Nineteen Eighty
Page 24
Chapter 13
A shot –
Awake, sweating and afraid in the car in the night – the car dirty, the night black.
I look at the clock:
Midnight –
Shit.
I switch on the overhead light and check my own watch.
I switch off the light again:
Sat in the dark, thinking –
Where is she?
I get out of the car –
I walk up the road in the sleeting rain to the phonebox –
I open the door and –
BANG!
I’m flat on my back on the pavement, glass raining down –
There are bells ringing and there are screams, feet running –
People tearing out of the Chop Suey –
And I’m trying to stand up when –
BANG!
More glass raining down, more bells ringing, more screams, more feet running and I’m up –
Up and across the road, a car braking and swerving to avoid me –
There is smoke billowing out of RD News, the whole front gaping open –
‘Gas!’ someone’s shouting. ‘Gas!’
I sprint past the chemist, its glass all gone, alarm deafening –
Chinese waiters running here and there, the restaurant emptying –
Women customers tripping in long dresses and high heels, men with blood in their hair, on their faces, their hands –
Round the back and into the alley, people in their dressing gowns and coats coming out, dogs barking –
And I get to the back gate and it’s open and I go into the yard and there are sirens now –
And I reach for the back door and I open it and –
BAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!
I’m flat on my arse again –
Face burnt back by the intense heat, the smoke and the flames –
And there are people in the yard pulling me away, talking in different tongues –
Back out in the alleyway, an old woman saying: ‘You all right, love? Told them about all them gas canisters, I have.’
I push her away and go back down the alley but the fire engines are already here, an ambulance pulling up –
And the flames are licking out the windows, touching up the walls –
I turn and see two uniforms at the other end of the alley, so I jog back the other way –
Back round on to the Bradford Road, melting into the crowd that’s forming back down the road, all muttering and chuntering on about gas –
Scanning the faces –
Then I ease myself away, back to the car –
And I get in and am gone.
Foot down, heading up through Hanging Heaton, making my way back through Morley and into Leeds.
I park under the arches near the station and switch on the light:
I’ve got cuts across my face, blood in my ears, blood in my hair, blood on my hands.
I switch off the light and take the bag of Spunks from the back seat and get out, locking the door, tearing back up to the Griffin.
‘Helen?’ I shout, banging on her door –
I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’
A door opens down the corridor:
It’s Hillman, a pair of blue pyjamas –
Shit.
‘What’s wrong?’ he’s saying, coming down the corridor. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, stood there covered in blood and clutching a bag of porn.
‘What happened to you?’
‘There was a fire. It’s nothing serious. Where’s Helen?’
‘A fire? Where?’ he’s asking, saying: ‘You look terrible, you should go to hospital.’
‘Mike,’ I say, grabbing him. ‘Where’s Helen?’
He’s shaking his head: ‘She was in the bar earlier.’
‘When?’ I say, looking at my watch.
‘I don’t know. What time is it now?’
‘Almost two,’ I say. ‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ he keeps saying. ‘I think she was going to meet someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says again. ‘She was acting a bit odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Like she had something on her mind.’
‘What time?’
‘About eight, nine maybe.’
‘She say anything to John or Alec?’
‘Doubt it; I was sat with Mac and no-one’s seen Murphy since this afternoon.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Murphy? No idea.’ Then he says: ‘You’re hurting me, sir.’
And I look down at my hands gripping the tops of the arms of his pyjamas and I let him go, bloody marks across him.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘You need to see someone,’ he says, an arm helping me along.
‘Who? See who?’
‘A doctor I mean.’
I pull away: ‘I can’t.’
‘You look bloody awful.’
‘Just cuts and bruises,’ I say, taking out my key.
‘You need to get them looked at.’
‘I’m going to my room, I’ll be fine.’
He stands in front of his own door, watching me.
I walk off: ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘You sure you’re all right?’
I nod and raise my hand, a thumb up.
At my door, I turn and look back down the corridor –
But he’s gone.
*
I open my eyes –
The telephone’s ringing –
I reach across the bed, across the open copies of Spunk, the sheets from the Exegesis, and I pick up the phone: ‘Helen?’
‘Peter?’
I say: ‘Joan, I’m sorry.’
‘Been so worried about you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to sit up on the bed, grey light coming through the thin hotel curtains.
‘Where have you been?’
I look at my watch:
It’s seven o’clock –
Tuesday 23 December 1980.
