by David Peace
666.
Parked by a church on the way into Denholme, the Exegesis on my lap, listening to the tapes in my head again –
Listening and revising, filling in the blanks –
Fleshing out the bones –
Convinced:
Robert Charles Douglas was born in Mirfield, West Yorkshire on October 12, 1946, sharing a birthday with the cultist and black magician Aleister Crowley. Attended Mirfield Grammar School, briefly enrolling at a technical college before leaving to join the Bradford police when he was eighteen. Age of twenty-seven, Douglas married Sharon Pearson, a glamour model ten years his junior. February 1974, daughter Karen born. 1974, as a Detective Constable, Douglas became nationally known as one of the two policemen responsible for the arrest of Michael Myshkin, the man later convicted of the murders of Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, and Clare Kemplay. Only weeks later Douglas was again in the headlines, this time as the victim of a serious gunshot wound received as he attempted to foil a robbery at the Strafford Arms public house in the centre of Wakefield. Forced to retire from the police on disability grounds on October 13, 1975, the day after his twenty-ninth birthday. It was a decision he’d annealed three times. With the substantial compensation for the injuries and his forced retirement, Douglas bought a new house in Levenshulme in Manchester and a newsagents in Batley. He later sublet the newsagents in order to concentrate on other business interests with a Bradford Vice detective named Eric Hall and a Manchester businessman called Richard Dawson. They started publishing a pornographic contact magazine – Spunk. His life however began to deteriorate from October 13, 1975. Always a heavy drinker – even as a serving policeman Douglas was considered to be ‘unstable’ and ‘a weak link’ by some of his colleagues – from 1975 on, Douglas was involved in a number of minor incidents all of which, however, highlighted a growing dependency on alcohol. Throughout 1977, Douglas was frequently reported missing by his wife and, on his intermittent returns to their Manchester home, police were called by neighbours reporting insulting and threatening behaviour and physical assaults upon his wife. In June 1977 both Eric Hall and his girlfriend, a sometime Spunk model called Janice Ryan, were murdered. Douglas was not mentioned in either investigation. During the summer of 1979, Douglas was actually listed as a missing person by local police who were unable to locate him. He eventually turned up at his brother’s flat in Glasgow in September 1979. He returned to his wife later the same month, apparently having given up drinking. He remained in Manchester until late November 1980 when he once again began disappearing for days at a time. Bob Douglas was scared, running – sometime between Tuesday 16 and Wednesday 17 December 1980, Bob Douglas and his daughter were murdered.
Douglas, Dawson, and Hall –
Convinced:
Obsessed, possessed, convinced.
I pull up once more in front of that lonely house with its back to the Denholme golf course and I walk up the drive and I ring the bell –
Another voice from behind another door: ‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Hall? It’s Peter Hunter.’
I listen to a chain being dropped and two locks sliding back –
The door opens:
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hunter,’ smiles Libby Hall –
‘Is it?’ I say, looking round at the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me.
‘Come in,’ she says. ‘I seem to be quite the flavour of the month.’
‘Thank you,’ I say and walk through into the front room.
‘Do sit down,’ she says.
‘Thank you,’ I say again and sit down on the big golden sofa.
‘What happened to your face?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Really,’ she smiles. ‘Will you have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’ve just had one.’
‘If you’re sure I can’t tempt you?’ she laughs, sitting down beside me on the sofa.
‘You said you’d been having a lot of visitors?’
‘It seems so,’ she smiles. ‘First you and DS Marshall, then the Reverend called by again, not that that was such a surprise, then Helen Marshall came back last night, and now you again, not to mention my son; he’s forever popping in and out, checking up on me no doubt.’
‘You saw DS Marshall yesterday then, did you?’
‘Yes, she rang and asked if it would be OK. Because it was a bit late.’
‘What time was it when she got here?’
‘About nine thirty, I think,’ she says, puzzled.
‘Did she stay long?’
‘No, why? Is anything the matter?’
‘No.’
‘Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’
‘No, why should it have done?’
She’s tugging at her necklace, at the skin beneath: ‘Well, you know? The Ripper promising to kill again?’
‘Mrs Hall, I assure you there’s nothing wrong. I was up this way and I thought seeing as I’m in the area, I’d pop in and say hello. But I know DS Marshall was planning to have a chat with you, just our paths haven’t crossed today. That’s all.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunter. But it’s just she didn’t look so well either.’
‘I think she’s just tired, what with the Ripper Inquiry and all.’
‘That’s what she said. I thought you were going to say she’d been in some kind of accident or something.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘That’s all right then,’ she smiles.
‘She didn’t ask you about these two fellers from the Sunday Times, did she?’
‘Yes, yes. That’s a queer business, that is.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Well I never spoke to anyone from the Sunday Times, did I?’
‘You speak to any journalists recently?’
‘Mr Hunter, would that I had,’ she sighed. ‘I’ve tried, but no-one wants to know.’
‘Talk to anyone recently? Other policemen? Anyone?’
