by David Peace
Silence.
Then I say, ‘But why?’
‘Forensics, Bobby,’ says Alderman. ‘We got her all over your clothes, you all over hers, you’re in her flat, under her fucking nails and up her bloody cunt.’
‘But why? Why would I kill her?’
Silence.
‘Bob, we know,’ says Alderman, glancing at Noble.
‘Know what?’
‘She was pregnant,’ he winks.
Silence, until Noble says:
‘And it was yours.’
I’m screaming, my hands pinned to the table, Alderman and Prentice trying to sit me back down, Noble walking away.
Screaming over and over, again and again:
‘Ask him, ask Eric fucking Hall. Get him in here. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t fucking me. I’d never.’
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
‘Ask him, ask that fucking cunt. He did it, I know he fucking did. It wasn’t me. I’d never. I couldn’t.’
Screaming over and over, again and again.
I’m choking, head in an arm-lock, Alderman and Prentice trying to sit me down, Noble gone.
‘Thing is,’ says Noble, ‘Eric says that Janice called him for protection. Protection from you.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘OK, so how come he knows she’s pregnant by you if she never called him?’
‘She called him for money. She was his grass until he started pimping her.’
‘Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. This is going in fucking circles.’
‘Look, I’ve told you. You’re not listening. That last Saturday I saw her, the 4th, she’d been over to Bradford and was supposed to meet Eric but he sent a van for her and they picked her up and fucking did her didn’t they?’
‘Did her?’
‘Raped her. Ask Rudkin and Mike. They came round her place to pick me up, they saw state she was in.’
‘Yeah, yeah, and they seem to think that it was you who did it.’
‘Did what?’
‘Beat the fucking living shit out of her.’
‘Bollocks. Fucking bollocks.’
‘You’re all over her, mate.’
‘Course I am, I fucking loved her.’
‘Bob …’
‘Listen to me, I’d wake up in bed next to my wife with come in my pyjamas, come all over me because I couldn’t stop fucking dreaming about her.’
‘Jesus Christ, Fraser.’
Alone –
Alone together:
I shut my eyes, you call my name.
A cigarette, a plastic cup, a porno mag.
The shoes on the wrong feet, the laces gone.
Fingers round my throat, fingers down my throat.
Fingers under skull skin, fingers at my temple bones.
You shut your eyes, I call your name:
Alone together – Alone.
‘You going to charge me?’
Prentice pushes the tea towards me, ‘Drink it, Bob.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘It doesn’t look good, not good at all.’
‘I didn’t do it, Jim. I didn’t do it.’
‘Drink your tea, Bob. Before it gets cold.’
Black piss-holes stained with sleep, down white corridors stuffed full of memories to a bloody pillow stuffed full of albatross feathers, glimpsing happy days through windows and doors as they closed, to a table and three chairs beneath a bulb caged in mesh.
‘Let’s start at the beginning again.’
I push the plastic cup forward and sigh, ‘Whatever.’
‘When did you meet her?’ asks Noble, lighting up.
‘Last year.’
‘When?’
‘4 November.’
‘Mischief Night?’
I nod, no smiles.
‘Where?’
‘She was in middle of road outside Gaiety, pissed. She looked to be soliciting, so we picked her up.’
‘We?’
‘Me and Rudkin.’
‘Detective Inspector Rudkin?’
‘Yeah, Detective Inspector Rudkin.’
‘And?’
‘Brought her in here. Found out she was covered by Eric Hall over at Jacob’s Well and …’
‘Detective Inspector Eric Hall?’
‘Yeah, Detective Inspector Eric Hall.’
‘So what did you do when you found that out?’
‘I drove her home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that’s when it started?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And how often did you see her?’
‘Often as I could.’
‘Which was?’
I shrug: ‘Every other day. Got easier when Eric set her up over here in Chapeltown.’
‘So you’re saying Eric Hall, Detective Inspector Eric Hall, set up a convicted prostitute in a flat in Leeds?’
I nod.
‘Why the fuck would he do that?’
‘Ask him.’
Noble slams his palm down on to the table. ‘Fuck off, Fraser. I’m asking you.’
‘She told me it was like a thank you. Golden handshake.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘At the time.’
‘But …’
‘But I’ve since heard that he was pimping her and he’d got her the flat to set her up over here.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘Joseph Rose, he’s listed on record as my P.I.’
Noble glances at Alderman.
Alderman nods at Prentice.
Prentice gets up and leaves the room.
Noble looks up from his notes. ‘OK. So for almost a year, beginning last November, you continued to meet Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this was usually at her flat on Spencer Place?’
