by David Peace
Chief Constable Angus, wavy hair like a grey walnut whip, paused, still beaming, like he was expecting applause.
‘The man was brought here to Wood Street, where he was questioned. During the course of a preliminary interview, the man indicated he had information about more serious matters. Detective Superintendent Noble then proceeded to interview the man in relation to the abduction and murder of Clare Kemplay. At eight o’clock yesterday evening, the man confessed. He was then formally charged and will appear in court before Wakefield Magistrates later this morning.’
Angus sat back with the look of a man stuffed full of Christmas Pudding.
The room erupted in a firestorm of questions and names.
The three men bit their tongues and broadened those grins.
I stared into Oldman’s black eyes.
‘You think you’re the only cunt putting that together?’
Oldman’s eyes on mine.
‘My senile bloody mother could.’
The Detective Chief Superintendent looked at his Chief Constable and exchanged a nod and a wink.
Oldman raised his hands. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. Yes, the man in custody is also being questioned about other similar offences. However, at the present time, that is all the information I’m able to give you. But, on behalf of the Chief Constable, Detective Superintendent Noble, and all the men who have been involved in this investigation, I would like to publicly thank Sergeant Craven and PC Douglas. They are outstanding officers, who have our heartfelt thanks.’
Again, the room was ablaze with names, dates, and questions.
Jeanette ’69 and Susan ’72, unanswered.
The three men and their grins stood up.
‘Thank you, gents,’ shouted Noble, holding the side door open for his superiors.
‘Fuck off!’ I shouted in my black suit, clean shirt, and grey bandages.
HANG THE BASTARD,
HANG THE BASTARD,
HANG THE BASTARD NOW!
Wood Street, Wakefield’s Trinity of Government:
The Nick, the Court, and the Town Hall.
Just gone nine and mob deep.
COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD!
Two thousand housewives and their unemployed sons.
Gilman, Tom, and me, in the thick of the thick.
Two thousand hoarse raw throats and their sons.
A suedehead with his Mam, a Daily Mirror, and a homemade noose.
Proof enough.
COWARD, COWARD, MYSHKIN IS A COWARD!
Ugly hands pulling, grabbing, and pushing us;
This way and that way and that way and this.
Suddenly pinched, getting my collar felt by the long arm of the law.
Sergeant Fraser to the rescue.
STRING HIM UP!
STRING HIM UP!
STRING THE BLOODY BASTARD UP!
Behind the marble walls and the thick oak doors of Wakefield Magistrates Court there lay a brief kind of calm, but not for me.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I whispered, spinning round and straightening my tie.
‘Too fucking right,’ hissed Fraser. ‘But not here and not now.’
The size tens tapped off down the corridor.
I pushed through the door into Court Number Two, packed tight and quiet.
Every seat taken, standing room only.
No families, only the gentlemen of the press.
Jack Whitehead down the front, leaning over the wooden railing, laughing with an usher.
I stared up at the stained-glass windows with their scenes of hills and sheep, mills and Jesus, the light outside so dull that the glass just reflected back the strips of electric lights that buzzed so loudly overhead.
Jack Whitehead turned round, narrowed his eyes, and saluted me.
Low beneath the marble and the oak, the muffled chants of the crowd outside seemed to bleed in under all our whispers, their screams marking out time on some ancient galley.
‘It’s fucking mental out there,’ panted Gilman.
‘At least we got in,’ I said, leaning against the back wall.
‘Aye. Fuck knows what happened to Tom and Jack.’
I pointed to the front of the public gallery. ‘Jack’s down there.’
‘How the fuck he get there so fast?’
‘There must be some underground tunnel or something linking here and the Nick.’
‘Aye. And Jack’ll have a bloody key,’ snorted Gilman.
‘That’s our Jack.’
I turned suddenly towards the stained-glass windows as a black shape rose on the outside and then fell away like some giant bird.
‘What the fuck was that?’
‘A placard or something. Natives are getting restless.’
‘Not the only ones.’
And then there he was, right on cue.
A dock full of plainclothes staring out at the court, one of them handcuffed to him.
Michael John Myshkin stood at the front of the dock in a dirty pair of blue overalls and a black donkey jacket, fat as fuck with a head too big.
I swallowed hard, my stomach churning with rising bile.
Michael John Myshkin blinked and blew a bubble of spit with his lips.
I reached for my pen, pain shooting from my nail to my shoulder, and had to lean back against the wall.
Michael John Myshkin, looking older than twenty-two, grinned at us with the smile of a boy half his age.
The Court Clerk stood up in the pit below, coughed once and said, ‘Are you Michael John Myshkin of 54 Newstead View, Fitzwilliam?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael John Myshkin, looking round at one of the detectives in the dock.
‘You are accused that on or between the twelfth and fourteenth of December you did murder Clare Kemplay against the peace of Our Sovereign Lady the Queen. Further, you are charged that at Wakefield on the eighteenth of December you did drive without due care and attention.’
Michael John Myshkin, Frankenstein’s Monster in manacles, rested his one free hand on the front of the dock and sighed.
The Clerk of the Court nodded at another man sat opposite.