‘Peter?’
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘I asked where you’ve been?’
‘Surveillance.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘There was no phone, I’m sorry.’
‘I was just worried, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You sound terrible.’
‘Just tired.’
‘Were you asleep?’
‘Doesn’t matter. Have you heard from Linda?’
‘That’s why I’ve been trying to call; Richard hasn’t been home since Sunday and she thought he might be with you.’
‘With me?’
‘She drove over looking for you.’
‘Oh no.’
‘You don’t know where he is then?’
‘No; Roger Hook told me he didn’t show up for the questioning yesterday morning.’
‘Questioning?’
‘It was just routine. He knew it was, but then Clement Smith went and had Vice raid his offices.’
‘Vice?’
My head’s throbbing: ‘Yeah, Vice.’
Joan says: ‘You think he’s all right?’
‘I think he might have gone abroad, you know?’
‘No, not Richard. Not without telling Linda.’
‘He’s not been himself, love. Really nervous, paranoid.’
‘Where would he go?’
‘The house in France.’
‘No? You really think so?’
‘Where else would he go?’
‘Should I say anything to Linda?’
‘If she calls again, you could mention it,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember if it had a phone, can you?’
‘It didn’t.’
‘You sure?’
‘You said that was the best thing about the place.’
I’m sat on the bed, on one of the magazines, holding the phone, noddin
g –
My head splitting: ‘You’re right.’
Joan says: ‘When you coming home, love?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’
‘I know. I’ll be definitely back tomorrow night. Maybe before.’
‘Hope so.’
‘I love you.’
‘Me too,’ she says.
‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye-bye.’
She hangs up and I sit on the bed, on one of the magazines, the phone dead in my hand, staring into the hotel mirror.
After a few minutes, I stand up and go into the bathroom and change my clothes and wash the blood from my face and my hair, off my hands, rinsing the sink clean after I’m done, clean of the brown water.
‘Helen?’ I say, banging on her door –
I keep knocking: ‘Helen?’
I try the door –
Locked –
Fuck.
Downstairs in the lobby of the Griffin, I ring the bell –
‘Can you tell me if Miss Marshall is in?’ I ask the receptionist.
He looks down his list and turns to the keys hanging on the pegs behind him and then looks back at me and shakes his head: ‘She’s out.’
I’m about to go but then ask him: ‘Any messages?’
‘Mr Hunter?’
I nod.
‘I believe your wife called a number of times last night.’
‘That all?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’m sure.’
It takes the best part of an hour to Levenshulme, the rain sleet then snow then sleet then rain, the roads empty, the landscape dead.
At ten o’clock, local radio tells me the news:
‘An explosion last night destroyed a newsagents and badly damaged adjoining premises on the Bradford Road, Batley. Nine people were taken to hospital to be treated for shock and cuts caused by flying glass. One person had to be kept in for further treatment. Fire officers are investigating claims that the explosion was caused by gas canisters sold at the newsagents.
‘Many shops will again close early tonight as police continue to investigate a call made to the Daily Mirror from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and threatening to kill again today. Meanwhile police released a new description and photofit of the man seen in the Alma Road vicinity of Headingley at the time police estimate Laureen Bell was brutally murdered.
‘The man is described as …’
I switch off the radio –
I know what he looks like.
I park on their road in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport, the Exegesis on my lap, listening to the tapes in my head:
Robert Charles Douglas: October 12, 1946 – born Mirfield, West Yorks; April 1964 – joins Bradford police; August 1973 – marries Sharon Pearson; February 1974 – daughter Karen born; December 17, 1974 – arrests Michael Myshkin; December 24, 1974 – shot and wounded Strafford Arms, Wakefield; October 13, 1975 – forced to retire from West Yorkshire Police. Moves to Manchester.
Stop –
Rewind:
Bradford police –
Eric Hall, Detective Inspector Eric Hall –
Bradford Vice.
Rewind:
‘Trust your Uncle Bob.’
Thinking –
Uncle Bob?
Wondering –
Detective Inspector Robert Craven –
Or former policeman Robert Douglas –
Stop.
I take a couple of painkillers for my back –
Then I put a couple of copies of Spunk in a carrier bag and I get out, lock the door, and walk up their road through the slight rain to their detached house.
There are no lights on, no car in the drive.
I walk up to the front door and ring the bell and wait –
A woman’s voice from behind the patterned glass says: ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Douglas?’
