by David Peace
Silence, then, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘One hour then,’ I said, hanging up.
I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.
Des Shags Convicts Wives.
‘Yeah?’
‘Tell BJ, Eddie called and give him this number, 276578. Tell him to ask for Ronald Gannon, Room 27.’
Fuck You Wakey Ken.
I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in another coin, and dialled.
True Love Never Dies.
‘Peter Taylor speaking?’
‘Hello. Is Kathryn there please?’
‘She’s still asleep.’
I looked at my father’s watch.
I said, ‘When she wakes up, can you tell her Edward called.’
‘All right,’ said her father, like it was some fucking enormous favour.
‘Bye.’ I replaced the receiver, picked it up again, put in my last coin, and dialled.
An old woman came into the lobby from the cafe smelling of bacon.
‘Ossett 256199.’
‘It’s me, Mum.’
‘Are you all right, love? Where are you?’
One of the kids was chasing another around the pool table, brandishing a pool cue.
I said, ‘I’m fine. I’m at work.’
The old woman had sat down in one of the brown lobby chairs opposite the payphone and was staring out at the lorries and the rain.
‘I might have to go away for a couple of days.’
‘Where?’
The kid with the pool cue had the other one pinned down on the baize.
‘Down South,’ I said.
‘You’ll phone, won’t you?’
The old woman farted loudly and the kids in the pool room stopped fighting and came running out into the lobby.
‘Of course …’
‘I love you, Edward.’
The kids rolled up their sleeves, put their lips to their arms, and began blowing raspberries.
‘Me too.’
The old woman was staring out at the lorries and the rain, the kids dancing round her.
I replaced the receiver.
4 LUV.
Angelo’s Cafe, opposite Morley Town Hall, breakfast busy.
I was on my second cup of coffee, way past tired.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Sergeant Fraser was at the counter.
‘Cup of coffee, please. Black, two sugars.’
I stared around the cafe at the wall of headlines guarding every breakfast:
£534 Million Trade Deficit, Gas Up 12%, IRA Xmas Truce, a picture of the new Dr Who, and Clare.
‘Morning,’ said Fraser, setting down a cup of coffee in front of me.
‘Thanks.’ I drained my cold cup and took a sip from the hot one.
‘I spoke with the coroner first thing. He says they’re going to have to adjourn.’
‘They were pushing it a bit anyway.’
A waitress brought over a full breakfast and set it down in front of the Sergeant.
‘Yeah, but what with Christmas and the family, it would’ve been nice.’
‘Shit, yeah. The family.’
Fraser heaped half the plate on to his fork. ‘Do you know them?’
‘No.’
‘Lovely people,’ sighed Fraser, mopping up the juice of the eggs and the tomatoes with a piece of toast.
‘Yeah?’ I said and wondered how old Fraser was.
‘They’ll release the body though, so they’ll be able to have the funeral.’
‘Get it out the way.’
Fraser put down his knife and fork and pushed the spotless plate to one side. ‘Thursday, I think they said.’
‘Right. Thursday.’ I couldn’t remember if we’d cremated my father last Thursday or Friday.
Sergeant Fraser sat back in his chair. ‘What about this anonymous call then?’
I leant forward, my voice low. ‘Like I said. Middle of the bleeding night …’
‘Come on Eddie?’
I looked up at Sergeant Fraser, his blond hair, watery blue eyes and puffy red face, the trace of a Scouse accent and the simple wedding ring. He looked like the boy I had sat next to in chemistry.
‘Can I level with you?’
‘I think you’d better,’ said Fraser, offering me a cigarette.
‘Barry had a source, you know.’ I lit the cigarette.
‘A grass, you mean?’
‘A source.’
Fraser shrugged, ‘Go on.’
‘I got a call at the office last night. No name, just be at the Gaiety on Roundhay Road. You know it, yeah?’
‘No,’ laughed Fraser. ‘Course I bloody do. How did you know this was straight up?’
‘Barry had a lot of contacts. He knew a lot of people.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About ten. Anyway, I went along and met this lad …’
Fraser had his sleeves on the table, leaning forward, smiling. ‘Who was he then?’
‘Black lad, no name. Said he’d been with Barry on the Sunday night.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Black, you know.’ I stubbed out my cigarette and took another one from my own pack.
‘Young? Old? Short? Tall?’
‘Black. Curly hair, big nose, thick lips. What do you want me to say?’
Sergeant Fraser smiled. ‘He say if Barry Gannon was drinking?’
‘I asked him and he said Barry had had a few but he wasn’t smashed or anything.’
‘Where was this?’
I paused, thinking this was where I’d fuck up, then said, ‘The Gaiety.’
‘Be some witnesses then?’ Fraser had taken out his notebook and was writing in it.
‘Gaiety witnesses, yeah.’
‘I don’t suppose you tried to persuade our dark friend to relate any of this information to a member of his local constabulary?’
‘No.’
‘So then?’
‘About eleven or so, he said Barry said he was going over to Morley. That it was something to do with the Clare Kemplay murder.’
Sergeant Fraser was staring over my shoulder at the rain and the Town Hall opposite. ‘Like what?’