The man stood up and announced, ‘William Bamforth, County prosecuting solicitor. For the record, Mr Myshkin has no legal representation at present. On behalf of the West Yorkshire Metropolitan Police, I am asking that Mr Myshkin be remanded in custody for a further eight days so that he might continue to be questioned about offences of a similar nature to that with which he has already been charged. I would also like to remind the people in court and particularly the members of the press that this case remains sub-judice. Thank you.’
The Clerk stood up again. ‘Mr Myshkin, do you have any objection to the prosecuting solicitor’s request that you be held in custody for a further eight days?’
Michael John Myshkin looked up and shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Do you wish reporting restrictions be lifted?’
Michael John Myshkin looked at one of the detectives.
The detective shook his head ever so slightly and Michael John Myshkin whispered, ‘No.’
‘Michael John Myshkin, you will be remanded in custody for eight days. Reporting restrictions remain.’
The detective turned, pulling Myshkin behind him.
The whole of the public gallery craned forward.
Michael John Myshkin stopped at the top of the stairs, turned to look back at the court, then almost slipped and had to be steadied by one of the officers.
The last we saw of him was a big hand disappearing down the steps into the belly of the court, waving bye-bye.
That was the hand that took life, I thought.
And then the murdering bastard was gone.
‘What do you think?’
I said, ‘He looks the part.’
‘Aye. He’ll do,’ winked Gilman.
It was going up to eleven when the Viva, followed by Gilman’s car, turned into Dewsbury Crematorium.
The sleeting rain had eased to a col
d drizzle but the wind was as raw as it had been last week, and there was no fucking way I could light a cigarette with one hand in bandages.
‘Later,’ muttered Sergeant Fraser at the door.
Gilman looked at me but said nowt.
Inside, the crematorium was packed silent.
One family, plus press.
We took a pew at the back of the chapel, straightening ties and wetting down hair, nodding at half the newspaper offices of the North of England.
Jack fucking Whitehead down the front, leaning over his pew, chatting with Hadden, his wife, and the Gannons.
I stared up at another stained-glass wall of hills and sheep, mills and Jesus, praying that Barry got a better one than my father had.
Jack Whitehead turned, narrowed his eyes, and waved my way.
The wind whistled round the building outside, like the cries of the sea and her gulls, and I sat and wondered whether birds could talk or not.
‘Wish they’d bloody get on with it,’ whispered Gilman.
‘Where’s Jack?’ asked Tom from Bradford.
‘Down there,’ I smiled.
‘Fuck me. Not another bloody tunnel?’ laughed Gilman.
‘Mind your language,’ whispered Tom.
Gilman studied his prayer book. ‘Shit, sorry.’
I turned suddenly towards the stained-glass window as Kathryn Taylor, all in black, walked down the aisle past the glass, arm in arm with Fat Steph and Gaz from Sport.
Gilman gave me a hard nudge and a wink. ‘You lucky barstool.’
‘Fuck off,’ I hissed, red-faced, watching the knuckles on my one good hand turn from red to white as they gripped the wooden pew.
Suddenly the organist hit all the bloody keys at once.
Everybody stood up.
And there he was.
I stared at the coffin at the front of the room, unable to remember if my father’s had been a paler or darker wood than Barry’s.
I looked down at the prayer book on the ground, thinking of Kathryn.
I looked up, wondering where she was sitting.
A fat man in a brown cashmere coat was staring at me across the aisle.
We both turned and looked down at the floor.
‘Where have you been?’
‘Manchester,’ said Kathryn Taylor.
We were outside the crematorium, standing on the slope between the door and the cars, the wind and the rain colder than ever. Black suits and coats were filing out, trying to light cigarettes, put up umbrellas, and shake hands.
‘What were you doing in Manchester?’ I asked, knowing full bloody well what she was doing in Manchester.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said, walking away towards Fat Steph’s car.
‘I’m sorry.’
Kathryn Taylor kept walking.
‘Can I phone you tonight?’
Stephanie opened the passenger door and Kathryn bent down and picked up something from the seat.
She turned round and hurled a book at me, screaming, ‘Here, you forgot this the last time you fucked me!’
A Guide to the Canals of the North flew across the crematorium drive, scattering schoolgirl photographs in its wake.
‘Fuck,’ I spat, scrambling to pick up the photos.
Fat Steph’s small white car reversed out of the crematorium car park.
‘Plenty more fish in the sea.’
I looked up from the ground. Sergeant Fraser handed me a picture of a smiling blonde ten-year-old.
‘Fuck off,’ I said.
‘There’s no need for that.’
I snatched the photo from him. ‘No need for what?’
Hadden, Jack Whitehead, Gilman, Gaz, and Tom were all milling about up by the doorway, watching us.
Fraser said, ‘I’m sorry about your hand.’
‘You’re sorry? You fucking set me up.’
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’
‘Bet you fucking don’t.’
‘Listen,’ said Fraser. ‘We need to talk.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
He pushed a scrap of paper into my top pocket. ‘Call me tonight.’
I walked away towards my car.
‘I’m sorry,’ shouted Fraser against the wind.