‘Yes?’
‘Police, love.’
I hear the chain go on and then the door opens –
Sharon Douglas peers through the gap and over the chain: ‘Police?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, showing her my identification.
‘This about Bob and Karen?’
‘Yep, in a way. Can I come in?’ She takes the chain off and opens the door –
I step inside the dark detached house. ‘Go through,’ she says, nodding at the lounge door to the right –
I go into the lounge with it’s unframed Degas print, the Christmas cards and the tree, the photos of their daughter, the TV on, the sound off.
‘Sit down,’ she says –
I sit down on the big settee.
She sits down in one of the matching chairs next to an electric fire with artificial glowing coal –
Mrs Douglas is still red and black around her eyes, but no longer bloated with tea and sympathy; good-looking, she’s got short blond hair, like Lady Diana Spencer, purple trousers and a black sweater.
I say: ‘There was a fire in Batley last night at the newsagents your husband owns.’
‘They called in the night,’ she nods.
‘Who did, love?’
‘The police,’ she nods again, fighting back the tears: ‘I wanted to go over there, to the shop, but I’ve no car have I?’
‘Family, friends, give you a lift?’
‘Not local, no.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Bradford.’
‘Manchester born and bred me,’ I say. ‘Live out at Alderley Edge.’
She smiles: ‘Nice.’
‘We like it,’ I say. ‘Miss it, do you? Being a Yorkshire lass, stuck over here with us pagans?’
She nods again.
I say: ‘Will you go back?’
She shakes her head, biting her lip.
‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’
‘It’s too soon to go,’ she says. ‘All her things are here, her toys, all his stuff.’
I ask: ‘Why did you move over this way?’
‘Bob,’ she says. ‘Wanted to get away’
‘From Yorkshire?’ I smile. ‘Can’t say I blame him.’
She smiles politely, eyes dead and blank.
I ask: ‘Were you married long?’
‘Seven years.’
‘So he was a copper when you met him, Bob?’
Nodding: ‘Yeah, did you know him well?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Not well.’
‘He didn’t want to leave, you know?’
‘So I hear.’
‘We did all right though.’
‘He never worked at this shop in Batley then?’
‘No. Wasn’t him, was it. He rents it to some Pakis.’
‘So what did he do?’
‘He’s got his business interests.’
‘His business interests?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ she shrugs.
‘Fair enough,’ I say.
‘Sorry, look at me forgetting my manners,’ she says, standing up suddenly. ‘Have a cup of tea, will you?’
‘Go on then. If you’re making one.’
She crosses the room and then stops in the doorway: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Peter Hunter,’ I smile.
‘Sharon,’ she smiles back. ‘Sharon Douglas …’ and then she stops –
Stops and turns right round –
I’m still smiling at her.
‘Peter Hunter, did you say?’
I nod, smiling.
‘You were here on Sunday, that was you. You’re the bloke that investigates all the police, aren’t you?’
I try to keep smiling: ‘And we met at Headquarters –’
‘And you were over in Wakefield after Bob got shot, I remember you now. They were always –’
‘They were always what, love?’
But she looks right at me, shaking her head: ‘I think you’
d better leave.’
I stay put, right where I am: ‘They were always what, Sharon?’
‘I want you to leave.’
I stand up and take a Spunk out: ‘I need to talk to you about these.’
‘Get out!’ she shouts, not even a glance at the magazine.
‘These his business interests, are they love?’
‘Get out!’
‘Look at it, Sharon.’
‘Get out!’
I walk towards her: ‘This how you two met, was it?’
‘Fuck off!’ she shouts, heading for the door –
I follow her out into the hall: ‘Don’t worry, love. I’ve got them all. Every bleeding issue.’
She opens the door and grabs my arm, pulling and then pushing me out into the drive –
‘Bastard!’ she screams. ‘My daughter’s dead, you fucking bastard!’
‘Which issue were you –’
‘Fucking bastard!’ she spits and slams the door.
I hold the magazine open up to the glass, saying: ‘Have to make some copies for your neighbours.’
‘I’m calling the police,’ comes the voice from the other side of the door –
‘Good idea,’ I say, walking off. ‘We love a bit of smut.’
And then somewhere over the Moors again, I remember it’s almost Christmas and I hate myself afresh, wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing, what the fuck I thought I was going to do, the bad dreams not leaving, just staying bad, like the headaches and the backache, the murder and the lies, the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers: