by David Peace
‘Fuck knows. Your stupidity?’ I say and regret it and know I always will.
‘Mr Hunter, I’ll tell you this: we’re going to catch our Ripper, not you.’
‘Then you’d better get a fucking move on,’ I say and turn and walk away.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide -
‘Janice Ryan,’ says Murphy, and then stops, dead -
We all look up, the room cold and dark -
No way to kill this pain inside -
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he says, eyes fixed on Bob Craven coming in late, sitting down next to me.
No escape from your heart -
‘Bradford prostitute, moved to Leeds, but wound up dead under a sofa on waste ground off White Abbey, back in Bradford. Time of death has never been conclusively proven, but must have occurred sometime in the seven days preceding the discovery of the body on Sunday 12 June, 1977.’
No escape from your lips -
‘Furthermore, following the initial discovery, Ryan was not immediately connected to the Ripper. Reasons for this would appear to have been two-fold: scene of crime being Bradford not Leeds, despite the inclusion of Clare Strachan in Preston only the week previously’
No escape from you baby, from your fingertips -
‘The second reason was the type of injuries; so while Ryan suffered head injuries, she had actually died from internal abdominal injuries caused by someone jumping up and down on her, which again linked her only to Strachan.’
No escape from you darling, all night and day -
‘Ryan got herself included thanks to the letter that arrived at the Telegraph & Argus on Monday 13 June, a letter from a man claiming to be the Yorkshire Ripper and stating that there was a surprise in Bradford.’
No escape from you baby, no place to stay -
John Murphy looks up: ‘So, to my mind, that means one of two things: either it was the Ripper or it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t, then neither was Clare Strachan. And that would mean one thing and one thing only: we’d have got ourselves two Jacks, not one.’
No escape, no escape at all.
At ten-thirty we’re sitting in their over-lit canteen, spread over two tables and six plates of uneaten food, the brightness boring into tired eyes.
There is little talk, DCI McDonald and DS Marshall still poring over their notebooks, the rest of us ordering, indexing and referencing; rationalising the things we’ve read.
‘We should call it a night,’ I say.
There are nods and yawns, Hillman stretching, some talk of a nightcap.
I walk downstairs with Murphy, neither of us saying much.
At the desk, I say: ‘I’m going to walk.’
‘Not fancy a quick one?’
‘Not tonight, John. Thanks.’
‘See you at breakfast then?’ he smiles.
‘If I don’t get a better offer,’ I laugh and say goodnight.
Outside it’s raining and black, the streets empty.
And as I wait to cross at the traffic lights, I watch the cars, the white faces behind the wheels, wondering, making deals, idle threats -
Beneath the Christmas lights on Boar Lane, I walk without direction, suddenly overwhelmed by immense regret and pain, the terrible and familiar sensation of more to come and the impotence that goes with it.
At the door to the Griffin, I have tears in my eyes, on my cheeks, terrible, cold tears.
I take my key from the desk and am walking across the lobby when he rises from his seat -
‘Mr Hunter?’ asks a tall emaciated man with long thin grey hair and features.
I nod.
‘My name is Martin Laws and I’d like to talk with you if you could spare me five minutes?’
The man is wearing black, carrying a hat and a bag -
‘Are you a priest, Mr Laws?’ I ask him.
‘Yes,’ he nods.
‘OK,’ I say, glancing at my watch and pointing at the nearest pair of high-backed lobby seats.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
We sit down opposite each other, him with his hat between his fingers.
‘What can I do for you, Father?’
‘I’m actually here on behalf of Elizabeth Hall.’
‘Yes?’ I say, looking at the black bag at his feet.
‘Eric Hall’s wife? Libby Hall?’
I nod.
‘Mrs Hall saw you on the news, at the press conference. She’s very anxious to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘The murder of her husband.’
I sit back in the chair: ‘Father, with all due respect, I think that falls somewhat outside the perimeters of this present investigation. If Mrs Hall has information about her husband’s death, I’m sure the -’
Mr Laws has his hand raised -
I stop talking.
‘Mr Hunter,’ he says softly, handing me an envelope from his pocket. ‘From what Libby has confided to me, the murder of her husband falls very much inside the perimeters of your investigation.’
I look at the envelope in my hands, reluctant.
‘Please?’ says Laws. ‘I…’
‘Mr Hunter -’
I open the envelope, take out the letter, and read:
Dear Mr Hunter,
I was heartened to learn that you have been asked to assist in the Ripper Inquiry. I have information that you will find very useful, information concerning the murder of my husband Detective Inspector Eric Hall and his involvement with the so-called Yorkshire Ripper. It is my belief that he was killed because of his acquaintance with Janice Ryan, the sixth victim, and his knowledge of a police cover-up.
I can prove this.
Yours Sincerely,
Elizabeth Hall
I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope -
No escape, no escape at all -
‘How is she?’ I ask Laws.
‘Not well, but she is very determined to see you.’
‘I can send round one of my team?’
‘She is insistent on speaking to you. Only you.’
Bloody hell -
‘Tomorrow morning?’
Mr Laws nods but says: ‘Now? She’s outside in my car.’