She’s shaking her head: ‘That’s what Helen Marshall asked and I’ll tell you the same as I told her: No – unfortunately’
‘Did DS Marshall ask you anything else?’
‘Bit about the Reverend, bit about Mr Whitehead.’
‘Right,’ I nod.
‘Hear Mr Whitehead isn’t so well?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Had some kind of seizure?’
‘Yes, I believe that’s what it was.’
‘But he’s out of the woods apparently?’
‘Is that what DS Marshall said?’
‘Helen? No, it was the Reverend Laws told me.’
‘So what time did she leave?’
‘Oh, about ten, ten thirty maybe? She didn’t stay more than an hour, if that.’
I glance at my watch.
‘You’re sure nothing’s happened? Not trying to spare me something, are you Mr Hunter?’
I say: ‘She’s fine. But do you mind if I just ask you a couple more questions?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I’ve been going through Eric’s things, the stuff you gave me, and I came across a magazine; a pornographic magazine.’
‘Yes,’ she says, not missing a beat, a blink: ‘Spunk.’
I nod and say: ‘You know anything about it?’
‘Only that Janice Ryan was in it.’
‘You never heard Eric mention it?’
‘No.’
‘How about a company called MJM Limited?’
‘Does sound familiar actually.’
I sit forward: ‘Yes?’
‘They make films, don’t they?’
‘Maybe. What do you know about them?’
‘They have that lion at the start? Them yeah?’
I sit back in my chair and smile: ‘That’d be MGM, Mrs Hall.’
‘Sorry, who did you say?’
‘MJM.’
‘No, I don’t t
hink so then.’
‘What about a man called Richard Dawson?’
She’s shaking her head: ‘No.’
‘Your husband know anyone at all called Richard?’
She pauses, then says slowly: ‘No; not that I can think of.’
‘No-one? Not one single person?’
‘Well, there’s our son Richard of course.’
I say: ‘How about a Bob Douglas? Did he ever mention a policeman called Bob Douglas?’
‘Yes,’ she says, sitting up. ‘Dougie? Yes. His wife Sharon and the little girl –’
‘Karen,’ I say.
‘Yes, Karen.’
‘You friends with them, were you?’
‘Friends? Suppose we are – were anyway.’
‘Been over to their house, have you?’
‘Me, no. Manchester?’
‘Levenshulme.’
‘That’s right. I know Eric went there a couple of times and Dougie used to come over here and play a round or two with Eric every now and again.’
‘Golf?’
‘Yes,’ she smiles. ‘Though Dougie, Bob that is – he apparently thought he was a lot better than he actually was. They did come to dinner once as well.’
‘Bob Douglas and his wife?’
‘Yes, just the once. She’s a lot younger than I am, so I suppose you couldn’t expect them to, you know, be coming down all the time.’
‘When did you last see them?’
‘Not since…’
‘Right,’ I say, quickly.
‘Same with a lot of folk.’
Moving fast now: ‘How did they meet?’
‘Bradford, when Dougie first started.’
‘Of course,’ I nod.
‘Wasn’t there long before he was transferred,’ she’s saying, staring off into the heavy gold curtains. ‘But then when he got shot and there was all that business and then they got the house over there, well I think they just had less chance to see each other.’
‘But they got on well?’
She frowns: ‘He wasn’t right was Dougie – not after the shooting.’
‘So I hear.’
‘But would you listen to me?’ she says, suddenly. ‘I’m as bad as them that talk about me, aren’t I?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No you’re not.’
‘Better off dead, kicking him out like that – that’s what they say about him; what Eric said. Better off dead – just like they say about me.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Better off dead, that’s what they say.’
I say: ‘Mrs Hall, I’m afraid Bob is dead.’
She tugs at the skin of her neck and says: ‘When?’
‘Last week. I thought you would have heard.’
She shakes her head: ‘No.’
‘He was murdered.’
Tugging at the skin of her neck, shaking her head: ‘No.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, looking out at the road and the looming night and the constant rain into sleet into snow into rain into sleet into snow that seems to be haunting me, plaguing me, cursing me –
‘It was Eric’s worst nightmare that, you know?’ says Mrs Hall suddenly.
‘What was?’
‘Being kicked out like Dougie was. That and having to do time.’
‘Bob Douglas was hardly kicked out. Got a load of brass.’
‘Eric always said he’d kill himself rather than lose his job or go inside.’
‘That’s not an uncommon sentiment,’ I say.
‘Suppose that’s why they hate you so much. Call you what they do.’
Thinking, Saint Cunt –
Saying: ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Why Eric hated you.’
I can’t think of anything else to say, so I say: ‘It mightn’t have come to that.’
She smiles: ‘That’s not true, Mr Hunter. But thank you.’
I look at my watch –
When I look up, Mrs Hall says again: ‘What would you do?’
‘Pardon?’
‘If they threw you out?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What about prison? Could you do that?’
‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Would you think about killing yourself? Suicide?’
‘No.’
Then she says quietly: ‘He was all right was Dougie. Caught that Myshkin bloke, didn’t he?’
