by David Peace
A pause, a beat:
‘You need to pay special attention to the following and list:
‘The names of all persons mentioned, be they witnesses, suspects, whatever, listed alphabetically.’
A low whistle from Alec McDonald.
‘It’ll be a long list, aye Alec,’ I say. ‘And I’m not finished; plus I want descriptions of all suspects, descriptions of all cars sighted or investigated, alphabetically by make, year, and colour. Finally the names of all policemen involved in the case, alphabetically.’
‘Policemen?’ repeats Hillman.
‘Yes. No matter how minor their role.’
Silence -
‘OK?’
Silence -
‘Mike 1974 and 75, including Clare Strachan.’
A nod.
‘Helen, 76.’ Another nod.
‘John, you got the short straw: 77.’
‘Liz McQueen?’
‘Amongst others.’
Alec McDonald sighs: ‘78 and 79?’
‘No, that’d give you five,’ I say. ‘Just 78. I’ll take 79 and this last one.’
Notebooks open, already writing.
Me: ‘OK, listen -’
Another pause, another beat, before I say: ‘His name, the Ripper’s name, it’s in those files. They’ve met him.’
Helen Marshall says quietly: ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ve asked for the names of any person who has been arrested in connection with any crime involving prostitutes, again no matter how minor or insignificant. Because he’s known.’
‘George Oldman did say if he met the Ripper he’d know him instantly,’ says Mike Hillman.
I close my eyes, hands together -
‘Let me add that you’re to list everyone irrespective of blood type or accent. Especially accent.’
‘So we’re not looking for a Geordie then?’ grins Alec McDonald.
‘No.’
A last pause, then -
‘We’re looking for the Yorkshire Ripper.’
One final beat -
‘And we’re going to find him.’
Back upstairs, on the edge of the hotel bed, dialing Millgarth: ‘Assistant Chief Constable Noble please?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter.’
Hold.
Murphy’s leaning against a cheap chipped dressing table, snow falling on the roof of Leeds City Station, the windows rattling with the trains and the traffic, the wind and the draughts.
‘You realise how many bloody names we’re going to get?’
I start to speak, but put my hand up, listening -
‘The Assistant Chief Constable is in a meeting. He’ll call you back.’
I say: ‘You tell him it’s urgent.’
‘I’ve been told to hold all calls.’
It’s an emergency.’
‘But -’
‘I am Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter of the Greater Manchester Police Force and I’m ordering you to put me through.’
Hold.
‘Fucking hell,’ mutters Murphy.
I take a deep breath.
‘Peter Noble speaking.’
‘Peter? Peter Hunter here. Sorry to disturb your meeting.’
‘Yes?’
‘The office? Is it available? What’s happening?’
‘What?’
‘The Chief Constable said last night that an office on the same floor as the Murder Room would be made available for the use of me and my team, yeah?’
‘And you want it now? This minute?’
‘Please.’
Silence -
I look up from the grey carpet.
Murphy’s shaking his head.
Noble asks: ‘Where are you?’
‘The Griffin.’
‘It’s nine -’
‘Half past.’
‘Whatever. An office will be ready by one.’
‘That’s the earliest -’
‘The earliest.’
‘OK if we come over now and start getting copies of the files we need?’
Another silence -
Noble: ‘No-one’s explained the system then?’
‘What system?’
‘Well, we obviously can’t just let you take stuff willy-nilly.’
‘Of course -’
‘Not a bloody library.’
‘Of course not. We’re going to need to log -’
‘Actually, no. Well, yes; you’re going to have to log it, that’s right. But you’re also going to have to request the files first.’
‘OK. We’d like to request access to copy all the case files pertaining to the Ripper Investigation.’
‘Look -’
‘Everything.’
‘Look -’
‘As soon as possible.’
‘Look, that’s not going to happen.’
‘What do you mean?’
Another silence, longer -
‘You better come over. I’ll call the Chief Constable.’
‘Fine.’
‘Ten o’clock?’
‘Ten it is.’
I hang up.
Murphy’s looking at the dirty snow, watching a train pull out of the station -
‘That’d be the Manchester train,’ he says. ‘Train home.’
Step inside -
Noble and I are sat in silence, waiting for Angus.
I’m facing the window and the snow, my back to the door, massaging my temple.
He’s just sat there, waiting, watching the door.
Angus is on his way from Wakefield and again I’m wondering why the Chief Constable’s office is over there and not here in Leeds, not here in his biggest city, not closer to his second largest, Bradford.
Then the door opens and here he is -
No knock -
Noble standing to change places, Angus sitting down in his seat, me in the same chair -
Angus: ‘Gentlemen?’
Noble’s gushing: ‘There’s a couple of things we need to get straight…’
Angus isn’t listening, just looking at me.
‘… an office next to the Murder Room,’ Noble’s saying.
Angus stands up: ‘Let’s have a look then.’
We follow him out of the door and up the corridor, up towards the Murder Room, the Ripper Room, the telephones ringing and the typewriters clattering, up to a small windowless room next door.
