by David Peace
This way,’ he says and leads me over to the lift.
He presses the button and we wait.
The lift arrives and the door opens –
He says: ‘Sorry about your house.’
I look at him –
He looks away.
Outside, outside in the car park –
Outside in the car park, looking at my new digital watch:
14:36:04 –
Struggling with the car door and my briefcase –
Slumped behind the wheel:
Fudged.
Struggling, slumped and fucked –
In the reserved space that still says:
Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable.
Someone’s tapping on the glass –
I open my eyes:
Dark, night.
The policeman is saying:
‘I’m sorry, you can’t park here.’
Fuck.
‘It’s reserved.’
And I switch on the engine and the headlights in the reserved space that says:
Assistant Chief Constable.
No name –
Only:
Assistant Chief Constable.
I drive out of Manchester, through Wilmslow, and on to Alderley Edge.
I turn on to the Macclesfield Road.
There are no fire engines tonight.
And I pull up on the road and park there, the drive covered in the debris –
The house, what’s left of our house in silence –
Our home –
Gone –
Lit match, gone.
I get out of the car and pick my way up the drive through the debris until I’m stood in front of the burnt-out shell of my house, seeing those marks and smelling that smell, tasting that taste, again –
Tears in my eyes –
Unable to stop the tears, the fear –
Unable to stop the fear –
And I walk through the places where there were doors and windows, where the walls are now black, and I keep walking along the side of the garage until I come to the War Room –
The War Room –
Everything gone –
Everything but the fear –
Knowing –
Knowing they’re doing this to me because of who I am, because of what I am –
Because of who I know, of what I know –
Because of the fear –
To give me the fear –
And I bend down and take a handful of warm black ash and I spit in that black ash and rub it between my fingers and my palms and then I take the ash and draw a cross upon my face –
A cross to keep the fear away –
A cross to keep the fear –
A cross to keep –
A cross to –
A cross.
once again thank you for being a friend for you have seen my face in the stamp on the envelope of the letter e sent and e will leave this place to meet a friend in the winter that never leaves and says in a yorkshire way e say the weather is letting us down again winter still in the middle of may transmission ten sent may eighteenth nineteen seventy nine in morley Joanne clare thornton found dead in lewisham park the following morning struck twice on the head dead instantly clothes repositioned body stabbed twenty five times with a kitchen knife with a four inch blade extensive damage to abdominal area and to vagina one shoe placed between thighs coat thrown over her e parked and ran to catch up with her and e said excuse me and e asked her the time and she squinted at the clock across the way and said it was half past eleven and e said my what good eyes you have and she said thank you and e said where have you been and she said to see her grandmother and e said have you got far to go and she said it was quite a walk and e said have you not thought about learning to drive and she said she preferred to ride horses and e said well you should be careful out here alone in this park at this time of night you cannot trust anybody these days and e stooped to pretend to tie my shoelace and then e took the hammer from my pocket and e hit her twice on the top of the head and dragged her from the path and e sorted out her clothes then e took out the ten inch philips screwdriver which e had sharpened to a point and e took out the kitchen knife and e stabbed her twenty five times and three times e inserted the screwdriver into her vagina and e punctured her uterus winter still the following received june twentieth nineteen seventy nine e am jack e see you are still having no luck catching me e have the greatest respect for you george but lord you are no nearer catching me now than four years ago when e started e reckon your boys are letting you down george they cannot be much good can they the only time they came near catching me was a few months back in chapeltown when e was disturbed even then it was a uniformed copper not a detective e warned you in march that e would strike again sorry it was not bradford e did promise you that but e could not get there e am not quite sure when e will strike again but it will be definitely some time this year maybe September October even sooner if e get the chance e am not sure where maybe manchester e like it there there is plenty of them knocking about they never do learn do they george e bet you have warned them but they never listen take her in preston and e did did e not george dirty cow come my load up that at the rate e am going e should be in the book of records e think it is up to eleven now is it not well e will keep on going for quite a while yet e cannot see myself being nicked just yet even if you do get near e will probably top myself first well it has been nice chatting to you george yours jack the ripper no good looking for fingerprints you should know by now it is as clean as a whistle see you soon bye hope you like the catchy tune at the end ha ha thank you for being a friend traveled down road and back again your heart is true you are a pal and a confidant e am not ashamed to say e hope it always will stay this way my hat is off will you not stand up and take a bow if you threw a party invited everyone you knew you would see biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say thank you for being a friend if it is a car you lack e would surely buy you a white corsair whatever you need anytime day or night it always will stay this way when we both get older with walking canes and hair of grey have no fear even though it
Chapter 17
Joan’s parents’ house, sitting in their front room among the Christmas cards, their front room and Christmas cards like the front room that was our front room with its Christmas cards, the front room that was our front room until Thursday night, in front of their tree, their tree like the tree that was our tree until Thursday night, sitting in their front room, Mr and Mrs Roberts trying to leave us alone, give us some time, give us some space, some time and some space like the time and the space that was our time and our space until Thursday night, but they’re in and out all the same, me and Joan sitting in their front room on their sofa, the sofa like the sofa that was our sofa until Thursday night, sitting in their front room on their sofa like the teenage couple we never were, me wanting to hold her hand –
Holding her hand –
Holding her hand, holding back my tears, trying to catch hers, trying to stop them, – but all the things we’ve lost, there’s so much, we’ve lost so very much, too much, the things we’ve lost, there are so many, we’ve lost so very many things, too many.