‘He did,’ I say and stand up –
‘You’re going?’
‘I better had.’
She stands up.
I walk over to the door –
She comes up behind me and opens it.
I say: ‘She didn’t say where she was going I suppose, did she?’
‘Helen? No.’
‘Well, thank you for your time again,’ I say, then add: ‘And you’re absolutely certain no-one else’s been to see you or called you in connection with Eric and Janice Ryan?’
‘I’m certain.’
‘Looks like I’ll have to be giving the Sunday Times a call,’ I say, eyes on the night.
‘Does sound like someone’s been telling you lies.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ I sigh. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Doubt it’ll be the last either,’ she smiles.
I take the A644 down into Brighouse and then make my way through Kirklees and back into Batley, stopping for a look at the black shell of RD News, still smouldering in the white flurries of snow, car lights picking out the flakes as they pass, Pakistanis and Chinamen coming and going, in and out, the windows of the Chop Suey and the chemists all boarded over.
On the Ml again, outskirts of Leeds –
The radio on, when:
‘Police have still been unable to identify the body of a man discovered this afternoon in the burnt-out flat above a newsagents on the Bradford Road, Batley, which was destroyed by fire late last night. Police and fire investigators were not initially treating the blaze as suspicious, however police confirmed tonight that they were appealing for witnesses to come forward. A police spokesman refused to speculate on the cause of both the fire and the man’s death but did confirm that arson had not been ruled out.’
I’m on the hard shoulder, hazard lights on, screaming into the Yorkshire night:
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!
Millgarth, Leeds:
Looking for Marshall –
Looking for Murphy –
Looking for anyone, upstairs and down.
Ripper Room half empty; forty eyes on me in the door and then back down into their books and their papers, the files and the photographs, Christmas streamers strung from corner to corner across the ceiling.
I swipe a paper off an empty desk and head next door –
Dead:
The fuck were they?
The Evening Post headline:
Batley Blaze Body Found.
I skim it:
Firemen investigating the cause of last night’s fire at a Batley newsagents on the Bradford Road made a grim discovery late this morning when the body of an unidentified man was found in the first floor flat above the shop where the fire was thought to have started. The body was removed to Pinderfields Hospital for a post-mortem and identification.
Both the newsagents and flat were badly damaged in the fire which also caused extensive damage to adjoining properties and left nine people needing hospital treatment. Neighbours told the Evening Post that they heard three loud explosions at the time and believe the fire may have been caused by gas canisters which were stored on the premises. There was a shock among local people at the fatality and surprise that the flat had been occupied.
I reach for a phone and try to get through to Pinderfields, find out who’s doing the post-mortem, but they’ve all gone home or they’re lying.
I look at my watch:
Nine going on ten.
I stand up, I sit down, I stand up again –
Going down the corridor, looking for Angus or Noble, a
bout to tum the corner when I hear two voices round the bend –
Two voices that stop me dead:
Craven: ‘I’m not going to be the fucking goat, no fucking way that’s going to happen and you can tell him that from me.’
Alderman: ‘It won’t come to that.’
Craven: ‘Better fucking hadn’t. Because there’s none of that all for one and one for all bollocks if it does. It’s Bob for Bob.’
Alderman: ‘Is that a threat? Is that what you want me to tell him?’
Craven: ‘It’s out of hand, that’s all I’m saying.’
Alderman: ‘We’ve seen worse, we both have. You know we have.’
Craven: ‘Yeah, and that’s what I’m telling you: there’s always been a goat and it isn’t going to be me.’
I walk backwards a few paces and then head forward, loud as I can, round the corner –
They both freeze, Alderman and Craven.
‘Gentlemen?’ I say.
‘Fuck off,’ spits Alderman and pushes past me down the corridor –
I ask: ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Bad day,’ says Craven.
‘Aren’t they all,’ I nod and hand him the Evening Post –
He looks down at the headline and the photograph of the burnt-out newsagents on the Bradford Road, looks at it and says: ‘I saw it.’
‘So who is it?’
‘Who is what?’
‘The body?’
‘Fuck knows,’ shrugs Craven, handing me back the paper.
‘You know who owned the place?’
‘Couldn’t give a shit,’ he says and walks off the way Alderman went.
I stand there, paper in my hand in the corridor, their corridor.
After a few moments, I knock on Noble’s door –
There’s no answer –
No-one home.
I park the Saab under the dark arches and walk back up to the Griffin, the carrier bag full of Spunks in my hand.
I walk straight into the bar, but there’s no-one there, no-one I know.
I go upstairs and I knock on Helen Marshall’s door –
Then Murphy’s –
Mac’s –
Mike Hillman’s –
Fuck.
Furious, I go back downstairs and have one whiskey in the bar and decide to head back to RDNews because I’ve got nowhere else to go and I can’t sleep until I get the post-mortem on the body, my back killing me anyway, although I’m fucked if I know how I’m going to get the post-mortem, and I’m heading out the front door of the Griffin when the smug little man from behind the desk says: