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘Voices, the light.’
‘This was about what time?’
Mr Hurst says, ‘About seven-thirty. We were getting ready for Church.’
‘And you said there was something about the light, Mrs Hurst?’
‘Just that kitchen looked dark, so I thought maybe there were more than two.’
‘And can you remember what they were saying?’
‘One was telling other to go upstairs.’
‘Did you hear any names or anything?’
‘No, but after they’d put bag on my head and tied me up, they seemed angry like, that there wasn’t more money, angry with someone.’
‘Can you remember exactly what they said?’
‘Just that …’ she purses her lips. ‘Exactly?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s important.’
‘One of them said that someone had, you know, fucked up,’ Mrs Hurst blushes and then adds, ‘Excuse me.’
‘And what did the other one say?’
‘Well, that’s what I mean. I think there was a third voice and he said that they’d deal with it later.’
‘A different voice?’
‘Yes, deeper, older. You know, like he was boss.’
I look at Mr Hurst, but he shrugs, ‘I was out cold. Sorry.’
I turn back to Mrs ? and ask her, ‘These voices, where do reckon they were from?’
‘Local, definitely local.’
‘Anything else?’
She looks at her husband and then, slowly, shaking her head, says, ‘I think they were, you know, black men.’
‘Black men?’
‘Mmm, I think so.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Size. They were big and their voices, they just sounded like black men’s voices.’
I keep writing, wheels turning.
Then she says, ‘That or they were gypsies.’
I stop writing, wheels braking.
A nurse comes up, plain but pretty. ‘The doctor says you can both go home now if you want.’
Mr and Mrs Hurst look at each other and nod.
I close my notebook and say, ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
We turn into Gledhill Road, Morley, my old stomping ground and I’m thinking Victoria Road’s not far, wondering if they remember Barry Gannon, certain they remember that Clare Kemplay lived on Winterbourne Avenue, wondering if they were out that night looking for her, then thinking I must remember to call Louise, tell her I’ll probably be late, thinking maybe we can work this out, and that’s what I’m thinking when I see the squad cars parked in front of the post office, still thinking that when I see Noble and Rudkin getting out of the first car, that’s what I’m thinking when I turn to Mr Hurst and say, ‘It wasn’t me,’ that’s what I’m thinking when it gets really fucked up, forever, and –
Part 4
What’s my name?
Caller: And all the cannabis they were taking off darkies they were nicking, this other copper he was selling back to other dealers, and I read this copper who was doing it, he was something to do with A10, that lot that are now Complaints Division.
John Shark: Hold on, hold on. What’s this got to do with the man with the baboon’s heart?
Caller: Nothing, I suppose.
John Shark: Fair enough. All right, seeing as how you’re on the line, is there anything you want to say about this man, the one in South Africa who’s been given a baboon’s heart?
Caller: No, not really. Except I think it’s not right and he’s going to die.
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Sunday 12th June 1977
Chapter 16
–I turn and ask Mr Hurst where it’s best to park and the wife is looking sideways at him, us pulling up next to the squad cars, the Hursts looking at the three big men coming towards our car, us stopping there in the middle of the street, me getting out, Mr Hurst too, Mrs Hurst her hand to her mouth and me turning, straight into Rudkin’s fist, Noble and Ellis pulling him off, me reeling, coming back, him another arm loose and smashing it into me with a low kick to my balls and then there are some uniforms dragging me back by my jacket and bundling me into the back of a tiny Panda, Rudkin still screaming, ‘You cunt, you fucking cunt!’ and our car pulls off and I turn and watch them push Rudkin head down into a car, Ellis and Noble in behind him, my car sitting there in the middle of Gledhill Road, doors open, Mr and Mrs Hurst shaking their heads, hands on hips or at their lips.
The uniforms drive me into Leeds, into Millgarth, no-one speaking, lots of glances in the mirror, me with a wink, wondering what the fuck Maurice must have said, bracing myself for Complaints and the love of my Brother Officers.
Inside, the uniforms take me straight down to the Belly, the whole station deserted. They sit me down in one of the cells we use for interrogations and close the door. I look at my watch, it’s gone six, Sunday 12 June 1977.
Thirty minutes later I get up and try the door.
It’s locked.
Another thirty minutes later and the door opens.
Two uniforms who I’ve never seen before come in.
One of them hands me a pale blue shirt and pair of darker blue overalls and says, ‘Can you change into these please, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Can you just do it, sir.’
‘Not until you tell me why’
‘We need your clothes to run some tests.’
‘What kind of tests?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know.’
‘Well, can you please get someone who does.’
‘I’m afraid there are no senior officers on duty.’
‘I’m a bloody senior officer.’
‘I know, sir.’
‘Well then, until someone can be good enough to tell me why I should hand over my bloody clothes to you, you can go and fuck yourself.’
The uniforms shrug and leave, locking the door behind them.
Ten minutes later the door opens again and four uniforms come in, grab my arms and legs, gag me and strip me.
Then they remove the gag and toss the shirt and overalls at me and leave, locking the door behind them.
I lie naked on the floor and look at my watch, but it’s gone.
I get up and put on the shirt and overalls, sit down at the table and wait, aware something’s gone wrong.
Very wrong.
I look up, the door opening.
Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice come in.
They pull up two chairs and sit down opposite me:
Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice.
They don’t look well.
Not happy.
‘Bob?’ says Prentice.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘Thought you might be able to tell us that?’
‘Come on,’ I say, looking from one to the other. ‘You here to question me?’
‘Chat,’ winks Prentice.
‘Fuck off,’ I say. ‘This is me, Bob Fraser. If something’s going down, just tell me.’
‘It’s never as simple as that though, is it Bob?’ says Jimmy Prentice and he offers me a fag.
I shake my head: ‘I don’t know, Jim. You tell me.’
They look at each other and sigh.
I say, ‘This is to do with John Rudkin, isn’t it?’
Dick Alderman shakes his head. ‘All right, Bob. Cut the crap and just tell us what happened to you between six o’clock the night of Saturday 4 June and six o’clock on the morning of Wednesday 8 June?’
‘Why?’
He smiles, ‘You do remember?’
‘O
f course I fucking remember.’
‘Well that’s a bloody start, because up to now no other cunt seems to have a fucking clue.’
I pause and then say, ‘I was with Rudkin and Ellis.’
Prentice smiles. ‘That’s what they said.’
I start to speak, smiling, relieved and eager to expand.
But Alderman leans forward, ‘Yeah, that’s what they said. Up until about half-three this afternoon, that is. Just before they were both suspended from their duties. Just before they vowed to kick your fucking head in, next time they see you.’
I stare at him, at the face full of pride at the way he’s stuck the boot in, and I shrug my shoulders.
He smiles, a bloated smile: ‘What you say now, Bobby?’
I turn to Prentice. ‘You think I need someone from the Fed here?’
He shrugs: ‘Depends what you been up to Bob, depends what you done.’
‘Nothing.’
Alderman stands up. ‘You might want to have a think about that,’ he says. ‘Before we come back.’
And they leave, locking the door behind them.
The door opens, I look up.
Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice come in.
They sit down in the two chairs opposite me.
Dick and Jim.
They look better.
But not happy.
‘Bob?’ nods Prentice.
I say, ‘Just tell us what’s going on, will you?’
‘We don’t know, Bob. That’s why we’re here.’
‘To find out,’ adds Alderman.
‘Find out what?’
‘Find out what you got up to between Saturday night and Wednesday morning.’
‘What if I was to tell you that I went home? That I was with my wife?’
Alderman looks at Prentice.
Prentice says: ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah,’ I nod.
And they leave again, locking the door behind them.
The door opens.
Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice come in.
They don’t sit down.
Richard Alderman and James Prentice.
They look really fucked off.
Not happy.
‘Fraser,’ says Alderman. ‘I’m going to ask you for the last time: what you did, where you went, and who you saw between Saturday night and Wednesday morning?’
‘And don’t fucking lie to us, Bob,’ Prentice is saying. ‘Please, Bob?’
I look at them, the pair of them leaning over me, staring down at me, knowing they’d have beaten the truth out of me by now if I wasn’t who I was, what I was.
‘I was drinking,’ I say, say quietly and slowly.
They pull the chairs back and sit down.
‘And what should you have been doing?’ asks Alderman.
‘I was supposed to be on surveillance with Rudkin and Ellis.’
‘OK. So what were you doing?’
‘Like I say, I was drinking.’
‘Where?’
‘In my car, in the park,’
‘You see anyone?’
‘No.’
But I’m starting to see Karen Burns and Eric Hall, knowing I’m fucked.
‘I’m going to ask you again,’ says Alderman. ‘You see anyone, anyone at all during this time?’
‘No.’
‘OK,’ nods Alderman. ‘You want to tell us why you were drinking when you were supposed to be watching a suspect in a murder investigation; an investigation into the murders of four women that now, on one of the nights that you were supposed to be tailing our prime fucking suspect, now has risen to include the murder of a sixteen-year-old virgin.’
I’m staring at the table-top.
‘You going to tell me why you were drinking?’
‘Domestic problems,’ I whisper.
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘Not really, no.’
Prentice says, ‘It goes no further, Bob.’
‘Bollocks,’ I laugh. ‘It’ll be on other side of Moors before breakfast.’
‘You got no bloody choice,’ says Alderman.
‘The fuck I have. I want to know what this is about?’
‘You can fuck off,’ spits Alderman. ‘I am asking you as a senior officer, asking you why you were drinking for eighty-four hours, eighty-four fucking hours when you were supposed to be on duty?’
‘And I’ve already told you, I had domestic problems.’
‘And I’m telling you that answer will not suffice. So I’ll ask you one last time, what kind of fucking domestic problems?’
We stare into each other’s purple faces, eyes wide and teeth barred.
