by David Peace
In the car park at Manchester Police Headquarters there’s a car in my space, the reserved space that says:
Peter Hunter – Assistant Chief Constable
There are a lot of empty spaces but I still park next to the other car.
There are two men sat in the car.
I don’t recognise either of the men, though the driver’s staring at me -
He smiles.
I get out of my car, lock it, and go inside.
I sign in and ask the Sergeant on the desk to go and have a word with the two men in the car outside.
I go upstairs to my office -
It’s locked.
I take out my keys and open it.
It’s just as I’d left it.
I sit down behind my desk and begin to make the necessary calls:
But no-one’s answering at Richard Dawson’s house -
Roger Hook is unavailable -
And the Chief Constable’s at chapel until twelve, half past at the latest.
I look at my watch:
It’s nine o’clock -
Sunday 14 December 1980.
The phone rings: ‘Yes?’
‘Sir. It’s the desk downstairs. That car, sir? It wasn’t there. But your space is free so would you like me to arrange to have your car moved?’
‘It’s OK. Thank you.’
I hang up.
The phone rings again:
‘Sir. It’s your wife.’
I press the button, the flashing orange button: ‘Joan?’
‘Peter?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s the Dawsons, love. Linda’s been on the phone, hysterical. Their house was raided first thing…’
‘Raided?’
‘Police. Manchester Police. Turned the place upside down.’
‘When?’
‘This morning, five o’clock. Taken away all their papers, photos.’
Shit
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some calls.’
‘I’m sorry, after what you said last night, but Linda’s in pieces…’
‘It’s OK. Where’s Richard?’
‘He was at Linda’s parents I think, but…’
‘OK,’ I say again. ‘I’ll make some calls, try and find out what’s going on.’
‘What shall I tell her?’
‘Tell her not to worry, that I’m dealing with it.’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I’d better go.’
‘Bye,’ she says.
‘Bye.’
I hang up and reach straight for the phone book -
I find Bob Douglas’s home number -
I dial -
It rings -
He answers -
I say: ‘Is Deirdre there?’
‘What?’
‘It’s Mike. Can I speak to Deirdre?’
‘You got the wrong number, mate,’ says Bob Douglas and hangs up.
I dial two numbers again:
No answer at the Dawsons -
None from Cook.
I go through my address book:
Mark Gilman at the Manchester Evening News is off -
Neil Hartley in Cheshire heard Cook was looking into some dodgy finances -
John Jeffreys heard something about heads rolling -
Big Heads, that’s all.
I pick up my coat and go back down to the car, parked in the wrong space.
Bob Douglas lives in a detached house in the nice part of Levenshulme, the part on the way out to Stockport.
I walk up the drive and ring the doorbell.
Douglas opens the front door -
He’s put on weight and lost some hair and his clothes give him the look of a short and guilty man on his way to court.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he smiles.
‘We need to talk.’
‘I thought you might say that.’
‘You going to invite me in then?’
Bob Douglas holds open the door and sees me through to the lounge.
I sit down on a big settee, the smell of a roast in the house.
‘Drink?’
‘Cup of tea’d be nice.’
‘I’ll just be a minute then. Wife’s not in,’ he says and leaves me alone in his lounge with its unframed Degas print, the Christmas cards and tree, the photos of his wife and daughter.
He brings in the teas and hands me mine: ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
He sits down in one of the matching chairs.
‘Nice looking lass,’ I say, nodding at a school portrait.
‘Aye. Keeps me young.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Be seven in February.’
‘You’re a lucky man.’
Bob Douglas smiles: ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’
‘No,’ I shake my head. ‘No, it’s not.’
‘Go on then.’
I tell him: ‘I saw Richard Dawson last night.’
‘At the Midland Ball?’
‘Yes. Although he wasn’t exactly having one.’
‘Upset was he?’
‘Yeah, but I reckon he’s feeling even more upset right this minute.’
‘You heard then?’
‘His wife called mine first thing. He call you?’
‘No, but I reckoned it’d be this morning.’
I take a sip of my tea and wait to see if he’s going to say any more -
He takes a sip of his and says nothing.
I say: ‘What’s going on, Bob?’
‘What did he tell you?’
I put my tea down on one of his coasters, one of an etching of a famous golf course, and I say: ‘Sod what he told me. I’m asking you.’
He’s sat forward now, his hands on his knees, looking nervous.
‘Spit it out,’ I say.
‘All I know is Roger Hook, he’s heading up some operation into Richard Dawson. Been on the cards a while like, but someone…’
‘What kind of operation?’
‘He’s bent isn’t he? Everyone knows that.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, that’s it, isn’t it? It was just going to be taxman, but then they heard Brass might be in for it, so Smith stuck Hooky on it. Dead hush-hush. Get it sorted out.’
‘They heard? Heard from who?’