Fuck -
‘It would mean a lot,’ he adds.
I sigh and stand up: ‘OK. Let’s go.’
I follow Martin Laws out of the Griffin and back into the night and the rain, follow him round the back of the hotel, past the Scarborough Public House, down the dark arches and under the railway tracks until we come to an old green Viva parked in the gloom.
Mr Laws taps gently on the passenger window and a frightened white face suddenly springs from the black to the glass -
I jump back, my heart racing.
He unlocks the door.
‘You can talk inside,’ he says. ‘I’ll wait over here till you’re done.’
He opens the door for me and I lean down inside, swallowing my heart -
‘Mrs Hall?’
The woman nods, her teeth biting into her lower lip, a hand pulling at the skin of her neck.
I push forward the front seat and get in beside her, shutting the door.
‘Lock the door please,’ she whispers.
I press it down and wait -
She sits here in the dark of the back seat beside me, underneath the arches, rubbing her hands round her neck and up and down her shins -
‘They don’t believe me,’ she says. ‘I know that. You won’t either.’
‘I -’
‘No, they’ll tell you what they did to me. You probably already know. They’ll say that’s why she’s like that, says the things she does. Then they’ll pause and shake their heads and say she’d have been better off dead, the things they did.’
I’m staring ahead, staring between the backs of the front seats.
‘Do you know what they did to me?’
‘I know a bit -’
‘Well, I’ll tell you shall I? Get it out of the way.’
‘There
’s really no need, Mrs Hall.’
‘But you see there’s every need, Mr Hunter.’
She turns to face me in the dark, a hand on my arm:
‘It was Sunday 19 June 1977. I’d been to church, evensong. I came home, opened the door, and they grabbed me, dragged me by my hair into the dining room and Eric, sitting there in front of the TV with his throat cut. Then they tied my hands behind my back and left me on the floor at his feet, in his blood, while they went into the kitchen, making sandwiches from our fridge, drinking his beer and my wine, until they came back and decided to have their fun with me, there on the floor in front of Eric. They stripped me and beat me and put it in me, in my vagina, in my bottom, in my mouth, their peruses, bottles, chair legs, anything. They urinated in my face, cut chunks of my hair off, forced me to suck them, lick them, kiss them, drink their urine, eat their excrement. Then they took me to the bathroom and tried to drown me, leaving me unconscious on the floor for my son to find.’
Silence, darkest silence -
‘A robbery, revenge; that’s what they said it was, the police.’
She looks at me and I nod: ‘The same gang who’d been responsible for a number of post office robberies and murders, that’s what I heard.’
She’s smiling: ‘The Nigger Gang?’
‘They weren’t black?’
‘Oh, they were black all right, Mr Hunter. As the ace of spades.’
‘Well, I -’
‘You don’t see my point, do you?’
I turn to face her again: ‘It’s not that, Mrs Hall. Not that at all. I just want to say I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem enough. But I am; I’m really sorry this happened to you.’
She swallows and takes my hand in hers: ‘Mr Hunter, before he was murdered, Eric was suspended. He kept talking about you, how you were going to be coming over, that he’d done some bad things and you’d find out and he’d be finished.’
I’ve got my eyes closed, wanting her to stop.
‘And then you never came and he ended up dead and I -’
Summer Seventy Seven -
A10 on a roll:
The Porn Squad, the Dirty Squad -
Drury, Moody & Virago:
‘The architects of this conspiracy of corruption; monumentally evil men who lived among the sewerage of society.’
West Yorkshire next, Bradford Vice, then someone called the dogs off -
Eric Hall dead.
‘He hated you, Mr Hunter. They all do. But they hate you because they know you find things out, find them out, that you’re a good man. Even Eric, he called you Saint -’
‘Saint?’
‘Saint Cunt.’
I smile, but then it’s gone and I’m back there:
Summer Seventy Seven -
The last miscarriage.
Baby dead.
I look up -
She says: ‘So I think you can help me.’
‘How?’
‘Eric knew Janice Ryan. Knew her very well. When she turned up under that sofa, he was a suspect and so was another policeman: a Detective Sergeant Fraser at Millgarth. You remember him?’
‘Killed himself on the Moors?’
‘Yes he did; two days before Eric was murdered. Did you know he’d been involved in the Ripper Hunt?’
‘No but, to be honest, today was only our third day.’
‘Well, Eric was sure this Sergeant Fraser had killed Ryan. She was pregnant with his child and, as I say, they had him in -’
‘Who?’
‘This man Fraser. They had him in for it, but then another letter came, supposed to be from Ripper, and that was that. He was out, scot-free, and she was Number 6.’
‘And you don’t believe she was killed by the Ripper?’
‘No.’
‘You think Fraser killed her?’
‘Or someone else.’
‘Someone else?’
‘Well, Eric didn’t keep his mouth shut did he? He said it was Fraser, especially after the bloke topped himself. That Saturday, the day before, he kept on and on about it. Calling people up, the papers. That journalist Jack Whitehead, he’d been up at the house that same week. Eric was calling anybody, anybody who’d listen. So someone put them onto Eric. To shut him up.’
‘Someone put this gang onto Eric? Because he thought Fraser killed Janice Ryan?’
‘Because he knew it wasn’t the Ripper.’
I’m staring between the seats, the sound of the clock filling the car, watching the lights at the other end of the arches.
‘You said you had proof?’
She is nodding: ‘Eric wrote a lot of stuff down. He kept copies, tapes. He knew he’d need them someday.’
‘Who have you told?’
‘Me? Anyone who’d listen.’
‘What about the copies, the tapes? You told anyone about them?’
‘George Oldman.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said I should turn everything over to the man in charge of the investigation into Eric’s death.’
‘Who was?’
‘Is, Mr Hunter. It’s still open. No-one’s been arrested.’
‘I’m sorry. Who is -’
‘Maurice Jobson.’
The Owl.
‘And did you?’
‘What?’
‘Give him Eric’s notes?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
‘When it happened; three years ago.’
‘And what did Maurice Jobson say?’
‘Said he’d get back to me.’
‘And did he?’
‘What do you think?’
‘So you’ve no idea what he did with Eric’s stuff?’
‘No.’
‘So he might have handed it all over to George Oldman? To the Ripper Squad?’
‘He might have, yes. And you might sprout wings and fly home.’
I smile: ‘So I take it no-one’s ever contacted you about the stuff since?’
‘No.’
‘Can you remember what was in these notes?’
‘Mr Hunter, I made copies.’
‘Who knows that?’
‘Only you now.’
I nod outside: ‘Mr Laws?’
‘Only you.’
‘I see.’
‘He did bad things, Eric. I know that. He was no saint -’
‘Not like me.’
‘No, not like you. But he didn’t deserve what happened to him, not that.’
Not like me -
Saint Cunt.
I take the lift up to my room -
It’s stifling, the radiator on full.
I open a window on the unpleasant night and her ugly rain, the haunted station and the silence.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hating Leeds, hating Yorkshire.
I shut the window, draw the dusty curtains.
I close my eyes and let the radio eat the silence thinking -
It’s always the way, out this way.
In the middle of the night I’m awake again, sweating and afraid -
Hymns on the radio, that dream of TVs and faces with no face, that taste in my mouth -
Awake, the pains in my back, reaching for Joan, fighting back the tears, reaching for someone -
No-one there.
transmission October nineteen seventy six white abbey bradford ka su peng found in a telephone box by police with two holes in her head in need of fifty eight stitches from a black and crinkly bearded man who picked her up outside the perseverance on lumb lane in my dark car with my tired eyes and crinkly beard we drove to the playing fields and e said how much and she said a fiver and e said ok but you must get out of the car and take off your clothes and lie on the grass and she did not want to e could see it in her eyes where snowflakes were dancing but she said e have to urinate and she was squatting down like a real lady urinating in the grass when e dropped my hammer she said e hope that was not a knife and e said no it was my wallet just strip and she had almost finished
her urinating that was when e hit her on the head with the hammer and e hit her on the head with the hammer again and she lay in the grass with her hand to her head the hand all covered in blood lay on the grass and e just stood and watched her looking at her hand the hand all covered in blood the snowflakes dancing and e masturbated and then e threw the tissues at her and put a fiver in her bloody hand and said please do not call the police or e will come and kill you again next time snowflakes are dancing and he stood there looking down at me moving his hand up and down the snowflakes dancing and he said please do not call the police or e will have to kill you and he put a five pound note in my hands and he went away and e managed to half walk half crawl to the telephone box and call an ambulance and they came and took me away and put fifty eight stitches in my head and back and e was in hospital for seven weeks and they said you are lucky to be alive but all e could remember was dialing nine nine nine lying on the floor of the telephone box waiting the snowflakes dancing and a man in a dark car kept driving past and he seemed to be staring and looking for me and it was the man who hurt me you are lucky to be alive they told me but psychic phenomena activated by epileptic discharge arising in the temporal lobe may occur as complex visual or auditory or combined auditory visual hallucinations or illusions or memory flashbacks erroneous interpretations of the present in terms of the past as an inappropriate feeling of either familiarity or strangeness deja vu jamais vu phenomena or as emotions commonly fear these phenomena are called experiential as they assume a vivid immediacy for the effected patient which they liken to actual events yet the patients are also aware that these phenomena occur incongruously and out of context as if they were superimposed upon the ongoing stream of consciousness with the exception of fear which is often interpreted as fear of impending events or attack or snowflakes dancing but you are lucky to be alive lucky to be alive to be alive but e am not now for e live in the place where the leaves are black and the branches are twisted and entangled and bloom poisoned thorns and around me echo wails of grief that over and over cry you are lucky to be alive lucky to be alive to be alive but cut this wood and the blood turns dark around the wound and from the splintered trunk pours a mixture of words and blood so eat my leaves in this mournful forest where my body torn away from itself hangs forever among the thorns of my own alien shade my home a hanging place where my many wounds breathe grieving sermons in blood and the mutilations that have separated me from all my leaves gather them round the foot of this sad bush the snowflakes dancing alive in the grass with a fiver in my bloody hand transmission three received