‘He didn’t know.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Why not?’
‘Fuck off, he’s having you on. Eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, after a skinful in the Gaiety?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘All right. What do you reckon Gannon knew that could have made him come all the way over here, at that time on a Sunday night?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just telling you what this lad told me.’
‘And that’s it?’ Sergeant Fraser was laughing. ‘Bollocks. You’re supposed to be a journalist. You must have asked him more questions than that.’
I lit another bloody cigarette. ‘Yeah. But I’m telling you, the lad knew fuck all.’
‘All right, so what do you think Gannon found out?’
‘I’ve told you, I don’t know. But it does explain why he was in Morley.’
‘Brass’ll love this,’ sighed Fraser.
A waitress came over and took away the cups and the plate. The man on the next table was listening to us, looking at a photofit of the Cambridge Rapist that could have been anyone.
I said, ‘Did you get the names?’
Sergeant Fraser lit another cigarette and leant forward. ‘This is between us?’
‘Of course,’ I said and took out a pen and a piece of paper from my jacket.
‘Two builders, Terry Jones and James Ashworth. They’re working on the new houses behind Wakefield Prison. It’s Foster’s Construction, I think.’
‘Foster’s Construction,’ I echoed, thinking Donald Foster, Barry Gannon, link.
‘I don’t have their addresses and I wouldn’t give you them even if I did. So that’s your lot.’
‘Thank you. Just one more thing?’
Fraser stood
up. ‘What?’
‘Who has access to the Clare Kemplay post-mortem report and photographs?’
Fraser sat back down. ‘Why?’
‘I’m just curious. I mean, can any copper working the case get to see it?’
‘It’s available, yeah.’
‘Have you seen it?’
‘I’m not on the case.’
‘But you must have been part of the search party?’
Fraser looked at his watch. ‘Yeah, but the Murder Room’s out of Wakefield.’
‘So you wouldn’t know when it first became available?’
‘Why?’
‘I just want to know about the procedure. I’m just curious.’
Fraser stood back up. ‘They’re not good questions to be asking, Eddie.’ Then he smiled and winked and said, ‘I best be off. See you across the road.’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
Sergeant Fraser opened the cafe door and then turned back. ‘Keep in touch, yeah?’
‘Yeah. Of course.’
‘And not a bloody word right?’ He was half laughing.
‘Not a word,’ I muttered, folding up my piece of paper.
Gaz from Sport was coming up the Town Hall steps.
I was having a last cigarette, sat on the steps. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘That’s right bloody charming that is,’ said Gaz, giving me his toothless grin. ‘I’m a witness I am.’
‘Yeah?’
The grin was gone. ‘Yeah, straight up. I was supposed to meet Baz on Sunday night but he didn’t show up.’
‘It’s going to be adjourned, you know?’
‘You’re fucking joking? Why?’
‘Police still don’t know what he was doing on Sunday night.’ I offered Gaz a cigarette and lit another one for myself.
Gaz solemnly took the cigarette and the light. ‘Know he was fucking dead though, don’t they?’
I nodded and said, ‘Funeral’s Thursday.’
‘Fuck. That quick?’
‘Yeah.’
Gaz sniffed hard and then spat on one of the stone steps. ‘Seen the boss?’
‘I haven’t been inside yet.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and started up the steps. ‘Best make a move.’
I said, ‘I’m going to wait here. If they need me, they know where I am.’
‘Don’t blame you.’
‘Listen,’ I said, calling after him. ‘You heard anything about Johnny Kelly?’
‘Fuck all,’ said Gaz. ‘Some bloke in the Inns last night was saying Foster’s had it with him this time though.’
‘Foster?’
‘Don Foster. Trinity Chairman.’
I stood up. ‘Don Foster’s the chairman of Wakefield Trinity?’
‘Yeah. Where the fuck you been?’
‘Waste of bloody time that was.’ Thirty minutes later, Gaz from Sport was coming down the Town Hall steps with Bill Hadden.
‘You can’t rush these things Gareth,’ Hadden was saying, looking odd without a desk.
I got up from my cold step to greet them. ‘At least they can go ahead with the funeral.’
‘Morning Edward,’ said Hadden.
‘Morning. Have you got a minute?’
‘Family seemed to be taking it better than you’d think,’ said Gaz, lowering his voice and glancing back up the steps.
I said, ‘That’s what I’d heard.’
‘Very strong people. You want a word?’ Hadden put his hand on my shoulder.
‘I’ll see everyone later,’ said Gaz from Sport, down the steps two at a time, seizing his chance to dance.
‘What about Cardiff City?’ Hadden called after him.
‘We’ll murder them Boss!’ Gaz shouted back.
Hadden was smiling. ‘You can’t buy that kind of enthusiasm.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s true.’
‘What was it then?’ Hadden said, folding his arms against the cold.
‘I thought I’d go and see the two men who found the body, tie it in with this psychic and a bit about the history of Devil’s Ditch.’ I said it much too quickly, like a man who’d had thirty minutes to think about it.
Hadden began stroking his beard, which was always bad news. ‘Interesting. Very interesting.’
‘You think so?’
