Nineteen Eighty

by David Peace

‘I’ve never been interviewed by two people at the same time,’ I say, smiling at Evans as he sits down at the back of the room.

  ‘Well,’ says McNeil. ‘Andy’s just along for the ride.’

  I sit down at Noble’s desk: ‘Is that right?’

  ‘No, he’s only joking sir.’

  ‘Well, OK. Shall we make a start?’ I ask.

  ‘Do you mind?’ asks Driscoll, putting a small pocket cassette recorder on Noble’s desk.

  ‘Should get one myself,’ I smile, switching on the one in my pocket.

  ‘OK,’ says McNeil. ‘You were brought in here as part of the Brains Trust and –’

  ‘Your words not mine,’ I interrupt.

  McNeil smiles: ‘Right, fair enough. So I wonder if you could tell us what progress you and the other members of this Super Squad have made so far?’

  I smile: ‘Super Squad is it now?’

  ‘Well, it is supposed to be the top detectives from across the country’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘But,’ he says, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is it deserved?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Progress; that’s what people want to hear about,’ he says. ‘What progress you have or haven’t made.’

  I say: ‘Is that a question?’

  He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them and says: ‘Yes, that’s a question.’

  ‘Mr McNeil,’ I say as quietly and calmly as I can. ‘Our job is to look at the operation and to advise and to make appropriate recommendations.’

  McNeil smiles and gives me a bloody wink: ‘Is that an answer?’

  ‘That’s putting it a touch mildly, is it not?’ interrupts Driscoll.

  I try and smile: ‘I thought you were along for the ride?’

  ‘I’m not – but can the same be said of you and this so-called Super Squad?’ laughs Driscoll.

  Before I can respond, McNeil’s already telling me: ‘What I mean to say is, this team were brought in for what was described as, and I quote: “a complete and thorough review of past and present police strategy in the hunt for the Ripper.” Was that or was that not the brief?’

  ‘That is the brief and that’s what we are in the process of doing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ snorts McNeil. ‘So would you mind telling us then how much progress you’ve made in the course of this review.’

  ‘It’s on-going, Mr McNeil.’

  Obviously.’

  ‘Well, obviously, if it’s on-going it is therefore not complete and so I can’t comment,’ I say, my voice rising, looking at my watch, thinking about Helen Marshall. ‘What more do you want me to say?’

  But then he pounces: ‘Something to give hope to the thousands of students fleeing the cities of the North tonight; something to give hope to the millions of women who aren’t lucky enough to be able to flee from the cities of the North, who must spend another Christmas, their sixth, trapped inside their homes, dependent on lifts from fathers and brothers, husbands and sons, any one of whom might be the Yorkshire Ripper himself; something to say to these mothers and sisters, these wives and daughters, not to mention something for Mrs Bell and the twelve other mothers who have no daughters and the nineteen children who have no mothers, all thanks to him; him and your inaction.’

  Silence; silence but for the noises of the station around us –

  The station where somewhere men’s voices can be heard singing an obscene version of Jingle Bells –

  The man at the back from the Press Office or Community Affairs or whatever they call it, he gets up and leaves the room –

  I look up at McNeil who’s shaking his head, his eyes on me –

  Outside the singing stops, leaving just the silence until Evans returns and takes his seat at the back again.

  McNeil sighs and says: ‘If you’ve nothing to say in response to that, then I wonder if I might ask you for comment on a number of fundamental criticisms that have been levelled in the direction of West Yorkshire and the inquiry in general?’

  I’ve got my hands up, but to no avail –

  ‘Firstly,’ he presses on. ‘There’s the issue of Miss Bell’s missing bag and it turning up covered in blood and marked as lost property a good twenty-four hours after her body was discovered, despite being handed in to police officers prior to the discovery of her body, not to mention the statements given by her flatmates insisting that officers look for Miss Bell when she failed to return home on time.’

  ‘The Chief Constable has already publicly addressed those criticisms, as you are fully aware.’