A couple of uniforms are carrying boxes and bin-bags out.
Those are for you to use,’ says Noble, pointing at two grey metal filing cabinets on the other side of a brown table.
‘Do you have the keys?’
Noble sighs: ‘I’ll be sure to get them for you.’
‘And for the office itself?’
He nods once.
‘So this is OK?’ asks Angus.
‘Phone lines?’
‘How many do you need?’
‘Two. Minimum.’
‘OK. Tomorrow.’
‘Thank you. Now what about the files themselves?’
‘What about them?’
‘The procedure? How do we get access to them?’
‘Just ask me,’ says the Chief Constable.
Noble’s closed the door, the three of us standing around the table, the bare bulb almost at eye-level.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘We’d like access to copy each of the files that pertain to the Ripper Inquiry.’
Angus smiles: ‘You know how much bloody stuff that is?’
‘No, but I imagine it’d be a lot.’
‘It is.’
‘But I still need access to it all.’
‘This is an ongoing active investigation. These files are constantly being updated and reviewed.’
‘I would hope so. But the fact remains that I need access to them.’
‘To a large extent, without a guide, they’ll be meaningless.’
‘Then if you can supply a guide
that would be a great help. But obviously, without ready access to the files I can’t do the job I have been asked to do by Sir John and the Home Office.’
Angus’s face has changed, benign and kindly Uncle Ron gone: ‘Obviously. And I appreciate that but, Mr Hunter, for your part you must also appreciate that I can’t have these files just wandering off here and there.’
‘Obviously’
‘And the copying alone’ll be a huge undertaking.’
‘Then just grant us the access we need.’
Noble’s staring at Angus, Angus at me, me at him -
Eventually Angus says: ‘We’ll put you another desk in here, a couple more chairs. I’ll provide you with a guide, a liaison officer. Your people ask him to get them the files they need; he’ll provide, log and replace them as required.’
‘Thank you.’
He looks at his watch: ‘One o’clock?’
Noble and I nod.
‘One o’clock,’ repeats Angus and opens the door for me.
It’s eleven by the time I get back to the Griffin.
They’re sat there, waiting.
I lay it out.
They mutter, roll their eyes, and take an early lunch.
Upstairs, I dial Whitby:
Philip Evans is away for the rest of the day.
I lie down on the bed, my thoughts scrambled messages, a migraine headache sparring with the pains in my back, jarring with the radio:
Old science fiction and future histories, the news from nowhere, the screams from somewhere -
Hoping for something more, I close my eyes.
When I open my eyes it’s 12:30, the pain still here -
In my back, behind my eyes.
I get up, wash my face, and take the lift downstairs.
Outside it’s stopped snowing but the sky is almost black with heavy cloud and premature night.
I walk through the sludge and the mud to the Kirkgate Market and Millgarth, freezing.
The rest of them are waiting for me by the desk.
I lead the way upstairs.
Noble is waiting outside the Ripper Room, waiting to introduce us.
‘I believe you’ve actually met?’
Bob Craven has his hand out, half the Ripper Room crowding out into the corridor.
‘What were you back then, Bob?’ laughs Noble.
‘Just a plain old Sergeant,’ Craven smiles.
‘Well, times change; Assistant Chief Constable Peter Hunter meet Detective Superintendent Robert Craven.’
We shake hands, the grip cold and tight:
The Strafford Shootings -
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong.
Four dead, two wounded policemen -
Sergeant Robert Craven, wounded hero cop battles for life etc, etc, etc.
‘You look a little better than the last time we met,’ I say.
He laughs: ‘You don’t.’
‘Bob’s going to be the liaison,’ says Noble.
I say nothing.
‘Your guide.’
Nothing, waiting for Noble to keep on justifying it:
‘Bob’s been involved from day one. He’s worked a lot of the cases, worked Vice, probably forgotten more than most of us’ll ever know.’
‘That would be a shame,’ I say.
Noble stops: ‘You know what I mean, Mr Hunter.’
‘Yep,’ I say. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘Well then, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘The keys?’ I ask. ‘Did you get the keys?’
‘Bob’s got them,’ Noble says, walking off, leaving Craven dangling them from the end of his finger.
I ignore him and go to open the door -
It’s locked.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ smiles Craven. ‘Allow me.’
By three the tables are covered in piles of files, Craven going back and forth to the Ripper Room next door, my team scratching and scribbling away for dear life under the low blue clouds of cigarette smoke hanging by the bare bulb.
‘Telephone,’ says Craven, coming back with another stack of manila folders.
‘For me?’ I say.
‘Yeah, next door. Line 4.’
I get up.
‘It’s the wife,’ he winks as I get to the door.
I walk next door -
Next door into the Ripper Room -
Into the photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -
The charts and the boards, the chalk and the pen on every surface -
The mugs on the desks, the cigarettes in the ashtrays -
Everywhere:
Repetition, tedium -
Indexes, cross-index -
Files, cross-file -
References, cross-reference -
Everywhere:
Process -
Repetitious, tedious process -
Second after second -
Minute after minute -
Hour after hour -
Fifteen, sixteen hours a day -
Day in, day out -
Six, seven days a week -
Week in, week out -
Four weeks a month -
Month in, month out -
Twelve months a year -
Year in, year out -
Year after year, month after month, week after week, day after day, hour in, hour out, minute in, minute out, second in, second out, for -
Five years.
