Nineteen Eighty

by David Peace

  He stops to let the pictures speak –

  They all look up from the six by fours, all but DS Marshall –

  Are there tears in her eyes?

  ‘Those are the facts,’ he says, repeating: ‘The facts. The rest is hearsay; but here goes –

  ‘Campbell had spent the evening at the Room at the Top nightclub in Sheepscar. She was last seen attempting to stop motorists at the junction of Sheepscar Street South and Roundhay Road, Leeds at 1:00 a.m.

  ‘According to the witnesses you have listed before you, it is believed that an articulated lorry with a dark-coloured cab and a tarpaulin-sheeted load stopped at the junction of Roundhay Road and Sheepscar Street South alongside Campbell and it is believed she had a conversation with the driver.

  ‘This location is the main route from the Al Wetherby Roundabout to the Leeds Inner Ring Road which services HGVs travelling on the M62, either east or west.’

  Hillman pauses; we all glance up, all but Marshall –

  A tune in my head, a song from somewhere:

  I only have eyes for you –

  The dream still here, here in my mouth, hanging in the room, the taste in my mouth –

  The taste of blood, the smell:

  ‘They call it the Box,’ says Hillman.

  There’s a soft knock at the door and a young constable hands Bob Craven a note –

  He glances at it, looks up at me, and passes it forward –

  I open it:

  Call Richard Dawson.

  I put it in my pocket.

  ‘And that’s the last anyone saw of her till the milkman,’ Hillman’s saying.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘If there are no questions, let’s move onto the structure of the investigation. Mike?’

  ‘Fish and chip job as it was seen then, they still put Chief Superintendent Jobson on it, plus a couple of other names that’ll keep coming up: Detective Superintendents Alderman and Prentice, DIs as they were back in 75.’

  There are nods.

  ‘Good team,’ I say, watching Craven –

  His face blank but for a slight light in those dark eyes, a slight smile –

  And then he suddenly says: ‘Best men we’ve got.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continues Hillman. ‘Those were the big guns and the same team used for Joan Richards and everything up to Marie Watts. After that Oldman and Noble take the reins and Jobson’s given the early bath.’

  ‘What about Alderman and Prentice? What happened to them?’ asks McDonald.

  ‘Still here. A complete list of every copper involved is in the copies I’ve given you, alphabetically by rank.’

  I’m still watching Craven, knowing he was there –

  Knowing his name is in there, here –

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mike. We’ll be going over the cases in more detail later as we see how they relate. OK?’

  Silence –

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Richards or Strachan?’ asks Marshall.

  ‘Do it chronologically.’

  ‘Right,’ says Mike Hillman, nodding at Helen Marshall. ‘Me again:

  ‘OK. Whether you accept Strachan as a Ripper job or not,’ says Hillman. ‘She died like this:

  ‘A convicted prostitute and registered alcoholic, Clare Strachan was taken to some disused garages on Frenchwood Street, a well-known Preston red-light area. She had sex and was then hit on the head by a blunt instrument, kicked in the face, head, breasts, legs and body. Then the attacker jumped up and down on her chest, causing a rib to puncture a lung and kill her. She had bite marks on her breasts and had been penetrated by a variety of objects and twice sodomised, once post-mortem. She was found the next morning by a woman walking her dog.’

  Silence, dark silence –

  Mike coughs and then goes on: ‘Alf Hill was in charge, Frank Fields his number two, again top men on it. Initially, no link was established with Theresa Campbell. Following the murder of Joan Richards, two detectives went over to Preston and again no evidence was found to connect the killings. Right, Bob?’

  Bob Craven nods, saying nothing.

  ‘You went over, right?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Mike Hillman shakes his head and smiles: ‘Thanks a lot, Bob. OK, the link with the Ripper was made following the letters received after the murder of Marie Watts in 1977. As you know, the letters made reference to the murder of Clare Strachan and tests conducted revealed that the killer of Strachan and Watts and the letter writer were all blood type …’

  ‘B,’ says Craven.

  ‘Thanks, Bob,’ says Mike. ‘Again all the names and dates have been listed on the sheet before you.’

  ‘Bob?’ John Murphy says turning to Craven.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘They send anyone over from Preston?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You went over after you got Joan Richards, how about them? Had they sent anyone over after Clare Strachan?’

  ‘Frank Fields.’

  Murphy nods: ‘And Frank didn’t make any link?’

  ‘No.’

  I say: ‘Right, as Mike’s just said, this is the one that the letters and the tape specifically refer to, the letters and tape that have largely been included on the strength of this murder.’

  ‘And the blood group,’ adds Craven.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But let’s get this straight, initially, didn’t you and …’

  ‘John Rudkin.’

  ‘Right, didn’t you and Rudkin report that this murder shouldn’t be considered the work of the same man who killed Campbell and Richards?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nods. ‘That was until we got the sample off Watts and the tests on the envelope.’

  ‘So, initially, why did you think otherwise?’

  Craven smiles: ‘Feel like I’m in bloody court.’

  ‘Relax, Bob. You’re among friends,’ I say.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Murphy.