  ‘So you’ve nothing to add?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘OK then, how about the fact that Candy Simon and Tracey Livingston were also both reported missing to police officers prior to the discovery of their bodies and, in Candy’s case, her bloodstained underwear was also found.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to say about that either.’

  ‘OK, something closer to home then. Have you managed to get any explanation for the fact that it took Manchester police a whole week to locate Elizabeth McQueen’s handbag, despite the fact that it was less than 100 yards from where her body had been discovered.’

  ‘Mr McNeil,’ I say, fists up. ‘All these issues that you raise are obviously matters of concern to us and are part and parcel of the review that we’ve undertaken but, honestly and I hope for the last time, let me say that it would be unprofessional of me to pass comment on these matters at this time.’

  ‘Unprofessional?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Driscoll hands McNeil a piece of paper from his briefcase and McNeil says: ‘May I read you something?’

  ‘Feel free,’ I sigh.

  McNeil reads: ‘So much about the Ripper is ifs and buts – one cannot be 100% certain, for instance, that all the murders are linked. What we are saying is that they are all similar and are the ones we are most interested in. For reasons obvious to all officers there is a certain amount of information that has to be kept back for the vital confrontation with the man responsible for the killings.

  ‘On the balance of probability the man who sent the tape and wrote the letters is the Ripper but there can always be a question mark and it would be wrong for officers to eliminate suspects because they had not got a Geordie accent. We give certain guidelines but in the end, I feel, it will be some officer’s intuition that leads us to the killer. Hopefully, some officer will be in the right place at the right time and give us the break we need. So let’s make that break and nail him.’

  McNeil stops reading.

  Silence once again –

  Until Driscoll says: ‘You’ve never heard that before, have you Mr Hunter?’

  I shake my head: ‘No, that’s the first time. Who said it?’

  ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble in this month’s issue of the West Yorkshireman.’

  I glance over at Evans, who says: ‘It’s the West Yorkshire Police newspaper.’

  ‘Right,’ I nod.

  ‘Do you have any comment to make about that?’ asks McNeil.

  ‘It’s good advice.’

  ‘What about him saying that all the murders might not be linked, that the tape might be a hoax?’

  ‘He didn’t actually say that. But what he did say was good advice.’

  ‘What about the murders not all being linked, what about that?’

  ‘He’s right, you can’t be 100% certain.’

  ‘Janice Ryan? What about her? Always been a big question mark over her.’

  ‘Like I just said, you can’t be 100%.’

  ‘So you’re not at present investigating any connection between the murders of Janice Ryan and a Bradford Vice detective called Eric Hall?’

  Evans is on his feet, trying to interrupt –

  I’m shaking my head: ‘No we aren’t.’

  ‘That’s not what his widow is saying.’

  Me: ‘You’ve spoken to Mrs Hall?’

  McNeil and Driscoll both nod –

  ‘She�
��s mistaken then,’ I say.

  ‘And so there’s no truth in reports that the murders of Hall and Ryan are being linked in any way to raids earlier today on premises in Greater Manchester, which are in turn being connected to the murders there of Robert Douglas and his six-year-old daughter Karen last week?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about any raids.’

  Driscoll: ‘Well we’ve received information that the offices of Asquith and Dawson and various city centre premises belonging to them were raided at dawn today’

  I’m looking at Evans, who’s still stood up and looking at me, our eyes and hands all over the place –

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ I say, eventually.

  McNeil: ‘Are you aware that there are rumours circulating to the effect that you are to be removed from this so-called Brains Trust, this Super Squad, due to your personal connections to Richard Dawson, the man targeted in today’s raids?’

  ‘That’s it,’ says Evans. ‘I’ve heard enough of this.’

  They both stand up, McNeil and Driscoll, their hands raised in apology –

  Mouthing and whispering this and that about getting off on the wrong foot –

  Foot in their mouths, no offence intended –

  But I’m just sat there, reeling –

  When Anthony McNeil leans across the desk, hand out: ‘Thank you for your time.’