Prentice leans forward, tapping the table-top: ‘Come on, Bob. This is us.’
‘And this is me, Jim. This is me.’
He nods and Alderman follows him out, locking the door behind them.
About another half-hour later, the door opens.
Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice come in, three teas between them.
They sit down and push a tea across the table.
They look tired.
Not happy, resigned.
Jim Prentice says, ‘Bob? I’m going to ask you again just to give us a bit more about this domestic problem. It’d help us a lot. Help you.’
‘How?’
‘Bob, we’re all policemen here. All on the same side. If you don’t start helping us out a bit, then we’ll have to turn it over to another crew. And no-one wants that, do they?’
‘But you’re not going to tell us what this is about?’
‘Bob, how many more times? We already have. It’s about what you were up to in them “missing hours”?’
I pick up the cigarette Alderman’s chucked down beside my tea and lean forward to let him light it.
I sit back in the chair, the smoke curling up to the low ceiling, my head with it, until finally I say:
‘I was having an affair with another woman.’
Alderman sniffs up, disappointed: ‘Was? Past tense?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why’s that?’ he asks.
‘She left.’
‘What’s her name, this woman?’
I look up at the ceiling again and weigh up the odds.
‘Janice Ryan,’ I say.
‘When did you last see her?’
‘Saturday morning.’
‘What time?’
‘About eight.’
‘And that’s why you were drinking?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Because she left you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Does your wife know?’
‘Know what?’
‘That you had a bit on the side?’
‘No.’
‘Is there anything more you want to tell us about your relationship with this other woman?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Jim Prentice and they leave, locking the door behind them.
I look up, the room dark.
The door opens, men rush in and hood me and handcuff me.
They take me from the room, up the stairs, out to the night, into the back of a car, and then we go for a drive.
No-one’s speaking and the car smells of alcohol and cigarettes.
I’m guessing, but I think there are three other men in the car; two in the front and one next to me on the back seat.
About thirty minutes later we leave the road and pull up on what feels like wasteland.
The door opens and they take me out of the car, leading me across uneven ground.
I stumble once and someone hooks an arm through mine.
We stop and stand still for a moment, then they take off the hood.
Blinded by lights, I blink, blink, blink.
It’s night at the edges, white light at the core.
Noble, Alderman, and Prentice are standing before me, under the floodlights, the bright alien floodlights.
C
entre-stage, a sofa.
A horrible, terrible, rotting, eaten, bloody sofa.
‘You been here before?’ asks Noble.
I’m staring at the sofa, the rusted metal springs sharpened to spikes, the velvet almost gone.
‘You know where you are?’ Prentice asks.
I look up at them, the angel glow around their faces, and I shake my head.
Again Alderman asks, ‘You been here before or not?’
And I have; in those nightmares, this is where I’d come, and so I’m nodding, saying, ‘Yes.’
And Noble lunges forward and punches me in the jaw and I fall to my knees, tears running down my cheeks, blood filling my mouth, the lights out.
Dark eyes, dark eyes that would not open.
Indian skin painted red, white, and blue, with welts, pus, and bruises.
Dark eyes, dark eyes turned back in death. Indian skin painted murder, lonely murder.
A slap and I’m awake, sat in a chair in a cell, hood and handcuffs gone.
‘Look at her!’ Noble is yelling. I try and focus on the table-top. ‘Look at her!’
Noble is standing, Alderman seated.
I pick up the photograph, the enlarged black and white photograph of her face, her swollen lids and risen lips, her blackened cheeks and matted hair, and I’m shaking, shaking, then puking, puking across the table, hot yellow bile all over the room.
‘Aw Christ, for fuck’s sake.’
I’m in a clean pair of overalls and shirt.
Noble and Alderman are sat across from me, three hot teas on the table.
Alderman sighs and reads from a piece of typed A4:
‘At 12 noon Sunday 12th June, the body of Janice Ryan, twenty-two years old, a convicted prostitute, was found secreted under an old settee on wasteground off White Abbey Road, Bradford.
‘A post-mortem has been carried out and death was due to massive head injuries caused by a heavy blunt instrument. It is thought that death occurred some seven days before due to the partial decomposition of the body.
‘It is also thought from the pattern of the injuries that this death is not connected, repeat not connected, with the other murders publicly referred to as the Ripper Murders.’
Silence.
Then Noble says, ‘She was found by a kid. Saw her right arm sticking out from under the couch,’
Silence.
Then I say, tears not dry, ‘And you think I did it?’
Silence.
Then Noble nods and says, ‘Yeah, and this is how I think you did it: I think you drove her out to Bradford, took her on to wasteground, hit her on head with a rock or stone, then you jumped up and down on her until you broke her ribs and ruptured her liver. You didn’t have a knife on you, but you thought you’d try and make it look like a Ripper job, so you pulled up her bra and pulled down her panties, took off her jeans, then dragged her by her collar over to couch and dumped it on top of her, then you threw her handbag away and pissed off.’