‘Piss off,’ I said, taking my keys out.
Next to the Viva, two big men were stood talking by a deep red Jaguar. I unlocked my door, took the keys out, then opened it, all with my left hand. I leant inside the car, dumped the fucking book and the photos on the back seat, and put the keys in the ignition.
‘Mr Dunford?’ said the fat man in the brown cashmere coat, across the roof of the Viva.
‘Yeah?’
‘Fancy a spot of lunch?’
‘What?’
The fat man smiled, rubbing his leather-gloved hands together. ‘I’ll treat you to lunch.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Let’s just say, you won’t regret it.’
I looked back up the hill to the crematorium doorway.
Bill Hadden and Jack Whitehead were talking to Sergeant Fraser.
‘All right,’ I said, thinking fuck a Press Club wake.
‘Do you know Karachi Social Club on Bradford Road?’
‘No.’
‘It’s next to Variety Club, just before you come into Batley.’
‘Right.’
‘Ten minutes?’ said the fat man.
‘I’ll just follow you.’
‘Champion.’
Paki Town, the only colour left.
Black bricks and saris, brown boys playing cricket in the cold.
The Mosque and the Mill, make it Yorkshire 1974:
The Curry and the Cap.
Having lost the Jag at the last set of traffic lights, I pulled into the unsurfaced car park next to the Batley Variety Club and parked beside the deep red car.
Shirley Bassey was playing the Christmas Show next door and I could hear her band rehearsing as I picked my way through the dirty puddles, full of cigarette ends and crisp packets, to the strains of Goldfinger.
The Karachi Social Club was a detached three-storey building that had once been something to do with the rag trade.
I walked up the three stone steps to the restaurant, switched on the Philips Pocket Memo, and opened the door.
Inside, the Karachi Social Club was a cavernous red room with heavy floral wallpaper and the piped sounds of the East.
A tall Pakistani in a spotless white tunic showed me to the only table with customers.
The two fat men were sitting side by side, facing the door, two pairs of leather gloves before them.
The older man, the one who had invited me to lunch, stood up with an outstretched hand and said, ‘Derek Box’.
I shook hands across the table with my left hand and sat down looking at the younger man with the well-boxed face.
‘This is Paul. He helps me,’ said Derek Box.
Paul nodded but said nowt.
The waiter brought over a silver tray with thin popadums and pickles.
‘We’ll all have the special, Sammy,’ said Derek Box, breaking a popadum.
‘Very good, Mr Box.’
Box smiled at me. ‘Hope you like your curry hot.’
‘I’ve only had it once before,’ I said.
‘Well, you’re in for a right bloody treat then.’
I stared around the huge dim room with its heavy white tablecloths and thick silver cutlery.
‘Here,’ said Derek Box, spooning some pickles and yoghurt on to a popadum. ‘Pile a load of this on.’
I did as I was told.
‘You know why I like this place?’
‘No?’ I said, wishing I hadn’t.
‘Because it’s private. Just wogs and us.’
I picked up my sagging popadum in my left hand and shoved it into my mouth.
‘That’s
the way I like things,’ said Box. ‘Private.’
The waiter returned with three pints of bitter.
‘And the fucking grub’s not bad either, eh Sammy?’ laughed Box.
‘Thank you very much Mr Box,’ said the waiter.
Paul smiled.
Derek Box raised his pint glass and said, ‘Cheers.’
Paul and I joined him and then drank.
I took out my cigarettes. Paul held out a heavy Ronson lighter for me.
‘This is nice, eh?’ said Derek Box.
I smiled. ‘Very civilised.’
‘Aye. Not like that kind of shit there,’ said Box, pointing at my grey bandaged hand on the white tablecloth.
I looked down at my hand and then back at Box.
He said, ‘I was a great admirer of your colleague’s work, Mr Dunford.’
‘You knew him well?’
‘Oh aye. We had a very special relationship.’
‘Yeah?’ I said, picking up my pint.
‘Mmm. Mutually beneficial it was.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I’m in the fortunate position to be able to occasionally pass on information that comes my way.’
‘What kind of information?’
Derek Box put down his pint and stared at me.
‘I’m no grass, Mr Dunford.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m no angel either, but I am a businessman.’
I took a big gob full of beer and then quietly I asked him, ‘What kind of businessman?’
He smiled. ‘Motor cars, though I have ambitions towards the building trade, I make no bones about it.’
‘What kind of ambitions?’
‘Thwarted ones,’ laughed Derek Box. ‘At moment.’
‘So how did you and Barry …’
‘As I say, I’m no angel and I’ve never pretended otherwise. However, there are men in this country, in this county, who have a bit too much of the pie for my liking.’
‘The construction pie?’
‘Aye.’
‘So you were giving Barry information about certain people and their activities in the building world?’
‘Aye. Barry showed a particular interest in, as you say, the activities of certain gentlemen.’
The waiter returned with three plates of yellow rice and three bowls of deep red sauce. He laid a dish and a plate in front of each of us.
Paul picked up his bowl and upended it over the plate of rice, mixing it all in together.
The waiter said, ‘Would you like nans, Mr Box?’