by David Peace
Kelly switched off the engine and took out his wallet. ‘What do you want to do with this?’
‘Half and half?’
‘Yeah,’ said Kelly, counting out the tenners.
He handed me five.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘What happened to your car?’
‘Hadden said to take the bus. That you’d be coming back here, said you could drive me back.’
Fuck, I thought. I bet he did.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Nowt,’ I said. ‘Just asking.’
‘We live in the Great Age of Investigative Journalism and Barry Gannon was one of the men who gave us this age. Where he saw injustice, he asked for justice. Where he saw lies, he asked for truth. Barry Gannon asked big questions of big men because he believed that the Great British Public deserved the Big Picture.
‘Barry Gannon once said that the truth can only make us richer. For all of us who seek that truth, Barry’s premature passing has left us all so much the poorer.’
Bill Hadden, looking drained and small behind his desk, took off his glasses and looked up. I nodded, thinking Barry Gannon had so said many things over so many beers, one of them being something he picked up in India about an elephant, three blind men, and the truth.
After a suitable pause, I said, ‘Is that in today’s?’
‘No. We’re going to wait until after the inquest.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you know how it is. Never know what they might turn up. What do you think?’
‘Very good.’
‘You don’t think it’s too overtly panegyric do you?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I said, absolutely ignorant of what the fuck panegyric meant.
‘Good,’ said Hadden and put the typed sheet of A4 to one side. ‘You met up with Paul Kelly then?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you gave Mrs Sheard her money?’
‘Yep,’ I said much too cheerfully, wondering if the miserable bitch would call Hadden about the police and start talking pennies.
‘He got the photos and everything?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you finished the copy?’
‘Almost,’ I lied.
‘What else have you got on?’
‘Nothing much,’ I lied again, thinking of Jeanette Garland, Susan Ridyard, Clare Kemplay, burning gypsy camps, The Canals of the North, Arnold Fowler and his wingless swans, PCs Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, and the last words of Barry Gannon.
‘Mmm,’ said Hadden, the city dark behind him already.
‘I did talk to the parents of Susan Ridyard on Saturday, like we said. You remember, the human interest bit?’
‘Forget that,’ said Hadden standing up, about to pace. ‘I want you to concentrate on the Clare Kemplay story.’
‘But I thought you …’
Hadden had his hand raised. ‘We’re going to need a lot more background stuff if we’re going to keep this one alive.’
‘But I thought you said it was Jack’s story now?’ The whine was back in my voice.
Hadden’s face darkened. ‘And I thought we’d agreed you’d be covering it together?’
I pushed on. ‘But there doesn’t seem to be a right lot of togetherness so far.’
‘Mmm,’ said Hadden, picking up Barry’s obituary. ‘This is a very difficult time for all of us. You’ve had your reasons no doubt, but you haven’t always been here when we’ve needed you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, thinking what a twat he truly was.
Hadden sat back down. ‘As I say, you’ve had your own losses and problems, I know. The point is Jack’s covering the day to day investigation and you’re on background.’
‘Background?’
‘It’s what you do best. Jack was only saying today what a great novelist you’d make.’ Hadden was smiling.
I could picture the scene. ‘And that’s supposed to be a compliment is it?’
Hadden was laughing. ‘From Jack Whitehead it is.’
‘Yeah?’ I smiled and began to count backwards from one hundred.
‘Anyway, you’ll love this. I want you to go and visit this medium …’
Eighty-six, eighty-five. ‘Medium?’
‘Yes, medium, fortune teller,’ said Hadden, rooting through one of the drawers of his desk. ‘Claims she led the police to Clare’s body and that she’s been asked to help them find the killer.’
‘And you want me to interview her?’ I sighed, thirty-nine, thirty-eight.
‘Yes. Here we are: Flat 5, 28 Blenheim Road, Wakefield. Behind the Grammar School.’
Hello Memory Lane. Twenty-four, twenty-three. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Mandy Wymer. Calls herself Mystic Mandy.’
I gave up. ‘We going to cross her palm with silver?’
‘Unfortunately a woman of Mandy’s many talents doesn’t come cheap.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow. I’ve made you an appointment for one o’clock.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, at sixes and sevens, standing up.
Hadden stood up with me. ‘You know it’s the inquest tomorrow?’
‘Which one?’
‘Barry’s.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. A Sergeant Fraser wants to talk to you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘In about fifteen minutes, in the lobby.’
More cops. I felt my balls shrink.
‘Right.’ I opened the door thinking it could have been worse, he could have mentioned Mrs Dawson, the run-in with the two coppers in Ponty, or even Kathryn bloody Taylor.
‘And don’t forget Mystic Mandy.’
‘How could I?’ I closed the door.
‘Be right up your street.’
‘I’m sorry to bother you Mr Dunford at a time like this, but I’m trying to build up an exact picture of Mr Gannon’s movements for yesterday.’ The Sergeant was young, friendly, and blond.
I thought he was taking the piss and said, ‘He picked me up at about ten maybe …’
‘I’m sorry sir. This would be where?’
‘10 Wesley Street, Ossett.’
‘Thank you.’ He noted it down and looked back up.
‘We drove over to Castleford in Barry, er, Mr Gannon’s car. I interviewed a Mrs Garland at 11 Brunt Street, Castleford, and …’
‘Paula Garland?’
‘Yeah.’
Sergeant Fraser had stopped writing. ‘As in Jeanette Garland?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I see. And this was with Mr Gannon?’
‘No. Mr Gannon met with Mrs Marjorie Dawson at her home. That’s Shangrila, Castleford. As in John Dawson.’
‘Thank you. And so he dropped you off?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him?’
I paused and then said, ‘No. I met up with Barry in the Swan public house in Castleford, sometime between one and two. I couldn’t tell you exactly when.’
‘Was Mr Gannon drinking?’
‘I think he had a half. Pint at the most.’
‘And then?’
‘We went our separate ways. He never said where he was going.’
‘How about yourself?’
‘I got the bus over to Pontefract. I had another interview.’
‘So what time would you say it was when you last saw Mr Gannon?’
‘It must have been about a quarter to three at the latest,’ I said, thinking and he told me Marjorie Dawson had said his life was in danger and I thought nothing of it then and I’m going to say nowt of it now.
‘And you’ve no idea where he went from there?’
‘No. I assumed he’d be coming back here.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘No reason. I just assumed that’s what he’d do. Type up the interview.’
‘You’ve no idea why he might have gone to Morley?’
‘None.’
‘I see. Thank you. You’ll be obliged to attend the inquest tomorrow, you do
know that?’
I nodded. ‘Bit quick isn’t it?’
‘We have almost all the details and, between you and me, I think the family are keen to, you know … What with Christmas and everything.’
‘Where’s it at?’
‘Morley Town Hall.’
‘Right,’ I said. I was thinking about Clare Kemplay.
Sergeant Fraser closed his notebook. ‘You’ll be asked much the same questions. They’ll probably be a wee bit more on the drinking, mind. You know how these things are.’
‘He was over then?’
‘I believe so.’
‘What about the brakes?’
Fraser shrugged. ‘They failed.’
‘And the other vehicle?’
‘Stationary.’
‘True it was carrying plates of glass?’
‘Yes.’
‘And one went through the windscreen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And …’
‘Yes.’
‘So it was instantaneous?’
‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah.’
We were both white. I stared out of the foyer at the traffic heading home through the rain, the headlights and the brakelights flashing on and off, yellow and red, yellow and red. Sergeant Fraser flicked through his notebook.
After a while, he stood up. ‘You don’t know where I could reach Kathryn Taylor do you?’
‘If she’s not in the building she’s probably gone home.’
‘No, I’ve been unable to contact her either here or at home.’
‘Well I doubt she knows anything. She was with me most of the evening.’
‘So I’ve been told. But you never know.’
I said nothing.
The Sergeant put on his hat. ‘If you do speak with Miss Taylor, please ask her to get in touch. I can be reached any time through the Morley Station.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thank you for your time Mr Dunford.’
‘Thanks.’
‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘Yeah.’
I watched him walk over to reception, say something to Lisa behind the desk, and then leave through the revolving doors.
I lit a cigarette, my heart beating ninety miles an hour.
*
Three hours straight I sat at my desk and worked.
There’s no quiet time on the only regional newspaper with a morning and an evening edition, but today was as close to the grave as it got, everybody pissing off as early as possible. A goodbye here, a goodbye there, and a few of us’ll be down the Press Club later if you fancy it.
No Barry Gannon.
So I typed and typed; the first real work I’d done since my father died and Clare Kemplay disappeared. I struggled to remember the last time I’d sat at this desk and just worked and typed. Joyriders, that would’ve been it. But I couldn’t remember if my father had still been in the hospital or if he’d been moved back home by then.
No Ronald Dunford.
At about six, Kelly brought the photos up and we went through them, putting the best in the drawer. Kelly took my piece and his photos to the Sub, then to Layout. In the process I lost fifty words which, on a good day, would’ve been cause for a large one in the Press Club with Kathryn.
But this wasn’t a good day.
No Kathryn Taylor.
I’d been to see Fat Steph and told her to keep it shut but she didn’t know what the fuck I was going on about, except that Jack Whitehead was right about me. We’re all upset you know, but I should get a grip. Jack was right about me, Stephanie had said over and over, again and again, to me and everyone else within a ten-mile radius.
No Jack fucking Whitehead?
No such fucking luck.
On every desk were copies of tonight’s paper.
CATCH THIS FIEND.
Banner headlines across the Front Page of the Evening Post.
BY JACK WHITEHEAD, CHIEF CRIME REPORTER & CRIME REPORTER OF THE YEAR 1968 & 1971.
Fuck.
A post-mortem into the death of ten-year-old Clare Kemplay revealed that she had been tortured, raped, and then strangled. West Yorkshire Police are withholding the exact details of the injuries, but Detective Chief Superintendent George Oldman, speaking at a press conference earlier today, described the extreme nature of the murder as ‘defying belief’ and as ‘by far the most horrific case encountered by myself or any other member of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Force’.
Home Office pathologist Dr Alan Coutts, who conducted the postmortem, said, ‘There are no words to fully convey the horror visited upon this young girl.’ Dr Coutts, a veteran of over fifty murders, looked visibly moved as he spoke, saying he hoped, ‘never to have to perform such a duty again’.
Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman spoke of the urgency in finding the killer and announced that Detective Superintendent Peter Noble would be in charge of the day to day hunt for whoever was responsible for Clare’s murder.
In 1968, Detective Superintendent Noble, then with the West Midlands Force, gained national recognition as the man chiefly responsible for the arrest of the Cannock Chase Murderer, Raymond Morris. Between 1965 and 1967, Morris had molested and then suffocated three little girls in and around Stafford, before being arrested by then Detective Inspector Noble.
Detective Superintendent Noble spoke of his resolution to find Clare Kemplay’s murderer, appealing to members of the public for assistance, saying, ‘We must catch this fiend before he takes another young innocent life.’
Detective Chief Superintendent Oldman added that the police are particularly interested in speaking to anyone who was in the vicinity of Devil’s Ditch, Wakefield on the night of Friday 13 December or early on the morning of Saturday 14 December.
West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police are appealing for anybody with information to contact the Murder Room direct on Wakefield 3838 or 3839 or to contact their nearest police station. All calls will be treated in the strictest confidence.
The report was accompanied by two photographs: the school photograph of Clare which had accompanied my initial report into her disappearance, and a grainy one of police searching Devil’s Ditch in Wakefield, where Clare’s body had been found.
Hats off to Jack.
I tore the Front Page off, stuffed it inside my jacket pocket, and walked across to Barry Gannon’s desk. I opened the bottom drawer and took out Barry’s trusty bottle of Bells, pouring a triple into a half-drunk cup of coffee.
Here’s to you Barry Gannon.
It tasted fucking shit, so fucking shit I found another cup of cold coffee on another desk and had another bloody one.
Here’s to you Ronald Dunford.
Five minutes later I put my head down on my desk and smelt the wood, the whisky, and the day’s work on my sleeves. I thought about phoning Kathryn’s house but the whisky must have beaten the coffee and I fell into a crap sleep beneath the bright office lights.
‘Wakey-wakey Scoop.’
I opened one eye.
‘Rise and shine Mr Sleepyhead. Your boyfriend’s on line two.’
I opened the other.
Jack Whitehead was sat in Barry’s chair at Barry’s desk, waving a telephone receiver across the office at me. The place was no longer dead, gearing up for the next edition. I sat up and nodded at Jack. Jack winked and the phone buzzed on my desk.
I picked up the phone. ‘Yeah?’
A young man’s voice said, ‘Edward Dunford?’
‘Yeah?’
There was a pause and a click, Jack having taken his fucking time hanging up. I stared back across the office. Jack Whitehead raised his empty hands in mock surrender.
Everybody laughed.
My breath stank against the phone. ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend of Barry’s. You know the Gaiety pub on Roundhay Road?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Be at the phonebox outside at ten.’
The line w
ent dead.
I said, ‘I’m sorry, I’d have to check with my editor first. However, if you’d like to call back sometime tomorrow … I understand, thank you. Bye.’
‘Another hot one Scoop?’
‘Fucking Ratcatcher. Be the bloody death of me.’
Everybody laughed.
Even Jack.
Nine-thirty on a Monday night, 16 December 1974.
I pulled into the car park in front of the Gaiety Hotel, Roundhay Road, Leeds, and decided to stay put for half an hour. I switched off the engine and the lights and sat in the dark Viva, staring across the car park at the Gaiety, the lights from the bar giving me a good view of both the phonebox and the pub itself.
The Gaiety, an ugly modern pub with all the ugly old charms of any pub which bordered both Harehills and Chapeltown. A restaurant that served no food and a hotel that had no beds, that was the Gaiety.
I lit a cigarette, opened the window a crack, and tilted my head back.
About four months ago, soon after I’d first come back North, I’d spent almost an entire day, and some of the next, getting pissed out of my skull in the Gaiety with George Greaves, Gaz from Sport, and Barry.
About four months ago, when being back North was still a novelty and slumming in the Gaiety was a right laugh and a bit of an eye-opener.
About four months ago, when Ronald Dunford, Clare Kemplay, and Barry Gannon were still alive.
That all-day session hadn’t actually been much of a laugh, but it’d been a useful introduction for a new and very green North of England Crime Correspondent.
‘This is Jack Whitehead Country,’ George Greaves had whispered as we pulled back the double doors and walked into the Gaiety around eleven that morning.
After about five hours I had been willing to go home but the Gaiety didn’t abide by local licensing laws and, despite having no food or beds or dancefloor, was able to sell alcohol from 11 a.m. to 3 a.m. by virtue of being either a restaurant or hotel or disco depending on which copper you talked to. And, unlike say the Queen’s Hotel in the city centre, the Gaiety also offered its daytime regulars a lunchtime strip-show. And additionally, instead of an actual hot food menu, the Gaiety was also able to offer its patrons the unique opportunity to eat out any member of the lunchtime strip-show at very reasonable rates. It was a snack that Gaz from Sport had assured me was worth a fiver of anybody’s money.
‘He was Olympic Muff Diving Champion, our Gaz at Munich,’ George Greaves had laughed.