The front door opens -
Child’s feet, a woman’s voice following -
The lounge door bursts open -
I stand up.
The girl freezes, thin and skinny as a tiny toy rake.
‘Hello, love,’ I say.
The girl looks at her Daddy -
Her Dad smiles: ‘Come say hello, Karen.’
But the girl goes back behind the chair.
Bob Douglas’s wife comes in, rain in her hair, and then stops dead.
Her husband says: ‘Sharon love, this is Peter Hunter. The Assistant Chief Constable.’
‘Yeah?’ she says, shaking my hand but looking at him.
‘We’ll be finished in a minute,’ says Douglas as casually as he can.
I nod and smile.
His wife takes the girl by the hand, her face anxious. ‘Come on, Karen. Let’s get the dinner on,’ she says, closing the door on us.
I sit back down.
Douglas is white.
‘Who?’ I smile.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Fuck off,’ I hiss. ‘You do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Another copper?’
He’s looking down at the carpet, the big flowers and birds, shaking his head: ‘I don’t know.’
‘But they’re saying it’s me. I’m dirty.’
He looks up and nods.
‘Saying this started because of me?’
‘Someone tipped them…’
‘Who tipped them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’d tell me if you did, right Bob?’
He smiles -
I don’t -
I say: ‘OK, so who the fuck was it told you all this?’
‘Ronnie Allen,’ he whispers, glancing at the door.
‘There’s a fucking surprise.’
Douglas shrugs.
‘And you’re sure Ronnie didn’t give you any other names?’
‘I swear.’
‘He never said who told him?’
‘No.’
‘Never said who tipped them?’
‘No.’
‘Not the Ronnie Allen I know.’
Douglas shrugs again.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘So, according to Ronnie fucking Allen, how is it that I’m supposed to be dirty?’
He’s back looking down at the carpet. ‘Mr Douglas?’
‘No specifics,’ he says. ‘Just business.’
‘Just business?’
He doesn’t look up.
‘And this is just me and Dawson?’
He nods.
‘To put me in my place?’
‘That’s what Ronnie said.’
‘Why? Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who hates me that much, Bob?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.’
‘You?’
He looks up: ‘Me? I don’t know you.’
‘Right. So don’t be talking about people you don’t know.’
He looks right at me, but says nothing.
I stand up. ‘I’ll be on my way, Mr Douglas.’
He’s still sitting in his chair.
I walk over to the lounge door and then I stop and I say: ‘And if I was you Mr Douglas, I’d be careful.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘You don’t want to be going about giving folk the impression you know more than you do.’
He stands up: ‘Is that a threat, Mr Hunter?’
‘Just a bit of advice, that’s all,’ I say and open the door.
His wife and daughter are in the hall, sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, her holding the tiny little lass tight around her waist.
No-one says anything.
I open the front door and step outside, turning to say goodbye -
But Douglas strides out into the hall and slams the front door.
I stand in their drive, the rain and their door in my face, everything bad, everything sad, everything dead -
Raised voices inside.
I drive back into the centre of Manchester, the place empty and deserted on a wet and bloody Sunday before Christmas, the lights out.
I turn into the car park at Headquarters and that car’s back, there in my space -
Two men inside.
I pull in next to it, get out and tap on the glass.
The driver winds down his window -
I tell him: ‘This space is reserved.’
‘Sorry,’ he says and winds the window back up -
I start to knock on the glass again, saying: ‘Can I ask you…’
But the car reverses and pulls away -
I take down the license plate:
PHD 666K .
Upstairs, I dial the Chief Constable -
He’s back home:
‘What the bloody hell happened to you last night,’ he’s saying. ‘One minute you were there, next minute…’
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak to you.’
‘Is this bloody work?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘I won’t be here, I have to go back to Leeds.’
‘You’re at the office now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. Talk.’
‘Not on the phone, sir.’
A pause, then: ‘What’s this about?’
‘I think you know.’
He’s angry: ‘No I don’t or I wouldn’t ask you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s about Roger Hook’s investigation into Richard Dawson.’
Silence, then: ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
I hang up and look at my watch:
It’s gone noon, but already night outside.
At one-thirty Chief Constable Clement Smith telephones and asks me to step across the hall to his office.
I knock once and am told to come.
Clement Smith is behind his desk in a sports jacket, writing; Roger Hook across from him with his back to the door, waiting.
‘Afternoon,’ I say.
Roger turns and smiles: ‘Afternoon, Pete.’
I sit down in the chair next to him, facing Smith -
Smith doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look up, continuing to write -
Roger Hook sat there, just waiting -
Until, after two minutes of this, Smith looks up and says: ‘Go on then.’
I swallow, angry: ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about an investigation that would seem to be involving me on a personal level,’
‘So go on.’
I glance at Detective Chief Inspector Hook and back to Smith: ‘Now?’
‘That’s why you dragged us all the way in, wasn’t it?’
I say: ‘I would prefer to have the conversation in private.’
‘Stuff what you’d prefer Pete; it’s Sunday bloody afternoon.’
Hook stands up.
‘Sit down,’ says Smith.
‘Sir, I don’t mind…’ says Hook.
Smith has his hand raised: ‘I mind.’
Hook stops and sits back down.
Smith is staring at me, eyes black and waiting -
‘OK,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine, Richard Dawson, who I believe we all know?’
Smith and Hook nod.
‘Well last night, at the Midland Hotel, he tells me that yesterday morning police officers visited his bank and took away records relating to him. He said that a former Yorkshire police officer, Bob Douglas?’
Smith and Hook nod again.
‘He said that Douglas had told him that the reason for this investigation was because of his friendship with me. To put me in my place. Richard Dawson then asked me for help and I declined to assist him, as he was under investigation. This morning, however, I learnt that his house had been raided and, following a meeting I’ve just had with Bob Douglas, I would very much appreciate being told to what extent this investigation is concerned in any way with my friendship with Richard Dawson, or with me personally.’
I pause, then add: ‘I realise this is irregular and against procedure and I would like to stress that I’m not asking for, nor do I expect, any information about the investigation into Richard Dawson, other than whether or not it relates to me.’
Then I stop, waiting -
Smith sighs and turns his gaze to Hook, nodding -
Hook shrugs and says: ‘It doesn’t.’
Smith turns back to me, eyes black and twinkling.
‘That’s it?’ I say.
‘Dawson is under investigation,’ continues Hook. ‘But, for the moment, it doesn’t have anything to do with you or any other police officer.’
‘So why the secrecy?’
‘Well, that said, Richard Dawson is known socially by a number of senior police officers, as well as a number of other prominent local persons. So we’re treading carefully.’
‘As should you,’ says Clement Smith, those black eyes on me -
I sigh, sitting back in my chair.
Smith continues: ‘There could be a lot of fallout – especially if the press start jumping to the same bloody conclusions as one of my own Assistant Chief Constables.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Thought of being stuck over in Yorkshire, hearing all these stories…’
‘Two days and cursed bloody place is making you paranoid.’
‘No more than usual,’ I smile.
‘Now you know how you make other folks feel then,’ laughs Hook.
‘Was that the point?’ I say, not smiling.
; ‘No,’ says Detective Chief Inspector Hook.
‘Then you better tell Ronnie to keep it shut – he’s the one been telling Douglas bollocks about secret squads and putting me in my place.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, fucked off. ‘He’s got a big mouth and talks bollocks.’
Smith’s staring at Hook now, the black eyes on him -
‘I’ll take care of it,’ says Hook.
Smith stands up and says: ‘Can I go home now?’
Back down in the car park and there’s a man standing by my car.
Familiar, he looks familiar -
Me: ‘Can I help you?’
He raises a hand and shakes his head, walking over to another car -
A white one.
‘Wrong motor,’ he says, smiling.
I get in my car -
The black one.
And then somewhere over the Moors, I remember it’s a Sunday and almost Christmas and I suddenly hate myself, wondering what the fuck I thought I was doing, what the fuck I thought I was going to do, the bad dreams not leaving, just staying bad, like the headaches and the backache, the murder and the lies, like the cries and the whispers, the screams of the wires and the signals, like the voices and the numbers:
Thirteen.
5:00 p.m.
Sunday 14 December 1980:
Millgarth, Leeds.
Dark outside, darker in:
A ritual -
A sйance:
Round the table, hands and knees touching, between the cardboard boxes and the gorged files -
Mike Hillman is calling up the dead, passing out photographs, saying:
‘Theresa Campbell, murdered 26 June 1975. 26-year-old mother of three and convicted prostitute. Partially clothed, bloodstained body was discovered on Prince Philip Playing Fields, Scott Hall, by Eric Davies, a milkman.’
Peel -
‘Post-mortem revealed multiple stab wounds to abdomen, chest, and throat inflicted by a blade 4 inches in length, ѕ of an inch in width, one edge sharper than the other; severe lacerations to the skull and fractures to the crown, possibly inflicted by an axe. A white purse with Mummy on the front, containing approximately Ј5 in cash, was also noted to be missing from the deceased’s handbag. Neither murder weapons or purse have ever been found.’
He stops to let the pictures speak -
They all look up from the six by fours, all but DS Marshall -
Are there tears in her eyes?
‘Those are the facts,’ he says, repeating: ‘The facts. The rest is hearsay; but here goes -
‘Campbell had spent the evening at the Room at the Top nightclub in Sheepscar. She was last seen attempting to stop motorists at the junction of Sheepscar Street South and Roundhay Road, Leeds at 1:00 a.m.