  He’s still smiling: ‘Look, initially, the only real link between Campbell and Strachan, Richards and Strachan was that they were all slags. Strachan had been raped, had a milk bottle up her, had it up the arse, then been kicked to death. Indoors. Completely different.’

  ‘Until the letters and the tape?’

  ‘Until the letters and the tape.’

  ‘And then she was in,’ I say.

  ‘You better believe it.’

  I ask him: ‘Do you want to add anything else?’

  ‘Two kids in Glasgow.’

  ‘Husband?’

  ‘Drowned at sea.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Craven smiling to himself: ‘Not about her, no.’

  ‘You want to talk us through Joan Richards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on. You were in on this one right from the get go, yeah?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Please, it’d help us out a lot.’

  ‘Not treading on anyone’s toes, am I?’ he asks, looking at Helen Marshall –

  There are tears in her eyes –

  Fuck –

  ‘No,’ I say, trying to catch her eye –

  The tears in her eyes.

  Craven sighs, shrugs his shoulders and says almost automatically: ‘Joan Richards was found on February 6 1976 in an alleyway on the Manor Street Industrial Estate, off Roundhay Road, Leeds. She had severe head injuries caused by a hammer and a total of fifty-two stab wounds to the neck, chest, stomach, and back. Her bra had been pulled up over her tits and a piece of wood placed over her fanny. There were boot prints on her legs. Wellies. Farley, the pathologist, immediately linked it with Theresa Campbell. The Owl, Maurice – he was still in charge, Dick Alderman and Jim Prentice with him. Me and Rudkin were brought in after Farley linked it with Campbell. Sent us over to Preston, the rest you know.’

  Marshall is staring at him –

  Tears in her eyes.

  I say: ‘Background?’

  ‘She was new to it. Husband
knew what she was up to. Pimped her. Sometimes used his van, but not this time. There was a load of bollocks in papers that didn’t help. Stuff about the killer taking her van and shit like that.’

  ‘This when the Ripper stuff started?’ asks Hillman.

  ‘No, that was after Marie Watts,’

  I say: ‘Jack Whitehead, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Silence, the room getting smaller, darker –

  The cabinets taller.

  A knock on the door –

  ‘Mr Hunter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Telephone. Emergency.’

  I stand up.

  Craven says: ‘Take it next door. It’s dead.’

  I nod and push past them and out –

  The Ripper Room, dead –

  Just their photos staring down from their walls, dead.

  ‘Peter Hunter speaking?’

  ‘It’s Richard.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it? What do you mean, what is it? You know what happened this morning? Five o’bloody clock this morning?’

  ‘Joan told me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And fucking what? They…’

  ‘Richard, I can’t do anything. My hands are tied.’

  ‘Your hands are tied? Fucking hell, Peter. Talk about…’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say and hang up.

  I go back to the small room next door, heart pounding, angry –

  No one speaking –

  Going up to seven –

  ‘Sod it. Let’s call it a night,’ I say, the ghosts scattering, scuttling back –

  They all stand up at once.

  ‘John,’ I say to Murphy. ‘Have a word?’

  He nods and follows me back next door.

  We sit down at a desk in the Ripper Room –

  Their Ripper Room.

  ‘Something’s going down back home. Pick your brains?’

  ‘Course. Fire away’

  ‘Bob Douglas? Remember him?’

  ‘Craven’s mate from the Strafford, oh aye,’ laughs Murphy. ‘Moved over our way, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yep, Levenshulme. Heard anything of him recently?’

  ‘Into some kind of security work, I think.’

  ‘Well, you know Richard Dawson? He’s been using Douglas for this and that and now Dawson’s being investigated for some kind of financial irregularities or something. Anyway, Douglas told him that this investigation, it’s down to his friendship with me. That’s why he’s being investigated; to put me in my place.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘What I thought. But this morning I went to see Douglas.’

  ‘Yeah?’ says Murphy, quietly. ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘I just wanted to get it straightened out. Joan’s good friends with Linda Dawson, you know. And I need to be thinking about this here, not Bob bloody Douglas.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Douglas said he’d got it from Ronnie Allen.’

  ‘Verbals himself.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘He’s a bloody knob, isn’t he? Ronnie?’

  ‘Gets worse. Hooky’s in charge.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Yeah. And they raided Dawson’s house first thing this morning.’

  ‘Fuck, fuck.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You want me to put the feelers out?’

  ‘Well I spoke to both Hooky and Clement Smith and they reckon it’s nothing sinister. Finances. Said I’m paranoid.’

  ‘Peter Hunter paranoid?’ laughs Murphy, but his eyes are dead.

  ‘Reckon I am.’

  ‘But him knowing you? That’s not paranoia.’

  ‘But it’s not only me. Smith’s mates as well.’

  ‘I know him too. Might be next?’

  I smile: ‘Lot of folk.’

  ‘See, don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘That what the Chief said?’

  ‘You know Smith; he just said to keep my distance for now. But…’

  ‘But if I do happen to hear anything, or ask someone, then…’

  I smile again: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ he nods.