‘From January, yeah.’
‘And during this time you were unaware that she was working for DI Hall?’
‘As a prostitute, yes. But I knew she still phoned him.’
‘But you knew she was working as a prostitute?’
‘Yeah, just not for him.’
‘So who did you think she was working for?’
‘Kenny D.’
‘Kenny D? That fucking nig-nog we had in here over Marie Watts, you’re taking piss?’
‘No.’
‘Jesus Christ, Fraser. You thought your girlfriend was working for him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘What she said. What he said.’
Noble pauses, swallows, and says, ‘So if you thought she was working for Kenny D, why did you think she kept phoning DI Hall?’
‘To get money out of him.’
‘How?’
‘Selling stuff she’d heard.’
‘Did she try and sell you stuff?’
‘No. She wasn’t that well connected round here.’
‘Did she get money off him?’
‘I don’t know. Ask him.’
Noble is staring at me, eyes locked again. ‘So you’re saying your relationship with this woman, Janice Ryan, it was purely for sex?’
I look up at the ceiling, the earth tilting.
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
I stare back at Noble and I shrug my shoulders and I tell him how it was: ‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Did you pay for it?’
Eyes locked, I tell him how it is: ‘Looks that way,’ I say ‘Fucking looks that way now.’
Silence.
Prentice comes back in and the three of them go into a huddle.
I wonder what time it is, unable even to guess what fucking day it is.
They return to their places and Noble says, ‘OK, who else knew about this relationship?’
‘Me and Janice?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t tell folk, but did you know? Did you Jim? Did you Dick?’
They don’t smile, they
just keep it shut.
‘OK,’ says Noble again. ‘But by the start of this month you say your relationship with Ryan had deteriorated?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In what way?’
‘I hadn’t been able to see so much of her, what with Ripper and everything, and I wanted her to stop working.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I didn’t want her fucking dead, did I?’
‘Why was that?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘But you didn’t mind her fucking other blokes?’
‘Course I fucking did.’
‘So why didn’t you do owt about it?’
But I catch myself, just in time:
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
And I smile, ‘I couldn’t say so bloody much could I?’
‘Why was that?’
‘I’m married, aren’t I?’
‘But you were arguing a lot, you and Ryan?’
‘On and off, yeah.’
‘OK, so tell us about that last Saturday, the 4th.’
‘I’ve told you a million times.’
‘Well it won’t hurt to tell us one last time then, will it Bob?’
‘I went round on Friday and she wasn’t in. I was knackered, put my head down for a bit at her place, and waited.’
‘So you had a key?’
‘You know I did. You fucking took it, didn’t you?’
‘OK, go on.’
‘About 7, maybe 8, she came home …’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yeah, in the morning. She was in a bad way, she’d been tied up, whipped, bitten. There were marks across her breasts, her stomach, her backside. She said she’d been over to Bradford, Manningham, to meet Eric Hall. Said she got picked up by Vice, or that’s what she thought. There were four of them; they raped her, took photos.’
‘And did they, these men, they know anything about you or DI Hall?’
‘Apparently’
‘Apparently?’
‘She said they called Eric Hall, tried to call me. Whatever Eric said, it didn’t stop them.’
‘And she told you all this on the Saturday morning at her flat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then?’
‘Then DI Rudkin and DC Ellis came and picked me up, because of the attack on Linda Clark, and they brought me here.’
‘They picked you up at her place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Right, so how come they knew where to find you?’
‘I don’t know. I presume because they knew about me and Janice.’
‘But you’d never told them?’
‘No.’
‘And that was the last time you saw Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you went back to the flat?’
‘Yeah, a couple of times.’
‘On the Saturday?’
‘Yeah, I went back to the flat straight after the briefing.’
‘And?’
‘And she’d gone.’
‘Gone for good?’
‘Mmm.’
‘How did you know?’
‘She’d taken most of her gear.’
‘She leave a note?’
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘And what time was that?’
‘About five on the Saturday afternoon.’
‘And so you were upset?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘So instead of returning to your assigned duties and your colleagues, you decided to drown your sorrows.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And during this time who did you see?’
‘I saw Joseph Rose.’
‘And this was when he told you about Detective Inspector Eric Hall pimping Janice?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I went over to Bradford to see him.’
‘And when was this?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it was Monday’
‘And that was when you assaulted DI Hall?’
‘That’s when we had the fucking fight, if that’s what you mean?’
‘About Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I took his car …’
‘DI Hall’s car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And where did you go?’
‘I just drove around, I don’t remember where exactly.’
‘But eventually you ended up back in Chapeltown, just as the body of Rachel Johnson was discovered?’
‘Yeah, I think I went back to Janice’s flat, and when I woke up there was all the shit going on because of the Johnson girl.’
‘OK. One last thing; until today you’re saying you had no idea that Ryan was pregnant and that you were the father?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And that the reason forensics have got you all over her, it’s because of the last time you had sexual relations with her, with Ryan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which would have been when?’
‘Possibly Thursday 2nd June.’
‘But you have no alibi for anytime between 5 p.m. on Saturday 4th June and the morning of Wednesday 8th?’
‘Except for when I saw Joseph Rose and later Eric Hall, no.’
‘But you’re unsure exactly when it was you saw them?’
‘Yes.’
Silence.
Noble is staring at me.
‘You do realise the fucking shit you’re in?’
I look up, the veins in my eyes shards.
‘Yes,’ I say.
He doesn’t blink.
‘The shit we’re all in?’
I nod.
‘All right then,’ he sighs. ‘It’s your call.’
I weigh it up, the arms of my body dead.
Cuts that won’t stop bleeding, bruises that won’t heal.
‘I’d like to see my solicitor, please.’
John Shark: See John Poulson got himself an early parole?
Caller: And on same day George Davis ends up back inside.
John Shark: One law for them, one law for us, eh Bob?
Caller: No, John. There’s no bloody law for them, that’s trouble.
The John Shark Show
Radio Leeds
Monday 13th June 1977
Chapter 17
‘There’s something strange going on,’ said Hadden.
‘Like what?’
‘They reckon there’s been another and that they’ve only bloody got someone for it. Holding them.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘No.’
‘Ripper?’
‘What it looks like.’
‘Bollocks. Who told you this?’
‘A little bird.’
‘How little?’
‘Stephanie.’
‘And she got it from?’
‘Desk at Bradford.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That’s almost what I said.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Make some calls.’
Fuck.
Back at the desk, I picked up the telephone and dialled Millgarth. ‘Samuel?’
‘Jack?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know what you could mean.’
‘Oh yes you do.’
‘Oh no I don’t.’
‘OK. What time you going to stop playing silly buggers and start earning yourself a bit of what makes you happy?’
‘In about half an hour?’
I looked at my watch.
Shit.
‘Where?’
‘The Scarborough?’
‘It’s a date,’ and I hung up.
I looked at my watch again, checked my briefcase, and left.
I was the first in the Scarborough.
I put my pint on top of the telephone and dialled.
>
‘It’s me.’
‘Just can’t keep away, can you?’ she laughed.
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘It’s only been a couple of hours.’
‘And I miss you.’
‘Me too. Thought you were going to Manchester?’
‘I am, maybe. Just thought I’d give you a ring.’
‘That’d be nice.’
I laughed and said, ‘Thanks for the weekend.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I’ll call you when I get back.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
‘Bye then.’
‘Bye, Jack.’
She hung up first and then I put down the telephone, picked up my pint and went to a copper-topped table over in the corner.
I had a hard-on.
I looked at my watch, wanting to make the twelve-thirty train at the latest.
If they hadn’t caught the cunt, that was.
I could hear the rain lashing the windows.
‘Call this bloody summer,’ said the barman across the room.
I nodded, drained my pint and went back to the bar and ordered two bitters and a packet of salt and vinegar.
Back at the table I looked at my watch again.
‘Best not be flat,’ said Sergeant Samuel Wilson, sitting down.
‘Fuck off,’ I said.
‘And a merry bloody Christmas to you too,’ he laughed, then said, ‘What fuck happened to your hand?’
‘Cut myself.’
‘Fuck were you doing?’
‘Cooking.’
‘Fuck off.’
I offered him a crisp. ‘So?’
‘What?’
‘Samuel?’
‘Jack?’
‘Fuck off, it’s not Come bloody Dancing is it?’
He sighed. ‘Go on, what you heard?’
‘You got a body in Bradford and a bloke for it over here.’
‘And?’
‘It’s Ripper.’
Wilson killed his pint and grinned, cream on his lips.
‘Samuel?’
‘How about another, Jack?’
I finished mine and went back to the bar.
When I sat back down, he’d taken off his raincoat.
I glanced at my watch.
‘Not keeping you am I, Jack?’
‘No, got be over in Manchester this afternoon though.’ Then I added, ‘Depending on what you tell me. If you’re going to tell me anything that is?’