  I put my own hand out automatically, unable to speak –

  And then he tightens his grip on my hand and whispers: ‘You think the tape’s a hoax, don’t you?’

  Evans: ‘Mr McNeil –’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  Evans: ‘He’s not going to be drawn into –’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  Silence again, fucking silence –

  McNeil, Driscoll, and Evans, all staring at me –

  Staring at me sat there behind Noble’s desk –

  In Noble’s chair –

  ‘Yes or no Mr Hunter?’

  ‘No.’

  *

  Searching for a phone and a car, upstairs and down, Millgarth giving me the bloody run around, the finger –

  At last, long bloody last, into a phone in a corner of the Ripper Room: ‘Roger?’

  ‘Pete? Thank Christ for that.’

  Me: ‘What the fucking hell’s going on?’

  ‘Smith’s only had Vice raid Dawson’s office and that place you went on Oldham Street.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And he’s told the press of possible links to the Douglas murders.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Gets worse, mate.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dawson never showed up this morning.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Fuck knows. His solicitor knows nothing, sat there waiting like us, couldn’t get in touch with him.’

  ‘You called his wife?’

  ‘Not a clue. Hysterical.’

  ‘Shit, she’ll have been onto Joan.’

  ‘He called you has he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You heard about the raids?’

  ‘From the Sunday bloody Times.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’

  ‘Yeah, told me I was going to be removed from the Ripper because of it.’

  ‘Because of Dawson?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bollocks. You coming back over?’

  ‘Can’t,’ I say, looking at my watch again –

  Fuck:

  Gone two.

  ‘Pete?’

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘Said, keep in touch mate.’

  ‘OK.’

  I hang up and sprint downstairs, then shit –

  Back up to our room again for the bag of Spunks –

  Nods at Murphy and McDonald, weird looks from the pair of them –

  Then back downstairs again, underground.

  Snow –

  At least they’ve given me a Saab –

  I push out of Leeds, radio on:

  ‘Some shops are closing early today to allow staff to go home in daylight, this following a telephone threat to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper, saying he would kill again today or tomorrow.’

  Black snow –

  The car freezing –

  So this is Christmas?

  Roads dead, coming down through Morley, thinking of Joanne Thornton, heading down into Batley, thinking of Helen Marshall –

  And what have we done?

  On to the Bradford Road, out of Batley itself and I can see the car up ahead, parked in the same spot –

  I pull up a little way behind and lock the car and jog down the road, the snow now just a dirty cold grey rain, the long night coming down.

  I tap on the driver’s door and look in –

  No-one.

  Fuck.

  I try the door –

  Locked.

  I look up the road, down the road, across at RD News –

  Deserted, the whole place, but for a steady stream of lorries in the rain.

  Fuck, fuck.

  And then I see her, coming out of the phonebox further up, her jacket over her head, running back towards the car in the lorry lights and sleet –

  She sees me, jumps –

  ‘I was just calling you,’ she says, opening the car door, glancing back over at the newsagents.

  ‘Why? Something happened?’

  ‘No, no,’ she says, getting in and opening the other side for me –

  We close the doors and sit there, the car cold and stale, her looking old and rough.

  ‘I just wanted to know when you’d be coming back,’ she says, embarrassed.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s been a bloody rotten day’

  ‘Laugh a minute here,’ she smiles.

  ‘Quiet?’

  ‘As the grave.’

  ‘You eaten anything?’

  ‘A pair of driving gloves and a map book.’

  ‘Sorry, should have brought something.’

  ‘I can last,’ she says.

  I say: ‘You get off now.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll stay’

  ‘What time shall I come back?’

  ‘You’ve done enough.’

  ‘No, I want to.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say if I wasn’t.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Is there anything else you want me to do?’

  ‘No, you better get something to eat, get some sleep.’

  ‘Think I’ve gone past sleep.’

  ‘Actually there is one thing,’ I say, taking out my notebook.

  She’s smiling: ‘Thought there might be.’

  ‘Could you just ring Mrs Hall? Seemed to get on, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘Just see how she is.’

  ‘That it?’ she laughs. ‘See how she is?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I had this interview with a right pair from the Sunday Times. They said they’d been talking to her. You could just ask her about them?’

  ‘Ask her what about them?’

  ‘What they’d asked her, what she said.’

  ‘OK. The subtle approach?’

  I tear out the page with Mrs Hall’s number on it –

  ‘It’s the top one,’ I say.

  ‘Who’s the other one?’

  ‘The Reverend Laws.’

  ‘I was just thinking about him,’ she says.

  ‘How awful for you.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she says.

  I open the passenger door –

  ‘What time do you want me back?’ she asks.

  I look at my watch and say: ‘Eleven, eleven thirty?’

  She nods and starts the car: ‘See you then.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,�
� she laughs as I close the door.

  ‘No,’ I say, and she pulls away, – gone.

  Back in the Saab, I drive up the road for a bit until I’m opposite the park where I reverse into the drive of a house with an unlit Christmas tree in the window and then head back down past RDNews, parking near enough to be able to watch the upstairs window in the rearview mirror and the back of the alley in the wing, winding down the window a crack to stop the car steaming up and then I sit there, radio on, – listening, watching, waiting.

  same half worn india autoway cross ply tyres that were on front wheels at the scene of my mate marie watts so e truly am luckiest woman in yorkshire a lady well known in the preston area short black leather jacket blue jeans blue shirt carrying a blue denim handbag slim dark haired and attractive with a full sensual mouth stare into her you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to transmission six tracey livingston thirty one found in her flat on ash lane preston Saturday the seventh of January nineteen seventy eight death due to four blows to the head with an instrument which has not been recovered stab wounds to the abdomen and possibly to the back which would not have proved fatal the wounds were such that the assailants clothing will be heavily bloodstained stare into her misery and she looks at you and with both hands she opens her chest and says see how you tear me see the monstrous punishment you still breathing looking at the dead see if you find suffering equal to a lumpy bundle covered in blankets she had initially been attacked as she stepped through her door and had received four massive blows to the head her killer had then removed her coat before lifting her onto the bed her faded denim jeans and pants had been dragged down together but her jeans had been partially pulled back up her bra had been hoisted above her breasts which were exposed she had been stabbed six times in the stomach and there were further signs of stabbing attempts to her back although her skin was not broken and some slash marks along the left side of her body caused by a knife or chisel approximately half an inch wide a blood sample showed that tracey had consumed twenty measures of spirits and had died at midnight a vaginal swab revealed the presence of semen but this was thought to be as a result of sexual activity some time before a size seven boot print from a dunlop Warwick Wellington boot the same as that found on joan richards thigh found on the bottom bed sheet in the silence of a flat after death just the clock and the drip of the tap the blood in pools in the hall the lumpy bundle covered in blankets on the bed just the clock and the drip of the tap the thick dark hair matted with the thick dark blood the repeated knocking on the door the silence of a flat after death on her thigh a bloody hand print on her bed sheet a bloody boot print she was banging on the roof of a car obviously the worse for drink and using the sort of foul language no decent woman would have been using and when e stopped she jumped in beside me without any coaxing and we drove to her flat and e took my claw hammer from under the seat and stuffed it inside my coat and hung my coat up inside her flat and then e waited until she was sitting on the bed with her back to me before e struck with four blows that knocked her to the floor and then e hoisted her up and back onto the bed and exposed her breasts and the lower part of her body and then e hit her with one end of the hammer and clawed at her with the other watching the marks appear in her flesh and e stuck a knife into her stomach and because we were inside the blood looked red for the first time and not the black colour it always looked in the dark and e threw the sheets over her and left her alone in her bedroom making horrible gurgling sounds though e knew she would not be in any state to tell anyone what had happened for e knew it would be a long time before they would come and e knew they would look away e knew they could not stare into her misery her looking at them with both hands opening her