‘The application forms,’ she’s sobbing.
‘We can easily get more, that won’t be a problem.’
‘But we haven’t got a house, Peter. They’ll never let us …’
‘We’ll get a new one, rebuild the old one. The insurance …’
‘Not if it was those lights.’
‘It wasn’t the lights,’ I snap. ‘And it doesn’t make any difference even if it was.’
‘But it’ll be years.’
‘No, it won’t.’
‘They’ll never let us, not now.’
‘Of course they bloody will.’
Holding her hand, holding back my tears, trying to catch hers, trying to stop them, – but all the things we’ve lost, there’s so much, we’ve lost so very much
, too much, the things we’ve lost, there are so many, we’ve lost so very many things, too many.
Her mother puts her head round the door again: ‘Another cup of tea anyone?’
I glance at my new watch, shaking my head and lie: ‘I’ve got to be in the office.’
‘At least you’ve still got a job,’ Joan sniffs. ‘Least you’ve still got that.’
I get into the car.
I sit behind the wheel.
I look at my watch again:
10:08:00 –
I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of their drive.
I head into Manchester –
Head into Manchester because I’ve got nowhere else to go:
Nowhere but here.
Saturday 27 December 1980 –
Two o’clock:
Manchester Police Headquarters –
The eleventh floor:
I knock on the door of the room that was my office, that was my office up until yesterday afternoon.
‘Come.’
I open the door.
Ronald Angus is sitting in the chair that was my chair, the chair behind the desk that was my desk, the desk in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon at 14:35:00.
‘Sit down,’ says Angus, nodding at the empty chair next to Chief Superintendent Jobson –
I sit down.
Angus leans across the desk, the desk that was my desk, and he hands me a piece of paper –
I take it from him and I read:
Information has been received which indicates that during the past six years you have associated with persons in circumstances that are considered undesirable, and by such associations you may have placed yourself under an obligation as a police officer to those persons.
‘That’s it?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘No names, no times, no dates, no places?’
‘It’s not an allegation, nor a complaint.’
‘So what is it?’
‘It is information received that needs to be investigated.’
‘So let me help; tell me the names of these people with whom I’m supposed to have associated?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Well then, tell me what kind of obligations I’m supposed to have placed myself under?’
‘I cannot.’
I’m smiling –
Despite myself I am smiling –
Smiling at Ronald Angus, the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, the West Yorkshire force that forty-eight hours before I was investigating, smiling at him sat there in the chair that was my chair, the chair behind the desk that was my desk, the desk in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he says. ‘I know how this looks, so I know what you’re thinking. But I can assure you my own reputation for fairness and integrity is as much on the line here as your own.’
I can’t help myself: ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse, sir?’
Angus has had enough: ‘Mr Hunter, to be blunt: I don’t care how you feel.’
Silence –
In the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon, silence –
Silence until Maurice Jobson says: ‘Peter, we’re going to have to ask you to provide us with full details of your bank account and any credit cards and savings accounts you might have had in the last six years.’
‘Why?’
Jobson shakes his head: ‘I can’t tell you, you know that.’
‘No, I don’t know that.’
‘OK, well I’m telling you now.’
‘OK, Maurice,’ I smile. ‘I’ll tell you something shall I? I am under no legal obligation whatsoever to provide you with that information.’
‘No, you’re not,’ interrupts Angus. ‘But if you don’t oblige us, I’ll just get a judge to make you.’
‘Then you’d be wasting even more of your time than you already are.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I can’t give you it.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ smiles Angus.
‘Can’t.’
‘Why not?’ asks Jobson.
‘The fire.’
Angus sits back in his chair and sighs: ‘Convenient.’
‘What?’ I say, voice raised: ‘You what?’
Jobson’s holding onto my arm, pulling me back down into the chair in front of the desk, the chair in front of the desk that was my desk, the desk in the room that was my room, the room that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon, Jobson telling me: ‘Take it easy, now. Take it easy.’
‘What about your passport?’ asks Angus.
‘What about it?’
‘Lose that as well?’
I tell him: ‘We lost everything.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Going to take that as well were you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fucking hell,’ I say, shaking my head.
Again silence –
Again silence in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon –
Again silence until Angus says: ‘Two o’clock. Monday.’
‘That’s it?’ I say.
‘Wakefield,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Two o’clock. Monday. Wakefield.’
‘You’re joking? You’re supposed to come here. It’s procedure.’
‘Mr Hunter,’ sighs Mr Angus. ‘We want this thing over and done with as much as you do. But you also know more than most the pressure we’re under over there, so if you want us to get a move on with this we’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mind coming over to Wakefield on Monday.’
I nod and stand up.
‘Good day Mr Hunter,’ he says.
‘One thing,’ I say –
He looks up.
‘Disciplinary Regulations demand that information be given to an accused officer in sufficient detail for him to be able to defend himself, and that the full name and address of the person making the complaint must also be provided to him.’
Angus nods and says: ‘I know.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Then I look forward to receiving that information from you at two o’clock on Monday in Wakefield.’
Angus is looking at me, staring at me, staring at me stood there.
More silence –
More silence in the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon –
More silence until the phone starts ringing –
Angus picks it up: ‘Chief Constable Angus speaking.’
He’s listening, still looking at me.
‘Yes he is,’ he says into the phone, eyes never leaving mine –
Mine never leaving his.
‘Just a moment,’ he says and puts his hand over the mouthpiece –
‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘Won’t give his name, but says it’s an emergency.’
Never leaving his.
Ronald Angus leans forward and hands me the phone, the phone that was my phone until yesterday afternoon –
I take the phone from him and lean across the desk, the desk that was my desk, and I press the flashing red button: ‘This is Peter Hunter.’
‘Are you alone?’ a man’s voice asks – young.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Well then, I’ll make this brief.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I’ve got some information concerning one of the Ripper murders.’
‘I’m still listening,’ I say, thinking –
ASSUME THIS PHONE IS TAPPED.
Him: ‘Be in Preston tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘Where?’
‘St Mary’s? It’s a pub on Church Street.’
‘What time?’
‘One?’
‘Fine.’
The line goes dead.
I hand the phone, the phone that was my phone until yesterday after
noon, I hand it back to Ronald Angus –
He takes it from me, his eyes black and burning to know who that was, Jobson the same.
I say nothing and turn and walk to the door, the door that was my door, the door to the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.
‘Mr Hunter?’ says Angus as I open the door. ‘One thing for you.’
I turn around –
‘We will be asking you for authorisation to go directly to your bank and we will also be asking you to turn over official diaries and expenses, not forgetting all files pertaining to the Ripper.’
I nod and turn back to the door –
‘Is that a yes, Mr Hunter?’
I nod again, my back to him, and I step out into the corridor and shut the door, shut the door to the office that was my office, that was my office until yesterday afternoon.
I pull into the drive of Joan’s parents’ house at almost six o’clock and I can see Joan watching for me in their front room.
She comes out into the drive as I’m locking the car –
‘Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you tell me?’
I can see her parents standing in the hall, her father with his arms around her mother –
‘What?’
‘It’s all over the papers, the news. It’s everywhere.’
‘What is?’
‘Your suspension,’ she says, holding out the evening paper –
‘What?’
‘You didn’t know?’
I take the paper from her and stand in the dark and the rain of her parents’ drive straining to read the front page of the Manchester Evening News under a headline that’s as large as it is a lie:
Suspended.
In big, black, bold type –
With my photograph underneath, one taken of me wrestling a student to the ground during a recent demonstration when Keith Joseph came North on a visit to Manchester Polytechnic.
Manchester Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter was today suspended from duty due to what police sources are describing as serious allegations.
In a carefully worded statement, Mr Donald Lees of the Greater Manchester Police Authority told reporters that, Information has been received in relation to the conduct of a Senior Police Officer which disclosed the possibility of a disciplinary offence. To maintain public confidence, the Chairman of the Police Committee, Councillor Clive Birkenshaw, has requested the Chief Constable of West Yorkshire, Mr Ronald Angus, to investigate this matter under the appropriate statutory provisions. The Assistant Chief Constable involved is on temporary leave of absence whilst the matter is being investigated.’