  ‘About what?’ says Craven suddenly, there in the Ripper Room –

  His room –

  His Ripper.

  ‘Nothing to worry you about, Bob.’

  ‘I’ll see you at breakfast, then?’ smiles Murphy.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘And I’ll bid you two gents a goodnight.’

  ‘Not having a swift one?’ says Craven. ‘Not tonight, Bob,’ I say, patting him on the shoulder as I go out.

  He winks: ‘Got a date, have you?’

  Headingley –

  It’s been four nights now, everything still dead –

  Forever dead.

  I pull into the Kentucky Fried Chicken car park, once again positioning the car so I face the main road, and then I go inside.

  Again, I’m the only customer.

  I order the same chicken and chips, the cup of coffee, and wait under the same white lights for another ten minutes while the same Asian staff prepare the order, staring at the light reflected in the coffee.

  I take the food back out to the car and sit in another night, the window down, picking at the pale stringy meat again, watching the street –

  No-one.

  I drink down the cold coffee.

  I get out of the car and walk across the road to the bus stop.

  It’s 9:53, the Number 13 coming up Headingley Lane –

  Like clockwork.

  And again, it doesn’t stop.

  I cross back and turn right onto Alma Road –

  Alma Road, with its police tape and one dark car waiting.

  Again I walk down the dim tree-lined street, crossing to avoid the cordon, past the officers in the police car.

  And at the end of the road, by the school, I stop at the gates again and stare back down Alma Road –

  Again, Alma Road –

  The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to another man’s daughter, to another man’s sister, to another man’s fiancée –

  The ordinary street in the ordinary suburb where a man took a hammer and a knife to Laureen Bell, an ordinary girl, and shattered her skull and stabbed this ordinary girl fifty-seven times in her abdomen, in her womb, and once in her eye –

  And in this ordinary street, in this ordinary suburb, in this ordinary world, I listen to the silence and the song it sings:

  And when we die

  And float away

  Into the night

  The Milky Way

  You’ll hear me call

  As we ascend

  I’ll say your name

  Then once again

  Thank you for being a friend.

  This ordinary world –

  This whole, empty, forgotten, ordinary world at war.

  dirty cow e know this face from somewhere e am sure transmission two the body of joan richards forty five years found in a derelict building of the industrial estate on manor street leeds seven at five past eight today friday the sixth of february nineteen seventy six it is known that the woman has recently been an active prostitute in the chapeltown area of leeds when found she was wearing blue green and red checked overcoat blue and white horizontal striped dress white sling back shoes fawn handbag black knickers brown tights it is known that between the times six ten PM and ten thirty PM thursday the fifth of february nineteen seventy six she was in possession of a white commer van with ladders on the roof motive appears to be hatred of prostitutes the man we are looking for is the type who could kill again assailant may be heavily bloodstained and is believed to be wearing heavy ribbed rubber boots or heavy Wellington boots registration number JRD six six six K vehicle has been found on a car park belonging to the gaiety hotel roundhay road leeds approximately half a mile from the scene of the crime and any sightings of the woman or
the vehicle should be notified to this office the deceased suffered severe injuries to the skull consisting of lacerations and a number of small skull fractures believed caused by a hammer and fifty two stab wounds to the lower throat and neck upper chest lower abdomen and back possibly caused by an instrument similar to a philips screwdriver cross pattern type that bordered on the maniacal on one of her thighs the impression of a heavy ribbed rubber boot or Wellington boot was found though there had been no sexual interference to the vagina the brassiere was removed to a position above the breasts and dress and there are several indications that the person responsible for this crime may also have been responsible for the death of the prostitute theresa Campbell at leeds on sixth of june nineteen seventy five he is a sadistic killer and may well be a sexual pervert particular attention should be paid to persons coming into custody for the footwear described who may also have a vehicle containing tools of the type described and will perhaps be a workmans van a search of records for persons convicted of serious attacks upon prostitutes would be appreciated and here the tears we first wept in the black snow knot and cluster and fill the hollow parts around the eyes lord break these hard veils the pain that swells our hearts here in a place in hell called leeds e saw her outside the gaiety in that place and e picked her up and drove her to derelict land at the centre of this evil plain this the place in which we found ourselves parked away from the lights her overwhelming smell of cheap perfume making me feel nauseated and so e had to get her outside so e got her to hold a torch while e raised the bonnet of the car to examine the engine then e took a couple of steps back and aimed two blows at her head with the hammer then e took her into the shadows and pushed her sweater cardigan and brassiere up to expose her breasts and e stabbed her fifty two times in the breasts neck back and low abdomen with a cross ply philips screwdriver and e took a piece of wood and thrust it between her legs to show her as disgusting as she was in possession of a white commer van with ladders on the roof motive appears to be hatred of prostitutes the man we are looking for is type who could kill again assailant may be heavily bloodstained and wearing heavy ribbed rubber boots e drove to my mother in laws with a feeling of justification and satisfaction and next day it was my mothers birthday and e made sure e delivered her card the snowflakes are dancing on the radio a broken