A fat man in a sports coat’s holding out the receiver -
‘Joan?’ I say, taking the phone.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ she says. ‘But the Chief Constable’s office just called.’
‘The Chief Constable’s office?’
‘About tonight? They wanted me to tell you that they’ve arranged for the tux to be sent round in about an hour.’
‘The tux? Tonight?’
‘Yes. I said I didn’t know when you’d be back so they wanted me to let you know.’
The Christmas Ball -
‘I’d forgotten.’
‘I thought you might have,’ she laughs. ‘Shall we cancel?’
‘No, we can’t. You’re sorted out?’
‘Yes. I’d completely forgotten too but…’
‘Well, it’ll be good. I’ll be back in a bit, stay the night, and come back first thing tomorrow.’
‘OK.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I put back the phone, conscious the whole of the room is watching me -
The photos on the walls, the maps and the faces -
The Ripper Room -
Him.
I drive back fast, over the Moors -
Fast over their cold, lost bones, the radio on loud:
Hunger Strikes & Dirty Protests -
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.
Fast, over the Moors -
Over their cold, lost bones, the radio on:
Earthquakes & Hostages -
Ripper, Ripper, Ripper.
Over the Moors, radio gone -
Cold, lost bones:
The Strafford Shootings -
Christmas Eve 1974:
The pub robbery that went wrong.
Four dead, two wounded policemen -
Sergeant Robert Craven and PC Bob Douglas.
Driving, hating -
I hate Bob Craven and I don’t know why -
Don’t like the maybe why:
Hated him then, hate him now -
Hated him since the day I met him, stuffed full of tubes and drugs on a Pinderfields bed.
Hated him like it was only yesterday:
Friday 10 January 1975 -
In we came:
Me and Clarkie -
Detective Chief Inspector Mark Clark.
Two weeks on and they’d still
got roadblocks across the county, the stink of an English Civil War, me and Clarkie walking down that long, long corridor, armed guards on the bloody hospital doors, Craven and Douglas on their backs in their beds, the only survivors.
Me and Clarkie, we shook hands with Maurice Jobson -
Detective Chief Superintendent Maurice Jobson, legend -
The Owl.
There were a lot of other faces about, that rat-faced journalist Whitehead from the Post for one.
They didn’t know me then, but they would.
Douglas was sedated and Craven ought to have been -
Lying there, head back, calling out from the depths, eyes twinkling up from those same depths, screaming:
‘Kill the cunt! Kill ‘em all!’
But that was as close as we ever got -
Jobson wouldn’t let us near him: ‘Man’s in no state. Took a butt to the head.’
And for all the promises we’d got coming, all the cups of tea up the Wood Street Nick, we never did get a good go at him.
Over the Moors, snow across their cold, lost bones -
Clarkie turned to me and said: ‘It stinks. Fuck knows why, but it does.’
And I stared out at the lanes of lorries, the black poles and the telephone wires, thinking -
Murder and lies, lies and murder -
War:
My War -
‘Bloody Yorkshire,’ hissed Clarkie. Over the Moors -
Cold, lost bones:
It stank then and it stinks now, that same old smell -
Bloody Yorkshire.
*
The house, my affluent detached house and two-car garage is quiet, dark, one light on in an upstairs room, the curtains open.
I push open the bedroom door and there she is, in front of the mirror in her dressing gown, eyes red.
‘You OK?’
‘You startled me.’
‘Sorry. You been crying, love?’
‘No,’ she smiles. ‘Just soap.’
I walk over to her and kiss the top of her hair.
‘Didn’t expect you so soon,’ she says.
We’re looking at each other framed in the mirror, something missing.
‘I thought I’d put the tree up.’
‘We’ve left it a bit late, haven’t we? All the stuff’s up in the attic.’
‘I’ll get the steps from the garage. Have it up in no time.’
‘You’ll get filthy.’
‘Got time, don’t worry.’
‘Up to you.’
‘Got to make the effort.’
She’s nodding, staring back into the mirror, back into her own eyes -
‘Those lights are so old,’ she says.
The Christmas Ball, the Midland Hotel -
Saturday 13 December 1980.
Through the black city streets, the broken lights and the Christmas ones, down Palatine, Wilmslow, and the Oxford Roads, the official black car and driver taking us in towards the red and the gold, the money and the honey, the home of the loot, holding hands in our rented clothes on the back seat of a car that is not our own, through dominions of disease and depopulation, the black streets that would have you dead within the hour, taking us in towards a thousand hale and hearty Manchester folk, drunk in the seclusion of the Midland Hotel, the castle of loot, an abbey to the anointed and self-appointed City Fathers, with their city mothers, wives and daughters, their secret lovers, whores and sons.