‘Mmm. Except the tone worries me a little.’
‘The tone?’
‘Mmm. This medium, this psychic, it’s more of a background feature. Supplement stuff. But the men who found the body, I don’t know …’
Right back in his face: ‘But you said she knows the name of the killer. That’s not background, that’s Front Page.’
Hadden, not rising to the bait, said, ‘You’re going to talk to them today?’
‘I thought I’d go over there now, seeing as I’ve got to go over to Wakefield anyhow.’
‘All right,’ said Hadden, walking off towards his Rover. ‘Bring it all back to me by five and we’ll go over it for tomorrow.’
‘You got it,’ I shouted, checking my father’s watch.
A Leeds and Bradford A to Z open on my lap, my notes on the passenger seat beside me, I nosed through the back and side streets of Morley.
I turned on to Victoria Road and drove slowly along, pulling up just before the junction with Rooms Lane and Church Street.
Barry must have been coming the other way, heading towards the Wakefield Road or the M62. The lorry would have been here, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
I flicked back through my notebook, faster and faster, back to the very first page.
Bingo.
I started the car, pulling out to wait at the traffic lights.
To my left, on the other side of the crossroads, a black church and, next to it, Morley Grange Junior and Infants.
The lights changed, I was still reading.
‘At the junction of Rooms Lane and Victoria Road, Clare said goodbye to her friends and was last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home …’
Clare Kemplay.
Last seen.
Goodbye.
I drove across the junction, a Co-op lorry waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
Barry’s lorry would have been here too, at the traffic lights on Victoria Road, waiting to turn right up Rooms Lane.
Barry Gannon.
Last seen.
Goodbye.
I crawled slowly along Victoria Road, car horns at my rear, Clare skipping along on the pavement beside me in her orange kagool and her red Wellington boots.
‘Last seen walking down Victoria Road towards her home.’
The Sports Ground, Sandmead Close, Winterbourne Avenue.
Clare was standing at the corner of Winterbourne Avenue, waving.
I indicated left and turned on to Winterbourne Avenue.
It was a cul-de-sac of six older semi-detached and three new detached.
A policeman was standing in the rain outside number 3.
I reversed up the drive of one of the new detached houses to turn around.
I stared across the road at 3 Winterbourne Avenue.
Curtains drawn.
The Viva stalled.
A curtain twitched.
Mrs Kemplay, arms folded, in the window.
The policeman checked his watch.
I pulled away.
Foster’s Construction.
The building site was behind Wakefield Prison, yards from Devil’s Ditch.
Lunchtime on a wet Tuesday in December and the place was as quiet as the grave.
A low tune on the damp air, Dreams Are Ten A Penny.
I followed my ears.
‘All right?’ I said, pulling back the tarpaulin door of an unfinished house.
Four men chewing sandwiches, slurping tea from flasks.
‘Help you?’ said one.
‘Lost are you?’ said another.
I said, ‘I’m actually looking for …’
‘Never heard of them,’ said one.
‘Journalist are you?’ said another.
‘Shows does it?’
‘Yeah,’ they all said.
‘Well, do you know where I can find Terry Jones and James Ashworth?’
A big man in a donkey jacket stood up, swallowing half a loaf of bread. ‘I’m Terry Jones.’
I stuck out my hand. ‘Eddie Dunford. Yorkshire Post. Can I have a word?’
He ignored my hand. ‘Going to pay me are you?’
Everybody laughed into their tea.
‘Well, we can certainly discuss it.’
‘Well, you can certainly piss off if you don’t,’ said Terry Jones to more laughter.
‘Seriously,’ I protested.
Terry Jones sighed and shook his head.
‘Got a right bloody nerve, some folk,’ said one of the men.
‘Least he’s fucking local,’ said another.
‘Come on then,’ yawned Terry Jones, before swilling out his mouth with the last of his tea.
‘Make sure he bloody coughs up,’ shouted another man as we went outside.
‘Have you had a lot of papers here?’ I asked, offering Terry Jones a cigarette.
‘Lads said there was a photographer from Sun, but we were up Wood Street Nick.’
There was a thick drizzle in the air and I pointed to another half-built house. Terry Jones nodded and led the way.
‘Police keep you long?’
‘No, not really. Thing like this though, they’re not going to take any bloody chances are they?’
‘What about James Ashworth?’ We were standing in the doorway, the rain just missing us.
‘What about him?’
‘They keep him a long time?’
‘Same.’
‘Is he about?’
‘He’s sick.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Something going around.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’ Terry Jones dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his boot and added, ‘Gaffer’s been off since Thursday, Jimmy yesterday and today, couple of other lads last week.’
I said, ‘Who found her, you or Jimmy?’
‘Jimmy.’
‘Where was she?’ I said, looking out across the mud and the piss.
Terry Jones hawked up a massive piece of phlegm and said, ‘I’ll show you.’
We walked in silence over the building site to the trough of wasteland that runs parallel to the Wakefield-Dewsbury Road. A ribbon of blue and white police tape was strung along the ridge of the ditch. Across the ditch, on the road side, two coppers were sat in a Panda car. One of them looked across at us and nodded at Terry Jones.